by Tanith Lee
"With the gun?"
"With whatever was to hand," said Althene.
"The handle of the gun is bone," said Rachaela.
"Don't worry. The bone is human."
"I'm not afraid of you," said Rachaela. "I should be, probably. But I'm not."
"I should hate you to be afraid of me."
"Yes." Rachaela drank her tea. Althene watched her. Her classical face was serene, her dark eyes only like still waters, running inevitably deep. "Don't the Scarabae frown on a homosexual liaison?"
Althene lifted her eyebrows. She looked amused now.
"Not in itself," she said.
"But they want the line to go on. They want children born."
"Yes."
"Is that," said Rachaela, "why your mother beat you?"
"It was why my mother thought she beat me."
Rachaela looked into Althene's eyes, carefully.
"I'd rather we didn't get into some situation that you and I both would find—embarrassing."
"I become bashful," said Althene, "very easily."
"To spare me, then."
"So selfish," said Althene.
"I don't sleep with women."
"No. You are a nun. No women, and no men."
"Once. You know the result."
"The little girl who kills."
"Enchanting, adorable Ruth, yes."
"Perhaps the fault wasn't with you, but with the father."
"It doesn't really bother me whose fault it was. It was cause and effect."
"And so you'll be always celibate. How enticing."
"It isn't meant to be, Althene."
"I'm on fire," said Althene. "All I can think of is clambering up the ivory tower and breaking in the window."
Rachaela could feel her heart knocking fast in her throat. It was the brandy. The shock, and the brandy. Or just exhaustion.
"I want to go home," she said.
"Home is where the heart is."
"My heart isn't anywhere."
"So you have said." Althene nodded at the bar, and a girl came at once with a tray, the bill, a tired omnivorous smile.
CHAPTER 32
MALACH UNLOCKED THE DOOR. After the usual moment he allowed, for the sound of the key was the equivalent to a knock, he entered Ruth's bedroom. She was sitting up in the blue and green bed, with the sheet raised over her nightshirt to her collarbone. She had been drawing.
The two dogs pushed through, and went to the bed. Ruth let her drawing go and gave them a hand each to sniff. She rubbed their long heads. Enki climbed onto the bed and stood there, huge as a horse, staring about.
Ruth laughed up at him in pleasure.
The lamplight caught Ruth's treasures on the table, by the books. An apple of green glass, the gold-plated razor with which she would have slashed Lorlo Mulley's throat, a cheap floral case of cosmetics and manicure, a porcelain duck, a gold bell on a chain. Under the table lay the leopardskin, rolled up, a creature not yet become. Oskar walked over to it and growled, as a courtesy.
"Get up," said Malach, "and come into the room."
Ruth looked at him intently. She even slept with her hair in plaits.
"Are you going to kill me after all?"
"I'm not going to kill you."
He went out, leaving the door open and the dogs in the bedroom.
After two minutes, Ruth came out. She had put on a cotton dressing gown, and belted it tight at the waist like a little girl. Her body was that of a woman, but it had always been. She carried her drawing.
"Do you want to see?"
She did not look around at the room.
He took the drawing from her hand. He glanced at it and threw it down on the carpet with some curse in another language.
"Is that German?" she said.
"Latin. You're an ignorant bitch. You'll have to be taught."
"I don't like school."
"Tutors," he said. "You'll learn somehow."
"I'd get bored."
"If they bore you, we'll send them away and find you others. It's their task not to bore."
He stared at her, his face was terrible. It was full of the murder he had committed, where before murder had seemed to leave him unmarked.
On the green carpet the black and white drawing lay face up. It showed a hall, combining both a terror of enclosure and a horror of wide open space. Vast pillars held up a ceiling far above, and their reflections sank under them as if in water. Before a slab of stone a white-robed man raised high a sword. His hair also was white, and fell behind him. The figure was too small to require much detail, or any real features.
"Do you want me to go back into the bedroom?" said Ruth.
"No. Go into that room over there." He pointed.
She crossed the green living room, and opened the door of the room with whitewashed walls.
"Here?"
"Go to the table. Open the left-hand drawer."
"All right."
She obeyed him, but as if reluctantly.
With her hand on the drawer, she said, "What is it?"
"Look and see."
She opened the drawer. Inside was a pile of sketches, some of which had been torn from books. On the top was a watercolor painting recently done, perhaps a few days old.
Ruth drew it out.
A wide hall, red, red pillars large as houses, holding up a mile-high roof, and reflecting in the floor like monstrous candles. There was no sacrificing priest. Otherwise, it was the same.
"It's like mine."
"And where is yours meant to be?"
"Egypt." Ruth came from the whitewashed room. "Do you want to do the game, now?"
"No. Sit there."
She sat in the green armchair, her bare feet just reaching the floor.
"Who are you?" he said.
"I'm Ruth."
"And who is Ruth?"
"Scarabae."
"And who am I?"
She lowered her eyes. "Malach."
"And who is Malach?"
Ruth folded her hands.
"My jailor."
"Why?"
"I have to be punished."
"Why?"
"I hurt Anna, and the others."
"Why?"
Ruth looked up. Her eyes were alive and fiery black.
"Leave me alone!" She stood up and screamed at him. "Leave me alone! I don't want to. I won't! I want my dad! I want my daddy! I want—"
Malach laughed. Ruth became silent.
"You break so simply. Your father's dead."
"I know," she said.
She cried.
Malach walked into the white room and shut the door, leaving the rest of the flat before her, vast, enclosed.
Presently the two dogs came, and pressed against her, and Ruth kneeled down with them for comfort.
When she had been kneeling there, weeping on their coarse fur for a few minutes, Malach returned. He sat beside her, and held her in his arms. She did not see his face, which was old. The dogs lay over their feet, waiting patiently for the enormous pain to pass, like night.
CHAPTER 33
AS THEY WALKED UP TOWARD THE house from the road, loud tuneful music ran down to meet them, the Stranglers playing from Camillo's trike. A few colored windows gleamed above like sweets on the darkness. Electricity burned out of the open door, lighting the trike, its own green-blue-poppy-purple casement. Lou was sitting on the velvet seat. She wore a short black dress over long black tights painted with red roses. Around her neck was a ruff of silver wire. Her red hair had been streaked with mauve. She seemed demure.
Camillo was standing by the horse head, and Tray was on the path below the door.
Tray wore one of her long dresses, 1920s shoes with straps. Her long black hair framed her pale-powdered face.
"No, you're not coming with me," said Camillo.
Tray inclined her head to one side, plaintively.
"Cami…"
"Not like that," said Camillo.
Lou said, "Come
on, Cami. Let's go."
"I wanted," said Tray.
"I don't want you," said Camillo, "like that." He got into the saddle of the trike. "You look like my mother."
The engine gunned. The trike turned effortlessly and soared off down the hill, Lou sitting in the back.
Camillo stared at Rachaela as he passed her, and he grinned contemptuously. Speed, darkness, light, made him appear about thirty-eight.
Tray went on standing by the door, looking like a flower on a bruised stem.
As Althene and Rachaela reached the bottom of the path, Miranda came out of the house.
She appeared, also, too young, in a dim white dress. She had taken to wearing her gray hair loose, and it fell down her back in thick waves. She touched Tray's shoulder.
"Come in, dear, and watch the film with me."
Tray looked at her shyly, perhaps stupidly.
"There are some chocolates," said Miranda. "Marzipan ones, and strawberry creams."
Miranda led Tray indoors, and when Althene and Rachaela went into the house in turn, the two long-skirted women, young and young-old, had disappeared into the white living room where the TV fluttered.
"Is Miranda kind?" asked Rachaela. "Or playing?"
"Or something else," said Althene. She shut the house doors.
The oil lamps were out and only the electric light filled the hall.
Rachaela looked up the stairs. She felt inert. As if she had been stretched to some breaking point, and so broken, and now nothing could be done to her or with her, or expected of her. Safe. Dull. And wide awake.
"I'm going to the kitchen to make coffee."
"Yes," said Althene. "It's that sort of night. Then again, in an hour, it will be sunrise."
"Time to burrow into our coffins," said Rachaela tartly.
She knew, ironically, she would find it easier to sleep once the sun had come up.
They walked through the side passage of the house, and down into the cream and black tiled kitchen.
The dishwasher was gurgling quietly, and on a chair under the mangle, Cheta sat, embroidering in gold a pair of cucumber-green shoes.
"It's all right, Cheta," said Althene, "we can manage."
And Cheta got up and went away.
"How extraordinary," said Rachaela. "I mean, even if she'd been darning a sock. But shoes—"
"They were Maria's," said Althene. "Do you remember Maria?"
"Of course." Rachaela digested this slowly. Another gemini of lovers? Cheta left behind alone at Maria's death. And where had the shoes come from?
She took the coffee jug and a filter paper, virtually her own, for no one else seemed to use them, and set the contraption to work. The rich deceptive aroma of coffee bloomed in the kitchen.
Althene had sat on the table. She had crossed her legs and the smooth skirt ridden up a little to show the silky length of leg. But not far enough to reveal the gun.
"I have the sensation," said Rachaela, "that I imagined everything. Perhaps not the dinner and the film. But the other thing."
Althene shrugged lightly, as if slipping a gossamer shawl from her shoulders.
"If it makes you happy."
"It's made me decide."
"Oh, what?"
"Tomorrow, I'm going to make arrangements to leave here. I really am finished with it now. I mean, the Scarabae. No, don't tell me that I can never finish with the Scarabae. That I'll always be part of them. I know that. But I'm going to make my own way. A flat somewhere. A job. My old unimportant, lazy existence. This is too—taxing."
"Yes, coming back to life is very tiring."
"How would you know," said Rachaela. "You've always been wildly alive, haven't you?"
"One day, I'll tell you."
"One day you won't know where I am."
"The Scarabae can always find their own. Hadn't you noticed?"
In the jug the coffee glowed. Rachaela took milk out of the fridge.
"Do you want some, Althene?"
"Perhaps. What I really want is you."
Rachaela felt a plunge of panic. It surprised her, for she was past all that.
"We discussed this. I said no."
"There was no discussion. You did say no."
Rachaela lifted the jug before it was ready and filled a cup. Her heart was thudding against her breast, her legs felt heavy. Somewhere in her brain tears were trying to rise like fish out of deep water.
To her consternation, she heard the silky whisper of Althene's garments as she left the table. Althene came up behind her, very close. The subtle perfume wrapped around Rachaela like a veil.
"One rape per evening is enough," Rachaela said. "Isn't it?"
"Were you thinking of raping me, then?" Althene asked.
Rachaela put down the coffee. She was frightened, her nerves alight.
"Please don't crowd me."
But Althene's body was against her now, Althene's breasts pressed into her back. And Althene's hands circled around her cupping her own breasts, covering them, stroking.
Two thrills like fire shot through Rachaela.
She tried to resist. She pulled away and came about, and Althene caught her again, as if it had been choreographed.
Althene placed her hand behind Rachaela's head. Althene's mouth came onto hers. The scented taste of lipstick… Althene kissed her, the long cool tongue moving in her with a passionate stealth.
Rachaela thought how it had been when Adamus kissed her. The whirling and the fall. This was not like that. Nothing could ever be like that again. She gave up. Gave in.
She did not put her arms around Althene, only let Althene move her body as she wanted. A dizzying arousal saturated Rachaela. She did not care anymore.
When Althene drew back, Rachaela was angry. She had not wanted it to stop. If it stopped she would have to think about it again. Then it would be unacceptable, maybe ludicrous.
Althene looked cruel, but still flawless. Not a smudge. Only her lipstick had vanished away.
"Yes?" she said. "Or no?"
"I suppose yes."
"You suppose. What a nasty virginal little bitch you are."
"No, then," said Rachaela.
"Be quiet." She took Rachaela's hand, and they walked from the kitchen.
Out in the hall Sasha was standing by a pillar, as if waiting for them.
She must see it all. The bruised ripened mouths, the hands linked, emerald and ruby rings.
Sasha smiled. Nodded.
It was all madness. Rachaela laughed.
Althene led her up the stairs and her legs were so heavy now she could barely make it, her breath coming in gasps.
In the corridor above, Althene pushed her firmly to the wall, and kissed her again. Her large sensitive hands were inside the neck of the dress. They burned on flesh. Rachaela was overpowered, capsizing. Falling after all.
She had been so long without sex. That was all it was. And Althene was clever, of course.
It was Rachaela's room they came to. Rachaela checked. "Don't you want—"
"The little nun will be happier in her own apartment."
Rachaela had a vision of two nuns writhing together in union in some shadowy place.
"You'll have to forgive me," she said. "I don't know what to do. I mean, in this situation."
Althene had shut the door.
"Take off your dress."
Rachaela unzipped the dress and dropped it on the floor. She undid her bra and let it go, next her pants and tights, unrolling them from her body without artifice.
Althene watched her nakedness. She said nothing. Instead, more deftly than Rachaela, she undid the blue silk and the two pieces slid from her like a wave.
As usual her underclothes were astonishing. Dark holly-green satin, the high bodice trimmed with dark green lace, a corset that nipped in her waist, french knickers also trimmed, the gartered stockings with their stalks of butterflies.
So she came to Rachaela, and drew Rachaela's nakedness against the glide of fabrics
.
Rachaela rubbed herself on these limpid textures. In the middle of lust, she felt a curious comfort. She buried her face in Althene's neck.
They went to the bed. It was a relief to lie down. Althene made warm circles on Rachaela's breasts with her ringers and her tongue. Her black hair mingled with Rachaela's, and all over Rachaela's body her perfume had anointed, so now they were scented the same.
Althene raised Rachaela's legs onto her shoulders.
She bowed her head to Rachaela's sex, and the wonderful tongue trembled there like a flame.
"Don't stop," Rachaela said.
"Just for a moment. Now do you want me?"
"Yes."
Althene kissed Rachaela's mouth. She drew Rachaela's hand steadily along her own belly. Rachaela reached out to feel the soft mound, the moisture and pliancy, the inverted lily of a sexuality like her own.
Instead a golden wand was put into her hand. Alchemical. Impossible.
Rachaela thrashed away. Before she knew what she was doing, she had jumped off the mattress. But her legs gave way. She fell on the carpet by the bed.
She could say nothing. She half lay on the floor. She was shocked as if she had been scalded.
The trap—
Althene kneeled on the bed, harmfully beautiful and clad in satin and lace. And from the center of her slender female body there rose the dark tower of male potency. Indeed the body was not female, it was possible to see that now. Slim, depilated, lightly muscled like the physique of a girl who swam and rode horses, smooth and almost poreless, blessed by sweet false breasts, by wonderful hair, and a face like a jewel. But still it was a man's body. It had a man's power now, and a man's penis, erect, and demanding.
So that was why—
That was why it did not matter.
It would not be two women in a sterile embrace.
Sasha, nodding and smiling…
"No." Rachaela tried to get up.
"Yes." Althene stepped off the bed. The grace was catlike, wolflike. Not female or male now.
"Yet more lies," said Rachaela. Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been screaming.
"No lies."
"Yes. You were a woman."
"I am a woman. In a way."
"Your mother," said Rachaela, "hated you, until she found out—"
"Until she found out that, although I liked to be a woman, I also liked to make love with women."
"Christ," said Rachaela. She managed to get to her feet. She felt sick, sick with loss. "This family," she said. "I wish it would sink into fucking hell."