The House on Black Lake

by Blackwell, Anastasia

  “You’re not listening to me. I said NO! You are not used to hearing the word, so it may sound foreign to a man like you—one who has never been refused.”

  “There is no other way,” he says with calm assurance. “There’s no other way for you to break out, to crack the shell. You say you’re free, but you’re not. You took off your ring, but you still live inside the cage. Your perfect world was never your own, and now it’s impossible to return. You can refuse, but we both know it has to happen, sooner or later.”

  “Who are you to lecture me about perfect worlds? If you were true to yourself, you’d be living in hell, or at the least in a cave instead of this castle.”

  He stops his pacing and moves to where I sit perched at the edge of his bed. He grazes his hands along the heavy leather belt holding up his jeans and begins to unfasten the buckle.

  “I could tie you up and torture you with love first, but you don’t deserve it.”

  “You’ve tortured me long enough.”

  “Well then, let’s get to it.”

  “How does beating someone free them, for God’s sake?” I avert my eyes from what is impossible to explain, ignore, or understand; for that matter, the male thing, the strength of not understanding, wanting to know, what lies beneath.

  “It’s a method used by tribes and many civilizations throughout history. When used in initiation, it helps the initiate ascend to a higher level of spiritual awakening. The experience is powerful for both the giver and the receiver.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve experienced it.”

  I struggle to gather my thoughts. I’m unable to express my feelings, so I let something deeper take over and speak for me. “You may be a sorcerer, but you are neither my master nor my priest. My body and soul are not for your taking. That privilege is earned through trust and commitment. You are correct. I am not yet free. But when I am, I will only supplicate myself to a man who worships me as much as I worship him.”

  I shift my focus to gaze at a picture in a gilded frame, set on the nightstand next to a crystal bowl of fragrant potpourri. It is a photograph of Ruth and Ramey wrapped in each others arms, surrounded by their five young children, in front of a Christmas tree trimmed in colorful balls and ribbons, brimming with dozens of gaily wrapped packages.

  “We’ve been conjoined by fate, and there’s no turning back,” he says, and a strangled thread of emotion seeps into these words, a mixture of sorrow and regret that makes me shudder.

  There is a long and terrible silence, a silence like no other. It is the stillness after an upheaval, after the squeal of the tires and the sound of catastrophe. It is the hush when you know your life will never be the same. It is the dead calm when you have crossed the line of time into a new existence. Something has changed. This interlude of sadism has changed me forever.

  “Look at me... look into the pupils of my eyes, Alexandra. They are the only place where you can look inside the mind and discover what it is thinking and feeling.”

  I straighten myself on the silk comforter, wipe the tears from my lashes and gaze directly into Ramey’s eyes. Beyond the fading anger, I see other emotions flicker. There are nuances of more vulnerable feelings, and something else, more profound and meaningful than the vain and shallow substances floating on the surface. A shadow lurks there; a glint of the unspeakable hides beneath the wreckage of his heart. He holds a terrible secret in the unfathomable depths. It is wild, crazy, unbelievable, and imminent, yet I have no idea what it is.

  “You’re moving away from me, Baby. It’s like you’ve fallen into the bottom of a well. You’re crouched down there, but I can’t get to you. I can’t save you.”

  “Forgive me, but you are mistaken. I didn’t ask you to save me.” I stand up from the bed and move across the room.

  “I believe it’s you who’s looking to be saved. You need to save yourself, Ramey,” I say, then turn and walk out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  THE CULT

  “GOOD MORNING. YOU MUST HAVE HAD A LATE NIGHT. IT’S NEARLY noon.” Ruth wears floral oven mitts and carries a pan of cake that fills the room with the scents of vanilla and cinnamon. She looks elegant and well rested, in a cream cardigan and shell, with pearls strung around her neck and her mane pulled into a sleek chignon.

  “I lay awake until nearly dawn. An animal was trapped in the fireplace. It sounded like a hyena, but Sammy slept through the ruckus. I blocked the screen with my suitcase to keep it from escaping. When I finally fell asleep I had a horrible nightmare that a wolf-like creature leaped through the window of my house and buried its teeth in my neck.”

  “We’re not living in the Serengeti, dear. It was probably a squirrel. I’ll have the gardener remove the carcass.

  “How was your day in St. Agathe?” she asks, with a curious backward glance.

  “Wonderful. In fact, I met someone. Perhaps you might know him.”

  “Do tell.”

  “André Labat.”

  “He’s young, isn’t he, maybe twenty-five?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  She turns around to face me, tilts her head, and places her hands on hips.

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  I note a hint of disapproval in the downward tug at the edges of her mouth.

  “I had to break the spell.”

  “You don’t mean...” She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “No wonder you’ve been so uptight, dear. I’m envious.”

  “Why? You’ve got Ramey.”

  “Did André tell you about the cult?” she asks, turning away to cut into the fragrant cake.

  “He didn’t say a word; sounds mysterious.”

  “I heard he’s a member of the Solar Temple. His parents were worried when his fellow members took a ride to a planet that circles the star Sirius. Their method of travel was incineration. I think they tranquilized themselves before they burned themselves alive. They took their kids, too.”

  “Ruth...” I say with a playful lilt, waiting for her to reveal it is all a joke.

  “It’s true. It was all over the newspapers a while back. Didn’t you hear about it in the U.S.?”

  I shake my head.

  “The leader was a good-looking doctor, who started the cult with a guy named...” she lifts her hand to her forehead, as though the gesture will unlock the memory. “I forget his name; anyway, he used to be a member of the men’s club. I read in the paper they believe life on Earth is a dream so they burn their bodies to return to their home planet. I know it sounds crazy, but they still have a large group of followers. The deaths occurred about ten miles from here. I don’t know if André is still a member. They lost quite a few when the leader’s son divulged the rituals were contrived, a big fake,” she says, handing me a plate heaping with a piece of coffee cake.

  “I think he invented the cult as an excuse to engage in orgies. Oh, dear, I hope André didn’t seduce you to lure you into the cult. You can never be too careful, Alexandra,” she says in a condescending tone, while looking at me with a motherly pity that makes me feel foolish and ashamed.

  “He told me his grandfather was an Iroquois, and he follows many of the beliefs of the Native Americans.”

  “Well, that part is true. He is part Indian. Was he good?”

  “We had a very powerful connection.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You sound like a young girl.”

  “He’s very intense and passionate, nothing like Matt or any other man I’ve known, for that matter.”

  “I’m sure it was a nice distraction from your problems at home,” she says with a hint of sarcasm, followed by a sniff and haughty flare of her nostrils, and turns away as though to signal the subject is no longer on the table for discussion.

  “We need to round up the kids and drive into St. Agathe to get supplies for the celebration tomorrow,” she says, and begins to pack a cardboard box with paper goods.

  “Where’s Ramey?” I ask, while lift
ing a forkful of the warm slice to my lips.

  “He drove out to the countryside to get fireworks for the solstice celebration. A local farmer has a stash in his barn. He also makes a killer brew.”

  “Sammy will be excited; he loves fireworks.”

  “And now for the surprise! There’s a birthday celebration for Georgie in Old Montreal after his concert tonight. He wants you to attend the show and be his date for the party. But don’t tell my husband.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “I’ll have the girls drive you to the concert and you can stay overnight at the house in Montreal. We’ll tell Ramey you wanted to see the city nightlife. Don’t worry about Sammy. We’d be happy to babysit.”

  Ruth seals the box she’s packed with provisions and turns to look at me with an enchanted grin.

  “Dress sexy, Alexandra. Tonight you are to be escorted by one of the most famous and desirable men in Canada.”

  “I know exactly what I’ll wear—my new emerald camisole from Mimi’s. It’s the color of the pants he wore the day we met.”

  “A perfect choice, darling, green is Georgie’s favorite—it’s the color of his eyes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  GEORGIE LA POINTE

  THE AMPHITHEATER PERCHED ON THE EDGE OF MONT TREMBLANT looks like an extraterrestrial launching pad. An enormous steel grid pulsates with neon lights and flashing images of universal creation and destruction. The title of the concert, The Nature of Life, throbs across the canopy of the edifice. A massive heaven’s gate backdrop at the left perimeter supports a spiraling staircase, outlined in phosphorescent bubbling matter, that leads to a stage swirling in luminescent fog.

  “I can’t believe Georgie asked you to be his date for the party tonight,” Amanda says. My quizzical side-glance sparks a flurry of coy blinks. “Most of the girls I’ve seen him with have been young.”

  “I guess he appreciates women of all ages,” I say, while looking down into the lights of Montreal flickering below us, like reflections in a dark pool.

  “These seats are incredible. It feels like we’re part of the show,” Amanda says, then points into the sky. “Look at all the small planes flying overhead.”

  “Wow!” Gabrielle yells out.

  Fire erupts from the winged backdrop and strobes shoot into the air, splitting and multiplying as they fan through the sky. A powerful resonance emanates, and a domed cage rises from the center of the stage. Georgie sits inside, on a jewel encrusted throne. The sun-bronzed god wears tight leather pants, a sleeveless T-shirt emblazoned with a bleeding cross, and bleached hair groomed into a crown of spikes. A Celtic symbol is tattooed on one bulging tricep and a braided warrior band encircles the other. His thighs are straddled by identical girls with sheets of raven hair, dressed in bustiers and laced boots. They hold torches aloft that throw out wicked flames. The girls stand and Georgie rises from his throne to stride boldly downstage, where he sings a French song in a rich baritone.

  “The song is called C’est Moi. It’s about his love of masturbation,” Amanda yells above the roar of the crowd.

  He leans into the audience and kisses a succession of girls lined up along the edge of the stage.

  “Did you hear what he said to that girl?” Amanda squeals in my ear. “I can’t believe it. Look at all the shit they’re throwing on the stage.”

  He turns from the shrieking fans and hulks across the stage to ascend the pulsating staircase. Drawing his shirt up over glistening stomach muscles he teases the fans, then tears the top off and throws it into the crowd. Young women writhe en masse and claw to claim the smelly prize. He rides his hand down oiled flesh to play at the laced opening of his pants.

  “Lordy, there’s a couple shaggin’ in the corner, near the big speakers,” I hear Amanda whisper to Gabrielle.

  “Mandie, did you see that? He pulled it out...”

  “No Gabbie, that was a prosthesis. I’ve seen plenty of them, the real ones I mean, so I should know. They don’t come that big, believe me. Look, he disappeared in the fog.”

  “Oh, my God...” Amanda screeches,

  Long reed flutes cry out with mournful longing. A spotlight breaks through the bank of fog and on its rays, in flowing white silk, Georgie glides through the air with arms spread wide. He releases a prolonged wail, and swoops through the air like a bedazzled prehistoric bird.

  “The song is called Relinquish Me. He’s singing about a lost love. Look at the doves flying out of him...”

  “Those are pigeons, Amanda.” Gabbie says.

  The birds flitter out from under his flapping gown and abandon him to disappear into the dark sky.

  “Mr. Sandeley cracked up at this part.” She giggles as we watch Georgie flail his arms madly and free-fall to the stage. “He said he hoped he’d miss the net under the trap door and break his neck. I think Mr. Sandeley is jealous because he’s stuck with his wife...” she hesitates as I send her a sharp look of disapproval. “Married, you know, and Mr. La Pointe beds a different girl every night.”

  Resurrected in the mist on the opposite side of the stage, Georgie now wears a ruffled white shirt and tight black pants stuffed into riding boots. He is followed by a group of good looking young men attired in identical costumes.

  Inside the orchestra pit, a wild-eyed drummer, dressed in a frayed loincloth with a heavily tattooed chest and a warrior native’s marked face, begins to whirl like a mad dervish. He is surrounded by drums in all sizes and shapes, and leaps from one to the other, pounding the skins with the crazed passion of a tribesman signaling the capture of fresh meat after a long drought.

  A lovely brunette in a billowing gown appears at the top of the staircase and descends to a satin covered circular bed that has arisen from the center of the stage.

  Georgie sings, “Un, enlève vos vêtements, deux, venez à mon lit, trois, posez votre corps, quatre, faites-moi l’amour.” He repeats the verse with growing intensity as he circles the woman.

  The men surround the couple, whispering in a foreign tongue, and chanting to the eerie rhythm. Strobes slice through the sky and matter bubbles as the lovers disappear within the circle of men and reappear inside the soaring backdrop. The lurid scenes, played out in silhouette, drive the audience to near madness. The energy magnifies from electric to something more acute and dangerous. The crowd feels ready to snap, at the verge of a stampede or crazed riot.

  The sweat-drenched drummer pounds with savage fury on a kettle drum stretched with mottled serpent skin, adding an ominous dredge to the charged amphitheater.

  “This part chills my bones,” Amanda yells in my ear.

  A woman’s scream reverberates throughout the amphitheater, followed by the sound of shattering glass, and the stage goes black. “That was the best concert I’ve ever seen.” Amanda is barely audible over the wails and shrieks of the audience.

  “Mr. Sandeley says the audience is a big glittering mirror for Georgie, and the more he loves his reflection, the more it loves him back,” Gabbie says. She stands and adjusts her glasses.

  “He can look into my mirror anytime he wants,” Amanda says, and reaches under the seat to retrieve her purse. “The finale is incredible. You can watch it while we’re on our way out. It’s best we leave now, so we don’t get caught up in the crowds. Security is extremely tight, with all the girls trying to get backstage.”

  I catch a glimpse of Georgie astride a snow-white Arabian, being elevated inside the domed cage, as we work our way down a side aisle. “The song is called The Stairway to Heaven. The stallion he’s riding is about to disappear. It’s Mr. Sandeley’s horse. His mare is pregnant with their baby.” Amanda flashes her security pass through two checkpoints along a corridor leading to the back of the stage.

  “Georgie’s expecting you,” says a heavyset woman in biker gear. “He’ll be finished shortly. Help yourself to the food and drinks on the buffet table.”

  We work our way through the packed crowd to an opulent display. A hearty cheer soon go
es up, followed by Georgie’s resonant voice thanking them for coming. The guests backstage are as vociferous as the audience and it takes a while for him to reach where we stand next to a plate of enormous strawberries.

  “Hey there, darling...” Georgie says. He has washed off his heavy makeup and changed into a pair of low-riding black jeans, a leather jacket, and a pale green silk shirt open nearly to the waist. A cross medallion and various lengths of silver and gold barbed chains cover his chest.

  “You were fabulous, Georgie,” Amanda says. He deflects her gesture of embrace with an upward thrust of his arm.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. La Pointe,” Gabbie says, “How did you disappear and then reappear on the other side of the stage?”

  “One of the mysteries of magic, my dear,” he says, looking into my eyes as he answers Gabbie’s question.

  “You look lovely tonight, darlin’, survived the tree crash, eh?” he asks, and flashes me a white-washed grin.

  “I survived,” I say, “and your concert is the highlight of my trip to Montreal.”

  “Let’s blow out of here,” he says and takes my arm.

  A throng of fans call his name from behind barricades waiting outside as we depart the building. “Get in quick, darlin’,” he says, as security guards guide us to a waiting limousine.

  “God, that show made me horny,” he says, and leans down to kiss me. “You taste like strawberries, can I have another?” and helps himself to another kiss. He takes a champagne bottle and two flutes from the side banquette, hands me a glass, and pours the bubbling fluid until it overflows onto my hand, then licks up the residue.

  “I think you have the largest hands I’ve ever seen,” I say, and take a sip from my glass.

  “I’ve got something else that’s the largest you’ve ever seen, but you’ll have to wait until later. Blonde on blonde is a beautiful thing,” he says, while drawing my hair back from my face. “What’s wrong? You don’t like me to touch your hair,” he asks, as I shirk from his touch.