Mythophidia

by Constantine, Storm

  Her eyes followed him as he skirted the room.

  He held out his hands in the universal gesture of peace. ‘Lara, wake up. You’re dreaming. It’s not real. Lara.’

  She made a threatening lunge towards him, growled and stamped both feet. He jumped back. It was unreal. He couldn’t feel anything, because it was so unreal.

  The night had come into the room. Not darkness, but the essence of night, the absence of light. The cold of the Earth before the first dawn rose.

  ‘Lara…’

  She came for him then, scuttling with crablike speed across the room. She grabbed him by the shoulders and he felt the sharp prick of her fingernails. She stank of rotten meat and there was a crust around her lips. She was bleeding from the mouth. Her teeth were filed away to ragged points.

  What pain she must be in. What pain…

  He fought back. This wasn’t Lara. This was the darkness he had hidden from for so long. Perhaps it had always been here, lurking in the shadows of his house, in his memories.

  She was so strong, like a tigress. She pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him. Her breasts looked heavier than they had been earlier, scored with the marks of her own fingernails. She uttered a shriek and lunged for his neck.

  He should be afraid, shouldn’t he? This thing, this monstrous abomination dredged from the primal soup, was feasting on him, tearing at his flesh, kneading his skin with its claws, sucking the life from him. It stank of Hell. Yet he was aroused by it. He wanted her and she let him do it, her body bucking in frenzy.

  And he saw it then, the tunnel into history. The rivers of blood that carried the memories of humanity. It is within all of us, he thought. We have tamed it and dressed it up in a silk suit. We have made it dead. We have contained it in books and films and lascivious dreams. We have contained it in nightmares. But ultimately, it is within us all the time. And it is alive, pulsing, warm and wet, stinking of musk and spoiled meat.

  Lara wasn’t stronger than Sarah. The opposite was true. Because Sarah had rejected this. It was what she had seen and felt and had never spoken of. The search for Nosferatu didn’t begin in the grave, but in the reptile brain, the primordial remnant of beast within every human mind. It was demonic. It was divine.

  In the late morning, with bright sunshine coming into the kitchen, they were politely formal with each other. She said she had badly chipped a tooth falling over in the dark. They didn’t talk about how she’d decorated her body. The mess in the kitchen had been cleaned up by the time he had come downstairs and she was freshly showered, smelling of his patchouli body wash. She joked about her loathing of dentists as she carefully drank hot coffee. He made toast, then apologised and offered something softer: scrambled eggs perhaps? She wasn’t hungry, she said.

  He rubbed his neck. ‘Ah well…’

  She had to go to work at two. Worked part-time in a local shop. Perhaps she could get an emergency dental appointment before she went in.

  He had work to do too. The book would be late to his publishers otherwise. Nice day, though.

  Yes, nice day.

  At the door, she pecked his cheek in a brief kiss. ‘We must do this again,’ she said.

  ‘Must we?’ Many words hung unspoken between them.

  She smiled. She looked very tired and there were purple rings beneath her eyes. ‘I think I got what I wanted. Didn’t you?’

  ‘Lara…’

  ‘You can call me. Or not,’ she said. ‘I don’t need you now, Noah, but I kind of like you.’

  He watched her run down the path to the road. She had rejected a lift. He leaned his forehead on the doorframe. Once your eyes are open, you can never close them. Sarah knew this.

  He shouldn’t see Lara again. He should attempt to forget all that had occurred. They’d been drunk. She’d broken one tooth, that’s all. It had been less than he’d imagined. As if to remind him otherwise, his neck twinged painfully. He felt light-headed, sick, suddenly able to imagine the future, the long, slow, agonising stretch of it, the descent into realms he dared not think about.

  He shouldn’t see her again. But she was just his type, wasn’t she? Just his type.

  Remedy of the Bane

  The immensity of the city unnerved him at first; the height of its walls that contained as much as excluded. Once within their protecting stones, he felt swallowed: the training barracks beyond the city, with their ranks of guards, manifold rules and restrictions, seemed less enfolding.

  His name was Orlando Pepper. He was a young man, from a good family, and very handsome. He was also a new soldier, meticulously trained, and because of his father’s connections, if not his own good conduct, had secured a position in the palace guard in the city of Kadrid. His leather gleamed, his dark eyes shone with optimism, his devotion to his King was keen and passionate. It was an honour to be assigned to the palace guard, even though his function would be essentially decorative, and bar unforeseen invasion - which was of course unlikely - lacking action of any kind.

  In the royal barracks, Orlando Pepper was given a new uniform with tassels and an ornate sword. On active duty (standing on guard at various stations around the palace and its environs, or parading up and down for the citizens), he wore a splendid helm adorned with horsehair dyed to indigo. He was allotted a servant to see to his polishing, light his pipe, or whatever other duties he might require, and had recourse to the services of painstaking whores who lived in a house, which was painted red, but discretely positioned behind the royal barracks, and shielded by tall trees.

  Orlando felt as if his circumstances could not be improved in any way. His demands from life were modest. He wrote letters to his mother in the country, describing the disturbing opulence and bulk of the city, Kadrid. He sent his sisters trinkets bought from the markets, amulets impressed with the image of the King, the silent Queen, or their daughters, Seramis, Thirza and Phedra. ‘One day,’ Orlando wrote to his mother, ‘the Princess Seramis will be queen, and I hope to serve her, for she is a woman of great beauty and kindness.’

  Seramis, gifted eldest daughter. Gentle, popular, white of skin, with a mane of glorious black hair, her eyes dark as shadows, but with a warmth within. In mid-winter, when the city stood stark against the wilderness of ice and famine beyond its walls, it was Seramis’ habit to solicit donated goods from the rich of the city, which were sold at a colourful winter market, held in the outer garden of the palace. The professional classes would clamour to buy a ticket for the market, would spend their money generously, afterwards boasting of a walk upon the royal lawns, of nodding at sovereign figures at close quarters. All the proceeds from the market, distributed by Seramis’ own white hand, via her sweeping signature upon papers of recommendation, went towards relieving the deficiencies of poor people’s lives: a softening of winter’s clutch. The people loved Seramis. Whenever she inspected the guard, she would smile softly and incline her head. They, of course, could make no response, but she left flowers for them; small, compact roses of aching scent, which they could pick up from the ground when they went off-duty, and take to place beneath their pillows. Everyone loved Seramis. One day, she would become a legendary queen.

  Thirza, the youngest daughter was still a child; boisterous and plump. She rode her ponies in the palace gardens, with her own guard, for all of whom she had invented pet names. She gave them gifts, pictures she had drawn, or little models of clay and straw she had made, and chattered gaily to them as they rode, bringing light and happiness to their hearts. Thirza too was loved.

  Then the middle daughter, Phedra. She was beautiful, as her mother was beautiful. Pale yellow hair like a bolt of unravelled silk, slim as a reed, with slanting cat’s eyes, unusually dark for her colouring. But where Seramis had a sweetly-scented blossom beneath her tongue, and Thirza a bubbling, aromatic stream, Phedra had a blade. When she spoke, it was as if she spat poison. Her voice was low-pitched but deadly. She had no interest in the citizens, and indeed seemed impatient with them. When the royal family gathe
red for some public occasion or another, and Seramis touched brows with cool fingers and uttered soft words of hope and inspiration, and Thirza bounced around making people ache with delighted laughter, Phedra stood back, tapping her toes, yawning, turning away from earnest faces. The King would flick admonishing glances at her, the Queen might scowl very slightly in disappointment, and later, in the royal apartments, sharp words might be exchanged on the subject, but Phedra seemed immune to criticism. Many rumours were circulated in the city concerning other aspects of Phedra’s behaviour, which were deemed unsuitable for a princess. She got through ladies-in-waiting faster than they could be dragooned into her service. It was said her venom occasionally manifested in more physical outbursts, and ladies had been sighted fleeing from Phedra’s apartments, tears on their faces, the red flowers of sharp slaps upon their cheeks, or bruises upon their arms. It was also suggested that Princess Phedra had rather too eager a taste for wine, which only served to exacerbate her temper. Someone had fallen downstairs once, broken a bone. Perhaps an accident.

  Orlando Pepper heard these rumours, but his superior officers advised all the soldiers to ignore such gossip, and warned them not to repeat anything that they might hear. Orlando agreed fervently with this directive. The royal family, in his opinion, were above reproach. Therefore he closed his ears, and even offered a short rebuke, to the colleague who whispered to him about how the Princess Phedra had taken to spending most evenings away from the palace. Of course, there was nothing that unusual in this. Princess Seramis also made many excursions into the city at night, accompanied by her personal guard, her retinue of ladies, and her bevy of castrated pages. She would always return before midnight, pausing only to scatter flowers at the guards on duty before the main doors of the palace, after she had alighted from her carriage. Princess Phedra, however, rarely returned before dawn, and often she had managed to shake off the attentions of her personal guard, her ladies and pages. Orlando’s informant claimed that one of the guards had reported that Phedra had come stumbling up the main driveway alone, only two nights previously, so drunk she could barely stand, with her boots in her hand and her fur wrap lost. She had even paused to utter lewd remarks at the guard, and, horror of horrors, though perhaps this was an exaggeration, had lifted her skirts to display her underwear. ‘At least she was wearing some,’ said the informant gleefully, ‘otherwise the poor man’s eyes might have had to be put out! Such a sight is not for commoners, after all!’

  ‘I don’t believe any of it,’ said Orlando, loyally, with a stern glance at his colleague.

  ‘It is absolutely true,’ said the informant, who then shrugged. ‘Who cares? The woman’s an evil bitch. If you don’t believe that little snippet, you certainly wouldn’t believe other tales I could tell you, of incidents that have occurred involving members of the palace staff.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear them,’ Orlando said, stiffly, and he didn’t.

  The time came for Orlando Pepper’s first night on sentry duty outside the palace. He was not stationed at the grand main portico with others, but at a lone sentinel’s post behind the main building, where the lawns yawned downwards in moonlight. Unseen by human eyes, Orlando stood to attention, frowning sightlessly at the garden, but his senses alert for untoward noises that might advertise intrusion. Twice a night, once after midnight, once before dawn, two senior officers patrolled the gardens, ostensibly to inspect the sentries. As the Witch Star fell in the sky, exhausted after her hectic rise to midnight, Orlando heard the crunch of booted feet along the gravel pathways, the murmur of the officers conferring softly in the moonlight. Orlando’s spine stiffened, his lower lip stuck out, his breast bone also. The officers flicked him a glance, said nothing, strolled on. Orlando heard laughter over some private joke or another. He felt they had not really seen him, nor appreciated his meticulous attention to his duties. Still, he was aware of his own devoutness, and that was enough.

  The night poured on. The moon sank dreamily into the arms of the tallest trees.

  How beautiful the gardens as the white ghost-light faded; the heavy drooping branches, the night-scented flowers hanging over the great stone vases, the fountains that glinted distantly between the tangled boughs of ancient trees. Peacocks called, as they dragged their folded tails through the wet grass; nervous foxes ran across the lawns. From some far window came a thread of music, quickly silenced. Orlando felt the dew fall upon his face, but he did not move. A moth alighted on his cheek. He did not move.

  There was laughter in the distance; a female sound. She came into view around a corner of the palace. Gargoyles and the death-masks of martyred virgins looked down through stone eyes, their expressions weirdly censorious, even outraged. Her hair hung around her shoulders, darker because it was not entirely dry. She looked, in fact, drowned. She was not alone, but accompanied by a whinnying young man who was having as much trouble controlling his feet as she. They stumbled, leaning on one another, giggles smothered by fingers and a pantomimed ‘Sssh!’ Then she saw Orlando.

  Orlando had recognised the Princess Phedra immediately, even if her hair was in disarray. It was clear that she was drunk. He stood to attention sternly, his eyes focused straight ahead, down across the lawns. In some perverse fashion, he was glad to witness the truth of the rumours, because it meant he could seal his lips for her sake, for the sake of her father and royal honour.

  Phedra eyed the soldier. For a moment, she stood swaying on the gravel. Then she walked towards him, or rather sashayed wantonly across the space between them. ‘Soldier,’ she said, ‘look at me.’ Her hands defined the lithe contours of her body in its sheathe of dark silk. She shook her hair and tendrils of it clung to her damp face.

  Orlando knew he must make no response. As a sentry, he had no other choice.

  Phedra leaned close. He could smell her breath, smoky and sweetly rotten with too much liquor. She was a blurred shadow before him, while the lawns stretched away in sharp focus. ‘Soldier, I gave you an order! Look at me!’

  Orlando’s face began to burn. He was torn. Should he obey the princess and desert his duty? Did the royal word come before the offices of sentinel? No, he knew his obligation. He had learned that a sentry must not flinch, must remain still and unmoving, alert only for danger to the palace, no matter what other distractions arose.

  Phedra laughed. She reached up with a hot, moist hand and stroked the soldier’s cheek. ‘You’re just a boy,’ she murmured. ‘Come now, look at me. I demand it.’ Then she stood on tiptoe and put her lips against his.

  Orlando pulled away. ‘Your Highness, I beg you!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Oh!’ said Phedra. ‘Well, well, well! Am I not good enough for you? Are the whores they give you more beautiful than me, is that it?’

  ‘No,’ Orlando said miserably. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness.’

  Phedra pulled a sour face. Her companion still stood swaying behind her, offering encouragement. ‘Grab his balls, Pheddy!’

  Phedra turned away. ‘There are only one set of balls I’m grabbing tonight, Taristo! Come along!’ She walked unsteadily away along the path, in the direction of a back entrance to the palace, and with a final sneer at Orlando, her companion followed her.

  Orlando was left dazed, feeling as if he’d suffered some ghastly hallucination. Still, his lips were sealed, his eyes were blind. As his heart slowed down, and his brain denied the verity of what had happened, he gazed once more upon the spreading lawns, and the night continued.

  At dawn, Orlando went off duty and returned to his room in the barracks to sleep. After a scant two hours’ slumber, his door was thrown open and three men marched into the room, one of them a senior officer of the guard. ‘Out of bed and on with your trousers,’ he said.

  Orlando was confused, but obeyed. He had been trained to obey. He asked was what wrong, but the men would not tell him. They dragged him out into a yard beyond the kitchens, where he was surprised to discover most of his colleagues were gathered. None of them, he noticed, lo
oked very happy. All of them were in full uniform, while Orlando wore only his trousers.

  The officer produced a paper and read from it. Orlando was so shocked by what he heard, he felt he might faint, and that would be a terrible thing for a soldier to do. Princess Phedra had reported him for neglecting his duties. He had spoken to her, she said. He had broken his silence.

  Orlando tried to utter an anguished explanation, but his words were ignored. He was told to be silent. His sentence, for his misdemeanour, was six strokes of the lash.

  After he had knelt in the dust to suffer the blinding, scalding pain of his punishment, two of his friends helped him to his feet. ‘You are not the first,’ one of them said, but that was all.

  It was a test, Orlando thought to himself. A test, and I failed it. I deserved my punishment.

  He convinced himself he was grateful to the Princess for underlining his weaknesses. It would not happen a second time. The incident was not mentioned by his superiors again, and if any of his friends wanted to speak with him about it, Orlando discouraged them by keeping a distance.

  Among themselves, but excluding Orlando, the palace guard talked about how the Princess Phedra had taken to sentry-baiting as a new sport. The example set by Orlando, the scapegoat, encouraged them all to ignore the Princess’ advances. She was aware of this and tormented them cruelly. One said she had even stripped naked before him, then danced upon the lawn like a harlot. Perhaps some wild elaboration entered their tales.

  Orlando was on night sentry duty again a couple of months later. If there was any trepidation in his breast as he exchanged with the soldier on duty before him, he kept it hidden even from himself. The summer was turning and the garden seemed too ripe, too heavy. Heat hung above the royal lawns, and the peacocks drowsed beneath the spreading cedars. Orlando was hot in his uniform, and sweat ran down beneath his helm. This time, he was stationed at a point where two other sentries were visible to his left and right. In that, he might have felt safer.