Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  “Hush,” she hissed. “Look there.” She thrust out her hand and pointed.

  Obeying, Richard saw a man in monk’s robes mounting a small flight of rough-hewn steps toward a bowl-shaped platform, carved with strange signs. A pulpit, Richard decided and then swallowed a cry as the man faced the congregation, if so it could be termed. He was wearing a mask—a goat’s head, incredibly ugly and, Richard guessed, frightening to a goodly number of the people present. The goat was a symbol of Satan. He wondered why that particular animal had been chosen. He had never been particularly fond of goats. He did not like their odd eyes nor did he appreciate their penchant for eating everything in sight. As a child, he had lost a favorite hat to the voracious appetite of a black and white billy goat.

  “My children, hear me.” The voice issuing from the mask was hollow and echoing. It recited Latin prayers, but how odd they sounded—not like the Latin Richard had learned in school to the accompaniment of a ruler over his knuckles each time he missed a declension.

  Around him, the crowd of “monks” and “nuns” were muttering those prayers, were intoning other responses, were rising and kneeling. In the glimmer of torchlight, he saw an altar. Rising behind it was another reversed cross on which was stretched the tortured image of a man in a loin cloth, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and two horns buried in his hair. His legs ended in hoofs. Richard smiled derisively—more mockery of Papist symbols. Sir Francis had to be a believer, else he could not have taken such pleasure in degrading his faith!

  A scream rang out, which was choked off quickly, but not before Richard recognized Catlin’s voice. He rose and was pulled down once more by the surprisingly powerful grasp of the small girl by his side.

  “’Tis too late. You can do nothing as yet,” she said obscurely.

  “Do nothing? Catlin needs me, I tell you,” he yelled, forgetting that she could not know who Catlin was.

  “You cannot go now. You’d be torn to pieces. Wait. She is safe enough.”

  Unwillingly, Richard knelt down again. He had to believe her. He also agreed that there would be danger if he were to interrupt the ceremony. He could not quell a cavernful of fanatics!

  The tinkling of a small bell was in his ears, and a strange chant arose from the congregations. Though the words had a familiar ring, he could not make out what they were saying. It sounded like gibberish.

  “Name thy be hallowed, heaven in art who father our..” they sang.

  “Our father who...” Richard automatically reversed the phrase and realized why the words had sounded so strange. The prayers as well as the crosses were reversed. More sacrilege, he thought contemptuously, finding the reverse more confusing than perverse. It was all child’s play!

  “Come to Communion,” boomed the figure in the goat mask. “The host is ready. The red host is ready and the altar prepared! Come to thine altar, my dear children, and eat of the flesh and drink of the blood of our Lord Sathanas, long may he reign on earth as he does in Hell and heaven, Amen.”

  Richard recognized Sir Francis’ tones—Sir Francis with a goat’s head clapped on his shoulders! Sir Francis, who knew where they had taken Catlin, now stood behind the altar, awaiting the faithful who worshipped Satan!

  He was being urged to his feet by his companion. She wanted him to join the line of men and women surging toward the altar, he guessed. He did not resist her this time. Once he reached Sir Francis, he would shake him like the dog he was and force him to reveal what he had done with Catlin.

  “Be calm,” murmured the voice he now knew. The girl was behind him and obviously concerned about him. He wondered why.

  They moved with the line. They were passing the altar to partake of the wafer, that which was called the “red host.” He knelt and knew that for appearance sake he must take the biscuit in his mouth and drink from a silver communion cup shaped like a goat’s hoof. As he swallowed the wafer, he would have sipped from the cup but it was tilted and the liquid poured down his throat. He swallowed convulsively once, twice, thrice before it was taken away. It had a strange pungent taste, but it was not unpleasant. In spite of his concern for Catlin, he wished he might have had more of it.

  Someone pushed him to his knees crying, “Kneel in the Presence!”

  Falling forward, Richard reached out to save himself, grasping the altar and feeling flesh! He stared down, seeing now that the silver dish containing the scarlet wafers was not resting on a linen or a cotton table cover. It lay on a nude body, a woman’s beautiful naked body. Her breasts were like apples, tipped with hard little red nipples. Her face, however, was as pale as death, her blue eyes open and filled with horror.

  “Catlin!” Richard reached for her, only to be thrust aside and held, straining against a powerful grip, while the rest of the congregation passed by and the man in the goat mask gave them the blood-red wafers, lifting each from the dish reposing on Catlin’s belly.

  A gong boomed out, and the cavern was filled with a brighter light. Almost magically, the prie-dieus were gone, pushed away by some of the monks. People were talking all at once—talking, screaming, laughing, singing, embracing. In another second, they were writhing together on the floor, the monks tearing at the transparent robes of the nuns and wrenching them off, while the women kissed and embraced them.

  Richard was feeling very strange, as if, in fact, he were outside his body, looking on. At the same time, hands were reaching for him and pulling him down. He struggled to free himself from their determined grasping, yet there was an excitement rising in him. He wanted to be part of that wildness, wanted to throw himself down and feel those knowing caresses, but he could not because of Catlin. Catlin—who was she? He was no longer sure. Someone had caught his sleeve. He looked down and saw the small girl, who had guided him through the ceremony. She pushed her thumb against his palm, stroking it and sending shivers through him.

  “Take me,” she begged. “Take Erlina Bell.”

  He stared at her. Her face seemed to be melting before his eyes—her body, too. He reached out to touch her, and she held his hand between her naked breasts. Her flesh was firm and warm. He wanted her. No,... he had to find Catlin. He staggered away from her, looking toward the place where the table had been and saw her still lying there. She was no longer alone! The man in the goat’s mask was poised over her, stroking her with hands curved like talons!

  Richard rushed toward them, stepping over and on hands and arms, unmindful of outraged screams. He fell and rose again and finally reached her. He thrust the man in the goat’s mask aside, and when the latter with an outraged scream tried to tangle with him, he lifted him bodily and threw him down. He lay where he had fallen, and Richard pulled Catlin into his arms, holding her against him, uttering soothing little sounds, as if comforting a frightened child.

  “Catlin... Catlin.” His mouth was against her ear. He smoothed her tangled hair back from her beautiful face and looking down saw that she was bound hand and foot. He carried her to a corner of the cavern and worked at the bindings. Finally she was free, and with a moan she flung her arms around his neck, burying her face against his chest.

  He held her gently, patting her back, still uttering soothing little sounds, but it was difficult to touch her without wanting her. In spite of his good intentions, his desire for her was increasing. He needed her. Her back was so smooth beneath his fingers as he ran his hand the length of it. He wanted her, and amazingly she seemed impelled by the same desires. She slipped her hands beneath his robe, fondling him, caressing him until he could no longer disobey the promptings of his own body. She was beneath him. He thrust himself against her softness and her hardness until the thin barrier of her maidenhead was pierced and her sharp cry of pain was in his ears, then silenced as he possessed her and she, ignited by his passion, climaxed with a moan of pure pleasure.

  Moments later, lying beside him, she turned and put her mouth against his ear. “I wanted you,” she whispered. “He’ll not have me now.”

  “He?” Ri
chard demanded furiously.

  She trembled. “He said I was damned and being damned was ripe to bear his child, but ’tis your seed I’ll have growing in my womb. I’ll birth no goat-headed demons.”

  He had to tell her she was talking foolishly. Unfortunately it was difficult for him to think clearly, yet even in his current state of confusion, he was annoyed that this lovely girl should give ear to such folderol! Beauty without intelligence was a combination he did not admire, but he must remember she was a Papist, one that had been used as... as what? His head was getting heavy again, and looking at Catlin, he found her blurry and indistinct. It must be the drug. A man jumped between them, and he heard Catlin cry out. He lunged at the intruder, who eluded him and ran away. Richard stared after him and then turning looked toward Catlin, but the space where she had lain was empty.

  Richard got to his feet, staring woozily about him, “Catlin... Catlinnnnn,” he called, but his voice was drowned in the howls and laughter and screams about him. He stared out across the smoky cavern, across the sea of writhing, copulating bodies, and wrinkled his nose. A strong odor of sweat rose from the group, and looking at them, he was aware of various imperfections—huge flaccid bellies, hairy backs, posteriors ornamented with boils, pendulous breasts, scrawny limbs. True, there were some amidst the assembly that were well-endowed but... his thoughts abruptly ceased as hands grabbed him, pulled him down, caressed and stroked him. Mouths pressed against his mouth, seeking tongues thrust his lips apart, knees parted his legs. Caught in that orgiastic maelstrom, he dizzily tried to evade those that lay upon him, crawled over him, sidled against him, but it was useless to contend against them. He must needs respond to their urging, mindlessly, mechanically, until at length, he lay naked and exhausted in the arms of he knew not whom. His eyes were filled with strange patterns of light that formed and reformed, lights and shapes together, with sounds, music. Yes, there was music and chanting... somewhere... somewhere.

  A name forced itself into his half-numbed brain and he whispered, “Catlin...” and wondered upon whom he was calling.

  “Take me! Take Erlina Bell.”

  Richard forced his heavy eyelids open and found that the dark girl was beside him again. “You...” he mumbled.

  “Take Erlina Bell,” she commanded.

  Rolling over on his belly, he stared down at her, seeing that her body was hard-fleshed and thin. He did not want her. He was too weary, too spent, yet she was caressing him now. There was fire in her touch. It burned through him, arousing him, driving his weariness away. Her caresses were blotting out all that remained of any coherent thought, leaving only desire. He had to possess her. He had no choice. As he mounted her, she screamed shrilly like a female cat under a tom. A second later, he screamed, too, as her sharp teeth sank into his shoulder. The pain infuriated yet excited him. Snarling, he bit down on her back. The taste of her blood was on his tongue. Her nails dug into his back.

  “You... you... you... where are you?” came a sobbing scream.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Erlina Bell cried, clutching him the harder.

  Richard had heard, had listened. He found the strength to wrest himself from that spasmodic grip. Clambering to his feet, he stared about him and saw her and knew her, too. “Catlin,” he mouthed. “Catlin, Catlin...”

  She was standing a short distance away, and he cleared the distance between them in a single heap, clasping her tightly in his arms. He moved back hastily, feeling the stickiness of blood against his hands—her blood. Staring down at her back, he saw that she had been flogged. There were stripes across her hips and buttocks and scratches on her breasts, her belly and her thighs. “Who has hurt you?” he asked hoarsely.

  “The goat... to punish me,” she moaned. “He said you’d robbed him and I must be chastized. You as well. He said were both damned to... to eternal flames.” She began to cry.

  Richard held her tightly again, wishing he might throttle the man who had flogged her, and yet at the same time, in a tiny corner of his brain, he wished she had the wit not to swallow those ridiculous threats whole. Then his passion for her blotted out that minor quibble. Stroking her hair, he said softly, “He lied. Neither of us will be punished. This is all a great travesty, my own love, a mockery of something that means nothing.” He fell silent as a wind suddenly howled through the cavern extinguishing the torches.

  Stygian darkness like a smothering blanket fell upon them all, and the shrieks of laughter turned into wails of terror as it grew colder and colder and colder.

  “Come.” A familiar voice was in Richard’s ear and a small hand fastened on his arm. “Come with me.”

  Hardly knowing what he was doing, he lifted Catlin in his arms and let Erlina Bell lead him away. They were guided toward a rocky crevasse. As they moved inside, at the girl’s whispered directions, the sharp points of the stones cut his feet and lacerated the flesh of his thighs, but he made no sound; nor did Catlin, quivering against him.

  “He’ll try to take her,” Erlina Bell muttered, “but if you promise to help me, I will help you. And I can get you away from here, Richard Veringer.”

  “How do you know my name?” he demanded.

  “Suffice to say that I know it,” she replied. “And I will get you away from here if you swear by the Great Mother, by the Horned God and by Ahriman, that you will do as I ask.”

  “Ahriman...” He wondered where he had heard the name. Ahriman was what Sir Francis had called his servant. Why was she naming him in such an oath?

  “Why... Ahriman, the boy that served Sir Francis?” he whispered.

  “He’s not what you think, my Ahriman,” she emphasized with an ominous note in her voice.

  His mind was clearing now, but what she was saying still sounded like so much gibberish to him. Gibberish or not, he found himself oddly reluctant to accede to her demand. Still Catlin, alternately moaning with pain and babbling now about a cat named Grimalkin and a witch called Molly and some sort of curse, must be his first concern.

  “How could I help you?” he demanded.

  “There is a small cottage on your land. It is stone and far from the castle or Hold, as you call it. In the forest it is. Do you know it?”

  “Know it... a cottage?” he repeated, trying to concentrate. He did know it, but it was still hard to fix his mind on anything. He must have been drugged. Yes, he had been drugged, heavily. That was why he had particiapted in the orgy. He did not want to think about that, could not dwell on what had happened, had to concentrate on what she was saying about the cottage, and this woman, who was she? How did she know him? To his certain knowledge, he had never seen her before. No matter, he must concentrate and think about the cottage in the forest... the cottage, the cottage. “Yes,” he cried triumphantly, “I do know of it. It belonged to some manner of hermit, a hundred years ago. How did you happen to hear of it?”

  “Suffice to say that I did hear of it and want it. I want it to be mine for as long as I need it. Will you swear that I may call it mine?”

  “You may have it,” he said. “I need not swear, though. You have my word. And now when I think of it, there’s none will venture near the place. They say it’s accursed, which, of course, is fool’s talk. ’Tis yours.”

  “You must promise that it is mine by the Great Mother, the Horned God and by Ahriman,” she said stubbornly.

  “As you choose.” He was weary and confused. There was something about this dark girl that filled him with repugnance, especially when he recollected the savagery of their mating. They had come together like a pair of wild beasts. He would not think of that. He must consider Catlin, poor little wench, thrust into terror through no fault of her own. “I swear by the Great Mother,” he said. “Is that right?”

  “Yes. Continue!”

  “Ahriman... and the horned owl?”

  “God!” she snapped.

  “I beg your pardon. God, then. That the cottage is your’s as long as... as...”

  “I might need it.”


  “You might need it. Are you satisfied, Erlina Bell?”

  “I am satisfied,” she answered. “And you must remember that you’ve sworn an oath, Richard Veringer. An oath is much more binding than a mere promise.”

  “Not my promise!” he said frowning.

  “No matter. I am satisfied,” she repeated.

  It was, Richard decided, a mere coincidence that a cloud sailed over the moon as they crawled from their hiding place into the windy night. The cloud made it impossible for anyone to see their naked bodies, and they were able to follow Erlina to a small cave, just wide enough to contain the three of them. Crouching down, Richard stiffened, as he heard Catlin’s name called and recognized Sir Francis’ voice. The man continued calling, his tone coaxing then furious, screaming her name until he was hoarse, until at last he could manage no more than a croak.

  Hours later Erlina led them back into the great cavern, now emptied of all who had worshipped, feasted and copulated there. Lighting one of the torches, she indicated a passageway buried deep in the rocks and which, she insisted, was unknown even to Sir Francis.

  “And how do you know of it?” Richard asked curiously.

  “I am Romany born,” she explained. “Our tribes are possessed of much lore that is hidden.”

  It was an answer that sufficed for many of his questions, including her mention of the hut on his grounds. He could now acquit her of any arcane abilities and was angry that he should even have entertained so ridiculous a notion!

  Erlina found them some discarded monks’ robes and guided them to an inn, where she was known. The host, who seemed in awe of her, provided changes of garments merely on the promise of future repayment.

  A month later, it was Erlina Bell who was sole witness of the wedding of Catlin O’Neill and Richard Veringer, conducted in the rose gardens of the castle. The ceremony was secret because the bridegroom’s mother had died before his return and the nuptials should have been postponed. They could not be postponed for the regulation year of mourning since the bride was already suffering the pangs of morning sickness.