The Pits of Passion

by Amber Flame

  She didn’t know how long she traveled that way. After a while she seemed to doze, the hoof beats drumming in her ear and lulling her into a light stupor. Even the constant motion aboard the donkey only increased her fatigue, and she lost all track of time.

  When the donkey finally stopped, it took her a moment before she realized it. By then rough hands were pulling her off the little animal’s back, and she stood tiredly. New voices muttered and chanted about her, and she shrank back from the surrealistic feeling that scores of people were pressing close about her. Finally hand grasped her waist, and pulled her stumbling across the ground. She was dragged several yards, then stopped unceremoniously, and suddenly her blindfold and gag were stripped off.

  She gasped audibly at the sight around her. Several fires burned high in a cleared area, with the dark silhouettes of people standing or moving eerily among the flames. Converging close in front of her were several tall, black skinned men, each painted with slashes of bright and horrible masks that made Elizabeth choke with fear. The masks were huge, distorted faces with twisted, animalistic characteristics, and they sent shivers of terror down Elizabeth’s spine.

  To make matters worse, at least six sinewy-muscled men stood in close ranks around her, blocking any avenue of retreat like a living cage. Their skin glistened ebony in the dancing firelight, and Elizabeth was reminded of her abduction in Africa. The only difference was that a sense of orgiastic violence permeated the air, and she feared she would not escape unharmed. Last time her only wound was a sore throat. This time she was not sure if she would survive at all.

  Before she had time to take in the full impact of her predicament, the masked savages began to finger the remnants of her gown .She shrank back from their curious hands, horrified to see her beautiful gown in shreds. The hem was torn and covered with dirt, and the sleeves and bodice were ripped in places from her blind journey. The men touched each rip carefully, and even ventured to feel her bulging stomach in a bold way.

  Suddenly, the fingers were no longer cautious and curious, but heedless and demanding, and Elizabeth was horrified to find her gown being ripped from her body in rents. The green velvet fell in shreds about her feet until she stood naked and pregnant in the savage firelight.

  The sight of her body seemed to incite the natives with wild desires. They danced more frantically about the clearing and the pitch of drums rose to a speeding tattoo. The masked man in front of her jabbered and talked excitedly and jumped up and down. Each exclaimed loudly over the white woman, pointing all the time, until finally they seemed to come to a decision.

  The entire enflamed multitude then grabbed various parts of her body and dragged her into the center of the clearing. She fought madly, swinging her belly this way and that, but to no avail. With all her protests, she was pulled unceremoniously toward the largest fire. Two brawny, masked men held one of her wrists each and pulled so that she stood spread-eagled in front of the fire. The rest of the natives formed a huge semi-circle across the flames from her, chanting and swaying to a heathen rhythm. The nearness of the fire and the heightening frenzy of the people made Elizabeth feel hot and flushed, and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and on her belly. She felt nauseated and about ready to faint.

  Suddenly a woman’s scream rent the air and sent ungodly shivers down her spine. She involuntarily twisted her body so she could see behind her, in the direction of the scream, and she gasped in dismay. Standing behind her and wearing nothing but a mask too horrible for description was a large, glistening man, and he was walking purposefully toward her.

  She tried to wrench free but the hands of her captors held her tight. She thrashed frantically, panic ringing her eyes with white and shooting adrenaline in to her blood. She was dismayed to realize she was sweating from every orifice and was drenched with perspiration.

  She threw her head back and saw the man approaching closer. The nostrils of his mask were flared and ringed with color like a heated stallion, and the eyeholes were dark and shadowy, yet lit from within by a strange light. The mouth was large and twisted in a cruel, downward wrench, wild and demanding. To make things worse, Elizabeth noticed the man’s flagpole standing at attention, and he carried strange implements of torture in his hands.

  She screamed, the desperate cry ringing through the treetops. The echoes died away amid the rumblings of the drums and the chanting of the natives.

  Suddenly icy fingers of fear tapped Elizabeth’s spine, and she knew the man--the Witch Doctor--stood directly behind her. She stood petrified, afraid to breathe or hope. What were they going to do?

  Then she felt it--something cold and bluntly pointed jabbed into her buttock. She jumped, but her captors tightened their grip on her. The object described an arc across the top of her left buttock, down into her crack, then up over the curve of her right buttock. She couldn’t decide what the object was, whether it was a blunt knife or some sort of staff, but the feel of it caressing her flesh drove her mad with apprehension. Undoubtedly the witch doctor was performing some tribal rite, but how would it end?

  She felt the object go up her spine, all the way to the nape of her neck, then in a circle over each wing muscle. There was more pressure, small, unorganized dots all over her skin, and then the witch doctor uttered some unintelligible order, and she was turned around toward him. He had held the object at her side, and as she was turned it slid along her flesh, so if it had been a knife it would have cut her in half. But it wasn’t a knife. It was a grease pencil.

  “Good grief,” she said.

  “Silence!” ordered the Witch Doctor. He looked at her sharply, as sharply as he could with that wooden mask covering his face.

  “You speak English!” she sputtered.

  “Of course,” said the Witch Doctor as he drew concentric circles around her belly button. “Do you think we’re a bunch of illiterates?”

  “But what are you doing?” she asked. The grease pencil wound its way up her stomach between her breasts.

  “Shhhh,” he said. “This is a very serious solemn rite and you aren’t allowed to babble while it’s going on.”

  “But what is the rite? Why are you drawing on me?”

  “Our people are oppressed and subjugated by the Europeans, and we need a sign that the gods favor us and will help us build back our strength so we may defeat them. It was written in the beginning of our people’s time that one day a shining goddess would deliver to us a golden leader who would lead us against our enemies. You are the goddess, and you carry our leader.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. She was about ready to call bullshit on this sun goddess crap. “This is my baby and the only thing he’s going to lead for awhile is the afterbirth.”

  “He is Manacotti,” the Witch Doctor insisted.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He-who-slips-from-golden-ferned-thighs-and causes-thunder-in-the-mountains-when-he-humps-maiden.”

  “Oh,” said Elizabeth. The Witch Doctor drew flowers around her nipples and wrote ‘Kilroy was here’ over her appendix. Then he proceeded to draw two vertical lines on her stomach then two horizontal lines crossing the first. With a deft hand he drew an X in the center of the lines, then handed the pen to Elizabeth.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  The guard on her right released her hand and she took the pen. She studied the ancient tribal markings for a moment, then placed an O in the upper right hand corner.

  “My turn,” said the Witch Doctor, and he took the pen back. He drew an X in the lower right hand corner and handed her the pen again.

  Elizabeth placed more O’s on the ritual playing board, not at all sure she was doing it correctly. The Witch Doctor gave away nothing by his expression, which remained wooden, but placed his marks without comment. The chanting and swaying of the people had stopped at some point Elizabeth couldn’t remember, and the clearing was hushed with expectation.

  Suddenly, the Witch Doctor stood up tall in front of Elizabeth, the pen in
his hand, and slashed a black line through his three X’s in a row. With that motion, the people let out a cheer and a whoop that rocked the birds out of the trees. The noise frightened Elizabeth, and she looked about frantically.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “I won,” he said proudly.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You lost.”

  “I want a rematch.” She struggled, but the guards had tight hold on her wrists again. “What are you going to do?”

  The Witch Doctor pulled out a huge curved knife from somewhere, and it gleamed in the moonlight. He held it poised in his hand, a statue of doom.

  “It’s time for us to have our savior,” he said in a melancholy voice

  Elizabeth screamed. The Witch Doctor stepped closer, the knife curving down toward her protruding belly. She tried to suck her stomach in, but no go, it just wouldn’t suck. As the knife made a slow downward arc in front of her, she closed her eyes and held her breath.

  “Now,” said the Witch Doctor, “don’t step over this line.” Elizabeth opened her eyes to see he had drawn a line around her feet. The knife was jammed into the ground almost to the hilt.

  The Witch Doctor snapped his fingers and the guards released Elizabeth’s wrists. Before she could flee however, he had grabbed hold of her himself. Being careful not to smear the line in the dirt, he turned her away from him and held her by the wrist.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a frightened voice. She was still afraid the knife might be used on her or her baby. The baby, by the way, was kicking furiously now.

  “Inducing labor,” he said. “Have you ever done it doggy-style?”

  “What?” she almost screamed. But before she could get an intelligible answer out of him he had rammed his inducer in as far as he could.

  “Ulp,” Elizabeth said. She felt as though she would burst, being so full of baby and baby-inducer all at once. The Witch Doctor’s hands were firm but sweaty on her hips, and he moved her forward and back, being careful to stay inside the line. Elizabeth thought vaguely that this must be what it felt like to be a crayon.

  Suddenly she felt pricks (small ones) in her buttocks almost like someone was sticking pins in her tender flesh. She looked back and someone was sticking pins in her tender flesh. The Witch Doctor!

  “Ouch!” she said. “I thought you only stuck pins in dolls here.”

  “That’s passé. Acupuncture is going over very big here. Especially during savior-birthing. Do you feel anything yet?”

  She had to admit that she did. Aside from the usual feelings (small fingers of pleasure titillating her nerve endings, shivers of anticipation going up and down her spine, and wet, sticky stuff on the inside of her thighs) she felt the earth move inside her uterus. Actually, it wasn’t the earth, it was the baby, but it was so heavy it felt like the earth. The little fart was turning slow somersaults and occasionally Elizabeth staggered as she was caught off balance.

  “Don’t step out of the circle!” the Witch Doctor said. He was panting now, and not really much of a steadying influence.

  “I’m trying not to,” she said, “but it’s hard.”

  “I know!” he gasped.

  Suddenly, about the time she expected him to groan and collapse, he let out a blood-curdling scream that reminded her of the panicked squeal of a rabbit, or a closet-queen getting kicked in the balls. In a twinkling his voodoo wand had shriveled to nothing and she felt a distinct draft up her receptacle.

  “What happened?” she asked. The Witch Doctor was no longer in the circle with her, but dancing about holding his pee-pee in his hands. She thought it must be some part of the ritual he hadn’t explained to her.

  “He bit me!” the Witch Doctor howled.

  “Who bit you?” she asked.

  “That brat of yours! He bit my magic staff!”

  Elizabeth began to laugh, which only seemed to infuriate the Witch Doctor all the more. Her laughter faded when he reached for the knife stuck into the ground.

  “This is no time for frivolity!” he said in a menacing voice.

  Just then, Elizabeth’s baby kicked her in the diaphragm as hard as he could, and she clutched her breast and doubled over with the pain. At the same time, her cervix decided to get in to the act and pulled so that her toes got charley horses in them. Half- unconscious, she fell to the ground, luckily not falling on the pins still stuck in her buttocks.

  The Witch Doctor dropped the knife and yelled loudly to his people.

  “It has begun,” he said, with upraised hands. “The leader is coming! Our savior will soon be among us!”

  The people let out a cheer that was deafening.

  Elizabeth passed out. The contractions were horribly painful, as if her child was already scraping at life. The last thing she remembered seeing was a convergence of people around her.

  When she woke up, she was settled cozily on a bedding of wild pigskin, padded with palm fronds. Two old women stood nearby, one with a palm fan and one with a damp rag to bathe her forehead. She was laid back in the soft cushion inside a grass hut, and her legs were up and apart in a very unladylike position. She closed her knees.

  “Awk!” said one of the women, and she grabbed Elizabeth’s knees and forced them apart again. As soon as she let go, Elizabeth brought her knees together. The women pulled them apart again, and Elizabeth closed them. Finally the woman said, “Humpf!” and stalked outside.

  Elizabeth felt satisfied that she had won that point until she saw the woman return with the Witch Doctor in tow. He had a different mask on now, one whose features were not quite so awful. He also wore a breechcloth.

  The woman looked smugly at Elizabeth, grabbed her knees and wrenched them apart like a pearl diver after a pearl. Elizabeth immediately went to close them, but the Witch Doctor stepped forward with a nasty-looking staff with a skull fixed on top of it and shook it at her.

  “Assume the position of motherhood!” he said in a thundering voice.

  “That’s indecent!” she retorted.

  “It’s also necessary for the birth of a child. Now open your knees or shall I force them open?” He shook his lance at her--the one with the skull on it--and she opened her knees. Just then another pain assailed her--a horrible, wrenching pain and with an anguished cry, she fainted.

  When she came to the next time, she heard a low, murmuring chanting from outside the hut. The two women still sat close by, and the Witch Doctor stood at the door. The sound of hundreds of low, rhythmic voices seemed to surround the hut in a surrealistic ocean.

  “What--what is going on outside?” she asked petulantly.

  “The people are waiting for their savior to be born. Can’t you hurry?”

  “I don’t thinks so,” she said. “Every time I have a pain, it hurts so bad, I faint. Do you have any ancient, tribal medicine, or even some aspirin?”

  “No, we don’t believe in that hocus-pocus. You just have to grin and bear it.”

  “I can’t grin,” she said.

  “Well, then, just bear it.”

  “The pain, or the baby?”

  “Both.”

  “Oh.”

  A knifeslit of pain tore across her lower abdomen and she passed out again.

  The next time she woke up, she heard a terrible din outside, yelling and crashing and general sounds of tumult. She pushed herself up on one elbow to try and see.

  “What’s happening now?” she asked.

  “We’re being attacked by those asshole Europeans,” the Witch Doctor said angrily. “I wish you’d hurry up and have the baby. That would inspire the people to fight with a wild, zealous fervor.”

  “Why aren’t you out there fighting? Don’t they look to you for guidance?”

  “Fight?” the Witch Doctor said. “And get myself killed? That’s for peons.”

  “Oh.” Her thoughts returned to the Europeans. “Is there a tall, dark-haired handsome man out there fighting?” would Franklin save her this time?

>   “Yes, and a short, greasy Spaniard alongside. He is fighting with a dildo or something.”

  “How thoughtful,” she mused. The Count had come to fight for her too.

  “How is the battle going?” she asked.

  “Not well. The people are falling back, and more Europeans are breaking into the village.” He looked at her impatiently. “When are you going to have the baby? Perhaps I could take it from you. That would really rally the troops.”

  At that point she had another searing pain and passed out again. When she awoke the next time, she was afraid to open her eyes. She was afraid the Witch Doctor might have performed some awful ancient surgery and taken her baby. When she finally looked down though, she was still fat as ever.

  The peculiar thing was that the women were gone--and the Witch Doctor. She was alone in the hut. She listened for sounds of battle, but heard only occasional far-off shouts. What was going on, she wondered. Through the grass hut door she could see nothing.

  Suddenly she heard a shout very close to her hut--a European shout.

  “Here’s one still standing,” the voice said. Was it Franklin? She raised herself up on one knee and tried to call to him.

  “Frank--” she started but her voice was low from her exhaustion. She cleared her throat to try again.

  Before she could speak against the wall of the hut began to smoke. Then she heard the dry grass begin to crackle, like tinder dry wood.

  “That’s the last of them!” the deep voice outside said to his comrades. “Now let’s go after those bastards that kidnapped my wife.”

  It was Franklin! And he had set her hut on fire! She tried again to call to him, but her cry came out strangled and incoherent. As the flames began to climb the wall of the hut and spread across the width of it, a new pain grabbed her battered body and crushed her into oblivion.

  CHAPTER 11