by Mael d'Armor
She turns to the guard with the tray and pours some tea in the china cups.
‘It appears you were affected differently by the jump.’
She points a nonchalant finger at a sofa shaped like a half-moon and the guard sets down the tray on the plush detachable section at the heart of the curve.
‘Shall we?’ she says, with a slow sweep of her arm from guests to couch.
Sandra feels Jenny’s hand on her back and she allows herself to be steered to the luxurious canapé.
‘Please, make yourselves comfortable.’
The woman shows the way by reclining on the couch, her perfect legs tucked smoothly under her. She reaches for a cup, takes a sip then turns to Sandra, now ensconced among cushions between Jenny and herself.
‘I have done as instructed,’ says Jenny. ‘Sandra was delightfully easy to seduce. No prodding at all and she was rearing to go like a champion mare on Cup Day. Forgive me for saying so, considering she is also you.’
‘No offense taken.’
‘She is ready for anything. Found it deliciously impossible to rein in her passions. Or hold in her waters. She is completely in my power. I have no doubt she will serve your purpose well.’
‘Excellent,’ approves the house lady. ‘We’ll refine her training while I regale her with my tales.’
She motions to the guard, who hands Sandra her cup of tea.
‘Please,’ she says, addressing Sandra. ‘Drink up. You look awfully thirsty. The cup is charmed. You won’t burn yourself. You’ll find your tea is the perfect temperature.’
‘Do as she says,’ orders Jenny. ‘You are to obey her as you would me. Do you understand?’
‘Oui . . . Bien sûr . . . Of curse.’
Sandra complies without a fuss. She knows what is expected of her and relishes her vulnerability, her unquestioned obedience. She keeps her lips locked on the rim of her cup till there is not a drop left. This is a welcome refreshment, for her throat, her body, have dried up again from her exertions. She is offered an instant refill.
‘Keep drinking while we talk. André will make sure you do not go without tea. This would be a serious breach of hospitality after all. One should always keep one’s guests happily fed and watered.’
The mysterious host watches Sandra down her second cup with relief. Then she points to the tray of biscuits.
‘Try one before your next cup. I have them baked by my chef following a traditional Devon recipe. They melt in your mouth like nothing I know. All to do, I’m told, with how cleverly the cream, egg and milk are stirred to make the dough. And how precisely that dough is then rolled out on a lightly floured tray then sculpted lovingly into three-inch rounds. Oh, I could rave forever about Jean-Paul’s baking abilities. And his other abilities. I’m so lucky to have enchanted him so . . .’
‘Hexquisitly?’ offers Jenny.
‘Quite so,’ agrees the woman. She turns back to Sandra. ‘Forgive me — I’m sure you’re not terribly interested in hearing more about my chef’s skills, unmatched as they are. And I know you’re dying to fill some of that huge blank in your mind. Find out more about yourself, finally, after all these years. So I’ll satisfy your curiosity and, as they say, cut to the chase. But please be prepared for quite a tale.’
She puts down her own cup and looks at Sandra.
‘I am — or rather we are — known here as Viviane. Does the name ring a bell? Or set off a tiny beep somewhere deep inside? You’ve had a vision about your past recently, so this should not come as a complete surprise.’
A vision? wonders Sandra, gulping more tea with her eyes on Viviane. The picture of herself by a lake, surrounded by birds and deer, comes floating back to her like a ghost, but she stays quiet.
‘La Dame du Lac,’ says Viviane matter-of-factly. ‘That’s what you’re seeing. That is us in a distant past. By Lake Komper. I’ve always found water deeply attractive, you see. And I’m a sucker for trees too. Elms, beeches, birches and sweet chestnuts. The greener the better. Not exactly your cup of herbal tea, if I read you correctly. Or at least you’ve fooled yourself into thinking it wasn’t. For like it or not, you grew up by a lake deep in the heart of a forest. An endless spread of trees, potent and mysterious. At least that’s what Brocéliande was like before men and their machines shrank it — and sucked out most of its pith.’
Viviane’s eyes go all dreamy.
‘Yes, it was a great place to learn about the world. And later, a safe place to keep Excalibur. The sword had always been there, at the bottom of the lake. Always. Even before I could walk, I could see its pure metal gleaming in the waters at night, moon or no moon. And somehow I knew, when I turned fifteen, that I had to look after it. Watch over it. Though whenever I beheld it, it was I — oddly — who felt soothed and shielded by its power.’
She takes a couple of graceful sips. And waits for Sandra to drink up her tea.
‘And then he appeared one day while I was bathing. He, the great Merlin, though I did not yet know who he was when I set eyes upon him. He had a beard as long as his arm and clothes the colour of autumn leaves. But it was the eyes I noticed first. Intense, mysterious. I was intrigued. Normally, when a traveller or a hunter stumbled upon my lake, I hid till they had gone. This time, I had been caught with my knickers down. Besides, this intruder was different. He was old, but had an aura I felt strangely drawn to. There was might, I could sense, behind the beard and the wrinkles. And he stood there watching with a smile.
‘“My lord,” I called, careful to keep only my head above water, “I’m naked.” He did not move. “Totally naked,” I added. Still he did not move. “I am a modest girl,” I said, realising you have to spell things out for men, even old ones, “and cannot come out while you’re watching.” Finally, he averted his gaze, waved his arm and the water surged and swept me up and delivered me to the shore like a feather borne by the surf. Then he waved again, though I think he took a peek this time. I was carried up in the air and the skimpy tunic I had left on the grass flew over to clothe me. I was stunned by such agency and the ease with which this man was wielding it. Even I could barely raise a ripple on the water. I, the Lady of the Lake. I could protect the sword from human intrusion, and could shield its liquid home from harm. But I could not act at will. I could not shape the world to suit my moods and my purposes. Only wizards — great wizards — could do that, not simple fae people like me. So I made up my mind, there and then. I had to learn how to do it. How to mould and master the elements. How to redraw the fault lines of reality.’
She nibbles at the biscuit she is holding before continuing.
‘When I had slipped on my floaty summer wear, I turned to him. He was struggling to keep his eyes off some parts of me. Off all parts of me. Old as he was, he was clearly not insensitive to my charms. I sensed an opportunity. “My lord,” I said, quite innocently letting the shoulder strap of my dress fall off my shoulder, “you are no doubt wise and powerful. You can raise the water and command the air. I am most impressed.”
‘“I can do much more,” he said.
‘“Really, my lord?” I replied, looking at him with wide ingenuous eyes and, quite by chance, letting my second shoulder strap slip down to my elbow. His eyes erred to my breast lines.
‘“I can command fire, the earth itself,” he said, a tinge of pride in his voice. “I know healing spells and black magic, spells for courting and for cursing, spells for turning a king crazy and a brave knight lazy; spells for making a sloth go wild and an old woman grow with child; spells for catching fish in a desert, for making snow bloom with roses, for stretching poplars higher than mountaintops; spells for breaking the strongest hexes and for melting the steel of axes, for changing bees into boars and boars into beanstalks; spells for making cowards bold and filling castles with gold.” Then he looked straight into my eyes, and he added, “And spells for seeing through a woman’s wiles.”
‘I felt a little chill and thought perhaps that might put a spanner in my seductive works. Bu
t I was willing to take a chance on an old man’s heart. “Holy springwater, that’s amazing,” I said, giving him a coy look over my shoulder. “I would so love to learn some of those wonderful enchantments. To help protect the sword, you see.”
‘“You already have all you need to do that, my child,” he answered.
‘“Err . . . Yes,’ I said. “Naturally. Without question.” I was looking desperately for a valid reason and could find none. So I went for flattery. “But . . . I would be such a diligent student. Focused, dedicated, hanging on to your every word like a lamb to its mother’s teat — though that’s an unfortunate choice of metaphor and I’m not suggesting for a moment, heaven forbid, that you are a ewe.”
‘“That I am a me?” he said, puzzled.
‘“Forget it,” I hastily replied. “The point is, I would learn fast. I would make you proud. And I would do everything I can to make you happy.”
‘“Everything?” he said.
‘“Everything,” I said.
‘“I know a perfect patch of moss not far from here,” he said, “behind a clump of sweet-scented bushes.”
‘“Oh, my lord, I would gladly follow you there but . . .”
‘“But?” he said.
‘“But I would be too distracted, too full of the hunger to learn to give myself freely to you. It would drive me crazy. I’d be thinking of all those complicated spells you will teach me. How to mix herbs with potions, balance out jinxes and runes, combine chants and sesames. You know what women are like surely. The mood, my lord. The mood is all. It is the key to a woman’s heart and to all her juicy secrets. So teach me your charms, quench my thirst for your abstruse knowledge and I swear on my mother’s topknot that you can bed me on that moss, come rain or shine. Come even hail, though that might be rather painful.”
‘He looked at me without speaking. I could see him debating.
‘“Be here tomorrow, when the sun rises over that oak,” he said at last, pointing to an old gnarled tree. “We will start then.” He took one last longing look at my bosom, turned into a stag and bounded out of sight. Yes! I leaped for joy. The old mug had taken the bite. He would teach me his magic, all of it, I would make sure of that. All I had to do was flash some skin and keep him drooling long enough while I pilfered his trove. And if our first meeting was a sign of things to come, it would be easy as Breton apple pie.’
Viviane interrupts her tale to watch Sandra drain yet another cup.
‘I’m not boring you, am I?’ she asks, laying a hand on Sandra’s arm. ‘Pray tell me if I do.’
She resumes her story without waiting for an answer.
‘Merlin was true to his word and returned with every new dawn. And every day I would persuade him to teach me more spells, more magic, more incantations. “Enough, you know enough,” he would say. “Herbology and arbology, healology and beastology.”
‘“But I want to learn more,” I would say. “I want to be your best student. Your star pupil. I want to be your right arm and your left. I want to learn the dark stuff too.”
‘And then I would let the gentle midday breeze part my dress and, with absent eyes, trace little figures upon my thigh, higher and higher, feigning a sudden need to practise some runes I’d learned. He resisted as much as he could. “Not the black magic,” he would say. “That is not for you. You know enough. You know too much.” And he’d bring his lips close to my neck and try to kiss me but I would hold him off with a sigh and skip away with a saucy look and a roll of my hips. And I would ask him again the next day. “Teach me the spells to enslave and kill.” Still he’d resist, so every day I’d draw up my dress a little higher. Reveal a little more cleavage. Toss my hair a little more rakishly.
‘And then late one sunny afternoon I asked him to unlace me. I was too hot, I said, and needed a dip in the cool waters of the lake. I could feel his fingers trembling as he fumbled for the laces at my back. And when at last my dress dropped to my feet, I gave him my most impish, flirtatious smile and made my way to the water.
‘“I know what you’re doing,” he said, his eyes planted on my rear. “Do not think I do not know what you’re doing.”
‘“Of course you do, my lord,” I replied, looking back from the water’s edge. “You once told me you could see through a woman’s wiles and I’m sure you’ve seen through mine from the start. But I think you’re enjoying this. I think you want me to keep weaving my web. To keep binding you with my looks and my whispers and my fluid curves. And I think you’ve gone too far to save yourself.”
‘He looked away. At that instant, I knew for sure he was mine. Mine to lead by the tip of his beard like a slavish old fool. Mine to twist like a wheat stalk around each of my fingers in turn. I could plunder his mind as I wished. I could bleed him dry, squeeze every last drop of magic from him. He could not refuse me anything. He could not deny me the dark arts. He was hooked, not quite fair and not quite square, but hey, who cared? And so, he began to teach me the forbidden lore. I was ecstatic. I had won. I would become as powerful as he was. More powerful, since I had him eating out of my hand. Every day, with a flutter of my lashes and a promise of something more, I would coax another black-as-soot sortilege from him — how to speak the raven tongue, how to get wolves to do your bidding, how to change into a snake or kill a man in his sleep, how to turn a lover into a gibbering mess.
‘But as he parted with his sorcery, something strange was happening. It was hardly noticeable at first. Just a deep crack in his cheek that seemed to have softened. Crow’s feet around his eyes that appeared to have mellowed. And then I could not doubt it anymore. His beard was getting shorter, his hair darker, his skin tighter, his nose firmer. He was getting younger and more vibrant by the day. And far, far better-looking. Soon, he had no beard, his stoop had gone and his chest filled out. Somehow by giving up his tricks he was turning back time.
‘I do not know to this day what magic this was. Was it his doing? The effect of his black disclosures? And the truth is, I was not immune to this. The younger he became, the more captivated I was by those deep, inscrutable eyes. Before the next full moon, I too was drowning in his vibes. I hated it. I tried to fight it. I tried to ignore it. I tried sitting with my back to him, clutching my head in both hands and focusing on the spells. But all I could see was his eyes. His eyes, weaving their own enchantment.
‘By the time he had changed back to his thirties, I could not look upon him without my legs turning to wool. Without my pulse racing. Without my brain scrambling. My plan was going off track. I had to act fast if I wanted to stay in charge. I had to cut short my learning curve. But there was one charm I still needed, one hex. I had to know how to entrap him for good. How to bind him forever in a tower of air. For I now understood I could not live in the shadow of the great Merlin. My time had come.’
She pauses and signals to André again. This time, he brings her a small steaming towel and she dabs the corners of her mouth to remove biscuit dust. André resumes his post behind Sandra and pours her another cup.
Sandra has lost count of how many refills she has had. Her thirst is long gone and she is finding it hard to keep going. Her inner world is groaning from those wet demands. But André’s strong hand keeps guiding hers, making sure she spills nothing.
Viviane pursues her tale.
‘I knew my last request was a tall ask. Even for a smitten man. So I skipped the subtleties. Took the direct approach. I enticed him into the forest and we sat by a hawthorn bush. “My lord,” I whispered in his ear, “I need this spell.” I began to probe him with my tongue, gently, while my hand parted his coat and crept into his pants. I felt his whole body shudder under my velour touch. “You know this is really what you want,” I husked. “You know you enjoy the hold I have over you far too much to resist me. You thrive on it. You have become addicted to me. You have no defence against my charms. The enchantment will not take more from you, for you are already, and utterly, under my spell.”
‘And all the while my hand
was keeping him on a slow burn. “The sacred words, my lord. Give me the words.” Under his cloth, my fingers started to lace irresistible little patterns I had learned from one of the bewitching psalms, and he collapsed on the grass with a gasp. Then I released his cock and got a bit of a shock. The size, you see. And such erectile zest! I had never made love before — let alone blown a man — though I had heard rather confusing accounts of the deed from an eccentric fairy that had set up home with a woodcutter. But that is by the by. To be frank, I expected the worst when I took the first nibbles.
‘I was, however, most pleasantly surprised. He tasted of spring dew and deer musk and oak leaves all at once. A heady, deadly combination, and it was all I could do not to come down on him like a banshee. But I kept my cool and kept it light and slow, to tantalise him. He was writhing like a stag caught in a trap. And between gasps and groans, he gave me what I wanted. Word by word. The whole flipping mantra.
‘By now, I was so aroused I wanted all of him. I disrobed rather more quickly than a girl’s modesty should allow and swiftly lowered myself onto him. Too fast, as it turned out, and it hurt some and a bit. But I didn’t give a wood mouse’s squeak. My nose, my brain, were full of his scent. My senses were dancing a merry jig. And though a virgin, I knew all the moves through my ill-gotten spells. I rocked and humped, twisted and squeezed. I rolled those hips like a champion belly dancer.
‘After a while I lost all control. Something bucked in me and I went berserk. I rode him like a top jockey. Faster, harder. You might say I raced him’ — Viviane gives a kittenish smile — ‘through the lush prairies of my fantasies and the rough rivers of my wettest dreams. I pushed him long into the night. This was crazy. So freakishly good. I moaned. I groaned. I rasped. I convulsed. I don’t know how many times I came. How many times I collapsed on his chest to recover my breath. Then my pussy would ask for more and I would give it more, and thrust against my man to revive him. To his credit, it took no time to whip him back to life. His stamina was — how else to put it? — Merlinesque. I had his outbursts leaking out of me in great big dollops. He begged me to ease my pace but I was enjoying this far too much. So still I rode him, still I pushed him, like a thoroughbred I had to get over a finish line that never got closer.