by James Silke
“I know,” said Brown John. He glanced back thoughtfully at the bald-headed riders, then turned to Jakar. “You’re right about Robin. She is taking the greater risk, and I appreciate your concern. Your presence is a great comfort to her.”
“You misunderstand me, old man. Robin is nothing more to me than a tool. A beautiful and amusing one, but nevertheless a tool. I intend to cut as many of these demons’ throats as possible, and apparently, by acting as bait, she can help me do it.”
“Yes, of course,” said Brown John. “I understand. Your feelings are motivated by the loss of your sister. But there is more at stake in this adventure now than revenge.”
“Not for me.”
The bukko hesitated at the hardness of his tone, then said, “I know how you feel, but you must not let your anger stop you from living.” His voice softened with respect. “Jakar, your sister is gone now, and Robin is very much alive.”
“Are you sure?” Jakar asked with cool mocking eyes. He nodded with an ear at the wagon. “Maybe you better find out just what they’re up to.”
“I will.” Brown John stood behind his words, adding, “And rest assured, I will see she is not put in any danger.”
He climbed back onto the roof and paused, once more looking back at the drunken riders, then climbed down through the trapdoor, closing it behind him.
Jakar whipped the horses, and they lunged forward in their huge red collars, hauling their load faster and faster, and the wagon rolled and bounced precariously under him like a grotesque wooden whore. He laughed darkly to himself, his body relaxed, riding the pitch and bounce. The huge vehicle was acting as if it were eager to wreck its favors against every turn in the road, and crush its lovers, breaking its own heart in the process, and all for nothing more than love of the open road. And inside he felt just as reckless.
It was madness, yet mysteriously irresistible, and he shuddered. Now more things were at play which he did not understand and could not see. He could feel them as surely as he could feel the wind bite his cheeks. Not only in the girl and serpent woman but in Brown John.
Nineteen
PRIVATE PERFORMANCE
The bukko descended the ladder and stood bracing his hands against the walls of the second-story room as the wagon tilted and shook its way around a corner. Daylight seeped through the seams of shuttered windows, filling the room with moody grey light. Baskets of provisions were stacked on the floor and on the racks above his wall bed. In the corner, vague whiffs of smoke rose out of the stairwell hole, and the sound of voices.
He crossed to the hole, listened to the voices but could not make out what they were saying. He started down the narrow, enclosed staircase toward a spill of orange candlelight on the floor below. Suddenly wheels squealed outside, combined with the growl of grinding boards and thundering hooves, and buried the voices in a cacophonous din. Just as suddenly the din subsided, and he stopped short only partway down. He could now hear Robin’s firm but muffled voice.
“But I don’t want to take my clothes off! I won’t! I already feel cheap and dirty.”
“Child,” a female voice said in a low purr, as if stroking a wildcat, “the time has come for you to put your modesty behind you.” The voice was Cobra’s, both indolent and authoritarian. “Now step out of your tunic, your costume is ready.”
“All right.” Robin’s voice was reluctant. “But I can put it on by myself. You don’t have to help. I’ve worked with cloth and clothing nearly all my life.” Robin’s voice hesitated, then continued, “Besides, where is it? If it’s so immodest, maybe I won’t agree to wear it.”
Brown John listened to sandaled feet crossing the room below, then the creak of tiny hinges, like those on a small ceremonial box, and more sounds of sandaled feet followed by Robin’s gasp.
“Is… is that it?” the girl’s shocked voice asked.
“Not all of it, but these are the essential elements.” Cobra’s voice was teasingly casual.
“Well, I won’t do it,” Robin’s voice said defiantly. “I’m not going to dance wearing nothing but a few dabs of rouge and kohl.”
The bukko smiled with amusement and sat down, listening to Cobra’s chuckle drift up the stairwell. It was heavy with power, hypnotic. Her voice followed, redolent with the same qualities.
“Your body will be covered, child, have no fear of that. But first I must mark it with the required signs and numerals. Now come, make yourself naked. There is much to do and we are wasting time.”
“But I don’t trust you. What signs? What will they do to me?”
“Come, come, child, they won’t harm you. Besides, did you not tell everyone that you would do anything… do whatever was asked of you, to help steal the sacred jewels?”
“Yes, but…”
“Then disrobe.”
“No!” Robin’s voice blurted. “You tried to kill me when the Kitzakks held me prisoner! And you would have if that priest hadn’t stopped you. And I think you want to kill me now. I can see it in your eyes.”
Brown John rose into a crouch, his hand clutching the whip coiled around his neck, and listened intently. The women’s voices were closer together now.
“You see correctly, butterfly,” the sorceress said calmly, “but it is only a surface emotion. Come, stand next to me. Look deep, and tell me what you see.”
“What am I supposed to see?”
“Just look!”
The sound of scuffling sandals, then the girl’s voice came again. “I don’t see…”
“Closer, put your face to mine.” Cobra’s voice was so close to Robin’s it sounded as if their lips were touching.
Brown John descended three more steps, and turned an ear toward the bottom of the stairwell. Motionless. Intent.
“Now what do you see?” Cobra’s voice asked.
“Fear!” The girl’s voice was startled. Then she lost control, and her words tossed like leaves on a wind. “Fear! A… a terrible fear!”
“For what?” Two words as weighted with portent as the entire prologue of Thirteen Knives at Hog-Scald.
“For yourself, and…” Robin’s voice gasped in confusion. “But I don’t understand!”
“You see it now, don’t you?” the woman’s voice purred. “Here, I will remove the mandrake root.” Her voice paused, then added, “And still you see it, don’t you? I fear for you as much as I fear for myself.”
“But… but why?”
Brown John’s eyes asked the same question, and he felt suddenly out of control. Things were going too fast. He moved halfway down the stairwell until he could hear clearly as Cobra spoke.
“There is no mystery to it, girl. You are the one the Nymph Queen hunts, and if anything happens to you, all is lost! For me as well as your friends.”
“I know that, but that’s what confuses me. Why does she want to… to murder me instead of Gath?”
“Well, primarily, I would think, because you keep the helmet from overpowering Gath. But there are undoubtedly other reasons as well.”
“What reasons?”
“They would only confuse you further if I tried to explain. Besides, there is no time. All you must understand is that I wish you no harm, and that you must trust me. Completely. Just as Brown John trusts me.”
Brown John scowled. Cobra was taking him for granted.
“But why does he trust you?” Robin’s voice asked tentatively.
“Because he knows, or rather senses, that I know more about you than you know yourself.”
Brown John’s mouth dropped open.
“But… but that’s not possible.”
“If you doubt me, look again into my eyes and see if I lie.”
The sounds of pounding hooves and rattling wheels filled the void left by the momentarily silent voices, and the bukko slid down another step, his ear turned. He waited, and a whimpering gasp of recognition rose above the sounds. It was Robin’s.
“You see,” Cobra’s voice said quietly, “I am not playing false with
you. I know you, butterfly, and I can help you do what must be done. Do you understand now?”
The bukko sat rigidly still, waiting. Why was the serpent woman trying to gain Robin’s trust? What was she up to? When Robin’s voice came again, it startled him. It was weak and timid, as if drawn out of her by sorcery.
She said, “Yes.”
“You’ll let me draw the signs, instruct you?”
“Yes.” Weaker still.
“Then get undressed!” Cobra’s voice no longer coaxed: it was in control.
“Yes,” Robin’s voice said obediently, then said it again. There was the sound of a cloak dropping to the floor, and sandals being kicked off, then her voice came a third time, startled now. “Why… why are you undressing?”
The old man’s brown eyes widened until the whites showed all around, and sweat drained off his forehead. When Cobra’s voice replied, it was cool and calming.
“Do not be alarmed. We are going to perform a routine transfer of knowledge, something every hill girl can do. All that is required is a belief in one’s natural powers, and a strong Kaa. You have these, your gift of healing has proven it, and you have an exceptionally vulnerable and absorbing nature. When my flesh touches yours, it will instruct you, teach your senses how to arouse carnal pleasure in the men you dance for… and in yourself.”
“Myself?” Robin’s voice protested weakly.
“Yes.” Cobra’s voice was low and flat. Robin whimpered, and the woman continued with cold candor, “You must understand, butterfly. When you dance, you are going to have to perform in a way that is vile and repellent to you. You must allow feelings and sensations that you have suppressed to blossom, or you will not arouse these demon spawn and make them show themselves.”
“But what if I can’t?”
“You must!” Desperation had entered Cobra’s voice, faint but shaking.
There was a moment of hesitation, and Brown John’s breathing raced uncertainly. The serpent woman was up to something, and he was not sure he wanted to know what it was. Then Robin’s trembling voice asked, “What’s going to happen to me? How… how will these… these creatures show themselves? What kind of monsters are they? They’re going to hurt me, aren’t they?”
“I do not know their natures,” Cobra’s voice answered candidly. “Hopefully they will just circle you, like moths stupefied by torchlight. But I cannot promise it. Understand, I’ll dance first and try to draw them out. If I can, you will not need to dance, but don’t count on that.”
“That’s all I have to do, dance?”
“Yes, but this above all, Robin, you must understand.” Her voice had quieted, and become deadly sober. “Whatever danger comes your way, tonight, tomorrow or next week, you must risk it. You must be willing to sacrifice yourself… at any moment… or the quest will fail.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I cannot explain why, not to you or anyone else. The knowledge could tarnish you. You must simply understand that the risk and efforts you take to steal the sacred jewels must not be for your own gain, but for your friends. And you must take the risks and expend the effort silently, seeking no pity, no glory, no reward.”
“But I don’t want any. I only thought that their powers could not only free Gath but maybe cure Jakar of his grief and bitterness.”
“Good,” replied Cobra’s voice, and Brown John thought he could hear her smile.
A moment passed, then Robin’s voice asked, “Brown John doesn’t know I’m in danger, does he?”
“No. He knows you take some risk, but he is confused as to its nature. He is a dreamer: he only sees things as he wishes to see them. I am sure he thinks that the only things at stake tonight are your theatrical scruples, and you must not let him, or Gath or the handsome young nobleman, think anything different. If they knew the risk, they would try to stop you.”
Brown John held his breath, and visions of Jakar’s threatening eyes and Gath’s deadly axe coming at him passed across his mind. But he remained where he was. Motionless. Silent.
“I understand,” Robin’s voice replied. “Brown seems much older now, and somehow softer. I think he needs a woman.”
Cobra’s chuckle rang in the bukko’s ears, then her voice. “You are wiser, butterfly, than your years admit to. Now hurry, get those things off.”
Brown John sagged back against the stairs. He was sweating, and his face was florid with humiliation. He pushed himself erect and started down the stairs. He came within two steps of the opening at the bottom of the stairwell and once more stopped short. He could hear the sounds of more clothing falling on the floor. He frowned in confusion and leaned forward listening. The wheels squealed again outside, and the boards heaved and groaned as the wagon bounced and tossed. Amid the noise there was a tinkle of warm laughter, then Cobra spoke.
“Child, you are indeed a wonder. Even more beautiful than when I saw you imprisoned in the Kitzakk priest’s huge flask with the milk spilling over you. You’ve grown, filled out, and it becomes you. I wish I were not so jealous, so I could enjoy it more.” She laughed again, with restrained warmth, then her voice purred invitingly. “Now stand close, let our bodies touch.”
Brown John hesitated, a sudden rush of scruples making him think twice about what he was about to do. Then the rubber ball began to bounce again in his eyes, and he mischievously peered around the corner.
The two figures stood naked face-to-face in the dark shuttered room, flesh pressed against flesh. One body as carnal as the other was wholesome. One as white as warm cream, and the other the color of nutmeg and oiled, glistening in the smoky yellow light rising from the candles on the floor.
A rush of hot breath escaped the bukko’s lips, and fearing detection, he sank back out of sight into the stairwell. He was panting, and shaking his head, not in shame, but in wonder. The vision was chaotic. It confounded love and desire, and simultaneously unleashed disorder and order, and virtue and vice. It humbled him, and made him feel suddenly impotent, not as a man, but as a bukko. Never in all his days could his imagination have set two such extraordinary players on a stage. So, telling himself it was his professional duty to examine the vision in detail in order to instruct himself for further use, he again peered around the corner.
Robin stood perfectly still as the sorceress’ voluptuous white body pressed against hers, and waves of heat appeared to unfold within the girl’s flesh, like a flowering bud with petals a dozen shades of red.
Cobra slid her red-nailed hands over the girl’s shoulders and down her back, pressing their breasts together.
Robin’s hair had been dyed a reddish black, and oiled ringlets trembled about her flushed face, clinging wetly to cheeks and neck. Two buzzard feathers, tied with a thong to her hair, dangled rakishly beside one ear. A thick line of black kohl rimmed her large eyes, giving them a harsh, brazen quality the girl could not have managed on her own, and a scarlet arrow was painted on her forehead. It pointed down at her small nose, and its angularity had a touch of cruelty.
Brown John, using the cuff of his sleeve, dabbed at the sweat dripping off his face, and his eyes marveled at the sorceress’ skill. Robin already seemed more accessible than he had ever seen her before, and the access was not to her heart, but to her flesh. It stirred him shamefully, but he did not turn away, and his eyes took in the whole room.
His chests were all open, and costumes of all description littered the floor. Some had been tom apart, others had obviously been discarded and were piled in the corners. A small firepot burned under a flask on the table which was littered with pastes, berries, herbs, the cadaver of a large featherless bird, jars of animal fat and a small leaden vial with a lead stopper which he did not recall seeing before.
Suddenly the girl pushed away from Cobra and stepped back, gasping for breath and trembling. Her body was flushed from ankle to forehead, and her eyes smoked with inner heat.
“Good,” Cobra purred, “you begin to feel it.”
Brown John unconsci
ously nodded agreement. He also felt it, and his eyes wandered over Cobra’s naked curves. There was an ease and luxury to the serpent woman. Her breasts were pillowy, her belly a soft bed, and her hips luxurious divans. Every part of her suggested a place to lie down, but not to sleep. A little bit more of that kind of thinking, and again he had to look away.
When he looked back, Cobra had put her cloak back on and squatted in front of Robin. She held a jar of rouge in one hand. Dipping the tip of a small finger in the paste, she used it as a brush and carefully began to draw on the girl’s inner thigh.
Brown John, suddenly ashamed and sweating profusely, withdrew his head. He took a deep breath and started back up the stairs, moving silently. Behind him, the voices came again, Robin’s first.
“What dance will I perform?”
“One of the oldest, butterfly. The dance the whores use to ward off the poxes and plagues of lust common to their profession. It is called the Fire Ceremony. I can teach it to you in no time.”
“But will Brown John know it? He’ll have to play the drums.”
The bukko, exhausted and wet and scowling, stopped at the top of the stairs. Cobra’s sarcastic chuckle came first, then her voice.
“The bukko, child, knows a great deal more than he chooses to tell innocent young girls like yourself. I have no doubt that he knows the Fire Ceremony as well as if he had invented it himself.”
The pair laughed together at that, and Brown John nodded agreement, crossing to the ladder. He put a foot on the first rung and hesitated, listening to the compelling rattle and shake of the wagon and the thundering hooves. They all sang the same song, the song of the open road. He was once again plunging into the unknown, and realizing it, he grinned, asking himself questions. What secrets was Cobra withholding? Why was she so desperate to make certain Robin’s motives were so pure and virtuous?