by James Silke
Gath hesitated, then turned back to the bukko and whispered harshly, “Watch yourself, old man. If Robin is hurt again, you will pay as well.”
He glared at Cobra as Brown John helped her up, then turned and strode into the darkness.
Brown John sighed with relief and turned to Robin. “Are you all right, lass?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I can take care of it.” Brown John nodded, and put his eyes on Jakar. “Stay with her. Don’t let her out of your sight from now on, and see she washes those signs off.”
Jakar led Robin to the wagon as Brown John turned to Cobra. Her bruised cheek throbbed, and tears welled in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. She smiled helplessly at the bukko, sighing softly, “Thank you, bukko… but you do not have to lie for me.”
“It was no trouble,” he said lightly. “Lying is my trade.”
She smiled at that, because she knew he expected it. “I think we should get away from here as fast as possible. So, if you’ll excuse me, I think I better attend to myself.”
“Of course,” he said, “and I apologize for Gath.”
“There’s no need. 1 expected his reaction.”
“Then I apologize for myself, because I didn’t.” He smiled. “Next time I’ll be ready.”
She dipped her head in gratitude, suddenly disturbed by his probing eyes, and hurried unsteadily toward the wagon to find her rouges and mirror.
Twenty-one
GROTTO OF THE BALD VESHTA
At dawn Brown John, sitting alone in the driver’s box, turned the lumbering, squealing wagon off of Hog-Scald Road onto Boot Trail, and raced it through the thinning trees into the foothills of the Barrier Mountain Range.
They were covered with tall brown grass, and clusters of boulders were scattered about like the droppings of some constipated god. In the distance rose the jagged peaks of the bald desert mountains that separated the forest basin from the endless sand dunes beyond, and the known world from the unknown.
The wagon’s destination was deep within that mysterious world, at the crossroads of Boot Trail and the Way of Chains where Cobra had told the bukko the map was hidden.
Simultaneously trying to hold the reins and eat his morning porridge from a bowl with one hand, Brown John whipped the horses with the pole whip with the other, and shouted encouragement at them. He was delighted. His players were finally taking the stage and, being a performer, he had to let it show even though no one was watching.
Two hours later, as the wagon rolled through the hot high desert, he was doing the same thing, but without the bowl and with Cobra sharing the driver’s box.
She sat in regal repose, her voluptuous body gracefully turned in the seat, and one leg tucked under her. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her black hair flagged behind the clean-cut oval of her face as she let the wind cool her.
Brown John’s smiling cheeks were flushed and he was bare-chested, with the upper portion of his tunic folded down under his belt, and his pudgy belly, despite his best efforts to restrain it, tending to hang over it.
Robin and Jakar rode inside the wagon, and Gath rode well ahead of it. A massive cut of meat and bone sweating in the sunshine, his chestnut flesh was naked except for leather loincloth, sword and dagger belts, glistening brass armbands and boots. Three times he had circled back through the foothills and searched their back trail, and each time he had returned to give Brown John the same report. He had seen no travelers on the road, and no animal among the rocks or bird in the sky that could have been following them.
Their disguise was complete, and their plot at play.
The bukko whipped the horses energetically, backhanded the sweat from his cheeks and glanced out of the corner of his eye at Cobra.
She now wore a plain sand-colored tunic. It was worn and patched, with short sleeves and skirt consisting of wide scallops and stringy threads which flapped about her bare legs and arms. The garment was of soft cotton and belted with a faded gold sash. Its collar was square, with a deep V cut between her swelling breasts and laced with leather thongs, as were the openings in the sides of the skirt, allowing more than pleasing glimpses of her curvaceous beauty as well as ventilation.
He looked back at the road and smiled to himself. For a former Queen of Serpents whose nature was undoubtedly still tainted by demon seed, if not corrupted by it, she looked not only surprisingly human and womanly but tempting. He rolled his head and shoulders to get the kinks out, thus allowing himself another peak at her bosom, and watched her breasts tussle and bounce. He had seen thousands of lovely bosoms, and not casually, but as a professional. He had examined them with care, measured and dressed and undressed them, and handled them on stage when the scene called for it. He had seen larger, higher, firmer breasts, but none so amazing to him. They seemed to have lives of their own. They continually tried to squeeze past the restraining leather thongs, or spill over the top of her bodice, and his palms itched to catch them.
Her head turned slowly, and her eyes looked at him, as a corner of her mouth lifted with a reserved smile. It said she understood his thoughts and did not mind. This sent a tremor of pleasure through the bukko that was tenfold greater than that which his hands had hoped to hold.
Chuckling to hide his reaction, Brown John said, “You are no normal adversary, woman. I keep forgetting I should be afraid of you.”
“Good,” she said lightly, “then perhaps we can not only share the same trail out of necessity, but as friends?”
He laughed. “You are dangerous, aren’t you?”
“You flatter me,” she said, “and 1 thank you. But it will gain you no advantage.” Her smile lifted both corners of her inviting mouth, saying clearly that she did, however, have an exploitable weakness if he was interested.
Brown John chuckled and said, “Keep talking.” She laughed with delight, then in a level tone, said, “Despite what you say, I know you are not afraid of me. Neither of what I was or what I am. I like that.” The reserved smile returned. “Men without fear have been few and far between in my life, therefore I am vulnerable to them.” She grinned. “There, now you do have the advantage.”
“Now you are really dangerous,” he said.
Cobra laughed an easy relaxed laugh and said, “You, bukko, are neither a normal adversary nor an ordinary man. So, I will leave the choice to you. We can be adversaries or friends… I will enjoy either one.”
Brown John, liking her reply a good deal more than he thought he should, said, “Maybe we better talk about the weather.”
She laughed out loud, then sobered and put her gold eyes on his brown, saying, “Before we do that, I must warn you about this map. Once we reach the grotto and find it, I think it would be wisest if only I or the girl handles it.”
His eyes became thoughtful, questioning her, but he saw only genuine concern in her eyes. “Perhaps you had better tell me about it.”
“I will tell you all I know,” she said candidly, “and I believe it is all that is known.” She indicated the distant mountains. “At the crossroads of Boot Trail and the Way of Chains, there is a brothel called the Grotto of the Bald Veshta. Are you familiar with it?” He nodded. “It was a soldiers’ brothel when I was there. But that was over twenty years ago.”
“It is still a soldiers’ brothel,” she said, “but long ago it was a sacred shrine to Black Veshta, who the local tribes call Bald Veshta. That’s when the map was hidden there.”
“It’s been there all this time?”
“Yes. It’s a small image of Black Veshta sculpted from dark stone and laden with magic. It’s taboo. That’s why it’s not been touched. Black Veshta has forbidden any man to so much as put a finger on it, and promised to take cruel vengeance on any who do.”
“So you think I shouldn’t touch it,” Brown John asked, with one frousy white eyebrow arching, “so I won’t become contaminated?”
“It would seem to be prudent,” she said with a chuckle, “since you would risk having your yang sh
rivel up and fall off if you do.”
He laughed and said, “Blaughh! If I’m not afraid to put my hands on the jewels of the White Veshta, the Goddess of Light herself, then I am surely not going to hesitate when it comes to a puny little icon of a false bitch like Black Veshta.”
“Your mind is set then?”
He nodded his frazzled white head.
“Then I will not argue the point further,” she purred thoughtfully. “But I would have thought that a man of your profession, sensitivities and desires would have a greater respect for the deity which reigns over the glamour and passion of women.”
“Oh, I have great respect,” Brown John chuckled, “and admiration. Even adoration! But not for any goddess. It’s the women I love, every last one of them. I find them all absolutely fascinating… and each and every one, in her own way, beautiful.” He chuckled again and looked at her admiringly. “And my present company, despite her unnatural lineage, is no exception.”
She shook her head with amused cynicism and said, “Bukko, you surely cut your dreams from bright cloth.”
When the wagon pulled up at the crossroads, the sun was starting down the backside of the sky. Gath tethered his stallion to the wagon, then he and the bukko crossed the open clearing toward the brothel as Cobra, Robin and Jakar waited with the wagon.
Boot Trail, the Way of Chains and assorted footpaths and trails moved away from the clearing like crippled spokes of a wheel. The grotto, a series of caves pockmarking a wedgelike cliff of black rock, formed the hub. A wagon and several horses were tethered to a railing at the base of the grotto. A rough-hewn ladder rose to the first cave, where a guard sat with his legs straddling the ledge. Behind him rose a crude log building fronting the largest cave. Raucous laughter, the jangle of tambourines and the smell of musk and jasmine mixed with sweat drifted from it. Above the structure and to the sides, ladders led to higher caves, the highest being the one Cobra said held the map. There was no sign of guards near it.
Gath and the bukko climbed the entrance ladder, moved inside the log building and found what they expected to find.
Mercenaries sat at benches drinking wine, fondling their whores and haggling over the price of both. They were mostly spearmen and slingers, fodder which a warlord could feed cheaply to a civil war. At one table sat long-haired men in bits of armor. Recruiting captains. They were doing the laughing, as well as their share of the drinking, fondling and arguing. The whores were naked except for a sheen of perfumed oil and scraps of colored beads or sash. Among them was not one hair to cover head, armpits or groin.
Gath and Brown John sat down at an empty bench and did what everyone else was doing until everyone else was used to seeing them do it and stopped looking at them. Then they drifted through the back of the cave and up through the interior tunnels to the upper caves, giving the appearance that they were shopping among the girls lolling in the cribs dug out of the rock walls.
Reaching the next to highest cave, Gath sat on a rock and began to exchange stories with the three old whores relegated to this natural back room, while the bukko covertly climbed up the ladder and vanished inside the highest cave.
It was designed in the manner of all caves, carved and decorated by water and wind, about seven feet wide, thirty feet deep. A shaft of sunlight, passing through a hole cut through the rock ceiling, illuminated a black figurine standing on a small cleft carved out of the back wall.
Brown John smiled a smile that could not have been tamed with a stick, and cautiously looked back the way he had come. No sight or noise indicated he had been seen. He moved into the depths of the cave. There were many holes in the ceiling so that light, regardless of the sun’s course across the sky, would illuminate the icon at regular intervals and awe superstitious visitors.
Reaching the figurine, he saw it was only slightly taller than his forearm was long, and covered with dust. The body was trim but voluptuous, and stood upright, knee-deep in a sandlike cone which spread out in waves to form the base. The arms were thrown back, and neck and back were arched so that the pelvis thrust forward, provocatively presenting the triangular temple of flesh for which the grotto was named. It was bald, as was the oval head.
Chuckling, and with the reckless glint in his eyes dancing, Brown John thrust a pudgy hand through the cascading sunlight and picked up the statuette. Holding it to his face, he examined its markings. There were tiny inscriptions in an ancient sign language, and carefully sculpted strings of beads draped over neck, breasts and belly. There was no doubt that they indicated trails, just as lines did on a map.
He laughed out loud, stopped short and quickly crept back to the front of the cave. Again there was no indication he had been detected. He stepped back into the concealment of the cave, thumbed the dust off of the figurine’s breasts, and his smile once more roughed up his face, kicking his mouth wide and punching holes so deep in his cheeks that they ballooned.
Sounds of tinkling, flirtatious laughter came from within the cave, and he turned sharply, hiding the icon behind him. The sounds rose, filling the cave, but there was no one else in it. A wary shiver shot through him, but then he relaxed, telling himself that the sounds were coming from the cave directly below, and that in his eagerness he had simply not noticed them before. Then new sounds joined the laughter, a rising moaning and sighing, and the gasping of sexual pleasure. The sounds intensified, and he became aroused, began to perspire.
He held the icon at arm’s length, suddenly afraid of its contamination, but unwilling to let go of it. The sounds continued to rise, then became vague and inarticulate, and he became hesitant, averting his head from the figure and peeking at it with one eye.
The black body was warm in his hand. It felt pliant, then alive, and his fingers relaxed, allowing the doll to squirm and turn, hiding itself modestly within his grasp.
He shook his head hard and blinked his eyes, trying to clear his mind and vision. He drew the icon closer, to see if it had truly come alive, but it hid within his pudgy fingers. He tried to unfold them, but did not have the strength or will. His eyelids grew heavy and slowly closed, as if relaxed in sleep.
There was only darkness in his mind, and his thoughts fled back through it to younger times, names passing by, names with laughing faces. Naso the rubber man, Dulcia the harpist, Podoo the dwarf, and Leto, Balmara, Connie and Lale. They were times of feathers and dancing, good times born of endless spaces and the open road, of yesterdays filled with tomorrows.
Slowly the faces faded, giving way to blistering sunshine which spilled out of the sky like warm syrup onto a field of tall brown grass. His mind’s eye saw a small boy peering through the waving tips, a short stout boy of eleven with brown eyes. He scurried through the grass hiding himself, then stopped, raised up slightly and saw a girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen moving through the grass some thirty feet away. She was running lazily, her arms outstretched, with her fingertips brushing the tips of the grass as she streamed past. Her raven-black hair was long and waving behind her in the glory of the golden sunlight, and her laughter was so light it weighed less than the air. Staying hidden, the lad followed her through the grass, then along a brook, trying to get a glimpse of her face, but could not. He ran faster, reaching the village before she did, and tried to casually intercept her. But he could not find her. Then, as he was about to give up and go home, he saw her standing in front of a large, brightly painted wagon with tall yellow wheels. She was talking to an old man and a dwarf, both of whom wore soiled tunics with large colored patches. He moved toward the wagon, trying to see her face, and just as it was about to come into view, she turned away and entered the wagon, closing the door behind her.
The boy waited until dusk, but she did not come out, so he raced home. But he was late for supper, so his father sent him to bed without his meat or milk. For a long time he stayed awake in the loft listening to the night, and was still awake when all others in the house slept. There was an ache in his heart and a trembling in his cheeks. He was
thinking of the girl, and he could think of nothing else. She made him feel as he had never felt before, as if all things were now possible, and he was certain his small body was not nearly large enough to house the dreams of wonder and adventure that now soared within it. Later, he did sleep, and in his dreams he stormed castle walls, swung from vines and galloped to the rescue of a faceless dark-haired girl. The glory of her overwhelmed him, and when he came awake, he found himself crying and sobbing with such happiness that he had to hide his head under his pillow so that his parents would not hear.
The next day he returned to the place where the wagon had been parked. It was not there, and no one knew where it had gone, or if it would ever return. The boy fled back to the field of tall brown grass and hid there the rest of the day, alternately sobbing and dreaming, and certain he would never see her again.
Brown John came awake with a start, and found himself clutching the icon to his chest. He was still in the cave, and the sun still streamed down through the same hole, but he felt as if he had slept through a long night. He took a deep shuddering breath and looked down at the black doll far more carefully than he had earlier.
It appeared more normal now, just a crudely sculpted lump of black rock that was supposed to represent a strikingly good-looking goddess, but in actuality looked like nothing more than an overweight, bald savage.
He chuckled, then in a gruff manly voice, said to the doll, “Behave, woman, I’m doing you a favor,” and stuffed it inside his tunic.
It was dusk when Gath caught up with the wagon as it rolled west along the Way of Chains. Seeing him approach, Brown John reined up, halting the vehicle on the narrow cliffside trail. Cobra, sitting beside the bukko, turned in her seat to greet the Barbarian, and Robin and Jakar got out of the wagon.
Gath reined up on Cobra’s side of the wagon and spoke to the bukko.