Lantern Road: 8 by Cullen

by John T. Cullen

  Jory knocked his tray of his lap in an effort to rise quickly, but he was paralyzed. He could not even speak in his anger and betrayal. He sat as if glued on the rock, and watched as several shadowy figures stepped out of the darkness.

  Through blurry eyes, he saw the cloaked and hooded Yedy extend his hand. He saw a hand come out of another's cloak and place a bundle of imperial road money in Yedy's hand—the rustling paper notes tied with a string were unmistakable. Jory could not distinguish who the several big, cloaked figures were but he did notice two things—they all carried swords hidden by their cloaks, and the sleeve of the arm that had paid off Yedy was dark velvety brown, with silver Obayyo police officer's cuff-buttons indicating the Imperial service.

  If Lord Ramyon's agents suspected a conspiracy, Jory thought as the light in his head faded, they had been right. But they had been wrong about the nature of the conspiracy—it wasn't about Jory escaping to Kusi-O or meeting with the Twelve Moon Society. If this involved the road police, it surely involved the Imperial palace.

  No matter anymore to me, Jory thought dimly as he slipped helplessly sideways, landing on the damp gravel that smelled of horse droppings and rotting vegetables. No matter anymore to me or Ramy, he thought as her pale face shimmered in his memory, never again to be approached. The last things he was aware of were the bottoms of Yedy's feet as the latter ran away, having done his work, and a stick being roughly pushed into Jory's ribs. The Imperial police would treat him no better than would Lord Ramyon's soldiers, had they caught him first. He slipped into darkness, welcoming death if it should choose this moment to take him.

  * * * *

  Lord Ramyon felt sick. He paced up and down at the window, ignoring the lovely distant vista. Only a distant foggy glow was visible of the Obayyo. Ramyon felt devastated, beyond anger, beyond betrayal. First, he despaired of his poor judgment in keeping this overgrown lap monkey of a human. He should have castrated him and tossed him from the highest wall at the first sign of buckdom. Worst, he wondered how he could bring himself to tell his son in law of the defilement. Or would word of ridicule sweep through all of Oba, bringing Lord Dumonhi the Elder down upon Castle Ramyon with his retainers and horde of barefoot warriors? Ramyon was a proud man, and he would suffer the stings and snickers that would henceforth surround him even in his own castle. But the flower of his garden was now defiled, Ramy, his youngest. Had he erred with her somehow in her upbringing? Of course, by bringing the monkey to his court. That was the price of fad and fashion, he thought bitterly, he being a hard, leathery warrior who had often slept in the saddle and fought in the same saddle, having barely gotten off to squat. These women and their courtiers, he raged, pulling his sword. Hal'ya! he cried, whacking off the upper half of a woven basket. The steel sliced through as if the basket were made of air. Ramyon made a figure-eight twirling motion that snapped over his head like a pair of firecrackers, making the air hum briefly; in the same motion, he returned the sword to its scabbard.

  Fingers tapped at the bottom of the rice paper screen separating his antechamber from the corridor. He could see the long claw-fingernails, low down, of a senior eunuch groveling on all fours.

  “What is it?” He snapped. He'd meant to bellow, but his voice grew small at the thought that his flower was on her way, along with her baba. If there was any joy left in his soul, it now shriveled in the acids of his stomachs.

  “Lord, the sisters."

  It was a trusted male servant, and Ramyon remembered the leader's duty to cultivate loyalty through the four virtues—kindness, rightness, honesty, and unbendingness. “Wait one minute, then bring them in and leave us alone.” Ramyon went to his raised dais and sat crosslegged on the huge pillow there.

  “Thank you, Master,” breathed the servant in relief, probably glad not to have his eardrums flayed, nor to witness what might happen in this room.

  The door slid soundlessly open, and two tearful figures hobbled in, prostrating themselves before the dais. Ramy-ba and Ramy-baba wailed and raised their arms beseechingly. Their faces were contorted with weeping and moaning.

  Ramyon fumbled with the wooden gavel at his side and swung blindly, just catching the Call to Order gong. Several servants in the corridor scrambled like rats being flushed out. “Privacy!” Ramyon bellowed. Then to the two females: “Silence!"

  Ramy stayed on her knees, face pressed to the carpeted wooden floor in her hands so that her fingers dripped with tears and snot. She sobbed continuously and convulsively, trembling in fear all the while. The baba sat upright like a monolith, holding her hands over her face in shame and mortification, for it was she who had reported the trysts to the Mistress baba, sister of Ramyon's wife. They had taken charge, the babas, as unfortunately was their right, before he could intervene, and the result was this bleak chaos.

  The ancient sage had lamented: “Winter comes again instead of Spring, when my heart is betrayed, and the shoots of life wither. Nature is thrown out of Harmony. It rains in Heaven."

  As he stared at his daughters, Ramyon became speechless. He boiled with suffering and anger, until he bit down on his protruding tongue. It was a Shurian's way of expressing anguish upon betrayal by a loved one. He would bite his tongue until the pain equaled that in his heart. Then he would say what he had to say before the tongue swelled his mouth shut, so that he long could not speak.

  * * * *

  “You fools,” Ramy heard Father speak chokingly, after a long taut silence in the gloomy room, as he spoke of the sisters’ late mother. “The only blessing tonight is that your mother and her saintly baba are in paradise and do not know these things you have done within this air they gave you to breathe."

  Ramy looked up startled at the sudden sound of his voice, as if someone had poked her with a sharp object.

  “You,” Father said to the baba, “what jealousy possessed you? Did you want the monkey's mouth on yours also?"

  “No, Father!” the baba wailed in her syrup-thick, almost masculine voice.

  Ramy sighed as Father yelled at her sister. All three of them knew that she loved her baba, and that the baba was as much her spouse as was young Lord Dumonhi. Ramy blamed herself as the First Cause. She had seduced her loyal, gentle companion, Jory, out of some inner anger at Dumonhi, not so much because he was mostly away, but because when he made love he was callous as if he were milking cattle. Now she had brought the wrath of the Universe down. She understood the outcome. Best case, and least likely, she would have her tongue cut off and be sent into exile at a far monastery, to live silently in a cell alone. Worst case, her father would kill both her and the baba any moment now. In any case, poor Jory would die. Judging by the way his scabbarded sword lay loosely by Father's side, and by the condition of the large linen-storage basket, their lives had no value anymore.

  “And you, Cause of Celestial Disharmony!"

  She felt the hurt inside his anger, and knelt upright, buttocks resting on her heels. She wiped her face with the ends of her plain linen robe and said: “Whatever my fate, I accept it, Father. I only have the wish to tell you once more that I love you and I am sorry I caused this hurt."

  As she spoke, she stared at his fearsome face, his huge eyes and rippling jaws like a dragon's—and only understood his silence when thick blood flowed from the downturned corners of his mouth. His eyes were wild holes, and blood spiderwebbed on his clothing.

  The baba threw her hands up and wailed anew.

  Ramy jumped up and ran to wipe his mouth with the hem of her long robe. But he rose. The sword flashed in the air. He froze in a gesture as if to slice her in half down the middle, which he easily could have, as he had once slain his enemies in battle—and some of them in leather or wooden armor!

  She knelt on the floor directly before the dais, opened her robe at the chest, and pulled it back to expose her neck. She inclined her head deeply, until her forehead touched the floor, and waited for the sound of the wind.

  Instead, he threw himself back on his pillow, groaning w
ith pain, and tossed the sword aside. “What have you done to me, you garden weed?"

  “I have brought disgrace to our family and to my husband's."

  “Ah well you know it, viper.” He pulled the decapitated basket close and took out a linen towel to staunch his blood. He spoke in a halting, painfully slurry voice: “I should throw you both out that window. But you, foolish wasp"—he used the human word to wound the baba—"you useless spider, because you could not be discreet in your insect-like spitefulness, this matter will be the laughing stock of the Obayyo for the next thousand kjirs. Dumonhi will not fall for it for a moment. Ah dammit, a pox on you both. If he were here, he could honorably wound his shame by killing you with his bare hands or any way he chooses, as is his right. I probably must pen you up like animals until he returns from the campaign on Far Tomi Shore. Your fate will be most unpleasant, for he may turn you both over to their family babas, and I cannot imagine what they will invent by way of torturing you both to death."

  Ramy spoke in a high, even voice, for everything was suddenly very clear. Even the pain, the loneliness, the abandonment that Dumonhi's callousness had caused her had evaporated. She felt sorry for Jory, and wished him life, perhaps as a bandit if he escaped. Dumonhi notwithstanding, Jory was the only male she had ever loved as a lover, though her father thought of him as a monkey. “Father, we will commit duello by dawn this very night."

  The silence in the room was as profound as the black shadows that flooded the corners and the floor around her knees. Her sister was a dark mound in the darkness.

  Father rose, wiping his mouth with the spattered linen. Leaving his sword thrown aside, he stepped shakily from the dais and bent close to look at Ramy for the last time. His expression was a mixture of fury and pain. A trail of tears ran down the creases in each cheek. He held the towel before his mouth and could no longer speak. But he touched her cheek lightly with the backs of two fingers. She touched herself there and found blood on her fingertips. She licked her fingers and tasted his forgiveness, which filled her like a spring breeze. He touched baba similarly, forgiving her also. Without ever looking on his daughters again, he stomped out of the room to his private chambers. Servants slid the doors shut, leaving the two sisters in moonlit isolation.

  * * * *

  Silence. The audience chamber was an antechamber of death. Moonlight glowed on lacquer surfaces. The room smelled of wax and flowers.

  Ramy-baba's mind was awhirl with horror. She had betrayed her lover and sister, and condemned herself and Ramy to death. She had brought mockery and war upon Ramyon. Had it been worth this to hurt her sibling over a romantic jealousy? Ramy-baba was deeply ashamed, and she sat waiting for her sister's sharp words.

  Both sighed.

  “Forgive me, sister,” Ramy-baba at last said.

  “What have you done?"

  “I wish I could undo it, but now I can't."

  After a long silence, Ramy said: “We must prepare for death.” She rose. “I have to go to my room and tidy things up."

  Ramy-baba shifted her bulk erect. “Will I see you again?"

  “I will come to your chamber when I have composed myself."

  “I pray that you do."

  She watched as Ramy walked with small steps. Ramy slid the door open, let herself out, and slid the door almost closed, leaving Ramy-baba the option to leave the room if she chose. What did anything really matter now? What would anything matter in a few hours when they were in the Celestial Hall? Ramy-baba thought she might just sit here the rest of her time. Then, ashamed in the face of her sister's courage and determination, she walked down dark corridors, over the creaking wooden bridge-floor, and into the babas’ tower. There, the doors were closed as the other babas slept. She went to her room, which was large and had a window view, since she was an important baba despite her youth. Sobbing, she straightened her possessions—her amulets; small clay figurines including some cute ones and some frightening ones for warding off evil spirits; jewelry, perfumes, fungi preparations for her skin and her egg-pipette. When there was nothing left to do, she lay down on the bed and pondered the incredible reversal of her fate. She thought about the other babas. There were terrible jealousies among the wasps. Many hated Ramy-baba because she domineered them as was her right by caste order. They would deal with her harshly if she lived into the coming days; better to go now, quietly, to have been without saying goodbye, just to have been and then not to be.

  Long before the first milky green fingers of dawn rose over the horizon, there was a rustle of silk as Ramy hurried into the room. She wore her best gown from the wedding ceremonies, and Ramy-baba assumed Ramy would want her husband to see her for the last time like this before they buried her.

  Ramy-baba turned away and hung her head. “Will you forgive me?"

  She felt Ramy's arms steal around her from behind. “Who else can I turn to, foolish baba?"

  Ramy-baba turned and gave back an embrace, so that they were entwined, the one sister much larger than the other. “We have so little time."

  “By dawn, the others will be awake. We will be at their mercy,” Ramy said.

  “We will be quick and merciful,” Ramy-baba said. With longing, she ran her pudgy fingers and droopy arms up and down Ramy's slender back.

  Ramy waited passively, her hands on her sister's shoulders, her breathing coming quicker. Ramy-baba groaned with desire as her palms burned on the smooth waist and oval buttocks, the sharp hip bones and long shapely thighs of her sister.

  “Go make the bed,” Ramy-baba whispered, sending her sister off with a lingering palm on one buttock. She watched as Ramy walked away loosening her wedding dress with two hands on a button behind her back. Ramy cleared a pewter jug and some cups from the fruit table by the window. Ramy opened the bay windows and arched back her back with two pressuring hands while staring into the predawn of Shur.

  The red moon hung like a distant lantern over the sea. Fog swirled like milk far below on the Obayyo, the Lantern Road. Already, birds twittered and thrashed in the highest tree crowns. Dew dripped like a steady heartbeat on a tin barrel cover out on the stone balconies.

  While Ramy pulled a mattress from the bench box under the windows, and unrolled it on the table, Ramy-baba at the other end of the long room took a velvet bundle from a secret drawer, careful lest Ramy see. She unrolled the bundle, exposing two special knives. Each knife had a long handle of intricately carved ivory, suitable for a woman to hold with both hands and sweep slowly sideways pushing with all the strength of one forearm. The blade was extremely pointed for a quick puncture, and very sharp, but wide to pressure the organs and keep them apart.

  Engraved on the hilt of each was a poem from the Ancient Poet, in archaic language, carved in elegant Oba High Period calligraphy, a poem fit for the occasion of a double departure from life. Invoking an innocent nursery tale, fit for the beginning of life rather than its end, the first sword said:

  Two moons embrace above the koh tree.

  The celestial dome turns, hiding them behind the tree trunk.

  Rabbit-in-the-Grass catches his breath—when will they appear again?

  The other sword said:

  The celestial dome turns, revealing what hid behind the koh.

  Not a single moon in sight, alas.

  Rabbit-in-the-Grass sighs and hops away.

  Loosely bundling the knives in their blue velvet cloth, Ramy-baba trundled over to the table.

  Ramy had dropped her clothes on the floor and lay naked in the dim light. The slender curves of her youthful body glowed with a faint milky-blue light. She lay on her left side facing away, the curving shadow between her buttocks a mysterious valley. Her long right leg was pulled up slightly, laying a curved knee upon one nearly straight.

  Ramy-baba stared long. She was not a poetess, but she wanted to capture this last divine vision in every detail. She wanted to remember it like a perfect poem well told as the knife made its journey from east to west.

  Ramy's arms exten
ded over her head, elbows in her orange hair that was fluffed out to accept the full scent and breeze of the night. On each side of her chest was a dark wrinkled spot, a nipple useless as that of a man, but exquisitely tender to the touch of both lovers.

  Ramy-baba took great care to lay her bundle down without making a sound. Then she advanced upon her sister like a shadow. She noticed that Ramy lay with her face toward the moonlight, and her blue tongue was slightly extended in pleasure.

  Ramy-baba touched a nipple with her own blue tongue, and Ramy's tongue slid further out. The two sisters lay together, the larger spooning the smaller, who writhed while the other alternately ran her palms and fingertips over and over the same hills and valleys until Ramy turned, and from there it was a language of tongues, of roving fingers, until finally, when the foam-sea could no longer be denied, Ramy-baba mounted one brown leg over her sister's waist and held Ramy's head in her fingertips. The pipette extended from baba's upper palate. It was long as a finger when fully extended, and stained in various shades of brown and gray. It was hollow, and sheathed in a thin layer of skin and nerve endings that made a glow of passion and desire in Ramy-baba's head as she closed her eyes and sought the tiny bony protrusions on either side of Ramy's neck. Ramy groaned with anticipation, flailing her wrists passionately against her sister's massive shoulders as the beak found its way into the protrusion, parting a sphincter there, and sinking down into the spongy tissue that contained love's fluids. As the shaft entered, it released a fungal poison that acted as a powerful stimulant. Ramy uttered a series of high, choking moans while struggling to breathe at the same time. Her body, held tenderly by her sister, convulsed in erotic spasms. Ramy-baba, too, was utterly aroused. The same fungal release made her blind with desire as she tensed her normally flaccid body for the receipt of fertilized eggs. The eggs would fall together into the womb near baba's center, where over nine months the next son or pair of sisters would form.

  While she was still high from their shared orgasm—in fact, while the beak was still in Ramy's pleasure hole, and Ramy was half-conscious—the baba whispered “I love you” and began strangling her sister. “This is the best way, my beloved,” she whispered as she made her fingers ever tighter, until at last she felt Ramy go limp. Then she reached for the knife to finish the first of two duellos, slicing the belly as swiftly as a sunset.