by Mick Farren
In the bad old days, she had stolen cheroots from the humidor of Phaall the Teuton colonel and enjoyed them greatly, but she shook her head. “Not right now. I still feel a little queasy.”
“Possibly later?”
Jesamine nodded. “Possibly. I like a good cigar.”
Kennedy puffed thoughtfully, and the smoke was whipped away by the ocean breeze. “There might be another reason why you felt so at home with the Ohio.”
“There might?”
“Your trade is now the paranormal, and the aboriginal peoples are much more comfortable with the unseen arts and crafts. They more easily accept things that make city folk nervous and uneasy.”
Jesamine looked curiously at Kennedy. “Why is that?”
“Why is what?”
“Why does what I do frighten all these smart sophisticated city people?”
Kennedy stared at Jesamine. Their eyes met. “You really don’t like city people, do you, my dear?”
“What do you expect? Albany was the first city I wasn’t brought to by force.”
“You should maybe give cities more of a chance.”
“You would say that.”
“I would?”
“You may be the Prime Minister, but you’re a city boy.”
Kennedy chuckled. “It’s been a long time since a beautiful young woman called me a boy.”
He was flirting again, but Jesamine wasn’t quite ready to let the topic go. “But you are, aren’t you?”
“A city boy? That, pretty lady, shows how little you know. My daddy, Whiskey Joe Kennedy, ran moonshine down the Taconic, and across the Catskills, and the woods were my home until I was all of fifteen and I was shipped off to Boston for my education. Even after that, the interior was where the adventures waited to be had and the fortunes to be made, and I spent more of my time under the stars than under a roof.”
Jesamine was impressed by the way the phrase about adventures and fortunes rolled from his tongue. Old Jack Kennedy was smooth. No wonder his people so willingly followed him. “You must have been something when you were young.”
Kennedy sighed. “Ah girl, you’d better believe it.”
For a while they both stared across the water, at the escort ships and the far horizon, then Jesamine put the story back on track. “You must have gone back to the city, though, when you went into politics.”
“Well, that was unavoidable. Things needed doing and people seemed to think that I was the one to do them.”
“Things?”
“Albany hasn’t always been like it is now. The old King thought he could keep all the power to himself, and it was a long hard fight to change his mind.”
“You still haven’t answered my original question.”
Kennedy frowned. “Which was?”
“I wanted to know why the powers I have … that we Four have … scare all those educated city people?”
The Prime Minister thought for a moment. “I have to suppose it’s because city people have to believe they’re right; that they know all there is to know. How would they ride their trolley cars or take their elevators up and down, or turn on their electric lights, if they had any doubts? How would they sail in metal boats.”
“But they must know that the Other Side is there. They can’t pretend that it doesn’t exist.”
Kennedy shook his head. “But they do.”
Jesamine frowned. “But why? There are ghosts in the city, just like in the forest.”
“There’s a difference.”
She leaned back against the ship’s rail, aware that by arching her spine just enough she showed off her breasts to their maximum advantage. Jesamine saw no reason why seduction and discussion should not go hand in hand. “A difference?”
Jack Kennedy nodded. He must have noticed her move, but gave no indication. “The tribes of the interior live in much closer contact with the invisible. They have the thunderbird that rules skies, the trickster coyote that is the friend to man. On the plains, the tetonka is revered as the provider of all things. In the north, the raven preserves the light. Among so-called primitive peoples, the mundane and the invisible frequently walk hand in hand, and preserve the equilibrium.” Kennedy paused. For a few seconds, he looked at Jesamine with unconcealed appreciation, but then went on to make his point. “Cities, on the other hand, are something else. They construct their equilibrium with the plumb line and the square. Supposedly civilized peoples are hemmed in by their own walls, and constrained by their progress and their structures. When civilized man is confronted by the invisible, or that which he doesn’t understand, he is presented with a choice. He must decide if it exists outside of the laws of the universe, or if laws of the universe are more complicated and extensive than he previously believed. Since civilization tends to make it easier to disbelieve than believe, he will attempt to dismiss the invisible and the mysterious, and pretend that they don’t really exist. Do you follow me?”
Jesamine took a deep breath. “I think so.”
“The reason, my dear Jesamine, that your knowledge and skills upset the city people is that you force them to change their beliefs and they don’t like that. Too often, the educated get the idea that their education is complete and hate to learn anything new.” Again he paused. Now he looked her up and down with deliberate candor. “You really are quite lovely. With that honey skin you will be a sensation in Oslo, among all those so very white people.”
Jesamine pouted with complete calculation. “I think I was a sensation for a while in Albany, and I didn’t like it all.”
“To be a sensation is a gift only given to a few. You must learn to enjoy it.”
“Is that what you did?”
“I was never a sensation, girl. I had to teach myself to be a force.”
Jesamine and Kennedy were suddenly in complete eye contact. Their two faces were close together, and the gulf of their ages was ceasing to matter. He was potentially a great mentor and how better could she show her appreciation of that than by giving herself to him. If the moment had held for seconds longer, he would have kissed her and she would have responded. It was not to be, however. The voice interrupted, demanding his attention. “Prime Minister?”
Kennedy half laughed and half sighed. “Observe the curse of power and the penalty of becoming a force.” He turned. “What is it, Dawson?”
Dawson was the burly civilian in the dark suit who seemed to double as the Prime Minister’s valet and bodyguard. “Cable, sir. Relayed from the NU380, and requiring your acknowledgment.”
Kennedy looked back at Jesamine. “I fear I have to go.”
Jesamine half reached towards him, intending to touch him, but not doing it. She suddenly felt so safe in the older man’s company. “That’s too bad. I would have liked to have talked some more.”
Kennedy smiled, polite but knowing. “Perhaps later. The ocean is very wide.”
Jesamine matched his smile. “Maybe I can smoke the excellent cigar you offered me.”
Kennedy nodded. “Indeed you may.” He turned and followed Dawson back to the business of nations. Jesamine sagged a little and felt quite breathless. She had made what amounted to an assignation with no less than the Prime Minister of Albany, and, if she read matters correctly, the assignation was serious. She had spent so much time and energy yearning for the simple life, and yet, the instant the chance presented itself, she plunged into the great game of the high and the mighty with more blind abandon than Cordelia. She looked up at the streamlined silver airship floating against the sky and clouds. A tiny light flashed coded signals from its gondola, and the designation NU380 was displayed clearly on its side.
CORDELIA
The upper bunk smelled of a healthy young man; tobacco, machine oil, and the slightest hint of yesterday’s gin. Cordelia lay by herself, but not sleeping. She had spent two nights with First Lieutenant Bjorn Hawkins, and through that time, privacy had been a constant problem. A destroyer on a mission, even a mission that was not overly dangerous,
offered little chance for two people to be alone together. Thus it was not without a sense of irony that Cordelia found herself the sole occupant of the cabin in the small hours of the third morning, with not only Bjorn on watch, but also Frampton, the other First Lieutenant with whom he shared the cramped cabin. Had all other things been equal, she and Hawkins might have had their sex in the somewhat larger quarters that had been assigned to her and Jesamine, since she again outranked her lover, but a serious inequality had presented itself in the form of Jesamine’s chronic seasickness. Perhaps, had Cordelia not wanted to escape being cooped up in a cabin with Jesamine’s groaning and vomiting, she might not even have organized this brief maritime fling to while away the ocean crossing. Such a thing had not been her intention when she had boarded the Ragnar. After a fond, if somewhat insincere night of farewell to Tom Neally, who had been shot in the arm during the final charge at Newbury Vale, but was otherwise fully functional, she was on her way to London, and she knew that notorious city could not help but yield its share of assignations. She had no immediate craving for excitement, and had planned to keep herself to herself, hoping to repair the bonds with Jesamine that had somehow become so frayed since their winter training.
Cordelia had also contemplated using the ocean voyage to spend time on her own doing some unaccustomed private thinking. The side of herself—what Slide had called the factor in the equation—that she had discovered during the interrogation of the captive Zhaithan continued to distract and disturb her. The whip had felt good in her hands, as had the grip of unholy delight she had experienced as she thrashed him. Up to the moment of self-revelation with the Zhaithan, she had always believed that, when certain girlfriends had boasted about candlelit boudoir games of dominance and submission, or of visits in closed carriages to the purple confines of a few private and specially established clubs, they were merely playing charades, just extending the titillating preambles to the serious business of orgasm, but now she was uncomfortably aware that such desires might go considerably deeper, and be a possible end in themselves.
She threw back the blankets, and sat up, moving with some care, so as not to crack her head on the steel ceiling, or whatever they called a ceiling on a battleship. She eased her legs over the side of the bunk and swung down to the floor. One step took her across the narrow cabin to the small mirror that was positioned above the two men’s washbasin. She may have started off with the objective of keeping herself to herself, but, yet again, it had not worked out that way. Jesamine had become seasick and that had driven her out of the cabin. In the wardroom, she had fallen into gin and conversation with the young but personable Bjorn Hawkins, and one thing had led to another, which in turn had led to the two of them sneaking off to his cabin together. Bjorn Hawkins had proved capable, enthusiastic, and wholly normal, which, at any other time would have been quite enough to keep Cordelia amused, but she found herself dissatisfied, even irritated by him. Normality now left much to be desired.
She stared with stern concern at her own reflection. “What are you becoming, Cordelia Blakeney? Do you have any idea?”
Her second night with Bjorn was still very clear in her memory. She had pushed him down on the bunk and literally ridden him, arms stiff, pinning his wrists to the mattress like a prone crucifixion. He had seemed to find this perfectly acceptable at the time, but afterwards, after they had caught their breath and drunk a little gin, he had made an odd remark.
“There was a moment back then when I wondered where you had gone.”
Cordelia had blinked with some surprise and not a little annoyance. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“As though—I don’t know how to put it—as though you’d disappeared behind your own eyes.”
Now Cordelia was simply annoyed. “You seemed to be having a good time, wherever my eyes might have been.”
Bjorn had made the mistake of defending himself. “I wasn’t saying…”
And Cordelia had cut him off huffily. “So don’t.”
She inspected her face in the mirror above the washbasin, looking, as best she could, for any telltale signs of change. Dark circles ringed her eyes, but she wasn’t sure if they signified anything other than routine dissolution. Freckles, the curse of all those with red hair and pale skin, lightly dusted her nose. She was spending far more time in the sun and air, first on the march south with the army and now on the ocean with the Norse. Men claimed to like freckles, but she’d rather her complexion was clear and porcelain white. She frowned disapprovingly, but was also relieved that she still retained her innate and uncomplicated vanity. She cursed Slide and his damned equations, but in the moment of cursing, she also recalled how, after the interrogation, she had propositioned Yancey Slide. He had, of course, turned her down, but suppose he hadn’t. To what place would that have taken her?
“Really, what are you becoming?”
The cabin was a little chill for Cordelia to be standing around stark naked, so she located her knickers and started to dress. Night had fallen and the temperature had dropped considerably, so she helped herself to one of Bjorn’s rollneck sweaters, let herself out of the cabin, and made her way up to the deck. The sky overhead was cloudless, and filled with a million stars, far more than were ever visible on land. For a long minute she stood and stared in unself-conscious awe. For all her supposed corruption, Cordelia still found the capacity for moments of childlike wonder. She made her way to the destroyer’s stern where another marvel awaited her. The wake of the Ragnar was a glowing path of green luminescence across the dark water. She leaned on the stern rail, impressed and a little breathless. Somewhere a seaman was singing softly.
Oh Maggie, oh Maggie, for love of a sailor
You packed up your pride and went down to the shore
And looked all in vain for the sails of his brigantine
Until you were sure he’d be coming no more.
Then the voice stopped and spoke to a third person who Cordelia was unable to see.
“Goodnight, miss. Just watch your step along there. Don’t want you coming a cropper.”
This immediately distracted Cordelia from the wonder of the nighttime sea. Miss? As far as Cordelia was aware, the only two passengers on the Ragnar eligible to be addressed as “Miss” were Jesamine and herself. Cordelia stood very still. Had Jesamine recovered enough to be out and about, and, if so, what was she up to in the middle of the night? She had a brief glimpse of a female figure hurrying down to a lower deck. It was definitely Jesamine, but where the hell had she been? To the best of Cordelia’s knowledge, the only living quarters so far back on the ship were those of the captain, and the stateroom and cabin that had been assigned to Jack Kennedy and his bodyguard. Although Cordelia knew all things were possible, she hardly thought that Jesamine was visiting the captain. Had she arranged an assignation with Dawson? The only alternative was a tryst with the Prime Minister. The high-lonesome singing sailor started a second verse.
Oh Maggie, oh Maggie, for love of a sailor
You stiffened your back and signed up as whore
Disrespected, deserted, with no consolation
For love of a sailor who’s coming no more.
Jesamine was coming from a private visit with Jack Kennedy? Was such a thing possible? Cordelia knew all too well it was all too possible. Given the correct circumstances and a sufficient quantity of gin, she could do the same herself; forget the difference in their ages, and fall for his elderly but still powerful charms. Cordelia took a deep breath. “Jesamine is fucking Jack Kennedy? Well damn me.”
JESAMINE
Jesamine ducked into the cabin she shared with Cordelia. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to be so furtive, but she was relieved that Cordelia was not there, probably bunked-up with the sailor who was keeping her amused through the voyage. Jesamine closed the door behind her, dogged it shut, and flopped on her bunk, remaining absolutely still as her body continued to tingle. He had been an old man, physically slow, with an old man’s body, but with
the ease of confident experience, and possessed of a elemental power from which she still trembled. No wonder his people adored him and trusted him implicitly. He was like no other man that Jesamine had ever encountered; an ancient lion with a mane of white hair, who had taken her to him without self-consciousness, compromise, or effort. At one point she had straddled him, knees bent, with him deep inside her, rolling her hips against his thrusts, cupping her own breasts and moaning deep in her throat, brazenly eager to please and impress him. In her previous life, she had faked and fabricated so much passion, so many times, in so many ways, she wanted to push every wanton limit to give him something genuine, honest, and wholly of herself. Maybe Jack Kennedy would have enjoyed her just as much as a slut, but she wanted to be much more for him. He must have somehow sensed a part of what she was feeling, because, as she had dropped to her already trembling knees, and taken him in her unconstrained eager mouth, working her hard-won whore-skills, he had first groaned, but then whispered. “Easy, my dear, easy. Just take your own pleasure and relish it. You have nothing to prove to me.”
She had gone to Kennedy under no illusion about how the encounter might end, but with the attitude that she was bestowing the gift of her youth on the elderly hero. She’d had no idea that she would receive a gift far more intense than her youth and willingness. He had been waiting, in a smoking jacket and silk pyjamas. He had offered her cognac and she had accepted. He been in no apparent hurry to touch her, and he had again talked about the American interior, and how much he loved the vast undiscovered continent. He had told jokes about his moonshiner father, and tales of his youthful brushes with the American city gangs, like the Booze Fighters, the Roman Bloods, Blind Rebels, and the Richmond Shamrocks. Kennedy told stories of the internal struggles in Albany during the reign of Carlyle’s autocratic father, and how they had pulled him into the business of power and politics that had taken up the remainder of his life. He had not, however, concentrated exclusively on himself. So many of the so-called powerful men that Jesamine had met believed they need only boast about their exploits to impress a woman, but Kennedy was mindful to ask her about her own life and experiences. He had asked probing questions about the desert village of her childhood, and congratulated her on her ability to survive all the horrors and degradations that had been thrown at her. He had inquired about the other lands of Africa, especially those of the Zulu Hegemony, but had deftly exited the topic when he discovered just how little she knew beyond what might be expected of a Mosul camp follower. Even though Kennedy had handled the revelation of her ill-informed ignorance with the utmost grace and tact, she had spent some minutes feeling inadequate and stupid, but then Kennedy had handed her the promised Caribbean cigar, and lit it for her with meticulous care. They had sat facing each other in silence as the stateroom filled with rich blue smoke. Kennedy had stared at Jesamine with a calm intensity. Had another done such a thing, she might have been irritated or uncomfortable, but, with Kennedy, she simply met his gaze and basked in the attention. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, amused at his own sense of awe. “Jesamine…” He had rolled the name as though saying it for the first time. “… you are very beautiful.”