The girl reacted like a startled fawn and drew back several paces. “You have regained consciousness?”
“It seems so. Where is this place and how came I here?”
“We brought you.”
Bram Forest’s brow furrowed in thought. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. There were a group of people such as you at the place I tried to fight the dark swordsman with his own weapons.” Bram Forest chuckled ruefully. “It seems I did not fare so well.”
“When we discovered you were not our god, the others wanted to leave you there to die but I resisted this as being inhuman and made them bring you here.”
“Where are the rest?”
“They have returned.”
“Returned whence?”
The girl lowered her beautiful head sadly. “That I cannot tell you.”
Bram Forest smiled. “Be not so sad. The fact that you prefer to keep the information to yourself is no reason for near-tears.”
“I am not sad for that reason, sire.”
“Then why?”
“Because you asked the question and are even more surely therefore, not our god.”
Bram Forest was deeply curious and half-amused at the trend of this conversation. “Tell me this, then. Why does my asking the question eliminate all possibility of my being your god?”
“Because if you were the god we seek and yearn for, you would not have to ask where my people went. You would know.”
“Instead of clarifying the situation,” Bram Forest mused, “each question sends me deeper and deeper into a mental labyrinth.”
“We risked our lives in going to the place you found us. It was forbidden to credit the ancient legend of our people. Therefore—”
“What legend?”
“That upon this day and at that place our god would appear to deliver us.”
* * * *
Bram Forest, now desperately seeking a question that would clarify rather than further befuddle, held up his hand. “Wait. If you expected a god to appear and I arrived on schedule, how can you be so sure that I am not he?”
“We thought so when you advanced upon the hideous Abarian and took his throat in your great hands. But when you not only allowed him to live but also suffered him to take up his whip-sword and come within an eyelash of killing you, we knew you were not our god.”
Bram Forest nodded with understanding. “I can see now how stupid that act was. Certainly not a manner in which a genuine god would conduct himself.” He glanced at the girl and smiled. “Please come closer that I may see you better.”
She moved her head in the negative, reluctantly, Bram Forest thought, and replied, “If you were our god I would gladly place myself in your power to do with me as you would, but as you are mortal, I must remain away from you.”
Bram Forest frowned. “Again things get murky.”
“I am a virgin,” the beautiful girl explained simply and with no self-consciousness whatever. “I must remain so until my time is ordained. If I lost my virginity, even through violation that I resist, I would immediately be delivered into the Golden Ape.”
Bram Forest came upright, causing the girl to retreat a step further in alarm. “The Golden Ape, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“And you are a virgin—”
This last was a statement rather than a question as Bram Forest sank back, his eyes misty with thought. “An ape, a boar, a stallion—” he pondered. “A virgin’s feast—”
The girl eyed him with concern. “Are you sure that your wound has not caused—”
“It is not that,” he said, switching his mind back to things of the moment. “I’m just wondering—might you tell me your name without breaking any rules of reticence?”
“I am Ylia,” she said with a childlike solemnity that touched Bram Forest.
“And does Ylia never smile?”
It seemed to him she made an effort to do this but was so unfamiliar with the expression that she could not manage it.
He extended a hand, not disconcerted that she did not come close and take it. He said, “Ylia, I would not again ask a question you did not wish to answer before. But I am mightily puzzled about the life you must have led—about that manner of males you have had contact with. They are certainly a miserable lot if a female of their race must look to her virtue every waking moment.
“As for me, Ylia—and please believe—I would no more touch you in desire than I would knowingly injure a child. You are safe in my presence as in the most guarded room of a nunnery.”
If he expected gratitude or a pat on the back for his nobility, he was rudely surprised. Ylia straightened, her young breasts protruding gracefully and if she did not react with anger, her face mirrored something close to it.
“Then I am not desirable?”
Bram Forest blinked. “I did not say that. You are one of the fairest I have ever set eyes upon.”
This puzzled Ylia completely. “Then in the name of the Golden Ape, why—?”
Bram Forest raised his hand with a gesture of both interruption and surrender. “Please! Let us pursue this subject no further. The waters grow deep and I suspect quicksand at their bottom. There are questions in my mind. Allow me to bring them forth with the understanding that you do not have to answer any you do not wish to.”
It was evident that Ylia’s mind was also a bag of conundrums relative to this late candidate for godhood who had insulted her desirability and yet complimented her upon it at the same time. She moved forward and sat gracefully down near the moss resting place of her patient.
Bram Forest was aware of her tenseness. She was like a beautiful animal ready to spring away at the first sign of hostile movement on his part. But he also got the impression that coming within reach of his arms thrilled her. He believed this even while knowing that she would have fought like a tigress against any advance upon his part.
He said, “Ylia, you are indeed a strange child. You remained here after your people left and brought me back from the brink of death even with the fear that I would rise up and violate you as soon as I acquired the strength to do so. Your thought processes are difficult to understand.”
Ylia lowered her eyes. “You wished to ask some questions, sire.”
“My name is Bram Forest. The sire ill-becomes you.”
“Bram—Forest,” she murmured experimentally. Then she raised her eyes and there dawned upon her face the most brilliant of smiles. Her look was one of both dignity and gratitude. “You do me much honor, Bram Forest!”
“Honor? I fail to understand.”
Ylia’s eyes glowed proudly. “Why, you treat me with such respect that I could be even Volna herself!”
“And who is this Volna?”
Ylia was startled at this strange man’s ignorance. “Why, everyone on Tarth knows of Volna, Princess of Nadia, sister of Bontarc, who is Prince of Nadia and ruler of that great nation. She is the most exquisitely beautiful woman ever to be born on Tarth.”
“Fancy that,” Bram Forest said with a lack of enthusiasm that proved marked disinterest. “I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance, nor of her illustrious brother, either.”
Ylia lowered her eyes in sadness. “She was also the sister of Jlomec.”
“And who, pray is Jlomec?”
“I thought you knew since you tried to avenge his death. He was the Nadian the cruel Abarian Retoc slew under your very eyes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bram Forest said. But the cowardly death had been accomplished and Bram Forest’s mind did not dwell upon it as he could not see where it affected him one way or another.
“Ylia,” he said, “take it as a supposition that I was born this very moment and know nothing of this world or its customs. With that in mind, tell me of it—the things you would tell a wondering child.”
She glanced at him strangely. “I will tell you all that I am not bound to hold secret.”
“I would not wish to know more.”
/> The beautiful Ylia leaned forward, so preoccupied with the task she had set herself that all her reserve and wariness left her. Her action brought her lowered head close to Bram Forest’s face and the sweet smell of her newly washed and shining hair was in his nostrils. Then he also became preoccupied with the map Ylia was drawing on the floor of the cavern.
Long they sat thus, Ylia enjoying her task and Bram Forest’s facile mind drawing in each syllable she spoke and committing it to memory.
Finally the sun lowered and the interior of the cavern darkened until they could no longer see each other. The most important conviction Bram Forest arrived at from Ylia’s discourse was indeed a startling one. He was certain that this Tarth was a twin planet to Earth of which there was complete knowledge in his mind. He could hardly escape the fact that Tarth swung in an orbit exactly opposite to that of its more familiar counterpart, thus remaining invisible from it.
This conviction came to him through several things Ylia said and it was buttressed by a bit of Tarthan mythology she chanced to mention. The legend told of a flame-god, obviously the sun, which stood forth in its wrath one long-distant day and hurled two great stones at a demon who came from far away bent upon torment. This last Bram Forest thought, was perhaps a comet of great size that tore both worlds from the sun and set them upon their orbits. The existence of the mythological legend indicated too, that civilization on Tarth was not backward or at least had not been in ages gone.
In the more exact realm, Bram Forest learned that Tarth was far less watery than its invisible sister, scarcely half its surface consisting of ocean. It had two ice caps at the poles, known as the Outer Reaches and an equator termed the Inner Belt.
* * * *
There were no isolated continents according to Ylia’s map, all the dry surfaces being connected by wide passages of land through the continuous ocean.
Ylia’s description of the people interested Bram Forest most intensely. On Tarth, he learned, there was no association of nations, each mistrusting the others in a world where a state of continuous war at some point of the globe was an accepted state of affairs which no one sought to ameliorate.
Ylia herself was hazy upon the description and number of the nations. She thought some two hundred existed but only the most important could she describe.
* * * *
The Abarians were the most successfully warlike, fearing only the Nadians to the south. This because though the Nadians were not aggressive and even treated other lesser nations in a kindly fashion, they possessed an inherent fighting skill and a power potential that had not been tested in recallable history. Though they had not fought for centuries, their potential had not lessened because such a folly would have been considered tantamount to national suicide on Tarth.
There were also the Utalians that Bram Forest visualized as some sort of lizard men for the reason that they possessed the defensive characteristics of the chameleon. There was also another intriguing race, no member of which Ylia had ever seen. She referred to them as the Twin People of Coom, an area near the north Outer Reach. Bram Forest speculated upon what manner of people they would be and it came to him that the evolutionary processes on Tarth had not corresponded to those of Earth, where all members of the human race evolved into practically the same form.
Then a name came into Bram Forest’s mind; a name that rose out of that mysterious well of knowledge in his subconscious; a well he could not explain but had been forced to accept. He no longer questioned it.
“Tell me of the Ofridians.”
Ylia started as though he had slapped her. The deep brown of her beautiful face paled somewhat and her eyes grew very sad.
Bram Forest saw the sadness by the light of the moon, that had risen and was sending wan light in through the cavern’s entrance. He only sensed the paleness from the tremor of Ylia’s voice. “It grows late. I must go and bring food. Your strength must be nurtured and greatened.”
With that, she hurried off in the direction of the sounding water, leaving Bram Forest both bewildered and intrigued. Why had she reacted so violently to his question? And for that matter, why had he been able to ask the question in the first place? By what process did he know the name Ofrid and that it designated a nation on Tarth, without knowing of that nation and already possessing the knowledge for which he had begged the patient and beautiful Ylia?
Then he remembered that he had resolved not to wonder about these things—and at the same instant, remembered something else.
The small, flat package that had fallen from the box back on Earth. It had been his first thought upon regaining consciousness near the Ofridian well but it had been pushed from his mind by subsequent events.
How long ago had that been? He tried to assess the passage of time but failed. The only indication of its length was the fact that he bore no wound where the Abarian’s blade had entered his body. That pointed to a long span of unconsciousness but perhaps there were contributing factors.
* * * *
He had sensed that the mysterious Ylia had at her command something that had healed him very swiftly but he had no proof of this.
At any rate, he had to retrieve the package if possible. But would it be possible? Granted the strange disc had brought him somehow from Earth to Tarth, would it repeat the process in the opposite direction?
He resolved to find out and began unbuckling the disc from its place on his right wrist.
As he did this a sound manifested outside the cavern but he was so intent upon his task that he gave little note. Quickly, he strapped the disc into its potent position on his left wrist. Then he sat tensely awaiting the reaction.
As he waited, the sound without became so pronounced he could no longer ignore it. He raised his head and saw a tall, sinister form outlined against the moonlight. He was unable to distinguish the features, but the outline told a sickening truth. Also the drawn whip-sword spoke eloquently of who this intruder was.
The Abarian of the Ofridian well in search of prey. The cowardly assassin who would now enter and find a defenseless man and a beautiful girl who would set him aflame with lust.
Rage threw a red curtain over Bram Forest’s eyes as he struggled up to meet the intruder. But the latter never saw him because at that moment the now-familiar nausea seized Bram Forest’s vitals, doubling him over.
And when the Abarian had advanced into the cavern, he found only an empty bed of moss, Bram Forest having been snatched up and whirled into darkness by the relentless hand of time put into terrifying motion.
PAGAN PASSIONS (1959)
Written with Laurence M. Janifer
CHAPTER ONE
The girl came toward him across the silent room. She was young. She was beautiful. Her red hair curled like a flame round her eager, heart-shaped face. Her arms reached for him. Her hands touched him. Her eyes were alive with the light of pure love. I am yours, the eyes kept saying. Do with me as you will.
Forrester watched the eyes with a kind of fascination.
Now the girl’s mouth opened, the lips parted slightly, and her husky voice murmured softly: “Take me. Take me.”
Forrester blinked and stepped back.
“My God,” he said. “This is ridiculous.”
The girl pressed herself against him. The sensation was, Forrester thought with a kind of awe, undeniably pleasant. He tried to remember the girl’s name, and couldn’t. She wriggled slightly and her arms went up around him. Her hands clasped at the back of his neck and her mouth moved, close to his ear.
“Please,” she whispered. “I want you.…”
Forrester felt his head swimming. He opened his mouth but nothing whatever came out. He shut his mouth and tried to think what to do with his hands. They were hanging foolishly at his sides. The girl came even closer, something Forrester would have thought impossible.
Time stopped. Forrester swam in a pink haze of sensations. Only one small corner of his brain refused to lose itself in the magnificence of the moment. In that c
orner, Forrester felt feverishly uncomfortable. He tried again to remember the girl’s name, and failed again. Of course, there was really no reason why he should have known the name. It was, after all, only the first day of class.
“Please,” he said valiantly. “Miss—”
He stopped.
“I’m Maya Wilson,” the girl said in his ear. “I’m in your class, Mr. Forrester. Introductory World History.” She bit his ear gently. Forrester jumped.
None of the textbooks of propriety he had ever seen seemed to cover the situation he found himself in. What did one do when assaulted (pleasantly, to be sure, but assault was assault) by a lovely girl who happened to be one of your freshman students? She had called him Mr. Forrester. That was right and proper, even if it was a little silly. But what should he call her? Miss Wilson?
That didn’t sound right at all. But, for other reasons, Maya sounded even worse.
The girl said: “Please,” and added to the force of the word with another little wriggle against Forrester. It solved his problems. There was now only one thing to do, and he did it.
He broke away, found himself on the other side of his desk, looking across at an eager, wet-lipped freshman student.
“Well,” he said. There was a lone little bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, across his frontal ridge and down one cheek. He ignored it bravely, trying to think what to do next. “Well,” he repeated at last, in what he hoped was a gentle and fatherly tone. “Well, well, well, well, well.” It didn’t seem to have any effect. Perhaps, he thought, an attempt to put things back on the teacher-student level might have better results. “You wanted me to see you?” he said in a grave, scholarly tone. Then, gulping briefly, he amended it in a voice that had suddenly grown an octave: “You wanted to see me? I mean, you—”
“Oh,” Maya Wilson said. “Oh, my goodness, yes, Mr. Forrester!”
She made a sudden sensuous motion that looked to Forrester as if she had suddenly abolished bones. But it wasn’t unpleasant. Far from it. Quite the contrary.
Forrester licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry. “Well,” he said. “What about, Miss—uh—Miss Wilson?”
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