by James Enge
When it hove into sight, Aloê began to wonder if she was dreaming all this, or lying mad in a dark room somewhere. The details were feverishly bright, dense, and impossible to believe.
She saw a goat as large as a house, with steel plates protecting its long agile legs. It had a long flexible nose like a tube. A man was riding on its neck, and he held a goad or something in his hand. And when he stabbed the goad into the back of the giant goat’s head, the goat screamed in rage and fear, and fire sprayed out of its long nose.
The sheep were screaming, their steely wool red-hot with the monster-goat’s flames. The goat danced forward among them, crushing some sheep under its metal-clad legs. Behind the goat came companies of plate-armored pikemen, stabbing the burning sheep as if they were venomous sausages to be served on sticks.
“What in the nightmares of God Avenger is that?” Aloê demanded.
“Looks like a cross between a goat and an elephant,” Morlock remarked.
Aloê looked suspiciously at him, several spikes above her on the cliff face. “What’s an elephant?” She remembered someone else using the word to her once.
Morlock explained what an elephant was.
“Stop making things up!” she screamed at him.
He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and continued to plant crystal spikes in the wall.
They were already well above the goat-elephant, perhaps even out of the range of its fiery blasts. But the real danger proved to be the heavy impact of the creature’s iron-sheathed hooves. They shook the ground; they shook the stones of the cliff wall. More than once Aloê had to catch herself from falling off the glassy spike she was standing on—and one time she did not manage to catch herself. She fell a body length back down the cliff before she managed to grab on to one of the lower spikes.
Morlock, as soon as he saw, dove back down the cliff, swinging past the spikes without seeming to touch them until he reached Aloê.
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
“It’s that elephant-goat thing,” she said apologetically. “Threw me right off the cliff.”
They waited while it moved onward past them. Aloê was tired, so tired. But she didn’t want to risk another fall down the cliff due to a goat-quake. Morlock seemed to understand that without needing anything to be said.
She watched with weary interest as the goat-elephant’s rider drove the beast on, pitilessly plying his goad. His screams had Kaenish words in them, she realized belatedly.
“I am coming for you Gnörymu!” he screamed. “The Goat will have his vengeance!”
The Goat mentioned must have been the god, Khÿmäroreibätu, Aloê realized. The elephant-goat was female, with very full teats, as a matter of fact, that leaked the same sort of heavy burning fluid the beast sprayed from her nose.
The elephant-goat swung around the next twist in the mountain pass. The goat-quakes receded, fell still. Now, among the smoking corpses of the venomous sheep, there were wool-clad soldiers fighting against the goatskin-clad pikemen. Aloê had no idea where the sheep-soldiers had come from and what that implied about the war between Khÿmäroreibätu and Öweioreibäto. Nor did she care. She figured it was safe to climb again, so she started back up the cliff. Morlock kept one spike ahead of her all the way, climbing up without taking his eyes off her. She had the impression he was going to reach out and catch her (or try to) if she fell again. This struck her as somewhat patronizing, but also comforting, so she said nothing about it.
At one point she simply had to stop climbing and rest. She hung onto a spike and leaned against the cliff with her eyes closed, breathing heavily but getting little life from the thin, smoky, venom-laden air.
Morlock’s voice broke in on her awareness. “You’re surrounded by water.”
“What?” she said irritably, opening her eyes.
“You’re surrounded by water,” he suggested again. “You can’t fall, really; the water is holding you up.”
She was about to respond very severely indeed. He was obviously trying to reassure her because he thought she was paralyzed by the fear of falling. She was, of course, afraid of falling. Who wouldn’t be? But she wasn’t paralyzed by that fear or any other. She was afraid, weary, sick, and disgusted, but she could damn well do what was necessary.
She looked up to shout this in his face, but was stopped by his expression: open, concerned, patient, watchful—as if her state of mind was the most important thing in the world.
“I’m all right,” she said at last. “Thanks.”
He nodded and they climbed slowly, at her pace, up the cliff to the next ledge. Once Morlock was on it he reached down, lifted Aloê up, and set her down beside him. Then he summoned Armageddon to him by shouting down the cliff face again.
This ledge was wider than the last one, and deeper, too. Part of it receded into shadow, but she could hear the chuckling of water in those shadows, and the hard red rock was carpeted with green moss.
“I am not moving from here for a while,” she announced after she had surveyed the area and caught her breath.
Morlock nodded solemnly and remarked, “A rough climb.”
This might be more patronage, but she didn’t think so. Even he couldn’t have been used to climbing cliffs while venom-sheep and elephant-goats and goat-warriors and sheep-soldiers fought a chaotic battle below.
Thinking of the gigantic goat, she said, “You made up that elephant thing, didn’t you? Admit it.”
“No,” he said seriously. “They really exist, in the jungles somewhere east of Anhi. I read about them when I was staying at New Moorhope.”
“And they breathe fire?”
“Well. No. At least the books didn’t mention it.”
“I knew you were making them up.”
He threw up his hands in exasperation. She laced her arms in between his and embraced him. She kissed his ugly bloodstained face and whispered, “We made it! We made it! You crazy bastard!”
She felt the violence of his reaction, and mistook it at first for repugnance. Then she noticed his hard-to-miss erection.
“I can’t help it,” he said miserably, noticing that she had noticed, and tried to pull away.
“Maybe I can,” she said, feeling a little drunk, and kissed him on the mouth. He was in love with her, of course. It all made sense to her now, since that ridiculous you’re surrounded by water comment. He had avoided her because he thought it was hopeless. Maybe it was hopeless, for reasons he didn’t know, and maybe she was crazy for trying this. But it was a crazy world full of elephant-goats and death. Being crazy made her fit right in.
“I don’t expect anything,” he continued. “We’re too different.”
She bit his ear and whispered into it, “Fuck you. We’re the same in every way that matters, different in every way that’s good. And you love me. Tell me you don’t and I’ll call you a liar.”
He was telling her that he did love her, but not with words. His mouth was all over her face, his clever fingers entangled in the fastenings of her clothing.
The world contracted to a warm nest that contained only the two of them. She laughed a little unsteadily and undid his buttons as he was undressing her, tearing a few of them loose when they wouldn’t come free willingly.
The ugliness of his body (pale as a deep-ocean fish, hairy as a spider, that odd twist in his shoulders) did not distress her. It was so powerful, so strong, yet so skilled, patient, controlled. He didn’t tear any of her fastenings. His long clever fingers and his luminous gray eyes (the only things about him that could really be called beautiful) . . . they cherished her, moved over her, celebrated her, hungered for her.
It was deranged. It was not how she had imagined it would be at all. That was why it was right; that was why it would work this time. It would work this time; it would work this time. She wanted him and she was ready to have him.
The world tumbled around and around, and she found herself spread-eagled on the moss with him poised above her. She wrapped her
limbs around him, drawing him closer.
He mounted her. The wet lips of her vagina kissed the taut silken head of his penis. He penetrated her, or she engulfed him.
Triumph. Triumph. This was what it was like. This was how it should be. Nothing would go wrong this time.
God Creator, she was so wet. It was almost as if she were urinating. It felt exactly the same.
Oh, God. Oh, God. What if she were? If she were . . . The shame of it. The stink of it. The shame summoned back all the other shames, all the other stinks, the stench of his semen, no she did not have to think of that, she was not going to think of that, her mind was her own; she could think what she wanted.
She could think what she wanted. But she couldn’t feel what she wanted. She felt the tightness in her vulva, the stretching feeling, the pain, the fear, the shame. The pain. The pain. The pain. She’d been stabbed. She’d been struck with staves. She’d been burned and clawed by a dragon. But it was nothing like this. Nothing should feel like this. She hated it. She hated herself. She hated the fear she couldn’t control. It was a ring of red-hot metal in her cunt, contracting, growing brighter, tighter, more painful, sending out thornlike protrusions of fiery pain. It would not work this time. It was just like all the other times. It would never work for her.
“Stop!” she screamed in agony and despair. “Stop! Stop! Get out—get out—I’m sorry—God, I’m sorry. Please get out.”
He was out, his face a mask of shock and fear. She had seen that mask before, other faces wearing that mask. Not for a long while, though. She had hoped she would never see it again.
The contractions of her vagina subsided; the pain cooled, receded, disappeared, leaving only the greasy residue of shame and frustrated desire.
“Did I . . .? Did I . . .?” Morlock stuttered.
She knew that mask, too: the mask of shame and fear. She’d seen it and worn it. She could spare him that, at least.
“Not your fault,” she said wearily. “It happens whenever . . . whenever I try to . . . to do that.”
“Always?” he asked, with a curiosity she thought in extremely poor taste.
“Every time. Sorry. I should have let you know.”
Now he wore the mask of pity. She’d seen that one, too, and hated it as much as all the others.
Now would come the long pointless conversation: Have you tried this? and Have you tried that? and all of the helpful suggestions that added up to: What the hell is wrong with you anyway? Why did I get stuck with this piece of damaged goods? Where can I return it for my money back?
Morlock, though, said nothing. She was shivering, and he picked her lightly up with one arm and drew her gown of leaves over them both with his free hand.
She lay atop him sullenly, silently, her back on his chest so that she would not have to look at him pitying her, being angry with her, despising her, shaming her. She could do all those things without his damn help.
His hands kept moving over her under the gown, and she almost snapped at him to stop. Didn’t he understand that it was over, that it had failed, that she was broken and could never be fixed? Or was he one of those types: the smug sexual healers. Oh, yes, my dear, I can cure your sad weeping vagina with my magic penis.
But now he was scratching the hair at the nape of her neck, and she had to admit that it felt good. She did admit it by making a little all right, do that some more sound which to a less perceptive person might have sounded like a moan.
But he was still cherishing her, worshipping her with his powerful beautiful skilled hands. She felt almost as sorry for him as she did for herself. It was no good. She was no good. It was obviously hopeless. It was so stupid. But it did feel good. It gave her a sad glimpse of the beauty that could have been if she weren’t so broken, so worthless.
His fingers touched her labia.
“Wait a moment,” she said.
He waited. Time passed.
“Never mind,” she said breathlessly at last. “Um. Go ahead and . . .”
He went ahead and.
And he gently stroked her labia with his cunning fingers till she began to be wet again.
And he spread her labia wide with two fingers. She gasped. The gown was still over them, but she felt utterly, gloriously exposed—had never felt so naked, so shamelessly open. He didn’t need to see her to know everything about her. He was deeper inside her now than any man had ever been.
And he pulled back the hood of her clitoris with his thumb. She knew what was coming next, and she whimpered gently, not in protest, arching her back because she could not be still. He was taking so long; he was being so gentle; he was playing on her nerve-ends like harp strings.
And he reached around with his other hand and began to flick her clitoris with his fingers. She found herself giggling a little because somehow . . . somehow she didn’t give a damn. If he didn’t give a damn, she wasn’t going to give a damn. If he wanted to bring her off with those glorious hands, who was she to argue?
When she herself masturbated she usually tugged at her nipples; the extra sensation was pleasing. She kept raising her hands to her nipples to do it now, but then dropped them, embarrassed. Then she realized how stupid that was. She had already embarrassed herself as much as she could; she might as well enjoy herself, too. Besides . . . she found herself pleased by the sense that she was exposed, known to him, that he was watching her, taking pleasure in her desire. Now he was biting her ear, and that was her gag, and she tried to tell him that, but all that came out of her mouth was a kind of cooing sound, and that sent a line of light straight down from her throat to her cunt, so she cooed louder and the line became brighter and hotter, and she arched her back higher and screamed as she rode a tide of shame and fear onto the hot golden shore of orgasm.
Orgasm. If the pain was like a red ring of iron tightening in her cunt, orgasm was like an explosion of golden light. It was the sun between her legs. It was freedom from every feeling except pleasure. It was pretty good. Pretty good. She wouldn’t mind doing that again.
She rolled over and straddled Morlock. “You’re breaking the rules,” she said, feeling rather drunk. “Is not how you’re supposed to act.”
“Sorry,” he said, smiling, not sorry at all.
Her mouth was all over his face. “Smug son-bitch,” she murmured between kisses. “Two can play game.”
“Eh?” he said wittily, a sound that apparently indicated alarm.
Now her hands were between his legs, stroking the shaft of his penis. His expression became transfixed, his eyes glazed. He looked a little bit like that when he was in the ecstasy of vision, but this was a very different ecstasy she was subjecting him to. She delighted in the sensation of power it gave her. She scooched down on his body and confronted the ugliness of his penis eye-to-eye, as it were. It was red and taut, like muscles that had been overworked, like flesh that was inflamed with infection. She wondered if it hurt, and if that’s why men were jerks so much of the time, combining their pleasures with pain, their pains with pleasures.
She kissed the red velvety head of his penis with wet lips. He gasped, so she did it again a couple of times, licking it a little as she did so. God, how his crotch stank: of sweat and maleness. It was horrible, but she had a kind of hunger for it. She moved her wet mouth up along the top of his shaft as she trailed her fingers along the more sensitive underside. He groaned or said something in a language she didn’t know and came, hot wet jism spraying on her throat and chest. It should have been one of the most disgusting things that had ever happened to her, and in a way it was. But she was so glad. It was strange. Sex was so strange.
“I’m sorry,” he said, lifting her up. God Avenger, he was strong.
“Thank you is the correct expression, if you need to say anything, you savage and uncivilized mushroom.”
“Thank you,” he breathed in her ear, while wiping his ejaculate off her with a corner of his discarded jacket.
They lay for some time in each other’s arms, wordless
, basking in the moment, listening. There no longer any signs of battle from below, and the air was darker, much darker. How long had they been at it?
Not long enough, she decided.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered in Morlock’s ear. “Will you bring me off again?”
Aloê woke from a warm golden dream with a sudden steely shock. Her limbs were all entangled with an animal or . . . with an animal or something.
It took a moment or two for her to realize that the animal in question was Morlock. He was still blissfully asleep, his face unguarded and peaceful in a way that Aloê had never seen it. He was drooling slightly also.
Memory settled down on her, layer by layer, until she had remembered all of yesterday’s bizarre events. Why she had ever thought Morlock was the solution to her peculiar problem, she could not imagine. . . .
No, that wasn’t fair to her or to Morlock. The man was a problem solver, in many ways the most remarkable man she had ever met, even if he wasn’t so much to look at. And he was crazy about her, in a good way. At the very least she’d found a way to deal with her trouble.
But the situation presented certain difficulties. They still had to work together—and, on this mission, live cheek-by-jowl. What if she decided she didn’t want to . . . to be intimate again? Or what if his infatuation faded? Infatuations do. They had been crazy, reckless, and stupid, but one way out of the dilemma was to look each other in the eye this morning and say, All right; it happened; we don’t regret it. But it’s not going to happen again.
Morlock’s beautiful gray eyes opened and looked straight into hers. “Praise the day, Vocate Aloê,” he said, smiling but somehow serious.
“Bring me off again,” she said: greedily, incoherently, as she kissed his face. And he did, stroking her body with his strong clever hands, kissing her face and neck, whispering words in her ear that she didn’t understand. He carried her over the threshold of orgasm.