The Falcon and His Desert Rose

by George R. Lasher

  Delighted to share her body with the man she loved, she lay on her back, moaning among the fragrant petals. Sensing that the foreplay had ended, she needed something more. Instinctively she parted and raised her legs. She gasped as something brushed against her swollen labia and spread the puffy guardians of her inner passageway.

  With the very first push, although she felt nothing but pleasure, she cried out, “Oh my god, oh my god,” as the unexpected girth parted and stretched her far beyond anything she had previously imagined or experienced. The intensity of the sensations deep within her grew beyond mortal, beyond human. Divine came as close as any word could come to describing them. She moaned and pushed back, meeting the force that seemed to sense how rough or gentle, how fast or slow she required it to be in order for the experience to be perfect in every way.

  Missiles screamed and warheads detonated, seismometers threatened to overheat and Geiger counters ticked wildly. Unable to catalog and identify the incomprehensible pleasure, her link with reality snapped and Jeanne slipped away, jerking and twitching as she entered into an entirely new dimension of orgasmic satisfaction where the atmosphere itself invaded and electrified every sensitive orifice. High voltage shock waves crackled throughout her entire body. Surrendering completely, she screamed unintelligibly and passed out as her nervous system eclipsed its stimulation tolerance level.

  Flutes and softly plucked stringed instruments played just outside the dimly lit room as Jeanne began to regain her senses. Although still a little dizzy, she began to string thoughts together again. What happened? she wondered. Where the hell am I and what just happened?

  Nude and without the foggiest idea where she was, she suspected drugs had been used on her. Either she had been drugged and raped, or she had suffered some kind of bizarre reaction to a drug that caused her to hallucinate. She shook her head no, deciding that she couldn’t have been raped. What she had just experienced couldn’t have been real. That kind of mind jarring sex just doesn’t exist. But, holy shit, she thought, what if there were some kind of drug that you could buy that would always provide you with that kind of orgasm? Wow!

  Nobody ever sold anything like that on the streets or in the adult novelty shops back home in Boston. If they had, she’d have bought stock in the company and then would have stayed home in bed every day until her friends and family formed an intervention and came and dragged her out. Mr. Buzzy, her devoted little battery-driven pleasure rabbit, and all the king’s horses and all the kings men were no match for the pharmaceutical miracle she had just encountered.

  A brilliant yellow shaft of sunlight from the large skylight above the entry area invaded the room as the golden privacy curtains parted. Squinting as her eyes adjusted, Jeanne saw a tall, dark-haired man appear through the shaft of light wearing a physician’s white lab coat. He wore thick, black glasses and held a syringe tipped by a long needle. Speaking perfect English, the brand you would get from an eloquent, well-educated resident of the United Kingdom, he said, “Time for your anti-psychotic.” He spoke in a sing-song kind of voice, as if he were simply going about his duties, making his rounds as it were.

  “My anti-psychotic?” Jeanne sat up, her head still spinning. “Why do I need an anti-psychotic, and by the way, did you ever hear of knocking?” As best she could, she covered her breasts with her left hand while trying to pull the bedcovers up over her lower half with her right.

  The man offered an indulgent smile, and replied with a condescending, more than slightly sarcastic tone, “Yes, why indeed? Let’s see, maybe it’s because you keep having wild hallucinations in the middle of the day. Dreams in which you claim to engage in sex, and you usually aren’t even sure it was a dream. Sometimes it’s sex with dark red clouds, or sometimes with things that you describe as half bird and half human.” Dropping the sarcasm he donned a more serious posture. “Madam, your husband is worried about you and frankly, after all he’s been through and with you not responding as we initially hoped, I can’t blame him.” He approached the bed as if no further explanation was required and just as quickly Jeanne shrank away from him.

  “My husband? I’m not married! What makes you think I’m married?” She jerked her arm away as the supposed physician reached for it.

  “Let’s forego our daily wrestling match, shall we?” He reached out again and Jeanne scooted further across the bed.

  “If I’m hallucinating,” she shouted, “then where are my clothes? Why is this bed covered with rose petals? And what’s that?” she pointed to a gooey, wet spot on the lemon yellow sheets near the center of the bed.

  As Jeanne stared with revulsion at the mess and then down at her groin, the man reached out again, this time catching her arm in his grip. “Nurse!” he called out as Jeanne tried to break free. “Nurse, I need help in here; Nurse!”

  Three uniformed nurses burst through the shaft of sunlight and held Jeanne down while the man with the imposing syringe sank the needle deeply into her upper arm and pressed the drug into her system. He stepped back and watched as the nurses held his uncooperative patient who continued to kick and scream obscenities. Five minutes later she lay quiet and still. “Clean her up and change the sheets,” he ordered and turned to leave, but stopped after taking just two steps. Turning back around he added, “And when you’re finished, close the skylight. It just makes the area harder to cool and besides, she won’t be awake again before sunset.”

  Chapter Thirty

  His regiment camped on the Israeli side of the border with Egypt, the son of the late U.N. Ambassador slept fitfully as the light of the moon filtered through the palms, casting eerie shadows against the top of the canvas tent in which he lay. Through the skies of his nightmare, turned reddish brown by a sandstorm of epic proportions, squadron after squadron of supersonic jet fighters flew low over the peacekeeping troops that were approaching the Great Sphinx. The wings and fuselage of the jets sported an identifying insignia Thomas had never before seen on any aircraft — the ancient symbol for the eye of the Falcon god, Horus.

  Thomas hadn’t been left behind this time. This time he found himself in the thick of the fight doing his best to just stay alive. Through a hole that magically opened in the sand not far behind the Great Sphinx, he could hear Jeanne crying, calling out for him to come and rescue her before it was too late. Too late? He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Jeanne; not after losing his stepfather and seeing his mother lose her grip on reality. He had promised himself he wouldn’t let Jeanne down. He would bring her back, or die trying.

  Through the blinding, reddish brown windblown grit, vague, nightmarish visions emerged of a strange, menacing being with the elongated, curved snout of an aardvark, squared erect ears, a canine body and a forked tail. Thomas woke up shivering, unnerved by the overwhelmingly evil presence, yet in spite of the entity’s malevolent nature, it seemed to support the side of the U. N. peacekeeping forces; or perhaps it wasn’t supporting them. Maybe it fought against Horus and Osiris.

  Alone in his chambers, unable to sleep, beneath the dry wind and shifting sands of the desert, Horus sat on a golden, throne-like chair, clenching his fists in frustration while staring at the picture on his gigantic, wall mounted computer monitor. The cloned son of Osiris muttered, “I control her mind, I control her destiny, yet her heart still belongs to Thomas Jefferson Franklin.”

  Agonizing over having had to steal the love that he felt should have been freely offered to him, the troubled pharaoh to be did not even notice the noise made by Kherep-Isfet’s walking cane as he parted the curtains and entered the room. Staring at a photograph taken at the Cambridge brewery of Jeanne, Thomas and himself, Horus shook his head and grumbled, “It is his face she sees. It is to his body that my queen believes she surrenders.” Horus turned away and for the first time saw the elderly priest, patiently awaiting his monarch’s permission to speak. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

  “Only for a moment, my Lord.” Concern was on the face and in the voice of
the eldest lector priest as he announced, “Your highness, I beg your royal pardon for this late intrusion. I know that today’s events weigh heavily upon you, but we have received word that the U.N. Peacekeeping forces have submitted a formal request to the Egyptian government asking that they be allowed to search beneath the Great Sphinx at Giza for the kidnapper and terrorist known as the Falcon.”

  Horus nodded as if he had been expecting to hear news of this nature and waved his hand dismissively, saying, “I am not intimidated by the saber rattling of those who possess neither the power nor the valor to face Egypt’s wrath. Posturing of this nature is of less consequence than the yelping of a tiny dog, barking behind the safety of his fence at passersby. They will never be allowed to cross the border. Under no circumstances would Mohammad Gharib ever have allowed a military force to approach the Sphinx.”

  “Yes, my Lord, but the Chief Inspector of Antiquities is dead.”

  Horus nodded, “True, but at least the man responsible for his murder, who wishes me dead as well, is now behind bars and under constant guard. The vizier’s treasonous plans to assassinate me and create an eighth clone will never be realized.”

  “I pray that you are right, my Lord. However, I must ask you to remember that the cry of terrorism has been used before to justify military action and long term occupations. Add to that the highly publicized search for a woman abducted from the United States and you have all of the necessary ingredients to obtain approval for a limited search and rescue mission; especially when you consider that the press is portraying the woman as the significant other of Thomas Jefferson Franklin, son of the assassinated ambassador.”

  Horus turned back to stare at the monitor again; his eyes narrowed in concentration. In the picture, Jeanne was standing between him and Thomas; her arm around Franklin’s waist. Glancing up, he uttered a quick prayer, “May Selket grant me the kind of loving, lifelong union I seek with my queen and protect our union from all interference.”

  “With the greatest of respect, Lord Horus, might I suggest that if you were to give the American female up it would lessen the chances that the U.N. forces would be…”

  Fire flared in the eyes of the Egyptian messiah, who shouted, “She is my queen! My queen for all eternity and I will hear no more talk of her being released. Send word to the peacekeeping forces that if they persist in their plans to cross the border I will not hesitate to make a human sacrifice of the queen, mummify her remains and place her body in a sealed tomb. If I cannot have her in this life, then I shall most surely have her in the next. Osiris will see to it!”

  Kherep-Isfet bowed and turned to leave, but then turned back. “I know that you have just returned, your highness, and I do not mean to add to your considerable burden or to infer that you are avoiding your responsibilities, but the Fluid of Life must be recreated. If the armies of Set do somehow manage to obtain the permits to invade, it could potentially make the difference between victory and defeat.”

  “Yes, you make a good point, old man. I’m not able to sleep anyway, so I may as well pass the time productively.” Horus took one last look at Jeanne’s picture and turned off the monitor.

  “Meow.” A year-old, bronze Egyptian Mau that Horus had named Amenti made an attempt to get the attention of her master. She had a habit of showing up whenever he exhibited signs of severe stress as if she knew her job was to help him handle the immense pressure he was under.

  “Amenti,” Horus looked down and smiled. The cat rubbed its side against his leg, purring contentedly. “First Kherep-Isfet and now you are sneaking up on me. It is a good thing I have nothing to fear from either of you.” Horus bent down and scooped the cat up with both hands to look directly into its green eyes and said, “I don’t have to worry about you, do I? You love me, don’t you? Don’t you?”

  Seeming to have understood perfectly, the cat meowed in response. She seemed to relish her responsibilities and was more than happy to provide a small portion of the love and devotion that Horus craved. Feeling slightly better, Horus set the cat back down on the floor and sighed, “If only I could transfer your devoted soul into Jeanne’s body and mind.” Jeanne would come around eventually, he hoped, but Amenti always cast an amazingly soothing spell over him. He loved cats, particularly this breed. Perhaps, when they were first being domesticated by Egyptian families nearly 6,000 years ago, the immaculately conceived son of Osiris had also loved this graceful, spotted breed. Ever since the day he had played with the tiny kitten that the vizier had so brutally killed he had been extremely fond of cats. He could still recall the spray of blood and the sickening crunch of the little cat’s skull. Had that kitten been allowed to live, Horus was sure it would have grown up to look just like Amenti. “Come, my little friend, let us go to work and on our way we will see if we can both find a nice fat rat.”

  To reach the laboratory Horus had to pass through the room containing the lab animals that were destined to be used in testing the formula for the Fluid of Life. With Amenti perched upon his shoulder he slid his access card through the security authorization read slot and nodded to the stoical Egyptian guard stationed at the door. A loud metallic clunk from within the thick metal door’s interior announced that access had been granted.

  The moment she entered the room, Amenti’s gooseberry-green eyes widened as the fat lab rats started to squeak and run in frantic circles and the monkeys screamed and shook their cages. Horus plucked the cat from his shoulder, set her gently on the floor and said, “It’s like going to Anthony’s Pier 4 restaurant in Boston, my pet; except those aren’t lobsters. Pick out one that you like.” The cat made a low throaty noise, licked its lips and stood on its hind legs, leaning against and peering hungrily through the wires of each cage. In the far corner was the cell where the vizier sat glumly on a thin cot. Seeing Horus, he stood, hunched over slightly as the cage was not of sufficient height for him to stand erect, and bowed in mock respect.

  “Lucky number seven,” the vizier said, “how nice of you to visit. I’ve been thinking about you a great deal.”

  “Nothing but happy thoughts, I would imagine.” Horus smirked.

  The vizier shook his head in recognition of the sarcastic comment, and asked, “Have you and your little friend come to apologize? Do you not realize that I am guilty of nothing more than loyalty and showing the greatest of concern for the future welfare of Egypt? Have you, perhaps, come to release me?”

  “In truth I had not planned to speak so much as a word to you, anymore than I had planned to speak to them,” Horus waved his hand about the room at the animals. “But seeing you here in this room, surrounded by your peers, has provided me with an epiphany.”

  Curious as to what Horus had in mind, the Vizier’s eyebrows rose. “Would you be so kind, my artificially resurrected pharaoh, as to share the brilliance of your divine thoughts?”

  Horus came nearer to the cage and said, “It is possible that I may have misjudged you, Vizier. Perhaps you have truly been acting in a way that you feel is in Egypt’s best interests. I will give you a chance to prove your loyalty to me and to your country as well as a chance to win your freedom. What say you to that, Vizier?”

  The vizier stroked his stubbly, unshaven chin and replied, “I say you are about to force me to test your latest flawed and futile attempt at recreating the Fluid of Life. Am I correct, your majesty?”

  Horus shook a corrective finger at the vizier and said, “Force? No, no, no. I would never force you to offer your life for your country, Vizier. That would rob you of the dignity associated with the sacrifice. It is your choice and yours alone. Volunteer, and you may well become the first human to become an immortal, or you may die the death of a martyr; a national hero. On the other hand, if you refuse you will be put to death in a most unpleasant way for your treachery. I will allow you to consider my generous proposition overnight, while I prepare the next batch.”

  Without waiting for the vizier’s reply Horus turned around to see Amenti, who had evidently made
a choice as she was busy gnawing at the wires of a cage in an attempt to reach her selection. “See, Amenti?” he said, “I told you we would both find a rat in here.” He opened the latch on the top of the cage, reached in and grabbed the white rodent, lifting it out by its tail. Holding it just above Amenti’s reach, Horus watched with delight as she yowled and danced on her striped hind legs, her paws batting the air just beneath the twisting, wriggling rat. “Come with me little one,” Horus said, heading across the room towards the exit leading to the lab. “You may leisurely dine upon your prize in the laboratory. “

  By the time his executioner appeared in the doorway the vizier sat upright on his cot, rubbing his eyes after being awakened from the bliss of a short, dreamless sleep by the loud release of the heavy bolt in the metal door’s locking mechanism. Followed by Amenti, who wasn’t about to miss a visit to this room, and an armed Egyptian special forces guard, Horus cheerfully called out, “Breakfast!” over the racket that rose from the animals that became agitated as he passed by their cages.

  Holding a tray and smiling as if this were the happiest day of his life, he said, “Mmmm, mmmm! Look what we have, straight from the pharaoh’s kitchen for our brave volunteer’s last meal this morning: Savory sausages with fried potatoes and onions and freshly baked bread. And to top it all off we even have a thermos full of piping hot coffee. Not just any coffee, mind you, this is Starbuck’s bold Guatamala Antiqua coffee. A breakfast to die for, would you not agree?” Horus grinned, relishing the moment and his wit.