The Phallus of Osiris

by Valentina Cilescu

  As the climax ebbed away, she became vaguely aware that Sophie’s tongue was between her lips; she seemed to be lapping at the remains of the congealed blood around the wound made by her teeth. The sudden thought made Mara feel slightly sick but Sophie was growing more and more excited. Her kisses were moving down the side of Mara’s face now, towards the crook of her neck and Sophie was babbling quietly to herself:

  “Ah, ma pauvre chérie! Tu t’es blessée . . . you are wounded. See, see the blood, taste it . . . it tastes good, good . . .’

  Sophie opened her mouth wide, as though preparing to bite.

  But a voice in her head spoke like thunder and fiery eyes burned into her soul:

  ‘No! Do not harm her! I have forbidden this . . .’

  And, with a tiny whimper of distress, Sophie drew back, rolled away and, with her face to the wall, fell into a deep slumber.

  In the morning, they were awoken by a steward’s knock at the door. If he was surprised to find two young ladies in a bed made for one, he did not remark upon it; and he simply went off and fetched another breakfast tray.

  ‘Where are you going when you get to Paris?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘To Lyon . . . to look up some old family friends,’ lied Mara, wary of divulging too much about the real purpose of her trip. ‘Have you any idea where the train leaves from? I must go and buy a ticket.’

  Sophie laughed, setting aside her croissant, untouched. ‘No need, mon petit ange. For I am travelling down to the Midi! I left my car at the station in Paris and I would be delighted to drive you down to Lyon.’

  Although Mara had serious misgivings, she could not think of a polite way to refuse.

  As luck would have it, the journey down to Lyon proved uneventful and Sophie made no mention of the delights they had enjoyed together in the sleeping-car. The little red sports car devoured the miles between Paris and Lyon, and within three hours they had arrived.

  Sophie drove Mara to the address Abraham Weits had given her and then drove away, with a cheerful wave and a smile that revealed the perfection of her little, white, pointed teeth.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, Mara slung her embroidered bag over her shoulder and walked up the drive to the house. It was a large villa, tall and square, and standing in the middle of its own grounds. Like so many other buildings in Lyon, it was topped off by a terracotta pantiled roof which seemed to contain all the lost sunshine of a half-forgotten, ancient summer.

  The windows were shuttered, and when Mara pressed the bell the sound seemed to echo for miles. Maybe there was no one at home. Maybe the house was uninhabited. Mara rang again. Still no answer, so she turned away and had taken a couple of steps back down the path when the front door swung open.

  Turning round hastily, Mara was greeted by a thin woman in a black dress and white apron, her grey hair scraped back into bun.

  ‘Je . . . je suis Anglaise. Je voudrais voir Herr Theophanau . . . il est chez lui?’

  The woman shook her head, and called out into the echoing twilight of the house:

  ‘Brigitte . . .’

  A younger woman arrived and the old woman explained what had happened. ‘Elle est Anglaise,’ she added and then padded off bad-temperedly, back to her kitchen.

  ‘You must, please, excuse my mother,’ explained Brigitte. ‘She lives constantly in the past and has vowed never again to leave this house. She believes that her life has lost its meaning since Herr Theophanau died.’

  ‘Died? Theophanau is dead?’ Mara could feel her hopes evaporating before her eyes.

  ‘It is almost twenty years since he passed away. In his will, he left the house to my mother on condition that it was kept exactly as he had left it, with nothing disturbed. We have carried out his wishes to the letter.’

  Mara was about to go, when she had a sudden inspiration:

  ‘Do you know where Herr Theophanau was buried?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He was interred with his most valued possessions in the family vault of some old French friends, in the main Lyon cemetery. We do not visit any more – the memory is too painful. We like to remember Herr Theophanau as he was in life . . . But perhaps you would like to pay your last respects?’

  Explaining that she was an ardent admirer of the great Herr Theophanau, Mara accepted the directions, and hitched a lift to the cemetery.

  A light drizzle was falling, and she pulled her long cloak around her more tightly as she walked through the gate and into the cemetery. The grass in this part of the cemetery was neatly cropped and the headstones well tended. But as she walked further on she came to an older part which seemed to have been almost totally neglected. The grass grew waist high around and over the graves, and broken stone littered the ground, testifying to some recent acts of desecration and vandalism.

  Mara’s heart was thumping as she made out the shape of what she was looking for, half-buried among the overgrown vegetation: a low, stone building with angels flanking the door and an iron gate leading to a flight of stone steps. She had the key to the gate in her pocket, having ‘persuaded’ the sacristan that she was not only a very desirable young lady but a thoroughly trustworthy one, too.

  As she got nearer, Mara realised that she was not going to need the key. For the gate was swinging gently on its one remaining hinge, the gentle breeze playing a plaintive dirge on the rusty metal.

  She approached, and saw that the damage was worse than she had feared. Vandals had evidently broken into the tomb some time ago, for the graffiti on the walls had faded and the top of the steps was strewn with rubbish.

  Profoundly grateful that the sacristan had offered her his lantern to supplement the feeble light filtering in from the outside world, Mara switched it on and walked gingerly down the stairs. A sleek rat with glittering black eyes ran past her foot and she almost cried out in alarm.

  Reaching the bottom of the steps and turning the corner into the main burial chamber, Mara gave a shriek of horror. The inside of the vault was a mess. The coffins had been splintered or overturned and the floor was littered with a mess of bones. No one had bothered to come in and tidy them up. Perhaps no one even realised what had happened.

  Theophanau’s coffin had evidently occupied a stone ledge, recessed into the wall, for a brass plate still bore his name and the date of his interment. The mahogany cabinet which had once held his most prized magical items had been looted, and glass shards glittered on the dusty floor.

  Only one item remained. Mara bent to pick it up. It was a mirror, framed in silver gilt and decorated with the heads of howling demons. Its glass was cracked straight across, as though the thieves had dropped it in their haste to flee this place.

  Instinctively, Mara looked into it. And to her astonishment she saw, not the reflection of her own, full-lipped face and violet eyes, but the face of Andreas Hunt, alive and afraid, and calling out to her.

  ‘Mara! Mara! Why did you leave me here? Save me . . . come back to me . . . bring me back to my body . . .’

  Suddenly, the mirror began to tremble in her hand. As she looked on in horror, the glass crazed over and turned to a fine, pearly white dust which a sudden rush of cold air caught and carried far, far away.

  9: Vannes

  ‘My dear Mr LeMaitre,’ replied the Bishop, his fingertips pressed together like the steeple of his own cathedral, ‘I simply cannot endorse your candidature unless I know a little more about you. It is true that I have a certain . . . influence in Court and Government circles but I must be sure that I am using that influence for good.’

  His voice was as rich and sickly as warm golden syrup and the Master’s hatred of him was growing by the minute. Soon, sooner than you might think, my Lord Bishop, you are going to be enjoying a very different sort of communion from the kind you are accustomed to . . .

  He forced an ingratiating smile and topped up the Bishop’s sherry glass.

  ‘So tell me, my Lord, what do you think of our little sociological research centre, here at Winterbourne? Would you
be interested in perhaps participating in one of our research projects?’

  The Bishop’s eyes registered a flicker of interest. Although no one seemed to know exactly what went on at Winterbourne Hall, he had heard one or two rather intriguing rumours. And the Bishop was not averse to a little extra-diocesan activity . . .

  ‘What exactly had you in mind, Mr LeMaitre?’

  The Master gave an inner sigh of relief. This one was going to be easy. He pressed the bell on his desk and Sonja Kerensky entered the office.

  ‘My Lord Bishop, this is Sonja, one of our . . . research assistants. If you would like to follow her, she will take you and show you round our . . . laboratories.’

  The Bishop could hardly help noticing how shapely Miss Kerensky was beneath her crisp white blouse and short navy-blue skirt. Why, her breasts were thrusting against the fabric fit to burst her buttons and those slender, black-stockinged legs seemed to go on forever. He felt a sudden, unholy urge to seize her by her long, blonde mane, throw her to the floor and ravish her. He could almost hear the fabric tearing as he ripped off her blouse, exposing those lovely breasts . . .

  Eagerly, he levered himself out of his chair and followed Sonja out of the room.

  Mara steadied herself against the stone wall and took time to calm herself down. A shattered mirror, that was all. And she had, at last, received a message from Andreas! Perhaps things were going to go her way after all.

  As she leaned against the stone ledge where Theophanau’s coffin had once rested, she felt something give way underneath her hand.

  She looked down, and saw that she had accidentally tripped a tiny concealed button and a small drawer had sprung out of the apparently flawless wall. She held up the lantern, illuminating the yellowed pages of a pile of old notebooks lying in the drawer.

  Diaries. Could these be the diaries of Diedrich Theophanau? Mara wondered how much they would be worth to a collector of Nazi memorabilia. She picked one up and ran her fingers wonderingly over the smooth surface. Each of the four notebooks was bound in dark leather, embossed with the swastika and eagle of the German Third Reich. Wonderingly, Mara began to turn the pages. Instantly, despair filled her heart, for of course they were written in a spidery gothic German and, save for the occasional word, they were quite incomprehensible.

  Just as she was about to give up in frustration, she felt a strange warmth around her throat. Glancing down, she saw that the crystal talisman was glowing and, as she watched, it began to spin very fast over the pages. To her amazement, the script began to alter, at first imperceptibly and then completely. She was reading the diaries in English!

  Not daring to question the miracle, Mara leafed frantically through the notebooks, searching for something – anything – of significance among the painstaking accounts of Theophanau’s magical experiments, his involvement with the Führer and his hatred of Abraham Weits.

  She read on, despairing of ever reading what she needed to know. Then she remembered the words of Jürgen Kaas: Trust in fortune . . . Picking up one of the diaries, she opened it at random. At first, she read nothing of interest, but then one of the last entries caught her eye:

  ‘It is too late for me now. The curse has worked its worst, and I shall die. My magic cannot save my mortal body, and I shall now direct all my efforts into preparing a safe haven for my immortal soul.

  ‘Some of my prized possessions, I have decreed are to be buried with me in the Jeanmaire family vault. But my most prized possession of all – the Talisman of Set, which I stole with such ease from the foolish Jew Weits – I must send away, into safety, with a brother magician.

  ‘For this task, I have chosen Alain Kerriel, a Breton priest and mystic who has served the Reich well in clandestine operations, both as a magician and as an agent of espionage. His black heart will guard the treasure well, until such time as it can be restored to a fourth, glorious Reich.

  ‘Kerriel will arrive from Vannes tomorrow, and I must survive at least until then. My strength grows weak, and I can write no more . . .’

  As she finished reading the entry, the words began to dance and blur once more upon the page, and when they resolved into readable print they were once more in German gothic script.

  Outside, the wind was howling around the cemetery as though the enraged soul of Diedrich Theophanau sensed that his prize was in danger.

  Standing on the main road out of Lyon, with a tattered piece of card marked ‘Bretagne,’ Mara began to wonder if fortune had deserted her after all. The rain was pouring down the back of her neck and her shoes were letting in water. She had almost run out of money and it would soon be dusk.

  She had tried buying a train ticket, but she couldn’t raise sufficient cash. The plane was out of the question for the same reason. And the bus service was quite simply beyond her comprehension. So – like it or lump it – it was hitching or nothing.

  She stood on the hard shoulder, desperately trying to look sexy for the benefit of the passing motorists. She hitched up her skirt a little and was rewarded with wolf-whistles from the open windows of a passing minibus. But the driver didn’t stop.

  Bedraggled and despondent, Mara was wondering if it wouldn’t be wisest to make her way to the nearest auberge de jeunesse and beg a night’s accommodation, when she noticed a car with a British numberplate bearing down on her.

  The car, a bright red BMW, cruised to a halt beside her, splashing her ankles with muddy water. The window wound down and a familiar face smiled up at her:

  ‘Hello, Mara. Going my way?’

  ‘Geoffrey Potter!’ exclaimed Mara. ‘What on earth are you doing here? And what are you doing in a BMW? You haven’t stolen it, have you?’

  ‘Climb in,’ he replied, with a grin, ‘and I’ll tell you.’

  As they sped off down the autoroute, Geoffrey related the incredible tale of what had happened to him since she left him that morning in the woods. How he had finished his book with an energy and originality which he had never dreamed of before. How the first agent he approached it with had snapped it up. The day, only a week later, when he got the phone call telling him that a major transatlantic publishing house had accepted his novel and were offering him an advance of half a million. And now he was using the money to travel round France, researching ideas for his next book.

  ‘All this, and success with the ladies too!’ he joked, slamming his foot down hard on the accelerator.

  Mara was astonished at the change in him. Gone was the timid, almost wimpish figure who had been overwhelmed by her sexual openness. Gone were the shabby, shapeless clothes and the deferential manner. He was confident, stylish, and – she had to admit it – pretty desirable.

  Geoffrey reached out and laid his hand confidently upon Mara’s knee. The heater was full on but his hand felt cool against her flesh. Yet she could feel the insistent rhythm of his pulse and it was racing through her, exciting her, and at that moment she could almost believe that she wanted him more than anything else in the world.

  ‘It’s a long drive up to Vannes,’ remarked Geoffrey, with perfect casualness. ‘I thought we might put up for the night in a little auberge I know.’

  And Mara had to agree that this was a terribly good idea.

  They arrived at the Auberge du Cerf Blanc at around ten o’clock, too late for dinner, and Mara was starving. She accepted the innkeeper’s offer of sandwiches gratefully and was astonished when Geoffrey professed not to be very hungry. He nibbled unenthusiastically at a chunk of baguette but hardly seemed to eat enough for a sparrow.

  Afterwards, they went up to their room.

  ‘I think I’ll have a shower,’ sighed Mara. ‘Travelling always makes me feel so hot and sticky.’

  She took her towel into the bathroom, and turned on the water. When it reached exactly the right temperature, she undressed, taking off everything except the crystal pendant. If it really was a powerful protective talisman – and circumstances were beginning to make her believe that it was – then she must not
risk removing it, even for a moment.

  Mara stepped into the shower, and was about to reach out and draw the curtain when a voice whispered:

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  She opened her eyes and saw that Geoffrey was standing there, stark naked and obviously pleased to see her. His cock was larger and more beautiful than she remembered it and it was thrusting out of its glossy brown bush like a pillar of living stone.

  She reached out her hand and touched it. It was pulsating with vibrant life, swollen with love-juice that just longed to spurt into the depths of her.

  ‘Plenty of room for two . . .’

  Mara stood aside, and Geoffrey stepped into the shower-cubicle, drawing the curtain behind them. Now they were alone in their own private world of lust. Mara was amazed at how strongly she felt, how agonising were the pangs of desire which shot through her, awakening every millimetre of her luscious young woman’s flesh.

  ‘I want to fuck you, Mara Fleming. I want to fuck you and make your flesh sing with desire, cry out with ecstasy. I want to fuck your cunt and your mouth and your arse, Mara. I want to take you to a forbidden land where all pleasures are sacred and nothing is denied.’

  He took her in his arms and they stood beneath the spray of warm water, letting it play over their naked bodies. Geoffrey’s hardness pressed insistently against Mara’s belly, demanding entrance to the delights within.

  Taking up a bar of soap, Geoffrey worked up a lather and then began to spread the soap bubbles over Mara’s body, beginning at her smooth, tanned shoulders. She shivered with pleasure as his hands slid over her neck, her shoulders, her back; and then moved forwards to glide over the magnificent swell of her breasts. He was most attentive to these perfect globes, ensuring that their entire surface was enrobed in soap suds, so that she looked for all the world like a statue formed from snow.

  Mara began to breathe more quickly as he paid special attention to her nipples, soothing and teasing and pinching them into hardness; and weighed her firm, full breasts in his hands like ripe melons, using the soap suds like some exotic massage oil as he smoothed his hands over their flawless, tanned surface.