The Phallus of Osiris

by Valentina Cilescu

‘It says: “Sale of Egyptian antiquities from the collection of the late M Alain Kerriel, 4 p.m. Thursday, Hôtel Lion d’Or.” Why?’

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ replied Mara. ‘But for now, could we go to a hotel? I’m so worn-out, I feel like just going to bed.’

  ‘So do I, Mara,’ grinned Geoffrey, running lascivious fingers across her breast. ‘Believe me, so do I.’

  10: Discoveries

  In the end, she’d had to tell Geoffrey everything and, surprisingly enough, he hadn’t called her a crackpot or a crazy woman. Funny that: Andreas was always calling her a New Age weirdo, and yet Geoffrey’s constant, polite attentiveness was far less easy to take. In fact, it sometimes made her flesh creep. She was afraid to let her psychic powers tune in to him in any way, in case she discovered something she couldn’t cope with.

  Andreas. She missed that cynical smile, the jumble of half-empty whisky bottles, the way he used to rip off her clothes and make mad, passionate love to her on the balcony, in the woods, in the bath – anywhere.

  The memory of his troubled face in the shattered mirror was as clear in her mind as it had been that day in Theophanau’s tomb. The images played back constantly in her head, like a videotape loop with no ‘off’ switch. Andreas was calling to her, he could see her – she now knew that, wherever his soul was, he had been able to see her.

  She reached her hand into her pocket and touched his watch, which she had carried with her ever since that fateful night; and the psychic vibrations were once again reassuringly strong. Andreas’s soul might be in torment, it might be beyond her reach for the moment, but it was resolutely and defiantly alive.

  Geoffrey was not easy to shake off but Mara did finally manage to persuade him that she was quite safe on her own and that he could afford to leave Vannes on business for a few days. She would be quite OK by herself. Fortune was smiling upon her, after all . . .

  On the day before the auction, there was to be a public viewing of the articles on sale, in the function room at the Lion d’Or. However, unusually, not all the items were to be released to the public gaze. Some, considered to be of ‘special occult significance’, were offered for viewing and sale by invitation only. Mara knew that, if the Phallus was indeed being offered in the sale, it would be among these occult items. She knew that, somehow, she must be among those invited to the private viewing.

  Luckily, one of Mara’s occult friends had moved to Paris a few years earlier to take up a prestigious post in parapsychology; and she was able to ring him and ask him to exert a little influence with the auction house and executors of Kerriel’s estate.

  ‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘I’ll just ring up the auctioneers and tell them you’re going to be at the auction, bidding on my behalf. That should do the trick.’

  And so it was that, on Wednesday morning, Mara found herself among an internationally renowned group of occultists, sorcerers and witches, at the offices of Meisterlinck & Co, the executors of Kerriel’s estate.

  Such was the apparent value of the occult items on sale that the visitors who wished to view the pieces were admitted separately to the basement of the building, which housed an enormous safe. When it came to Mara’s turn, she was ushered down a steep flight of stone steps into a dimly lit room dominated by the huge safe at one end.

  ‘We keep the lighting at an absolute minimum,’ explained M Meisterlinck, ‘So as not to risk damaging these precious items.’

  Mara nodded knowledgeably as she was taken to stand in front of a glass viewing-booth and articles were passed before her one by one. In this way, she was able to see each item, but could not touch any of them.

  A shrunken head, set with an enormous diamond; bones said to be those of the sage Nostradamus; all manner of paraphernalia used in Satanic rituals . . . evidently M Alain Kerriel had been a distinctly unpleasant man.

  ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Meisterlinck,’ sighed Mara, ‘but I seem to have wasted my time. The article I am seeking is not here. There is nothing else?’

  The executor’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘There may, perhaps, be certain other items, which I am not at liberty to discuss, mademoiselle . . . they are for sale by private treaty and the contract is soon to be signed.’

  Mara’s heart began to pound.

  ‘A painted box, around a foot long and three inches wide? Do you have such a box and its . . . contents?’

  The executor smiled enigmatically.

  ‘As I have told you, Mademoiselle Fleming, I cannot discuss the nature of such items.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can persuade you?’

  Mara felt recklessness clutch at her heart and threw all caution to the winds. Walking to the door, she closed it softly, shutting out the world above. She was alone with Meisterlinck, in this subterranean world of black magic and gloom. Only the sightless eyes of a shrunken head stared at her, seemingly indifferent to whatever she might get up to.

  She took off her jacket and threw it over a chair.

  ‘It’s getting hot in here, Monsieur Meisterlinck. Mind if I cool off a little?’

  Meisterlinck’s eyes were like saucers as he watched Mara’s slow striptease. First the jacket – don’t forget the gloves; that’s right, peel them off ever so slowly so as to tantalise him. Throw the jacket over the back of the chair, then kick off your shoes.

  The sweater now. Not too quickly, or you’ll spoil the surprise for him. Let him wonder for a while – is she, or isn’t she? What is she wearing underneath . . .?

  Nothing, Monsieur Meisterlinck. I am wearing nothing underneath my little white mohair sweater. See how beautifully tanned my breasts are, even though it is winter.

  I walk naked in the wind and rain and sunshine for as many months of the year as I can bear, monsieur. That accustoms the flesh to freedom and I never lose my tan. When I am with my coven, I perform naked rituals even in the snow – did you know that, Monsieur Meisterlinck?

  Do you like to think of the pretty picture of Miss Mara Fleming, dancing naked in the snow? Do you like to think of her tanned flesh growing rosy with the cold, her nipples hardening, the flesh on her breasts tensing and the tiny little hairs erecting as the wind plays upon her skin?

  She knew that the thought-messages were getting through to him. She had seen that he was a sensitive, the very first moment she had set eyes on him. Yes, a sensitive; but one who had for years denied and suppressed his powers. And now those very powers were exerting their right to exist and today they would bring about his downfall.

  The skirt now. See my fingers toying with the buttons. It’s a button-through skirt, do you see, monsieur? There are lots of very tiny, very shiny mother-of-pearl buttons that go all the way down the front. I think I’ll start unfastening them from the bottom and work my way up . . .

  Look: you can see my legs now, through the gap in the front of my skirt. They’re bare and brown, too. Do you like my legs, monsieur? They are very long, very slim, very strong. My thighs now: they are strong thighs, that long to crush you between them, squeeze all the spunk out of you and make you cry out for release.

  And see: yet one more treat is in store for you, for I am wearing no panties beneath my skirt. My pubic hair is thick and black and glossy, and if you were to kiss it you would find that it is fragrant, too. It smells of my womanliness, Monsieur Meisterlinck. Of my womanliness and of my womanhood.

  Would you like to kiss my cunt, monsieur?

  At these last, silent words, Meisterlinck was unable to control himself any longer. He hurled himself at Mara’s feet, embracing her naked thighs and burying his face in her pubic hair, breathing in the heady fragrance of her sex.

  Mara shuffled her feet apart and allowed him to wriggle fingers and tongue into her intimacy, delighting in the clumsy ways in which he sought to pleasure her. Evidently Monsieur Meisterlinck, although possessed of certain psychic abilities, was no adept in the arts of love.

  That’s it, monsieur. Fuck me with your fingers. Feel how wet I am. Search out my clitty and tea
se it with your tongue. It’s hard and it’s throbbing for you – just for you. Can you feel it?

  Despite his clumsiness, Meisterlinck soon succeeded in bringing Mara to orgasm; and he cried out with pleasure as he felt her cunt open and close like the mouth of some exotic sea creature about his fingers.

  That was nice, monsieur. Very nice. Now – what shall we do next?

  Would you like me to suck your penis, Monsieur Le Notaire? Would you like me to pull down the zip on those so-sensible, so-anonymous pinstripe trousers, and feel inside and see what you have to offer me? I’m a greedy girl, monsieur: I don’t want to be disappointed.

  Meisterlinck allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and Mara took up her place on her knees before him, unzipping him and feeling for his penis in his underpants. She was not disappointed.

  Nice prick, Monsieur Le Notaire. Nice prick. I think I shall suck it, after all . . .

  Meisterlinck’s gasp of amazement as she took him into her mouth was sufficient to tell Mara that this was a first for him: no peroxide whore had ever taken his prick out of his pants in some darkened back-alley and given him a local; no grim-faced wife had ever softened her resolve and allowed herself to be persuaded to suck his cock in the darkness of the conjugal bed. No: today was going to be a real treat for Monsieur Meisterlinck.

  Not so fast, monsieur. Don’t get so excited, or you’ll come too quickly. Just relax, and let me take control. You’ll soon see how much fun it is when I’m in control, monsieur. I can suck away at you all day, if you want . . .

  She kept him on the brink for as long as she could, and then slipped her fingers under his testicles and gave them the gentlest of squeezes.

  Instantly she was rewarded with a mighty gush of semen which spurted out so suddenly that she was taken unaware and almost choked. She felt Meisterlinck’s whole body shuddering with the terrific force of his orgasm.

  No – don’t pull away from me, monsieur. There is more to come. Let me play with you a little and we’ll soon be able to enjoy some more fun.

  Mara amused herself by licking and nibbling at Meisterlinck’s testicles, and placed his hands upon the wonderful ripeness of her breasts. Within a few minutes, he began to grow hard again and Mara ran her tongue over the tip of his penis, savouring the salty aftertaste of the semen which was drying on the glistening purple flesh.

  Now, monsieur, now I think you are hard enough and we can play another, very wonderful game. In this game, you lie on the floor and I get astride you – yes, that’s it: perfect! You are such a quick learner, monsieur.

  Meisterlinck lay beneath her and moaned gently as Mara lowered herself, very slowly and very carefully, onto his rigid penis. It slid into her with exquisite ease, for she was very, very wet.

  Slowly, ignoring his pleas to ride him recklessly, Mara slid up and down on Meisterlinck’s penis. She knew she could not hold him for long, for already she could feel him twitching, ready to shoot forth his load. But she was determined to make it last as long as she could, and it was not until she could feel that her own orgasm was almost upon her that she finally let go and allowed Meisterlinck to spurt his semen up into her cunt.

  They collapsed together in an untidy heap and for several moments neither of them had the strength to move or speak.

  Eventually, Mara raised herself up on one elbow and looked into Meisterlinck’s eyes.

  ‘Will you tell me now, monsieur? And show me what it is that you have been concealing from me?’

  ‘What . . . what did you do to me, Mademoiselle Fleming?’ demanded Meisterlinck, the blood strangely drained from his usually florid face. ‘Such power, such an infinity of control. I am afraid of you: you must indeed have great occult powers . . .’

  Greater than I had imagined, thought Mara to herself. For which I am eternally grateful.

  ‘Tell me what I need to know,’ continued Mara, ‘And you shall come to no harm. In fact . . .’ she stroked his already stirring penis with gentle fingers, ‘you shall experience my very special form of gratitude . . .’

  ‘I shall show you what I have,’ promised Meisterlinck. ‘If you will only fuck me once again . . .’

  It was a request which Mara hardly knew how to refuse.

  The items in the private sale were kept in a locked cabinet in Meisterlinck’s office under a twenty-four-hour guard and a combination lock.

  ‘Only two people in the world know the combination,’ he explained, ‘I and my partner. These items are of such tremendous importance.’

  Mara waited in impatience as Meisterlinck punched in the combination and the door swung open. Inside were several smallish objects: three piles of parchment and one parcel, oilskin-wrapped, about a foot long and three inches thick . . .

  ‘Open that one!’ gasped Mara. ‘That one – and hurry!’

  Meisterlinck obeyed, baffled as to why the girl was so disinterested in the priceless manuscripts. He unwrapped the layers of oilskin and revealed a small, plain wooden box.

  Plain, thought Mara. The box I am looking for is painted. But it’s not the box I’m really after . . .

  ‘Open it!’

  The lid slotted into the top of the box. Meisterlinck lifted it off, to reveal a cylindrical object within. He lifted it out.

  ‘The original parchment scroll of the first book of secret Hermetic teachings,’ he announced proudly, holding it out to Mara. ‘Priceless! Isn’t it wonderful . . .?’

  And Mara didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  The suburban backstreets were quiet and almost deserted as Mara walked disconsolately back to the hotel where she and Geoffrey had taken a room. Try as she might, she could not get over the immense disappointment. How easily arrogance can lead to downfall! She mused with some amusement upon the irony of her discovery: in normal circumstances, she would have been amazed, thrilled, delighted, to have been in the same room as that Hermineutic scroll.

  But circumstances were far from normal.

  As she walked, she gazed disinterestedly into the windows of the few tatty shops which lined the street. She had insisted that they stay in this quiet, almost run-down part of town, because something told her not to draw attention to herself. Geoffrey, of course, with his new-found affluence, had been dismayed. She had liked him a lot better that night at the camp-site.

  A tatty boulangerie, a horse-meat butcher’s shop, a thoroughly unsavoury bar . . . not much to interest the casual observer. And then, all of a sudden, her eye was caught by the jumble of objects in a tiny shop window.

  It was without a doubt the grottiest, tattiest bric-à-brac shop that Mara had ever seen. Its window was filled with rubbish – a plastic duck, an old bicycle wheel, one or two books with half their pages torn out . . .

  But at the front, almost hidden underneath a pile of yellowing magazines, lay a curious little wooden box.

  A box roughly twelve inches long and three across. A box whose painted hieroglyphics were only just visible beneath a thick layer of dust.

  11: Journeys

  Mara hammered on the door of the shop for what seemed like hours. Surely it couldn’t be shut? Did they have half-day closing in Brittany? Oh come on, come on, open up!

  At last, when she had almost given up hope, she detected signs of movement in the gloom at the back of the shop. A sudden glimmer of light as a door was opened and closed again. Slow, heavy footsteps dragging across a bare and dirty floor.

  A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. A dried-up, wrinkled face greeted Mara with a grimace of annoyance.

  ‘C’est quoi que vous voulez, hein? Fichez-moi le camp!’

  Please . . . s’il vous plaît . . . can I come in?’

  ‘Ah . . . English!’ The grim face cracked into a toothless smile. ‘You were good to my Raoul in the war. You may enter.’

  The old crone shuffled back into the shop, reaching for a switch on the wall. Dull, yellowish light filtered into the room through a greasy, fly-specked lightbulb, hanging on a frayed flex above the counter.
The shop was filled with the most overwhelming stench of dust, mildew, decay and incontinent cats.

  Mara gave the shop no more than a cursory glance. She rushed to the window, and began rummaging through the rubbish that littered her way.

  ‘Mais, qu’est-ce que vous faites . . . Mademoiselle!’

  ‘The box, the box!’ exclaimed Mara. ‘I must have it – la boîte . . .!’

  The door to the back room opened again, and two more women entered: the first, a woman of perhaps forty-five, clearly the old woman’s daughter, and the second, a pretty girl of no more than twenty. All had the same dark eyes, the same strong features. Mara felt a chill of psychic recognition run down her spine as she felt their presence envelop her.

  These women were more than they seemed. Neither good nor evil, yet with powers that transcended Mara’s as emphatically as hers transcended those of the common herd of fortune-tellers and two-a-penny prophets.

  They gathered round her as she searched for the box, standing silently and just watching, watching. Mara could feel their dark eyes burning into her back, the strength of their will exploring her mind, searching out the hidden truths.

  Who were these strange women, who were not of this world, not of this time . . .?

  Their whispers rose like the buzzing of insistent bees, intermingling in Mara’s mind:

  ‘La boîte . . . elle veut la boîte . . . elle la cherche là, à là fenêtre . . . tu vois? La boîte . . . elle est venue chercher la boîte . . .’

  And suddenly many hands reached out and touched Mara. She started as the fingers ran down her spine, smoothed across her hips and buttocks, reached around her waist and slid up to stroke the magnificent curve of her breasts . . .

  Somehow, it was not an altogether unpleasant touch. There was a raw energy in these women’s fingers, as though they carried a low-voltage electric charge; and this energy flowed into Mara’s body as they stroked her, exciting her in spite of herself, and making her want to open herself to their tactile exploration of her body.

  There it was! There, beneath a pile of rubbish, at the very front of the window, down in the left-hand corner. Mara reached out for it, just as the hands began to pull up her skirt and toy with her naked buttocks.