Jewel of the Moon: Short Stories

by William Kotzwinkle

  “Here we are,” he said, turning onto a narrow dirt path.

  At the end of the path she saw a small house. Slowly she walked toward it, numb with fear. Still she kept dignity, which Mother had taught her to maintain always, whatever the situation. She did not slouch, tremble, or faint crossing the strange threshold to the cool gloom of the living room. Out of the corner of her eye, through a small doorway, she saw the rattan foot of a bed.

  Her husband pointed toward that room and she walked to the doorway, heart thundering.

  A purple lamp hung there, and her skin turned to pale moon shades as she walked through the opening. My husband is an exotic, she thought, inspecting the ornate shade of the lamp, on which a thousand-armed God was embracing his naked purple-skinned wife. Will I be sophisticated or will I scream? In the purple den of love, she turned to face him.

  He unwrapped the white marriage turban from his head and dark hair fell to his shoulders. Tenderness? Or will he ravish me with bloody sword? Her body played possibilities as he lit incense on the tiny altar by the bed.

  She looked down at her toes, wanting to conceal the rest of herself from him, wanting also to reveal what he hadn’t seen, wanting this and wanting that, frozen flame in a purple place. The window was near and she could escape, but she longed to surprise him with the fullness of her thighs.

  “Sit down,” he said. She sat on the edge of the bed, dropping her hips into the soft embrace of the mattress. I am ready.

  He knelt before her, looked into her eyes. This is the moment.

  “I’ll sleep down here,” he said, stretching himself out on the floor at her feet.

  I must awake, she thought, trying to escape the silly dream.

  “Perhaps you would like a glass of milk with a piece of toast?” he asked, raising himself on one elbow.

  She looked dumbly at the far wall of the bedroom, as her husband hustled off to the kitchen. Nervously, she opened the ribbon on her hair and let her long black head-cloak fall, scented and shimmering. I am Jewel of the Moon. Why does he talk of milk and toast?

  “Here I am,” he said, coming toward her on his knees, holding the milk and toast.

  She took the plate. He turned back down at her feet. “Just kick me if you want anything else.”

  I have married a madman. Jewel of the Moon peered over the edge of the bed.

  Her husband’s eyes quickly opened. “Anything else, Perfect One?”

  Unable to speak, she shook her head, and though she was not hungry she ate the toast. Then she stretched out on the wedding bed and stared at the ceiling. I must escape. She waited until she was sure he was asleep, but as soon as her foot touched the floor, he was up, like a watchdog, watching her.

  Frightened, she lay back down. She would look for another chance, but sleep overtook her, and she spent the night dreaming of a powerful horse who galloped her to freedom.

  * * *

  “Here is your breakfast, Daughter of the Sun,” said her ridiculous husband in the morning, coming toward her on his knees with a silver tray of food.

  She ate and he sat at her feet, watching the window, heedless of her morning beauty, as if his fearful bargaining for her had never been. She was truly miserable, for it was real, had been no dream, she’d married an imbecile. That is what he looks like, sitting there. He looks like an incredible idiot and I hate him.

  “Here,” she said, contemptuously, “I’m done.”

  “At once.” Taking away her cup and plate, he scurried off to the kitchen. She watched him return, to the doorway only, where he lay down, and she covered her tearful eyes. Peeking through her ringers she saw him lying there, doglike, eyes on her, bright, stupid. She wanted to wave her tail at him, give him something to growl about.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said, defiantly stepping over the crumpled man on the floor. Perhaps he will bite me, seek to hold me somehow.

  “I’ll just walk a few paces behind you,” he said. “If you want anything, just spit on me.”

  They walked through the streets of his strange village. She knew no one there, except the shadowy dog at her heels. He lapped along behind her to the well. Women were fetching water and they gave her inquiring looks, as her husband curled up at her feet in the sand. They know I’ve been tricked by a weak-kneed fiend. Looking down she wanted to spit on him, but the women would love that too much.

  She left the well and walked on through the village, curling her toes in the hot sand as the men of this new village eyed her bare feet and a bit more, perhaps, for her hips were expressing themselves, too enthusiastically for a married woman, but her so-called husband was licking along at the ground. I’ll give him one more chance this afternoon.

  * * *

  She sat upon the bed, brushing her long hair over her heart. Her ankles were smooth and bare and she wriggled her toes as he entered the room, bathed in the gold of afternoon. But there came no spicy kiss upon her toes, only curried peas, served on a tray which he placed on her thighs.

  * * *

  Night. Beneath purple light he gave her milk and toast and curled down again on the floor. The milk and toast made her brain sleepy, but her pale thighs wanted something indescribably nice, and it wasn’t milk toast.

  She tossed on her pillow, recalling the passages from the Holy Sutra on Love. I studied the book faithfully, yet here I am, perspiring on an empty bed. She rose up and with her bare foot gave her husband a kick.

  He rolled over, looking up from the floor like a whipped mongrel.

  “Stop snoring,” she said, angrily.

  “I will stop breathing,” he said, and wrapped a strip of linen around his nose.

  The moon crossed her pillow. Slowly her passion subsided, like a body fallen away, and she moved in dreams, a queen with many servants, all of them her idiot husband.

  * * *

  As the wedding month went by, she grew tense. Her husband was silent, devoted, treated her like a queen, and she loathed him and his entire line of ancestors. She thrust her foot out, so that he might remove her sandals, which he did, handling her foot as carefully as a dish of precious rice, except that he did not taste or swallow the delight and it soon grew cold.

  She raised her feet on the barren marriage bed, drawing her knees up to her breasts. I am so young. There are other men. They would not treat me like this. They would torture me with glances, drive me mad with their eyes. I will die soon of dullness. Neglect can end woman’s life, so says the Holy Sutra.

  She felt the end of the mattress suddenly sink down with unusual force. “What are you doing?” she cried, for the impudent servant was sitting on the foot of the bed.

  “If you want anything,” he said, curling up at her feet, “just kick me in the face.”

  She pulled herself into a fetal ball, wishing she could be reborn in some hidden world. The night bird blew his flute, she lay in purple moon-robe, and dreams of mating came to her. A shining man held her, ghostly thin he was, and she stretched herself out beneath him, at the same time touching with her toe accidentally the face of the vile sleeper at her feet.

  “Yes, Tower of Grace,” said her husband sitting up quickly, “have you bad dreams? I will make a cup of tea which relaxes the mind.”

  He left and returned with a silver tray, surrounded by steam. He poured the tea and she let the sheet fall away from her, moonlight coming on her breasts, bare behind her thin midnight gown.

  “This will help,” he said, handing her a cup of the tea, not even glancing at the pale cups she had so immodestly revealed. She drew the sheet around herself again, hating him, and drank the tea, a gentle herb, which soon brought the charm of sleep.

  Each night, following milk and toast, he slipped onto the foot of the bed, like a dog trained to warm the feet of his mistress. Silently, while he slept, she felt over his face lightly with her toe. The second month of their marriage passed this way, with her body inflamed by his nearness. Though his canine countenance expressed no more than a stupid smile, his simple
animal nature inspired her, and in dreams she attacked him. It has grown hot in this lagoon. I shall swim with him. She slipped into the warm water, where his silver face shined. Into his heat she swam.

  She woke, feverish. Her husband’s hot breath was on her feet. Unable to resist, she tiptoed on the warm waves from his tongue, dancing there.

  * * *

  In the third month, the dog became a tortoise, crawling slowly up the mattress toward her. Each night she felt his shell coming closer. When she looked in the dark purple toward him, he seemed wrinkled as an ancient. His faithful dog-eye was gone and in its place was a wiser, if somewhat frightening beak, and two gleaming eyes, accustomed to the night sea.

  She wanted to hide inside the pillow, to shrink into nothingness, to keep herself apart from his breathing on her knees, and from his devious turtle-eyes coldly haunting her.

  Daytime brought her release from the illusion. She went to the temple and begged Kali to advise her. The beautiful altar goddess danced on the head of a slave. If only I could be fierce as you, Goddess. The statue was mute. The distraught girl rose and left the temple. Her husband was kneeling in the sand of the temple garden, the sun upon his dark curling hair. If he weren’t so shifty, he might almost be good-looking, she thought, walking slowly toward him.

  * * *

  That night he came slowly toward her, to her thighs with his head. What fiendish ticklement is this, she wondered in a moment of clarity, before the warm cream of his breath poured over her thighs. She pressed them together to stop the sensation and it grew more intense. She spread them apart trying to cool them and her soft leg-flesh touched his nose.

  “Yes, Queen,” he said in a whisper.

  “Please,” she said, softly.

  “What would you have me do?” asked the turtle.

  Could she tell him her thighs were milk? She raised her hips just a little.

  “Is there a lump in the mattress, Gracious Saint?”

  “Oh, the dog!” she cried and turned quickly away, but her gown rose up so that perhaps he could see the soft underness of her thighs. What an immodesty, she thought, quickly pulling down her gown.

  The fourth month of marriage brought the face of her husband directly in line with her secret. His breath upon her toes had been inflaming; his breathing on her rose was driving her insane. Streams of air reached between her thighs, gently handling her flower. She tried always to sleep on her stomach, so she would not be subjected to warm southern winds, but in dreams she soon rolled over again, into the tropic breeze from his nose, which played over the hot little island between her thighs.

  Later, when they walked outside, she went head down, deep in confusion. Caught in the rain, she made no attempt to take cover. The cloudburst ran along her hot flesh and her husband stood with her in the rain, and the village women no doubt thought them mad.

  * * *

  At five months, his face lay by her stomach. His breath blew her gown lightly; she touched him with her belly, upon his hooked nose.

  His eagle-eye saw through her gown, to the soul in her rolling ocean of jelly, to the eye in her navel. Into that canyon of time went his nose, filling it with warmth. She lay perspiring like a holy woman on a bed of coals, though she did not feel holy, in fact, quite the opposite.

  When six months ended, the wandering slave in her bed had lodged at her breasts. His eyes gleamed in the dark like an idol’s. The purple light played on his face. She tried to cover her breasts, to hide them from his dark look, but they are so tender, they hurt me, let him look if he dares to. His breath touched her lightly on her soft little island tops, her red-peaked nipples. Excited as if she were dancing in the village, her breasts heaved and touched him. In the crevice of dreams where her heart lay concealed, she enclosed his nose.

  It tickled ridiculously. That was its strange power. She was ten-thousand-times-over afraid of it, yet somehow withstood the invasion. Encircle his nose again, my breasts, smother him with your sweetness, drive him mad too.

  He remained calm. Yet in the seventh month he was stretched out entirely beside her. Kinglike he slept, lightly, staring sometimes at the ceiling for long hours. Around her body was an envelope of heat, as if she were afloat in a warm cloud. His breath seemed to have lingered all over her body, gathering around it like a mist. His elbow touched her. Quickly she drew her arm away. This bed is far too small for two people. She withdrew to the farthest corner. But in curling up she bumped him with her backside and he, amazingly, returned the bump.

  This shocking demonstration was repeated on the following night and on many nights afterward. Like wandering taxis they bumped each other, bumper to bumper they lay pressed together in the street of feathers. It is mad play, but what pleasure. Later she rose up and looked at the impertinent fellow, naked to the waist in the moonlight.

  “Yes, Lotus?” He woke and rose to her.

  “I’m so thirsty,” she said.

  “At once,” he said, and leapt out of the bed.

  He returned with a cool drink of water. She drank it slowly and extended the glass back to him. As he retrieved it, his hand brushed light as a wing-tip across her breast. He put the glass down and crawled into bed beside her. Reaching for the thin sheet, the devil’s finger touched her again. Her red breasts heaved to meet his hands, wanting that and wanting more.

  On the following night, as he served her milk, she leaned in a most favorable angle and his palm touched underneath her breasts, in the softness, and lingered there.

  Next night, she was seated on a cushion by the window. He came from the kitchen on his knees, bearing a tray on which a glass of red wine was balanced. He bowed. His black curling hair was like snakes in a dance. His hand came forward. All night he held the threads of her shoulder straps in his fingertips, and toward dawn he let them drop and half awake, half dreaming, she watched her left moon appear, naked, round, full.

  Earlier, in the fashion of the slave girls, she had made herself up, reddening the nipple, tanning the round globe, even underneath, where the sun never came. Now, she dared not move, the silence was all around them. He stared at her breast like a devotee at a statue and she accepted his stare.

  For days he stared at it, through the passing light of morning, afternoon, and evening. He pondered it from every angle, looking all around it and underneath it, like a monkey with a problem. She did not know what to do. Her thoughts were jumbled, her head was spinning, for they spent so much time in bed these days. Slowly his hand came forward. Was it an age or an instant that passed, she’d lost touch with time. Suddenly he was touching her on the left breast and fondling it.

  So she spent the ninth month, one breast out. Each time she tried to tie her gown up, he untied it again. She felt so odd sitting eating dinner with one breast bare. Shortly after dinner he began stroking the other one, and each night it was the same, until the tenth month came and he slipped the knot on her right shoulder, rendering both breasts bare.

  She sat, naked to the waist. All night he sat looking at her, and she at him. She nodded off to sleep finally, and her dreams were filled with insanity. She’d lost sight of father, mother, dignity, the world, except for two moons in the air. She felt a cloudy field all around her and she ran through a ghostly mist, awaking to his lips upon the tiny crater of her right moon.

  Then he revolved both moons in his hands, until she was thrashing back and forth on the bed, most indecorously. She begged him to stop revolving them but he laughed and went on revolving them.

  That morning she rose early and since she was in the kitchen before him, she prepared her own breakfast, and as an afterthought, prepared his too, and served it to him.

  She knelt by the bed and slipped the tray over the covers. He opened his eyes and she lowered her own. He ate quietly and the sunlight came, turning the bed to a gold palanquin on which he seemed to float, looking down on her. She had covered her bosom to serve him. With a gesture of perfect sovereignty, he slipped the knots of her gown and bared her breasts again.
He digested his breakfast, fondling them.

  About noontime, after five hours of feeling her breasts, he began sucking them, first one, then the other, alternating on the hour. At dinnertime she could not help but scream, so tender had they grown from his feasting. This incredibly idiotic child is draining my soul, sucking it into himself, but she welcomed him nonetheless and in fact offered up to him with her hands the twin fruits.

  By night he continued lowering her gown. Inch by inch he pulled it, a little each evening, until her stomach heaved up into the moonlight. Like a vast continent it came into view, but she did not feel continent, in fact, just the opposite, ravished as she was by feverish grindings in her stomach. He squeezed her moons and licked across the land of her belly, his moustache trailing in her navel.

  Finally the gown was down to the edge of her secret. In a dream she was taken down the night to an ancient forest altar, a cave in which a priestess dwelled. It was a shimmering red crack in the mountain and she entered. The shining man was sitting on a throne, deep inside the cave.

  She woke, moved her legs, felt suddenly free; her gown was gone. He was looking at her dark scented place, which sparkled as if with dewdrops. She felt older, parting her legs, then demurely closed them, feeling childish. He stared at it all night, and continued to stare at it throughout the morning, as the sun rose upon her little tangled grove. He ate lunch looking at it and spent the evening with his nose practically next to it. She felt herself burning alive.

  She had to leave the bed. She ran naked through the house. He caught her in the kitchen, in a most peculiar position, putting his hand directly into her forest. She sank to her knees and bowed her head, worshipping him as he ran his finger all along the crack in the forest floor.

  For the entire eleventh month he investigated that mysterious forest. He parted the underbrush so that the altar was plainly visible, and then like a blind man feeling letters, he ran his fingers along the sacred tabernacle, reading every wrinkle and fold. The altar streamed with the precious nectar. His finger slipped just the slightest bit inside it and remained there, all day, every day, for a month. She screamed, beating him about the head with her hands.