Daemons of Garaaga (Children of Garaaga)

by Paul E. Cooley

  He nodded.

  She smiled. "No, Drim. See me. Do you feel the tugging in your mind? Do you feel the door there?"

  The door. Yes, he thought. A door. A place that had remained closed to him, but he sensed it all the same. "Pressure."

  "Yes, Drim. The pressure. It's there. Push it open."

  Drimesh looked up at her. "How?"

  "You know how, son. Close your eyes."

  He complied. The darkness in his mind was complete, not even a stray afterimage from the distant Ur torchlight.

  "Breathe slowly. Imagine a door in the darkness. Put it in the same place where you feel the pressure."

  The darkness receded. A wide and tall wooden rectangle appeared in his mind. Light glowed through the doorjamb. "Door," he whispered.

  "Yes, Drim. Go to the door and open it."

  He slid in the darkness, the door coming closer. Am I moving the door or am I moving to the door? A bright, glowing silver hoop jutted from the door. He touched it with mental hands. A shiver wracked his body.

  "That door has been waiting for you, Drim. All your life." She chuckled. "Open it, son."

  Drimesh curled his fingers around the bottom of the loop. The door vibrated. A sound of low bells filled his mind. He felt a pulse of energy flowing into him from the handle. The bells increased in rapidity and volume.

  "Open the door."

  Ama's voice, a mere whisper over the ringing, was far away. Drimesh pulled on the hoop. The door didn't move. "It won't--"

  "Garaaga," her voice whispered in his mind. "My son I give to you." Her voice changed into a growling mix of harmonics. "Your child as much as mine. Your child, Garaaga," the voice said.

  Drimesh shivered again. The world felt cold against his skin. The glowing behind the door was brighter now, the silver hoop suddenly turning hot in his hands.

  "Ours, Garaaga. He is ours."

  Something growled from behind the door, the sound loud enough to blot out the rest of the world. The door flew open and flooded his mind with a crimson light. A backlit shape raised large, gnarled arms. A pair of glowing eyes opened. "Ours," It said.

  ***

  The memory left his flesh cold as he meandered through the hot clay city streets. He passed Babylonians, going about their day, heading to the river for water or to the temples or the shops.

  In the city square, a small crowd was gathered around an olive tree stump. Through the gaps in the human circle, he could see a bound and gagged prisoner, his head lying on the stump's surface.

  A large man stood above him, an iron club held between his hands. The prisoner tried to speak through the gag, but no words came out.

  "For the crime of theft and robbery, you are hereby sentenced to death," the large man yelled to the crowd. He raised the club and brought it down in a swift swing.

  Drimesh looked away. The crackle of bones breaking was followed by a fleshy, liquid squelch. One of Hammurabi's most severe laws had been broken and the promised punishment had been meted out. He quickened his pace as the crowd cheered.

  The sounds faded as he wound his way past the temple of Nidaba and Nabu. Although he'd never ventured inside, he was told the entire ziggurat was filled with clay tablets, scribbled over the many centuries by its priests.

  Since Ama's passing, he had been loathe to visit any temple. Babylon had dozens of the large structures, but he'd yet to enter one.

  His home was down the alleyway. He stopped at its mouth, peering into the shadows cast by the ziggurat. He turned and continued walking up the street.

  The sun was intense, the light radiating off the clay in waves. A bead of sweat made its way down his forehead and dripped into his eye. Drimesh rubbed it away with the sleeve of his tunic, blinking through the stinging sensation.

  He ducked into an alley, letting the shadows cool him. Ishtar's temple rose in the sky. It was not nearly as tall as Marduk's, but he could still see it from the narrow alley. Drimesh stopped. A line of red and purple was making its way up the steep steps to the very top level of the temple.

  Ishtal might be in that number. He smiled.

  6

  Night came on slowly. Drimesh put aside the clay tablet he'd been studying. Ama had taught him how to read and write cuneiform, but the ancients of Akkad had perfected it, expanding the symbols until stories began to work their way into stone and clay.

  The oil-lamp on the rough-hewn wooden table did little to illuminate the room. Drimesh thrummed his long fingers on the table.

  It would be a quiet evening. Most citizens would still be recovering from the previous night's market day celebration. Snaring Dir had been fortuitous--he would be starving if not for her.

  Ama had said that some fed regardless of their hunger. "But that is cruel, son. You should only take what you need, never more than that." It was one more reason he rarely fed on the same woman twice. Except, of course, for the wealthy.

  The older women who employed him while their husbands fought in the wars or traveled across the world to trade were too lucrative. Ama had also taught him to survive. Servicing them was a trifle, a nothing, a snack before a meal.

  He always brought lapis with him when he visited the women, although the stones rarely changed in color. His wealthy patrons bored him, but he loved them just the same, and they paid dearly for his skills.

  Mardahaga was his favorite. Her husband was forever traveling to Lothal, bringing back goods from the faraway land. The slaves he had bought her to soothe her needs were hardly adequate, hardly skilled. Or so she claimed.

  He often wondered whether her exuberance resulted from his skills or the fact she was seeing him in secret. He doubted her husband would mind--he had his own concubine. All the same, she treated his visits as though they were religious in nature. Perhaps for her, they were.

  Drimesh lifted his money bag. Lighter. The larder was near empty. Tomorrow he would require food. Two or three days later, he would need to see Mardahaga and service her, love her.

  "You should always enjoy feeding," Ama had said. "Relish it. Immerse yourself in it. But always remember," she pointed a finger at her young son, "love her body, enjoy her company, but do not make the mistake of feeding too much on her."

  With the older women, the joy of the coupling, the sounds of bliss, and the feel of pleasure were always somewhat bittersweet. Holding back the hunger made it seem an exercise rather than the real thing. And when he finally allowed himself to climax, his loins barely trembled.

  Even when he'd fed on Dir the night before, he'd had to exercise control. The lapis cuff was hardly enough protection for her. Drimesh smiled to himself. Perhaps when he met the old man next market day, he would purchase enough lapis to properly protect his prey. Then he wouldn't have to feed for months, instead of weekly. But that was dangerous as well.

  Another lesson he learned from Ama, although one he'd learned only by her death--she'd lost control one night, affecting the men around her in such a way that a frenzy enveloped them. Abraham's tribe had put an end to her afterwards and driven him from Ur.

  He knew one day he'd have to leave Babylon. When the young grew old and he was still the same, the questions, the rumors, the trouble would start.

  Ama had controlled the men and some of the women. That had made it relatively easy for her to dissuade them from looking too closely at her and Drimesh. Until Abraham's tribe began taking notice, it had all been accepted.

  Drimesh had little or no control over men. His hunger, his need, did not draw them the same way it drew women. At times, a few men might become aroused in a crowd while he tried to attract his prey, but for the most part, they ignored him or stared with intense jealousy.

  "The door, little Drim, must be kept closed," Ama had said. "Until you are ready for it to open."

  He didn't see it as a door anymore. It was more like a pocket, a recess in his mind he just reached into now and again. Garaaga's visage was no longer in his mind, only in his memory. After that night where he'd first seen the shape,
the form of the one, his sire hadn't visited. His real father, or so Ama had said.

  Whenever his hunger was at its height, the pocket threatened to disintegrate, to release the need, the power, the want. Ama had warned him it would be dangerous, should it ever happen.

  "Drimesh?" a high-pitched voice called from the street.

  The voice broke through his thoughts. He turned toward the open door as the voice grew louder. He slowly stood and popped his spine. The voice called again and he walked into the street.

  A woman, shrouded in purple robes, was walking down the narrow street. An 8-pointed star, the symbol of Ishtar, glowed in gold on her back.

  "I am Drimesh."

  The woman turned toward him, the purple hood low over her eyes. She walked to him and bowed. "Sir. The priestess Ishtal wishes your presence."

  "Wishes?" he raised a brow.

  The woman, barely out of puberty, bowed again. "She wishes to speak with you regarding your faith."

  "Faith," he said and smiled. Conversion more like, he thought to himself. "When does she wish me to be present?"

  "Now, sir. If possible."

  Drimesh nodded. "You are to escort me?" The woman bowed. "I shall be with you in a moment," he said.

  He didn't wait for her to acknowledge the statement. He walked into his small bedroom and chose a bright blue fringed tunic from the peg. It wouldn't do, he thought, to visit the priestess without his best clothes.

  Drimesh touched the lapis cuff on his arm, tied his money bag to his belt, and headed out the door. The woman stood silently. She did not turn as he approached her. "I am ready," he said. She bowed and began walking back the way she'd come.

  7

  She did not lead him to the ziggurat. Behind Ishtar's temple stood a number of small clay houses. The woman, who would not give him her name, sat him on a purple cushion inside the newest and cleanest of the dwellings.

  As they had walked through the paths between the homes, he'd heard the moans and exaltations of ecstasy. The hunger in him smelled women in heat, priestesses servicing the faithful, or perhaps one another.

  Once within the small structure, the woman had bowed and left him. He drank from the small bronze pitcher near the cushion, slaking his thirst.

  The heat of the day was finally fleeing the onset of night. He hadn't realized just how much he needed to drink until the girl had left him. As he finished slaking his thirst, he ran his fingers over the 8-pointed symbol embedded in the bronze.

  From somewhere in the small encampment, he heard the hoarse shout of another man succumbing to a religious ministration. The hunger tugged at him once more.

  A figure appeared in the doorway swathed in heavy purple robes. The hunger, the need, told him who it was. "Evening, priestess."

  She slowly flipped back the hood covering her dark hair. Without acknowledging him, she lowered herself to a cushion across from him. He watched in fascination as she seemed to melt into the floor.

  Her eyes closed, she lifted her hands to her face, pretending to wash her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth. They moved downward past her neck. The robe dropped open, her ripe breasts popped into view. Drimesh felt his breath hitch.

  Around each pink nipple, Ishtar's symbol had been painted, red lines visible in the flickering torch light. She shrugged her shoulders and the robe slid off.

  She sat cross-legged, her skin shining beneath the light. Her eyes opened as she lifted her arms toward the ceiling. She mouthed something he couldn't hear and then thrust her arms toward him, palms up.

  Drimesh stared, unsure what to do. Her index finger twitched up, beckoning. He reached out his hands, placing his palms into hers. A tremor shot through his body as the hunger drank her in, wanting her, tasting her touch.

  She gently pushed against him. Drimesh let himself lower to the floor. As he lowered, she moved with liquid grace atop him. As his head touched a silk cushion, her face was mere inches from him, her knees on either side of his legs.

  Her breath smelled of figs and mint. "My gift. Ishtar's blessing," she whispered.

  The hunger screamed within him, desperate to loose itself, devour her. Her lips touched his and set off an earthquake through his body. Her tongue slid into his mouth, touching him, tasting him. She pulled back, her brown eyes staring into his.

  One of her hands let go and drifted down to the knot in his tunic. The fingers pulled it loose. The feeling of the cloth sliding across his skin was enough to make him sigh. Every part of his body seemed to twitch with need. As cool air hit his skin, she grasped him in her palm. Her fingers slid across his member, exploring him, tracing the edges of his shaft. "You are Ishtar's," she whispered. Nails dragged down to caress his testicles before rising again.

  Drimesh groaned. The hunger had overtaken him completely. He felt his penis respond, the flesh firming beneath her fingers. She sighed and kissed him again. Ishtal leaned back, her fingers still dancing across his shaft. He felt her hand pull back his foreskin and then he was buried in liquid silk.

  She pushed her hands forward and grasped his. She pulled and leaned against him, slowly grinding into him. The symbols covering her breasts seemed to dance in the flickering torchlight.

  The animal inside him fought to push her faster, to loose the coils and feel the waves of pleasure break over him. Her slow and steady stride up and down upon him was maddening. He dug his fingers into the top of her hands, pressing deep.

  Ishtal sighed and lowered herself all the way upon his waist. He felt himself fill her and then she rose almost to the point of freeing him before lowering herself again.

  He groaned as she quickened the pace, her own sighs and moans accompanying his. The waves were gathering, threatening to break over him. He hitched his breath and she ceased at the top of her stride.

  Drimesh opened his eyes, feeling the burning need for release. She smiled at him and lifted herself from him. He moaned again, his member pulsing in the flickering torch light. She leaned down and kissed him, her loins still just out of reach.

  She let go one of his hands, rummaged, and rubbed her slick hand against his cheek. "Blessed," she whispered. She kissed him again and then he was once more inside her.

  Her smell lit his brain. The pleasure bloomed within him as she rode him once more. His breath turned into a pant, as did hers. She placed her hands on his chest, pushing, massaging. "Mine," she rasped.

  Pinpricks of starlight danced across his vision as a storm of crimson and yellow filled his mind. The surge, the hunger, exploded from his balls and he cried out as the waves broke across his soul. She groaned again and again as he pulsed within her.

  She collapsed onto his chest, her inner flesh holding him tight, loosening, and clenching again. With each movement she groaned in ecstasy, matching his moans of pleasure.

  They lay like that for some time until she slowly slid off his chest to lie beside him on the cloth covered floor. He rolled over and stared at her black hair. A single streak of gray had formed near her face. Half-asleep, Drimesh pulled the lapis cuff from his arm and placed it around hers.

  He rolled over on his back, pulling her to him. She threw an arm across him. They slept.

  8

  Drimesh lay on the pallet in his room. Light had pushed the night away and baleful sunlight cast rays against the far wall. His naked skin was cool in the morning air.

  It had only been a few hours since he last coupled with Ishtal, but her scent was palpable, the memory of her touch seemed to slide up and down his skin.

  He didn't know how much time had passed when she awakened him the first time. One moment he was swimming in dreams and the next, his body had jumped awake at her kiss, her hand firmly grasping his root. She'd looked into his eyes and said "Mine."

  Another bout of coupling followed. Drimesh had never experienced anything like it. When he fed on the older women or someone like Dir, he nearly always had to push his scent, let his hunger enthrall and bring their passion to the surface. Instead, Ishtal had brought it
forth in him.

  Again and again, she'd raised his hunger from within, bringing it to the surface until it consumed him and left him exhausted and sated. And after a brief rest, she started again.

  When finally he awoke for the last time, she was gone. The clay house was empty except for the stained cloth upon which he slept, the purple pillows, and the cuff of lapis.

  He'd picked it up, staring at the bronze metal and then taking a deep breath when he caught sight of the stones. They were drained white. No hint of their brilliant color remained.

  In a hoarse voice, he'd called her name. But there was no response. When he stepped out into the dawn, a large man waited for him.

  "Leave," Golnath growled.

  "Where is the priestess?" he asked.

  "None of your concern."

  The stern look on Golnath's face made something inside him tremble. "Is she all right?"

  "Leave."

  Drimesh walked to the giant, his eyes glinting with anger. "Tell me, slave."

  Golnath's right hand moved faster than Drimesh had imagined possible. The large paw smashed into the side of his cheek, knocking him sideways and to the ground.

  The giant bent down over him, a long crooked finger pointing at him. "I am not a slave, fool." He spat on the ground next to Drimesh. "I am the priestess' guardian."

  The world spun as the man lifted Drimesh by the neck and pulled him upwards. His feet left the ground and he stared eye to eye with the eunuch, struggling to breathe.

  "You will leave," the large man bellowed. He threw Drimesh aside.

  He hit the clay street on his side. An explosion of pain from his arm made him cry out. Drimesh turned over onto his back. Golnath stood over him, flexing his fingers.

  "Okay," Drimesh breathed. He struggled to stand. Golnath made no effort to help or hinder him. The taste of blood in his mouth, lower body bleeding from scrapes and cuts, Drimesh managed to walk from the row of houses and into the main streets.