by Kage Baker
“Be sure to save room for cake,” said the waiter.
“You’ll be dead in three days, too,” Amaunet told the waiter. The waiter laughed heartily.
They journeyed on to the next crossroads fair. Two days out they came to the outskirts of another town, where Amaunet pulled off the road onto waste ground. Drawing a small purse from her bosom, she handed it to Golescu.
“Go and buy groceries,” she said. “We’ll wait here.”
Golescu scowled at the pouch, clinked it beside his ear. “Not a lot of money,” he said. “But never mind, dearest. You have a man to provide for you now, you know.”
“Get potatoes,” Amaunet told him.
“Of course, my jewel,” he replied, smiling as he climbed down. He went dutifully off to the main street.
“She is not heartless,” he told himself. “She just needs to be wooed, that’s all. Who can ever have been kind to her? It’s time to drop the bucket into your well of charm, Golescu.”
The first thing he did was look for a bathhouse. Having located one and paid the morose Turk at the door, he went in, disrobed, and submitted to being plunged, steamed, scraped, pummeled, and finally shaved. He declined the offer of orange flower water, however, preferring to retain a certain manly musk, and merely asked to be directed to the market square.
When he left it, an hour later, he was indeed carrying a sack of potatoes. He had also onions, flour, oil, sausages, a bottle of champagne, a box of Austrian chocolates, and a bouquet of asters.
He had the satisfaction of seeing Amaunet’s eyes widen as he approached her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“For you,” he said, thrusting the flowers into her arms. Golescu had never seen her taken aback before. She held them out in a gingerly sort of way, with a queer look of embarrassment.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” she said.
“Put them in water?” he said, grinning at her as he hefted his other purchases.
That night, when they had made their camp in a clearing less cobwebbed and haunted than usual, when the white trail of stars made its way down the sky, Golescu went into the wagon to retrieve his treats. The asters had drooped to death, despite having been crammed in a jar of water; but the champagne and chocolates had survived being at the bottom of his sack. Humming to himself, he carried them, together with a pair of chipped enamel mugs, out to the fireside.
Amaunet was gazing into the flames, apparently lost in gloomy reverie. She ignored the popping of the champagne cork, though Emil, beside her, twitched and started. When Golescu opened the chocolates, however, she looked sharply round.
“Where did you get that?” she demanded.
“A little fairy brought it, flying on golden wings,” said Golescu. “Out of his purse of twenty thousand lei, I might add, so don’t scowl at me like that. Will you have a sweetmeat, my queen? A cherry cream? A bit of enrobed ginger peel?”
Amaunet stared fixedly at the box a long moment, and then reached for it. “What harm can it do?” she said, in a quiet voice. “Why not?”
“That’s the spirit,” said Golescu, pouring the champagne. “A little pleasure now and again is good for you, wouldn’t you agree? Especially when one has the money.”
Amaunet didn’t answer, busy with prizing open the box. When he handed her a mug full of champagne, she took it without looking up; drained it as though it were so much water, and handed it back.
“Well quaffed!” said Golescu, as a tiny flutter of hope woke in his flesh. He poured Amaunet another. She meanwhile had got the box open at last, and bowed her head over the chocolates, breathing in their scent as though they were the perfumes of Arabia.
“Oh,” she groaned, and groped in the box. Bringing out three chocolate creams, she held them up a moment in dim-eyed contemplation; then closed her fist on them, crushing them as though they were grapes. Closing her eyes, she licked the sweet mess from her hand, slowly, making ecstatic sounds.
Golescu stared, and in his inattention poured champagne in his lap. Amaunet did not notice.
“I had no idea you liked chocolates so much,” said Golescu.
“Why should you?” said Amaunet through a full mouth. She lifted the box and inhaled again, then dipped in with her tongue and scooped a nut cluster straight out of its little paper cup.
“Good point,” said Golescu. He edged a little closer on the fallen log that was their mutual seat, and offered her the champagne once more. She didn’t seem to notice, absorbed as she was in crunching nuts. “Come, drink up; this stuff won’t keep. Like youth and dreams, eh?”
To his astonishment, Amaunet threw back her head and laughed. It was not the dry and humorless syllable that had previously expressed her scorn. It was full-throated, rolling, deep, and so frightful a noise that Emil shrieked and put his hands over his head, and even the fire seemed to shrink down and cower. It echoed in the night forest, which suddenly was darker, more full of menace.
Golescu’s heart beat faster. When Amaunet seized the mug from him and gulped down its contents once more, he moistened his lips and ventured to say:
“Just let all those cares wash away in the sparkling tide, eh? Let’s be good to each other, dear lady. You need a man to lessen the burden on those poor frail shoulders. Golescu is here!”
That provoked another burst of laughter from Amaunet, ending in a growl as she threw down the mug, grabbed another handful of chocolates from the box and crammed them into her mouth, paper cups and all.
Scarcely able to believe his luck (one drink and she’s a shameless bacchante!) Golescu edged his bottom a little closer to Amaunet’s. “Come,” he said, breathing heavily, “tell me about yourself, my Nile lily.”
Amaunet just chuckled, looking at him sidelong as she munched chocolates. Her eyes had taken on a queer glow, more reflective of the flames perhaps than they had been. It terrified Golescu, and yet...
At last she swallowed, took the champagne bottle from his hand and had a drink.
“Hah!” She spat into the fire, which blazed up. “You want to hear my story? Listen, then, fat man.”
“A thousand thousand years ago, there was a narrow green land by a river. At our backs was the desert, full of jackals and demons. But the man and the woman always told me that if I stayed inside at night, like a good little girl, nothing could hurt me. And if I was a very good little girl always, I would never die. I’d go down to the river, and a man would come in a reed boat and take me away to the Sun, and I’d live forever.
“One day, the Lean People came out of the desert. They had starved in the desert so long, they thought that was what the gods meant for people to do. So, when they saw our green fields, they said we were Abomination. They rode in and killed as many as they could. We were stronger people and we killed them all, threw their bodies in the river—no boats came for them! And that was when I looked on Him, and was afraid.”
“Who was He, precious?” said Golescu.
“Death,” said Amaunet, as the firelight played on her face. “The great Lord with long rows of ivory teeth. His scales shone under the moon. He walked without a shadow. I had never seen any boat taking good children to Heaven; but I saw His power. So I took clay from the riverbank and I made a little Death, and I worshipped it, and fed it with mice, with birds, anything I could catch and kill. Take all these, I said, and not me; for You are very great.
“Next season, more riders came out of the desert. More war, more food for Him, and I knew He truly ruled the world.
“Our people said: We can’t stay here. Not safe to farm these fields. And many gave up and walked north. But the man and woman waited too long. They tried to take everything we owned, every bowl and dish in our house, and the woman found my little image of Him. She beat me and said I was wicked. She broke the image.
“And He punished her for it. As we ran along the path by the river, no Sun Lord came to our aid; only the desert people, and they rode down the man and the woman.
“
I didn’t help them. I ran, and ran beside the river, and I prayed for Him to save me.” Amaunet’s voice had dropped to a whisper. She sounded young, nearly human.
Golescu was disconcerted. It wasn’t at all the mysterious past he had imagined for her; only sad. Some miserable tribal struggle, in some backwater village somewhere? No dusky princess, exiled daughter of pharaohs. Only a refugee, like any one of the hatchet-faced women he had seen along the roads, pushing barrows full of what they could salvage from the ashes of war.
“But at least, this was in Egypt, yes? How did you escape?” Golescu inquired, venturing to put his arm around her. His voice seemed to break some kind of spell; Amaunet turned to look at him, and smiled with all her teeth in black amusement. The smile made Golescu feel small and vulnerable.
“Why, a bright boat came up the river,” she said. “There was the Sun Lord, putting out his hand to take me to safety. He didn’t come for the man and woman, who had been good; He came for me, who had never believed in him. So I knew the world was all lies, even as I went with him and listened to his stories about how wonderful Heaven would be.
“And it turned out that I was right to suspect the Sun, fat man. The price I paid for eternal life was to become a slave in Heaven. For my cowardice in running from Death, they punished me by letting the sacred asps bite me. I was bitten every day, and by the end of fifteen years, I was so full of poison that nothing could ever hurt me. And by the end of a thousand years, I was so weary of my slavery that I prayed to Him again.
“I went out beside the river, under the light of the moon, and I tore my clothes and bared my breasts for Him, knelt down and begged Him to come for me. I wailed and pressed my lips to the mud. How I longed for His ivory teeth!
“But He will not come for me.
“And the Sun Lord has set me to traveling the world, doing business with thieves and murderers, telling foolish mortals their fortunes.” Amaunet had another drink of champagne. “Because the Sun, as it turns out, is actually the Devil. He hasn’t got horns or a tail, oh, no; he looks like a handsome priest. But he’s the master of all lies.
“And I am so tired, fat man, so tired of working for him. Nothing matters; nothing changes. The sun rises each day, and I open my eyes and hate the sun for rising, and hate the wheels that turn and the beasts that pull me on my way. And Him I hate most of all, who takes the whole world but withholds His embrace from me.”
She fell silent, looking beyond the fire into the night.
Golescu took a moment to register that her story was at an end, being still preoccupied with the mental image of Amaunet running bare-breasted beside the Nile. But he shook himself, now, and gathered his wits; filed the whole story under Elaborate Metaphor and sought to get back to business in the real world.
“About this Devil, my sweet,” he said, as she crammed another fistful of chocolates into her mouth. “and these thieves and murderers. The ones who bring you all the stolen goods. You take their loot to the Devil?”
Amaunet didn’t answer, chewing mechanically, watching the flames.
“What would happen if you didn’t take the loot to him?” Golescu persisted. “Suppose you just took it somewhere and sold it yourself?”
“Why should I do that?” said Amaunet.
“So as to be rich!” said Golescu, beginning to regret that he’d gotten her so intoxicated. “So as not to live in wretchedness and misery!”
Amaunet laughed again, with a noise like ice splintering.
“Money won’t change that,” she said. “For me or you!”
“Where’s he live, this metaphorical Devil of yours?” said Golescu. “Bucharest? Kronstadt? I could talk to him on your behalf, eh? Threaten him slightly? Renegotiate your contract? I’m good at that, my darling. Why don’t I talk to him, man to man?”
That sent her into such gales of ugly laughter she dropped the chocolate box.
“Or, what about getting some real use out of dear Emil?” said Golescu. “What about a mentalist act? And perhaps we could do a sideline in love philtres, cures for baldness. A little bird tells me we could make our fortunes,” he added craftily.
Amaunet’s laugh stopped. Her lip curled back from her teeth.
“I told you,” she said, “No. Emil’s a secret.”
“And from whom are we hiding him, madame?” Golescu inquired.
Amaunet just shook her head. She groped in the dust, found the chocolate box and picked out the last few cordials.
“He’d find out,” she murmured, as though to herself. “And then he’d take him away from me. Not fair. I found him. Pompous fool; looking under hills. Waiting by fairy rings. As though the folk tales were real! When all along, he should have been looking in the lunatic asylums. The ward keeper said: here, madame, we have a little genius who thinks he’s a vampyr. And I saw him and I knew, the big eyes, the big head, I knew what blood ran in his veins. Aegeus’s holy grail, but I found one. Why should I give him up? If anybody could find a way, he could...”
More damned metaphors, thought Golescu. “Who’s Aegeus?” he asked. “Is that the Devil’s real name?”
“Ha! He wishes he were. The lesser of two devils...” Amaunet’s voice trailed away into nonsense sounds. Or were they? Golescu, listening, made out syllables that slid and hissed, the pattern of words.
If I wait any longer, she’ll pass out, he realized.
“Come, my sweet, the hour is late,” he said, in the most seductive voice he could summon. “Why don’t we go to bed?” He reached out to pull her close, fumbling for a way through her clothes.
Abruptly he was lying flat on his back, staring up at an apparition. Eyes and teeth of flame, a black shadow like cloak or wings, claws raised to strike. He heard a high-pitched shriek before the blow came, and sparks flew up out of velvet blackness.
Golescu opened his eyes to the gloom before dawn, a neutral blue from which the stars had already fled. He sat up, squinting in pain. He was soaked with dew, his head pounded, and he couldn’t seem to focus his eyes.
Beside him, a thin plume of smoke streamed upward from the ashes of the fire. Across the firepit, Emil still sat where he had been the night before. He was watching the east with an expression of dread, whimpering faintly.
“God and all His little angels,” groaned Golescu, touching the lump on his forehead. “What happened last night, eh?”
Emil did not respond. Golescu sorted muzzily through his memory, which (given his concussion) was not at its best. He thought that the attempt at seduction had been going rather well. The goose egg above his eyes was clear indication something hadn’t gone as planned, and yet...
Emil began to weep, wringing his hands.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, anyway?” said Golescu, rolling over to get to his hands and knees.
“The sun,” said Emil, not taking his eyes from the glow on the horizon.
“And you haven’t got your shade-suit on, have you?” Golescu retorted, rising ponderously to his feet. He grimaced and clutched at his head. “Tell me, petite undead creature, was I so fortunate as to get laid last night? Any idea where black madame has gotten to?”
Emil just sobbed and covered his eyes.
“Oh, all right, let’s get you back in your cozy warm coffin,” said Golescu, brushing dust from his clothing. “Come on!”
Emil scuttled to his side. He opened the wagon door and Emil vaulted in, vanishing into the cupboard under Amaunet’s bed. Emil pulled the cupboard door shut after himself with a bang. A bundle of rags on the bed stirred. Amaunet sat bolt upright, staring at Golescu.
Their eyes met. She doesn’t know what happened either! thought Golescu, with such a rush of glee, his brain throbbed like a heart.
“If you please, madame,” he said, just a shade reproachfully, “I was only putting poor Emil to bed. You left him out all night.”
He reached up to doff his hat, but it wasn’t on his head.
“Get out,” said Amaunet.
“At once, m
adame,” said Golescu, and backed away with all the dignity he could muster. He closed the door, spotting his hat in a thorn bush all of ten feet away from where he had been lying.
“What a time we must have had,” he said to himself, beginning to grin. “Barbu, you seductive devil!”
And though his head felt as though it were splitting, he smiled to himself all the while he gathered wood and rebuilt the fire.
On the feast days of certain saints and at crossroad harvest fairs, they lined up their black wagons beside the brightly painted ones. Amaunet told fortunes. The rear wagon began to fill once more with stolen things, so that Golescu slept on rolls of carpet and tapestry, and holy saints gazed down from their painted panels to watch him sleep. They looked horrified.
Amaunet did not speak of that night by the fire. Still, Golescu fancied there was a change in her demeanor toward him, which fueled his self-esteem: an oddly unsettled look in her eyes, a hesitance, what in anybody less dour would have been embarrassment.
“She’s dreaming of me,” he told Emil one night, as he poked the fire. “What do you want to bet? She desires me, and yet her pride won’t let her yield.”
Emil said nothing, vacantly watching the water boil for his evening potato.
Amaunet emerged from the wagon. She approached Golescu and thrust a scrap of paper at him.
“We’ll get to Kronstadt tomorrow,” she said. “You’ll go in. Buy what’s on this list.”
“Where am I to find this stuff?” Golescu complained, reading the list. “An alchemist’s? I don’t know what half of it is. Except for...” He looked up at her, trying not to smile. “Chocolate, eh? What’ll you have, cream bonbons? Caramels? Nuts?”
“No,” said Amaunet, turning her back. “I want a brick of the pure stuff. See if you can get a confectioner to sell you some of his stock.”
“Heh heh heh,” said Golescu meaningfully, but she ignored him.