Mythophidia

by Storm Constantine

Later that night, after a disappointing evening that had fallen flat on its face, Carmia dreamed. She dreamed while her parents still watched the late movie on the television in the room beneath her own. Dreamed while Jeanette got picked up by some of the Crowd and swerved drunkenly off to a party. Carmia twitched and whined in her sleep, perceiving snippets of faint movie sounds and moulding them into her dream.

  She was running along a great flat expanse of ochre sand that spread to the horizon all around, punctuated by faraway dots that might have been trees, scrub or rancid pools of water. The sand was firm and pleasant to the touch of her bare feet. Bare feet, bare hands. She realised she was galloping bizarrely on all fours. Her gait was at once awkward yet speedy. She was an animal, surrounded by others of her kind, who pushed, jostled, bayed, snapped and howled. Their presence annoyed her. She wanted to be alone with the sand-spiked wind in her hide, but the others were close and hot. Stabbing lights shot out from their wet steaming mouths and wet steaming eyes, into her head. White lances of pain. Why were they running? What were they pursuing? There was no quarry in sight, yet Carmia had no doubt they were hunting.

  Glancing aside, she noticed something bright running alongside her, but a fair distance off. Its jaws were more dazzling than anything she’d ever seen and strangely, they seemed to laugh.

  In the morning, Carmia woke unrested. Her body ached with exertion, and she knew she must wait for the night.

  The following evening, a Saturday night, Carmia was ready to go out earlier than usual. Tonight, she would not miss her bus. Tonight, she would be at Batwings first. As she sat painting her nails in her bedroom, making mistakes because her hands were shaking, she was pervaded by the impression that something immensely ancient was drifting in the air. It was a vague smell or a strange feeling. She did not feel at ease.

  Once she reached Batwings, she felt uncomfortable sitting alone at one of the small tables in the front bar. The place was nearly empty at this hour. When she lifted her wineglass, she noticed that her hands were still shaking. Why had she come here at this absurd time? She was acting like a fool. Her memory of the day was hazy. She felt it had taken effort to survive it. Everything around her had seemed blackened by the frantic thumping of her blood. She did not understand this feeling. It was as if a deep inner part of her was looking out, over which her conscious self had no control. Something inside her was waiting; she sensed it whining and scraping to be let out.

  The bar was just beginning to fill up with people when he arrived. Alone. He paused at the doorway like a cat, mere feet from where Carmia sat. He looked round carefully before entering the room. Carmia thought his sleek muscles were set as if ready to spring, yet he appeared lithe and relaxed. The world dimmed around her. The noise in the bar was eclipsed by the pound of blood in her ears, and the boy was a straight reed of light in the dimness. Carmia was transfixed by instant passion. She did not move, but with her eyes pleaded for him to turn round. When he did, his eyes were golden-green. Laughing eyes.

  ‘Hi,’ he said

  Carmia opened her mouth to speak, suddenly devoid of poise and confidence. She felt tiny, too young. She must say something, a witty remark, a warm remark, anything at all. No sound came. Feelings boiled within her as if he’d conjured them from her: anger, desolation, courage, freedom, fear, confusion and helpless sadness. In her mind, she saw an image of ochre sand running between her fingers. The boy did not look away and neither did his expression change. He reached out and patted Carmia on the head as if she were an animal, not a she-wolf, but a homeless dog begging in the gutter, craving affection. Involuntarily, Carmia made a noise in her throat that came out like a whine.

  ‘Hi, Carmy!’ The voice intruded upon her thoughts. She blinked, but the impossible, incomparable boy had gone. The bar heaved before her eyes, heaving with hot milling bodies and their hundred incompatible perfumes. Jeanette’s face leered over her, like a gargoyle disembodied in the air. ‘You look ill,’ Jeanette commented, without apparent concern. ‘Let’s go to the loo. There’s something I just have to tell you and you never know who’s listening out here.’

  Crouched over the toilet bowl, half listening to Jeanette’s cackling speech, half listening to the sound of the comb being dragged endlessly through Jeanette’s wild hair, Carmia retched until she felt her stomach must bleed.

  That night, Carmia’s dreams were more vivid than before, unhindered by the fact that Jeanette, owing to a drunken stupor her parents would not have tolerated, slept restlessly in the same bed. In the dream, Carmia raced alone with the wind across the great wide plain of ochre sand. Far to her right, ragged grey and black peaks now soared frighteningly high, unearthly structures, like the houses of gods, ringed with vulture-wing clouds and vast black wings that only she could hear. She was quite happy running alone: inexhaustible energy thrummed through her veins. Her fur felt hot, the sun was very bright, but she was not uncomfortable. If only it could have lasted like that. She loved the feeling of freedom, the strangely comfortable solitude, but then a shuddering howl filled the air behind her and a stench of stale musk invaded her muzzle. Soon a hundred pushing, shoving grey bodies pressed around her, froth flying from their gaping jaws, fur matted by the undergrowth of some far-off chase.

  They seek my prey! she thought in a panic, and began to snap at the lean, hairy flanks beside her.

  Baying carelessly, they ignored her attack.

  A great shaggy beast with an abnormally large head jostled up against her, gripping her shoulder in its maw. ‘Do not desert the pack,’ it snarled between its teeth, spraying her with rank saliva. ‘Run with us! We know best.’

  Growling, Carmia managed to wriggle free. She heard a hollow barking laugh behind her and flung a glance over her shoulder. Fangs bright, Jeanette gambolled along effortlessly at her tail. Even in an animal form, she was instantly recognisable. Her wide jaws were stretched in a humourless grin. Carmia let out a dismal howl and increased her speed. The she-wolves gave tongue and matched her pace.

  I am not one of them, she thought. If I am a she-wolf, then I am a loner. I’m not part of the pack.

  She wanted to be a beautiful wild animal, as free as the elements. Her fur would be the silver of the moon, and the lunar light would shine from her eyes. These creatures around her were a pack of stray dogs, muddied, lice-ridden and mindlessly vicious. They had lost touch with the astounding wonder of existence. They could not comprehend the true light of the moon, so could not be wolves. Their petty spite infected Carmia, tainted the beauty of her soul. She was learning something important, but the din of their howling made it difficult to think.

  Desperately, Carmia tried to evade their company, weaving, turning and snapping. But they were too strong and too many. Exhausted, she let them steer her body in the direction they chose, only half aware of the golden thing, loping, thwarted, beside the pack, as if waiting for the moment to strike.

  The following week seemed interminable. Carmia yearned for the weekend when she might be able to see the boy again. Maybe even speak to him. But she was so tired. Her sleep was troubled and did not seem to relieve her any more. Nightmares plagued her tumbled bed, nightmares of unattainable gold, and of hot, feral breath and cruel, yellow eyes. Jeanette called her a few times, and carefully Carmia asked questions to discover whether Jeanette or any of the other girls had noticed the new boy in Batwings. She could not believe she was the only one to have noticed him, and yet her inquiries elicited no information. She became afraid. Perhaps all the others knew about him and were deliberately excluding her from talking about him. They would have seduction plans of their own. The thought of it made Carmia feel sick. She was the silver wolf, they were the yapping dogs. He must see her light, not their shadows.

  Friday night arrived, hot and sultry. From her bedroom window, Carmia could see the lights of the town shimmering in a haze. All day, she had felt fevered, planning what she would do later when she went to Batwings. The boy would be there again, she just knew it, and this time she
would impress him, show him she was different from all the others. Therefore, Carmia was horrified when Jeanette called her in the afternoon and told her she’d be round in a couple of hours. ‘I want to walk into Batwings with you tonight,’ she said. ‘I met this guy the other day and he’s going to meet me there. I’m not going in on my own.’

  Carmia knew that Jeanette lacked confidence until she was drunk. She couldn’t think of an excuse to put Jeanette off.

  When she arrived, Jeanette complained about how early Carmia wanted to go out. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘I want to get a good seat.’

  ‘Since when have you cared about that? The place will be dead until nine. I’ve bought a bottle with me. We can take our time getting ready and have a few drinks. I want to look my best.’

  Carmia gritted her teeth. ‘We’re going out at half seven, OK? We can drink when we get there.’

  Disgruntled, Jeanette spent hours in the bathroom applying her make-up, while Carmia, ready and itching to be off, stood rigid and angry in her bedroom, staring fixedly into the full-length mirror, but taking no comfort from her reflection.

  Eventually, Jeanette glided into the room, where she squeezed her reflection into the glass, patted her hair, twisted, grimaced, and announced, ‘OK, I’m ready.’ It was eight o’clock.

  Barely containing her fury, Carmia flung a silk jacket round her shoulders and they left the house.

  At the bus stop, Jeanette said, ‘so what’s eating you, then?’

  Carmia squirmed. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Look, I’m supposed to be your friend. Tell me.’

  Carmia stared at Jeanette for a moment. She did not see friendship in the face looking back at her. ‘Don’t you sometimes wish there was something else to do?’ she said.

  Jeanette laughed. ‘You what?’

  Carmia shrugged. ‘We go to Batwings all the time. There must be other things to do.’

  Jeanette narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s our place. It’s where we go. You spent enough time lurking around waiting to be let in, so why moan about it now?’

  ‘I don’t know. If we’re she-wolves, then we’re not running free. We’re in a zoo without knowing it.’

  Jeanette made a disparaging sound. ‘Who says you’re a she-wolf? More like a hyena to me.’ She expelled a sound, which was clearly meant to be a hyena.

  Carmia winced and wanted to say, ‘you and are your friends aren’t wolves, you’re just stupid dogs’, but she did not want to deal with the reaction these words would invoke.

  Once they reached Batwings, Carmia noticed the boy the minute they stepped through the door. He was leaning against the bar: drowsy, powerful, beautiful. It had been worth the wait. He was more splendid than she remembered, and strangely, she felt as if they were friends already. It was no longer difficult to go up to him and speak. Surprisingly, Jeanette did not follow and for a brief moment Carmia wondered why she seemed to be the only one tracking this paragon. Were they all so blind? It was unreal. He was alone.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, as before, half smiling.

  ‘Hi,’ she replied, trying to sound husky. She sat down on a stool and leaned her elbows on the bar.

  He laughed. ‘You don’t have to try so hard,’ he said.

  She felt herself redden. ‘Excuse me?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know.’ He put a drink into her hand and reality faded for her. It had all been so easy.

  ‘Why me?’ she heard herself asking. ‘You could have any one of us.’

  ‘Because a good huntress always demands the best trophies,’ he replied.

  She laughed coldly. ‘You think that much of yourself?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  She shook her head. ‘This is weird.’

  He smiled, but said nothing. She felt comfortable with his silence. Where was Jeanette? Why hadn’t she come over? Carmia studied the boy’s profile. He was really the most exquisite creature she had ever seen, but it went beyond the physical. He had a shine to him, an aura she could almost see. All the usual trivialities of Batwings conversation seemed inappropriate. She could think of nothing to say, simply because, for those few minutes, there was nothing to say.

  Carmia finished her drink and put down her glass. ‘I love you,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. His voice was like honey being poured onto pure marble. ‘That’s why I’ve come. Look into the mirror.’

  His arm curled around her shoulder, warm and pliable. She looked into the mirror on the wall beside them. ‘I’m beautiful,’ she said. ‘So are you.’

  He did not comment. The mirror was misty, ochre-coloured, fading, shifting, glittering, spitting scenes. Carmia tore her gaze away from it and stood up to embrace the perfect boy. She pressed her body against him, smothered his lips with her own. Her hands clawed his body, coveting his litheness. He was a wolf, like her, an animal of the night, full of secrets. They would snarl together, run together, but free of the pack.

  He pulled away from her, and examined her with depthless golden eyes. He breathed on her, and his breath carried the ghost of a snarl. Then he took her hand and led her into the mirror.

  Onto the ochre sand. They were running wildly with the wind, his great golden body seeming to skim the ground. His limbs devoured space and time. No wolf, but some other creature. He leapt and twisted his body, coming to a halt in front of her so that she was forced to skid on the shifting sand that puffed up around her in a choking cloud. For some moments, she could neither see nor breathe and writhed on the ground, coughing. When the air cleared, she saw an immense golden shape crouching over her. It breathed an aurous light down on to her, watching her placidly. The light filled Carmia’s body, reached into every cell of her being. He did not touch her at all.

  Two golden lions loped silently away from the body of the wolf that lay half buried in the sand. Their gold-green eyes scanned the horizon as they ran onto the savannah where the deer herds grazed. The deer were tranquil, their damp black muzzles thrust into the rattling grass. The lions crouched among the concealing stems. There are too many wolves, they decided. Too many, and they take the best. But not for long.

  Night’s Damozel

  On the morning of her arrival, Samuel wandered out into his garden. Already the sun was blistering and the still, clammy air threatened later storms. He walked along the shaded walkways where, as it dripped through the dense canopy of leaves, the burning yellow light turned to cool amber. His heart felt too large within its cage of bones. Where was the joy with which he should be greeting his new bride? Standing in the sunlight, he shivered.

  Samuel was a quiet man with few friends, and those who had somehow stuck to his life since childhood now lived far away. He saw them only once a year, in early summer, when for a month, he would travel overseas. His life was marked only slightly by the presence of others; he had a single servant, a bad tempered woman named Hesta, who lived on a nearby farm. She visited him daily, but Samuel rarely saw her. He left her coins as wages once a week and consumed her indifferent cooking with neither relish nor disgust.

  Few other visitors ventured up the long, tree-shuttered drive-way to the house, yet Samuel never felt lonely. He had companions. His garden was full of them: nearly a hundred different species of rare and exotic plants. They were his passion. They spoke to him without words, and listened to his most secret confidences without interrupting. They indulged him with gifts; dark, sticky fruit and flowers whose petals felt as soft as the skin of children. Their names were beautiful: Dancing Bride, whose spray of small white blooms concealed a bitter nectar that stopped the heart; Severia, whose juices thinned the blood so effectively, a simple scratch might result in slow death; Lady Anne’s Pearls, whose dull-bloomed berries nestled in a grey-green nest of prickled leaves, whose taste was sweet yet paralysed the lungs. There were many more languishing in darkness beneath the evergreens, hugging their secret lives to themselves, or wantonly sprawling over the lichened walls of the sun garden. Often Samuel would lie among them
and inhale their narcotic scent until his head throbbed and pulsed. During his annual travels, he had gathered his dark ladies from every corner of the world. But this year, he had journeyed to the hot land of Mewt, where he’d cut for himself a different kind of flower, and soon she would be here.

  Samuel’s steps were slow, even dragging. He wondered how he would tell the green ladies of his wife’s arrival. He should have spoken before, but had sensed the displeasure his news would invoke. They would be anxious, for they were used only to his company.

  There was a queen to Samuel’s kingdom and her name was Night’s Damozel. Her velvet blooms, of imperial purple, reared on tall, slender necks from a coronet of long, silver-furred leaves. Her pollen could be deadly, yet to one familiar with her charms, it imparted a sweet euphoria. Samuel had long acquaintance with the Damozel and spent many a balmy evening with his head in her royal lap, inhaling the sparkling dust that drifted down from her open hearts. Now, he came again to her court in a grove of ancient yews. Little sun-light reached her, yet her bower was always temperate. Her maids of honour were a riot of cobalt ground poppies. Swollen bees hung drunkenly above her blooms, droning low and deep.

  Samuel knelt before her, his head bowed. He felt the sun reach down with attenuated fingers between the needles of the yews and touch his neck. He told the Damozel his news.

  He had first seen Xanthe in twilight, standing above him on a balcony at the villa of one of his acquaintances. Framed by tall, sputtering candles, she had been holding a long-stemmed glass to the side of her face, gazing out at the dark sea beyond the villa gardens. The ocean breeze had lifted tendrils of her hair and they had coiled around her face and shoulders like questing vipers. She was lovely: tall, slender, her body swaying slightly as she meditated upon the approaching night. Samuel’s heart had at once been captivated for he’d seen within this woman a similarity to the green ladies who populated his garden. Like them, she had seemed remote, silent, rooted to the spot.