“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter Two

Warning: sexual content

 CHAPTER TWO

–

“What the hell?”

Opening my eyes, I struggled to focus. Embers had popped from the fireplace sounding like the Fourth of July! One rolled to where I was sitting and stopped at my bare foot. Blinking, I snatched my foot back and took a deep breath. If materializing this way was supposed to unsettle me, it was working. My hands shook, my heart raced; I felt nauseous.    At someone’s command I appeared in this room.

The wind raced around the corners of the house, and sleet scratched at the window panes. I was glad for the good fire before me. I was chilly now dressed in a linen morning gown, nothing more than a wrapper over a chemise. I had a mob cap on my head, falling over my eyes, but at least I was without stays. I could breathe again

Placed on the tea table were two sheets of stiff paper and a lead pencil.   I stared into the flames leaping about the logs, lost in thought, the sway of the fire hypnotic, the sound of the sleet beating a tattoo on the windows

Was he a demon? Well, he wasn’t the Devil, or at least he didn’t seem to be. I had no idea what he was, and my knowledge of anything supernatural was poor to non-existent. But he shouldn’t exist, not if I was sane and the universe, too. What was he? My imagination couldn’t stretch that far to account for all these magical things, like the tankards appearing with a snap of his fingers, or that he had materialized out of the pages of an unfinished book. But perhaps these things were small beer compared to what was possible? In any case, I was caught between two worlds, my comfortable if mundane life with a husband and this apparent ‘rip in the fabric of the universe.’

Since I had been thrown back into this book, perhaps I could write a couple of lines. I might as well use the time given, and writing would calm my nerves. The chapter’s weather on my page imitated the weather outside my window, both gray and threatening days. I would write in a snowstorm, the two characters not able to travel, stuck in the countryside. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small movement and glancing up, there sat the demon, Garrett Cortelyou.   I jumped and squeaked out a scream, covering my mouth with my hands.

“Goedemorgen to you, and I am still the Devil, I see.” He sat across the room, unshaven this morning. His appearing like that and his confounded ability to read thoughts rattled me.

“I am thinking of growing a beard, just to bedevil you.” He grinned, sitting back in his seat, stretched his legs and propped one boot upon the other.

“Why would I care if you had a beard? I said sourly.

“It would give a turn to seducing you, something new and untried.” He grinned even broader and winked at me. “Ah, think how good it will feel with my beard brushing the soft skin in the middle of your back.   I can think of other places to bury it just as fine.”

“Ah, stop it, Demon child. What business brings you here this morning except to taunt me.”

“You should form that as a question, not a statement. Again, with the bad English.”

“It is not a question of whether you will taunt me, but a fact. I already felt your sting.”

Stretching his arm out, he lay it palm up on the table, his hand out for mine. A gentle gesture. I had no reason to trust him.

“Yes, a gentle gesture, and one that I would like to follow up with more ‘stinging’ of your secret parts, my sweeting.” His eyes were languid and narrowed, and left no question where his mind was this morning.

I reddened at his silly words, in spite of my determination to ignore.

“Oh, I don’t think you are at all displeased, sweetheart. I think you are attempting to play a game where your feet do not touch bottom.”

“Tell me, then. How does this work? Does anybody in my life notice I’m gone? I don’t remember anything when I’m home. It seems the time with you is all a dream. What happens here? How do you do these things?”   I looked around the room, wondering if I came down the chimney.

Garrett smiled. “Time is different in each dimension. A month here is an hour there.”

“Then my husband doesn’t know I’m gone?”

He snorted, a strange sort of laugh. “I think you could be gone a week, your time darling, and that husband of yours wouldn’t notice.”

I didn’t want to humor him, and suppressed my own laughter. He was probably right. My husband was addicted to television and we led almost separate lives in our marriage. Little held us together, except our dogs and cats, and a comfortable routine. But it was a long, comfortable marriage.

“How do you bring me here?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“For Christ’s sake! You kidnap me from my bed and bring me to yours. There are laws against such behavior.”

He started to laugh. “If I told you, it would ruin all the fun.”

“For you? I have a marriage to hold together and you are interfering in my life.”

His smile disappeared. “You are quite the little hypocrite. You put a set of horns on his head fast enough and now you complain? I seem to remember you enjoying the screwing you got. Perhaps I should give some lessons to your husband.”

“You are a bastard! He’s a fine and sweet man!”

I rose from my seat in my anger. He did not seem impressed.   He barely changed his posture, only crossed his arms over his chest. If he thought I would hit him, he didn’t seem to care.

“Yet here you are with me. And curious as to what comes next. That depends on controlling your temper. You act like a spoilt child.”

Suddenly I felt drained. This show of anger was not getting me anywhere. He was stubborn, with his own set of rules. And he was right. I had set the horns upon my own husband’s head and enjoyed the screwing that set them there. Slowly I sat down in my chair, my energy gone. I didn’t have a moral leg to stand on.

“Woman.”   I heard his voice through my tears. “I promise you your dear husband will not notice you gone. He will think you outside feeding your chickens or getting his ale from that cold cabinet.”

I started to laugh through my tears.   He could be a fly on the wall or a ghost haunting my house!

“Sixteen years gives me the authority to do so,” he said, reading my thoughts.

Again he stretched out his hand to me across the table. It was a tender gesture, but I was having none of it. He sat back and looked at me solemnly.

“Take the mobcap off, please. It reminds me of Aunt Catherine in bed, and that’s a cock- crushing sight if I ever saw one.

I took the cap off. It was slipping over my eyes. Aunt Catherine was a character in the book in her eighties, almost bald and toothless.

“What have you done to your hair?” He looked intently at my now caramel streaked locks.

“Oh, summer is rough, being out in the garden, and the southern sun, you know….” My words trailed off. What in hell was I doing here? Talking to a doppelganger like he was a friend. “I put in caramel streaks.”

“Why would you put candy in your hair?” Garrett’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “Does it taste sweet?”

“Oh Lord, deliver me from such fools! No, Garrett, it is just a color that women put– Oh, never mind.”

“Hey day! What’s this?” He spied my foot with the cherry red nail polish peeking from my under my gown. He reached down and grabbed my foot, almost yanking me off my seat.

“Demon! Remember I’m attached to that foot!” He had it in his lap, where he stared at my toes.

“It’s like cherries in milk, your foot!” Looking up at me, he laughed. “From your hair to your feet, I could eat you up.”   He looked like he was just capable of doing so. I snatched my foot back from his lap.

“You are here for a reason, now state it and leave.” I felt foolish sitting in my bathrobe talking to something not real.

“Ah, my pretty author, do I need a reason to visit you in my house? Remember that you are here at my calling.   Let’s start with a name. What am I to call you?”

Oh God…I had not thought of this! After all these years, one would think he would know by now. I had three Christian names and tried not to think of them. I couldn’t fool the damn devil.

“Well, Sarah is taken now. And a bit morbid for me to call you that. Remember? Sarah is killed by your friend Obadiah.   I’ll call you Bess from your middle name. I like the sound of that. Nice and docile.”   He threw back his head and laughed.

I well remember what I write, you stupid devil. Why was he here this morning? Or more to the point, what in hell was I doing here in this bedroom? 

“I came to apologize,” he said, offhandedly.   “I was a bit rough, not that you didn’t deserve it.   I could have been a lot rougher, but then, you wouldn’t have been so nice to me.” The loathsome devil grinned.

“Ah, still with the names….and you were nice to me. Even if you resisted at first.”

“Garrett that was rape. You know that.” I wondered if he could feel remorse. I didn’t know how much was human, how much devil.

“Your own fault, Bess. You refused to kiss me. Had you been sweeter to me you’d have no problem at all. Next time allow me your mouth, it will go better for you.” He paused. “I don’t know how you could call that rape, sweetheart. You fell in my arms fast enough.”

My mouth was open with shock. What an arrogant man…demon! But he was right. I had tried hard not to respond to his ardor, but my body was not of the same resolve. Blushing, I tried not to remember his lovemaking.

My stomach was rumbling, and snapping his fingers, a tray of tea appeared on the table between us.

“Would you like a cup?” I was trying to focus on something else, yet my hands shook.

“Yes, make it sweet, my love.” He turned his chair to face me. Looking over his cup, he caught my eyes. He was such a silly demon and appeared right at home in this bedroom.

“Before, it was ‘demon lover’. I liked that best. Could you please say it again?”

I smiled, touched at his vanity. ‘Yes, demon lover, and all attendant titles that go with it.” Oh God! What am I saying? Where is my sense? Where is my sanity?

“Ah, that’s better. Tell me, Bess, what happens at the end of the book?”

“You mean you don’t know?” I was surprised, I thought he would. I hadn’t written it down, but knew the outcome for a number of years. I thought he was a mind reader.

“No, I don’t know. I have tried to read your confounded writing, but until you typeset it into a book, I can’t. Tell me- do I survive Obadiah? Do I get the girl? What is my fate?”

“Do I look like a gypsy woman? Why should I tell you anything. I think that is the only power I have.”   I sat back and looked at him smugly. Two could play at his nasty game.

“Oh, my darling woman, you have more power over me and John Thomas down here than you know.   And speaking of cocks, who are these other men in your life?   Does your husband know of the horns you are planning to put on his head?”   He looked at me, his dark eyes flashing. I wondered suddenly if he ever had a soul.

“How would you know anything like that?”   I rose from my seat, again, angry and stupid. Before I could formulate an answer, he rose from his chair and yanked me to him, hurting my wrist.

“You are full of fun, with no idea of consequences,” he said almost hissing with anger, pulling me close to him.   “I would call you a cocktease, but you know what you are. You think your glib tongue will hold you from harm? It will lay you down for it. You are such a little fool.”

“You are hurting my wrist. Stop it!” My words were sharp and he dropped my arm. I stood there rubbing where his fingers now marked my skin.

He was angry about something. I could see that. Shocked by the violence of his words and hurting my wrist, I was growing afraid and tried to placate him with sweet words

“Garrett….I created you from the desire of my loins.   No mortal can compete with you. You are a subject of jealously among men, my demon friend”.

“Ah, not demon lover?” He was not so easily put off, but I could see he was trying to control his temper.

“Garrett, as a character, created by me, you are perfection. There is nothing lacking in you. I have seen to that. No human can hold a candle to yo

I wondered why I would say such a thing! Fear had to be the larger part of my thinking. He had the strength and violence of manhood, compounded by magic. I needed to be more cautious. He had the power of a demon, after all.

“Your words are not so original, but will do for now.”

He made a mocking bow, ending the argument.   Placing his hands on his hips, he looked at me with a bemused expression on his face.

“I want some changes here. I am being starved by you. And your thoughtless writing.”

“What do you mean, sweet Demon?”

“Ah, nice and docile, Bess! I like that. Do it more.” He laughed but it wasn’t a cheerful sound.

“For a week I have fed on bread, cheese, and ale. Jennie doesn’t cook for me, nor does Daniel. I am hungry and that doesn’t make my temper better. I want some real food written into this damn novel. I want some Zuur Tong, Head Cheese, some Gehakt, a nice Hutspot a couple of times a week. I want you to bake me some kretenbroad.”

“All right, Garrett…translate those words.”   Zuur Tong turned out to be Spiced Tongue, Gehakt was sausage, Hutspot was a one-dish meal of beef, mashed potatoes, onions and carrots and Kretenbroad was currant bread.

I couldn’t resist. “Why don’t you snap your fingers?”

He grimaced. “I can’t seem to manage more than a tankard of ale, some spirits and a tray of tea. I can levitate a chamber pot, but you don’t want to see that trick.”

I laughed and told him that I would write in Daniel, the caretaker, and bring in his niece, Anna, to cook. These were characters from the original book I had put aside for some other life. Somehow magic was needed here for this to happen, but that was the demon’s part.

“Good. Settled. Now come here, lambkin. He led me to the window that looked down to the river. Placing me in front of him, he put his arm around my shoulder, holding me.

“I don’t like sitting in that library all day, I want you to write me out there hunting. I want to bag more ducks. There are geese on the river bank for the taking, can you see them from here?” He stretched a long arm towards the general direction of the river, but I saw nothing in the gray, morning light

“Maybe a deer or two. I need some time with my guns, and I want to get a pack of dogs. Agreed? And about your Dutch.”

He was full of demands today. I had to smile. “What about my Dutch?”

“It is rotten. You write what you don’t know. Again. You should ask. Like the word ‘fokken’….It doesn’t mean to ‘plow’…it means to copulate. Simple, isn’t it? Now, let us get fokken.” He tried to steer me towards the bed, but I twisted out of his reach.

“Stop, Garrett. You have the seduction manners of a goat.” He stopped in surprise in the middle of the room.

“I am unworthy of your cherry, plucked though it’s been. Forgive my manners, my lady.” He gave a low and elegant bow, and coming up, picked me up over his shoulder. He threw me hard on the bed and jumped on top of me.

“I can’t breathe, you monster! Get off me, give me some air!”

“I might, if you willingly give me your mouth this time.”

“And what do you intend to stuff in it? I know you, Garrett. I may have been oblique about your ‘lesson plan’ in the novel, but I think I know something of your appetites.”

He rolled off of me, laughing. Turning back, he propped himself on an elbow, stroking the hair from my face.

“You and I, we understand each other, no? Perhaps I don’t have to read every thought of yours. But it is fun, and it gives me an advantage.”

“It’s an unfair advantage, Garrett–and you know it. I have little independence when you do so.”

“Ah, but that is some of the delights of being a woman. You submit to me, in all things, and I will fill your–mouth with sweet things. I will stroke your limbs and warm your belly, and you will grow to desire me.”

“Now who sounds like a second-rate novel?”

“And what kind of novel are you writing? Do you even know?”

“I don’t, just something decent. Men are critical- and my girlfriends are even more so.”

“What do the men think?” He asked, distracting himself, twisting a lock of my hair.

“I thought that you would know this? Don’t you read my emails?”

“No, I don’t. Not yet. Isn’t there a password involved?”

“Why would a demon need a password? Aren’t you all seeing?”

“I’m trying, my sweet woman, to seduce you. I don’t give a damn about your letters. I want to know the competition.   I want to know about these men who want to stick their tongues down your throat.   Why are you talking to them about the novel? Why mention us?

“I didn’t know that there was ‘us,’ Garrett. You forget you are all fantasy. All in my mind, and all in the book.” I snapped my fingers; he was still there.

“I think I am all between your legs right now.” He stroked me through my gown.

“You want to kiss me, why don’t you start with my mouth?”

“You can delay all you want, you sweet witch. I have eternity here.”

“Then this is Hell? Purgatory? Something like Dante’s Inferno?

Putting his head next to my neck, he breathed gently on my skin.   The warmth of his breath was arousing.

“Would you stop trying to figure it out and just let it be? Look, I will lie quietly with you, and we can coo together. I promise you will rise as virginal as you are now. Just go cook me something in the kitchen. I am fading fast.”

I promised to feed him but he didn’t keep his. The afternoon was a quiet one, as he slept on my breast. I had a chance to observe this demon lover closely, and he was as beautiful in life as anything I could put on the page. He would be happy with that, but of course, he already knows what I think.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2007-2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“La Vendetta”, a short story. Chapter Two

 

Rose from garden ….

Chapter Two

 

The sunlight was blazing, bouncing off the pitted walls of the buildings around them.  Huge puffy clouds floated across the deep blue sky. The water reflected the light like a million, million diamonds thrown on the surface by a very rich Prince. 

Carefully being handed into her gondola by Signor Balsamo, the Signora settled in, spreading her skirts around her while the Signor rocked the gondola as he stepped in. They floated down the Grand Canal, Signor Balsamo watching her nod at a few other gondolas, some friends, more enemies.  She had made many as he found over the two years of acquaintance. Still, a public courtesy would have to be maintained.  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” was Signor Faini’s personal motto.  It had much meaning.  He might be a cornuto, but he was a wise cornuto.

They crossed under the Ponte dei Sospiri and past the Paigioni, docked and entered San. Marco palazzo.  A million pigeons took flight, to circle the plaza and return in great circling spirals to the same stones.  The iridescence of their feathers were tiny winged prisms caught by the sun.  The Palazzo Ducale occupied one side of San Marco with its white confection of marble and Moorish tracery.   Signora Faini walked beside Signor Balsamo, her arm entwined in his.  He swung his cane with the forward movement of his right leg, and swished the cane to make vendors and beggars scatter from his path.

The palazzo was crowded today as bells pealed and cannon fired, declaring the hour.  The sound of musicians and the bray of vendors added to the festivities.  There, before them, rose a stage, with a good crowd watching the entertainment already in progress. 

It was a very large boxed stage, with a black curtain stretching across the wooden frame where the puppets performed.  A roof peaked up behind it.  Signora Faini recognized “Punchinello” a hunchbacked character with a beak of a nose and clapped her hands in glee. 

Signor Balsamo laughed, and infected with her happiness, said,  “Ah! Punchinello!  Coglinni!  Does he never change, my dear? He is universal for bravery, for laziness, for pride and bawdiness!  He embodies the best and worst of mankind.  Bravo, my friend!”

Signor Balsamo greeted this huge headed, almost human sized puppet with the enthusiasm one would greet an old friend.  Perhaps he was related. They looked a bit alike. 

“Ah! He is ugly, and that never changes!”  An observation from someone in the crowd created laughter.

The ‘teste di fantasia” in Venice was known in Europe to be the finest.  But this was not a Venetian production, but the work of a Russian, who was known as a Count, or perhaps he was a Prince.  Who could tell?  The mystery surrounding M. Swartzskya was thick as the fog over the canals in winter.

They watched the puppets and marveled how realistic they seemed.  Dressed in sumptuous fashion, even if a few years out of date, their puppetry revealed only by the wires that went from their moving parts to high above where the puppeteer was controlling them.   They seemed almost human. 

A dance, an awkward embrace, the tangling of wires, the sound of puppet feet hitting the stage and on occasion– a groan.  Ah, this Count Swartzskya was a genius! The Doge himself would be entertained, for Signora Faini and Signor Balsamo had never seen such a display of pure delight!  All the gold in Venice couldn’t replace the sheer magic of Swartzskya!

The sound of a chamber orchestra floated over the palazzo and Signor Balsamo sighed.

“Ah, Maria, they are playing il Prete Rosso’s music.  Ah! I never heard him, but my sainted father did. What a wonderful violinist the Red Priest, he said.  Quick as lightening on the strings and the heartstrings too, my little dove!  So many Signoras opened their corsets and gave him their hearts and love and other small pieces of their devotion.  He was quite the scandal in his youth.   And a priest!. 

“But you know, Alessandro, every priest has a mistress.  How could all these puttani

exist without the Church?”  Signora sniffed in contempt, twirling her silk parasol above her head.

The sounds of Vivaldi’s music wafted through the air, adding to the spectacle before them.  Suddenly, as if the puppets could hear the music, as if they had become animated with human sentiment and had blood coursing through papier mache veins, they bowed and did a stately minuet.  How gracefully did the unseen puppeteer lift the wires binding limbs and life.  How perfectly did wooden, painted puppets, faces frozen in carved sentiment, with eyes strangely human, flashing with passion, express such intelligence!

Signora Faini was overcome, and a few silly tears gathered in her eyes.  Ah, Madonna!

The combination of the music and the display before her was hitting a hole in her soul, pulling at her own heartstrings.   Signor Balsamo patted her hand, a strange smile upon his own countenance.

“Would you like to meet Count Swartzskya?  I have had the privilege, Maria, and you will not forget the man easily.  This I assure you.”

Before she had a chance to agree, a loud rumble of thunder drowned out the music and all eyes looked upward.  With curses from the men and screams and laughter from the women, it started to pour down on all standing in the palazzo. The rain was relentless and they could hear “Stronzo di merda!”,  “Per carita!” and “Che cazzo!” from the musicians as they scrambled to protect their delicate instruments. 

Signora Faini’s parasol, meant for the sun, was soaked.   Signor Balsamo drew his arm around her small waist and guided them behind the stage.  There was a door and a man, who looked Signor Balsamo in the eye and bowed them in. 

Maria looked around at the structure.  It was big, almost as big as the reception room in her villa, but the ceiling not as high. There were crates on the sides of the painted, wooden walls, chairs and a large table cluttered with puppetry crossbars, carpentry tools, clothes, all directly behind the stage.  As she shook her parasol, the water spun off in clear ribbons, landing on the carpeted floor.

Suddenly, from the back of the stage, a huge man appeared as if out of the smoke of a large fire.  Maria’s eyes widened as she watched the man come silently towards them.  Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded.

“Ah, Count Swartzskya!  Thank you for receiving us. The sudden rain….”

Signor Balsamo’s words faded away and he shrugged his shoulders, his eyes locked on the man who stood looming over them.

“May I present Signora Faini, Sir?  Signora is the lady I was mentioning before.  She has a passion for puppets, Count.”

The Count took the hand of Signora Faini and kissed it, she unmoving, her eyes fixed on his face.

 Count Swartzskya stood before Maria and she thought,  *I wouldn’t come up to his chest!  What a remarkably formed creature.*

Maria had reason for amazement.  The Count, perhaps in his late fourties, was

well over six feet tall.  He had black hair, shot with grey and worn in a pigtail at his neck.  The fact that he wore no wig would have been remarkable enough in Venice.  That he was so large a man was even more striking. He would stand head and shoulders over any crowd in Venice.  His hands were huge and long fingered; his thighs were bulging with muscles.  Obviously he had either been a horseman or a soldier ….and certainly a fencer.  Everything about him reeked of physical power.  Signora Faini seemed quite overwhelmed by his presence, as her eyes impolitely fanned over his face.

Overhead she could hear the crackle of lightening and the boom of horrendous thunder.  She shivered and jumped each time the windows of the room reflected the raging storm outside.   Suddenly she screamed, for the lightning struck close and the hair rose on her arms.  She jumped right into the arms of Count Swartzskya and stayed there, trembling like a child.

“Oh, Madame!  Do not concern yourself with what is happening outside in Zeus’ court.  You are safe with me.  Come, have tea and settle yourself.”

Count Swartzskaya’s voice was a deep as the thunder, but soothing. 

He led them from the main room to a little chamber, where a servant set a table for tea. Signora Faini was grateful for the hot cup of tea. She was shivering.

As she drank one cup and then another, the two men talked and her eyes started to close.  It seemed she could barely hold her head up.

Balsamo and the Count continued their discourse in low voices, ignoring Signora Faini sitting at the tea table.

“She has it coming, la bagascia, but no permanent damage, agreed?”

“But of course, it will just be something frivolous, a small humiliation.”

“But will she remember it?” 

“No, she will have no memory of this day at all.  However, I can arrange for that to change.  What is your pleasure, Signor?”

“No, no, our original plan will be enough – this time, Count.” 

Swartzskya tossed a bag of coin to Signor Balsamo and he hoisted it in his palm.  A broad smile creased his face, as he addressed Signora Faini, now sprawled in her chair, one slipper off her delicate foot.

“Maria, my dear girl, sometimes you go too far in your wickedness.  But the piper will be paid   tonight…or shall I say…the Count?” 

He laughed and with those last words, he left, whistling a piece of his beloved Vivaldi.

To be continued……

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2013

“Tin Hinan”, Chapter Two: ‘Damaged Goods’

  

Warning: a bit of violence here…

 

Early the next morning, I rose from my pallet in the corner of my mother’s large tent. I knew my path.  During a sleepless night, I had time to refine it.

Sending Takama to gather dates, millet, barley and to fill two large water leathers,  I told her to pack for a journey, to roll up clothes for both of us, and to also pack blankets.  We were to go away, and with big eyes and trembling lips she listened in silence. I told her I would beat her to an inch of her worthless life if she slipped up and made anyone notice what she did.  Takama was a good girl,and she nodded in silence.  Although she was only two years younger, and a slave of my family, she was now my travelling companion.

When I listen to myself relate this story, so many years ago, I think I was what the Turks call “burnt kebobs”. A bit crazy, desert-mad–I had lost all my senses.  Perhaps I would do things differently if given another chance, but I was so young and the young are not known for their wisdom. 

I took a piece of wood used in the setting up of tents, smooth and about as long as my forearm, and walked far into the desert.  There, after prayers to Isis and Ifri, I threw off my gown, and placing the wood stake upright in the sand, I lowered my body over it and fell down in one fast drop.

With a scream, I cried out to Isis.  The pain was tremendous, this pain I would have felt on my wedding night.  I destroyed my value as a bride, for my life as a woman was over at that moment.  Now I was not marriageable, I was damaged goods.  I took my virginity so I would not be burdened with thoughts of marriage and happiness any longer.  No such dream fit with my plan for the future.  Now that I had dispensed with my value as a bride, I was freed in my mind.

I drew on my gown and walked back to my mother’s tent.  I bled down my legs and I almost fainted when I entered her side.  Takama had gathered the stuffs I had demanded and hid them under a blanket in my father’s side of the tent. 

No one was there, in either the east or west side, and even my little brothers and sisters were out running around the settlement.  Only my old great-grandmother,  but she was stricken by some elder disease.  Her eyes rolled in her head, but she could not speak.  She did watch me closely. Her face could not form an expression– it was frozen into a mask.

I took my hair down, dropping the bone pins on the carpet. Taking a large, sheep sheering knife, I cut off my two braids as close to my head as I could.  My crowning glory as a woman was now gone.  Great-grandmother Baba watched me, her eyes widening in alarm. 

“Do not worry, Mother Baba.  I know what I am doing.  I am shaping my destiny with my own two hands.”

The two black braids lay like snakes on the carpet.  All those years growing and oiling, pinning it up and brushing it out were now in the past.  I went and opened a cedar chest and drew out men’s clothes.  Putting on the loose pants and the tunic of cotton, I drew on the outer robe and walked to my father’s side of the tent where he kept his many weapons.  Picking a short curved sword, light enough for me to use, I also chose a dagger to wear in my girdle. I outfitted my feet with a good pair of sturdy men’s sandals.  The final part of my new costume was to wrap a dark indigo-blue cloth around my head many times and cover my nose and mouth with the tail.  It had a funny smell but I supposed I would get used to it, and I would be stained blue like the other men, even Hasim.  At the thought of his name, my stomach churned, but I can’t now remember if it was in anger or sorrow.

Takama came into the east side of the tent and stopped suddenly when she saw a man standing there.  Then she saw the two black braids on the carpet and her eyes grew wide. I took down the veil from my face and smiled at her.  She would have screamed but her shock made her silent.  All she could do was stare and shake. She knew I would beat her silly if she made noise to alarm others.

“Come, Takama, we have one more thing to do before we leave.  Saddle my white camel, and bring her to the tent.  Saddle yourself a donkey and get the boys to load both beasts. Meet me back here quickly.” 

Takama did as she was told.  My camel, named Niefa, kneeled and I mounted her, the saddle feeling strange to my buttocks for I was sitting like a man would on a camel.

“Coosh, coosh, Niefa”, I called out to her as she rose up with a groan.  Camels talk a lot, and my Niefa talked all the time.

We rode to the elder’s tent, an open-sided covering with large rugs laid on the sand.  There sat all the tribal elders, and the women of status, my mother prominent amongst them. They were drinking the sweet mint tea that Berbers can not live a day without. 

I was an object of immediate curiosity, for although I was not recognized, my Niefa was.  I came up to the tent, and stopped a respectful distance from them.  Niefa moaned and kneeled, and I toppled off her, and saw some of the older men smile at this young man who did not gracefully descend from his beast.

I walked up to them and bowed, and drew aside my indigo veil.  Immediately I was recognized, and my mother gave up such a wail that my stomach shivered.  My father stared and stared and said nothing.  My presence for a few minutes threw them all into confusion.

“I stand before you, no longer Aicha.  Aicha is dead and dead to this tribe.  I know satisfaction is demanded for the behavior of Hasim Ghanim Iher and his family and tribe.

I know you meet to discuss what is to be done.  But I would not have the blood of my tribesmen on my head.  I will seek my own revenge in time on Hasim Ghanim Iher and his tribe, but Amon and Isis will lead me to that moment.  Now I will leave our oasis and my family and with Takama as my companion, I will go through the desert until I can find peace.”

Those words were the most I ever uttered in public.  A girl of eighteen does not presume to address her elders. But of course, in my mind, I was no longer Aicha, a member of my family nor my tribe.  I was now a stranger to both, and I could see the doubts as to my sanity in my parent’s eyes.

“Ah, Aicha has lost her senses! A Zar must be commanding her. Whoever would believe that this child could cast off her name and do such a thing?”  My mother’s voice rang out in agony, and I winced at her pain. 

There was a general hubbub, a confused mingling of voices, when I heard my father cut through all of them with his own low voice.  Immediately, everyone stopped talking out of respect for this shocked father.  He stood up, drew himself to his full height, (which was not much) and addressed me.

“My daughter, I know your grief.  I saw you former happiness and I know how oppressed your liver is now. Do you understand what you do?  It is heresy in the face of your tribe to appear in men’s clothing.  Do you understand the weight of your actions?”

With tears in my eyes that I shook from my head, I spoke to him, the daughter of his old age and his favorite.

“My father and mother, I do this for the great love I have for my tribe.  I know bloodshed will follow the breaking of the contract by Hasim and his parents.  Our people will die because of this man and his family. Leave them to their shame.  I have my own. But I am born anew and I left Aicha in the desert when I prayed to Isis and Tanit.   She is dead, but I am alive and I go to meet my destiny.”

I did not tell him what else I had done. That was for me only, for that revealed would have me stoned to death.  Such a violation would not be tolerated by the traditions of our tribe. 

My father came forward to embrace me, and turning to the others, with tears running down his face, he addressed them.

“My daughter Aicha, for she will always remain my daughter, has consulted our Ammon and the Goddesses.  If they spoke to her, she is bound to obey.  Aicha is a good girl, and would not lie to me.  I will bless her with my deepest blessings and let her find her destiny.  Anyone who would move against her now, moves against me first.”

I mounted Niefa and with the indigo veil wrapped tightly around my face catching my tears, I turned my camel and Takama and I walked out of our oasis.  I did not dare look back, for I knew if I did so, I would not be able to leave my tribe and my family.

The desert spread out before me at the edge of our oasis, like a vast, white ocean. I turned my eyes to the east where I knew my future was waiting. What I would find, not even the God and Goddesses would tell me.  I was, with the exception of a slave girl, on my own.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009, 2013

 

“The Devil In Paris”, Chapter Two

 

John Garrett was standing at the window looking at the rain when he heard the knock. He watched Louis cross his hands over his breast and shake his head violently.  Louis became Louise again.  Voila!  Her high coifed powdered hair, the satin dress, the tight corset and breasts returned.  As many times as he had witnessed the transformation, it always took him by surprise.  Louis was one tricky devil.  A snap of Louis’ fingers and the door unlocked.

Garrett watched Madame and Mlle. Luciern enter the room, Madame a clipper ship in full rig. She was a short, plump woman, middle- aged, with powdered hair showing the effects of rain.  Her dark, plum satin gown was ten years out of fashion.  She wore little face powder. There were honest wrinkles and age-spots to signify Madame was no longer young. Kissing Louise on both cheeks she shook herself, rather like a hen ruffling her feathers.  Louise gestured for her to sit.

Garrett listened to Madame Luciern introduce her daughter to her hostess. Louise took the young woman’s hands in hers, studying her carefully and called for him to come be introduced.

Garrett bowed over Madame Luciern’s hand and watched her face color. She might be of middle age, no longer a beauty, but she still was a woman. Mlle Luciern had no such reaction. Her face remained expressionless.

Taking a chair across from Mlle., he listened to Louise Gormosy ask the mother questions about their trip from the countryside. The two older women were soon lost in chatter and he had a chance to observe the silent young woman.

His first impression of Mlle was favorable. She was slender, with an underdeveloped bosom, a fine complexion and a pretty mouth.   She did look like a bookworm, he thought with a chuckle.   She had a serious demeanor, with pale gray eyes and dark brows that did not arch in the necessary fashion.  Fine brown hair pulled into a simple unadorned bun exposed a slender neck.   He was curious. He had his fill of coquettes and fashionable young women in Paris.  They were of a general order, all schooled in manners to attract a man’s attention and hold it captive for an afternoon.  Their charms passed through him like water. How bored he had become with the women of Paris!

In Mlle. Luciern he saw something different.  Something intriguing and virginal, but virginity had little value in Paris.  He laughed to himself. Virtue was good for children but pointless in an attractive woman.  Already the gloom of his mood was lifting in the presence of this rather mysterious young woman.

The two older women were lost in conversation and twittering with laughter as old friends do.  Both her mother and Louise seemingly forgot Mlle. Her face was politely blank, trained to assume a mask in company, but Garrett could see she was not empty of thought.  Her fine eyes narrowed as she listened to her mother and Louise rattle on and a pained look cracked the mask. 

“You have been in Paris before, my dear?”   Garrett’s voice was low enough to not disturb the chatter of the two older women. Mlle. Luciern turned her gray eyes to his and answered his question quietly, but with little interest in her voice.

“Oui, Monsieur, I have visited Paris before, but not recently. I was a girl when I was last here.”  Her voice was almost husky, and the pitch of it surprised him.  Most young women were taught to have ‘musical’ voices in company, to laugh as affectedly as a tinkling bell.  Mlle Luciern was unspoiled by such affectations.

He did not have a chance to question her further, for the sound of Mlle’s voice made her mother remember her.

“M. Garrett”, said Madame with a bright smile.  “Margot-Elisabeth was a little girl the last time we were here, only about twelve.  She is now in her nineteenth year, and a stay with Madame Gormosy will bring some color to her cheeks and hopefully  polish to her manners. Ah, Bon Dieu!  The countryside is good for virtue but there is little opportunity were we live to make her a wife!” 

Mlle Luciern’s face flashed distress at her mother’s words. Garrett saw how Madame Gormosy’s eyes glittered.

“Ah, my dear Marie,” Gormosy said to the mother.  “We will polish the apple and find her a mate.  She has promise, but is too pale in the face.  Perhaps a bit of rouge and the labors of my hairdresser?”

Madame Luciern laughed out loud at Gormosy.  “Bon chance, Louise!  I can barely get Margot-Elisabeth to brush her hair!”

Poor Mlle. Luciern blushed at her mother’s words and Garrett suppressed a smile. Margot meant ‘pearl’ and this one would need quite a bit of polish to catch a husband in Paris.

Garrett tried to make small conversation with Mlle. but she was now as shy as unpolished.  The two older women chatted away without stopping for breath and the conversation was all about Margot-Elisabeth, unconcerned with her growing discomfort.

Garrett heard the amount of funds pledged by Madame Luciern to Gormosy, and almost whistled aloud.  A dressmaker would be sent for immediately.

“Ah, Louise,” said Madame Luciern with a look of gratitude.  “You work your magic with Margot-Elisabeth.  In your competent hands I am sure she will bloom.”

 Garrett wondered how much ‘magic’ would be needed by Louise, and how her mother would react if she knew the source of Madame’s….ah….magic. 

How droll it was!  Mother Luciern to leave her precious daughter in the hands of a devil.  All the rosaries in France would not amount to a hill of shit once Louise got her claws into the prey.

 Garrett laughed to himself.  Tant pis!  The bargain was struck.  The Devil would have his due.

 Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2008, 2012