Drug Company
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 28
It was grinding,
gruelling and relentless - a pointless,
antiseptic, primitive, anodyne wasteland of abysmally boring straightness. Two years? The question resounded through
his mind, smothering the drily salient words trickling from Mister Smithers’ smiling
mouth. Two years… a mind-numbing echo
that drowned the alphanumerical droning of Joe, the old, half blind clerk he
was to replace. Two years? Two
fate-laden syllables that demarked an intolerably long sentence for a teenage
hippy.
The young
shaman had endured the day with a calmness that almost unnerved him. When the
lunch bell rang, even a call to his probation officer had seemed easy and
straightforward. He sat back and observed another, more officious persona
speaking into the phone’s black Bakelite mouthpiece, replacing his usual laid
back demeanour. He listened to that other he
make arrangements with the inofficiously pleasant woman – just like the
responsible adulterated dolt he resembled in his grey suit and paisley tie,
with his hair and brains and gumption tied back in a long neat ponytail.
That other
persona had pulled it off with effortless aplomb, and when the handpiece
dropped into its cradle a heavy measure was lifted from his overly encumbered
soul. Now all he had to do was allow the same persona to face his curious probation
officer in person the next day.
Two years? The Centraxian mage had already been a neophyte in the magic group known
as The Dawn of Ra for almost as long. He rued the looming likelihood he’d be
trapped in the Emerald City for another two
years…
“Sure you don’t want a smoke?” Joe asked from the doorway.
“No thanks – I only smoke herbal cigarettes.” Joe nodded with a crumpled
expression – part frown, part smile, part knowing suspicion – and shuffled through
the double glass doors that bore the acid-etched company seal. Ram’yana never
smoked tobacco – never even allowed a crumb of the stuff to slip into a joint
he was rolling. He could almost invariably tell if a smoke was contaminated
with nicotine long before it reached his lips. Two years?
A lilting voice turned him around. “You can always smoke them here if you
like.” Rose was a ray of heavenly radiance projected into a drab, linoleum-lined
concrete purgatory. “So long as they don’t smell real bad.” When his eyes sought
hers she turned away and took a quick puff on a Benson and Hedges. Her pink
painted lips curled up into a smile that disappeared behind an umber cascade of
waist length hair.
When she turned to follow Joe to the stairs he noted the girl’s burnt
orange mini - little more than a brief sleeveless tunic emblazoned with a single
classic yellow hippy daisy - barely covered a perfectly pert athletic bum
encased in lacy pink panties. Unlike all the other women in the office Rose
wore little makeup (just hot pink lipstick and a touch of blue eye shadow, as
far as he could tell), her legs weren’t sheathed in sheer plastic hose and her long
glowing hair wasn’t covered with lacquered layers of toxic hairspray. She was a
natural gem shining with beauty and health.
Rose wasn’t
just amazingly beautiful; she was also an apparently very warm hearted, doe-like
gentle nymphette. She was also the only other teenager working in the entire building.
She must know how she looks…
Joe had
introduced the youngsters at the first opportunity. He’d subsequently told the
new recruit that Rose was almost a year younger than he, divulging that her
seventeenth birthday was coming up soon while he toted up another, much longer string
of numbers on his state of the art adding machine.
Meeting Rose
(and this brief congress with her as she left for lunch) were the only high
points in his working day. He glanced down at his own cumbersome, clunky adding
machine and noted it would soon need a new roll of paper. His scarified desk
was littered with a clutter of lists and invoices that hadn’t yet made their
way from the IN to the OUT trays flanking the outmoded machine
- which added, subtracted and multiplied perfectly, but was a little too dim to
divide. Two years of this?
Fluorescent
tubes hung from the ceiling in sentinel mimicry of the regimented desks below, casting
a sickly green pallor on an already grim milieu. Daylight beckoned through a
long expanse of barred windows in the adjoining workspace where the Accounts ‘girls’
toiled – where Rose learned her trade from kindly women old enough to be her
grandmothers.
Two years… As he arose behind the
desk his chair abruptly rolled away and bumped into the wall. An image of
Rose’s long tanned legs supplanted the echoing words that had buffered his mind
against the harsh realities of the day. His teenage imagination toyed with
lustful notions as he followed in the girl’s perfumed wake. The leathern soles
of his polished black shoes clacked noisily over toothy metal tread guards as he
descended the cascade of ever present linoleum that smothered the wide wooden
stairs.
When he
reached the foot of the staircase he stopped in a small foyer and looked down
the hall leading to the entrance. He was just in time to see Rose step around a
low ornamental brick wall that separated the asphalt yard of the company’s
territory from the concrete footpath beyond. Her legs go all the way up… She was an undeniably attractive girl,
and extraordinarily friendly for one so pretty; Maybe too nice for someone like me who’s lived on the fringe for years…
he conjectured.
His body
actually leaned in her direction before he turned himself around and walked
toward the loading dock at the rear of the building, where his father had worked
for several years. A hallway led through ceiling-high stores filled with everything
a pharmacy could stock. He walked between tall steel shelves filled with all
the perfumes of Araby - essential and synthetic oils and perfumes, shampoos and
conditioners, haemorrhoid creams, hairnets, toothbrushes, hair sprays, spray
and stick deodorants, toothpastes, antiseptic toothpicks, styptic pencils, pink
zinc sunshield cream, packets of Bex, all manner of prophylactics, ointments and
tonics - and every pharmaceutical drug commonly and uncommonly available in the
late 20th Century.
Almost a
year after his drug bust, Ram’s new probation officer had paradoxically insisted
he take the job at the Drug Company where his father worked; “You need
something right now, and this is available right now. You can find something
else later if you really don’t like it.” But then Mister Smithers had insisted
he stay for at least two years if he took the job. Two years…
Ram’yana
was surrounded by substances many of his wilder contemporaries would kill to
gain access to - drugs scrupulously counted, regularly weighed, carefully measured
and wholly out of his reach despite their unguarded proximity; if any went
missing he’d be the first or only suspect. He walked between rows filled with
bottles of aspirin, hypnotic Myfakwelin, Mandrax and Rohyptonol sleeping pills
(Mandies and Rowies), opium tinctures and ephedrine pills and all manner of
barbiturates and speedy concoctions, to the bench where his father sat with
friends eating lunch in the shade of a sun baked iron roof. A single, dying,
drying tree struggled through an expanse of cracked concrete that smothered an
acre of Gaia behind the long brick and concrete building.
“Here,”
said his father, “your lunch - Racheal made it for you last night.” His
paramour had still been asleep when he kissed her goodbye. He’d covered her
soft skin with a sheet and blanket before leaving her titian body draped across
his narrow childhood bed. “These are the fellows you have to meet,” Genius said,
before introducing several relatively hard-bitten men - young, old, and every
age between - who worked with him at the rear of the premises.
The
youngest man – half a dozen years older than Ram’yana - introduced himself as
Luke. “You’ll like it here,” he assured the teenager while he mopped his steamy
unseamed brow with a huge blue handkerchief; “Working upstairs is a piece of
cake.”
“A
cakewalk, matey,” an older bloke named Fred agreed. “An’ if ya stick with it yull
be head pricing clerk in no tum flat – two years at the flamin’ most!”
Two years…
“An’ of
course yull be joining the union,” said Fred.
Two years… When they saw his distracted
frowning expression they began to discuss incomprehensible unionist matters and
allowed him to eat in silence. He watched clouds drift between and beyond tall
brick chimneys on buildings that hid the horizon. After the men had chewed
through their sandwiches and downed steaming cups of instant company coffee and
tea they left him alone with his father. The expected question appeared
instantaneously; “Did you ring the probation officer?”
“She’s
coming tomorrow, after work. I didn’t know she’d already seen the place.”
Genius
frowned. “Months ago. When your mother was still alive.” He looked down at his
shiny brown street shoes. The loading dock workers wore no safety boots and
used no heavy lifting equipment except blocks and tackles and a few sturdy
trolleys; .all their work was manual and no-one had yet coined the phrase,
‘occupational health and safety’. A forklift was due to arrive sometime soon. Genius
spoke through his memories; “Your mother said that when the woman saw the bookshelves
in the lounge room she relaxed completely and told her, ‘Whenever I see a house
full of books I know everything’s going to be all right.’ So,” he shook the
memory free, “she’s coming tomorrow evening?”
“Aye.”
Genius
levelled a gunsight gaze at his eldest son. “Better tell Racheal.”
“Don’t
worry – I don’t think she’ll want to be around for that.” And I have to be on the other side of town for a ritual by ten… he
reminded himself.
“Probably
not.” His father shrugged as his stare grew even more piercing. “So – how do
you like it?”
“ ‘Like’
isn’t exactly the word – but I can stand it for now.”
“For now –
or for two years or more? I know it’s not what you wanted, but it could be very
good for you.” He continued before his son could reply. “You know you really
have to take it…”
“I’m
here.”
“So you are.
But if you change your mind or find something else that will satisfy them you
must tell Mister Smithers…”
“I want to
tell the probation officer I’m moving to our flat,” the teenager said by way of
changing the subject. “She doesn’t need to know I haven’t been at home – at the
house - but she…”
“Just stay
at home for now and we’ll talk about it.”
“But I’m
paying rent over there…” He had no idea whether his fellow Centraxians were
still using the apartment or had abandoned it for less salubrious squats on the
nearer side of the harbour.
“We can
arrange something.” Genius nodded at the returning workmen. “Lunch is nearly
over. We’ll discuss it later, after work” This suited his son immensely.
Before he
returned upstairs he put a call through to an old friend, using a phone indicated
by the switchboard operator. “Squid?” he asked when the other end answered.
“Roger
dodger.”
“I’m
staying just around the corner from your place…”
“Cool!”
“…and was
wondering if Racheal and I could drop by this evening.” Aware that he may be
overheard by the headphone wearing operator, he kept his friendly spiel as
terse and businesslike as possible.
“Cool
bananas, Ramayana. Come on over – the Doc’ll be here as well,” drawled the
voice on the line. “And you’ll have to try some of…”
“See you
then,” the young shaman interjected, and cut off the call with a thumb on the
cradle before Squid could utter another word.
Racheal will want to come… The
double entendre propelled his mind back to recent events. His body suddenly
thrummed with visceral memories, engraved in flesh and thought by his
stunningly unexpected experience in the healing chamber of the magic group
known as the Dawn of Ra.
“Y…you!” Her unabashed surprise
echoes through their conjoined bodies. He can tell the Lady Racheal is shocked
to the marrow; his paramour rarely drops the Centraxian tribe’s demi-medieval
argot. Her undulant motions stop with unwonted suddenness when she recognises
the smiling eyes that nuzzle betwixt her parted thighs in starlit revelation.
Daytime
and night-time are utterly different realities, immiscible essences separated
by far more than the merely convenient junctures of sunrise and sunset. Seemly
sunlit workdays or seamy shadowed nights are different worlds for those locked
into the checkerboard thrall of time and timing. A slow motion strobe marks
lightning-dashed strokes through illusory cycles, regarded by mortals as the
passage of time. Some live only by day and shut down at night, while others
revel in darkness and sleep away the shuttered Sun. Like the menagerie of nocturnal,
diurnal and crepuscular lifeforms that abound all around them, different types
and castes of humankind share the same Earthly spaces in relayed rotation.
Beyond the
shitty citified landscapes of humankind’s haphazard hivelike creation, the
wilder, wider, natural world continues to conceal untold surprises. Where the
Sun, Moon, planets and stars continue to rule time and tide and light the way,
lives of unknown beings and courses of unseen events unfold in ways barely
imaginable by domesticated primate minds.
Even the
familiar urbane landscapes wrought by the minds and hands of women and men are
very different places when curious photonic waves of pervasive light fail to
fill every nook, and crannies become unutterably, inviolably invisible. Unseen nocturnal
landscapes, sculpted by imagination and filled with every possibility of myth
and legendry, are populated by very different beings than the mundane sunlit
workaday world. Familiar thoughts, works and semblances of humanity are oft
transformed or replaced by beings beholden to ageless agendas, unknown and foreign
to .the habituated ken of night-blind daylight dwellers.
And some
foreigners inhabit thoroughly familiar forms.
At Racheal’s
surprised exclamation her young shaman’s mind returns partway from sublime surrender,
lost and found in blissful lovemaking with his personal priestess. He emerges riven
with newer, starker sensations, into an unexpected – yet not unwelcome - ménage.
’Tis thee… The thought isn’t his, but
theirs, together, yet his mind can’t grasp the intruder’s identity. He can’t quite
see the sight that’s so obviously evident to his recumbent Lady, but the mouth
that plays at their slippery sex most assuredly isn’t the furry countenance of
neophyte Daniel.
While a
liquid tongue and feminine lips lave the smoothly oiled membranes where flexing
young bodies meet and mate, a ream of faces flickers through Ram’s imaginings,
providing an array of past and potential lovers to explain the brazen presence
of an unseen interloper.
He doesn’t
want to twist or turn and break this electric connexion in the storm-shot humid
darkness. These sensations are exquisite, and he lets Racheal take the lead. He
pauses while an unseen mouth savours the place where his suddenly stilled shaft
spreads his Lady’s roundly stretched labia. Fingertips gently tickle his balls
and Racheal’s perfect derriere and, with a clasp of her loins, their lovemaking
slowly resumes.
Curiosity
wars with sensory bliss as soft strong hands massage his back and guide his renascent
undulations inside his wide-eyed, well-oiled ladylove. Racheal’s eyes and teeth
glitter when a hand propels Ram’s hips forward and he plunges all the way up
inside her. She falls back onto the futon, parts her thighs wider and sighs her
acceptance with a feral grin painted upon her shadowy features by unalloyed
glee.
The other
female, girl or woman, takes her cue and a slender hand slips up between their
bodies while Ram’s skin unpeels from his priestess bride. A slick palm slides along
Racheal’s taut belly and gently cups a firm round breast as another hand tenderly
cradles her shaman’s scrotum. A liquid tongue dances round the base of his
shaft in flickering darts of ticklish flame; tricksy mouth and flexible tongue
caress wide-stretched lips that enfold his thickness when his ladylove’s membranes
and inexorable muscles forestall his next withdrawal. Racheal moans and her
head rolls from side to side in unselfconscious drunken pleasure while
fingertips pinch the rock hard nub of an oily, glistering nipple. “Io…” she
breathes, “…Io…”
He pauses,
half filling the sozzled priestess, and another set of sumptuous lips wrap
sidewise round his half exposed shaft. He balances on knees and elbows as his
right hand mirrors and mimics the other that squeezes and strokes his lover’s
breast. Racheal’s eyes shut and her mouth opens wider. When a soft cheek rubs
against her clit, her tight, hot muscles clamp about Ram’s hardness and her slick
silky thighs flex athwart his hips.
A slow
drumbeat resumes from without, below, from all around in the sandstone manse. He
can’t bear to close his eyes; all his attention is riveted to the dimly lit
sight of her glorious beauty as the thrilling vision of his girlfriend’s next
climax approaches through the lunar paleness of her fucking, rocking, slippery
flesh. His fingers twine with the other woman’s, pressing Racheal’s firm
breasts together then sliding apart while the witch-girl’s muscles ripple and
gleam with every rolling thrust of her hips.
Her inner
caress is his greatest need and deepest fulfilment, totally enthralling and
eternally novel. Yet he finds it’s much easier to endure the sensations
bestowed by her talented body this time. Racheal’s quim is thoroughly oiled by
mingled anointments of earlier strivings and scented oils; his rapt enjoyment
is uninterrupted by concerns of coming, and prematurely ending this wondrous bliss.
He proudly reams her responsive flesh to the tempo decided by their newfound bedmate,
.glad and gladdened that both women witness and want and need and use his bold hard maleness.
He pushes
another motive to the back of his mind, where it lurks and hunkers,
Quasimodo-fashion; I may yet bed this other
girl… He longs to see the face of the
one who pleasures their loins with such abandon, wants to feel the female who now crams his cock into Racheal’s quim; wishes he
could watch her exploding into ecstasy, screaming in his arms, just like
Racheal. …Mustn’t come… may yet need to
be hard and for her, too…
“Oh, ohh!” The priestess gasps. She
begins to moan a wordless chant, inarticulate cries driven and riven by
mounting passion and approaching release. “Uh, Io, uh, uh, uhh, Io, unh, uhh, I open, unh, uhhh…” The lady Racheal bucks beneath and all around him
while the unknown female uses his cock to fuck her with hard, steady, full
length thrusts. Drumbeats thrum up through the hardwood flooring, the futon bed,
through interlocked bodies; inside every smooth plunge into the blazing depths
of his witch-wife’s flexing belly.
“Uh uhh, Io,
uh uhh, Io Pan, unh uhh, Pan! unh uhhh ohh, Man!…”
The other
woman surely knows how to pleasure his girlfriend, matching each stroke to Racheal’s
moaning cadence – perfectly meeting every clasp of riveting heat that grasps
the plunging lance of flesh she wields like an orchestrating baton. He sees a kneading
hand mould Racheal’s firm breast while he hangs suspended above her glistening skin,
and allows the hand to guide his movements inside his lover’s clasping sex.
He glances
down to where tricksy lips and a slavering tongue fan flames of unbearable
titillation from the miniature cock of his ladylove’s rigid clitoris - yet her
loins are nearly fully hidden by a lavish mop of dark flowing hair that lashes
her belly with every lick and lash of a talented tongue. Though Racheal has
already recognised the unknown female he still has no clue as to her identity.
Racheal
sings to the metronome beat of his drumming cock; “…Unh uhh, unh uhhh, ohh uhh unghh uhh, uh AHHH…” Her hips rise from
the bed and her legs slide up along Ram’s raised torso while she’s royally
fucked by the other girl-woman. Heels lock onto his meaty shoulders as she
opens fully to love’s rhythmic embrace. She hangs onto her lover’s frame with a
limpet-like grasp while he raises her upward and fucks her senseless. Her
entire body clamps around his; her head lolls loosely upon the pillow and rocks
from side to side.
“…Uhh unghh AAHH ungh aahhh AAH! UHH! AAHH!”
Moans
suddenly become screams and she shrieks like a banshee, filling the manse with
flagrant sounds of complete abandon. She’s lost to climactic delight as all her
slim limbs lock about her man with uncanny orgasmic strength. Convulsions
writhe through her trim meaty plasm like undulant serpents possessing her flesh,
while her lovers caress her slippery oiled body, inside and out - every seam
and mound and flexing muscle. Drumbeats match their intertwined fucking while the
High Priestess screams and fucks and fucks and screams her wordless raw song to the whole wide world in the wild stormy
night.
Ram’yana
looms over her screaming face and his locks enshroud the silvery mantle enshrining
her thrashing head. He covers her body with his larger torso and wilfully conceals
the secret glory of her screaming orgasmic face with a stream of dark hair –
hiding the stark startling beauty of Racheal’s orgasmic features, no longer
revealed in distant faint lamplight and fainter starlight glowering down
through the tall open window - silently assuring himself it’s not because she’s
his possession, but out of a need to shield and protect his thoroughly
inebriated lover at her most vulnerable moment.
Insistent
nipples slide across his hairless youthful chest. Soft-skinned slender sliding
thighs and rigid calves grip his teenaged torso. Rock-hard heels propel the
hand-girt cock that splits her loins apart as she screams and comes and screams
afresh, mind lost in teeming wonder.
Shadowed
sight of his lover’s glorious rapture almost propels him beyond the brink of
control. He strives not to come while shifting his frame closer to conceal the
ultimate moment of his ladylove’s wide open, nakedly thrusting, utterly lusty
total exposure from the eyes of their unknown companion - who licks them both to
ecstasy while she accelerates his rigid cock right through the shrieking
priestess - sheltering his girlfriend with the barest iota of unlikely privacy amidst
the stormy explosion of her drunkenly unfettered climax.
While
another mouth sups on his swollen shaft and laps at her tautly stretched labia,
Ram’s lips seek Racheal’s open mouth in the lightless cave of their mingling
hair. Her mouth locks onto his questing tongue and her smoky, marinated,
flavoursome breath becomes his, and his hers, and hers his. Her tongue fucks
his mouth in time with her reaming while her screaming is muffled to rumbling moans.
All the
while, that unknown woman keeps using his cock to fuck his gorgeous,
wine-soaked, stoned (and who knows what else) paramour all the way to infinity
and beyond. When Racheal next surfaces for breath she’s already screaming into his
hair, and coming and coming again while she squeezes him into the furnace
hearth of her suckling, fucking, succulent sex. Clouds roll in on a seaward
wind to cover the faintly glowing storm-swept sky and the chamber is plunged
into near total darkness while Racheal’s groans roar out into the night from
her deepest secret sacred core.
All this
time their unknown companion has uttered not a single word. Her face concealed
by shades of darkness, their interlocked genitals and rapturous, engorged,
hypersexual absorption, one in another, she’s managed to remain an enigma. Her
hands rove their bodies with slick familiarity and her fulsome breasts rock
against Ram’s legs while her mouth licks tracks between their loins.
All
sensation is magnified by gathering darkness. Her fingers lock around his base
and begin to fuck his writhing girlfriend with deeper, harder and uncommonly
faster plunges that stretch the teen to her bodily limits. She squeezes
Racheal’s breast up against his chest and strokes his skin with a rigid nipple
while the breathless priestess writhes and moans, fucks and groans, and
trembles to her very bones as she comes screaming again to the shrouded stars.
At the
ultimate moment Ram’s rearing manhood is shoved right up to her trembling quick
and jammed into the quivering mouth of her womb. Her eyes glow up through near total
dark while the alcoholic, smoke-laced breath of her gasping scream washes across
the heated skin of his face. Her body convulses around his cock and she pulls
him down onto her, into her, pressing her into the hard futon bed. Their bodies
ram and cram together as close as close can be, jammed round the hand that flexes
about the witch-girl’s slippery anointed breast.
Just as
Ram’yana draws back to regard his lover’s arousing visage once more, the faint
glow of reflected streetlight suddenly disappears and the chamber is plunged
into a darkness so complete that not a glimmer of eyeshine nor a single glistening
ridge of oily upthrust flesh can be seen amid stygian darkness. He lets his
weight descend on Racheal’s slighter frame and savours the sensations of firm
pointed breasts rising with each fast breath, smooth, soft thighs shifting against
his sides, clasping arms and firm long legs enwrapping his lanky body; the
indescribable pleasure of being suckled and fucked by limber loins while an
insistent hand holds him deep inside her.
They lay
together in blessed union and he slowly sinks into the receptive refuge of the
Lady Racheal’s feminine flesh, his only true and truly welcoming anchor in the
midst of darkest oblivion.
“Superman’s a clerk, too,” his younger
brother reminded him. The suggestion failed to raise his spirits. He watched
the accursed word flow through the younger teen’s mind like a thought balloon
hovering over his head, and ‘clerk’ quickly twisted into ‘jerk’. “Is that supposed
to make me feel better?”
“Not
really.”
Racheal quickly
forestalled any incipient argument; “I don’t wish to be here when she arrives,”
she announced with a frown, smoothing pink cotton roses on her thin floral
dress down both slender thighs.
“Understandable.”
Ram’yana spliced his hand to Racheal’s on his ladylove’s bare knee. “She’ll
only be here for a couple of hours.” Racheal pulled her hand away. “I mean,”
she said with a grimace, “I don’t wish to be here at all. No more. At all.”
“ ’Tis
only for a few days…”
“I need my
art,” she replied with an intensity
suspended somewhere between angst and anger. “And it’s so cold here – the vibes are so thick and the place is full of
spirits.” The younger boy’s eyes widened as they jerked toward her.
“What kind
of spirits? You mean – from the gravestones under the house?”
“Those,
too.” Racheal reached for her crystal goblet. “I wast not solely speaking of
vodka.”
“Does dad
know you’re drinking that?”
“He’s said
aught about it,” she replied, baring her teeth to the boy through firewater that
poured past her unpainted lips. Ram’yana delayed another criticism from his
brother, insisting, “You don’t have to be here when the probation officer
arrives – you can always go out for a while, and we can head back across the
harbour on the weekend.”
“I don’t
wish to stay here one more night. I’m going home – to my place.” She unerringly nodded in the direction of the tumbledown
hulk of a squat she’d occupied over the past few weeks, peering through brick
walls, trees and hillocks to focus on the suburb where she’d assembled her
meagre possessions since splitting their waterside apartment. Her beau reached
for her glass, hoping to keep her mind and emotions on an even keel. “Mind if I
have a taste?”
“Thou
canst get thine own.”
“Just a
dram…”
“Fuck
off!” she yelled, and then, in a much softer voice; “Possession is nine tenths
of the law.” Ram’yana stared into the instantly averted sapphires of her eyes.
“And of the lore,” he reminded her. He accentuated the word with a rolling
‘r’.”
“Dost
think I am possessed?” she growled.
“Whenever
not, my dove?” he said with a facsimile of a facile smile. His brother
pretended to be fascinated by the grey on grey images flitting across the TV
screen.
“Insensitive
clod,” she said with recently acquired characteristic bluntness, leaning as far
away from him as she could, tucking her legs up beneath her on the leathern lounge.
“Canst not feel the cold of the grave biting at thy heels?”
“Hush,” he
whispered with a glance at his brother. “Dare not shush me!” she retorted. “I am thy sense and senses – thy very conscience.”
“Thou art
many things to me, love – all things save that!
My conscience and consciousness are mine own.”
Racheal
emitted a theatrical laugh, eyes flashing from Ram to his brother; Belittling me with that thin, gritty smile… Relishing
an audience, her mate surmised. “More’s the pity,” she said into her glass.
The shaman could feel the hackles rise on his neck when a wider smile spread
across her face.
“Honey…”
he said through gritted teeth, holding an outburst at bay. He hadn’t had a
chance to tell her of the invitation to their friend’s house and workshop –
just around the corner and infinitely more relaxed than his father’s abode– and
decided to ease the tension with its timely mention. “We could…” But the Lady
Racheal flung herself to her feet and forestalled the attempted truce; “If thou
hast no need of me I’ll not tarry.”
She downed
the last of the spirits and teetered on her bare feet. The embroidered dress swirled
around both slim pale thighs, revealing an absence of underwear as the
disarrayed garment shimmied across her buxom frame. She tossed the crystal onto
a cushion and sashayed toward the hall. Both brothers silently watched the deliberate
sway of womanly hips and the bunching rise and fall of firm muscular buttocks
until she paused to look back over her shoulder; “Fare thee well – thou knowst
where to find me,” she remarked as she swished away.
“Aren’t
you going after her?” his brother asked when she altered course to retrieve her
bag from Ram’s childhood bedroom. The elder teen just stared at him while
Racheal’s voice overtopped the drawling television; “Of course he isn’t! He
couldn’t be bothered – not the least bit concerned with a potentially dire warninghis true
love might have for him! Utterly ignorant and happily blind! Totally
unconcerned that he’s sleeping over an open grave.” Ram’s eyes held his
brother’s gaze as he cried, “Enough!”
“Thou
seest?” she demanded as she emerged through the doorway, dress rearranged
beneath a fur-edged vest. An oversized velvet bag hung from one shoulder. “He
cares nothing for me, really – I’m just a handy…”
“My Lady,”
Ram’yana interrupted, making the unmistakeable hand sign that meant ‘Be In
Role’ in the silent signalling code of the Tribe of Centraxis.
“I might
well say the same to thee,” she replied in a growl, to his brother’s
befuddlement. “If thou carest not to hear me, thine wish is my command.” And
with that she swirled off down the hall, opened the front door and slammed it
behind her. “Don’t worry,” Ram’yana said while his heart raced unheeding in his
chest. “She’ll calm down soon – she usually does. It’s just the alcohol.”
“Are you
sure? That it’s just the alcohol, I mean?” The boy’s eyes were squinting with
concern. It was obvious he was worried; Does
he think mum is still hanging around? Ram’yana wondered, and then; IS she still around?
He leaned
back on the sofa, closed his eyes and wilfully opened his Eye. He scanned the
immediate surrounds, sensing the lay of the land and feel of the house as well
as using his second sight. The buildings and trees and sundry linkages of
piping and wires all transpared to a crystalline clarity. He watched Racheal
swerving along a grassy verge of the tree-lined street, and saw that the
landscape rose to ridges on three sides around him, forming a deep, wide bowl
with his father’s house at the edge of its base.
He saw the
hill sloping gently downward, flowing toward subterranean waters that suffused
the sandy, swampy soil and lapped at the foundation stones of the old brick
building. He watched the waters pool in a vast subterranean lake that underlay
all the suburban sprawl downslope, and his mind’s eye revealed a
semi-symmetrical checkerboard of light and darkness beneath the house, like
crenulations atop a stone wall, propping up the houses and preventing it from
subsiding into the deep gloomy slough of the pond.
The
teenage mage felt a preternaturally pervasive coldness emanating from the
ground all around, chilling the house even in the unseasonal summery evening -
like a feeling of deep, deep waters descending below, down into abyssal depths
as he bobbed above in a square brick house on the skin of the world. He saw a
circle of light that drifted across the watery surface and knew his Lady
Racheal was wandering into the Queen’s parkland at the end of the street.
But there
was no sign of his departed mother.
His
brother’s voice shattered his reverie; “If you want to go after her I’ll be
fine here.” For a worrying moment Ram thought he was referring to their mother.
“Dad’ll be home in a couple of hours, after his meeting.”
He
returned to the shuttered box of the room. “No. Let her go.” He retrieved the
discarded goblet and bottle and climbed from the comfortable depths of the
lounge. “I think I’ll put the vodka away – and might have a drink, myself.”
“None for
me thanks. School tomorrow – and you have to be at work.”
The young
shaman filled the crystal with spirits. For
two years…
A true
story
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Mandrake & the Magician – Adder Ladies and the Dawn
of Ra Part 6
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
The Blue Pill - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 14
Crossed Swords - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 15
Power Corrupts - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 16
And
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
And see -
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
The New
Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com
New Illuminati on Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/the.new.illuminati
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright –
reproduction for non-profit use is permitted &
encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please
include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel
free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites -
you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember
attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a
comment – and thanks for reading this far…
From The
Prince of Centraxis -http://centraxis.blogspot.com