Bound by Rites Page 6

  “That’s enough Mary,” Nebanum warned.

  “Little soldier doesn’t like to stand at attention does he? How long did she have to work at it? Surely she wasn’t—”

  “Mary...”

  Rhone knew the tone in Nebanum’s voice. A smile crept onto his face in anticipation. Mary carried on, relentless, ignorant to the threat in Nebanum’s stillness.

  “Does your little Nettleham whore let you spill in her purse? Or did little soldier not want—”

  Nebanum crossed the few feet between he and Mary in an instant and his hand sailed across her face, popping loudly. Rhone became excited. The blow only fueled Mary’s hysterics and she began wailing.

  “Or maybe you couldn’t act because she wouldn’t let you fuck her in the arse!”

  Nebanum reared and struck the side of her head. Instead of a popping, it made a dense thud and Mary fell down in a mass of greasy hair and ragged clothes. Her pale blue eyes stared up at Nebanum. She looked to Rhone. Her expression of shock turned into a wicked smile, her rotting mouth pulling back over her green teeth. Her feeble mind had discovered a wound to pick at. She turned back to Nebanum:

  “You know what they say about men who like to fuck in the arse?”

  That was it. She needn’t finish; the implication was all too clear. Mary had followed the trail of breadcrumbs, stumbling upon the single most dangerous sentence she could have uttered.

  He lunged at her. He was on top of her, straddling her and holding her neck with his left hand, pinning her to the muddy earth. His right arm swung up and fell, pummeling her head with a closed fist. Again and again his arm cocked for the next blow, rage numbing the pain in his hand. Rhone’s heart began to flutter with lust as Nebanum’s fist painted Mary’s pale face his favorite color. One of her eyes caught a knuckle and turned to a cherry. Her nose bent and made scarlet water. She clawed frantically at him, but didn’t cause damage enough to spare herself. Rhone wondered if any teeth would be left in her plagued mouth.

  Nebanum stopped, his ribcage swelling and contracting with exhaustion. Rhone too was sucking air, stimulated in another way, lightheaded. Nebanum rose from Mary. Her chest rose and fell too; a dark nipple stared out from a tear on the side of her gown. Her head was a rat’s nest of gore and hair. Flesh split at her bony cheek revealing the pink underneath. Her blasphemous mouth was swollen with split lips. Nebanum went and stood by the cart. Rhone took the handles and began to pull towards Friar.

  “What d’you want?” the doorman grunted.

  “We have something to sell to Rollo,” Nebanum answered, following the ritual.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s for Rollo.”

  Rollo emerged from his hut and wore a beaming smile.

  “I’ll be damned, you boys actually got it!”

  He took a knife from the doorman and began working off the lid to the crate. Inside, it was filled with the little white paper boxes, fastened with red string.

  “This is great boys, really great! Let me get your money.”

  “Rollo,” Nebanum began, stopping Rollo at the doorway, “it was more trouble than two shilling’s worth.”

  Rollo nodded and ducked inside.

  He counted out twenty-four silver coins then counted out another ten. Nebanum turned and walked away, leaving Rhone to collect the weighty sack.

  The shadowed path back to the goat farm was more interesting now that Rhone knew the story of some of the birds singing and trees swaying. He had liked the old man; he had an aura about him that was comforting and safe. His thoughts drifted back to the rune scribed hide, and since he had made peace with the fact that there would definitely be no exchange with Nebanum now, he let his mind wander.

  I suppose I wish it were true too. Nebanum’s right, it’s worse to be a slave to misery than to pleasure. I should have asked that old man where that monastery was. I bet stealing a book from monks is just about the easiest thing in the world. Though, why would the dead man give me that thing unless it were all I needed?

  The empty cart hummed its usual song across the trail. The trip was short compared to Nettleham and they were back at the goat farm well before dark.

  Mary was inside the shack. She was stark naked, reclining by the wall, moving her hand briskly over her bushy crotch. Rhone stopped and turned to go back outside, repulsed and exhausted by the sight. He said nothing and Nebanum seemed to know what that meant. He entered and Rhone followed him.

  “Stop it Mary.”

  “I just missed you, that’s all. Both of you. Take me, please, just take me now.”

  Rhone shook his head, what a disgusting creature. She began to penetrate herself with her fingers, her battered face contorting into an obscenity.

  “Please,” she spoke between moans and gasps, “my face hurts so bad... distract me from the pain...”

  “Don’t do it Nebanum,” Rhone heard himself say.

  “Shut up you bastard!” she screeched.

  Nebanum leaned into Rhone’s neck, “Do you still have that dagger?” he asked. Rhone moved to his beddings and withdrew the crude tool. He slid it into Nebanum’s palm. A tint of boyish mischievousness glistened in Nebanum’s dark eyes. Rhone fought a smile lest it give away whatever his partner was planning.

  “Hold her legs apart,” Nebanum said, loud enough for Mary to hear. He concealed the dagger as he made his way towards her. She was feverishly pleasuring herself.

  “Yes, fuck me, I’m yours, rape me, rape me, oh God, please!”

  Her bright red eye followed Rhone to her ankles where he put his weight on her knees. The stench of her sex was nauseating. Nebanum gently pulled her hand away as he knelt down at her side. His face was soft. He slid his free hand across her chest and took up a handful of her breast, massaging it. For a moment, as Mary threw her head back and moaned with gratification, Rhone was unsure of what would happen. But when Nebanum moved the knife, dull blade first, towards Mary’s sex, it was as if he’d known all along.

  At first, Mary grunted. She was deciding if the entrance was pleasure or pain. After the second penetration there was no doubt, and she began to shriek and scream. Nebanum leaned onto her chest, jabbing the blade into her sex while Rhone kept his weight on her legs. Over and over the blade took her. Despite her emaciated frame, she put up a respectable struggle. Rhone watched wide-eyed as the already—to him—vile folding of flesh tore and split, taking the warming iron into its embrace with blood and fervor.

  It was over quickly. Mary’s crotch now matched her mouth: split and bleeding. She lay still, paralyzed from shock. Nebanum rose, letting the stained blade fall. His right hand was bloodied. Rhone rose too, unable to identify the expression that Nebanum wore. Blood had sprayed onto his face and he could smell it; brine and tin. Suddenly, Nebanum lunged at Rhone. Initially Rhone struggled. For a brief, damnable moment he thought the worst: he’s making good on his promise to kill me! Nebanum locked his lips onto Rhone’s, digging his tongue into his mouth. Mary’s rank blood smeared between their kiss. The stiffness pressing into Rhone’s hip dispelled all fear.

  Their sentient coupling was violent. Among the chorus of Mary’s moaning, Nebanum’s soldier stood tall, rushing to battle ready and willing. They tore the inhibiting clothes from their bodies and pulled together as though they would fall into abyss apart. They relished in each other’s musk and sweat; demanding of their bodies further tithes for their prophesied joining. No flower sap to dull their senses or amplify trivialities, their exploration of each other was specific and controlled. Rhone pulled away, clambering over the bleeding Mary, to retrieve the iron phallus. She groaned and whimpered.

  “Cut me,” he begged, and Nebanum obliged.

  Careful not to blemish his favorite tracks of flesh, Nebanum made small red lines on Rhone’s thighs. The blade, dull and coated still with the remnants of Mary’s petals, required slight force, which Nebanum exerted with the tenderness of a lover. The blood came and he suckled, carrying it to share in Rhone’s mouth. They co
uld not be deep enough, they could not be close enough. Their labors were short and after their candle burned, they paused for rest, caressing hands still grazing on sensitive skin.

  At last, the dream of the Nettleham den was real. Rhone couldn’t speak, the smile on his face was a permanent fixture. His silver eyes drew in every detail of his partner’s face and body. His was sore yet still thirsting. He rolled over to be embraced by Nebanum. An unexpected whisper from Nebanum smashed the dam that had been holding Rhone’s lake of precarious humors:

  “I guess it was real.”

  The words were tormentingly sweet, and Rhone’s eyes bled while he laughed. The small voice came again in his mind. Don’t be tricked, it warned, he’ll deny you tomorrow. But he didn’t care. He’d pay the price if it came.

  Mary was attempting to roll onto her side to rise; her pale buttocks stained red. She was muttering, “I knew it... I knew it...” Rhone stared at the butchered whore, the dethroned, as Nebanum entered him, the smile on his face widening. It seems you can have your cake and eat it too.

  Nine

  Mary wrapped herself and staggered out into the night, whimpering. Nebanum fingered the malachite amulet in the dark. Rhone watched him with his catlike eyes. The Bleeding of Mary had acted as an unexpected catalyst for their union. Now, lying in the wake, that point almost begged acknowledgement. Rhone had been stimulated by violence before, but never to such a degree. Questions and doubts began surfacing faster than he could plunge them away, so he dared speak and disturb the silence.

  “Nebanum?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What changed?”

  “What?”

  “With Mary... with me. What changed?”

  “I’m not sure,” he sat up, scanning the room as if the answer was hidden there, “when I saw her like that it just overwhelmed me. I was ready to strike when the idea came.”

  “Was it exciting for you? Stabbing her?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is that when I finished, and I saw you, that was it.”

  Rhone crawled to Nebanum and laid his head in his lap. The room felt saturated. Despite the darkness, Nebanum’s eyes still managed to reflect a pinprick of light. Rhone was on the precipice of sleep when Nebanum began to stir.

  “What’s the matter?” Rhone asked.

  “My back,” he encouraged Rhone off of him, “is there something on my back?”

  Rhone looked, confused by sleepiness. He ran his hands across the plains.

  “There’s nothing. What’s wrong?”

  “Are you still touching me?”

  Rhone pulled his hands away, “No.”

  “Oh my God!” Nebanum rose, frantically swatting at his back and throwing his neck down into his shoulders, shrugging off an invisible scarf. The sight was disorienting and alarming—Rhone watched helpless from the floor.

  “What?” he begged, “What is it?!”

  Rhone’s heart thudded once in his chest, his eyelids kissed, and Nebanum was gone. His mind reeled from the impossibility.

  “Nebanum?” he whispered into the empty room.

  Insurmountable fear and panic were on the horizon, storming with an unstoppable force the gates of Rhone’s sanity. What’s happening? Where’s Nebanum? Pressure crept up his back like fingers digging for ticks. He whirled around, feeling his back. He lay flat on the floor, heart racing, confused, as the phantom claws dug into his collar and tore him down. Down through shadow, silent except for the rushing blood in his ears, he fell. The black began to swell with color. Reds and yellows, disgusting and vibrant, blurred together like a vertical sunset. Nausea and promise of regurgitation churned in his gut, but then the falling halted. He was still.

  No more ghosts explored his flesh. Rhone stared up into a gray sky, billowing with clouds contemplating rain. His hands felt fine dirt. He rolled onto his side to stand and saw that the earth was red. Rising and surveying the landscape showed that the burning scarlet extended forever, swelling into hills and mountains at great distances. Treeless, but not barren, alien structures jutted from the red landscape. These structures, though far, were unnerving. Their construction seemed to serve no purpose, as if designed by one madman and constructed by another. A slow wind blew without cooling breath. It wasn’t warm, it wasn’t cool; it just was.

  “Rhone!” a voice called from behind. Rhone was thankful to see that Nebanum was sharing the nightmare. An unexpected embrace, and then the questions came.

  “Where are we?” Rhone asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nebanum was frantic, “is it possible we’re still in Nettleham? The den? The smoke?”

  “No, can’t be. This feels too real. Nebanum, I’m—”

  Rhone was going to say frightened, but the word lost force and died on his tongue. A sight had stolen his voice and stuttered his heart. Swaying and twitching, a grinning malformation came with an unnatural gait across the red sands. It was only yards away, coming from a direction where there was nothing before. Red sand sprayed and fell with each of its jagged steps.

  Rhone and Nebanum stood paralyzed. It had reached them too quickly. Nothing in their short lives had prepared them for the horror that now stood before them. Its face was a honeycomb, some tombs not yet opened. A large, black gummed mouth socketed with handsome teeth, thin and long like dogs’ canines, was stretched to a terrifying smile. For limbs it had stalks, black and fleshy. Even as it stood its body swayed and twitched; muscles spasming under the scarred flesh. Its mouth would open and close, teeth clinking together. A scratching voice came from the thousand pores on its face while its mouth stood still:

  “Who are you that enters without knocking?”

  Paralysis held firm on Rhone and Nebanum. The creature was obliged to wait, and said nothing else. It waited patiently for an answer. The seconds crawled by. This is real, Rhone thought, fearing for his sanity, this is real.

  “Rhone... Nebanum...” Rhone whispered.

  “Who are you that should be allowed to enter our home?” the haunting voice came again. Bravery had allowed Rhone to look deeper into the honeycombed face, but he resented it greatly for in the open pores were squirming maggots. His queasiness prevented speech, as though the very act of speaking to such a monster was a labor in itself.

  “We don’t wish to enter,” Nebanum said, feigning composure, “we wish to leave.”

  The response came immediately, as if the creature had known the words like a common play:

  “Who are you that should be allowed to leave?”

  Between the ghastly legs bobbed two erections, plugged with nails. Fear leaked down Rhone’s leg. There was no time for embarrassment; this seemed to interest the fiend for its head moved suddenly and frighteningly towards him. Rhone stepped back but the creature followed. Blind step after blind step until he inevitably fell and then the face was above his own. The maggots squirmed in their graves, inches from Rhone’s face. Three or four fell out and landed coolly on his cheek. They writhed there for a moment before rolling off, into the sand.

  “You offer water? You wish to stay?”

  Nebanum was kicking at the frail form in vain. A smell poured out of the honeycomb—lilac. The voice was intimate. It spoke directly to Rhone’s mind, instructing it to create scenes of sex and mutilation. His body tensed. The creature rose and backed away. Rhone had ejaculated onto himself. Nebanum stood, drinking moist air as the creature waited, still swaying, waves of twitching coursing through it.

  “You have secured your stay and your leave, but we will require more than water and honey.”

  The thing turned and sauntered off into the scarlet sea, as unnatural in its leaving as its arrival. Nebanum helped Rhone up. They looked around for the creature but it was gone.

  “Rhone?” Nebanum looked at the excretion on Rhone’s stomach with confusion, and possibly envy.

  “I...” his searched for words to convey fear, the desire to flee—to run—but they wouldn’t come. They wouldn’t come because they weren’t what he wanted. Though
it seemed like nothing could trump what he felt just minutes ago, lying in the dark with Nebanum, something just had. He turned to Nebanum, excitement pumping into his limbs, pulling him to go—to run—not away but towards whatever it was that this forbidden land had to offer.

  “We’re here Nebanum, this is that place!” the words came so fast that he bit his tongue. Nebanum’s face remained unchanged. Rhone felt anxious with the delay. It was like a wonderful dream that he suddenly became aware might end. He slowed himself and tried again:

  “Nebanum, this is the place that old man told us about. That thing showed me.”

  Nebanum’s face remained tense and untrusting. Rhone reached out and took hold of his hands, trying to form words to explain what the honeycomb fiend had shown him. When their skin touched however, the tension melted off of Nebanum’s face. It seemed no further explanation was required; the images shared by the fiend leapt across the tepid air and elicited an equal response from Nebanum which landed warmly on Rhone.

  Through their panting, exhilaration mounted.

  “Where do we go?” Nebanum asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Rhone was anxious. The dream could end at any moment if the momentum wasn’t maintained. They began to dogtrot across the warm sand. The grains were coarse and chewed their heels. They headed towards the nearest of the gray stone structures, the same hue as the billowing sky. It seemed to swell abnormally in size as they approached. The stones were weathered, worn over eons by the near-motionless breeze. Shallow bas-relief carvings covered the structure; skillfully crafted by an unknown artisan. They were bittersweet: men and women held hands with bizarre and startling creatures, children too. The scenes were of everyday life, but infested with monsters. No violence was depicted, the closest was the coupling of a wasp-like being and a human woman.

  A tall, dark archway was ominous and uninviting, but having surveyed the carved facade, they were forced to enter. The keystone hung precariously high in the stone archway, itself containing a single carving. It was difficult to make out, but it appeared to be a man with a great star glowing from his chest.