So this had to be a trick by the infamous trickster kissing my crown and mumbling to me in some unknown language.
“It takes practice to learn the role of wife. To be plucked from the garden and placed in the bed of a king. To discover the power you wield. How at the crook of your finger I would topple worlds. How at a kiss from my lips you’ll know pleasures that will make my name sing from your spirit.”
One man’s pleasures had forced blasphemy from my mouth.
“I would never hurt you that way. What Darius did to you was a perversion of coupling. Your experiences prior to the crypt were against your will. You have never been made love to, and have good reasons for your fear.”
In that winged cocoon, in the infinite intimacy of the moment, I grew angry.
Not just about the things that had happened to me over the entity of my pathetic life. But about what I had seen in the weeks since I’d come out of the dark. Couples walking hand in hand on the street. Kind glances and loving strokes. Laughter.
The films I’d been shown on that strange flat screen with their adventure and happy endings. Respect and jokes and fun.
I was never going to know those things.
How he did it—perhaps he grew a third arm—but suddenly my awkward arm was gathered, fingers trailing to mine, where they interlocked. “But you’re knowing them now.”
“You say that as if this is real,” I confessed. “But I’ll wake up back in that tomb.”
“Even if you should, it’s just a room. And there is no room on this entire planet that could hold you should you wish to leave it now. I can teach you why you never need to be afraid of that room. How you can move through space with a thought—to anywhere you desire. Or always to me, where my arms will be open. Where you will never feel pain.”
Bitter and suddenly sad, I muttered, “Is that how you tempted Jesus in the desert?”
“Tempted?” Dry laughter filled our secluded space, shook the chest under my ear. “I’ve never understood how the various versions of that story all got it so wrong. If you want to know what happened for those forty days and forty nights, you’re going to have to ask Jesus himself. Though his name is pronounced Yeshua.”
“What you are saying is sacrilegious. Jesus ascended from his tomb to return to his father.”
“He walked out of that tomb after the stone barring him in had been removed. And he’s a stuffy, cantankerous bore. Constantly whining about the ways of the world yet refusing to appear and explain himself.” With a derisive snort, Vladislov added, “The second coming. What a joke.
“And let’s not forget the other figures before him, just as determined to educate the cattle. Mani, Krishna, Romulus, Glycon, Zoroaster, Buddha, Heracles… need I go on?”
The term cattle was not one I enjoyed. Reminding the nightmare wrapped around me, I said, “I’m half human. And I drink from you. Does that make you cattle?”
The beast dared reach down and give my rear a quick grasp, chuckling. “I would gladly be your bull.”
Unable to shake off the fingers entwined with mine, I couldn’t give him the swat he deserved. “That is not what I meant.”
“But you wouldn’t blush if I didn’t tease. And I adore the way you blush.”
Wriggling to get away only got me more encumbered. “Are you an octopus? Where did all these arms come from?”
“Can’t a man give his wife an extra hand or two?”
He was impossible. “For the love of all that is holy. Can you be serious for five seconds?”
“I am the embodiment of seriousness.” Lips brushed over mine the instant he spoke those words. Which was impossible, as I was still resting on his chest and nowhere near that mouth. “Drab as he is, Yeshua, is the only person, outside of myself, who can tell you of our time in the desert. Since we both know you won’t believe a word out of my mouth, I’ll arrange for you to spend time together. Though sometimes it’s better to hold on to our delusions than face the truth of the world. Consider that should you really want to speak with him.”
“Jesus is in heaven!” My snarl earned me another phantom peck.
“Many people do consider Brazil heaven.”
“I will not lose my faith.” By God, I would not.
“Your faith?” Playfulness drained from the monster, fingers that had been tickling ceased movement. Form curling even more around me, like a centipede eating a bug, razor-sharp fangs found my throat. Scraping oh so softly over that tender place. They dragged from neck to my earlobe. Where he nipped, yet drew no blood. Where he whispered, “Your faith, you say? Was it your choice to be abandoned on the doorstep of a mission? Did you have a say in the education those monks graced you with? The beatings, the labor, the abuses of a particular priest? Did they not tell you to fear God and obey? Did they not take advantage of a dependent child with nowhere to go in a world that was savage and dirty, crawling with prospectors looking for gold? At no time was it your faith. It was and is your shackles, imposed upon you by a world that use religion as means of control. And if there is this God you imagine, she would agree with me.”
“God is not a woman.” Women were creatures born of sin. The reason humanity fell from grace.
Wing lifting, all touch retreated. Brightness broke through our private circle, causing me to squint at the unwelcome intrusion. Leaving me with the face of a man who looked disturbed, a bit angry, and even sad.
A man with his
