Eventide (2 page)

He closed his eyes as he stroked his hand, putting thoughts of night spirits and hunger from his mind as he made love to the garden-corner wench, turning her on his member like he turned the pheasant on the spit before him. He would pump into her and fill her over and over and allow her to bear his children. He would even wed her. And if not, he would keep her as his mistress. No woman could ask for more than that.

So entranced with his masturbatory fantasy, Prince Lin failed to notice the mist rolling in from the darkest parts of the forest or the oddly out of place honk of a goose so far from the river. He shivered, for it had a biting chill, but still he stroked his hand until his seed welled, brimmed and spilled.

He then noticed the call of the geese—it was the same sound he’d heard when a thick fog had first befallen his party.

As he returned to earth from his euphoric climax, he noticed a new scent on the breeze. The mist had carried with it an odor of foulness and misfortune. He carefully tucked away his prized kingly penis and slowly opened his eyes. The forest spirits were afoot—likely trying to steal his supper or worse, seduce him into becoming further lost and more imperiled.

He knew better than to wander into the mist a second time. He was embarrassed to admit it, though he knew it was a kingly attribute to face his own mistakes and learn from them. He had lost sight of his hunting companions when a dark fog overtook them in the forest.

And now the fog had returned. To claim him.

He stood, his hand going to the hilt of the blade tucked at his waist. He could feel tendrils of soullessness caressing his cheeks and throat. His hands grew clammy and he felt his knees quiver.

Lin made the sign of the cross and withdrew his bejeweled crucifix from his tunic. “In the name of the Lord, Host of Heaven, I command all beings with mal-intent to leave me in peace.”

The prickling against his face grew more intense. A great fatigue overcame him and though he fought the urge to curl up by the fire and sleep, he found his body unable to remain upright. His legs could not support him. His eye lids snapped shut and his breathing became slow and even.

Sigyn, daughter of the undertaker and gardener extraordinaire, was far too clever to fall into the bed of a prince--though he obviously fancied her. She sensed his anxious discomfort when he took his daily apple from her hand.

Many men fancied her; courted her in their own crude ways. She wanted more than a stove to cook on and a belly full of children. Was there no man to offer her more in all the land? Even the prince could, or would, not. She would never be satisfied simply to be wife of the prince and someday queen consort. That held no more attraction for her than marrying the pig farmer or fish monger.

She wanted more, and would take no man between her legs until her dreams were offered to her on a silver platter. There was more pleasure to be had with her own skillful hands and a slender zucchini sliding in and out of her. When a man could touch her as well as she knew how to touch herself, well, then she’d listen to his proposal.

She listened with great interest to the news spreading through the village regarding that tosser son of the king. Seems he was missing!

The royal hunting party returned to the castle without him, claiming they’d returned only after making an exhausted search for the prince. The captain of the guard took it upon himself to inform the king that his son had gone missing.

The king did not take the news well, as evidenced by the head of the captain of the guard displayed from the tower window but an hour later.

Sigyn sighed. The captain had been a good customer.
Wonder if father knows there was a body to collect in the armory.

The king sent for his scribes and made a proclamation. He bade the scribes post copies where learned men could read it and instructed the town criers to spread the word.

One half of his kingdom would go to the person who returned his son to him alive. “I’ll give my throne, the castle surrounding it for the return of my son!” he proclaimed.

The next morning at market, Sigyn read the proclamation with great interest. “Say there, sir,” she called to the king’s squire milling about the market with hammer and tacks to post the hand-written parchments. “Which half of his kingdom does His Majesty offer in trade for the life of his son?”

“That is a question you must take up with the king, himself. But I heard tell that he would give up his very throne and the castle around it to have his son returned to him.”

Sigyn reflected thoughtfully on the subject. “Well, that would certainly be more convenient than having to build one’s own castle. Why would a person accept a reward consisting of swamp land and rocky bottom land when the other half of the kingdom is as lovely as,” she waved her arms gracefully, obviously meaning to encompass the entire region, “All of this? A ready-made fief! I love it.” Sigyn patted the squire on the shoulder. “I accept the challenge!”

“It’s been nice knowing you, miss. I do hope your affairs are in order before you set off into the forest to find the young prince who has undoubtedly been kidnapped by thugs or worse—evil spirits,” the squire replied.

“What know you of these things?” Sigyn asked.

“The courtiers said a strange fog befell them at eventide and the prince became separated from the party. It was an omen of malice and ill-intent. The geese sounded and the fog came. Everyone knows this is a sign that ogres are afoot.”

Sigyn laughed. “Of course there are ogres afoot, sir. It is the forest, after all!”

*

She knew the forest better than any man for her mother had schooled her in the habits of the trees and the disposition of herbs growing therein. Sigyn knew it would take more than a barefoot girl in a simple dress to rescue the prince if he were held captive by enemies of the king, or ogres, or if he were at the bottom of a crevasse with broken legs.

She would need shoes, at the very least.

She’d never owned a pair of shoes, but knew that for a long trek, shod feet were better than bare ones. Funny…she always thought her first pair of shoes would be those left on a dead man when her father made the round for corpses. So far, no shoes had been left on the feet of kingdom’s dearly departed. Even the most bloated, stinking, rotting corpse apparently had good shoes worth keeping.

A peddler of footwear had been doing poor business a few stalls down from hers. His children played listlessly behind him on a dirty blanket. She had not seen them eat all day.

“Say, cobbler, I’ll trade you a bushel of potatoes for a pair of sturdy walking shoes. I believe this shall be a trade of benefit for us both,” Sigyn offered.

The peddler looked at his children, who were nearly salivating at the thought of eating their fill of lovely purple potatoes. “That is a generous offer, and I accept.”

“How long will it take for you to fashion a pair of foot coverings worthy of a long trek?” Sigyn asked.

“I have a pair ready now. Ordered but never picked up. My wife sewed the uppers from leather she softened with her own teeth and the soles have been kiln-dried. Though I think they may be too large for your delicate feet, I can stuff them with wool,” the peddler replied.

“I accept. Send your children to my stall to collect a bushel of potatoes. Have them bring my shoes with them, for I wish to leave immediately. And please, may I ask your oldest son to mind my stall while I am away? Any unsold produce may go home at the end of the day with you. He need only take the cart to the garden corner every evening so that my mother can restock it.”

The peddler nodded. “Yes, of course. But, please…your mother is a witch and I do not wish my son to suffer a misunderstanding with her. He is a simple boy and may offend her with his crude manners.”

“No enchantment shall fall upon your son. You have my word on it.”

“Then it is upon the love for my children I wish you much success, Sigyn, of the garden corner,” the peddler replied.

Sigyn smiled sweetly. She had long grown tired of her society’s polite mannerisms and machinations of civility.
What I really want is to dye my hair as blue as wild blackberries and run naked through the corn field. I guess when I exchange the prince for half the kingdom, my half shall be host to those wishing color and nude spectacle.

Convention called for her to seek permission of her parents before passing beyond the boundaries of the city. There was no time for convention.

After instructing the boy on the fine art of selling produce, Sigyn walked to the edge of the city, and took a step beyond the enclave walls with square shoulders and a proud-set chin. So determined was she not to be stopped, and politely questioned by the sentries, that she was certain it was the fire in her eyes that kept them standing in place, mouths agape. She may have been the first woman to cross the boundary unescorted. It just wasn’t done, you see.

Until now.

Lin had been trained to awaken slowly lest a kidnapper’s blade be poised at his throat. No bolting from his bed in joyful happy princely exuberance. The conditioning had been harsh and more than once he’d felt the bite of a razor against his throat as a child. Never sharp enough to slit him from ear to ear, the training had, nevertheless, been effective. He would not rise nor would he fully open his eyes without first surveying the area by smelling the surrounding air and listening for unfamiliar patterns of breath and body movements to ascertain the level of personal safety dawn had gifted him.

He opened his eyes a slit, peering out behind thick eyelashes. A flickering light told him he was inside. The warm air confirmed it. He could feel the heat and hear the crackle and pop of a nearby fire pit. Something wonderful was cooking. It was not his fowl, he was sure of it. The smell was richer and more pungent than wild pheasant. He swallowed hard—wanting to taste a morsel.

He opened one eye cautiously. Certainly there was no blade at his throat, but neither was there any familiar visage.
I am not in the forest. I am
, he opened his other eye.
I am in a cave.

His hands gripped the softest of down comforters tucked around his body. The inside lining of the blanket felt like an endless ocean against his bare flesh.

I’ve been stripped down to my long underwear! Oh, my…where is my bow? My hunting knife? My boots?

A rustling—a flittering movement in the direction of the fire caught his attention. “Who’s there? I say, where am I?”

*

“He wakes, sister,” Ama whispered.

“He wakes. Yes,” Angr replied. “And I have the dice.”

Ama grabbed the dice from her sister’s hand. “I call it. Highest number takes first crack.”

Angr clenched her empty fist shut. “Grabby, eager sister. Were you not my own flesh and blood I would run my skinning knife through your belly and set your entrails on fire as they spill at my feet.”

Ama cast the dice. “Another time, perhaps.” The dice landed on double sixes. “Ah, ha! You cannot best twelve!”

“I can tie, and cause a draw. Then we shall have to move on to the best two out of three,” Angr replied. She tossed the dice.

The ogress sisters hovered over the rolling bones like vultures over something sweet and dying.

Angr quivered with delight as she, too, rolled a twelve. “Let us not waste time drawing lots, sister. Let us go to him together wearing our masks and remember that he is but a puny human.”

Ama nodded. “If he dies before I am satisfied I shall be harsh with you, sister. But I agree. Let’s don our masks and approach him. Comfort him. Seduce him.” She reached into a basket woven from cedar bark and withdrew two masks. One silver. One gold. She offered her sister the golden mask and fitted the silver one over her own horrid ogre face.

As the silver mask touched her blemished, pox-marked flesh, its magic began to work and an illusion took form. An illusion of smooth, supple skin, full lips, round breasts and the odor of woman—not decaying, rotting carrion feeder enveloped her.

Too, did the golden mask transform Angr into a ravishing beauty.

Lin heard their approach.

Though he was not strapped down, he could not move his arms or legs. He strained to turn his head in the direction of the gentle footfalls and delectable perfume emanating from the shadows. “I say there…why am I in this bed obviously deep within a cave? Am I injured? Have I been kidnapped?”

Gold masked Angr sauntered out of the shadows, her hands caressing her own bare breasts. “You are uninjured, sir.”

Lin swallowed hard. Such a body this woman possessed. Such a body he had never seen. Not an inch of her looked malnourished or ill-used. The roundness of her breasts and belly, and her wide hips and fleshy thighs made him tight in the groin. If only he could move! Even if she was his enemy, he would have her. By force, if necessary. “Then why, dear lady, can I not move my limbs?” he asked.

“Because you rest upon an enchanted bed,” Silver masked Ama said, following her sister out of the shadows.

Lin wasn’t sure if he should bless his luck or pray for protection from the succubae hovering over him. He couldn’t see their eyes. They were but small glowing orbs hidden behind the slits of the mask’s eyes. He could see their mouths, however. Hungry lips, smacking and wet. It was the lips of the silver masked demoness he felt first. She tugged away the comforter and kissed his knees. She nibbled her way up to his thighs and long fingers encircled his member.