Chapter 23 - The Wedding Night
Ben was prepared for a long and detailed discussion about the Delphic Order of the Nisirtu and man’s destiny. There were many things to be said and many questions to be asked now that he accepted the reality that had been thrust upon him. The researcher planned on spending the rest of the evening quizzing Lilian, Ridley, and even Fiela about not only the Nisirtu, but also his own role in the events to come.
Yet this plan evaporated the moment he opened the door to his bedroom. Inside, Lilian and Fiela stood beside one another at the foot of the bed, nude except for thin, foot-long silk cloths that dangled on gold chains beneath their navels, and shimmering broad collars that were as wide as their shoulders and extended from their necks to the swell of their breasts.
Lilian’s collar consisted of brilliant, glowing gold rods that radiated from her neck like rays of the sun, with pearls, diamonds, and other precious stones dotting the bars like orbiting planets. The collar around Fiela’s neck was slightly smaller, and silver, but far more intricate, like a luminous spider web. Rubies flowed from her neck to her chest like streams of blood.
Both women had applied thick black eyeliner and around that an additional layer some kind of black makeup. It was a look he’d seen many times before in movies set in ancient Egypt. Cleopatras, he thought, while doubting that the fabled beauty of the ancient Greek queen could match that of either of the two women in front of him.
The room was illuminated by dozens of candles and the women stood barefoot on a mat of woven palm leaves upon which glitter had been liberally sprinkled. No, not glitter. Gold dust. An odd but pleasant scent, earthy and sweet, permeated the air.
“Mutu,” said Lilian, lifting Fiela’s right breast with her nearest hand, “behold your wife and serretu, Fiela, Nocte Sicarius, Peth of the Fifth Kingdom, Protector of the Nisirtu, and Vanquisher of the Maqtu.”
Ben opened his mouth to say something super witty, but Fiela spoke first.
“Mutu,” she said, smiling and reaching out to cup and lift Lilian’s left breast, “behold your asatu, Lilitu of Sargon, Regis Filia, Rightful Annasa of the Fifth Kingdom, Dominus of the Ardoon, Savior of the Nisirtu, and Vanquisher of the Maqtu.” She was playfully flicking Lilian’s nipple with her thumb as she recited the titles, which was apparently unscripted given Lilian’s sideways glance at her.
Ben saw the area below Lilian’s navel was decorated by series of tiny scarlet tattoos. Cuneiform-Nouveau, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure in the dim light.
He took a step forward. “Am I supposed to say or do something here?”
“Oh yes, Mutu, you’re supposed to do something,” replied Fiela. “A couple of things, actually.”
Lilian took a step forward so that Fiela could move behind her and unclasp the golden broad collar. “This was the collar of Queen Nebu,” the princess said, lifting her hair in the back. “It has not been worn for three thousand years. Fiela’s collar once belonged to Queen Veradil. The Ardoon experts claim other pedigrees for both collars, but they are wrong, as usual.”
Ben said, “They’re both impressive but nothing compared to either of you.”
The women merely smiled, because, he knew, they were aware of their own beauty. In fact, they were both so perfect that he was unsure who to compare them to. Movie stars? Models? No, that would be like comparing the diamonds around Lilian’s neck to shards of glass. He’d never seen any woman in any medium as gorgeous as either Lilian or Fiela at that moment, though the two had distinctive body types. Lilian was perhaps two inches taller than Fiela, and curvier. Fiela sported a swimmer’s build, though her shoulders were not as broad or accentuated as an Olympian’s. The muscles in her arms, legs, and stomach were visible but only barely so. The dim light concealed the faded scars of battle he had once spied on her flesh.
Fiela took Lilian’s collar to a wooden box that had been placed on a dresser. After carefully placing the artifact inside its case and closing the lid she moved to a giant four-poster bed and turned down the covers. Lilian walked toward it and Fiela returned with a golden cup in her hand, which she handed to Ben.
From the bed, Lilian said, “The cup is the cup of my father, King Sargon. It and the ring are all I have of his. It is tradition that we should share wine from the same cup when a union between Nisirtu is established.”
Ben studied the vessel in the candlelight. Unlike the ring, it seemed a fairly simple affair, with a few cuneiform markings around the rim but no other inscriptions. He shrugged, took a sip of the wine and handed it back to Fiela. The girl accepted it and drank deeply from it before taking the cup to Lilian, who swirled her finger in the wine before drinking it and setting the cup on a nightstand.
She looked at Ben lustily. “Done. Come here, Mutu.”
Later, Ben lay on his side and watched as Lilian, her eyes closed, mumbled something in Agati. A prayer? Was she religious, he wondered? Superstitious? He knew nothing of the religious practices of the Nisirtu, and in fact had assumed they had none, but at that moment he remembered Fiela telling him she had glimpsed ‘the underworld.’
Fiela approached the bed, having somehow removed her own broad collar. The black makeup around her violet eyes gave her an otherworldly appearance, an effect magnified by the fact that her eyes literally seemed to glow in the dark, like a cat’s.
“Transaction complete?” she asked.
“Um, yeah,” said the man.
The Peth climbed onto the bed and laid one cheek against Lilian’s stomach so that her face was just inches from the odd, scarlet tattoos, and she caressed the flesh in front of her reverently. Only then did Ben see that in addition to the tattoos beneath Lilian’s navel there were tiny red cuneiform symbols inked in circles on each breast. He had not seen them before because of the room’s dim lighting and the urgency of his lust. The sleeping woman continued to utter words he did not understand.
“Lilian, you okay?” he asked.
“She cannot answer,” said Fiela. “She is wandering the ether.”
“She’s what?”
The girl kissed the woman’s stomach. “She’s high, Mutu. It is her wedding night and she must visit the invisible planes of the gods. She placed the requisite herbs in her wine to achieve that purpose. Don’t worry. They are mild and will only last an hour or so.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “How many gods do you have, Ben? Shall I make them mine?”
The man, surprised at this line of questioning, said, “I’ve only got the one, I guess. I’m what you might call a ‘bad Christian.’ You know, I go through the motions, but I’ve got more questions than answers and don’t believe half of what I say I believe.”
“That is the same for me,” said Fiela. “I think that is why my gods ignore me and the underworld rejects me. They’re really beginning to piss me off. I think I need a new god. Would you like me to be a bad Christian? It does not sound very difficult.”
Ben laughed. “Fiela, I want you to be whatever you want to be. I’m in no position to dictate your faith to you, having so little myself. I’m pretty sure what I’m doing tonight is verboten. Anyway,” he said, nodding at Lilian, “what is the point of this ritual?”
Fiela said, “To seek an unborn soul.”
Ben froze. “Wait,” he said, his heart skipping a beat, “she’s not on birth control?”
“Of course not,” answered Fiela, as if the question surprised her. “You must trust your wife. She is wise and will find the strongest and bravest soul and will entice it to return with her. See the rewards she promises?” asked the Peth, running a finger along the scarlet tattoos. “A warm and loving womb and milk that is like honey. The milk of royal blood. The ether is extremely cold. Many souls will plead to return with her.”
Ben let out an anguished moan and watched Lilian’s lips move purposefully yet silently. Beneath their lids, her eyes darted rapidly back and forth. Searching, just as Fiela said.
What have you done this time, Ben?<
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Fiela rose to her knees. “You have met your obligation to my sister, husband. Now you must attend to me.”
“Ah,” said Ben, “I’m sorry, Fiela, but under the circumstances…”
“The circumstance is that it is our wedding night, and I am your serretu, and our marriage is not yet consummated. Mutu, I will not get pregnant. I may not until Lilian conceives or a year has passed and she consents that I serve as surrogate. In truth, it is doubtful that Lilian can find the proper soul tonight. The timing is not good.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, spying a ray of hope in the girl’s words.
“Her cycle begins this week. Normally a marriage is scheduled to avoid such a conflict but circumstances did not allow it.”
Ben felt the weight of the ancient world lifted from his shoulders and fell back to the bed. Feeling grateful, humiliated, idiotic, and guilty, he mumbled, “Thank you, Fiela. I almost had a heart attack.”
“Is your mind at ease, then?”
The man nodded. “I mean it’s not that I don’t want children. I do. Someday. But, wow…” He looked at her, ashamed. “I’m ranting, huh?”
Fiela studied him with her glowing eyes for a long time before letting out a deep breath and rising from the bed. “Your enthusiasm has left you, husband. I shall wait until you are ready for me.”
She pulled a blanket over Lilian’s body and kissed her gently on the shoulder before slipping beneath the sheets herself. Relieved but also feeling a little guilty, Ben lay down on the other side of the forbidden princess, who continued to mumble incoherently.
He said, “Sorry, Fiela,” and reached over Lilian to stroke the Peth’s cheek. “And, thanks, really.”
The girl managed a brief smile. “You are welcome, Mutu. Truly.”
She shuffled forward and put an arm around Lilian before scooping Ben’s hand into her own. She kissed it softly, and they slept.
Ben dreamed.
There was a castle. A glorious and horrible crystal cathedral that reached miles into the sky, its walls stained red by the black light of twin suns shining through a sinister sky of purple fractus clouds. A king sat inside the castle, a king that had once dreamt of another world, a world much like Ben’s. A king who thought himself a god.
There was a man with Ben, pointing out the castle, as if it was great importance, but he only remembered the man’s outstretched arm and baritone voice. His words were lost, though Ben felt like they were words of warning. Something like, “Be careful, he has seen you now,” though not exactly that. The voice was not Ridley’s, yet he felt Ridley’s presence.
There was something, too, about a war.
“Hurry,” said the man he could not see. “They are coming!”
Then a toilet flushed, and Ben awoke to see Lilian stumbling through the blackness toward the bed.
Part 4 - September 24th
The only saving grace of the present is that it’s too damned stupid to question the past very closely.
H.P. Lovecraft, Pickman’s Model