Crypteia
Stephen W. Cote
Copyright Stephen W. Cote 2011
Published at Smashwords
Also Available in Nothing Like Heaven, Smashwords, 2011
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Crypteia
All is tranquil in the resplendence of the Everlasting. Suspicious vagaries are displaced with dispassionate verisimilitude. Vexations slumber to meditation on antiquated canon. Women yield to men and slaves to their masters. All commune and celebrate the Everlasting.
Someone pushes a woman to the ground, her knees protruding through a crude shift hem, scraping course gravel. Putrescent funk falls on her shoulders. A man whose eyes she has never met splays fingers on her crown, combs her hair, and to her lips presents his palm.
Puckering, she submits a wet kiss on his pale and varicose veined flesh. Red and pussy drops leech from his homespun and purple-dyed cotton sleeve, splashing her collar.
Their witness, a man draped in achromatic cloth, proffers a copper boat repoussed in iconography. He recites testament and tips the spout. Hot oil strikes her head and she smells sweet perfume as it flows through her hair.
Both men anoint her dreadlocked hair and smear oil on her forehead.
Tatter-clothed slaves hoot and slap cacophonies across hectares of barren soil.
The two men separate, and she leans forward and lays her forehead on the gravel. The witness walks behind her and takes her shift in hand. He folds the fabric over her back and exposes her buttocks and thighs to the arid air. He unknots the rag tied around her waist, and crouches behind her.
He pushes her thighs apart and she feels his breath against her skin.
Hot oil dribbles across her naked flesh, and the witness declares her "Righteous and fit for this union."
The witness stands and invites the man to "Rightfully consummate, before this witness and in the loving gaze of the Everlasting, this sacred union."
Behind her subservient repose, his hands, aged and palsied, fumble to position himself. Weight descends across her back, fingers knot her ruddy dreadlocks, and his bestial appendage strikes. The initial motion is formative and abrasive until her body acquiesces, and his thrusting grows rabid. He waits, as must she, bound for witness.
He pulls free, scuffs her face against the gravel.
Turning her cheek to the ground, she spies the face of their witness. Pale and corpulent jowls tug his bulbous lips from tiny brown teeth. Consigned to serve, to never raise her eyes to her betters, she clenches them shut.
The witness lays the sole of his foot across her upturned face. Aloud to the assembly he proclaims witness to and support of "This blessed union, and by decree her contract be sealed to his ownership, and she be forever embraced by the Everlasting in celestial matrimony."
She deduces the entire experience is - typical - in the amaranthine glare of righteousness.
Eventually, her now-husband’s separation permits motion. She resumes her submissive kneel, adjusts her shift, and directs her eyesight to the ground.
She feels his hands on her shoulders.
His palm caresses her chest and settles on her stomach. To the witness he says, "By the grace of the Everlasting may I be blessed with child."
The witness lays his palm atop her head and strokes the oiled dreadlocks. "Such a holy union for only one man," He says to her husband.
Her husband gathers together a procession and leads them to his house.
She waits, knowing to follow behind her husband, behind the servants, behind the slaves and after the animals.
With her husband drifting out of earshot, the witness crouches beside her. "You’ll find your husband to be - accommodating - with his property."
She tightens her lips. "I am inclined to serve at his bequest."
The witness looms over her head. "Tonight then, you will attend my room."
"Tonight," she says, "I am nameless. My sister wives await, whence they will bestow me with a name befitting my place so that our child may be sealed righteously with the Everlasting."
Her husband beckons the witness, and the witness says in departure, "I wonder if further - prayer - is required of you prior to your trivial festivities."
"At his bequest," she says.
The wedding procession gathers and heads to a distant stone wall, beyond which, she assumes, is her new home. The slaves hoist their tools to their shoulders and some herd stray sheep from the rocky farmland.
A sickly spider limps across the ground and struggles atop her hand. She busies herself watching it taste with its proboscis her dirty and tanned skin
She waits until the sun meets the horizon. She stands, brushes dirt from her scraped knees, and fetches the rag and knots it around her waist. The veil she ties across her forehead and the spider she cups, safely, in her palm.
Trudging barefoot across the sterile waste, she sees slaves tilling rock and emaciated sheep nosing through gravel. At the wall, smooth gray stone rises as high as the adjacent cliff. Legible in faint lines she deciphers protective symbology: Death, famine, and fractured lines crisscross pestilence.
She approaches the pestilence ward and studies the marred symbols. The spider crawls between her fingers and she lowers her hand. It disembarks.
"You," A man calls. "What -"
And he walks, with hurried steps, towards her. "Look here, child."
She raises her eyes and sees a kindly face splotched in red. "I am his bride," she says.
"Yes, I attended the ceremony. You dally on your wedding day. The gate has closed for the night. Come."
He leads her whence he came and stops beside the stone. "Here," he taps the surface. "Remember it well, and mind the sun, for the door remains closed at night."
She bows, saying, "I beg forgiveness."
"Hurry up."
Not certain whether she should be able to see a passage in the stone, she takes a step forwards. Where she anticipates her toe striking rock it passes unobstructed and she continues, methodically, until she stands at the opposite side.
Dilapidated shacks sprawl in a half moon around a lodge. Servants and slaves trudge through the muddy street. A statue, twice as tall as she, sculpted in angelic relief on the cliff face, bears a trumpet.
A woman grabs her arm. "There you are, dawdling." She pulls her towards a shack, untidy even by local standards. She opens the door and pushes her inside.
The woman follows, closes the door, and slaps her.
She counts eight warts on the woman’s wrist by the second cuff, which knocks her veil to the floor. She looks down. "I beg you: Forgive me."
"I didn’t expect him to find a virgin of marrying age." She shakes her head. "And someone," she takes her hands and spreads her arms, "Who has barely finished filling out."
The woman looks about the shack. "Here we have rules. You mind your obedience, especially to the prophet and his witness, and we sister wives. You sleep and eat here. Study scripture here."
She nods. "I read -"
"The scriptures have been revised with testimony," the woman says. "If our husband has the mind to call on you, you make sure one of the wives know about your encounter."
She points in the direction of the house.
And the woman pushes her hand down. "No baby, no big house. Scripture. Scripture and testament and witnesses are good for babies."
"You’re job is the prophet’s baby." She raises her hand but withdraws a pending slap. "Old enough for marriage, maybe, but you’re too young, you know, to be - in this position."
The woman puts her arm around her shoulder and draws her close. She squeezes her arm, smiles. "You’re a wiry one. Muscular, strong." But, her smile fades and she studies her eyes. "Clear eyes, yes, but hollow -"
"I am Mathilda, seventh wife. What’s your name?"
"I am nameless -"
Mathilda’s hand flies up.
"Aossi."
Mathilda squinted.
"Ess - Shee," she pronunciated.
"Aossi, are you vampire? Werewolf?" she asked, and then shook her head. "You were married in the sunlight. An automaton, as written by our witness to accompany a celestial templar?" She paused. "No, he would have noticed when witnessing your - nuptials."
"A templar?
"No," Mathilda said, "Templars are men."
Mathilda faced the door. "Stay here until I fetch you." She looked over her shoulder. "Here the night belongs to the Wrath. You may busy yourself with prayer, starting with a recitation of a ward to spare us your stupidity."
"It’s nice to -" but she didn’t finish, and left.
Aossi sat on the edge of the ratty cot and, upon seeing the spider limp beneath the door; a soft smile crossed her lips.
"I like her," she told the spider, and picked up the book of scripture. "And, I shall pray for her."
She curled up on the cot, revised scripture in hand, and read by a soft beam of light shining through the window, which she imagined was blessed by the Everlasting.
Come morning: Upon a rusty hinge the shack door swung through the spider’s burgeoning web. An older woman attired in a grimy blue dress stomped in on muddy boots.
Aossi, having slept without pillow or blanket, and curled up with the bundle of scripture, straightened her legs and pulled her shift hem down.
"What is this?" The woman shouted.
She fetched a broom and pitched it at the cot. "Here we live as the Everlasting intended - clean."
"Well now, here we are," the woman said. She raised her toe and pressed her cankled foot against Aossi’s chin. "Look at me."
Aossi raised her head. The woman was heavy, but not overly so. Acne had long ago pitted her butter-toned complexion. She saw the spider leap from the doorframe to a natted curl, plunge its legs through the strands, and retrieve a louse.
"Well? Go on, explain yourself?"
"I like your hair," Aossi said.
"Stand up."
She pushed herself up. The spider, meanwhile, crawled behind the woman’s ear and raised two legs.
"How old are you?" the woman said.
"I am - " Aossi paused to watch the spider sink its fangs into the woman’s flesh. "What is your name?"
"Impertinent cuss, I am the prophet’s sixth wife. That should suffice anyone who has yet born his child sealed with the Everlasting."
She took a step back, slipped her hand into a pocket, and removed a lump, which she dropped on the floor. "Breakfast. Fit enough, I think, for an impertinent girl."
She turned, opened the door, and stalked out. The spider scurried up a lead of silk to the doorframe.
Aossi picked up the lump, thinking it to be a moldy root, and placed it on a small table beside the cot.
She sat upon the cot, picked up the scripture, and read. After reading a book of testimonial addendum, she swept and cleaned the shack. Later, she studied the revised scripture. There were many subtle alterations and entire new books.
A flurried knock preceded the door squeaking open and revealing three women in dirty shifts. They entered the shack and closed the door. One woman brandished a large knife.
Aossi knelt.
"Stand," a tall, older woman commanded. Her skin appeared leathery from sun and hard labor.
She stood. The spider limped across the doorframe and crouched.
"I am Helena," the woman said. "They are Julip," she indicated the one holding the knife. "And Clara. Sister wife Alysa has fallen ill. We have come to - pray."
Clara, a buxomous woman with enormous girth, asked, "What is your name?"
"I am nameless in my celestial obedience to the Everlasting."
Helena stepped forward. "Don’t sass us. Speak up."
"Aossi."
The women clucked amongst themselves. The spider leaped to their lice-infested heads.
"Am I to attend chores?" Aossi asked, pointing at the knife. "Or," delicately, "To nuptials?"
"No," Julip said, and Aossi saw that her grip turned red around the handle.
"Where were you born, that your hairstyle is desirable?" Helena asked.
"Beyond the southern mountain. Aes Sídhe."
The spider resumed its perch on the doorframe.
Julip raised the knife. The blade wavered in her tight grip. "There is nothing beyond our temple but Wrath and those undeserving of the Everlasting."
Clara lay her hand over Julip’s, and said, "Gentle, sister wife." She took the blade, lowered it, and stepped close to Aossi. She said, "The Wrath surrounds us. Only testimonies from the prophet and the witness, and our obedience to the Everlasting, protect us."
Shadows fell across the entrance. Two women entered.
"What transpires here?" one woman said.
"I -" Clara said.
The woman pushed past Clara, the spider leaped to her head as she passed. She pushed Clara aside, saying, "Sister Alysa has passed to the loving embrace of the Everlasting," and she demanded of Aossi, "Show your subservience."
The spider latched onto the woman’s neck. Julip saw the spider, squealed, and swiped it to the floor.
Clara threw the knife at the spider and the blade clattered across the floorboards.
"You," the woman said to Aossi, "Reside with pestilence, erstwhile Syster Alysa passes?"
"No." Aossi crouched and knelt. "I am virtuous," she said, and swept the spider into her hand. "Am I not sealed to the prophet in celestial matrimony?" She picked up the knife.
Four women stood, faces draining of color. The woman whom the spider did not bite backed away.
"Which wife are you?" Aossi asked, extending her hand to the retreating woman.
"Bethany, the prophet’s first," she answered, and Aossi determined her to be the eldest in appearance, though her skin was fairer than Helena’s.
Aossi took another step.
Bethany backed into the door. "Succubus?"
Aossi walked between the four women. "Why do you imagine me so ill?" She lifted the blade, the spider balancing on the precipice.
"A party," Bethany said and pointed with her elbow at the door. "A festival for your union with the prophet. That is why we came." She sank to her knees and raised clasped and steepled hands. She cinched her eyes shut. "Everlasting be praised, don’t kill me, witch."
"Yes, a witch," Julip said, though, like the other three, appeared unable to move.
"I am only here to serve the prophet," Aossi said and lowered the knife tip. She touched Bethany’s head, stroked a lock of hair.
The spider slinked to the end of the knife and jumped to Bethany’s chest.
Bethany inhaled deeply and recited a prayer to ward pestilence. The spider crawled up her pleated shift and bit the nape of her neck.
Aossi knelt before Bethany and took the first wife’s hand in hers. She said, "Believe me, sister wife, when I say: I am only a girl becoming a woman."
She released Bethany’s hand and took the spider from the woman’s neck.
"I don’t want to die," Bethany said.
Aossi stood, opened the door and said, "As the prophet awaits me, I should be about my marital duties." She left the shack and closed the door behind her.
Outside, a table was set in the muddy cul-de-sac between the shacks and the lodge. In the twilight, a blanket of candlelight draped the table. The prophet sat at the head, the witness to his right, and Mathilda further down. The remaining seats remained empty, Aossi thought, for the five wives in the shack. Two slaves waited the table, and, otherwise, the street had been cleared.
"Dearest fertile loam," said the prophet, her husband. "Have my wives sent you ahead," and he laid his arms across the table and pushed aside a plate and goblet, "To sate the procreatal urge sent unto me by the Everlasting?"
Aossi walked and swung her hips, as she had seen her mother perform for her father, in a place and time past. The knife she held behind her back.
Upon negotiating the ankle deep and sewered mud, she knelt before her husband and lay low to the ground’s putrescence.
The prophet took hold of her arms and invited her to rise and, following his leadership, sat upon and lay back on the banquet table. The witness drew her shift up and placed his hands on the knotted rag around her waist.
The spider crept from a fold in her cloth and bit his wrist.
"What - " the prophet said.
Aossi swept her right foot across the prophet’s shorn cheek and caught his neck in a legged vice. She raised the knife and speared his throat.
"Shhhh," she said to her husband. "Now your temple is immortal in the grace of the Everlasting."
"Are you mad?" the witness said, though did not move.
Aossi turned to face him, and then looked at Mathilda. But it was night and the Wrath was at the gate.
She slid from the table and began walking to the stone wall.
"Take me," Mathilda wailed, "For I cannot live without him."
"Madness!" the witness said. "Do not open the door."
Her heart raced and her face flushed. She ignored them and soon found the stony area through which she’d passed. Over her shoulder she said, "I was but a girl in the grandness of the Everlasting."
She stepped through the door, leaving behind her exsanguinating husband and paralyzed witness and sister wives, and walking into the Wrath.
A soldier of damnation and hellfire ceased berating the warded stone wall and turned his blade upon Aossi.
"Girl, what foolishness is this? You should be agoge."
She said, "Today, brother, I am a woman, for using only a slave’s rag and a spider have I slain a celestial family."
"Sister!" the man said. "You bring pride to our family in your ascent into adulthood."
Aossi smiled. Now recognized as a woman, she returned to the loving and familial embrace of the Wrath.
About the Author
Hello and thank you for reading. My name is Stephen W. Cote. I am a Software Engineer and Consultant, a United States Marine, a martial artist, and an author. You can find more information about my early creative writing and ongoing open source projects on whitefrost.com. I enjoy writing hard and whimsical science fiction, adult fantasy, and poetry. As an early advocate of Creative Commons licensing, many of my short stories and poems have been available online since 1996.
If you enjoyed this story, or my other free stories, you may also be interested in my fantasy novel, Harlot's Eight, or my short story collection Nothing Like Heaven.
If you would like to learn more about my writing, open source projects such as the Hemi JavaScript Framework, or inquire about unpublished manuscripts and shorts, please contact me at whitefrost.com.
Thank you for taking the time to read my work and I hope you enjoy it.