Defiled Earth and other tales Read online

  “Art thou frightened of me? Her words had a delicate frigidity, as if she was disappointed. Then, without allowing an answer she said “My body—it is pleasing to thine eyes?” She span gracefully on her bare feet, tresses trailing in a rapturous helix.

  I coughed into my hand. “It’s divine,” I said. The truth escaped my lips before I could moderate it with formal etiquette.

  She approached the bars again, my eyes were drawn to a silvery-gold locket suspended from a chain round her neck. But the beauty of its wearer was by far the greater. “So, thou wouldest have me as thy maidservant?”

  Close up, she smelled of pomegranates and icing sugar. My favourite fruit and a confection I associated with many happy hours, baking with Aunt Clarice.

  “I ... I haven’t made my mind up, to tell you the truth.”

  “My name is Cyprian,” she said. “I can cook, clean and entertain. Lord Mandrake holdeth me in high esteem.” As she spoke, her top lip lifted more on one side than the other, a mannerism both unusual and endearing. But I couldn’t fathom her eyes. They were purest white with nothing to suggest that light could enter their smooth orbs. I passed my hand in front of them as a test. “I seest thee with mine inner eyes.” The more she spoke, the more I detected a Scandinavian inflection.

  She extended her hand through the bars toward mine. As she did so, the blood rushed through my ears, and I witnessed myself as one falling toward an uncertain fate.

  “Cyprian. No.” Mandrake’s voice barked from the end of the corridor. He paced towards us, his mouth, post-box grim. “I thought I said no contact.”

  A sheepish ‘sorry’ was all I could muster. Cyprian stepped back, scolded.

  “I’ve told you before, you can’t ingratiate yourself on the customers,” he said to Cyprian. His words sliced the air.

  A chagrined Cyprian put her hands together, bowed and retreated to the back of her cell.

  “I’m sure she meant no harm,” I said.

  Mandrake moved his gaze away from the woman and levelled his eyes on me. “You speak out of ignorance. The Lamia fixate upon humans. If she had touched you, then you would be obliged to purchase her.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s entirely disagreeable to me,” I said, looking over at Cyprian. She wore her smile again.

  “It’s totally out of the question. Lamia require an experienced owner, they have certain attributes and habits that need to be kept under control.”

  “Lamia?” I thought for a moment. “Weren’t they Greek mythological creatures who –”

  “Ate their own children, yes. Cyprian was domesticated before she had the chance to reproduce. Needless to say, their usual failure to see offspring reach adulthood makes them a very rare commodity. Indeed, if it wasn’t for certain elaborate tribal laws, the species would have died out long ago.”

  “I would pay whatever you asked for her.” There. I’d said it. The proverbial fool and his money.

  Mandrake looked me in the eye. “You’re like all the other prospective owners who have seen her. Gullible, naive and totally unsuitable. Lamia beguile the unwary, casting their enchantments at every sensory level. Tell me, Mr Renshaw. What do you see? What do you smell? How does her voice sound to you?”

  I told him using words that seemed far too inadequate.

  “Interesting,” he said. “I, myself see a voluptuous, ochre-skinned beauty wearing a perfume my late wife adored. She speaks in a Lao dialect. A voice that sang me to sleep when, as a child, our Thai housekeeper put us to bed.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “Incredible but true. I have owned Cyprian for many years, and have learned to recognise her wiles. The mistake others make is to believe she is human.”

  “She certainly looks it to me, apart from the eyes, I suppose.”

  “Quite. Make no mistake, though. Cyprian may be the most fastidious and accommodating of servants, but she is also the perfect predator. Now come, I have many more specimens appropriate for a first time buyer.”

  I reluctantly followed Mandrake through another door, taking a last look over my shoulder. Cyprian was at the bars again, looking at me with a longing I had to keep telling myself was manufactured.

  Mandrake showed me creature after creature, each exotic and remarkable in its own way—and each falling short of the glory I had witnessed in the Lamia.

  I was deflated. I tried to feign interest in a Pennsylvanian squonk once owned by the drummer from a celebrated prog rock band, but my mind was drawn back incessantly to the majesty I had seen before.

  Mandrake sensed the slump in my enthusiasm and gave up his sales patter. I can see your heart is set on Cyprian,” he said as we sat in his dilapidated conservatory, overlooking an unkempt garden.

  “Surely we can come to some arrangement?” I said. “I know I’m new to this game, but I’ve a good track record looking after the family estate, its game and its livestock.”

  “I do hear good things about the Renshaw pheasant and grouse shoots. I also hear that their sole surviving heir is spoiled and used to getting what he asks for.” He looked at me with those knowing, owlish eyes.

  “Then you know I’m good for the money,” I said, letting my impetuosity show too readily. “Couldn’t I take her on for a trial period?”

  Mandrake’s lips pressed together.

  “You could draw up a lease agreement,” I said, sensing his hesitation. “I have her for a week, or a month, however long you deem fit. You make an inspection, check I’m looking after her correctly, following the rules so to speak.”

  Mandrake turned to look out of the window. “My latest sale fell through,” he said. That was the buyer on the phone before. He can’t raise the necessary capital for a troupe of Theriocephali I’d acquired for him. Needless to say, I’ve sunk a lot of money into the stock and my cash flow isn’t what you’d call fluid. Mr Renshaw, you may have persuaded me after all.”

  “Stupendous,” I said.

  “Hold on a minute. We haven’t discussed the price or the terms and conditions yet.”

  “So? Lay them out my good fellow.”

  Mandrake opened a bureau drawer and pulled out a large ledger. He put on some reading glasses, opened the ledger near the back and looked at the page, thinking for a moment or two. Finally, he got up and opened the lid of the bureau, found a small notepad and scribbled on it. He passed me the paper and I took it with a hand that was noticeably shaking.

  “My God, are you serious?” I said.

  “I never trifle with clients, Mr Renshaw. The amount is non-negotiable.”

  I walked over to the french windows and looked at the note again, as if more direct light would change the sum to a lesser amount. I was good with numbers. I could work out the profit on anything from trading shares to betting on the gee-gees within a minute—all in my head. After going through the calculations three times, I realised I was going to have to sell our family retreat in North Devon to afford this whimsy of mine.

  It was going to be worth every penny.

  ~ ~ ~

  The following day was a Sunday. Not a traditional trading day, but then, this wasn’t a traditional purchase. Mandrake was accommodating to a tee and arranged for Cyprian to be delivered late morning. The papers Mandrake had drawn up contained a lot of legalese but, most importantly, three conditions:

  One—Cyprian must never go out in public. If any close friends or relatives were exposed to her, they must be sworn to secrecy.

  Two—if she was neglected or abused in any way, should I be unable to contain her carnivorous excesses or if she should escape—then the contract would be void and I would be liable for a redemption fee and recovery costs. Cyprian would return to Mandrake’s ownership and her bond with me broken.

  Three—this last one was the humdinger. I was forbidden to have sexual relations with her.

  “You will be tempted,” said Mandrake, “but once again I tell you—she is not human. Her only desire is
to procreate and then feed on her offspring.”

  There was one more peculiarity. The contract had to be signed in blood. A necessary part of the transferral of bond, Mandrake had said. It was done very clinically, using sterile lancets but, all the same, something at the back of my mind questioned how I had allowed myself to become embroiled. Then I thought of Cyprian again, and the voice of reason was buried in a rock fall of obsession. I left Mandrake’s bestiary a satisfied customer.

  The sound of a Bedford van pulling into the drive brought me back to the present. A dense fog saturated the air and settled as a film on my cardigan. The atmospherics suited my mood and my purpose. Sunday meant that neither Mrs Halfin, the housekeeper, nor Bradshaw were around to see anything. The mist would pull a fortunate veil of secrecy over Cyprian’s arrival.

  The van seemed an unfitting vehicle for the delivery of my treasure. But it provided the perfect cover, according to Mandrake. Be that as it may, I couldn’t bring myself to think of Cyprian as a delivery, despite Mandrake’s admonishments. She was a person in the truest sense. She had intellect, she had emotions. She might not be human, but I was damned if I was going to treat her as a commodity.

  I signed the delivery note and Mandrake’s men lifted a long, oak box from the rear of the vehicle.

  “Where would you like us to put it, squire?” said one of them. A man with social graces to match his pungent body odour.

  “In the games room will be fine. Just watch you don’t knock anything over,” I said with barely concealed impatience.

  “No problem. It’s bulky rather than heavy.” Indeed, the ease with which they lifted the box attested to this. Yet another thing to marvel at. The documentation I’d been given told of the Lamia having pneumatised bones, much akin to a bird’s. They also possessed a remarkable strength. I followed them all in, palms damp with anticipation.

  After placing her on top of a covered snooker table, the delivery men hung back as if waiting for something. After an awkward few seconds, I realised they were hoping to witness the opening of the box. This presumption was a final affront to me and I dismissed them summarily, ignoring their grunts of disapproval.

  I closed the front door and watched from the window as the hearse pulled away.

  I had her all to myself.

  My heart thumped in my ears like a Native American war drum as I approached the coffin. There was no sound of movement within. What if she had expired? There appeared to be no ventilation holes in the casket and a panic gripped me as I fumbled with the brass catches. I lifted the lid, hardly daring to look upon what I might find. But there she was, her eyes open, a bewitching smile on her face.

  “Welcome to my home,” I said, feeling a tingle of euphoria in my mind and my loins.

  Chapter 3

  A week passed like a mayfly’s lifespan. A week in which Cyprian became used to her freedom, and I tried to relate to her as a familiar of sorts. Mandrake was right. This Lamian was a devoted retainer and an engaging conversationalist. After rising from slumber—late—as was my wont, I would stumble into the dining room to find my breakfast already laid out for me.

  This came as quite a surprise on the first morning. It would be later that I grew warmly accustomed to Cyprian’s attentions.

  “I knoweth not whether my Lord took a cooked breakfast or eateth as they do on the continent,” she said, “so I prepared both.” She lowered her gaze to the floor deferentially. I approved of the chiffon skirt she wore, although I was disconcerted to see that she didn’t clothe herself above the waist. Her hair, naturally straight, rose over the swell of her breasts, effectively concealing her modesty—at least partly. She moved about the room like a passing breeze, her hair lifting occasionally as she served me coffee and toast. My eyes, voyeuristic, followed her movements, perversely hoping that her rippling tresses would reveal more than the occasional curve of her bosom. She busied herself about the range, cracking open eggs into a pan and flipping hash browns and smoked bacon alternately.

  “Won’t you join me?” I said, attempting small talk.

  “I have eaten,” she said, simply.

  “Where did you find–”

  “Thy grounds provide ample rabbit and deer.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Forgive me for not providing you with something more ... fitting.” My words sounded clumsy, but she looked over her shoulder and smiled. “The Lamia are survivors. Thou needeth not concern thyself, my Lord.”

  She had done it again. One moment she disturbed my aristocratic sensibilities with her feral nature, and the next, disarmed me with her innocent charm.

  “Was your bed comfortable?”

  “I am unused to such luxuries after spending sixteen years on the hard palette in my cell. I slept a dreamless sleep.”

  “Splendid,” I said and filled my mouth with eggs and bacon.

  Mrs Halfin and the other staff were surprised to learn I had given them the week off on full pay.

  “Are you sure you’ll manage?” said Mrs Halfin. You’ve never fended for yourself before.” This was true, but I didn’t want anyone around.

  I felt like a conniving schoolboy, but she didn’t take much persuading. The remaining staff were more than happy too.

  After breakfast, Cyprian and I had gone for a walk through the grounds. The sun shone hotly in an azure sky fleeced with passing clouds, and insects buzzed in the borders filled with hollyhocks and delphiniums. I couldn’t remember a day when I had been happier. I watched with delight as she bent to smell a flowerhead, her expression one of child-like wonder.

  “Do you like flowers?” I asked her.

  “I revel in the freedom to taste and smell the outside air again.” She lifted her head as if savouring the sweetness of my garden. “Thou knowest that my imprisonment in Mr Mandrake’s house was almost unbearable?”

  “I must confess I hadn’t thought too much about it. You seemed quite content when I met you.”

  “The only light I knew was that which came from the windows, the sweat and waste of the other creatures filled my nostrils constantly. We Lamia were not meant to be treated so.”

  I took her hand in mine, cupping it protectively. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, I was treated as well as any. But being confined was a punishment.”

  I was moved that she held on to my hand. “Well, you’re free to roam my house and grounds as you will. Only never go beyond the walled perimeter. I must adhere to the conditions of Mandrake’s contract—otherwise he’ll take you back.”

  “I would not allow myself to place thee in such a position, my Lord. I will do thy bidding.”

  We walked further into the woods and I told her about my ancestors; how they had truly been lords of the land, building Renshaw house and securing its borders during the reign of the Stuarts. She listened attentively, asking questions often and pointing out the scurrying of squirrels and the hopping of frogs with her keen senses, long before I could have detected them. She seemed like a child at play, marvelling in every sight and sound of the forest.

  I learned that she was deliberately summoned from a place she knew only as Neverwhere. “I was only a fledgeling when I was called,” she recounted. “I kneweth not my parents. I only remember that mine homeland was a place of deep, velvet shade and security.”

  “It sounds idyllic.”

  “That it was. Sometimes, at night, I hear the haunting cries of my kindred. I knowest they are not real, but I let them fill my dreams when loneliness wraps my soul.”

  “You don’t need to be lonely any more,” I ventured.

  She looked at me with porcelain eyes. “Thou art my Lord and Master, for that I am grateful. I knowest that I shall not want.”

  “You don’t understand,” I tried to say, but her attention was taken elsewhere all of a sudden.

  “Doest thou like honey, my Lord?”

  “I suppose I do,” I said, mildly irritated at the turn of the conversation.

&nbs
p; “Up there,” she said, pointing.

  I looked at the crest of a pine tree, shielding my eyes from the sun overhead. “I can’t see anything. Where are you looking?”

  “Just above that branch. The one with three bunches of cones. Thou cannot hear their buzzing?”

  I squinted for a minute or more and eventually spotted two or three pinpricks lazily circling a paper-thin cone, nestled in the crook of the branch. Now I had my bearings I could see others approaching from a distance, no doubt carrying their small but significant burden of bee bread and nectar.

  “Wild honey,” she said. “Always the sweetest.”

  My wonder at this marvel of nature was quickly surpassed by what I saw next. Cyprian crouched on all fours and leaped forward with the speed of a cheetah. She covered the distance between ourselves and the tree with three effortless bounds and launched herself at its trunk. How she hung on to the resinous bark I shall never know, but she ascended the pine, circling the trunk in a manner both tameless and refined.

  Her elegance left me breathless.

  I found myself laughing. “Take care,” I shouted. “Those things sting.”

  She ignored me and peeled back the layers on the hive with fingers that evoked memories of an eagle ripping apart a leveret for its young. I don’t mind admitting I was somewhat shocked at the emergence of her animal nature and, in a rare moment of lucidity, told myself that I really knew nothing at all about this creature. The honey she scooped out sent the bees into a frenzy and, even from this distance, I could see that some had sunk their abdominal shafts into her arms, her face and her legs. This didn’t seem to bother her at all. She descended, one-handed to the forest floor again.

  “Strewth, you’ll be puffing up with a hundred swellings shortly,” I said, staring at the needle points jutting out of her skin. “I must get you back to the house.”

  “It is nothing,” she replied. “Here.” She pulled the honeycomb apart, and placed some of the sticky liquid into my mouth.