| The
prehistoric temples of Mnajdra and Hagar
Qim on Malta provided the setting for Wild
Thyme, Bitter Honey; whilst Reflections
in a Dark Pool was based on a
woodland spring in the English Lake
District. |
|
Watery Grave
Taste Test #6
Torquere Press
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Three
darkly erotic horror stories based in, on, or
around water, and featuring ancient myths and
legends.
In Bloodsucker,
a man swims in a forest pool and kills the leech
he finds clinging to his leg, much to the
displeasure of the Leech King who lives in the
pool. Reflections in a Dark Pool
involves a hidden spring at Samhain, and the
mysterious effect falling into the water has on
two mens' lives. And in Wild Thyme, Bitter
Honey, a young novitiate at a prehistoric
temple on Malta discovers his fate on the cliffs
overlooking the sea.
Mystical,
powerful and emotional, Watery Grave will leave
you wanting to dive into more. And afraid to go
near the water!
See the Torquere Press catalogue to buy
your copy today.
Hajar
could hear the music the minute he left the
temple door -the breathy, beguiling wail of a
reed flute. The simple notes rose and fell on the
hot air like wind over the dry grass at the edge
of the cliff and he paused, caught between the
desire to find the source and obedience to his
chores. He still had the goats to muck out, and
grain and water and wine to fetch, and a myriad
other tasks the priests demanded of him every
day. But that music... It called to him, quiet
yet insidious, unlike any music he'd heard at the
temple before. He knew the throb of drums that
accompanied the sacred coupling twice a year, or
the clash of cymbals as another goat was killed,
but that was all. He paused on the threshold
stone, already warm from the sun's glare even so
soon after dawn, and then he grinned. The goats
could wait. He would escape for a while and find
the magician who conjured such music up out of
the ground.
He
scampered barefoot down the steep path to the
cliff top, past the rough-hewn steps and the deep
bowls carved straight into living rock that held
burning incense during the priests' processions.
He'd be taking part in one himself soon enough,
the cloying smell leading him on his journey to
the Otherworld and the joys that awaited him
there. He shook his head, long hair flying in the
wind. He didn't want to think about that just
yet.
The
path led down to the second temple where humped
white roofs huddled into a natural dip in the
cliffs. The elders said this temple was even
older than his own, but he didn't know if that
was true because he'd never been allowed to visit
it before. It represented the goddess, with rooms
and altars that formed head and breasts and great
wide hips, and only a man could pass through the
entrance to discover the mysteries of womanhood
within. Well, he was a man now, and would
discover the mysteries himself in a day or two,
but he still didn't want to think about it. His
friends told tales of fat priestesses too bloated
to move, whose breasts hung down to their
stomachs and whose stomachs overflowed their
legs. It was supposed to be alluring, but when
Hajar thought about it he just felt sick. All
that flesh, all those ripe flowing curves -he
felt he would be lost within their folds and
never escape their soft, clinging grasp.
He
shook his head again, and deliberately stepped
off the path. He would not go that way just yet.
He'd find his way to the cliffs straight across
the rock -the vast white pavement of rock, split
by gullies and pocketed with the low green mounds
of herbs. He could smell the wild thyme now as it
basked and baked in the sun -a sweet yet savoury
scent that reminded him he hadn't eaten since the
previous night. His stomach growled suddenly and
he wished he'd thought to steal an orange before
he left. But that would have displeased the
priests even more. He would probably be beaten as
it was, for neglecting his chores. He shrugged
and headed toward the sharp white line where the
land stopped and the sky began. The music was
louder here, snatches of tune blowing inland on
the ever-present wind. It seemed to be coming
from beyond the cliff, but that was impossible.
It must be a trick of the wind.
Leaping
surefootedly from one rocky foothold to the next
he gained the cliff top at last, and stood
looking out to sea. That vast blue mantle held
the island in its grasp, vivid and inescapable
whichever way you looked. Here in the south the
land rose up in great rocky walls straight from
the foaming surf. Elsewhere he'd been told it was
gentler, with lapping waves and sandy shores
where the fishermen landed their boats, but Hajar
had never seen such things. He'd served in the
temple since he was six years old and before that
he'd grown up on his father's farm, helping to
scratch a living from the thin dusty soil. The
crops had failed three years out of five when he
was a small child, and families all over the
island had given up their sons to the temple in
the hope the goddess would hear their prayers.
The rains hadn't failed for twice that number of
years now, so the sacrifice must have worked. He
was grateful for that, even if his life wasn't
what he'd have chosen for himself.
He
wandered along the cliff edge, his feet following
a faint trail amongst the rocks left by long-ago
flocks of sheep or goats. The sun seared his
unprotected back; the only shade around here was
the temples themselves but it was sometimes good
to get away from their cool dim depths and savour
the warmth and light outside. A drop of sweat
trickled between his shoulder blades, tickling
the skin just where it was out of reach. He
squirmed, and felt it slither further down,
pooling in the small of his back before soaking
into his kilt. Another followed, and a third, and
a small damp patch grew just above the cleft of
his arse, cool against his skin. It felt good for
some reason, like a finger stroking the length of
his back, and he flexed his shoulders and tried
to ignore the sudden tension at his crotch.
There'd be plenty of time for that in the days
ahead...
There
was still no sign of the musician although the
reed flute's notes were very loud. Hajar peered
along the cliff but there was nobody else about
-and nowhere for a person to hide. Perhaps the
music was coming from the sea itself. He edged
forward, craning his neck to try to see without
over-balancing and falling to his death, but the
cliffs here bulged outwards and blocked the view.
Finally, he dropped to the ground and wormed
forward like a snake until he could see over the
edge. There below him, not ten feet away from
where he lay, was a ledge, and on the ledge sat a
man. A young man, quite unlike any Hajar had seen
before, with pallid skin and long yellow hair and
a face as pretty as a girl's. Prettier, he
thought, remembering the sullen, swarthy girls of
the village he'd called home. This one's face was
smooth and his eyes were a clear bright blue that
matched the colour of the sky. And those eyes
were looking straight at Hajar, and he jumped as
one of them winked.
© 2006
Fiona Glass
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