Blackburn Wendell - The Amorous Adventures of Belinda

Robert's eyes opened wide. “Kiss a goat's arse? Man, you can't be serious.”

“I am,” the man said laconically. “Be glad you're a man. The novice, she's got t' kiss his stinkin' hole but the rest of us get off with just the cheek.” Hearing Robert's strangled gasp of protest, he chuckled. “Remember it's all for the good o' the country. There's a trick to it, anyhow. Take a real deep breath and hold it, and keep it held while ye brush the hair with yer face as quick as ye can. Won't bother ye much if ye can't smell it.”

Trick or not, getting that close to a goat's arse was not a prospect that filled Robert with delight. Quickening his pace to keep up with his companion, he asked ruefully, “Is there anything else I should know? I'd hate to be accused of bad manners.”

The man laughed softly, then became serious.

“Ther's lot will happen that might jar ya, but nothin' ya can't handle. Ya'll be expected to do a fair bit o' fomicatin', but yer big an' strong enough yer not likely t' get buggered against yer will.”

Thank God for small mercies. Robert wondered if Sir David had been aware of these fine points when he had chosen him for this service. Oh well, as his tutor had pointed out, it was all for the good of the country.

They walked on in silence. His contact, used to much hard exercise, set a pace that forced Robert to save his wind for keeping up.

Somewhere ahead of them, Robert could see a flicker of firelight, and he guessed that they were almost at their destination. God knows, it was a fit night for a Sabbath. The moon, full and bloated, shone coldly through an inky sky, obscured now and then by the raggle-taggle of clouds that sailed across the night. A sharp wind howled through the naked branches of the trees, mouthing obscenities and cutting through his clothes to bite his flesh. It was a night when a man, no matter how enlightened, could readily believe in the earthly presence of unearthly demons. Robert shuddered, only partly from the nipping wind.

The lights went out. They descended into a valley and walked on. As they climbed the rise on the other side of the depression, Robert could hear voices mingle with the howl of the wind, and the high, thin strains of a flute piped out the theme for this sinister concerto. At the top of the rise, the firelight showed again, and Robert looked down into a wide hollow. Nearly forty people were assembled, the women having the edge in numbers over the men. A platform had been erected in the center of the ring, and covered with black cloth. On this platform stood a large buck goat. He was black and shaggy, and malevolent yellow eyes peered out at the assembly from under two, long sharp horns that rose from between his ears and swept back over his head, terminating in sharp points. These points had been gilded, and a gold chain hung around his neck. The stink of the animal wafted across the clearing where Robert was standing, and he guessed by the potency of the stench that the animal must be rut. Whatever the cause, it did nothing to make proximity to the source more pleasant. He grimaced at the thought. Although witches are supposed to fly to the Sabbat, and since this was All Hallow's Eve, their holy of holies, and one would think it likely that all the stops would be pulled out, Robert noticed that the people arriving after him seemed to have chosen a more prosaic means of locomotion, since they were all on foot. It was highly likely that those who had preceded him had also arrived in the conventional manner rather than supernaturally, since there was no evidence of the notorious brooms so popularly supposed to be the favorite mode of transport for witches. This omission, however, did less than Robert expected to alleviate his feelings of uneasiness. Human, these creatures doubtless were, but normal, they certainly were not.

A man climbed onto the platform beside the goat, and raised his hands. As he began to chant, the flute wailed faster, and the congregation began to gather in a wide circle. The high priest, or devil's advocate, was the only one in costume. He wore a long robe of deep red, embroidered in black with scrawls and designs of a strange and eastern nature. He, like the goat, also wore a chain of gold. His massive shoulders and tanned face bore evidence to the humble status of his daily occupation, but at this time, in this light, he looked no simple peasant. Steel grey hair fell thick around his shoulders and his deep blue eyes burned hypnotically as he screamed against the wind, intoning in Latin and English, the ancient spells used for calling his master up from hell.

Robert fell into line with the others, sticking close to his fellow agent. With him, at least, he could feel some sort of kinship. He could also get some hint of how he was expected to behave.

After several minutes of ranting, during which the crowd stood motionless and silent, the black goat shook his horned head and uttered a loud, hircine bellow. The man beside him stopped abruptly and fell to his knees.

“Our master is present. Hear me, oh King of Demons! Your servants gather to do you homage. Grant us in return, your favors. Hear our prayers; answer our supplications; bear witness to our subservience. Accept, oh God of Hell, from these, your most humble slaves, the kiss of shame!”

At these words a low chant began in the crowd, more a sort of rhythmic moan than intelligible words, and they began to form a long line in front of the platform. Taking the goat by the gilded horns, the priest turned him around so that his back was to the people. In this position his hairy buttocks were a little over five feet from the ground.

“Come forth,” the warlock chanted, shaking his grisled mane. “Come forth and give the devil his due.”

As he spoke, each member of the coven stepped forward in turn to “kiss the goat's arse.” All Robert's deepest instincts made him want to hang back to the very last, but he knew that since he had to go through with it or risk immediate expulsion he had better get it over with before he lost his courage. His fellow conspirator caught his eye as he stepped forward, and winked in encouragement. Robert took a deep breath, though a bit late, pushed his face forward hurriedly until he felt the rough hair scratch his chin. That was enough. Quickly he moved away, and stood watching. To his utter amazement, most of the witches seemed to actually enjoy this debasement. There were great moans of fanatic ecstasy as they rubbed their faces against the filthy buttocks, inhaling eagerly great drafts of it's overpowering stench. To every crow his choice of meat, of course, but Robert found this particular aberration quite impossible to sympathize with.

Slowly the procession wound it's way past the dais. The priest continued to chant, the music grew wilder, and those who had already performed their foul obeisance clapped their hands and stamped their feet. Afraid he would be noticed if he remained so obviously detached, Robert caught the rhythm and joined in. A lute now joined the pipe and someone worked steadily over a muffled drum.

As the last witch passed the King of Kings, the high priest jerked the goat around again and shouted above the uproar.

“Dance! Dance to the devil's singing; dance to the croon of dead souls riding the wind to join you. Dance to the beat of a demon's heart, the hopping feet of a thousand imps, the squeal of a harpy, the sigh of a shade. Whirl! Leap! Straddle the air.”

The wild music, the chants, the thrashing, contorted bodies drove Robert on till he was caught up in the mass orgy of motion. He flung himself madly about, whirled from one partner to another, dancing a fiendish gavotte with male and female alike. He was fast reaching a point of physical exhaustion but the spell of the drum drove him faster and faster.

Silence struck him like a club, paralyzing him in a grotesque position, one leg lifted and his right arm half supporting the crone who partnered him. In a single instant everything stopped; music, chant, the cries of the mob. The silence was absolute. Even the wind died momentarily, as if hesitant to disturb the stilled air.