Piers Anthony - Chthon

“What would one call a female slave?” he inquired.

“By her name,” she said pertly. “Coquina.”

Aton researched in the sturdy intellectual files implanted by his childhood tutor. “The coral building stone? Is that your theme—the hardness and sharpness of—?”

“On Earth,” she said, “there once were tiny clams with shells so colorful that they became collectors’ items. They were called—”

“I see. And what would the pretty shell recommend for a troubled heart tonight?” he said. And he thought, She is trying to oblige—why fence with her, Aton?

“There is a country dance this evening,” she said, apparently missing the implication in his question. “If it pleases you—”

“Nothing pleases me, Coquina.” But he smiled.

The dance was colorful. It happened in a warm brown barn, the smell of hay in the corners, the nests of swallows in the rafters. Tissue banners festooned the hewn beams; soft cider flowed from the central press. People wandered in and out, shepherded by their knowledgeable slaves, smiling desperately. Too often, Aton felt, the striving inner torment shone through the glad masks.

But he drank of the cider and found it potent. It was not soft, despite the evident freshness; it was turning, pungent—and perhaps the natural fermentation had been artfully augmented. Or the apple-stock itself had been modified. He conjured a picture of tiny trees birthing megalocarpous fruit, each huge apple bearing the legend “80 Proof.” His mind became uncommonly clear and he saw that there was laughter even in sadness.

“Sets in order!” Two whiskered stereotypes struck up the music, one playing fiddle, the other a magnificent three-deckered accordion. The room was filled with merriment. Couples formed from the fringe melee and eddied toward the main floor and formed into crude squares. Women flounced their full-circle skirts and took the proud elbows of solemn gentlemen.

Aton spoke aside to Coquina. “How may one obtain a partner for this affair?” The music ascended as busy fingers leaped over white and black accordion keys, strutted against the chord panel, pumped the bellows harder.

“One crosses the room toward one of the seated ladies, bows gallantly, requests the pleasure of her company for the dance.”

“How does one make a choice?” he asked, gesturing at the array. White petticoats fluttered above crossed thighs, making interesting shadows.

Coquina arched an eyebrow. “Unaccustomed as I am to judging the tastes of male clientele… however, I understand that the third damsel from the right is attractive to certain types, and is an excellent dancer—”

Aton studied the woman as she chatted gaily with a neighbor and leaned to tap one elevated slipper and laugh at some private joke. Her décolletage showed fine cleavage and her feet were small. Her hair was long and loose.

“No!” he said, more forcefully than he meant. “Red hair is out.”

Coquina obligingly pointed out an alternate. This time the hair was brown and not too long. She was standing to the side with a cup of cider in her hand, bouncing gently to the music. At the end of the refrain she came down on both heels firmly, breasts and buttocks jumping in sudden sex appeal.

“No—she has green eyes.” It was a bleak reminder; sorrow struck him heavily, his emotion amplified by the liquor.

Coquina looked at him, uncertain whether he were serious. Her eyes were blue. “Come,” he said, unable to explain his mood. “I prefer my slave.”

And so they danced, the girl light on her feet and easy to hold, and for a time the weight upon his mind lightened, retreated half a step. They danced, they swung, they spun, her skirts rising alluringly; but the weight danced with them. The living lines parted and re-formed; men marched to meet their partners in the center, bowed, retreated, marched again, and swung into shuffle-step and grand right-and-left. Right hand to right hand, left to left, meeting each girl with music and a flair of the hip and passing her on to the rear, smiling. Oh, brightening glance! What a miracle such movement makes of the routine figure! What capricious delight, sharpened by irony—for these are smiles and motions only, in the absence of love, intriguing but empty.

Malice, oh Malice, oh Malice, why did you betray me?

It was midnight at the cottage when Aton, subdued, prepared to retire. The vision had grown, and now it pounded in the shell of his head, tearing his mind apart, dominant in his fatigue. It was the face and form of Malice, smiling, devastating, at once more lovely and more terrible than any spectral phantasm. The flame rippled through her hair, and he wanted her.

“Coquina!” he called, and she came, clad in nightgown, demure. “I cannot sleep tonight. Will you talk to me?”

“I understand,” she said.

“I wonder…” He studied her innocence. But the awful vision was fading as he talked. “Have you ever been in love, Coquina?”

“No.”

“People think of love as something romantic as delight, wonder. It is supposed to uplift a man, make him strong, make him good. Have you seen this LOE text?” She nodded slightly. “But, oh, they’re wrong. Love is the most awful weapon known to the human race. It can twist a man, wring him up into a tight wad until his blood spills out upon the stone reality, until he shrivels, and is a dry husk. If you ever search for evil, begin with love… I shouldn’t talk this way to a woman.”

“I am a slave,” she said.

He studied her once more, speculatively. “You say you are a slave. But how much of a slave? Is there not a little bit of woman in you, too? When you move in the dance, pretty shell… If I were to tell you to strip naked before me here…”

“Idyllia must protect its property,” she said. “I will not strip.”

Aton smiled. “It was only an example, a case in point. You are not so much a slave. But tell me, Coquina, are you for sale? Could I purchase you and carry you away with me wherever I wished to roam?”

“The slaves are not for sale. They are loaned to the patrons, to serve within certain limits.”

“Certain limits. I see the shell is closed,” said Aton. “Too bad—but only fair. I wish more women were slaves, more slaves were women…”

Aton went to parties, danced, saw wholesome theatrical productions, and flirted with meaningless women. By day he swam, participated in antique group sports, took picnics in the sunshine; at night Coquina took care of him and rubbed his back with oil. He talked to her at such times, easing his mind and finding, to his surprise, surcease from the memory of Malice by talking about—Malice. He told Coquina as much as he could remember, more than he had told any human being before, because he had come to regard her not as human but as slave.

It was not enough. Malice came back to his mind at every unguarded moment, arousing unquenchable desire, measureless pain. He could hide from her for an hour, but he could not escape.

“This is getting me frankly nowhere,” he said at last. “I’ve got to find something that will take up my whole attention for more than a tiny span.”

And Coquina, as always, had a suggestion. “Have you tried mountain climbing?” she asked. “It is a vigorous sport that takes many days and uses a great deal of energy. It is not dangerous, here, and it has special merits.”

“You are telling me, gentle shell, that the answer to doubt is work,” Aton said. “This is the very finest Victorian sentiment from LOE . But if you recommend it, I’ll try it. You’ve been taking good care of me so far.”

“I will arrange for a guide,” she said.