hop and swing fully as alluring as intended. Aton set his book against the wall and went after her.
She giggled and skipped away. Playing an intricate hide-and-seek with hands and body, she led him into a side passage. Aton checked, suddenly wary, but it was empty.
She brushed against him. He caught her and pinned her against her water-skin along the wall. Their lips met abruptly in a kiss, broke, touched passionately; then she escaped and pirouetted into the center of the cell. Her eyes glowed.
Aton stalked her, cutting off the exit and herding her into a niche; she dodged and wriggled with delight.
Selene began to hum a tune when she saw that she was fairly trapped. It was the final artifice: an innocent, indifferent melody, as though she were not aware of company. It should have launched him into the terminal effort.
Instead it drove him back, cooling his ardor instantly. It was the broken song.
She saw that something was wrong. “What’s the matter, Aton?”
He turned his back. “Get out of here, Silly. You aren’t half the woman I crave.”
Shocked, then in flashing anger, she ran. Aton listened to the sound of her footsteps, a bare patter in the screaming wind. They merged to form the music of the broken song.
“Malice,” he thought. “Oh, Malice—will you never leave me?”
• • •
It was a dream, of course, but only Aton knew it, and he, lured by the might-have-been it dangled before him, was foolish enough to forget that it was. In his conception he was not standing alone in the tunnel; the woman was not fleeing in anger. There had been a failure, yes, but not a total one.
She took his arm as they walked down the dim tunnel. She wore a light blouse and dark skirt which did more to enhance her figure than any nudity could do.
“Jill,” he said, “I wanted to apologize for what happened. But you have to understand the impact the song has upon me. When that comes—”
She jogged his arm. He could feel the gentle pressure of her fingers through the coat. “My name is Selene,” she said.
They turned into a side passage. It slanted down, expanding. “Your interest caught me by surprise,” he continued, aware of the awkwardness of his explanation. “Somehow I never thought of you as a woman, Jill.”
“Why do you keep calling me “Jill”?” she demanded. “Look at me, Aton. I’m Selene. Silly Selene, cave girl.”
He looked. “I suppose you are,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you, clothed.”
“Thanks.”
He guided her to a seat and found a place beside her. “I never realized there was one of these in Chthon. We had a theater for the crew on board the Jocasta , but I never attended…”
He faded out, alarmed. Her hand was in his lap, fumbling with the fastening of his trousers. Then her fingers were inside, reaching down to discover what lay there. He tried to protest, but immediately the people in the neighboring seats turned to stare, forcing him to silence lest his exposure be advertised.
The feature flashed on the big front screen. Aton’s attention leaped to embrace that still scene. A man, toiling up a steep path, a strong man in antique costume, a young man garbed in flowing robes of indeterminate color. One man, but filled with meaning. Behind him the trail tapered away to a rocky, mossy slope, strangely attractive as a landscape.
The picture shifted, fading into another tableau. This time the foreground opened: a sheer drop with a horrifying hint of depth. The path had crested, as though running through a pass; indeed, one rounded hillock swelled in sight, while the surrounding land dipped away. Two men faced each other, having mounted on either side, meeting at the top. On the right was the strong young man of the previous picture; on the left, an older man, similarly dressed. They confronted, talking or debating. The old man’s arm was raised in imperious gesture.
The third frame was more forceful: the young man’s body was twisted,
She giggled and skipped away. Playing an intricate hide-and-seek with hands and body, she led him into a side passage. Aton checked, suddenly wary, but it was empty.
She brushed against him. He caught her and pinned her against her water-skin along the wall. Their lips met abruptly in a kiss, broke, touched passionately; then she escaped and pirouetted into the center of the cell. Her eyes glowed.
Aton stalked her, cutting off the exit and herding her into a niche; she dodged and wriggled with delight.
Selene began to hum a tune when she saw that she was fairly trapped. It was the final artifice: an innocent, indifferent melody, as though she were not aware of company. It should have launched him into the terminal effort.
Instead it drove him back, cooling his ardor instantly. It was the broken song.
She saw that something was wrong. “What’s the matter, Aton?”
He turned his back. “Get out of here, Silly. You aren’t half the woman I crave.”
Shocked, then in flashing anger, she ran. Aton listened to the sound of her footsteps, a bare patter in the screaming wind. They merged to form the music of the broken song.
“Malice,” he thought. “Oh, Malice—will you never leave me?”
• • •
It was a dream, of course, but only Aton knew it, and he, lured by the might-have-been it dangled before him, was foolish enough to forget that it was. In his conception he was not standing alone in the tunnel; the woman was not fleeing in anger. There had been a failure, yes, but not a total one.
She took his arm as they walked down the dim tunnel. She wore a light blouse and dark skirt which did more to enhance her figure than any nudity could do.
“Jill,” he said, “I wanted to apologize for what happened. But you have to understand the impact the song has upon me. When that comes—”
She jogged his arm. He could feel the gentle pressure of her fingers through the coat. “My name is Selene,” she said.
They turned into a side passage. It slanted down, expanding. “Your interest caught me by surprise,” he continued, aware of the awkwardness of his explanation. “Somehow I never thought of you as a woman, Jill.”
“Why do you keep calling me “Jill”?” she demanded. “Look at me, Aton. I’m Selene. Silly Selene, cave girl.”
He looked. “I suppose you are,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you, clothed.”
“Thanks.”
He guided her to a seat and found a place beside her. “I never realized there was one of these in Chthon. We had a theater for the crew on board the Jocasta , but I never attended…”
He faded out, alarmed. Her hand was in his lap, fumbling with the fastening of his trousers. Then her fingers were inside, reaching down to discover what lay there. He tried to protest, but immediately the people in the neighboring seats turned to stare, forcing him to silence lest his exposure be advertised.
The feature flashed on the big front screen. Aton’s attention leaped to embrace that still scene. A man, toiling up a steep path, a strong man in antique costume, a young man garbed in flowing robes of indeterminate color. One man, but filled with meaning. Behind him the trail tapered away to a rocky, mossy slope, strangely attractive as a landscape.
The picture shifted, fading into another tableau. This time the foreground opened: a sheer drop with a horrifying hint of depth. The path had crested, as though running through a pass; indeed, one rounded hillock swelled in sight, while the surrounding land dipped away. Two men faced each other, having mounted on either side, meeting at the top. On the right was the strong young man of the previous picture; on the left, an older man, similarly dressed. They confronted, talking or debating. The old man’s arm was raised in imperious gesture.
The third frame was more forceful: the young man’s body was twisted,
Similar Books
Suddenly Expecting
Paula Roe
The Snowball
Stanley John Weyman
The Ramayana
Ramesh Menon
Sweet Southern Betrayal
Robin Covington
Witness Pursuit
Hope White
Arcadia Falls
Carol Goodman
Hide Out
Katie Allen
Fall of Colossus
D. F. Jones
The Book of Basketball
Bill Simmons