The Fire in Starlight Read online

  She sat cross legged on the floor in front of the fire sipping wine and chewing on hot, lavishly buttered bread. The deeper she stared at the sensually writhing flames, the more intensely agile and inspired the dance between her thoughts and feelings became until anything seemed possible. The tangle of kindling had become a smoldering red bed that kept the denser logs burning ... her thoughts were like that kindling, intersecting and going off an their own tangents, nothing seeming to make any unified sense until they all suddenly came together in a flash of intuition that ignited more and more associations, the ponderous weight of her reason succumbing to the undeniably passionate feelings surrounding it. She felt whole inside sitting in front of a good fire, body and soul warmed by the knowledge that everything was sensually part of everything else, and that given time she might one day be able to solve the haunting puzzle of her desires and perceptions...

  She had to stop thinking about her neighbor. God only knew how long it would be before she saw him again; she was going to drive herself crazy obsessing about him. She needed to get some work done, not just fool around on match.com. Her hotmail inbox was probably flooded, but she didn't care; she had no desire to check her e-mails. Her computer was off, her desk dark as a grave, and she kept hearing his quietly deep voice saying, It looks like a vampire bite, Sofia ... She wondered why such a trite joke was turning her on so much, and why she didn't think less of him for covering up his ignorance by teasing her like that. Obviously, he didn't have a clue what had bitten her so he had fun with her, a very typical guy thing to do. If she hadn't been so busy confusing him with her fantasy man, she might have been annoyed that he didn't seem to realize how worried she was about that bite, which was why she showed it to him ... Wasn't it?...

  "Oh, God, stop!” she exclaimed out loud. There's no way you're going to make sense of this, she went on in her head because the sound of her voice in the silent house was uncanny. All you can do is wait until you see him again. Until then, her fantasies and his reality were inextricably linked inside her, especially in the witch's brew of her pussy juices as the mere thought of him stoked how inexplicably aroused she was. She wanted him, and she wanted the man in her dream, and masturbating wasn't going to soothe her painfully deepening need. Normally she had much more control over herself, but whenever she thought about him (which seemed to be whenever her heart beat) the last thing she wanted was control over anything, especially of herself and her body. She was haunted by the memory of his voice saying, I'll take care of it all for you as though he was promising her much more than a chicken coop.

  * * * *

  T he moon was full, but it was still nearly impossible for her to see anything beneath the trees. Running was a waste of breath and effort; all she did was stumble and fall and squander precious time picking herself up off the uneven ground. Brambles seemed to covet the gilded embroidery on her heavy skirt. More than once she had to rip the dress she loved so much in order to free herself from an invisible but tenacious embrace. She had fled immediately after sunset, when the moon was rising in the east. She had been running for what felt like her whole life, not merely a few hours. She desperately needed the moon to see by, but it could also betray her. Praise be, she still did not hear the dreaded sound of pursuit behind her. Nevertheless, she was trapped in the powerful embrace of Rex Mundi, the mountains full of embodied evils that could easily kill her, but the only animals she feared tonight were noblemen with bloody crucifixes embroidered on their tunics. Her father and brothers and uncles were all dead, she knew this even though she could not bring herself to admit it yet. The steep terrain littered with rocks made her stumbling progress through the dark even more perilous. She had long since lost her cloak, but she had ceased to feel the cold. She was bare-headed, and her long hair attracted much covetous attention from the hungry winter trees.

  When at last she reached the clearing she had sought for so long, her bones seemed to age a century in the blink of an eye as she sank to the ground. She suddenly felt as light and invulnerable to fear as a skeleton, her heavy gown a shroud she longed to fling off so she could be born again with a different fate entirely. Her ringed hands would take root deep in the earth as her soul slipped into the curled fist of an innocent baby safely surrounded by love. She believed she was ready to die until she heard the unmistakable sound of hoof beats in the darkness, and a second later the smell of sweating horseflesh filled her nostrils. One of her pursuers must have found the hidden path. She picked herself up again, raising her skirt above her knees, forgetting all modesty. Moonlight spilled across the glade, cutting shadows sharper than the swords she was much more afraid of than the peaceful grave. Being murdered by a soldier of the Pope was far worse than dying naturally in childbirth or of sickness and old age. She ran away from the sounds of a mounted knight, the musical jingle of his harness ringing terrifyingly in her skull, but she was soon out of breath and filled with despair; the urge to surrender to her black destiny became more irresistibly intense with every exhausted step she forced herself to take. Her dress was dark-red, her hair brown, but she knew her pale face and hands were as visible as fragments of the moon fallen to earth. There was no escape for her. She thought of her beloved home amidst the trees, and of her final candlelit bath, as a thundering noise directly behind her told her the embodied storm of the crusader was upon her. She turned to face him, holding her head up defiantly. He reigned his horse to a stop so close to her she felt the leather of his boot against her arm through a tear in her sleeve.

  "Sofia!” He leaned down and slipped an arm around her waist. “My love, come!” He lifted her up onto the horse in front of him.

  Nothing on earth had ever felt as wonderful as the firm saddle beneath her and his hard chest against her. She rested her cheek gratefully on his shoulder for instant before turning to grasp the pommel as he kicked their mount back into an urgent run. Her helpless flight through the night had been transformed into the very real promise of escape by the power of the man leading them into the cover of darkness beneath the trees as confidently as if he possessed an owl's magical vision. She knew, because he had told her, that he believed men had the power to grasp the soul of creation and make the two Gods one again, and for a few blessed moments she was overwhelmed with faith that he was strong enough to dam the flood of hatred pursuing them. Surrounded by his warm arms and protected by his unyileding body she felt as though nothing could ever harm her...

  She shifted restlessly, turning onto her other side in the darkness, clutching a pillow ... and wrapping her arms around his neck as he lowered her out of the saddle. The courtyard of the Keep was in an uproar. Dazed by all the torchlight noise, she closed her eyes...

  When she opened them again she was lying on a fur coverlet in a strange room still wearing her torn and grass-stained dress. She was alone, but the castle was under sieged. The sounds that reached her ears were unmistakable even though they were distant and indistinct, muffled by layers of stone and tapestries so she could almost believe they were only the echoes of a terrible dream. A single brazier was burning beside the bed and populating the room with menacing shadows. Then she heard a quiet sound, and a beloved silhouette approached her. The man to whom she had been betrothed since she was nine-years-old reached down and pulled her roughly up into his arms. He held her fiercely against him—pressing her cheek into his chest as though the love in his heart could keep her warm and safe forever—and he did not need to speak for her to understand that all was lost. The swift, steady pace of his pulse almost succeeded in drowning out the sounds of the battle, the final moments of both their lives drumming in her ear. Then a thunderous rumbling beneath their feet made her fear the world was about to open up and devour them.

  She pulled away from him. “Please, my lord!” she whispered desperately. She could see two tiny flames burning in his eyes like far away stars. “Please do not let me die a virgin, my lord. Take me before it is too late, and let me die by your hands, I beg you!"

  He must ha
ve sensed her wish before she even spoke for his gloved hands were already lifting her skirt. She fell weakly back across the bed as a double-edged blade of fear and desire cut straight up between her legs. Soon their souls would be stripped from their flesh, they were as naked as they could possibly be with each other even though they did not remove their clothes, for their time on earth was unraveling too swiftly for that. She could no longer see his eyes or even his face, but the trembling light cast by the brazier gilded his powerful silhouette standing between her legs. He placed her feet on his shoulders and leaned towards her, wrapping the gloved fingers of one hand firmly around her neck as with the other he unsheathed the weapon of his manhood. The pain as he penetrated her would have been blinding if it had not already been so dark in the room and in her soul. The defenselessly soft space between her thighs was rent open in a silent scream of agony as he stabbed her repeatedly. She did not need to close her eyes to see all the knights surrounding the castle, yet she no longer dreaded the thrust of their swords as she seemed to feel them slicing up through her body and her hot blood flowing helplessly.

  "Oh, my lord!” she gasped. “Please spare me this misery!"

  "Save me a place in heaven, Sofia,” he commanded harshly, “or in hell, it matters not, for wherever you go, I shall follow!” He covered her nose and mouth with one hand and with the other intensified the pressure of his thumb and fingers against the gentle pulse in her throat. Almost at once the burning pain ebbed into a delicious warmth deep inside her where she had captured all the wonderful qualities that made him a noble knight—his generosity, his perseverance, his pride, his love of beauty. She experienced all his profound sensibilities as a wondrous sensation embodied in his erection. Because of him she was beginning to feel the glorious truth of their divinity as he penetrated her violently. She heard him groan as he tightened his gloved fingers remorselessly around her throat. She couldn't resist trying to breathe against the other rough leather gauntlet covering her mouth and nose, but he made it impossible. She was rising above fear and pain as he poured all the strength of his love into possessing her and strangling her to death. Heavenly clouds began muffling her hearing, yet she distinctly heard him breathe, “God forgive me!” before his silhouette merged with the darkness...

  She gasped for breath as she sat up in another bed. Moonlight flooding her room cut into her awareness and kept her divided in half. Part of her knew where she was and was very glad to have woken up, but another much deeper part of her, allied with the synapses in her brain that had spun the vivid dream to life, burned with despair not to find herself in that other room somewhere. Then suddenly she remembered that he was here—that he had followed her and found her just as he had promised he would—and a surge of joy made her feel whole again.

  Chapter Eight

  I t was a radiant day outside, but Sofia deliberately ignored it in an effort to get some work done. She was on sabbatical, she was under no great pressure to publish another paper, but that didn't matter, she simply had to do something to stop thinking about her latest dream. The man who had fatally cut off her breath as he took her virginity was not her nice, down-to-earth neighbor, he existed only in her head, and if she didn't get a grip on herself she would end up driving into Baton Rouge two or three times a week to see a psychiatrist.

  She spent the morning on the computer even though it literally hurt not to be outside on the porch basking in the beauty of the day. She could sense the sap rising in the trees aching to burst forth as fresh young leaves ... just as her every nerve-end felt possessed by a similar restless need and desire to open up and absorb the penetrating power of the sun ... of the man who had exerted all the physical and emotional powers he possessed to fulfill her final wish to die by his hand...

  Her fingers flew across the keyboard, but no matter how fast she typed she couldn't escape the longing to see him and be with him, to trace the lines of his face with her fingertips in reverent wonder that he had taken flesh again and somehow found her ... She tormented herself by trying to imagine the slightly rough, cool feel of his goatee against her skin contrasted by the tenderness of his lips and the warmth of his breath as he kissed her...

  She couldn't believe she hadn't asked him for his phone number (not to mention his name) so she could call him and invite him to dinner that very night. It was torture not knowing when she would see him again. He had promised it would be soon, but she had no idea what that meant to him.

  Moaning in frustration, she concentrated on copying a poem without making any mistakes.

  SONG OF THE DAGGER*

  ... Did I but heed my dagger, now at night-time,

  I should go find thee, love.

  Beneath thy shift I should seek out so deftly

  The spot where beats thy heart,

  And pour thy blood's red warmth out for my dagger,

  Because thy kiss, O love, thou hast denied me,

  And because I for that thy kiss have thirsted,

  Even as the dagger thirsteth for thy blood.

  Then will the sunshine sparkle and be merry,

  Seeing thy red young blood,

  Yea, and the merry sunbeams, they shall dry it,

  Together with my tears.

  My tears and thy blood shall flow together,

  Mingling like rivers twain;

  And though thy blood be hot, yet can it never

  Be burning as my tears.

  Nay, but thy blood will wonder when it feeleth

  How burning are my tears...

  She sat back in her chair, staring at the violent verses she had just so lovingly transcribed. This dark, kinky streak had always been inside her, she realized that now, but she had kept it safely hidden in a small corner of her libido, only taking it out now and then to play harmless erotic games with Steve on Sundays, which is what they did instead of go to church. The emotional earthquake of Robert's fatal heart attack coupled with the sudden death of her relationship had cracked open this deeply buried violent streak in her sensuality. Desires and inclinations formerly condemned to the shadows of her subconscious were all pouring like bats out of a cave into the conscious light of day. She was torn between rationally ignoring her vivid erotic dreams and passionately indulging them. She really had to make an effort to forge calm, neutral ground inside herself from which she could attempt to analyze exactly what was going on with her feelings. She needed someone to talk to, but the only person around was a man whose name she didn't even know—a man who looked so much like the knight in her dreams that the line between reality and fantasies was beginning to slip in such an intensely desirable way she couldn't manage to feel afraid.

  She wasn't getting any work done on her paper. At around three o'clock she finally gave up and began surfing the web, searching for something, she wasn't sure what. All morning part of her brain had been piecing together clues from her dream, and she entered multiple search terms in Google to see what came up. Topping the results was a site called dragonkeypress. She clicked on it and read:

  The Albigensian Crusade

  By Tracy R. Twyman

  "In the year 1209, the Catholic Church began its first and only crusade against fellow Christian Europeans: a crusade against a group known as “the Cathars” ... a heretical Christian sect who believed that one could commune with the True God through the spiritual experience of “Gnosis"—direct knowledge of the divine. They did not believe in the crucifixion or honor the cross. They also believed that the “Jehovah” of the Bible was actually a demiurge, Rex Mundi, the King of the World, who had created the corrupt world of matter in order to entrap men's souls.

  The Languedoc region of France was a bastion of Cathar thought, where it had threatened to become the dominant religion. Nearly 30% of all Cathar priests were drawn from Languedoc nobility, and even non-Cathars in the region usually maintained a cold attitude towards the Church of Rome. The Languedoc was at that time an independent principality, with a distinct culture of esoteric thought and higher learning. So
when the “Albigensian crusade", as it came to be called, began, even many non-Cathar locals defended their home-grown heretics to the death.

  For the next forty years, the Church attempted to wipe out the Albigensian menace. The destruction of Catharism, which tended to run in families, was so complete that the Crusade is now considered by historians to be Europe's first genocide. Those who weren't killed in the fighting were arrested and tortured by the Dominican Order's Holy Inquisition. The Church's army spared no one, not even non-Cathars, who stood in the way of their stated goal. When Pope Innocent III was asked how the soldiers should know the heretics from the true Christians, he responded with the oft-quoted line, “Kill them all. God will know His own.” And that they did. The Cathars and their defenders fought bravely, but in the end it was no use."

  Oh, my God, she thought, and quickly searched for more information on this barbaric crusade she vaguely remembered reading briefly about in European History class. Some websites went into interesting depth on the beliefs of the Cathars, but it was one detail that made her gasp out loud. The knights who took up this unholy crusade were distinguished by the red crucifixes they wore on their tunics, not to be confused with the white tunic and differently shaped red cross of the Knights Templar. She couldn't believe her eyes, but it was right there in black-and-white in front of her—her violently sensual dream could really have happened.