Date: Sat, 15 Nov 1997 19:41:02 GMT
From: Kirk Brothers <kirkbros@gte.net>
Subject: Night of the Coven (#3 in Benedict/David series)
* * * * * * * * * *
THIRD ADVENTURE IN THE BENEDICT/DAVID SERIES
* * * * * * * * * *
NIGHT OF THE COVEN
Part 1 of 2
by Kirk Brothers
Copyright 1990
All Rights Reserved
"Tell me, Mr. Benedict," asked the smartly-dressed young lady
with the microphone, "are you really a witch?" Her tone managed to
convey journalistic curiosity, skepticism, and a trace of amusement
all at once--a combination that Benedict found irksome. He had
heard similar questions more often than he cared to remember--and
all too often from the same type of mentality--but he merely sighed
inwardly, and made the best of a bad situation.
"As you think of the word, perhaps, no. But as the word might
be used by an initiate, yes. I prefer to call myself a Shaman, as
I define that term, which does not imply the Hollywood caricatures
of old hags riding broomsticks." He knew all too well that such a
fine distinction would be lost by both the young lady and her tele-
vision camera crew--as well as by the viewers who would see a brief
and mangled excerpt of the interview on Channel Six that evening.
He knew, too, that his words would be cleverly cut and spliced
out of context to create the impression that he was a fool. Never-
theless he went on.
"The word 'witch' is derived from the old English 'wicca'", he
said, stressing the final broad "a", "which meant either 'wisdom'
or 'wise man'. The feminine form for a wise woman was 'wicce', and
such men and women were regarded as spiritual healers and teachers
--not supernatural persons who had made pacts with the forces of
evil. I believe we are still spiritual healers and teachers, and
that our 'magic' is merely paranormal, not supernatural."
"Then you really do practice magic!" said the young lady, with
sugary delight. Benedict sighed again.
It was ten o'clock on the morning of Sunday, the thirty-first
of October, Christian Era 1999 (Benedict used the abbreviation
"C.E." instead of "A.D.", to refrain from endorsing the Gregorian
term "Anno Domini"). He had opened his shop on Christopher Street
for business as usual, only to have his cramped space invaded by a
news team making up a "human interest" Hallowe'en story.
Benedict knew quite well that Sunday meant a skeleton crew and
a slow day for news, so the assignment editor was inspired to fill
time on the abbreviated weekend newscast with a feature on modern-
day New Yorkers who practice witchcraft. Since a recent Supreme
Court ruling that the news media had a right to enter a store
during business hours, the team had needed no permission to be
there. He reasoned that if he were hostile he would get worse and
longer coverage than if he were gracious. He decided to be
gracious.
"If by 'magic' you mean flying through the air and conjuring
up the dead, no. You must realize that there are two types of
'magic'--white and black. The black arts are used with evil
intent, and white magic is used for good. I am a white magician.
We do not worship evil spirits, nor hold human sacrifices, nor aid
any unspiritual purposes." The effect of his words was lost some-
what when he added, "Get down, Satan!" to a large black cat with
yellow eyes which had jumped onto a display of silks that adorned
one end of a counter.
"Oh, your black cat's name is 'Satan'!", exclaimed the woman,
at which Benedict could have bitten his tongue.
"A joke," he explained lamely, setting Satan back on the
floor. "He walked in one day last winter, half starved, and he's
been here ever since. You're not starving any more, are you,
Satan?" he said to the animal, which rubbed its head against his
ankles and purred.
The reporter, a sleekly-groomed blonde named Sally Burke,
turned her attention to the shop and its offerings. "What do you
sell here, and what is it all used for?" she asked. "The skeleton,
for instance--can we get a good shot of it, Sam?" Sam was the
cameraman, who promptly braced his one-legged camera stand against
the base of a counter, to capture the image of the plastic bones by
tilting his minicam slowly from the grinning skull down to the
metatarsals.
"The skeleton is not for sale, Miss Burke--it's just a bit of
atmospheric decoration. Similarly, the case here," he said, point-
ing to a wall cabinet with sliding glass doors, "is for showing
rare items--one of a kind--which I don't want to part with." He
pointed to each of the items as he spoke.
"The mask is a genuine Shamanic artifact."
"A what artifact?" Sally asked, making notes.
Benedict spelled it for her. "Shamans were the medicine men,
or witch doctors, or witches, of Indian tribes. They practiced
magic rituals in the medicine lodges of the plains Indians and the
underground kivas of the pueblo dwellers."
"Oh, like rain dances."
"Something like that. The dagger is genuine Mayan from a
temple altar. It was purely symbolic--for show in formal rituals,
not for human sacrifices--and has considerable value because of the
gold and jewels."
Sally looked surprised. "You mean those are real? It looks
like something you used to find in a box of Crackerjacks." She
wrinkled her nose. "Of course," she said, by way of explanation,
"it's very old."
Benedict paused, and abruptly closed the case. "Yes," he said
in a tone conveying feelings which were lost on Ms. Burke. "The
other items each have some ritual value in magic ceremonies, but I
think you now have the idea that they're personal treasures, and
not for profit on a sale."
"And all these candles and oils and things here?" she asked,
gesturing to small countertop displays. "Are they stuff like the
gypsies sell in Spanish Harlem? You burn green to attract money
and red to find a lover and all that?"
"Some people might use them for such purposes. Now, the
bottles of oil are simply different scents for whatever use any
person might wish. They are from old formulas, and I make them
myself. Some are regarded as aphrodisiacs, and some as medicinal.
I myself reject such claims, and have no such uses for them--but if
I did not have them in stock, a customer might go elsewhere."
"Which one is the aphrodisiac?"
Benedict smiled. "Take your pick."
"I get it," said Sally with a knowing wink. "Just what the
customer wants, right?"
"No, it is not that, Miss Burke. The magic is in the mental
state of the person who uses it. And his spiritual level. And his
goals."
"You have any Tarot cards?" she asked abruptly. "I'm pretty
good with them, myself."
"As a matter of fact I have an old Rider deck once owned by
the notorious magician, Aleister Crowley--as well as many decks for
sale, in all the popular designs."
Miss Burke was apparently struggling with an idea. "I have
it," she announced. "I'm looking for something visual for my story
--you know, something colorful to look at. How about you telling
my fortune with that old Rider deck?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't tell fortunes--that practice is a
gypsy corruption. The cards were originally used for religious and
moral instruction at a time when most persons could not read or
write, and so the lessons had to be presented in pictures--for easy
learning, and passing down from one generation to the next. But,
of course, if you wish to see the deck, I'll be glad to show it to
you. As a matter of fact, I often do a spread on myself for
purposes of spiritual meditation."
"Great! You can tell your own fortune! And we can have
pictures of the cards you get and how your read them, okay?"
"If you insist, Miss Burke," Benedict answered with as much
poise as possible. "We can lay them out right here."
He stepped behind the counter, and from the "Not For Sale"
cabinet took a well-worn deck of the familiar picture cards. First
Benedict spread the cards facing himself long enough to find a
single card and place it face up before him. "This card repre-
sents the querent--the one seeking guidance. I have chosen The
Magician to symbolize me. Major Arcanum One."
The card showed a robed man holding a wand aloft as he stood
beside a table bearing symbolic objects. A mystical halo floated
above his head. Sally Burke was silent while he shut his eyes and
slowly shuffled the cards, but it is unlikely that Benedict would
have heard her had she chosen to speak.
"Most Tarotists use their own method," he explained, "and I'll
now draw five cards at random to guide me through today. The deck
was well shuffled, and I now draw all five and place them beside
the significator--the Magician card."
When Benedict reached his fifth draw, two cards fell out at
once. "I must use both," he said. "The cards are telling me that
they must be read together as a single element." When he had laid
them in a row, he turned them over one at a time, his face now calm
with repose.
"First, the Seven of Swords. Next the Ten of Swords. The
most important card is the central one, which is Arcanum Eight, or
Strength. Then comes Judgment Day. And the last two cards to be
read together are the Three of Cups and the Devil."
"Wow!" said Miss Burke. "Let Sam here get a closeup of the
sequence, and then you can give us your patter."
"My what?"
"You know--the talk."
"Yes, I know." While Sam took his pictures, Benedict gazed at
the cards with his eyes half closed, and a peculiar expression on
his face.
"Well, what do they mean for you today?" asked Sally.
Benedict concentrated. "The Seven of Swords shows a man near
an armed camp, apparently trying to make off with the soldiers'
weapons--their swords, in the old days. The Sword cards always
refer to hard work and conflicts. I see the central figure as
myself, and I'm removing weapons from an armed camp. I am there-
fore furthering the cause of world peace through disarmament. I
happen to believe in that.
"The Ten of Swords shows a man prostrate on the ground with
ten swords stuck through his body. The sky is black overhead, but
bright on the far horizon. The clouds are lifting and the worst is
over. The image suggests to me that this is the last man to be
killed in war. It shows the urgency of the previous card--and its
result.
"Arcanum Eight shows an angel holding shut the jaws of a
powerful lion. It is beneath the Magician card, so it applies to
myself--and, as I said before, its position makes it the key to
this lesson. The angel with such spiritual strength indicates
divine protection in my endeavors--which I believe I have.
"The next card is Judgment Day, or Divine Retribution. Evil
will be punished and good rewarded. It follows as the natural
result of Spiritual Strength.
"Finally, the Devil and Three of Cups together: a peculiar
combination. The Devil symbolizes Black Magic, which I reject.
But it lies beneath the Three of Cups, which shows joy as three
women raise wine goblets in a toast while they perform some kind of
ceremonial dance. Because the Devil is under, or suppressed, by
the card above, I see it as a celebration of the triumph of love
over evil."
"That's pretty good," admitted Sally. "You do like to make a
religious thing out of it, don't you?"
Benedict nodded. "Of course one doesn't try to give a quick
response just on looking at the faces of the cards. The whole idea
is to meditate on their hidden meanings--and that takes time and
concentration. It can't be done unless the atmosphere is conducive
to relaxed thought, so that your subconscious mind has a chance to
get through."
Sally nodded. "Yes, I see what you mean. If I was reading
the same cards, I'd see them from my own viewpoint, right? So I'd
tell your fortune from them this way. Somebody is going to try to
rob you today. You could get stabbed in the back, so be careful.
You have to keep your mouth shut about it for some reason. The
open coffins and Gabriel blowing his trumpet mean that someone you
know will die today. And the dancing over the Devil could mean
you'll go to a party tonight because it's Hallowe'en. Are you
going to a party tonight?"
"Not I, Miss Burke. Covens do meet on eight Witches' Sabbats
a year, including tonight. But we celebrate the cycles of nature
and the fertility of the earth. Our ritual tonight commemorates
the death of Pan."
She frowned in thought. "He's the one who played a bunch of
flutes to charm the ladies in the woods, right?"
"That was one of his talents," answered Benedict drily.
"Well, there you are--the music and dancing, like I said."
At that point a soft cheep sounded and Sally became alert. "That's
my beeper," she announced. "I have to use the radio to call the
station." While Benedict kept a miserable eye on Sam and the sound
man, Sally talked to her editor in the newsroom.
"We've got to leave," she said in a moment. "There's a fire
over in Brooklyn. Thanks loads, Mr. Benedict! It'll be great on
the show tonight!" she predicted enthusiastically.
The TV crew departed and Benedict watched them go with relief.
"Idiot!" he thought. "She'll go far in her chosen profession."
At that moment the telephone rang. He picked it up and
answered with the single word, "Benedict," which did not happen to
be his birth name.
"Blessed be!" he answered in response to his caller's similar
greeting--a Wiccan hail-and-farewell, like "aloha" or "shalom"--
pronouncing "blessed" as two syllables, not "blest".
He listened to his caller's request with a slight frown on his
face. "Yes, of course, Brother Paul, I could easily make it up for
you, if I can find fresh apricots. I'd rather not, because it's
totally illegal to possess it, as you know. That doesn't bother me
as much as the fact that it's terribly dangerous. A few drops on
the skin can cause a very quick and terribly painful death." Paul
was a member of the Radical Faeries who practiced herbal and other
unorthodox healing--he talked some more as Benedict listened.
"Of course I know it can be a cancer remedy in a homeopathic
dose! Even old-time allopaths used it as an antispasmodic in a
one-percent dilution--not knowing they were practicing homeopathy.
And I have absolute trust in your integrity and expertise--but I
would never do it for anyone except you, Paul. I owe you more than
I can ever repay, even with ten vials of the stuff. You know the
precautions to take in opening it, I presume?...That's right." At
last Benedict agreed, and hung up with a final "Blessed be." He
looked at the antique clock on the wall--almost noon. David would
have to work the store alone this afternoon while Benedict worked
in one of the private rooms in the basement.
He returned to the spread of cards and mused on them a moment.
Before he could put them away the bells on the door jingled as
David entered. "Blessed be, David," said Benedict in greeting.
"Blessed be, Benedict," answered David in return. He opened
his arms for a warm embrace and a kiss of genuine affection.
David was a young, well-built hispanic--with perhaps a touch
of gypsy in his blood, Benedict guessed. David had never known his
father, and had always missed the companionship, guidance and manly
affection a father instinctively bestows on a son. For his part,
Benedict, a widower, had always wanted a son, but his wife had died
childless. Their complementary needs were a major factor in the
emotional bonding which had first drawn them to each other.
David still shared an apartment on West Fourth Street with
three other would-be actors and part-time hustlers, but had given
up hustling himself to work and study with Benedict. Benedict
hoped that David would be moving in permanently, if and when he
decided to quit show business entirely.
In the meantime David slept over at least once a week, and
always on Friday night. And because yesterday had been their
mutual birth, he had also spent last night with Benedict in the
king-size bed in the big bedroom downstairs, after a special
"ritual" in the secret soundproof room.
"How's your ass feel now?" he asked with a grin, giving
Benedict a friendly slap on the rump. Benedict gasped and winced
in pain, and moved stiffly as he released David after the embrace.
"Worse than it usually does on Sundays," he answered. "Two
days in a row is ghastly!"
"Good!" said David happily. His smirk of satisfaction showed
his true feelings, and they both knew it.
Benedict went on. "That was the worst so-called birthday
spanking I ever got in my life! I feel like there's no skin at all
left on my rump."
David's grin broadened. "There isn't. It stuck to the solder
I melted and dripped on your buns last night to tenderize you!" He
dwelt on the lurid details with obvious relish. "When I peeled off
the solder, the skin came with it--before I gave you your thousand
whacks with the cane!" His tone was now mock sympathy. "I took it
easy on you since you'd had five thousand Friday as usual--and
fainted, as usual. So I ordered you to wear your diaper today to
keep any blood from seeping through your pants."
David looked at Benedict seriously now, making direct eye
contact as he always did when he wanted man-to-man conversation
without role playing. "Benedict, I still don't know what your
religious purpose is in having me beat your ass to a bloody pulp at
least once a week--and wanting me to use your mouth for my toilet--
and saying you want me to do all of it to you any time, every day
and night, if I'd enjoy it. The only thing you told me is you're
some kind of flagellant for a special spiritual reason you'll
explain to me some day, when the time is right. I'd like to know
why, please--it's important to me."
"Then the time is right--well, almost right. We'll have a
busy day once the crazy costume parade gets started and the crowd
of tourists comes in to see the Village characters. Let's say we
clear up the mystery for you this evening, after we close. We can
go over to Stacy's if you like, and talk in the same booth we sat
in the night we met, and when I talked with your mother."
"That would be a nice change. We haven't been there in a few
months." Abruptly his manner changed, and he became the young stud
hustler again. "Maybe I'll put my handcuffs on you, to give the
guys in the crowd a laugh."
Stacy's was an out-of-the-way neighborhood bar overlooking the
river, catering to a Village crowd. Everyone was welcome there--
black and white, gay and straight, tranvestites of both genders,
and leathermen were among Stacy's "regulars". David had been a
hustler cruising the bar crowd when they met last Beltane. There
was no jukebox, and the "in" crowd shunned Stacy's as being too
old-fashioned. That was just fine from Benedict's viewpoint.
He sighed now at the mention of David's handcuffs. He was
constantly aware that, underneath his invariable black turtleneck
shirt and loose casual slacks, he wore leather restraints that
inhibited normal freedom of movement--a subtle reminder of his
slavery to his young lover.
Around his neck was a thick high collar with D-rings, deco-
rated with metal studs. A similar symbolic restraint around his
waist was the wide bondage belt with its studs and D-rings--which
were snapped to eyebolts that secured him to the wooden horse on
which he was so savagely tortured by his sadistic son. Two similar
ankle cuffs secured his feet to the horse to prevent any attempt to
escape or evade his punishment--or to overhead pulleys that suspen-
ded him head down with his mouth at crotch level to provide David
with any kind of oral service at any time he desired.
By coincidence, Benedict had turned forty-nine at two-twelve
yesterday afternoon, and David turned twenty-five eighteen minutes
later. The chance circumstance of a shared birthdate was the fact
that had brought them together six months ago. A week after their
first meeting, when Benedict had helped David's mother with a
problem involving arson in the Bronx--using his expertise as a
hypnotist--Benedict had offered David a father-son partnership,
with all the S/M sex David wanted as the Master [see BELTANE, 1999
- author].
At first David didn't believe such a relationship could work--
he doubted Benedict could make good on his promises. Benedict had
given David only a vague idea that for Benedict the sadomasochistic
acts would be rituals of penance--a self-imposed sacrifice in the
hope of psychic development--and promised to give David the details
when he needed to know them.
For his own part, David was a confirmed sadist, with muscles
that Benedict compared to steel cables--not huge, said Benedict,
but incredibly strong--and almost inexhaustible. As a true sadist,
David was heavily into "toilet" action at which Benedict had been
a virgin--though willing to be trained by David to take it.
Their first scene provoked an emotional crisis for David, who
felt guilty for hurting the man he cared for as a father figure--
but Benedict persuaded David to try again, and repeated his offer.
At last David came to accept his sadism as natural, and Benedict's
surrender to him as an act of genuine love. A month later they had
agreed to justify their complex and unorthodox relationship by
leading double lives [see HECATE'S OFFERINGS - author].
The drape separating the store from Benedict's living quarters
would separate their lives together into two physical and mental
compartments. Here in the shop, and whenever they were out in
public, they would pass as father and son. Benedict would be
David's boss in the store, his teacher of occult lore, and his
healer if David ever needed medicine--which had not yet happened.
Here they would talk as man to man, and could discuss their private
relationship as lovers and partners if the need ever arose.
But behind the drape David would always be the Master, and
Benedict his slave, in an intense and extremely violent S/M
partnership. Their "rituals" were brutal and bloody--carefully
restricted to prevent serious injuries--but Benedict screamed in
genuine agony every time David indulged his innate sadistic drives.
In addition to torturing Benedict's bare buttocks with a ferocity
that would shock any conventional person, David added to the mere
physical injuries the insults of repeated rape, scatological
humiliation, and verbal mockery.
But now David had come to work--they were in the store--and
David was playing his public role as Benedict's employee. He made
a move to pull off his jacket, but Benedict stopped him.
"Before you take your coat off, David," he said, "would you
mind running an errand for me?"
David paused, grinned, and said, "Of course not, Benedict.
But I need a quick pit stop first. Would you mind coming into the
back room with me?"
Without waiting for a reply, David walked through the center
opening in the drape and waited for Benedict to obediently follow.
When Benedict let the drape fall behind him, David had already
opened his fly and pulled out his penis, half swollen--a "piss
hard" as he called it. David snapped his fingers and pointed to
the floor.
Without a word Benedict knelt at David's feet. David slipped
his penis between Benedict's receptive lips and sighed as the
familiar erotic contact caused even greater tumescence. Then he
relaxed and released the contents of his bladder at full force. It
was a rule that if Benedict spilled a drop of David's urine at any
time he would be awarded 500 or more "demerits", to be worked off
the next Tuesday evening at the rate of one stroke with a cane,
strap, paddle or scourge for each demerit.
Benedict swallowed every drop, and as required gave a ritual
speech of "Thank you, Master. May I please have some more, sir?"
David usually replied, "Later, pig!" This time he grinned, with-
drew his penis, and said, "You're okay, slave! Have a big glass of
cranberry juice for me to drink when I get back from this errand
you want me to run. We need to restock the bladder for you later!"
When Benedict had followed David back to the store, David, as
son and employee, asked, "What do you need, dad?"
"I have a special job to do this afternoon for Brother Paul in
Ithaca. I'll be in the lab making it up, so you'll have to handle
the customers yourself. You've done it long enough so you won't
need to interrupt me. It's a very delicate process."
Benedict took a ten-dollar bill from the cash drawer under-
neath the counter. "Run over to Balducci's, please, and get me a
dozen fresh ripe apricots--not canned or dried. If anyone has
fresh apricots at this time of year, Balducci's will. Then you'll
be alone in front for a couple of hours at least."
When David returned with the apricots and change twenty
minutes later, a glass of iced juice was sitting on the counter
over the cash drawer, and Benedict was studying the Tarot cards
again. It had been a slow day so far--only one customer. While
Benedict looked at the apricots and nodded his approval, David
looked at the Tarot cards with interest. "Are these your lesson
for today?" he asked.
David studied privately with Benedict every Wednesday when the
shop was closed for classes and private readings, and he had proved
to be a good student with a natural flair for the occult, as Bene-
dict had expected from David's horoscope.
"Yes. Take a few seconds to look at them, and then give me
your first impressions. Your meditation takes off from your first
subconscious reactions to them."
David looked at the figure of the man stealing the swords from
the camp. "Conquering evil by taking away its power," he said.
His glance moved to the picture of the prostrate man pierced by ten
swords. "Betrayal," he said. "The phrase, 'stabbed in the back'
means a breach of trust by a false friend." Then he looked at the
angel closing the jaws of the lion. "Gentle persuasion overcoming
brute strength." He frowned when he saw Judgment Day, and more so
when he saw the Three of Cups over The Devil. "I'd have to look at
these for a while," he said. "Am I right so far?"
Benedict shook his head in reproach. "Never ask if you are
right. The meaning varies from one person to another. Your
psychic awareness is different than mine. Your own ESP might not
be right for me, and vice-versa. The Tarot, like the I Ching, is
a very personal experience.
"I've just had a reading," he went on in tones of utter
contempt, "by an egregious woman from Channel Six News."
"Sally Burke," said David. "I saw the station van pull away
when I was halfway down the block. Will you be a TV star tonight?"
"Not if her judgment is the determining factor on anything.
She warned me that I'll be robbed, stabbed in the back, and will
have to keep my mouth shut about it. Someone I know in some way
will die today, and I'll go to a Witches' Coven for a Hallowe'en
party and dancing tonight!"
David threw back his head and roared. "Does she read tea
leaves, too?" He took off his jacket and hung it up in the sitting
room, in the closet reserved for his clothing in the future. "It
looks like it'll be slow to start, so take as much time as you need
downstairs. No problem. I'd like to look at your cards a while."
Benedict nodded and took the bag of apricots. "I'll be right
underneath you." He smiled. "My favorite position." He kissed
David lightly on the cheek. "See you later," he said.
Benedict had been a chemistry major for three semesters before
deciding it was the wrong choice for him, and switched to anthro-
pology. But he retained an interest in compounding natural medi-
cines, and had a small but adequate laboratory for his needs. He
chose his equipment, lighted a bunsen burner, and used the table
top to slice open the apricots, from which he carefully removed the
hard pits. A pair of pincers sufficed to split the pits open.
An hour later, wearing face mask and goggles, his hands well
protected in rubber gloves, he opened a drawer to remove a half-
ounce brown glass bottle with a tight screw cap--old but clean. He
had a supply of them from years ago, which he knew could never be
traced--they were totally unlike the fancy clear vials he used for
the oils he sold in the shop overhead.
To be safe, he had boiled it and dried it in a little oven,
wearing the gloves at all times. When everything was ready, he
used a pipette to transfer two drams of a clear liquid from a test
tube to the vial. Still wearing the gloves, he tightened the cap
on the tiny bottle and gave a sigh of relief.
He boiled all the glass equipment he had used, before smash-
ing it to pieces. He collected all the shards carefully in a small
cardboard box, taped it shut, put it inside a small plastic bag and
then inside a second. When he was sure there was no danger of
contamination still remaining, he put everything away so the lab
was in order, carried the trash in one hand and the bottle, wrap-
ped in a purple silk handkerchief, in the other hand, and went
upstairs. The trash went into the container with other harmless
household solid waste, and Benedict went back into the store, where
David was talking to a young woman at the book counter.
Benedict set the brown bottle, still wrapped in the purple
silk, in the "Not For Sale" cabinet next to the Mayan ceremonial
dagger, letting the silk fall open loosely to display the bottle in
an innocent-looking way. He had said nothing to David about what
he was making--the less David knew the better, Benedict thought.
He knew that David never opened the "Not For Sale" case--its
contents were Benedict's "private" property which he would never
show to a customer. Benedict was relieved now that it was done.
Paul would be picking up the bottle some time tomorrow, and it
would be a relief to get it out of the store.
Business picked up during the afternoon as Benedict had
predicted: the Hallowe'en costume "parade" in the Village always
brought a crowd of tourists down Christopher Street, and Benedict's
window display was a real eye-catcher. Most of the customers were
obviously looking for cheap souvenirs, and Benedict obliged them.
But a few were "initiates," and Benedict was always happy to talk
with them and show them his genuine articles.
At seven forty-five, with fifteen minutes left before closing,
Benedict made up a bank-deposit envelope with most of the day's
cash income, and gave it to David to take to the Citibank branch up
the street. It was already quite dark. At the door Benedict stood
a minute or two to watch the "parade"--a crowd of costumed figures
milling up and down the sidewalks, crossing over in the middle of
traffic, and drinking from cans in brown paper bags. A typical
Village crowd, thought Benedict--a lot of college kids having a
weekend party for any excuse.
A strongly-built man wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and an
incongruous full-head mask of Marilyn Monroe stepped up to him out
of the shadows.
"Get back inside, man," said the costumed figure--and Benedict
felt the sharp prick of a knife-point just below the rib-cage.
NIGHT OF THE COVEN
Conclusion
by Kirk Brothers
Copyright 1990
All Rights Reserved
The man pushed Benedict, stunned by surprise, into the shop,
pulling the door shut behind him and turning the knob on the dead-
bolt. "Open the cash drawer, man, and give me everything in it."
Benedict hesitated. "There's no cash left here," he said,
quite truthfully. The man slapped his face viciously. "Stay put,
fucker! I'll get it myself." He stepped behind the counter and
opened the cash drawer. He's been in the store before, thought
Benedict. He knew exactly where the money was kept.
"Shit!" said the man. "Just some ones and a bunch of change!
Where's the rest of it, fucker?"
"In the bank," said Benedict. "I never keep a lot of cash
overnight. It isn't safe."
The man in the mask turned his head to the wall cabinet marked
"Not For Sale," and slid the door open. "What's this here?" he
asked, holding up the Mayan dagger.
"It's a magician's prop," said Benedict truthfully.
"Magic shit!" said the masked man, throwing it contemptuously
on the floor. Then his Marilyn-Monroe gaze fell on the purple silk
and the brown glass bottle. He picked it up.
"And what's this crap?" he asked.
Benedict reacted with genuine alarm. "Don't touch that!" he
said.
"Why not, man? What's in it?" He sloshed the nearly-empty
bottle--one of Benedict's precautions to prevent spilling the
liquid on opening it.
"It's medicine! It's very powerful! It can be dangerous!"
"Cool, man! I dig medicine! What is it--mescaline? I know
the kind of medicine you witches use, man! That's worth good money
on the street!" He slipped the bottle into the pocket of his
leather jacket.
"You mustn't take that!" cried Benedict. The man punched
Benedict in the stomach. "Turn around, fucker!" Benedict did as
he was told, and the man stuck the point of the knife against
Benedict's upper back. Benedict cried out in pain and fear.
At the moment, the bells on the door jingled as David--his key
in his hand--returned from the bank errand. David's entrance took
the thug by surprise. He whipped the knife into David's view, the
other arm wrapped around Benedict--holding him as a shield.
"Keep away, kid, or the old man gets it! Back up out of my
way!" David took in the situation at a glance, and backed up, to
give the robber an avenue of escape. Pulling Benedict with him as
be backed to the door, the thug pulled the door open with his knife
hand--and then viciously jabbed it against Benedict's right kidney
area before bolting through the door. Benedict stumbled forward
from the force of the knife jab at his kidney, blocking David's
move to intercept the thief.
"Let him go!" said Benedict--but David was already off in hot
pursuit. He returned a minute or so later, disappointed.
"He ran toward Seventh Avenue, but I lost him in the crowd,"
he said. "Have you called the police?"
"No," answered Benedict, "and I don't intend to. It would be
more red tape than it's worth. I think it would be wise to follow
Sally Burke's advice from the Angel card, and keep my mouth shut
about it."
"She said somebody might try to rob you today--and you might
get stabbed in the back." He appeared amused at the coincidence.
"Did he get anything?"
"Just tomorrow's start-up change--you interrupted him and
scared him off. And he tried to stab me in the back--out of sheer
rage and evilness!" Then Benedict broke into hearty laughter. "He
tried to stab my kidney area--where my bondage belt is, with all
the metal studs! His knife never got through to my skin!" David
appreciated the irony, and laughed in relief. Benedict, however,
was pensive and somewhat preoccupied as they closed the shop for
the night.
Five minutes later they were on Christopher Street, headed
west toward Stacy's bar on Hudson. Benedict kept looking behind
them as they walked. The street was still crowded with costumed
figures--none of a sinister nature--but it made for slow going. As
often happened when they went for a walk together, Benedict wanted
something to eat. "How about trying a curry at The Punjab after a
drink at Stacy's?" he suggested. "I haven't had Indian food in
weeks."
"Sounds good to me," said David, "--but can we get down to our
talk? You promised to explain why you want all the abuse I give
you. I've always known you're not a masochist. You're just bi--
like me--and we love each other, so the fuck-suck part is natural
enough. And I've read a little bit about flagellation in the old
monasteries--but I can't relate it to witchcraft."
They stopped at the curb to wait for a police cruiser as it
turned on its siren and flashing lights and headed as fast as
traffic would permit up Christopher Street toward Seventh Avenue.
Benedict turned to watch the police car with inner apprehension,
and waited to answer until the wail of the siren had died down
enough for him to be heard.
"It's not too difficult," he said, "given a knowledge of the
customs of older times. Corporal punishment by flogging has always
been part of the human condition. The Roman playwright Menander
wrote a comedy called 'The Girl Who Gets Flogged,' which has a line
of dialogue that 'the man who has never been flogged has never been
taught.' Only a century ago spanking was almost universal as a
proper means of disciplining children--in the home and in school.
"So in medieval monasteries any Brother could be whipped by
the head of his religious order for any reason--it was expected for
any infraction of the rules. And it's been written that in some
orders, a Brother could be sentenced to a flogging by his fellow
Brothers for any sin. Then, of course, some Brothers flogged them-
selves, like the Philippine men who parade through their village on
Good Friday, scourging themselves until the blood runs down their
legs."
He paused as another police cruiser raced by, siren wailing.
When he could be heard again, he continued. "In public floggings,
the upper back is almost invariably the target, and obviously that
must also be true when a man flogs himself. But in the privacy of
a monastery a flogging was very often administered on the bare
buttocks, for the humiliation of exposing the 'private parts.'"
He could not resist looking back up Christopher Street before
continuing. "You must remember that Christians have always had
neurotic hangups about sex because of the Adam and Eve myth of
Original Sin. If it's obvious to you and me a flogging on the
buttocks can be a sexual stimulus, remember that in medieval
monasteries, it was tacitly presumed that Brothers were both
celibate and heterosexual, with no lewd interest in another man's
ass. Sheer idiocy or hypocrisy, depending on how you look at it."
"But that was punishment, not a religious ritual, wasn't it?"
"In a way it was both. Punishment means atonement for some
material offense, and the purpose of penance is atonement for some
spiritual fault. At any rate, Brothers could be flogged either for
violating some rule, or to fulfill a vow of penance--to be flogged
as a sacrifice for his spiritual development. Like the sacrifice
of giving up meat on Friday, for example."
Again they stopped at the curb, while an ambulance went by,
its siren wailing, as it headed up Christopher Street behind them.
"I wonder what's happening back there?" asked David curiously.
Benedict shrugged. "On a Sunday evening in New York City it
can be anything from a barroom fight to a traffic accident," he
said with a casual tone he did not feel. "We'll read about it in
the papers tomorrow, I'm sure." He gathered his thoughts and went
back to his subject.
"Flogging was commonplace in military life a century or two
ago," he remarked. "Especially in the English armed forces."
"Like in 'Mutiny on the Bounty?'" asked David.
"That's right. In all the movie versions, Captain Bligh had
his sailors flogged on the upper back, partly because of censorship
in the film industry. But in real life sailors were often flogged
on the buttocks, usually by being tied over a cannon to receive the
lash. The sailors used to joke about that punishment as 'having to
kiss the gunner's daughter'". David chuckled.
"And flogging in the Orient has been confined to the buttocks
for centuries. The I Ching makes a number of references to a man
who has been caned on the buttocks as a symbol of ill fortune. We
all know it's official prison punishment in Singapore and India--to
name only two countries which use the rattan or bamboo as the means
of inflicting severe corporal punishment."
"But how does this relate to flagellation in witchcraft?"
asked David, pulling Benedict back to the subject at hand.
"Ah, here we are at Stacy's," said Benedict with some relief.
"Let's continue when we have the privacy--and the quiet--of our
booth." Benedict was leading, and he reached out to open the door.
A blast of disco music roared out at them. Inside, a throng
of costumed men and women jiggled on a new dance floor as a stereo
system provided deafening accompaniment. In the middle of the
floor a man costumed as the Devil performed an impromptu pas de
quatre with three scantily-dressed women with masks suggesting
black cats.
"What in hell's happened to Stacy's?" asked Benedict. Stacy
himself was at the door greeting customers, and he welcomed David
and Benedict like old friends. "Hi, David! Good to see you again!
Hi, Benedict! Long time no see!" It was hearty and meaningless.
"So you've come by to see my new place! Been remodeling it to
bring it up to date and pull in a bigger crowd. Have a drink on me
--I'll tell the barman. Here, have some matches." He thrust a
book of matches into Benedict's hand.
"Uh--, thanks, Stacy, but we'd been hoping we could have a
quiet talk. We'll take a raincheck, and drop in during the week."
With a tactful show of interest, Benedict backed out the door as
others arrived, and Stacy welcomed the newcomers.
On the sidewalk outside, Benedict looked at David with disgust
on his face. "A disco bar! Well, we'll have to find another bar
like the old Stacy's."
He looked down at the matchbook that Stacy had pressed into
his hand. On the cover was a cartoon of a witch on a broomstick
flying across the full moon. Benedict turned it over. On the
back, above the striking surface, was lettered in old Gothic type
the message: Welcome to the Coven.
Benedict stopped abruptly, laughing helplessly. "We'll have
to pick up a bottle of champagne to take home after dinner," he
said. "I want to drink a toast to Sally Burke. Let's get back to
the Punjab, and finish our serious talk there."
The Punjab, as the name implied, was run by Sikhs, and the
ambience was appropriate. The walls were hung with paintings
depicting human figures with elephant heads, and each table was
decorated with a brass elephant--the howdah serving as a candle
holder. The men working in various capacities all wore the tradi-
tional full beards, turbans, and steel bracelets, while the women
wore colorful saris and a plethora of finely-wrought gold jewelry.
On a white woman such a display would have appeared garish, but
against the dark skin of the waitresses, the effect was exotic.
Part of the exoticism, perhaps, was the array of five gold rings in
the nose of the middle-aged woman who served them.
David was unfamiliar with the menu offerings, and simply set
his card down. "You order for both of us, since you know what it
all is." Benedict obliged, and the waitress departed after filling
their water glasses, and pouring their first cups of tea from the
pot which was left on the table.
"Witchcraft and S/M," he prompted.
The muted sound of another siren reached their ears, and they
both turned their heads to look out the window. A morgue van went
by on its errand up Christopher Street.
"I wonder what's happened," said David again. "Aren't you
interested, Benedict?"
"No," Benedict lied. "Now, about witchcraft and S/M. First,
sex is the core of our religion. We reject the nonsense that sex
is Original Sin. We regard it, perhaps, as Original Blessing. Sex
in any form is an expression of the cosmic force which created us,
and witchcraft celebrates the cosmic force in all manifestations.
"All forms of sex are the result of natural laws, and nature
knows no perversions. So no sex act is perverted--except perhaps
celibacy, which is the suppression of the cosmic force. Our only
taboo in terms of sexual behavior is coercion, as I explained to
you last May.
"When my wife was alive I thought of myself as straight in
every way--and with her I was. But intellectually I have always
accepted bisexuality as perhaps the most natural, and therefore
desirable, orientation--because it is non-restrictive. It gives a
man or woman the greatest possible freedom in expressing his or her
love--and free love is the essence of the meaning of life to me.
"When I met you last May you turned me on at once, and I
realized that, for you, I would have no qualms about going gay.
When you told me you were bisexual, and would have gay sex only if
you were the top man, I immediately agreed, because that would be
absolutely acceptable to me."
"What about monogamy?" asked David. "Would you have sex, or
S/M, even, with other studs as well as me?"
"Monogamy is part of the Christian ethic," answered Benedict,
"based on the Original Sin mistake. The natural state is polygamy
for most animals--and we are animals with clothes. So I would have
no qualms about having sex, including heavy S/M, with other studs,
too--if you agreed to such gang-bangs and took part in everything,
and if all the studs were as healthy as you, and as sadistic as
you, and honored my few limits as you do.
"As far as S/M is concerned, the acts of sexual flogging, or
a desire for toilet sex, are simply individual fetishes--and if all
partners want to play those games, they are morally acceptable--
assuming the dominant partner is healthy, of course.
"In my case, a severe flogging fulfills a vow of blood sacri-
fice--a symbolic shedding of my life force as a gift to the cosmos.
A vow of blood sacrifice, to be real, must draw blood--and hurt
badly enough to make me scream, or even pass out from pain and
shock. In fact, I want you to make me faint--which you have done
every Fricay since June. I believe that having my conscious mind
black out from pain will help me develop a special psychic talent."
"That's the part I'm interested in," said David.
The waitress arrived with their dinner, and their conversation
turned to food while she was present. When she had departed to the
kitchen, Benedict resumed.
"Okay, tell me about your trip," said David as a cue, at which
Benedict chuckled.
"A well-chosen word," he commented. "Your last assignment was
to read one of Sylvan Muldoon's books on the subject of astral pro-
jection. Tell me in a few words what you remember about that."
"Well," said David, savoring curried lamb, "it's often called
an out-of-body experience, or O-B-E for short, and most people
describe it as separation of the mind from the body--to travel on
the astral plane."
"Is it like a dream?" asked Benedict as a teacher.
"Maybe a little, but everything is happening in real time, and
the subject can control where he goes and what he does--once he
learns how to travel."
"Exactly. It's a trip, of a unique kind--seeing material
reality from a non-material observation point. Perhaps the ulti-
mate psychic ability, which Muldoon had."
"And," went on David, "the subject can see his own body, like
he's floating above it, and the two parts of him are connected by
a silver cord fastened to his body's forehead, between the eyes."
Benedict interrupted, as the teacher again. "That's called
the Third Eye by Hindus, and it's one of a number of points in the
body called Chakras in their belief system. Now tell me, how does
the subject get out of his body?"
David frowned. "That's the hard part. Some people have said
they had the experience after a bad accident, or when they were
having an operation. They said they opened their eyes and saw the
doctors working on them--and afterwards they could say who was
where and who said and did what. But everybody else said they just
had a vivid dream."
"Naturally. But do you see any other ways to achieve it?"
"Well, maybe something like hypnosis--" he began.
"Hypnosis doesn't work," said Benedict. "At least not for me.
My conscious mind keeps getting in the way, and I can't meditate,
which helps other people make the separation. What's left?"
"I think I'm with you now. It could be just the shock of
extreme pain that knocks the conscious mind out, and lets the
psychic mind take over, I suppose."
"Exactly. At least, I suppose the same thing. And that's the
purpose of my submission to safe and sexual torture by you--or by
a gang of sadists if you'd like to share me with your buddies--to
suffer such agony that my body lets go of my mind, and I'm free to
explore the psychic frontier. The ultimate trip of my life, if I
can ever achieve it.
"I would do anything--suffer anything--from you, David, to
confirm that such a trip is possible, and to learn how to control
the experience when I choose to do so. Now do you understand why
I have given myself to you as your sex slave for life?"
"Wow!" said David as he mused on this. "And that's why you
say the more I enjoy it, the more psychic energy I'm giving to you?
My vibrations help you do what you want to do?"
"That's my hope. It hasn't happened yet, but perhaps it will
before next Beltane. Or the Beltane after that. I'm committed for
life to this experiment."
They paused while the waitress cleared their plates and, when
they declined dessert, brought their check. As always, Benedict
left a tip and paid the check while David waited by the door. Out
on the street, David said, "Let's walk up to Seventh Avenue to see
what's happening."
"I'd rather not, David." He groped for an explanation. "I'm
on TV tonight, and I'd like to get home to watch the news, just to
see how they butchered the interview. Wouldn't you like to watch
with me?"
David paused. "Well, I have something I've been waiting to
tell you, and now's as good a time as any. You always said you
wanted me to move in with you if I decided to quit show business
for good, remember?"
Benedict was at once alert. "Of course. I said if you do I'll
call my lawyer and arrange for court papers for me to adopt you as
my son."
"I remember. Well, I've had zilch jobs for nearly two years,
and I've decided to tell Broadway and Hollywood to kiss my ass
goodbye. I told the guys I room with I'd be leaving as soon as
they could find another guy to take my space and pick up my share
of the rent. Mark told me they found someone, and I can move out
any time. So how about tomorrow?"
Benedict was elated. "Wonderful! Do you want to sleep over
tonight, and pick up your things tomorrow morning?"
"I'd thought of that. But I'd rather go back to West Fourth
and pack my things tonight. I'll bring just clothes and a few
small personal things--I'm giving Mark my little TV and sex toys--
we have a lot better ones in the basement! I'll be late getting
everything done, but I can sleep and shower there for the last
time, and get a cab to bring me and my bags over tomorrow morning.
Would eight thirty or so be too early for you?"
"Not at all, David! I'll be waiting for you--very happily, I
might add. And I'll have breakfast for you."
David grinned suggestively. "And I'll have some breakfast for
you, too, dad!" he said with a knowing leer. Benedict smiled.
David threw his arms around Benedict and gave him an affectionate
kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for everything this evening, dad," he
said. "See you in the morning." He gave a final wave, and walked
quickly up Christopher Street.
Benedict, smiling happily, walked home more slowly--stopping
at a package store for the bottle of champagne he had told David he
wanted to buy. He hadn't had champagne for breakfast in years, but
tomorrow would be a special breakfast, and worth a celebration.
When David's taxi pulled up in front of the shop at eight
forty-five the next morning, the burglar gates were already rolled
up out of sight, and Benedict was waiting on the sidewalk. He
smiled warmly as David got out, said, "Hi, dad," and handed Bene-
dict two large bags to carry. The driver opened the trunk and
handed David two bigger suitcases. David paid the driver, added a
tip, and picked up the last of his belongings to follow Benedict
into the shop.
Benedict locked the door with the deadbolt, and together they
carried David's possessions into the room behind the drape in one
trip. "Keep going, slave," said David, "I've decided I'm sleeping
downstairs with you, so that's where all my stuff will be."
Benedict smiled and led the way. In the big room David asked,
"Which wardrobe is for my stuff, dad? Would you rather I didn't
use the one your wife had?"
"I have no sentimental attachment to her wardrobe, David--nor
to her side of the bed--nor to the bed itself. I would be happy
sleeping on a foam pad on the floor. I loved her very much, but
that chapter in my life is closed. You and I begin a new chapter,
and we make a fresh start. Her old wardrobe is empty, and should
be big enough to hold all your clothes, with your luggage going in
the front storage room. There's plenty of space in the bathroom
for all your shaving gear. How can I help you?"
David grinned. "By keeping out of my way," he said in a
friendly tone. "Unpacking and getting set up is a one-man job,
since I have to decide where everything should go. You can get
breakfast for us while I'm settling in here, but before you go,
come here."
Benedict moved to face David, eye to eye and very close.
David threw his arms around Benedict and kissed him full on the
mouth, his tongue probing Benedict's lips and inner cheeks in a
wordless expression of bonding.
"I'll have something for you to drink--and eat--in a little
while," he announced. "I'll be up for breakfast in about twenty
minutes." He gave Benedict a sharp slap on the rump as Benedict
turned, and Benedict again yelped.
"I see you're still nice and tender," he added with a grin.
"Be good, or I might spank you again tonight on all the scabs you
have from Saturday!"
Benedict laughed and went upstairs. A brunch of juice, bacon
and eggs, toast, and champagne with the coffee would be a nice way
to welcome his son home for good.
At five minutes past nine the telephone rang, and Benedict
answered with his usual greeting of "Benedict."
"Good morning, Mr. Benedict," said a familiar female voice.
"This is Sally Burke--do you remember me?"
"Very well, Ms. Burke. You don't want another story today, I
trust?"
"No--that's why I'm calling. I wanted to tell you how sorry
I am we couldn't use the story last night. I know you must have
been terribly disappointed."
Benedict's face showed pleased surprise. "You didn't run it!
Well, I can take disappointment, Ms. Burke, but my son was simply
desolated."
"What? Oh, yes. But you see we had that fire in Brooklyn,
and there was that air crash that our Washington station had lots
of tape on--and we have just a half hour on weekends with a lot of
sports to cover--so we just don't have time for all the stories
we'd really love to do! You understand?"
"I do, indeed." To drive the final nail in the coffin, he
asked, "So there's no hope it will run tonight, I guess."
"I'm afraid not. You see, it's a Hallowe'en story, and it's
not Hallowe'en any more. Maybe next year."
"We can always hope."
"Yes. By the way, did you see any of the excitement on your
street last night?"
"I don't suppose you mean the costume parade. Well, I heard
sirens, that's all. We hear them a lot, so I didn't pay any
attention. What was the excitement about?" he asked casually.
"It's in all the papers this morning, so we'll have pictures
of where it happened tonight and the latest details. But the
police finally got the Chelsea Killer."
"Who's that?"
"You know--the man who robbed and killed those two old store-
keepers a little uptown from you--on Twenty-third Street."
"Oh, yes. Now I remember."
"And police think he's the same person who killed a man in
Germantown and that woman near Columbus Circle three months ago.
They're doing a D-N-A test on his blood now and matching it to
traces found at the crime scenes."
"So he was arrested on Christopher Street?"
"Oh, no. He's dead. Suicide, they think--they're not sure.
He died in an alley there, and apparently he did it with cyanide."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. He had a little brown glass bottle of it, and he opened
it. Did you know that stuff smells like almonds, but it can knock
you out if you take a strong sniff of it--and just a drop on the
skin can kill most people in minutes!"
"I didn't know."
"It's horribly painful. And one of the wire services says it
can be made from apricot pits. Imagine--apricot pits! Who would
think of that? Did you know that?"
"No."
"That's right--you're into witchcraft, not alchemy. Is that
the right word, alchemy?"
"That's the word."
"And they say he actually tried to drink some of it! They
heard him scream once."
"I'm not surprised."
"Well, that just goes to show, doesn't it?"
"Show what?"
"It's a small world."
She offered no explanation for her observation, so Benedict
merely responded, "It is, indeed. Well, thanks very much for
letting me know, and blessed be!"
"What? Oh, thank you! And God bless you, too!"
Benedict cradled the phone and whooped with laughter. At that
point David entered from the basement room. He was naked, and
stroking his penis. "What's so funny, slave?" he asked.
"It's a small world, Master," he said. "But I have Divine
Protection--and now I have the son I've always wanted!" He knelt
spontaneously to kiss David's penis and feet. David used one foot
to nudge Benedict up from the floor.
"The cock, slave," he said. "I promised you something to
drink!" Benedict knelt and repeated the familiar ritual. When
David withdrew his penis at last, Benedict said, "Thank you,
Master. May I please have some more, sir?"
"Later, pig! When's breakfast?"
"Five minutes, Master."
"We'll eat in the kitchen together. And I'll have time to
tell you something. Have you seen the papers this morning, or
heard the news on the radio?"
"No, Master."
"I have. The excitement last night was that the Chelsea
Killer was found dead in an alley up the street."
"I heard that much from Sally Burke just now. She called to
tell me they couldn't use my story last night. I told her my son
was desolated."
David grinned in appreciation of Benedict's irony.
"The Chelsea Killer was wearing jeans, a black leather jacket,
and a mask of Marilyn Monroe," he went on.
Benedict feigned surprise. "Really! Then it's just as well
we didn't report our robbery to the police, or we'd be answering
questions all day, and couldn't tell anybody to leave us alone,
could we?" He paused. "By the way, Master, I forgot to tell you
something. I made up a special oil for Brother Paul, and after two
hours of work it slipped out of my hand and smashed on the floor.
So I've got to do it all over again today. That means I'll need
you to handle the store alone for a couple of hours, again. I hope
you don't mind."
"I don't mind that part of it at all, dad," answered David.
"But I want you to get your demerit book out right now."
Benedict retrieved the little scratch pad on which he would
write a list of offenses he had committed, and the demerits which
David would dictate as his punishment for each one.
"Yes, Master?" he prompted.
"Write this down. 'For lying to Master about dropping Brother
Paul's oil, five hundred demerits. For lying to Master about the
reason for the first lie, another five hundred demerits. And for
making your Master an accomplice to your crimes, four thousand
demerits.' I might have more to add later."
Benedict had learned from experience not to smile at any of
David's penalties, or ask any questions about them--to merely say,
"Yes, Master." This time, he said, "Yes, Master. But may I ask,
Master, why you say I lied to you?"
"You may. When you came upstairs yesterday while I was at the
book counter, you were holding a purple silk in one hand, with
something wrapped inside it. You put it in your private case, and
later I saw the bottle. Naturally I didn't open the case--I just
assumed that was Brother Paul's remedy.
"Brother Paul didn't come in yesterday--and you don't sell
anything from that case--so it was there when I left for the bank.
When we closed up after the robbery, I noticed the purple silk was
there but the bottle wasn't. So the robber had taken it.
"You wouldn't call the police--you were nervous all the time
we were out--and you didn't want to find out what was happening.
The morning papers said the man died of cyanide poisoning, which
can be made from apricots--which I bought for you at Balducci's
yesterday.
"Of course I knew from your library books that cyanide is an
old medicine that was used by homeopaths, and Brother Paul and you
both use homeopathic remedies. And you have a lab downstairs." He
grinned. "The jury finds you guilty. And we've sentenced you to
five thousand strokes as fair punishment. We'll take it out on
your ass, and we'll do it tomorrow night. The shop will be closed
Wednesday, so it won't matter much how sore you are. You said last
night I could whip you every night if I wanted to, because you want
me to knock you out and give you an express trip on the bare astral
plane! I'm giving that very serious consideration."
To soften the mood, he gave Benedict a quick kiss on the
cheek. "What's for breakfast?" he asked.
Benedict smiled as he brought out the glasses. "We're cele-
brating a very important day in both our lives, so we're starting
with champagne."
David raised his brows. "Good! Now I can use a toast I've
always wanted to say to you."
He pulled the cork from the bottle, and poured the foaming
wine into the glasses as Benedict held them at an angle.
He replaced the cork loosely and replaced the bottle in the
refrigerator. Benedict handed him a goblet, and they raised their
glasses together, looking very straight and hard into each other's
eyes. "Here's champagne to my real friends," said David, "and real
pain to my sham friends." Their glasses clinked, and Benedict
chuckled at the toast. They sat down for their meal, and David
spoke again, now as Master.
"This may be the last meal we eat together at this table," he
said. "In public we're dad and son, but here you're my slave, and
slaves don't eat at the Master's table with him as an equal. I'll
figure out some interesting ways to feed you properly, as a slave
should be fed. But this one time I want to talk to you, and it's
important enough for us to be face to face."
"Yes, Master?" prompted Benedict.
"At the Punjab you said witches aren't monogamous, and that
you'd take any kind of sex or S/M from other studs--sort of like a
prison gang-bang--if I was the ringleader. Do you remember that?"
"Yes, Master."
"Do you repeat to me now that you consent to submit to other
studs if I bring them in for an evening?"
Benedict looked David directly in the eyes.
"I repeat my consent, Master."
David nodded, enjoying his bacon and eggs.
"Good. I just want you to know that I am giving the idea my
very careful consideration. Enjoy your meal--I'll feed you your
dessert after the dishes are done. And then, I think, I'd better
get dressed for the store. You'll be busy in the lab again this
afternoon."
"Yes, Master. But there's no need for you to run another
errand. I still have a half-dozen apricots left."
THE END