Psychopomp

Twenty girls painted solar bronze dance upon the white stone stage. Like shapely metallic statues brought to life, they sway and dance in motions both swift and slow while ribbons of vanilla veils barely cover their bodies. Deep bass drums boom with such roaring bellow the very air shakes and dictates their every move. Its beats thunder reverently to the elongated alto of another woman upon a separate platform, her vocal cries stretching into dark, foreboding beckoning. The smoke of the incense rods reaches and extends with her every note, forming streaks of vaporous haze above.

Toward the back of the stage gargantuan golden gears turn and from below raise a radiant throne of the purest bronze and in it the profound muscular figure of a man, himself seemingly molded from the resplendent metal. Upon his skin the paint sparkles and glows as his dark eyes ravenously watch the women before him, focus upon only one.

Only her flawless smooth skin shines like the moon and face hides behind the pale mask that commands subordinate awe. Her sunlit hair captures the light like a silk-woven orb and lean, voluptuous body teases from behind the ebony lace.

Tightly around her the bronze girls move, like a covetous single organism of many alluring hands and legs. Her body shifts, twists, and recoils with every command of their hands in a choreography of hypnotic allure. Long, graceful fingers nip and tuck at her robes, briefly teasing but never revealing more of her, of the features so delicate and bewitching.

Slowly the man rises from his throne. The drums intensify and a choir of veiled men and women appear along the flanks, vocalizing his every step forward with palpitating anticipation. With them, the bronze girls ascend in intensity, their puppeteer hands compelling the beautiful young puppet to reveal but a little more. The exposure of the neck, the trace of the fingers along the collarbone, swift flick of the hem of the waist, and caress of the womb, all with astounding fluidity.

“She is talented,” Ewain mutters. Not a flaw in her transitions.

“She must be,” replies an aging man in kind, “to entice a god.”

When the towering man is but a breath away from her, suddenly all freeze, motionless now like the sensuous statues they appear as. Only the unseen drums dare join this enchantment, their presence, however, is tense as if each percussive pulsation tightens the air. She stands facing him, eyes looking down, hands fidgeting at her side.

Around her the man walks, beholding her from feet to neck, and when he returns to her front, his hands slide the robes from her shoulders. She covers her freshly revealed bosom with her hands and turns now, away from him yet toward the shadow-wrought audience in the horseshoe-shaped auditorium.

Her maritime eyes glare up at them upon the balcony as the man comes along her side, peels away her hands then more of the black lace from her body.

“You take contentious liberties with the scripture,” Ewain comments as he looks back at her, though her eyes set upon the man next to him. Of all the spectating platforms in the auditorium, only this one has the dim glow of a meek lantern to separate it oh-so-slightly from shadow.

Time bid the man no favors, deepening many creases upon his olive face and thinning his chestnut hair into withering wanting wisps. Try as he might, his meticulous and formal appearance hide only so much. His faded hazel eyes fix themselves deep into his round face and consume the sight on stage, her gaze with voracity.

“I remain faithful to their motifs, however,” his voice grates like sand through a sifter, and he takes a sip of honey-colored liquid from a pristine glass, “The Ichorians were hypersexual beings. Even the perfections and endowments of their bodies failed to satiate them, hence they found fulfilment with us their mortal children. I seek to capture the feelings of those moments, the excitement in every tryst, one lying with their subordinate, the other their dominate, in such indisputable, hierarchical ways. These unions, after all, were what gifted us the Demichorians, saviors of this world once the Ichorians left. In fact, if I am not mistaken,” he adjusts in his enveloping crimson velvet seat, “the founder of your Order was the progeny of this particular assignation. Morrius and Nyphone.”

“Nyphone seems different from the last performance of this piece, Mr. Engels,” Anaxander points out, more engaged in the theatrics than the Psychopomp, examining with peculiarity the woman upon the stage, whose last remaining fabric is pulled from her now nude body.

“She is,” he kisses his glass for another taste, “A different girl portrays her each time, enticing enough to compel people to watch this performance again and again and feel it distinct.”

“Are they patrician girls?” Anaxander asks.

“No. No patrician girl of honor would partake in these theatrics.”

“Plebeians exclusively, then,” Ewain adds, eyes diverting from the stage to Mr. Engels, “how do you find them?”

Not once does the man look away from the stage. He sighs and groans, “Gentlemen, let us resume this after the show’s conclusion. You are distracting me from enjoying it.”

“Let us continue this now,” Ewain rises and leans against the cold metal railings, his back to the stage, “somewhere removed from here.”

Finally, Mr. Engels looks at him, his thick brows pushing down on his eyes, “I never miss a show.”

“Surely you know how this one ends,” the restraint on his voice’s volume loosens, “lest you would like me to arrange an intermission or give to the audience another show.”

“Your office,” Anaxander adds, remaining comfortably in his seat, “will be adequate.”

Rubbing his cleanshaven face, making no effort to hide his irritation, Mr. Engels speaks, “In twenty years, I have never missed a single one of my performances here. Not a one. If you wish for me to move before its conclusion, then you will have to forcibly do so. I can put on another show, as well.”

The subtlest gravity weighted his words, saturates them with an obligation, an urgency.

For a moment Ewain just watches him, studies the emanation from his wrinkles and movement of thoughts deep within the eyes. “So be it,” he acquiesces but remains against the rail, eyes away from the stage. Yet to his ears the show still performs. A pronounced, sharp gasp of a woman, moans and shaky breaths.