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Good-looking, persistent, passionate, available. Very similar situation,
I thought. And where had all those erotic moments led? To a threatened
palimony suit, phone calls to my previous employer making me appear
to be insanely gay, and to her carving her name into the bottom of all
my dining-room chairs. And Liz Chase has more chutzpah than Roz. An
unhappy Liz Chase might well carve her name in my chest! I hopped
out of bed to tackle the day, delighted to have snapped myself back into
reality.
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ANDREWS & AUSTIN
I was going to get the laundry done, make phone calls, and wax
my face the latter inarguably the modern woman s most barbaric
practice. Either God should have given women full facial hair, or no
facial hair at all; the occasional stiff dark hair was truly a cosmic slap
in the face. As much as I dreaded it, I was about to rip those hairs off in
one overwhelmingly quick and painful act.
I heated the wax, hating this particular ablution, but aware every
time a salon did it for me, my face broke out, convincing me bacteria
lurked in their creams and waxes. Determined to be my own torturer,
I sucked in my breath and wielded the spatula, spreading the thick,
shiny liquid across my upper lip, down across my cheeks, and under
my chin. As a drop of wax splashed into the sink basin, congealing
instantly into an orange solid, I glanced up into the mirror and blinked,
unbelieving. My hair, short and rumpled from bed, no makeup, sunken
and tired green eyes, and now a short red beard easing up around my
cheeks and over my lip revealed me unintentionally transformed. I
stood transfixed, a shiver electrifying my spine as I tried not to move
an inch, afraid I might break the spell. The man in my dreams, the man
with the red beard I could pass for that man!
 Move the troops around to the west wall. The phrase startled
me, seeming to come from nowhere, apropos of nothing, spoken to the
man in the mirror. It was completely believable. I would have followed
me. I was aware I d be ripping my skin off with the hair if I didn t get
the wax off soon and put my hand to my face to strip away the image of
the man in the mirror. The transition was seamless.
One minute I was in my bathroom mirror and the next&
I am standing over an earthen basin, rubbing my face and
splashing ice-cold water on it. I am tired. My men are mopping up,
tending to the wounded; the remaining women are building contained
fires and cooking food. An old crone scatters her divining rocks on the
stone floor and scurries across it, a pack of black wild dogs at her heels.
She points her crooked index fi nger at the sky, shouting and cursing
everyone around her and excoriating the heavens.
 Who is she? I ask my devoted young aide.
 King s oracle, the sandy-haired boy replies.  She s cursing us
for killing the king and herself for not saving him.
 I think Herlugh caused his death. I smile, thinking of the fine
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MISTRESS OF THE RUNES
young man who had delivered the most damage to the dying king. I
must remember to promote him.
 Thank you for saving my life today. The young aide throws
the words at me quickly, obviously embarrassed that he had needed
saving.
 One day perhaps you will return the favor, saving me. I grin,
doubting this eager boy will ever be in such a position.  Fetch the
crone. Maybe she can tell us what the gods have in store for us.
At that moment a collective sucking of air takes place, a communal
gasp. I turn in time to see the crone throw herself off a parapet to her
death, her cries echoing throughout the castle, her remorse at the death
of her king evidently too great for her to bear. The black dogs cries
pierce the air as they pace up and down at the spot where she had
leapt.
Shaken by the bad omen of the king s oracle taking her own life, I
rip the beard from my face with a sharp blade.
The stinging sensation brings me back to the present.
Peeling away the remaining wax, I saw my own reflection. For
a moment, something deeply buried in my DNA had surfaced and
connected me with myself in a way I still did not fully comprehend, the
light of who I might have been illuminating who I was and projecting
that image into the mirror.
 Maybe I do need to see a therapist, I said to Madge as I lounged
on her couch, this time giving up and drinking the damned tea.
 You re feminine. You just have a large head and a strong jawline,
no makeup, and of course a flare for the dramatic.
 If I had told you to take a battalion of troops over the hill looking
the way I did in that mirror, you would have followed me to your
death.
 Darling, I d follow you looking just the way you do right now.
Madge winked at me in her never-can-tell-who-turns-me-on kind of
way. Madge was a mystery when it came to sex. She claimed to be
the oldest living virgin in the country, a title most people would pay
money not to hold, but for Madge it was a badge of honor. She said sex
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ANDREWS & AUSTIN
was in the head, not in the bed, and she could have head-sex while she
was driving and get other things done. Bed-sex just weighed her down.
 You have yet to give me a blow-by-blow of your trip with her. She
raised an eyebrow.
 Nothing happened. We saw great countryside, we slept in separate
beds, and we bought horses, I said, enjoying seeing her eyes fly open
wide.
 You bought horses! We had dinner together and you didn t tell
me that?
 I wasn t myself.
 What kind of horses? she demanded.
 The kind with four legs.
Madge pulled her neck back like a turtle retreating into its shell
and stared at me.  What does your horse look like?
 Don t know yet.
Madge snorted and I grinned enigmatically. For once I had rendered
Madge Mahoney speechless.  Better buy some land, then. She finally
found her voice.  Stop being nomadic. Despite the fact that you ve
made wealthy women of all your exes, you have enough money to buy
a house, for God s sake, but you won t! That s irresponsible it s un-
American! You ll be boarding your horse with someone just as you ve
boarded with someone! Four someones! You won t even commit to an
address of your own!
 Are you actually shouting at me because I m not a home owner?
I asked, bewildered.
But Madge was just shouting now to hear herself shout. I was
convinced that s what lack of sex had done to her; it had culminated in
verbal orgasms. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]