FREEDOM'S KEY

Everyone I know is looking for love. Or the nearest substitute. Dicks and sweet lips, men who love to bend over, who have good taste in wine and interior design. I often suffer through wild nights out on the town, with friends, out among the girls looking for fun as they show off the new plaid '96 jeans and the tan, cruising for Lancelot (or at least Lancelot’s valet), listening to the bemoaned fact that they cannot hang on to a man for longer than three weeks. ‘But he was so hot, so hung, so cute!’ they sing. Three weeks? Three days or three hours. Try three minutes. Whoever manages three months might consider a mutual purchase (nothing too precious, like, suppose, a fern, whose demise can be used to gauge the relationship’s instability). And after three years ... well, three years is marriage, and that’s when the partners start looking over the fence for a rather packed, fresh, young grassy knoll on which to play.

Puke? I could slit my wrists.

Oh, you romantic, uptight, insecure queen! they yap, like so many spoiled poodles. Perhaps, but where are the gods of modern love? Loyalty and honour in an eternal heart, pouring forth beauty and joy, masculinity and grace. Oh, the gods are out there. Zeus, with his mighty chest, thick thighs, swarthy gate and lightning bolts of bitter wrath. Apollo, the golden boy with a smile like the sun, bright clever words and a knack for home wrecking. Hermes, fleet of foot, abs like iron, the trickster, an expensive date with too many skeletons in his closet. Pan, with his lascivious wink and the dick of death, his flirting is earnest, while his words may not. Hercules, cloned and re-cloned, yet the voice is never quite right. Hades, Lord of the Underworld, across the river Styx, through the leather curtain and into the back room beyond. Poseidon, the water boy. Hecate, the bitch. Need I go on? They’re all out there and in the market for devout worshippers. Bodies, biceps and pecs filling out T-shirts two sizes too small. Squats for filling out jeans, and close shaves, solariums and scrubs for when it all comes off.

Most of these gods are literate, well versed in opera, the private lives of pop stars, movies to be seen and the clothes to be worn. They shop and eat and vacation like the bourgeoisie because they can afford to. In short, the cornucopia of our era is flooding society with gods, old and new, winking, grinning, libertine men with only one thing on their mind: age.

They say that doubt is good for the soul. If so, then is a blowjob in the park from, say, Poseidon, less than, equal to, or greater than doing your lover’s laundry?

I’m not kidding.

The golden rays of midsummer sun strike the trembling poplar leaves, suddenly igniting them with a radiance that is brief and fleeting. The wind, the leaves and the sun last in this combination for only a few blinks of the eye. Then the light nestles down in the western horizon, the leaves darken and the scene changes, still beautiful to behold, calming and pleasant, but different. The radiance fades. There, out of my window, its lost beauty remains in my mind as a dream, like so many other memories. I know the radiance of this midsummer eve, as I know Poseidon's blowjob in the park.

I also know laundry: shirts and jeans and socks, too many socks, and especially those cloth handkerchiefs that go into the wash full and come out clean. Do the balls of snot dissolve, or find their way into the pockets of my own jeans?

Questions are valid in a world that allows one to brush shoulders with the divine on a daily basis. But then I remember my friends, the endless conversations I’ve sat through about cute bods, bright eyes and big ... and all the broken hearts, the dramas that never end, a mean history repeating itself in each new generation, the self-abuse and pesky infections, Aids and suicide. Certainly these afflictions are not dethroning our immortals? Certainly, it is not Old Testament suffering for the benefit of strong character and repentant faith ...

"More ice?"

"Sure. Let me tell you, honey, Hector was definitely the best fuck in years."

"Yeah, I know. Say, where is that stud anyway? Last time I saw him, he was dating Paolo. Lemon?"

"Mmm, super. Hey, I know from my trolly-dolly sources that Paolo o.d’ed in Rio during a party. Too much sun and Xtasy does it every time. Damn! He was hot! Do you remember that hard fucker at the beach drag party doing Carmen? Gawd, how that boy could wiggle his tight ass ... I could have lapped him up!"

"Hector, darling, Hector?"

"Oh yeah, last I heard he was HIV and working hotel tables at the Holiday Inn."

"No shit."

"Yup. Saw him pedaling on the fat-burners at the gym last month, can you imagine? Remember how he took your breath away in purple spandex? I couldn’t sleep for a week! And let me tell you, girl, those muscles sure fell like leaden pillows … and the musky scent was divine! Geeze, I remember him seducing me at Buddy’s ..."

Suffering? I don't know what is worse, the players, their stories or my failure to empathize.

The leaves on the poplar are darkening, but now there is a strip of peach above the crowns that meets the blue at the top of my window. And somewhere between these too magnificent colours hides another story. There shines a band of growing twilight, where gods become mortal men, and mortal man becomes god. Apollo. Lancelot. It’s hard to focus on this wavering line, with the brilliant sunset rose competing with the peaceful blue of emptiness; the poplar leaves still wave for attention, too. If one looks hard enough, any myth crumbles within three hours, days, weeks, months or years. Love is terrifying. Just as freedom is a glorious thing in the heart of the young.

And like the sun drawn by Apollo’s chariot, these dreams will rise every day and set every day, though no two days are ever the same, nor is the memory -- infinite variety, like our men, like our whims, like my lover’s sock collection. I will remember the radiance of the poplar leaves, the slow melding of orange tangerine into light blue. I will remember Poseidon's hot lips. Is then a blowjob in the park less than, equal to, or greater than doing your lover’s laundry?

I know one thing. When I come up with the answer, I wont settle for 'It depends.'

On the terrace, Amsterdam 1996

Prelude

"John!"

He stands on the edge of the road listening to the distant call to prayer. Accompanied by the tolling of bells, both demand strict devotion. The wind carries fragments of the clerical liturgy over the Wall, familiar words commanding him cease toiling on the earth, to kneel, to bend before the weight of divine judgment, to surrender the soul, to again and again swear faith, devotion and obedience ... kneel on the body of the earth, lower your eyes in supplication and atonement, speak the word, feel the word as it passes your lips and raises you above the dumb beasts who cannot speak Her Name.

From within the massive defensive walls, the rumble of thunder rises. Metal thunder, great hammers being driven against brass discs signal the approaching climax. Through out the city, on countless altars, metal flashes at the throats of infidels, heretics, prisoners of war, thieves, barbarians, human waste standing newly washed, oiled, robed and decorated in garlands of variegated ivy. They were born for this moment, their existence made worthy with this public honour, the surrendering of their life, their souls ... to scent the spiced halls with their pungent blood, to fill the goblets of priests, to allow the earth to drink them in ...

He raises his mottled green eyes from a road littered with rocks, gritting his teeth. This early in the morning the sky is tender blue, withholding the promise of rain once again. He sighs in resignation. No rain. No money. Another hard year, he thinks, looking in the direction of the city, hearing the echoed ritual of prayer. No amount of sacrifice has been able to bring simple rain. The earth has forgotten them. There are no tears left.

"John!"

Like the cry of hawk, the screeching voice drives him for cover. Without thinking, he finally drops to his knees as if ducking under swooping talons. He lowers his eyes to the ground and bends to kiss the dust as is expected. But distracted from the act of worship, he drives his fingers down into the sand, as if caught by the wonder of it, as if he might find water just under the surface. Bone dry ...

"By the gods, John, do you want to put our lives in danger again? How can you stand here, especially by the road, and not take the prayer? In public!" his wife hisses in exasperation, more out of fear than a reprimand. He tells her that he isn’t sorry, but rather irked. He had simply forgotten.

"Forgotten? You old fool! You have only repeated the ritual four times a day for your whole life ... and to ignore it on the Day of Harvest!"

"They promise rain long ago. They promised a bountiful harvest. The Word is repeated, and still the drought, still the winds, still we are driven from our farms ... to go down that road." He speaks as if in a trance, turning to look down the road. As he looks, he reaches up to brush away a lock of errant hair falling in his face. With dismay, he recognizes the gentle breeze bringing tidings of another wind storm. Is he to be punished so swiftly?

Gruffly, his wife grabs him by the elbow, helping him back onto his feet when she sees that no one was out on the road to witness his crime. "Don't dwell on it John ..." she finally says softly to her love, feeling the frustration of poverty and helplessness he bears. She wishes only that he felt her fear. But there is something else. She cups his chin in her hard, worn fingers, slowly steering his face to look into her own. What is it? she asks silently.

"They have taken my son!" he yells, turning away from his wife with a sudden flash of fire in his old eyes.

"He left us, my husband," she sighs, and leads him gently back to the white plaster house on the edge of what had been an orchard before the rains ceased, "He left us, as you left your father, as he left his father before that ..."

"It's wrong," he states stubbornly. She turns to look into the face she knows so well. She has watched the life slowly trickle away over the years, into the dry, barren earth, into the same cracked earth that failed to support the fruit trees, now standing as shriveled and twisted skeletons, firewood under the brutal sun. Vitality had abandoned the lambs and calves and young pigs who, despite his attention, fell to disease and predators. But they have not given up as so many others had. Few farms remain along this stretch of road along the rancid Outwall canal. She shakes her head in wonder, for in her husband's eyes she now sees the full face of a hopelessness that has been mounting for years. The glass green brightness has dulled. Lines of laughter and joy zigzag like parched cracks in the fields. Those powerful masculine hands, that have held her with security for so many hard years, are suddenly balled into crippled knots. And now he speaks blasphemy freely, spilling it from his lips, endangering them both.

"Hush! You will bring ruin upon us as surely as the Demon’s fire with your words! You are just as stubborn as your son. Come inside and I’ll make some tea ..."

And as if it just occurs to the farmer that he uttered a truth, he repeats his blasphemy again and again in a dry whisper. "It is wrong ... it is wrong ..."

1

"It’s wrong!" cries the stocky youth to his small audience on the bed. The five of them lie upon one another, enjoying the lingering dizziness of orgasm, savoring the physical exhaustion that brought release. Sitting up amongst the litter of glistening bodies, the stocky youth yells out in defense of his friend, who along with two others, left for the garden before the orgy began. Again, someone has accused his friend of being a prudish, Outwall farmer; a citizen of Domos, yes, but generally regarded as a creature no better than one of the roving barbarian tribes … a heretic, a danger to the empire.

The powerful boy tosses a couple of limbs off of him as he shifts over to the edge of the large bed. Most wealthy homes have these marble beds by the private spa for just such a purpose: down mattress and silken veils, plump pillows and cool, cotton sheets, such a bed could easily accommodate up to eight guests. Disrupting the peace of the spunk soaked group, he bounds across the grey marble floor, muscles shuddering and flexing, his reddened cock slapping hairy thighs, and dives effortlessly into the oval pool. No one speaks, preferring to stroke each other silently and let their host, Andrew, wash away his anger. They all respect his violent temper and can wait until he cools off; the soldier is fantastic in bed, but no one needs to lock horns with him afterwards, especially if he is grumpy. They exchange knowing looks, which turn into facetious grins. Indeed, Andrew is again grumpy.

Andrew is furious. The water soothes his hot body, but not his temper. Why have they started picking on Jonathan? Again, he finds himself having to defend his peculiar friend. Since childhood they have been close, when John came to the city to study and later, work by his side. But still, after all the years of libertine adventures, of the rich, eclectic life that only Andrew's family name and wealth can provide, John never can fit in. Despite everything, John truly is nothing but a fucking farmer! The big man grimaces. And what really pisses him off is that he loves him more than his own brother.

It was fine when they were youths, to rebel and shake up the rules, to plunge into the lusts of this city with abandon and ruffle a few clerical gowns in the process. But now John’s stubborn (and what some even called insolent) arrogant moods compete against a rising tide of critical opinion ... his friend would soon find it harder and harder to defend his own actions; Andrew has all but given up defending his friend. They are both men. Andrew has received two promotions just in the last year – very few men at his age hold the grade of Lance Guard. He pulls through the water riding the burst of pride that buoys him. Lance Guard of the West Wall. And what in the Word has John accomplished in these last few years? he fumes. Content with his shabby house, content with his unambitious life, content without a wide social circle ... that boy has never scorned the company of men before this afternoon! he thinks. Indeed, some of the most beautiful pieces available in their district now lounge around the pool, around the swimmer, their well-honed bodies still swollen and flushed from the violence of their sex. Nay, John refuses today's orgy as uninteresting! And when asked why, John claimed he was in search of something else! At his answer, Andrew almost had to hold off the others, who wanted to tie John down and gang rape him. Luckily another had begged to be raped and the atmosphere became playful once more. Pulling through another lap, the water is not cold enough to calm Andrew down.

And Jonathan?

He has gone out with two others in search of a quiet garden grove to discuss the upcoming festival season. The other two men have been maimed in the last war; with sex an impossibility, as always their polite retreat was well received by the functional guests – their war ravaged bodies are not tolerated amongst the cultured forms that grunt and howl in the spa. More often then not, they just jerk each other off behind the hedges. In the great city of Domos, everyone has some form of release for pent-up lusts, needs or addictions. With a declined invitation and the disappearance of the other two men behind the many hedge rows, Jonathan is left sitting by himself in the shade of the grape arbor, listening to the sounds of pleasure on the wind. He hears his friend shouting for him, but can not bring himself to go back into that room. What is the point? Pleasure and abandon and then what? He never felt clean amongst them, and he always felt he was giving a part of himself away, throwing it away, not to the gods, not to the state, but into ... emptiness.

Even when they were younger, Andrew always chided him for his foolishness and provincial ways. Yet he respects the big man for standing by him, a simple farmer's son from beyond the city wall. They both studied together as initiates in the Bone Temple. Later, Andrew left to train as a warrior, while John pursued the study commerce. Andrew’s career flourished. John’s remained inert, largely due to the lack of effort he put into it. His mind is always somewhere else, certainly not on finances and route schedules. Yet despite their differences, the soldier never rebuked him with violence or threatened him with the loss of their friendship. Unqualified love? Routinely, Andrew bears the brunt of John’s indiscreet tongue and social arrogance. Arrogance? muses the slender, red-haired youth. He does not intentionally offend or refuse, but the stubbornness inherited from his father remains a dangerous characteristic in this city.

And the dreams? His dreams tell him to stay away from the temples, not to go to war, but to go away, to leave Domos in the direction of the forest to the north. John has not mentioned this to Andrew. He learned long ago not to speak of dreams to his friend. Andrew, the loving, burly warrior, is hopelessly tied to the order of this city. An order that John know he must someday break.

The dappled light and dark green shade allows him to sink back into the comfortable chair and listen to the singing insects. The orgy will tie the others up for another hour. They will finish off what lust keeps them hard, then swim and wash and dress for the late dinner. He thinks he might slip out and skip the dinner. Andrew will be furious. John hates these afternoons.

"It doesn’t have to be like this, you know." The voice startles him from his seat. He springs up out of his reclined comfort, knocking over his glass of wine. Before John, stands one of the maimed soldiers with an empty glass in his hand.

"What do you mean?" he asks the unknown man. He came as a friend of a friend (like most of the men who pass through Andrew’s house). Handsome, dark skin and long, thick brown hair, his glistening eyebrows and smooth forehead and clear amber eyes would have made this man popular in the public spa; how have the wars maimed him? wonders John, remembering the soldier declined all pleasures with a laugh, remarking that the other’s might loose their appetites if he disrobed.

"Like this, you sitting alone here, with the others inside," he answers, stepping up to the terrace and ducking under the swollen grapes. With a roguish smile, he sweeps up the hem of his reddish robe and sits elegantly across from John, which immediately shocks him -- when meeting someone Inwall, that is, within the walls of the city, it was not customary to sit across from anyone, because all citizens sought companionship, therefore, one always sat next to another. Actually, what this man did, could be seen as a grievous insult -- it only serves to fascinate John.

"I prefer it here under the arbor with my wine, really." John is in no mood for an argument, yet he can see that his answer does not satisfy the soldier, "Why the face?"

"Hmm?" smiles the new-comer, gazing around him with apparent pleasure, while adjusting the black and silver chords of his uniform. The Fire Temple, thinks John, although he is not sure of the man’s rank.

"Just now. Your face suggested I was deceiving you ..."

"Know that I am not here to offend you, Jonathan. No. Indeed, I really believe you prefer simple wine, to complex lust. But I was not referring to the specific present when I said that your life doesn’t have to be like this. I was speaking more generally. I apologize if I was unclear." Such outrageous words for a soldier! Who is he?

"What then did you mean?" asks John apprehensively, "Only then can I answer you suitably … in the correct tense." The soldier smiles and then openly states that the younger man’s abandonment of society, both here at the party and in public more generally, suggests that John prefers to be outside of it.

The implications of the stranger’s words are dangerous. Just before touching John’s full lips, the bowled crystal glass stops. With eyes locked, John forces a smile and finishes off what is left of his spilt glass. Ringing in his ears now, Andrew's warning of the consequences of his public scorn come back. Is this man a clerical whip? Or worse still, an assassin hired by someone John might have unintentionally offended. Such revenge in Domos is certainly not uncommon.

"Not always do I prefer such stringent solitude. I had my fill of riotous parties in my youth. I guess you can’t take the Outwall farm from the boy." This too is a foolish confession, but given the nature of this stranger’s incriminating inference, John wastes no time weighing the consequences of a loose tongue. The other man places his elbows purposefully onto the carved wooden table and leans forward to answer John with a smile of his own.

"You’re still young and beautiful and as old as your friends who cavort now in that opulent bath. You don’t like to fuck? You would prefer doing something other than sucking on a man’s dick? Feeling his bullish, blood-engorged body and the chaos of his power devouring you. What? Making babies!?" he laughs good-naturedly, but John notes the corners of his eyes miss any pinch of humour, "The world is great and wide, John, and as much as I would like to partake in this afternoon’s carnal celebration, I must be content with memories, vague sensations of another age. The war took me out of this life, especially this city’s life. And even if I have seen much of the world, John, Domos can never again be my home."

* * *

"Did you spend much time on the battle fields?" I asked, returning my attention to the near empty glass cupped in my hands, hoping to keep focused on the discussion of my strange guest. He only shook his head, watching the wasps darting from grape to grape. Then his green eyes fell once again upon me.

"If you want out of Domos, beyond the Three Walls, beyond the walls of this society, dreams are not enough. I can give you a key," he uttered under his breath. And rightly so, for what this man proposed was treason. By his low tone and meaningful glance, he had moved one step beyond a game of entrapment. This was treason. Yet, he was luring me with the very fantasy-shrouded vision I’d been having for the last few years. A way out?! His attentions drifted back to the arbor, as though to give me time to think.

Of course, anyone could leave the walled city, but the danger of traveling was well known. And who would willingly leave? There was nothing but great stretches of wasteland and savages surrounding the capital. My parents’ farm was one of few ancient plots of land that still belonged to Domos outside the walls. Culture, life, the only world worth living in lay ringed by a thousand kilometers of wall. To be a citizen of Domos was to exist; only the representatives of a few barbarian tribes still moved freely Inwall, but as outsiders, they were forbidden citizenship and were treated no better than animals. However, what this soldier offered was a perilous path to escape from the stifling insanity of the empire … a freedom that offered no guarantees. It meant certain death. It meant loss of citizenship.

Life in Domos was, however, killing me.

I began to perspire. For the last time, I raised my glass to cover my consternation, but as the warm, white wine splashed against my lips, I felt something crawling on the edge of my mouth. Startled, the crystal smashed where it landed, my arm brushing the drowning wasp away from my face. Pain shot through my hand.

Without a pause, the soldier drew a long, silver blade from the sash of his red robe and snatched out at my arm, grabbing it hard and thrusting it down onto the table. Shocked, still feeling the insect crawling over my lip, I could only watch as he smiled into what must be terrified eyes; where the fat insect had been brushed away, the pain on the side of my palm throbbed. Then, with the delicacy of a surgeon, the warrior bent close and flicked the tip of his razor sharp weapon over the site of the sting. In a flash, he had removed the still pumping stinger of the wasp.

"Pain brings one closer to the truth of life," he laughed and sat back, sheathing his weapon, "Something I learned in the field. And my offer?" All spoken in one breath. I sat motionless, still reeling from the speed at which the knife had flashed, as though he had anticipated my reaction. Had he seen the wasp spinning in the dregs of my glass? I sat back slowly to adjust the fold of my robe, and angrily noticed that my hand still trembled. And then I knew. For the same reason I had avoided the spa, I would accept this man’s insane offer. My visions of a world beyond these walls rose like the dust on summer roads. My father still tramped down those roads to barren fields. He could barely feed two, let alone three mouths. Blood pumped through my temples noisily and my stomach turned. Could accepting his offer of treason be so easy? The eyes of the warrior never left my own and typically, I found that I was deeply attracted to this dark warrior, one of the maimed. Impossible, but still true. With so much of life incongruous and wrong, why not fall for one of the maimed? I wanted more than a fat dick pumped in my mouth. After a long silence, I simply nodded.

"If you truly are serious, meet me tomorrow afternoon during the Rise of Caythraal behind the Temple of Fire. I shall be dressed in a black woolen cowl. If you judge that your life is too precious here in Domos, then embrace the festivities like your brethren with drunken debauchery, lewd games and lustful turns on the weeping orifices of the Festival Dogs. But mark my words, Jonathan, the citizenry will not suffer your contempt and scorn for much longer. You have been branded a heretic." He winked at me, suggesting that he did not mean to offend, but he managed to startle me anyway. And saying no more, the guest stood up and walked back towards the house. Watching him leave, I sat under the pendulous grapes listening to the thrumming wasps, now extraordinarily loud in my ears. I watched him enter the garden, but did not see him enter the house. Maybe he took another door ...

Finally, Andrew called me to dinner. I felt ill. After apologizing for my illness, I left to return home. Andrew was again in high spirits and easily ignored his guests’ mumbled doubts of my illness -- anger at my lame excuse for leaving was not going to disrupt his evening. Tomorrow was the Tri-festival. All the city would be celebrating early and all the temples would be thrown open to this annual feast. Even without a kiss, Andrew dismissed me from their company; I paid no heed to these societal niceties and displays of public favour or displeasure.

His name! During the strange cabal I had forgotten to ask the maimed warrior's name! And how did the warrior expect to be recognized if we were both robed in black? The whole city, all citizens of the three faiths, let alone the priests of Caythraal, would be in black. On my way home, I wandered the narrow streets closer to the Fire Field, the huge square in east Domos that was dominated by the simple, red granite structure of Caythraal's principle temple. Snorting at the impossibility of the rendezvous and the foolishness of my confessed treasonous intentions, I head home.

end of chapter one