The World Above the Sky by Kent Stetson Page B

every curve, concave, convex and otherwise.
    â€œ E’e !” exclaimed Mimk ɨ tawo’qu’sk, then laughed with delight.
    â€œMy Lady,” Henry rubbed finger and thumb at the hem of her sleeve. “You’re covered in pitch!”
    â€œBelow the Smoking Mountain, just there, is a hot, tranquil spring. A plume of tar rises through its waters, Henry—very like St. Katherine’s healing well at Castle Rosslyn, where skin troubles vanish and a riotous stomach becomes sweet and refreshed.” She massaged tar through her scalp, twisting matted hair into long black ropes. “Not that I drank the gruesome stuff.” Her voluptuous red lips, where the tar had been licked away, amplified the wildly exaggerated eyes. “I floated among the little islands of tar, relieved for a time of my sorrows. I had the Goddess urge to cover myself entirely in it. And so I did. Watch this!”
    She strode to the centre of the meadow.
    â€œ Alors, mes amis. Un concours! A little contest! Tableau vivant. Guess who I am!”
    She angled her feet, the left foot at ninety degrees to her body, the right foot at ninety degrees to the left. She swivelled, aligning hips, shoulder and leading leg. She drew herself to her full height, lengthening upward through the spine. She raised her left arm. With her right hand, she removed an imaginary arrow from its quiver, threaded its notch and sighted along the invisible shaft.
    â€œWell...come, gentlemen. Who am I?”
    Silence. She looked toward Henry. Then Athol. Her eyes slid past Antonio, past Keswalqw and rested on Mimk ɨ tawo’qu’sk.
    â€œI am Diana the huntress, bow drawn, arrow about to be loosed.”
    Eugainia knew the illusion depended upon artifice and impeccable detail. She drew the arrow back beyond her right shoulder, careful the imagined string would avoid her very real right breast when the string, were it real, was released. She paused, elongated, elegant, eternal; still as black marble.
    Mimk ɨ tawo’qu’sk smiled.
    A pulse of energy rose from Eugainia’s feet to her torso. She let the imagined arrow, carefully set in the mind’s eyes of her audience, fly. Her strategy worked. All eyes watched the invisible arrow soar, followed its imagined trajectory...all eyes but Mimk ɨ tawo’qu’sk’s. Eugainia looked the young man straight in the eye, unobserved for one brief moment by Henry, Athol or Keswalqw. Mimk ɨ tawo’qu’sk held her gaze. Delight pulsed between them, hung in the air like perfume, and stirred their loins.
    â€œNow who am I?” she said, walking among them, turning sharp angles first to the left, then the right, back then forward again, unwinding what appeared to be thread or twine from a spool. Again, nothing from the observers. She passed close to Sir Athol, whispered so that only he could hear.
    â€œYou are Ariadne unwinding the Golden Thread,” Sir Athol proclaimed. “I say, Ariadne in the maze of the Minotaur, that foul product of bestial lust!”
    â€œExcellent, Sir A!” Eugainia enthused with a conspiratorial wink. “Ariadne I am!”
    She executed a perfect set of cartwheels, struck another pose, feet apart, knees bent and splayed. She crossed her eyes, opened them wide. She waggled her head. Her pink tongue darted through red lips, her white teeth startling in the black field of her face. Her arms jerked in unison through dual arcs from her waist, up over her head.
    Her audience stared dumbfounded, their patience wearing thin.
    â€œPerhaps Maha Durga is a touch arcane, considering the northern sensibility of my slack-jawed audience,” she said aloud to no one in particular. “Maha Durga? The many-armed Hindu goddess of war. Invincible when armed with her various weapons.” She surveyed the spectators. Still nothing. She walked to the centre of the clearing. “You disappoint me, Antonio. You of all people might have