Where the Bird Sings Best by Alejandro Jodorowsky Page B

and got down on all fours, her backside toward the oak.
    She’d chosen a corner covered by a thicket so the moonlight wouldn’t expose her. The bleating of the sheep attracted the Czar who, transformed into a monster, threw himself on top of the most appetizing sheep. Cristina felt the impact, stifling a shout of happy pain. Her hymen, hardened by so many years of waiting, exploded into fragments that cut her like shards of glass. None of this kept her from pushing toward the testicles, squeezing out the longed-for liquor. The hermit ejaculated with monumental spasms and then sank his teeth into the Cristina’s neck, trying to sever her aorta. Cristina had developed masculine muscles in her legs from so much riding: they were as strong as tree trunks. She slipped free and fought her attacker, squeezing his torso between her thighs and cutting off his air. Then she tied him on his back to some roots. Paying no attention to his howls of fury, she sat on top of him, making herself seven times the repository of his sperm. At the end of the final orgasm, the man wept, muttering, “Forgive me, my God!” and fainted.
    Cristina carried him in her arms to the great oak and, after bathing him in the cold water, brought him to where her flock was, dressed him in the white cassock, and put him to sleep. Soon fever made the Emperor delirious. He was seeing lascivious sheep coming to devour his testicles, all wearing his mother’s velvet and ermine dresses. At dawn, when his fever dropped and he recovered his senses, he kissed Cristina’s hands to show his gratitude. Nothing had ever been easy for him. Dominated by his family, forced into marrying a woman he did not love, unable to make her pregnant, obliged to be an accomplice to his father’s murderers, overwhelmed by power, unsuccessful in leading his people to freedom, he abandoned everything, trying to become a saint. But his soul was rotten.
    As a child, he was often sent to study with his grandmother, Catherine the Great. On her lap, he learned military strategy, politics, and many other things. As she spoke to him about her battles, court intrigue, and the engagement of her granddaughter to King Gustav of Sweden, the old woman slid her arthritic hand into his trousers and played with his penis. Then on her knees before him, with an rapacious, imperious look on her face, she sank her rotten teeth into his foreskin. He didn’t dare move, for he feared amputation. Later, after an interminable moment, she would release him and laugh like a crow, showing the stinking depths of her throat.
    He hated his grandmother, his mother, and his wife. Three women but at the same time one woman. He sought refuge in the Virgin Mary. He thought that in the solitude of his arboreal hideaway, he would attain sainthood, but one night, when the moon was full, the nightmare began. Possessed by a bestial desire, he was forced to rape and slaughter herds of sheep. Now, after what Cristina had done for him, he realized that beneath the skin of those animals he was seeing the naked bodies of the women who smothered and perverted his youth: Catherine, Maria Feodorovna, and Isabel.
    Cristina, her eyes wet with tears, listened without saying a word. It wasn’t an emperor speaking to her, but God. Alexander I picked up a shepherd’s crook, kissed her on the forehead, and bade farewell to her and the world. He would walk to Siberia, and beyond, reaching the polar ice where he would die in the whiteness and purifying cold. Cristina watched him drift away among the trees. The green leaves that hid him also made him disappear from her life. Feeling herself to be pregnant, she returned to her manor; gathered together servants and administrators to announce that she would be living in the forest as a hermit. She promised to visit them every lunar month to see to the proper functioning of the estate, and then she returned to the oak of her dreams.
     
There, dressed in a white cossack, she prays, bathes in the