Mistress of the Mortal Realm, Book One

Chapter Two-2

Zara kept up a pleasant monologue on the history of Georgia, its existence as a powerful medieval kingdom, its oppression by the great Russian nation to its north, the depredations of the Ottomans. She was very knowledgeable about the nation’s culture, reciting in English several verses of the ancient national poem, The Knight in the Tiger’s Skin. She talked about her boyfriend, an engineer, and the courses she was taking at the university. All this flew right by Lucy who replied in monosyllables, smiled politely and cringed as the somewhat erratic driving of her guide took the car between pillar and post.

The girl was curious, too, about what drew Lucy to this remote outpost of civilization. Lucy had been vague when she had called to arrange for a guide. She had thought of using Ripley’s dodge about collecting folk songs, but she knew next to nothing about music. She had eventually settled on a tale of a long lost relative. She had studied just enough about Georgian history and customs to make it borderline believable. That was all she needed, since the allure of her dollars was strong. Zara, nonetheless, kept pressing her, as if she was suspicious that there was some other, ulterior motive for the journey. Lucy just answered her questions as briefly and as non-commitedly as she could.

They arrived in Mestia, a proverbial one horse town, about 9 p.m. It was too late in the spring for the ski tourists and the three modern type restaurants were closed. Their rooms were in a tavern and they ate dinner there. The owner and his wife were thrilled to have an American visitor and Lucy felt compelled to join in their drinking and toasting until the early hours. When she went to bed, the room swirled around her.

She dreamt that night of a huge, blackened demon, with immense, curved horns and breath of fire. His eyes were piercing red. He seemed to be inviting her to mate with him, a heavy, thick, fiery red prick extended from his loins.

Lucy woke up in the middle of the night, her body convulsing in orgasm. She had had this dream several times before, all immediately before or after she had taken a major step in her efforts to recover the grimoire or to make herself worthy of it. She reached down to her pulsing p***y, flicking her fingers over her stiffened c**t, encouraging her climax to go on and on. Her body twisted and turned in her enjoyment; her moans echoed through the small room.

When she was done, she lay there for a while. The alcohol had burned off and she was too excited now to sleep. The dream was a positive sign, of that she was sure. Within a few hours, the book would be hers.

When dawn delivered its mellow tendrils through the windows of her room, she got out of bed. She was naked, having shucked off her panties during her orgasm. She stepped to the window and watched the orange yellow ball peek over the mountaintops. Somewhere up there was her heart’s desire, her grail. It just had to be.

The girl, Zara, might be a problem she realized. The book would undoubtedly fall under the classification of an antiquity belonging to the cultural heritage of the country. A bribe might keep her silent, but her apparent passion for her country’s cultural history made that problematic. Fate, though, had seen her through this far. It was, she believed fervently, her destiny to possess the grimoire. It would not allow this nosy, blond nobody to frustrate her. Somehow, she just knew it.

At 8 o’clock, Lucy showered in the communal bathroom down the hall from her room and then dressed, putting on the same clothes she wore yesterday. She met Zara down in the restaurant area of the tavern and they sat down together and ate breakfast. By 9, they were on the road.

Zara’s questioning, to Lucy’s annoyance, continued. How was she related to this Ulana? How was she sure she would still be here after so many years? What would they do when they found her? Lucy brushed the questions off as best as she could. It was easy since she didn’t have the answers to the questions anyway.

They drove about thirty miles into the mountains. The road was narrow, running down eventually to a mere trail. Despite the time of year, there was no feeling of spring as they passed through the ancient woods. Rotted, gnarled trees lined the trail as if they had been blasted in some fierce battle. The only birds that Lucy saw were large, ominous, purplish black grackles. There was little greenery and it seemed that they were driving backwards in time as they progressed, deep into the heart of the past winter. The rickety Mercedes rocked and bounced as it traversed the deep ruts and outcropped stones.

Zara, perhaps sensing Lucy’s anxieties, looked more and more concerned as they went deeper into the mountains. She had a pleasant, round face with straw yellow hair that went down past her shoulders. She was wearing a black miniskirt today and a light blue, print blouse with green, yellow and orange flowers spread over it.

Despite her annoyance at her questions, Lucy felt attracted to the curvaceous, youthful girl. She had been half tempted to go knock on her door last night to see if she would permit her to suckle on her ample breasts and caress her smooth, white thighs. Lucy went both ways, enjoying, from time to time, the benefits of a thick, hot prick scouring her fevered canal, but relations with men always got complicated as they tried to exert their domination and self perceived superiority.

Fucking girls, especially delicious young ones like Zara, rarely became stressful, and they almost always let her take the lead. She had decided against the overture since she thought best that she avoid any intimate complications with the girl which would prompt even closer questioning of her goals. Besides, she didn’t want any hassle with the proprietors of the inn who seemed as straight-laced as a pair of wing tips.

But as they drove along, Lucy’s eyes kept drifting to Zara’s bare thighs and her jiggling breasts as the car forced their bodies to thrust this way and that. Lucy noticed that Zara had put on more makeup today than yesterday. Her full lips were smothered in bright red and her eyes had been lined carefully with mascara. Perhaps the girl shared her own lustful urges, Lucy thought. Maybe tonight, after they had recovered the grimoire, she would seduce the pretty girl in celebration.

After about three hours they finally came to a rundown village. Scrawny looking chickens fluttered about as they pulled into what served as the center of the assembly of stone huts. Smoke issued from the cobbled together chimneys on a few of them. A brace of dirty faced, raggedly dressed children came running up to the car as they pulled to a halt. A man’s head peeked out from behind the heavy wooden door of one of the huts and dashed back in.

Lucy and Zara got out of the car. Zara gave each of the children a small coin and shooed them away. It had started to drizzle and the ground had begun to dissolve into an oozy mud. Zara, looking nervous, stepped up to the hut where the man’s head had popped out and knocked on the door.

After a moment, the door opened and she began an animated conversation in Kartuli, the native language, with the middle aged, hard looking man who answered it. He wore a thick pair of dark brown corduroy pants, a soot darkened woolen sweater and a brown knitted cap. His face was ravaged with scars of a ravenous, youthful outbreak of acne. His thick nose was gnarled and bent as if it had been broken more than once. He had a long, curved, knife sheath on his belt. His large hands looked as if they could easily snuff the life right out of her.

The man responded to Zara’s questions at first with grunts. When Lucy heard the name Ulana emerge in one of Zara’s questions, darkness flitted over the man’s face. He shook his head several times and went to close the door. Lucy quickly pulled a large wad of cash from her pocket and waved it at the man. It caught his eye and he ceased his efforts to shut them out of his hut. He hesitated as if weighing the possession of the cash against his apparent revulsion at the mention of the old woman.

Lucy’s hopes rose as it became clear that the old woman was still here after all these years and apparently living. She was not surprised that her name inspired fear. She would have to be a powerful witch to be able to keep possession of the grimoire. The fact that she was of gypsy descent, with all that that implied, rather than native Georgian, undoubtedly added to the man’s hesitancy to answer any questions about her. Gypsies were known for their retaliatory bent when it came to betrayal. For all the man knew, Lucy and her guide were the forerunners of some governmental effort to reign in the depredations of Ulana’s tribe.

The money seemed to do the trick. The man invited them grudgingly into the dark hut. The floor was earthen, well packed from what was probably decades or more of occupancy. There was a small oil lamp hanging from one corner, casting weird shadows about the single room. A large, black iron stove sat along the rear wall, apparently serving as the heating as well as cooking needs of the hut’s denizens.

An old woman wearing a black kerchief and a black dress sat on a wooden, straightbacked chair, her feet barely touching the floor. She had in her hands a string of round, mahogany colored wooden beads with a cross at the end and she was murmuring a prayer on them as she passed them, one by one, through her hands. Her face was withered. Lucy surmised that if she got to her feet she would have stood no more than 5’ tall.

The man and the old woman immediately commenced a loud argument. The man’s tone was disdainful, arrogant, while the old woman’s was pleading and fearful. Zara gave Lucy a troubled look.

“Who is this Ulana?” she asked her. “I want the truth!”

Lucy pondered the question. It would be foolish to try and continue her original story. What she was there for would soon become clear. She had to tell Zara something that would make sure that she would continue to help her. It was doubtful that she would find any other English speakers here.

“She’s an old lady I heard about who may own an ancient artifact I’ve been looking for a long time,” Lucy confessed.

“An ancient artifact? What kind of artifact? What have you got me into?”

“It’s nothing,” Lucy replied, trying to reassure her. “If you want, if I can get hold of it, we’ll turn it over to the authorities before I take it out of the country. It’s an old book. It’s not even really Georgian. It’s Egyptian if you really come down to it.”

“How do you know this woman has it?” Zara asked.

“I don’t,” Lucy replied. “All I know is that fifty years ago, someone said that she did.”

The man had adorned himself with a heavy, woolen, fur collared jacket. He retrieved an ancient looking but well oiled shotgun from the corner of the hut, checked it to make sure it was loaded and placed some additional shells in his jacket pocket. The woman stood up, confirming Lucy’s estimate of her height and began to tug on the man’s sleeve. She was crying and wailing. He ripped his arm from her violently and roared an enraged imprecation.

“What are they arguing about?” Lucy asked her guide.

“The old woman says that it’s too dangerous to go to the gypsy camp, that they might kill him for bringing strangers there. She says it’s not worth any amount of money. The man, his name is Koba, is telling her, basically, to mind her own business.”