Excerpt - "Tlaloc"
I struggle often (attractively, I hope!) against the bonds of genre. Some of my erotic stories cross lines other than those of decorum, because I follow the trail of a story wherever it leads me. So many times, as the fire of creation cools in the completion of a story, I stare at the pages and wonder where the hell I might be able to sell the story. I am wondrously grateful that some of them find homes with kind editors in spite of their hybrid natures.
I offer an excerpt from a recently published story called “Tlaloc.” Although there are erotic elements in the tale, it is at its heart a horror story. “Tlaloc” appears in an anthology called Delicate Toxins, stories inspired by the work of German fantasist Hanns Heinz Ewers. For more on Ewers’ fascinating life and work, see my recent post on the Frequently Felt blog.
“Tlaloc” is about an aging German adventurer in the early 1930s, as he accompanies his older patron, a rising star in the new National Socialist Party, to a rendezvous in Mexico, at a clinic where a radio doctor promises miraculous rejuvenation treatments. Texas “border radio” is a strange and wonderful bit of history in its own right and I wanted to capture some of that magic in this story of ancient evil and its modern manifestations.
In this scene, Frederick Held, the adventurer, has joined his patron, the doctor, and the doctor’s wife at a decadent nightclub. As they talk about Europe and the shadow of war, a performance begins on the cabaret’s stage…
**
Someone began to play panpipes in the darkness.A figure emerged on stage, a boyish shape in a golden mask that covered the head and hair with a satyr’s face. The piper wore a robe of white samite, crimson-trimmed. He held the pipes and pretended to play them, while a hidden musician performed a haunting and wistful tune.
From the shadows around the stage and through the curtains that parted like smoke, I saw the slender forms of three women, nearly naked dancers, their long, bare limbs oiled and shining in the dusty golden spotlights as they moved in a sinuous rhythm around the piper.
The baron’s talon gripped my thigh. I heard his breathing quicken and I hoped he would survive this excitement to receive Dr. Preem’s treatment.
The women danced, not a dance of seduction but one of languid grace and the piper’s tune rose in tempo, became almost joyful, before another instrument joined it. From behind the stage, in the golden spot, another musician emerged, a man, naked and beautiful as an Olympic athlete, playing a Spanish guitar. The women abandoned the piper and began to circle the guitarist, their hands stretching to touch him and to caress the rippling muscles of his chest and thighs. I recognized him then as the personification of the god Apollo.
But the piper would not be overcome so easily, and the robed, masked figure mimed more frenzied playing, matched by the guitar player, until the music ascended into a torrent of sound, melodic but crazed, and the women whirled, their last garments torn away, their attentions to the golden god with the guitar ever more brazen.
The piper faltered and then the piping stopped as the robed figure fell to his knees and the guitarist played a final triumphant chord.
In silence, the women gathered around the submissive piper, bound his hands and lifted him to his feet, pinned by lurid, red stage lights. The band had resumed their places and began to play a moody jazz tune that seemed to me to hold the essence of the lowest cafes in Paris or Madrid. While Apollo looked on, the women hung the piper’s tied hands from a hook that had descended from the rafters.
“Marsyas,” I said.
“What?” The baron seemed aggravated that I had spoken, but he persisted. “What’s that?”
“Marsyas was a satyr who dueled with the god Apollo. When he lost, Apollo’s nymphs and satyrs skinned Marsyas alive.”
On the stage, the beautiful, naked nymphs watched as the hook drew up until Marsyas’ feet dangled above the floor. I saw the gleam of a knife.
With a single swift stroke, the dancer cut a long strip in Marsyas’ robe so that white flesh gleamed through, skin pale as cream, flushing red in the spotlight. While the music wrapped the room in snake coils of string and horn, the nymphs took turns, shredding the robe, revealing the body beneath, but they did not touch the satyr’s mask.
After a few moments, I knew I had been wrong. Marsyas was not a boy at all but a young girl, her hanging body small-breasted, her bottom round and virginal. She fought some, writhing in her bonds, and I saw that this exposure must be torment for her, but the nymphs were relentless and did not stop until she hung, naked, perfect, and wholly submissive. I was struck by a thought that at once became a certainty.
Apollo moved forward to claim her.
Posted by Angela Caperton at 6/18/2011 8:41 PM 
Categories: Delicate Toxins, Horror, Angela Caperton
Tags: Angela Caperton Delicate Toxins Ewers Horror
Categories: Delicate Toxins, Horror, Angela Caperton
Tags: Angela Caperton Delicate Toxins Ewers Horror
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