Sex & Drugs & Rock ‘n’ Roll 6
“Let’s give him a chance,” the Lord Kha-Aan insisted to the other two members of his tribal Tri-Aan. The trio of Centraxians imbibed smoke, food and drink as they inhabited their archetypal Roles – Cavalier Imperator, Shaman Prince and Logician General - to discuss a prospective new member of the tribe. When the question of Arne Stook’s initiation had first arisen at the moot, Ram’yana hadn’t imagined that the issue of the amiable teenager joining the tribe would cause so much consternation.
The boy was young – not quite seventeen – and, like many of the Centraxians, their paths had first crossed within the massive deconsecrated stone enclosure of the arts enclave, halfway house and youth centre known as the Stanley Palmer Culture Palace.
Arne had been a rough-edged underage street kid drawn to the creative bustle of the
Arne played bit parts and assisted with lighting and sound. He performed alongside Ram’yana as an extra in The People vs. Ranchman and featured in a couple of shorter productions, before joining the small film and video-making group overseen by the young Centraxian shaman. He worked behind and in front of the cameras and learned the rudiments of editing and post-production as readily as he took to theatrical lighting and stage design.
He helped Peter Locksmith, J.D. and Nathan the Marcon build extra rooms into the interlocked chambers assembled inside the hallowed structure – editing booths, dressing rooms, bio-boxes and a soundproofed cinema, all funded on a shoestring and built by eager volunteers. He distinguished himself by his unstinting loyalty to his friends and his tireless eager volunteerism in the freewheeling
Arne had overcome the profound deafness that had silenced his childhood, without recourse to medicine or invasive treatment. He learned the rudiments of Chinese medicine and various forms of martial arts. The enterprising homeless lad soon moved into an empty room in the occupied urban territory of the Centraxian squat, liberated by his newly stable yet enduringly rent-free status – and Nathan the Marcon presented him with a miniature, silver-framed crystal ball to hang around his neck, as he had with all the Centraxians and hundreds of others besides.
When the question of the lad’s formal induction into the tribe had arisen, Kha-Aan had backed Arne firmly, his equine features exuding a confident equanimity; “He’ll be a boon to the tribe - and he has more than enough of the transincarnate shining forth to qualify him on those grounds alone.”
“Aye,” the Cold Wanderer agreed sardonically, “If yer able to see the Divine Light, then yer need not make any decisions at all, I suppose. Let’s leave the matter of his incarnations to the Initiation Mirror. Besides”, he grinned mirthlessly through his grizzled beard, “Nathan insists we don’t take anyone under eighteen. Anyone else, I mean…” he said, glancing at Ram’yana.
“So the anarchist quotes the lawgiver?” Ram’yana smiled through the thick blue-grey smoke cloud that wreathed his velvet-clad body. “Arne is the perfect candidate – he’s already a magician with more than a little training, an accomplished martial artist and Chinese medicine practitioner, a handy jack of all trades… and he has a good soul…”
Wanderer scowled as he took the smoke from the young shaman. “There you go again.”
“The lad’s a quick learner – he’s been a part of our household for a number of moons now and has always been a great companion and a generous housemate – if a little boisterous.” Now Kha-Aan spoke in a more serious tone, placing one of his long, wide-cuffed forearms on the table while he stroked his long moustaches. “Dost thou have anything to say agin him - other than his age?”
“No,” Wanderer admitted with some reluctance. “But I don’t see how yer intend to appease Nathan, or how he’ll handle settling in…”
“He already fits into any crooked nanny that lays eyes on him,” Kha-Aan laughed, motioning for the spliff. “I wouldn’t worry about that – the lad can look after himself. Besides, methinks I may be in need of a new squire, now that my young magician is fully occupied squiring the Lady Racheal. And squires must of needs start young.” He smiled at the young shaman as he took a long, slow drag on the joint. “I never should have turned that lass over to thee – you’ve had little time for aught else since the Lady became thy betrothed. But no matter…”
Ram’yana allowed the banter to wash over him as the small moot came to its inevitable conclusion; now, weeks later, the shaman recalls the scene at the following night’s gathering of the Tri-Aans, when even Nathan the Marcon had assented to Arne Stook’s initiation into the Tribe of Centraxis on the coming full moon.
After he’d finally journeyed into the Magic Mirror and his peers had witnessed the range of spirits incanted within Arne’s soul - somber and uproarious, dignified and capable, wild and carefree, mysteriously arcane, adventurous, generous and insightfully commanding - Arne had returned with a new archetype to add to the court’s living spread of cards. He took on the Role of the Pilgrim Monk, engaged in an ongoing journey to explore inexplicable mysteries and tread untraceable paths in the search for mind-bending, entertaining enlightenment.
The tribal Shaman had presided over Arne’s second initiation, when the pilgrim relived a previous pilgrimage in vivid detail, dictating his self-hypnotised past life experience to the rest of the tribe. After being guided through the preliminary visualisations that helped him enter a trance state, Arne had no difficulty slipping into an episode he’d experienced as a traveler in the
Using the so-called Christos Technique of conscious regression, the temporal explorer rides along as a passive witness, usually encased within a body and lifestyle that may differ slightly or markedly from their own, yet one with which they easily identify. The time traveler usually – but not always – travels into the past and experiences some event that holds particular relevance for them in the present, whether it be mundane or momentous. The universe always answers any question, even when it remains unvoiced.
Arne had found himself cloaked in the form of a red-haired Scottish giant, far from home in the high foothills of
The solid leathern boots he was accustomed to wearing had been replaced by ornately embroidered wool-padded native lace-ups, warm and snug but a little small – though they were doubtless the largest available – and possessed of thin flat soles that felt awkward and unfamiliar to their intrepid wearer. The thin chill mountain air burned his throat and lungs as he made the ascent; he felt as though he’d been walking all day.
“Where are you going?” the young shaman asked Arne when he began to mumble and forget to describe what he was seeing to the folks back home - back in the Centraxian base at the end of the Second Millennium.
“I’m not sure,” Arne had replied, pausing in his ongoing commentary to examine his mind for clues or submerged information. He found an answer somewhere in the trans-temporal conjunction of Mind and began speaking again; “I’m going to see someone. My guide is telling me there’s been some kind of local incident here earlier in the day; maybe that’s why there are so few people on the streets… I don’t seem to understand him properly… we’re continuing on toward the houses. A group of women in orange and red, all wearing large necklaces of wooden beads is passing me by, going the other way, walking as far as they can away from me, frowning at me. They look suspicious and afraid…”
The episode emerged from Arne’s lips in a slow monolog that rose and fell in volume and intensity between long pauses and inaudible murmurs, continuing in maddening fits and starts. Most of the mountain-dwelling townspeople were friendly or passively withdrawn, yet they eyed him warily as he made his way toward the abrupt edge of the small township, followed by his guide and porter. The villagers’ eyes flickered to his long orange beard and they pressed their children behind them as he proceeded between the small grassy swards outside their clustering rock-bound township.
In the eyes of the locals the redhead must have seemed as massive as a cave bear, and twice as unusual. He walked with a tall staff of pale wood, leaning heavily on the pole as he reached a cairn or shrine at the summit of the slope. He paused beside the stones for a moment to catch his breath before continuing on into the settlement.
He walked past small black bovines that he assumed to be yaks, led through the streets by sandal-wearing peasants; some villagers, like the group of scowling women, wore long soft boots similar to his own and a ragged few walked barefoot. The small white-coated stone and adobe homes bore bleached grey wooden doors and shutters; some were painted with fading pastel colours and strange symbols or mandalas, and wooden poles protruded over the streets from tiled or straw-thatched roofs, providing intermittent shade to the weary traveler.
He continued to a juncture in the semi-geometrical maze, where a house with open shutters boasted incongruous windowpanes of small glass rectangles. There was no need for the guide to inform him that this was his destination; he strode to the open door and left his companions at the heavily worn stone doorstep while he entered the dim interior.
His eyes became accustomed to the dim light within a small plastered stone entry room, where a tiny and colourfully dressed barefoot woman greeted him with not a little trepidation. Her motions indicated he should wait while she fetched someone else, so he placed his staff beside the entryway, glancing at framed landscapes that decorated the otherwise empty white walls. He searched the room for a place to sit when the woman exited through a hide flap covering a hidden doorway, her bare brown feet making no sound on the stained and polished wooden boards.
An assemblage of hand-carved wooden furnishings surrounded an intricately woven rug, but all the seats seemed too small or fragile for his frame and he decided to remain standing. The redhead felt clumsy around the small, deft brown people inhabiting this remote region beyond the edge of
The trophy cabinet contained all manner of strange objects; mineral specimens of a variety of shades and forms and a display of amazingly tiny bright feathers, handcrafted pieces of ornate gold and silver jewellery and an array of tiny coloured glass phials. Intricate little items stood on small cloth cushions, carved from ivory, wood and bone. It was difficult for Arne to ascertain the purpose of many of them, if any - though some were obviously intricately wrought tiny boxes and others appeared to be miniature statuettes or complex geometric puzzles. A filigree ivory sphere as wide as his wrist contained another sphere-shell within it, and he could see at least four more nestled within that, through carefully cut lattices of hexagons and animal forms.
He only noticed he’d become lost in the intricacies of the spheres-within-spheres when the woman reappeared wearing a dark maroon scarf over her hair and shoulders and carrying a dark, heavy ceramic teaset on an inlaid wooden serving tray. She balanced the load gracefully on one hand as she held the leathery drape aside.
Arne noted four cups standing around the squat steaming teapot when the shy and obsequious woman carefully placed the tray on a low table decorated with a mosaic mandala or yantra of brightly coloured tiles. She poured a dark aromatic liquid into the cups as the flap opened, and a slender man wearing a full-length, intricately embroidered deep maroon robe and small matching cap entered the room, looking every inch the oriental mystic.
The newcomer was of indeterminate age and race. His dark skin, long black hair and slight epicanthic folds were offset by a lean aquilinity and steady emerald eyes. When he greeted the Scotsman, the foreigner’s English was clearly enunciated, his accent as difficult to place as his heritage. “Welcome,” he said. “You’ve come a long way. Please, take a seat if you will.”
“I can’t quite hear everything they’re – we’re - saying,” Arne informed his compatriots in the Centraxian squat, his eyes closed to the world of their present. Ram’yana watched the lad’s eyes move and focus on different objects beneath his sealed lids as Arne lay on the lounge, totally immersed in the experience. “But I get the idea that this red headed guy’s previously arranged to meet the strange character with the Fu Manchu moustache for some reason…
“The tea’s thick and oily and it reeks of tannin and other stuff… The woman – I can’t tell her age, but she seems to be a middle-aged servant - gives the other two cups to the porter and guide who are still waiting outside.” Arne’s description ceased and the Centraxians waited expectantly for more. Ram’yana decided to prompt him, lest he slip into sleep or forget their existence; “What are you doing now?”
“We’re talking and finishing the tea… now we’re going through the flap into another room – it looks like a workshop of some kind, or a study, and there are more narrow glass windows with little square panes. The guy’s sitting on a high stool in front of a bench with a glass bell on it. The woman hands me another cup and I’m leaning forward, warming my hands on the cup and sipping my tea while I watch him.
“He looks kind of familiar… He’s saying something… now he’s putting his hands on either side of the glass, an inch or two away from it. Wow, this is really weird…” Arne squints through his closed eyes as he lays on the low mattress in the longhall. “There’s something inside the glass,” Arne says, intrigued curiosity making his voice lilt upward. “It’s moving…”
“What is?” The Lord Kha-Aan leaned toward the entranced Arne Stook, whose voice was growing progressively lower in pitch and volume as he described the scene.
“It looks like a piece of gold wire… twisted into a spiral… and it’s moving around inside the glass.”
“How many turns to the spiral?” Ram’yana asked.
“Um… hard to tell, because it’s jiggling around… maybe six or seven… now it’s standing on its end and spinning like a top… it’s sort of shaped like a tiny spiral top, and it’s twirling around, back and forth… it’s really cool…”
“It moves of its own accord, inside the glass bell?” inquires Kha-Aan. “Thou canst see naught moving it?”
Arne’s features twist with concentration and his eyes screw more tightly closed. “Hang on. He’s saying something – I’m saying something. I don’t get some of the ideas they’re using… but when the purple-wearing guy turns his head away from it, the gold wire falls on its side and just rolls around...”
Ram’yana had found listening to the progress of Arne’s regression - without reacting to or otherwise altering the lad’s flowing tale - to be excruciating. He’d been particularly surprised by the details of the vision, because he’d experienced the same event himself on a previous inner exploration using the same method. The Centraxian shaman had been embodied in the form of the mustachioed Himalayan magician; he’d experienced being able to smugly demonstrate telekinesis for an eternally impressed traveler, on an extremely arduous adventure far from his home in Scotland’s rugged Highlands in the time of the Raj.
As Arne’s primary guide through the life-altering ‘past life’ regression, Ram’yana had to be inordinately careful to avoid saying or suggesting anything that could alter or misdirect the lad’s vision. The shaman was certain he’d never told Arne of his own experience (which is another story, for ‘another time’) and didn’t want to alter his direction now, as eager for more information about his own past incarnation as he was for Arne’s psychic integrity.
Not so the Cold Wanderer and the scribe Vostra, who shared a bamboo bong while scoffing openly at the scene playing out before them. “Typical,” Wanderer drawled. “Could be anywhere – it’s a
“Shush, gentlemen!” the Lord Kha-Aan admonished the skeptical duo, “Thy turn will come, and then we shall see what we shall see.”
Weeks later, Arne is pondering whether to join the magical college known as the Dawn of Ra and become a Neophyte of that magical Group – now that he’s an initiated member of the Court of the Central Axis. The lad is a regular lover of more than a few of the Group’s uninhibited members and has oft discussed his intentions to join the circle of Magi during the upcoming annual intake –the same intake as the uninitiated Centraxian priestess Lady Racheal and the tribe’s shaman, Prince Ram’yana.
“Another magic groupie,” scoffs Wanderer, returning to The Art of War. “That’s all we need.”
Lady Racheal turns around astride her beloved to face the second rude intruder in as many days, consternation mingling with frustration as the lovers’ minds and bodies mingle in the tangled bedding. The naked girl is intent on staring down the interloper who dares to interrupt the inexpressibly close intimacy of their lovemaking - using something other than her fully exposed furry slick pinkness, tautly stretched around her proud young prince as her derriere faces the door.
Her incipient anger dissolves instantly in the face of Arne’s boyish charm; she’s a year and a half older than this ruggedly handsome chip-toothed lad and her protest fades before she can berate him for failing to knock on their bedroom door. The priestess is surprised at the way she automatically draws her belly in and squares her shoulders as she meets his wide appreciative eyes. At least it isn’t Wanderer again, she sighs inwardly, shrugging off a sense of déjà vu before it fills her with foreboding.
The situations were so uncannily similar, the postures of the magical lovers so coincidentally identical to the previous day, when the Cold Wanderer had followed her into her bedchamber; I’m on top again, and I can’t hide beneath Ramses. That’s been her only recourse on a couple of previous occasions, when the young lovers have been caught in flagrant display by unexpected visitors to their bedchamber in the populous communal squat.
“We’re a little busy right now.” Ram’yana’s voice is deep and uninflected, rumbling through Racheal’s pelvis and spine to vibrate her pebble-hard pink nipples and calm her frantic nerves.
“Ss... sorry,” Arne stammers as his bright blue eyes slide up along the witch-girl’s pale skin to meet her solemn expression. At least he’s contrite. Racheal is relieved to see the boy stammer and swallow with nervousness as he hovers in the doorway. She’d rather not have a repeat of the treatment she experienced the day before, at the hands of the much older and colder Wanderer - when he’d furtively come upon the prince and priestess in near-identical circumstances. The Lady Racheal returns Arne Stook’s regard with a frankly open stare that softens before it quite becomes a fully-fledged glare.
The Centraxian priestess has almost become accustomed to rude interruptions at the most inappropriate times in the burgeoning communal squat, and nods assent for the lad to enter their chamber. “I don’t mind, if ye don’t,” she says, aware that each of the young men is wondering if she’s referring to them. He’s seen me naked before – just not so fully… occupied. Besides…
Arne’s massive muscles stretch his ragged t-shirt in surprisingly appealing ways and the rock-hard young martial artist flatteringly caresses her flesh with wide lust-filled eyes as he takes a step into the room, before glancing over his shoulder into the hallway. “It’s all right,” Racheal smiles seductively, lifting one long leg and screwing her body around astride Ram’s cock. She faces the boy shamelessly with a sated yet satyric smile on both pairs of pinkly swollen lips. She hears Ram’yana gasp as she twirls around him, feels his surprised reaction to her unexpected movement and invitation; then her mate twists up onto one elbow, rises more deeply inside her and rumbles, “Come in.”
Racheal is pleasantly encouraged; If Ramses doesn’t mind… “’Tis no interruption - well, that’s not quite true - but we were just about to have a joint anyway,” she says hospitably. The teenage priestess raises her arms to sweep long blonde trails of hair back from her face, revealing her full firm swaying breasts to Arne’s speechless admiration. She watches the boy hesitate in rapt confusion as he hovers on the threshold.
Visions of her first, rather bitter taste of a ménage – only yesterday? - wash across the witch-girl’s view of the bedroom’s wild bohemian clutter, whetting her appetite for a far more flavoursome experience. Racheal feels her ripe young body readying itself for more than just the gaze or taste of another man, in the tight puckering of her nipples and the moist heat rising in her already filled loins. She opens her thighs to the younger lad’s view, feeling her heart pound in her breast as Ram’yana begins moving out and inside her again, aroused by her obvious arousal.
Though she’d normally be utterly embarrasses by such a flagrant display of her most intimate charms, Racheal thrills at the lad’s obvious interest. Arne gapes at the sight of his utterly nude High Priestess as she displays her transparently blonde pinkness to him, exposing her starkly wet, man-stretched labia and swollen clitoris to the startled teenager’s eyes.
The Lady Racheal bestows an enticing gaze upon the entranced youth and licks her lips seductively. He stands frozen in place as the girl he’s admired (and surreptitiously desired) for so long kneels astride his friend and mentor, while Ram’s hands enwrap her perfect breasts. The teenage shaman pumps into Racheal’s pink tightness as she leans forward onto her hands, her pale well-primed body suffused with a spreading pink glow.
Prince Ram’yana considers his young friend’s reaction to the sight of the slightly older teenage couple disporting uninhibitedly before him. He knows Arne has seen far more abstrusely livid sights, judging from his descriptions of a runaway, tearaway life - and the prince’s own observations of the lad’s uninhibited performances. He’ll have to learn to knock. Ram’yana knows the handsome muscular boy has long admired Racheal from his brave, noble vantage on the edge of seventeen - his thoughts have been transparent to them both, despite his obvious attempts at surreptitious subtlety.
The lovers have sat cuddling in the longhall or kitchen, or at music festivals and gigs, oft aware of Arne’s gaze unobtrusively playing across their bodies - and quietly fantasising scenes just like this - over the last few moons since he entered their lives. They’ve felt the boy ardently willing Racheal to approach him on more than one dark drunkenly reveling night, betraying his intentions through his flagrant body language and many unguarded quips and idle comments – and Racheal suspects the lad has a hankering for Ram’yana as well. That would be interesting… She allows her imagination to run away with her as she rocks back and forth and holds the boy’s rapt blue eyes in a magnetic embrace with her own kohl-lined aquamarine orbs.
Time stretches with every breath, and then Arne finally takes another step into the room. Racheal’s eyes dip to watch the bulge in the alarmingly strong young man’s loose cargo pants, and a grin of deep and wicked satisfaction crosses her lips. “Oh yes, ohh,” she gasps as Ram’yana lifts her onto her haunches, “Fuck, Arne, oh man, come in… uhh… mm… and close the uhh unh door.” The utterly aroused young priestess has seen some of Arne’s public performances, too – and certainly wouldn’t mind a private one. Ramses won’t mind… he’ll enjoy it…
Arne stands in stunned bewilderment while his jaw opens and closes a few times before he can speak. “Um, I was just going to say, uh, that G.I.’s supposed to be turning up soon…” The building’s jerry-rigged multi-speaker music system comes on at full volume and drowns out the rest of his sentence. The Beatles blare through overloaded distortion until someone adjusts the volume.
“Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes,”
Then, right on cue, a pale, young, beautiful bare-legged girl with a vividly red crown of medusa curls appears beside Arne. She steps into the bedroom and grips his arm like a lifeline as her suddenly drowning, sinking smile betrays her alarm. A tiny hand flies to her throat to stifle a greeting that dies half-born and her pale blue eyes widen in shocked surprise as the fluorescent pallor of her skin reddens with a deeply embarrassed flush.
Racheal hurriedly drapes the quilt across the splendid conjunction of the lovers’ blood-engorged organs, drawing the bulky material up to hide Ram’s massaging hands from the young female stranger while her prince continues to fondle her sex-swollen breasts. Her lover rises behind and within her, sitting up cross-legged and settling her firmly around his rampant erection.
Covering thy nakedness with mine, love? The priestess is slightly peeved. “Be not embarrassed”, she says to both men. Oh honey, thy cock grows even harder, now this sweet young redhead thing is here… mmm… She’s certain the unprecedentedly undeniable telepathic union of their Tantric attunement – interrupted by Arne’s untimely intrusion – is still functioning on some level; she can still feel Ram’s mind moving with her own as he moves within her, despite the many distractions demanding and demeaning her attention.
Racheal belatedly realises that her genitals are still plainly visible to their guests through a fold in the doona - and a thrilling, tingling rush pours through her thighs, breasts and throat. You want, her, don’t you? She squeezes her mate with her loins as she beams the rhetorical, suggestive question to him. The thought of getting it on with the petite redhead is surprisingly arousing to the High Priestess; Racheal has never wanted to make love with another female before – not like this. Is that thy thought, my horny lover, or mine? God, she’s gorgeous... mm… Damn you, Arne…
“Lucy in the sky with diamonds…”
“It’s you I want,” Ram whispers into her flowing blonde hair, and her magical prince’s coincidental reply to Racheal’s thoughts is wonderfully avid as his warm palms cup the undersides of her sensitised breasts. His indomitable lingam rises further to throb inside her belly, making her moan involuntarily as she stares into the strange redhead’s pixie’s eyes. This wasn’t the fantasy I had in mind… but the priestess resolves to go with the flow.
A True Story
- Lyrics from Serjeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles