Yearn: Tales of Lust and Longing

And so, after an exhausting two days of hansom cabs and brisk walking, D’Arcy discovered himself one street away from his publisher and found he could not resist a spontaneous visit. Pushing past Dingle, the secretary, D’Arcy made his way straight into Mr. Crosby’s office and caught the corpulent gentleman in the middle of a prolonged post–afternoon tea repose. He was accompanied by a snore that rattled around the room like a trapped djinn. Crumbs of Stilton cheese were still caught in the whiskers of his handlebar mustache, blowing, as they were, like snowflakes, abreast every exhalation.

D’Arcy stood over the desk (with a dirty lunch plate ignobly placed over some poor fop’s manuscript) and coughed loudly. The publisher woke with a small shout, his flailing arms scattering pages in his surprise, his eyes finally focusing upon the young biographer. “Mr. Hammer, you shocked me! I was deep in thought,” he announced as he hurriedly plucked the soiled napkin from his shirtfront and placed the plate behind the desk. “You are audacious, sir, to interrupt a man from such a reverie.”

“Forgive me, sir, but it was the excitement of the hunt.”

“The hunt?”

“The hunt,” D’Arcy repeated.

“I understand,” the publisher replied gravely, when it was patent he did not. “The spontaneous vigor of young writers, not least their imagination, is, after a time, somewhat tiresome,” he concluded philosophically, addressing the last observation to the portrait of the deceased Mr. Bingham. D’Arcy, fearing another of Crosby’s soliloquies to the dead, interrupted: “You don’t understand: I have found it!”

“It?”

“The element that will propel my biography into a stratosphere Mr. Tuttle can never possibly imagine, never mind actually achieve! A secret account of a magic ritual conducted by the young Joseph Banks on the island of Tahiti—the contents of which are so scandalous, so un-Christian in the most titillating way that it will assure huge sales of the book. Sir, you and I will both be rich!”

The publisher studied the young man standing before him, taking into account his heightened color, the feverish glaze of his eyes, the exhaustion that played across the taut cheekbones. He was fond of the young biographer, having nurtured him through his first manuscript, believed in him when others had not, nursed him through the bouts of insecurity and, on occasion, paranoia; why, he’d even been known to advance him money—but, most important of all, he had been at Harrow with D’Arcy Hammer’s father, Lord Hammer, and in England that, as we know, counted for an awful lot.

“My dear young man, are you eating properly?” he inquired, brushing the last of the Stilton from his face.

“Did you not hear me? I tell you I have discovered the Holy Grail of biographies, the unpublishable heart of the great man. Why, the journal itself was hidden up a chimney in the Royal Institute—Joseph Banks’s old study.”

“And you are absolutely positive it is genuine?”

“I am positive it is written in the hand of Joseph Banks and much of the reportage correlates with his earlier journal. Also, from an anthropological perspective, the description of the ritual, the artifacts used, names of gods invoked, these are all correct. There is one last piece of research I intend to carry out tomorrow night which will prove one hundred percent that the journal is authentic. Once that is completed I will insert an account of the ritual and a description of the discovery of the secret journal into the manuscript within the week.”

“That alone will ensure an article in The Times.” The publisher, now infected with D’Arcy’s enthusiasm, had already begun to embark upon a marketing strategy.

“As well as a lecture series, perhaps starting in the very room which houses the chimney the journal was found in,” D’Arcy added eagerly.

“Brilliant, my young man! I shall have it typeset the very day you deliver the manuscript! Now, about this last piece of research, are we confident you can ensure the authenticity of the material?”

D’Arcy smiled. He couldn’t help but imagine Crosby’s expression if he knew the exact nature of D’Arcy’s “research.” “Oh yes, that and a whole lot more,” he concluded a little more mysteriously than he had intended.

• • •

D’Arcy had chosen a small wood in Essex—a two-hour coach ride during which Prudence, Harry, and young Amelia had, with the help of a few bottles of stout, become noisily acquainted. Secured to the roof of the swaying coach was a small crate containing the squealing piglet, the ground cloth (meticulously stitched, pressed, and folded, with a silk label reading “Harringtons and Harringtons of Saville Row” fixed neatly into one corner), a quantity of black candles, the wooden bowl, rubbing oil, a portable clock, some water, and, of course, one large yam. He had the precious white glove tucked firmly into the pocket of his frock coat. As far as D’Arcy could tell, he’d not missed any of the elements needed—now all that was required was precise timing, the actual orgy, and the rising of the sun, the one element he was confident of.

By the time they had arrived at the entrance to the woodland, the others were quite tipsy, with Harry the sweep entertaining the two women with bawdy jokes that had them roaring with laughter. D’Arcy wasn’t quite so amused. The seriousness of the venture had finally impressed itself upon his sensibility. He had to execute the ritual precisely and he feared that any deviation, any action that was not in the actual account of the ritual, might destroy the sorcery.

As the coach entered the wood, D’Arcy was pleased to see that the clearing he’d chosen was as secluded as he remembered—a small plateau set slightly above a circle of oak and birch trees. It was a full moon and the canopy of branches and leaves threw a lattice of shadow and light upon the grassy carpet beneath. He glanced over at his companions, young, eager, uneducated, and now drunk. They had no idea of the spiritual importance of the undertaking, and he worried they lacked the sophistication to understand. This disturbed him, taking, as he did, the anthropologist’s view of another’s culture: he felt it essential that they approach the experience with the same reverence they might approach a religious ceremony. “But for them it is a mere orgy, a ribald, indecent good time,” he observed silently to himself. “After all, you’ve hired two whores and a chimney sweep—it’s a far cry from an eighteenth-century Polynesian princess, a high priest, and a priestess. Would the ritual still work?” These doubts and a multitude of others had plagued him the whole two hours of travel, and yet, now that they had arrived, he was condemned to carry out his plan.

The coach pulled up with a jolt, sending Amelia flying into the biographer’s lap, cleavage spilling over. She was a slender, heavy-breasted redhead wi

th pale skin that looked to be almost transparent. Prudence had told him she was very popular with a couple of the brothel’s painter clients. This gave the young biographer some hope that Amelia herself might be used to sexual trysts of a more artistic sensitivity. Laughing, and with her face still in his lap, she smiled, then pursed her lips suggestively. D’Arcy’s member hardened despite his determination to maintain a dignified detachment throughout, and to his chagrin, he blushed. “Steady on, Amelia, we ain’t even started yet!” Harry cracked, and again the coach rocked with laughter. Just then the coachman, a sober, cadaverous-faced man D’Arcy had bribed heavily to maintain both his silence and discretion, opened the door and the three younger people disembarked in a flurry of petticoats and heavy perfume. Without a word the coachman clambered atop the vehicle and handed down the small trunk and crate containing the now snuffling piglet, which finally seemed to have had a premonition of its fate.

The three stood now a little dazed on the damp grass, waiting for some direction from D’Arcy.

“I have some robes for us, if you would all like to change into them while I arrange the ground cloth upon which we are to execute the ritual.” He tried to sound authoritarian and somber. Prudence glanced dubiously over at the piglet.

“What about the pig? You ain’t said nothing ’bout the pig.”

“That’s right, sir,” Amelia chimed in. “I don’t do animals.” She looked anxiously over at Harry, whose bemused gaze slid back to D’Arcy.

“Fear not, the pig is to be sacrificed to the goddess,” D’Arcy retorted brusquely.

“Sacrificed?” Prudence squealed in unison with the pig, which seemed to have understood. With a grin, Harry ran his finger across his throat to illustrate, a gesture that sent the girls into a cascade of shrill shrieks, more of delight than fear, D’Arcy noted.

Walking over to the small glade open to the sky, he threw down the ground cloth, then used a small compass to arrange it so that the symbols faced in the correct directions beneath the stars. He pulled out the large clock he had brought and consulted it. It was three-thirty a.m.; according to the Royal Astronomical Society dawn was to be at four-fifty that morning—they had just over an hour.