Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

At dusk she fed him spaghetti, olives, and feta cheese followed by figs and honey. He paused before the huge plate of food, then grabbed handfuls of the pasta to stuff it into his mouth. She had to teach him how to use a fork and knife. He learned at lightning speed and she realized that he only needed to see anything once to master it.

After dinner he picked up a wooden flute lying on the mantelpiece and began to play. It was a complex melody embellished with sudden flourishes. As he played he danced, rotating his hips uninhibitedly as his feet drummed against the stone floor. He was dancing for her and Clarissa found the seductiveness of his movements both exciting and excruciatingly embarrassing. She covered her confusion by clapping along as he whirled, getting wilder and wilder with the exuberance of an adolescent.

He finished playing and threw himself down on the rug at her feet. There was the shadow of a mustache on his upper lip. His eyebrows had thickened, his cheeks had hollowed out, and despite having the skin of a boy he already had the bones of a man. A devastatingly handsome man. For a moment he watched her watching him, the fierce green of his eyes a beautiful but startling contrast to his olive skin.

“Clarissa?” he said, his voice now cracking with the hormones that were pumping through his body.

“What?” she answered softly, not wanting to destroy the moment.

“Lyrical, your name is lyrical,” he said, reaching across for her foot. “Which comes from the Greek meaning senses, as in lyric, having the form and manner of a song.” He started to caress her foot. His touch was delicious; his massaging fingers sent a multitude of sensations up her leg to her groin. She involuntarily groaned; it was hard to pull her foot away but she managed.

“Remember, I am your mother,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Joseph looked mystified. “Mother love is not the same as love between a man and a woman,” she tried to explain.

Then why did she feel so furtive, she asked herself. Was it because she desired him, or was it because she felt on some strange level that she was denying him? And why did she feel lust now? She never had before.

She covered up her leg. It was getting dark and she was very conscious that there was only one bed. Joseph rolled onto his back and stretched luxuriously. He had all the physical splendor of a young colt, his narrow shoulders not quite a man’s, his hips too narrow to cradle the bulge of his manhood.

“Why is mother love not the same?” He grinned.

Clarissa tried to ignore his erection clearly outlined under the thin material of his shorts. She was torn between intense curiosity and the terror of committing an unnatural act. His sensuality was so completely natural and without guile that she couldn’t help but be swept up by it.

“It’s late. We should sleep. If I give you a blanket will you be all right by the fire?”

He nodded reluctantly. He was now about fourteen, his hands dangling awkwardly at the end of his long wrists. She handed him the blanket and turned her back on him as she changed into her nightgown. But she felt him watching her undress, his gaze sweeping across her back like beams from a lighthouse. She played up to him, turning slightly, knowing that he would see the curve of a breast, the glimmer of pubic hair. Clarissa was appalled at herself; she was actually enjoying the tease. It excited her in a way she’d never experienced before.

Dressed in her flannel nightdress she spun around. He was already curled up in front of the dying embers of the fire. He studied her solemnly and the poignancy of his glance sobered her immediately. It was that terrible look of first love, of adolescent torment.

“Look, you can lie down next to me if you like, but that’s all,” she said curtly and got into bed. Joseph leaped to his feet and dragged the blanket over. His breath was a sweet perfume drifting across her cheek.

The next morning she was woken by the sharp scent of rosemary. Joseph was squatting by the side of the bed. His white teeth gleamed as he held up a fish still thrashing the air with its tail. For a moment Clarissa

didn’t recognize the handsome man who leaned over her, then she remembered the bizarre events of the last two days. Struggling with the pervasive sense of disbelief that had never entirely left her, she sat up.

“Get up, it’s breakfast time,” he said. He looked about twenty years old and had a short beard covering his face.

“I will prepare the food,” he called out as she dressed. She noticed that his English was now perfect without a hint of an accent.

“How did you catch the fish?” she asked as she pulled her dress on.

“I didn’t have to catch them, they offered up their lives. They told me they would be honored to serve me,” he replied without a hint of irony.

He placed the platter of fresh fish, bread, and olives in front of her.

“Tell me, who are you?” she asked.

He sucked a bone clean and placed it carefully on the plate. He looked up, lines forming around his eyes.

“I am centuries old. I manifest only when I have been summoned.”

“But I didn’t summon you. All I did was touch a withered piece of flesh!” she protested, trying not to respond to the curious tightening in her loins she felt every time she looked at him.

“Don’t you believe I exist?” He reached out and caught her hand, holding it tightly.

“Yes,” she murmured, not certain at all.

“Clarissa, you summoned me—maybe not consciously, but part of you wanted me, wanted a sign.”

Surprised by his verbal sophistication, Clarissa glanced across to the fireplace. Lying next to the blanket was a pile of books he had obviously consumed during the night. One of them was Carl Jung’s Man and His Symbols. He’s probably got a complete grasp of psychoanalysis as well as contemporary philosophy by now, she thought, daunted by the prospect of dealing with a superior intelligence.