Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

A scholarship to Cambridge cemented his interest in the past and, much to his father’s chagrin (he had wanted his son to follow him into the church) Alistair immediately took up an offer from the British Museum on graduation—an apprenticeship to the legendary Dr. Edward McPhee.

McPhee had been in the department of Roman and Greek antiquities since the turn of the nineteenth century, when he himself had started at the museum as a twenty-year-old. It was rumored that the venerable archaeologist actually lived in one of the department’s vast storage cupboards for it was certain that no one had ever seen him outside the building. Since his engagement, Alistair had never once managed to arrive before McPhee nor leave after him.

The aged professor of archaeology was a diminutive wizened man whose dress seemed not to have changed (nor been laundered) since the early 1800s, which gave him a somewhat foppish appearance in keeping with the dandies who flourished under King George IV. This demeanor was misleading, however: there was nothing the slightest bit decadent about the young archaeologist’s employer; on the contrary McPhee was a puritan—a self-righteous zealot who reveled in the denial of other people’s pleasures. In short: the most disagreeable and misanthropic individual Alistair Sizzlehorn had thus far encountered.

Alistair detested him. He found McPhee’s constant lectures about the immorality of Ancient Greece and Rome entirely devoid of a sensual or even aesthetic understanding of the periods. Sometimes he wondered whether McPhee was human at all. He had certainly arrived at the conclusion that the man lacked a penis; he was an asexual creature who reminded Alistair (in

his more generous moments) of some lesser species of mollusk.

In Alistair’s darkest reveries—when the London fog encased the high windows of the museum in an impenetrable cloud, when time dripped down the walls like a creeping damp, when McPhee scuttled around him like a scaly louse, muttering in that nasal high-pitched squeak about how Roman hedonism led to decay then atrophy, and how England with its greedy colonists and now, horror of horrors, its worship of science over the high arts, was degenerating in the same way (“The triumph of Darwin!” he would exclaim)—the young archaeologist would suddenly find himself plunged into an abyss of despair for fear he too, in fifty years’ time, would be transformed into such a desiccated miserable creature. For, to Alistair’s profound embarrassment, he was still a virgin.

It was a difficult predicament. He had insufficient income to procure the services of some generous street girl (of which there were many, and many of them quite lovely). Besides, being of a romantic nature, he found the application of commerce to love abhorrent. To add to his chagrin, his paltry wage from the museum was not enough to entice any educated young lady of standing to consider him as a marriage prospect. The hope of any kind of sexual congress seemed to be floating farther away from him by the day. He was frequently distracted from his work by the delicious vision of his thin but well-proportioned limbs wrapped around a buxom wench resembling the voluptuous marble Venuses who adorned many of the artifacts in his care. The vision would hover tantalizingly before him, yet every time Alistair racked his mind for a practical solution it ascended a few more feet out of his reach.

He was immersed in this particular quandary when McPhee burst into the room like a small but noisy explosion. “Master Sizzlehorn!” he barked, in his harsh Glaswegian accent. “Ye are needed in ma office on a matter o’ the most confidential and private nature. And look smart, boy, a lady of aristocratic bearing is involved.”

As they hurried down the windowless corridor where gaslights flickered palely against the yellowed walls, Alistair had to lengthen his stride to keep up with the irrepressible McPhee, despite the octogenarian’s silver-topped cane.

“Mr. McPhee, may I remind you that I am twenty-three years of age and therefore entitled to be addressed as such,” he said in a peeved tone.

“Indeed, boy, indeed,” his employer responded distractedly, patting down his long silver curls, coattails flying behind him, and a ridiculously high lacy collar framing his prunelike face like that of a demented bishop. Alistair despaired of ever receiving a modicum of respect from the octogenarian.

They arrived at a door marked, perplexingly, Office 142. McPhee swung around dramatically and stared for a moment at the young man’s navel before casting his eyes upward, his employee being a good twelve inches taller than himself.

“Now I know ye think me a man incapable of any sentiment whatsoever…” He hesitated hopefully, as if waiting for his apprentice to protest the statement, but to his secret disappointment Alistair held his silence. Sanguinely the professor continued, “…but I intend to surprise ye. I am about to offer ye the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to distinguish yourself at an early age as an archaeologist and curator of the highest distinction. But be warned: I expect ye to make a good fist of it. Do we understand each other?”

Amazed by the curmudgeon’s change of tone, and now bursting with curiosity as to what might lie inside the room, Alistair nodded with great solemnity. Satisfied, McPhee again smoothed down his greasy locks and opened the door.

A woman—clearly a lady—sat on a Windsor chair, her back held stiff, her bosom high. Her veil was down, her hands were covered by the finest kid gloves, and she wore a bustled coat of the latest fashion. Alistair had a strong sense that what lay beneath the veil could only be beautiful, for the woman held herself with the confidence of one who was completely conscious of the effect she had upon others: desire. A valet, smartly dressed in her colors, stood by her side awaiting instructions.

Alistair’s eyes were next drawn to a long table covered with objects of varying sizes and shapes, each in turn covered by a silk kerchief. Thus were the artifacts beneath completely concealed.

“Your ladyship,” McPhee simpered. The woman, without standing, held out her gloved hand. “McPhee,” she murmured in a velvety tone that immediately pricked at Alistair’s crotch. McPhee grasped her hand eagerly and, much to Alistair’s hidden disgust, planted a slobbering kiss upon the leather.

“Ever your faithful servant,” he replied in a docile but croaky voice. Then, straightening himself, he pushed Alistair before him.

“May I introduce the young man I made aforemention of: Mr. Alistair Sizzlehorn, formerly of Cambridge, a most talented archaeologist. Mr. Sizzlehorn, meet Lady Whistle.”

Alistair, blushing now to the roots of his blond hair, bowed deeply, praying the aristocrat would not notice the cheap fabric of his breeches.

“Charmed, my lady.”

“Indeed.”

She flicked up her veil, causing the archaeologist to inhale involuntarily. She was a mature woman, of forty-six years or so, but she still held her beauty—a full handsomeness of wide cheekbones, a strong nose, and a dangerous mouth. Her skin was impossibly pale and Alistair suspected the copious application of cosmetics. Her coiffured hair was raven black and her body of generous proportions, particularly her bosom. When she smiled he noticed that her pearly white teeth were perfect and ever so slightly predatory.

“Let us not indulge ourselves in subtle niceties, Mr. Sizzlehorn. I need a curator of sorts. I need a discreet individual with excellent Latin and a good drawing hand to catalogue and translate for me. McPhee tells me you are that man.”

“Indeed, I hope to be, my lady.”

“In that case, before we begin let me ask you: are you familiar with the phrase gabinetto degli oggetti riservati, once known as gabinetto degli oggetti osceni?”

Her Italian was flawless and Alistair wondered whether she might not in fact be of Italian descent.

“The Cabinet of Restricted or Secret Objects, from Pompeii?” he replied, trying unsuccessfully to keep his nerves from showing in his trembling voice. He had heard rumor of the secret room in the Museum of Naples, which was said to house a collection of erotic objects of explicit and magical nature. Objects that had been rescued from the doomed Roman city of Pompeii, infamous for its worship of Bacchus and love of carnality.

The legend of the secret cabinet had circulated the corridors of Cambridge in whispered conversations among his fellow students, the heirs of the landed gentry, many of whose families held similar erotic collections in their own vaults. Aware of his impoverished background and experience Alistair had always been too intimidated to pass comment, fearing he would be exposed and humiliated both as a virgin and a pauper. But the descriptions of grotesque but titillating ithyphallic statues and erotic murals had captivated him nevertheless.

“The very same.” Lady Whistle’s velvet tones drew him sharply back to the present.