The Hidden Journal, Copyright © 1999, Kellis

The Meshir

File D9104160.ZEN

Wednesday, September 20, 1972

Guess what: Some Iranian women will fuck strangers!

A curious time yesterday and today, the first here that needs these curlicues. The rest of the hidden journal is at home. I leave it to the open journal to show how I managed to arrive in such a comfort-forsaken place as Fellavi, Iran.

I got tired of trying to fix the bugs at Advance Camp Two by remote control and made the trip down there yesterday for some personal hands-on. Found the problem that same afternoon. “Problems,” I should write, though they all stemmed from Shelton’s insistence on counting from one instead of zero. People who can’t break that habit shouldn’t be programmers, but that’s another story.

Got in the jeep to return home — that is, to the main camp at Fellavi — after a lot of trouble finding Rejik. He had taken up with a couple of local kids. He retorted to my chewing out that I’d told him to show up at bedtime — not that he required telling to do that! And he was right. Even so my apology appeared to surprise him.

I had taken him along for his company and to translate in case I had to deal with natives. My cram course in the Farsi language was a total waste. They don’t speak a word of it here in these mountains. I’m told this language is a predecessor of Farsi. The racial type of the people seems the same as the rest: Arabic dark.

In the seven miles from Fellavi to AC2 the average slope seems about 25 degrees, first up then down. Both camps are on riverbanks but the pass is 6000 feet above the rivers. About half way up dusk closed in and it began to rain, slowly at first, then harder. I stopped, put the jeep in four-wheel drive and proceeded very cautiously, hoping that no other vehicle would meet me, though that didn’t worry me excessively. I’d passed none on the trip down.

I’ve never seen thicker rain. The headlights gave me only glimpses of the edges of the road: a sheer cliff rising on my right, another dropping 2000 feet on my left. The dust turned to mud immediately and the mud was slippery. Without four wheel drive I’d’ve never made it. As it was I scraped the right side of the jeep more than once.

At the top of the pass, recognized by a wider ledge and a rock cairn, I stopped the jeep close to the cliff on the right and told Rejik we’d have to wait. Rejik, as best we can determine, is twelve years old, at the age when waiting is hard, especially considering that this jeep’s heater was out. He sat with me, listening to the rain drumming hard on the canvas top. It wasn’t long before he began to shiver nor much longer before he said, “Go to meshir.”

“Meshir? Where’s that?”

“Not where. People.” His dark eyes glinted at me in the light of the dash.

I shook my head. “We’re staying here until this rain let’s up.”

“Rain no let up.”

I chuckled. “It has to let up sometime.”

“Tomorrow, maybe. Rain long time up here. Sometime wash out road.”

“Great! Where are these Meshir? Behind us? I’m not sure we have room here to turn around.”

“No.” He pointed ahead. “Road to meshir past first curve. Very close.”

“The road or the Meshir?”

“Very close.”

I thought for a minute. The Air Force had warned us not to get too thick with the natives, telling the story of a contractor who had wandered off in search of pussy, only to be found dead and dickless. “To these people adultery is a capital offense,” Captain Smith had told us. “And adultery means screwing anyone but your wife.” He grinned. “Or maybe your sheep.”

I looked at Rejik, a small boy in truth, shivering harder beside me in his coats made of reworked military uniforms. “Where’d you learn your English, Rejik?”

“From mother. Dead now.”

How remarkable that his native mother spoke English! I wanted to ask him about his father but decided his story was probably pretty standard. The American Air Force has been in northern Iran for nearly two decades, opposing and spying on the Soviets. Plenty of Vietnamese kids speak English for the same reason. One wonders how Rejik’s mother avoided the fatal charge of adultery — but then, she was a native and could probably find a way. Though if Rejik’s father was Western the lad showed no evidence of it, which meant nothing either way.

I restarted the jeep and pulled slowly ahead, hugging the cliff wall. The kid was right. A cut loomed black past the next curve. I turned off and followed it for a mile or so in low gear, the engine growling above the drumming rain. The road, curiously flat, inclined slightly, water sluicing towards us in the tunnel of the headlights.

“Just around curve,” the lad called, pointing to the left.

Gingerly I negotiated the curve and the headlights passed over what looked like an oversized fireplace, mantel and all. I straightened the vehicle and brought it to a halt, lights full on the structure. I recognized a large door, rudely made with interlaced boards, under a flat roof, all built right up against the cliff face. I saw no motion but the rain, now falling at an angle due to the moderate wind.

“What is that, Rejik?”

“Meshir.”

“No. I mean, that’s not a building. What is it?”

“Building in rock.”

“A cave?”

“Cave.” I could see him tasting the word. His eyes glittered at me. “Old time people.”

“Moslems?”

“Not Moslems.”

“Do you think you can get in?”

“You bring pistol.”

That was ominous. I thought it over. The boy was cold. We had one can of coke plus two candy bars in my coat pocket. I had expected to arrive at the base by this time. I reached behind the seat, took the military-issue .45 from its holster, worked the slide, made sure the safety was on and shoved it into my belt. Maybe they’d let us in and maybe not, but it wouldn’t be healthy for the boy to sit in a cold jeep half the night.

“You think we’ll have to shoot our way in?”

“No shoot. Run if shoot.”

Did he mean I should carry it for show? In my earlier experience, if you showed a weapon you’d better be ready to use it. Another item from that experience: I am pretty good with a .45. For me it is a pistol of fortuitous design. I shoots where I want it when I point it in my hand. From the hip I can hit a 25-cent piece across the room. That gives me confidence. Too much, maybe.

I pulled the jeep close to the door, killed engine and lights and stuffed the ignition key into my pocket, sitting for a moment to let eyes adjust. It was pitch dark and the rain on the canvas sounded like a waterfall. Soon I perceived a very faint glow outlining the door. Someone was operating a light behind it.

I found the flashlight clipped under the dash where it was supposed to be. A push of the button and light stabbed out. Bless you, Sgt. Downs!

“You ready?” I asked.

“Yeh.”

He opened his door as I did mine. God, the rain was cold on my face! I pulled the military cap down close over my eyes and dashed under the mantel overhang, the boy beside me.

The door had no knob. “Should we knock?” I asked.

The boy pointed above me. I saw a piece of wood sticking out from an upper corner. “Pull down.”

I reached up, grasped and pulled and felt something release. The boy put his shoulder to the door and pushed hard. It opened inward reluctantly, with creaking hinges.

We were looking into the corridor of a natural cave, generally of round cross-section, extending back into the hill about 100 feet, where it curved to the right. The light, not very bright, was reflected around that curve. Aside from the light the only sign of human habitation was the smoothness of the floor, which had been recently swept. I could see brush marks in the sprinkling of sand on the rock.

I closed the door behind us with surprising difficulty. The latch, a simple inclined lever operated by gravity, fell into its groove about even with my head. I had the impression of a draft into the cave, shut off when I closed the door. The reflected light began oddly to vary. I realized the variation was due to the shadow of someone walking towards the bend in the passage. I looked at Rejik. He watched the shadow but I detected only curiosity in his face.

I thought we could stay right there beside the door until the rain quit or day dawned. It was dry, out of the wind and warmer than the outside. But the person approaching beyond the bend might have other ideas.

“Come on,” I said, starting toward the bend myself. Rejik scampered after me.

We had made half the distance when the silhouette of a head popped into view — not the whole body, just a head, long hair falling from it. The head disappeared. The shadow began to dance and a long, wavering cry — words, not an inarticulate scream — reverberated in the cave. Our inspector was obviously female … or a child the age of Rejik.

He had his own opinion. “She say, ‘Devils come.’”

“She speaks your tongue?”

“Meshir tongue. My mother’s tongue.”

“Is that different from the other people in the mountains?”

“Very different.” He chuckled, pulling slightly ahead of me, throwing out his chest. “Look like devil.” He actually laughed.

“Is that good?”

“Good vorsh.”

“What is vorsh?”

“Vorsh. Don’t know English.”

A contralto voice came faintly around the bind. Even I could tell this one belonged to no child. It was not too faint for Rejik. “Big mother say hide treasures.” He chuckled again and looked back at me. “Means no man here.”

I stopped. “Wait a minute.”

He turned around to look at me but made no move to reverse his steps. “What matter?”

“I’m not going to bother a bunch of women. We can stay here by the door.”

“They know what do.” He studied me. “You have fun. Leave first light. Womans not tell.”

I turned the flashlight on the floor, making enough light to see his expression. “What do you mean?”

“You see. Have fun.”

“How do you know this?”

“Mother live here.” Suddenly he came close, looking up at me beseechingly. “You not tell, Hahree?”

“Tell these people? I don’t know a word of their tongue.”

“No. You not tell camp. Please, Hahree?”

That was easy. I’m no gossip. When I reassured him, he smiled, whirled and hurried on ahead. I could do nothing but follow.

Around the bend the air on my face was warmer. The corridor ran irregularly another 100 feet, about. At the end was a bright light. The air grew steadily warmer as we approached it. At last we debouched into a large cavern, at least fifty feet across. Two other places opened darkly in the rock across the flat floor. The room was high domed but exhibited none of the stalactites one usually associates with natural caves, suggesting that this was an unnatural cave.

But the center of attention was the sheet of yellow flame that rose, accompanied by a slight hissing, two feet above a crack in a rise near the middle of the room. The crack itself was irregular, about a foot long so far as I could guess from twenty feet away, with the flame rising above it, blue at the bottom, yellow at the top, wavering very little in the still air. A natural gas flame? It had to be. Though it’s the plains of Iran that float upon a sea of oil, accompanied by natural gas, it’s not too far fetched to believe a vein might conduct natural gas into the mountains. I wondered how long this fire had burned. Surely the frequent earthquakes must affect it!

So I asked Rejik. He shook his head. “Ask big mother.”

Carpets and cushions were scattered about the fire. An iron pot hung from a tripod nearby. I thought to study these items when motion attracted my eye.

Two naked women came into the light from one of the far openings. I thought of the pistol, wondering who might be behind them, but nothing was visible down the dark corridor.

They came slowly forward, heads hanging, eyes looking down at their path. They were nearly identical with black hair behind them down to the hips, olive skin, slight breasts, plump buttocks and short pubic fuzz. Both had fine dark hair on arms and legs. Both were very young.

“What is this, Rejik?”

“Girls for us.”

“For us? Why are they naked?”

“So not get hurt.”

It depends on what is meant by “hurt.” At the sound of Rejik’s boyish voice the girls stopped short, still beyond the fire. They spoke briefly to each other. The one on Rejik’s side pointed directly to him and called something in a shrill soprano.

He drew himself up, hands on hips, and snarled a deep answer, though his voice broke in the middle of his oration and ended on a squeak. Both girls laughed and Rejik immediately turned his back on them, blushing furiously. The accuser’s laugh failed. Her lip curled in disgust and perhaps frustration. She stamped a foot and stood with arms crossed over her belly.

The other girl said something to me in a taunting tone. I took a breath and asked Rejik, “What’s going on?” Though I was beginning to guess.

“They say … me too little.” A tear rolled plainly down his cheek.

“Well, aren’t you?”

He sighed. “Maybe. Don’t know.”

“What did she say to me?”

“She ask, can you make baby?”

“Is that what they want?”

He spoke to “my” girl over his shoulder. She answered. He said, “Big mother want.”

I nodded. “As I thought. I’d like to meet big mother.”

Suddenly he grinned and turned fully around. His voice rose scornfully. Both girls, especially “mine,” reacted as if he had struck them. “His” girl spun around and ran like a deer back into the far corridor. “My” girl’s shoulders sagged along with her face.

“What in the world did you tell them?”

He grinned around at me. “You say they too small for you.”

“Damn it, Rejik, that’s not what I said at all! I want big mother.”

“Tell that, too.”

I walked slowly forward, skirting the fire, toward the remaining girl, Rejik following, no longer leading me. Her eyes rose impassively as I approached. Standing near her I smelled a faint odor of jasmine. I took off my cap and pointed to myself. “Harry,” I intoned.

Rejik spoke, including my name as he says it: Hahr-ree. The girl said one word: “Melki.”

Rejik looked at me. “She say name Melki.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Melki,” I said gravely, putting out my hand. Rejik spoke again and she extended hers to meet mine, palm down. Was that instinctive? In any case I lifted it to my lips and kissed the back. She snatched it away, eyes widening, which surprised me. Surely she must expect worse than that!

Rejik looked at me in horror. “Boss, why you do that?”

I shrugged. “Why not? It is how westerners often greet women. What does it mean here?”

“Meshir man do to new wife.”

“But not to other women?”

“No. Only wife.”

“What does he do to other women?”

He shrugged. “Fuck them.”

“I see.” The girl was hugging herself and blushing over half her body. She refused to meet my eyes. “He just throws them down and gets on with it, does he?”

The lad nodded. “Fuck them.”

“Well, I’m not Meshir, Rejik. Tell her that.”

He and the girl spoke at length. Her blush faded and her eyes turned up to me in curiosity. He said, “She ask if you love her.”

I thought about that. Her question could have many meanings. Trying to pin it down with Rejik’s poor English and lack of experience would only skewer it. At last I said, “Tell her yes, but not here at the fire.” I prided myself that such an answer, putting off any consequential action, was the best I might do in those circumstances not to antagonize her.

She said something else, grinning at me, and extended her own hand, the one she had snatched away.

“She want hand,” Rejik announced unnecessarily.

I put mine in hers. She immediately raised it to her lips and kissed the back, just as I had done, adding a secret swipe of the tongue. She threw it down, laughed, spoke a few syllables, turned and ran into the corridor after her friend.

“She says come to her bed.”

“Down that passage?”

He shrugged.

“Where is big mother?”

“She come to Melki.”

An invitation into a trap? I’d’ve thought so except for Rejik. He’s been at the camp far longer than I, knows everyone and is both liked and trusted. It was doubtful he’d lead me deliberately into harm’s way. I looked around. Persian carpets hung from the wall in several places. Everything was reds, browns and blues with a few creamy yellow spots in cushions or carpet. This place made me curious. Perhaps big mother could satisfy my curiosity.

“Okay. Can you find her bed?”

“Can find,” he answered confidently and stepped off toward the far corridor.

This passage showed even more evidence of human attention. Though curving left and right, the width, a good six feet, remained nearly constant. Walls were nearly plumb to the floor.

The light grew dimmer as we left the fire but not so dim that I failed to recognize Melki waiting for us at a fork. No, it wasn’t. Melki had a mark, either bruise or birthmark, on her left hip that was missing on this one. And she regarded Rejik with a familiar sneer. She said something to him when he stood before her. He rattled back at her, clearly nettled, to which she replied briefly, flicking me a grin.

“What’s the question?” I asked.

“She say me stay.”

“And what do you say?”

“I say you need me for talk. She say you no need talk.”

“She’s wrong. Put out your hand to her. Tell her to take it and come with us.”

His eyes flashed at me in what I took to be gratitude. He extended his hand and spoke to her, his voice lower by at least an octave. She sniffed and turned up her nose.

“She won’t take,” he reported, dropping his eyes.

I grabbed her hand, forcibly put it into his, staring into her eyes. “Do as he says!” I commanded gruffly.

Her eyes widened. She snapped an interrogative at the boy, who explained with a touch of satisfaction. She lowered her eyes submissively with a word I didn’t catch.

“What was that?”

“She … Don’t know word. She do what we say.”

“Good.”

I gestured down a corridor but Rejik indicated the other one. He and the girl led the way, holding hands: that is, Rejik holding her wrist. She walked slightly behind him, not resisting. She was the taller of the two by half a head, nearly up to my shoulder.

I followed them, beginning to sweat. It was warm in these caves, definitely warm enough for girls to run around naked, far too warm for my winter coat. I parted the front zipper, letting it swing on either side. The girl looked back at the sound. Her eyes widened on the pistol butt in my belt, then rose to my face before turning back. She said something to Rejik, her tone worried.

He grinned back at me. “She ask if you kill her and Melki.”

“Tell her I want to talk to big mother.”

They spoke again. “She ask if you love Melki.”

“Rejik, do you understand that I think Melki is nice but I want to talk to big mother?”

He thought about it. “You not fuck Melki?”

“Don’t tell her that!” A woman scorned is bad enough, but in this case they might construe it as scorn of their entire establishment!

“What is ‘nice?’”

“Nice is … Do you know pretty?”

“Ah, yes.”

He spoke again. When he was silent she looked back at me speculatively but said no more.

We came to an oval hole in the wall, literally that, about four feet in width. An opaque curtain hung over it on the inside. The girl stopped beside it and gestured for me to climb in. I said to Rejik, “She and you first.”

He spoke. The girl shrugged, put her knee on the ledge and levered herself through the hole. Rejik followed without hesitation. After a moment I followed, too — onto soft warmth in pitch darkness. A female body. It squealed. I backed against the curtain and unhooked the flashlight from my belt, turning the beam downward when I flipped it on.

The four of us, Rejik, myself and the two naked girls, were in a cubbyhole large as two or three double beds laid parallel. It was well padded on the “floor” — a bed cave, if you will. Melki, she of the bruised hip, sat up on her heels and blinked madly in the light. She shielded her eyes and regarded the other girl. They engaged in a brief argument, to which Rejik contributed a few words.

At last he turned to me. “She no fuck if we here.”

I understood him to mean with Rejik and the other girl here. I said, “That suits me fine. Send one of them for the big mother.”

While they spoke I removed my winter coat and folded it to sit on. Melki helped me at the last, then leaned against me and began to unbutton my shirt.

Rejik grinned. “She say yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“She fuck if we fuck, too.” He began to undo his coats, the other girl attending, her face impassive.

A smaller cubbyhole had been cut in the wall above Melki’s head. I evicted her from beneath it and laid pistol and flashlight there, pointing the light inward so that only a reflected glow illuminated our little party. My clothing, neatly folded, went into a corner of the bed space. Rejik’s went to the other. Boots went out through the curtain.

“Rejik, will I have to walk barefoot out of here?”

“No woman bother,” he said confidently. I let them lie.

When I was down to underclothing and finally comfortable, I removed the girl’s hands from my body and took up the candy bar, a Butterfinger, saved from my pocket. I broke it in half, tearing the paper, and offered a piece to each girl, who took it reluctantly. Melki sniffed hers and made a face. She started to put it into the cubbyhole with pistol and flashlight, but I stopped her hand.

“It’s all right,” I intoned soothingly, pulling back the wrapper and taking a small bite. “Do you see? Tell them, Rejik.”

He spoke briefly. Each girl took a doubtful bite from her piece. The whites of their eyes gleamed in surprise. They took larger bites, chewing with expressions of fascination. In ’Nam the army called candy “poguey bait.” Close enough.

Except that I was after neither poguey nor pussy. “Rejik, I’ll wait here for big mother, however long it takes. If she doesn’t come, I’m going to sleep.”

I found the sealed matches in my military shirt pocket and raised up on my knees as far as I could without bumping my head on the rock ceiling. “What you do?” he asked while I fumbled on the ledge above the middle of the room. As expected I found stumps of candles with fresh ones behind them.

The match head popped and flashed in the tiny room. Both girls twitched. In a moment I had two of the candles lit. When their flames were steady and the odor of grease supplanting that of chocolate and peanut butter, I turned off the flashlight and laid it beside my britches. But I left the pistol in the cubbyhole.

Finally I stretched out on the bed, ignoring Melki as she pressed herself against me, and directed, “Tell them what I said.”

“Okay.” Something about his tone caused me to raise my head. He lay on his back, sideways to me. The girl knelt over him. His arm extended under her buttocks. Her hand cupped his testicles. Clear in the candlelight his boy’s cock stood straight up though not yet man sized, the plum head exposed. As I watched, her other hand encircled it. She looked up, smiled at me and licked her lips.

Melki tugged at my shorts. I took her hands away from the waistband. She sighed and slipped her fingers through the fly. I thought to stop her but it seemed less complicated just to let her play.

“Rejik, tell them what I said. Now.”

He took a breath and spoke briefly. Neither girl reacted. “You told them I want big mother?”

“She come after fuck.”

A bit later Melki said something. I raised my head inquiringly but realized she was talking to one or both of the others. She had opened the front of my shorts to bring me out into the air, then opened her hands for the others to see her prize. Rejik took one look and turned his head away. The other girl’s eyes narrowed and Melki laughed deep in her throat. She bent and sucked me into her mouth. Again it seemed less complicated just to let her play.

I heard the others moving around. It had been a long, hard day. But who can sleep while a pretty girl sucks his dick? A pretty child, that is, or little more than one. But I’d discovered no “age of consent” here. Apparently full grown dicks in this land were accustomed to taking virginities young as six. But this girl had pubic hair, as I verified with an exploratory finger, plus the unmistakable odor of woman.

I reached under her, took her by the shoulders and reversed her until she lay atop me. As she moved I glimpsed Rejik atop his girl, fucking like mad, her legs wrapped passionately around his butt. The boy was proving a man tonight. Then Melki’s hand was upon me and I had to surrender to the inevitable. I helped her remove my shorts.

I kissed her while we fucked, tasting secondhand Butterfinger. She resisted my tongue at first, then opened to it, in a moment daring to chase it with her own. My juices rose soon; I was always quick the first time. I reached behind her, took a cheek in each hand, and forced my deepest penetration. She had begun to clip me, so perhaps it was not entirely unpleasant to her. Certainly it was sweet for me. I left a wad of semen under her womb, my first in a female in a month.

She put her chin down on my shoulder and let me and my produce linger in her belly. I heard girl and boy talking softly across the bed. I drifted in and out of sleep, not quite daring to succumb all the way.

A deeper female voice spoke from the direction of the curtain. Melki sprang up and I raised up, realizing that indeed I had fallen asleep and that both candles were out. But the flashlight was where I left it. I took it up and held it dark, but with thumb on the button.

Both girls spoke swiftly, one after the other. Their voices were appeasing. Melki’s, which I could now recognize, also held a note of pride.

A command sounded unmistakably. Melki’s hip left my side. The curtain opened, revealing a beshawled face holding some kind of oil lamp in the opening, its light whiter than the candles, bright enough to make me blink. Melki scooted toward the light on her back, feet and hands supporting her. At the light she spread her knees so far apart that I heard her hips creak. The beshawled head held the lamp higher, then bent to sniff the girl’s crack. I saw a flash of pink. Had she actually licked it?

The woman issued another order, this one longer and louder. Melki backed away to crouch at my feet, still facing the light. To my surprise Rejik took her place. He hustled forward, sat Indian style in the light and began to talk with the woman.

I interrupted. “Rejik, what are you telling her?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “She ask why bring you here.”

I pulled a blanket over my lower body and sat up, careful not to bump my head.

“And what do you say?”

The woman held her lamp higher. Glittering black eyes stared at me from an uncovered face. I realized that this was probably the first native mature female face I’d seen yet in these mountains. It displayed no wrinkles except a few around the eyes. My immediate judgment took her to be fortyish.

She spoke a question to him as she regarded me. I recognized my name in his response.

“This is the big mother, I take it.”

“Yes. She say tell you her name ‘Moreti.’”

“Moreti. Tell her I cannot fault her hospitality.”

“Huh?”

“Tell her, ‘Thank you.’”

After another exchange he translated, “She say she like you in her house.”

“How about in her servant?”

Trust the boy to understand that! He spoke. She smiled and responded. He said, “She like you in girl, too. Hope for baby.” He grinned at me hugely. “Me make water in Tuanti. First time!”

“Good for you,” I responded, whether the first time was Tuanti’s or his own. “Ask Moreti when we can talk.”

Another exchange. “She say talk better at breakfast.”

After barking a command to the other girl, who drew near, Moreti withdrew a candle from somewhere in her robe and lit it in her lamp. The girl, Tuanti, took the candle and crawled across the bedding, mounting it carefully on the ledge beside the stubs that I had burned. I checked my wristwatch. It was only 0100. Did she mean to leave us no sleep?

Moreti had company. Melki reached past the opening and returned inside, carefully holding a ceramic basin that I gathered was full of water. She swung about and laid it near my hip while Tuanti was accepting an identical basin. I smelled raw soap. Moreti withdrew her lamp, letting the curtain fall over the opening.

Melki said something to me in a tone of entreaty. I asked, “What was that, Rejik?

He replied from the dimness across the bedding, Tuanti crouched beside him. “She ask you lie down, give you bath.”

“Tell me again when it is that Moreti will talk to me.”

“In morning. With tea.”

“Tea. Is ‘morning’ to the Meshir the same as it is to me?”

“Sun come up.”

“Who can know that in here?”

“Moreti know. Take bath, Hahree. You like.”

Melki spoke again. Rejik translated, “She say take off shirt.”

She began to pull off my T-shirt. With a shrug, I let her. In for a penny, in for a pound. She folded it atop my other clothing, reached back against the wall and returned with large pillow for my head and shoulders. I hadn’t noticed it before.

She dipped her hands into the warm solution and began to stroke my body, wiping me with a soft cloth whose advent I hadn’t noticed. Often she used her tongue, licking my nipples and navel. She laved groin, testicles and rectum with gentle hands, but to my disappointment mostly ignored the half-erect dick.

She spoke to me sweetly, hands urging my back to rise up. When I understood and rose to my knees, head bent below the ceiling, she put the basin down in front of me, took dick in hand and pointed it down to the water. Again her voice murmured gently. Did she want me to piss into the water? I could certainly do it by this time, but also by this time I was willing to go far not to offend her.

Her tone grew impatient. She ostentatiously gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat it into the water. All right. I let fly. From her smile and firmer grasp I understood that she was pleased, not offended. I have a dim memory of some curious older girl using my dick so in childhood. Boys commonly do it with each other, of course.

She promptly handed the basin out through the curtain. Apparently other servitors still waited. While she was busy at the opening, I sat on my haunches and watched Rejik and his girl, who lay in mutual embrace on the far side of the bedding. I decided the boy was asleep between her legs. But she remained awake. Her eyes glittered at me unblinkingly over his shoulder.

Melki returned, waddling on her knees, with a small handleless cup in either hand. She took a sip from one and handed it to me, raising the other to her lips. I sipped also. Licorice! It seemed mildly alcoholic. Pernod? These people were not Moslems, then, which I had already surmised when the “big mother” showed me her face. Somehow I couldn’t believe they wanted to poison me. Willing females engender such trust, despite the ample historical precedent for its invalidity. I tossed it down, gathering from Melki’s sigh that I should have sipped it as she was doing.

She knelt between my legs and poured the last few drops of her drink carefully onto the glans penis, holding that wilted organ up, foreskin withdrawn, with the other hand. She sat the cup aside, bent deeply and sucked the liquor back off the glans before taking the entire shaft into her mouth. Tongue and lips worked it top to bottom, more than ample compensation for the earlier disappointment.

When it was hard enough to suit her, she mounted me as before. But I had another idea. I turned us over, took one of her heels in either hand, forcing her knees together under my chest, and fucked her at maximum penetration. She grunted; it may have hurt her at first. But as I learned in ’Nam, if a woman will endure it, the cervix will soon begin cheering instead of bitching, which I understand is nearly the ultimate thrill. As it may have been for Melki. She was moaning and humping madly when I left my second deposit.

I rolled off her and did what men have always done in such circumstances: went fast asleep.

* * * *

I awoke to strangeness: warm bodies, girlish whispers, giggles and very dim gray light. The warmth touching me and the sounds seemed only a continuation of what had lulled me to sleep, but the light surprised me: clearly it derived from no candle. It originated beyond the bed cave aperture, whose curtain had been pulled back.

Naked girls were all around me. A spicy-smelling head lay relaxed on each of my shoulders. I realized that their owners’ touches on chest and arms was the agency that awakened me. Other owners of long hair were crawling toward me from the corridor opening. Girls from their voices, or perhaps young boys — but no, the silhouette against the light between an approaching pair of legs lacked the fleshy parts that would certainly have dangled from any boy.

The heads on my shoulders rose higher and kissed me on either cheek, then drew back hastily, issuing grunts of displeasure. Small hands came to my cheeks and rubbed the morning bristles in a way that showed real curiosity. Piping voices commented on the results.

I wondered what they were saying and called for Rejik. Sudden silence greeted my words, so I raised up on my elbows to find him. What I found, peering between the watching girls, was empty cushions where he and — Tuanti? — had lain entangled when I fell asleep.

“Where is Rejik?” I asked my attentive audience.

Several of them spoke at once, a soprano trilling, causing me to study them closely. At least six were in the room on the bedding, plus two more heads visible in the opening. The two at my sides, also risen, were illuminated clearly. I couldn’t see a pubic hair anywhere except between my own legs. These were very young girls!

Naked as newborns were we all, aside from my wristwatch. I raised higher, looking for a sheet to cover myself from these innocent youths, but the blankets of last night were weighted down by girls.

“Where is Melki?” I asked next.

Again the chirps rose in response. As they spoke a ceramic basin came through the opening and reached me by relay of the girls in between. Hands at my back and voices in my ears urged me to rise to a replay of last night’s preliminary.

I was given a hand bath. Apparently I needed a lot more cleansing in the genital area. Many pairs of hands laved me there, but when my dick was half hard they stopped and raised the basin before me unmistakably. It had been several hours and my bladder was full. All the heads bent close to observe the male method while two or three hands guided the flow.

I wondered if they would know to shake out the last drops. I still wonder. Just as I was finishing, the girl on the right, who had provided most of the guidance, lifted it, bent her head and nearly swallowed it whole!

“Ah, dear —” But it was too late, of course. My last involuntary squirt went down her throat. She was a game kid, even if she wasn’t twelve years old. She consumed what I gave her without faltering. Her lips and tongue massaged me. It was a unique experience: pissing in a kid’s mouth. I must be a perverted bastard indeed; I’ve never known anything more arousing. My dick was hard as a rock in five seconds and getting ready to offer her a thicker drink.

So of course she released me. I caught her by the upper arms and fell backward, drawing her on top of me. She seemed light as a feather. I could smell my urine on her breath as I kissed her, sucking her tongue into my mouth. My hands slid down her body, meaning to lift cunt over dick, but ran into her ass much too soon. Indeed this was a mere child!

But she returned my kisses, her long hair falling around our faces. Another mouth had swallowed my other head by this time and many soft bodies had descended gently upon me, hands stroking me firmly enough not to tickle. Other faces pushed close. A hot tongue probed my ear. But I didn’t want to lose the one who’d swallowed my piss.

There was enough light to see her black eyes, which had opened upon mine. “What’s your name?” I asked.

Of course she didn’t answer. I brought my hand up between us and laid it on her chest. “Who are you?” I said, making my voice intense.

She mumbled something but the other girls, those with free tongues, were chattering. I raised my head a bit and turned an ear nearly into her mouth. “Who are you?”

“Estri,” she said distinctly.

“Estri? You are Estri?”

“Estri.” She added something else incomprehensible.

To prove my perversion — I think I’ve always wanted to do this — my hands forced her to a sitting position on my chest, bringing her legs up to enclose my ears, heedless of other girls who must scramble aside. Her vagina had a slight odor of urine. I’d have bet any amount her menses had never flowed. I licked her clit a few times. Already a lump, it immediately hardened perceptibly. Then I verified what I had expected. Indeed she was yet a virgin! I wondered why: certainly not from lack of interest!

I know the younger the clit the more sensitive. I barely let my tongue flutter against it, returning often to probe hymen and anus. She shivered when I first touched the latter, so I put in a finger, then another. When her sphincter relaxed, the third went in. By this time the entire small body was a-quiver.

I concentrated so completely on Estri’s pleasure that my own orgasm came as a surprise. It was hardly complete before the girl’s hands came between her legs, cupped my chin and forced my terrible tongue to release her. Then she slid back, bent over me, cupped my cheeks in both hands, tender as only a grateful woman can be, and kissed me lingeringly, her soft mouth open and receptive.

Something strange then: a significantly heavier weight departed from my hips and legs. Reluctantly I disengaged from Estri and rose up on an elbow. Young girls pressed in from both sides, but sitting at my feet with her back to the light was an adult with very long black hair, wearing a gray robe that spread out on the bedding around her. The face was turned toward me, away from the light, and thus fully shadowed. Presumably this was the big mother.

I said hesitantly, “Moreti?”

The voice that answered was the alto of a mature woman. Surprisingly it said, “I am one of her assistants, Mr. Stone.”

I’m afraid my mouth fell open. The girls had fallen silent. The woman chuckled at my expression.

With a gulp I said, “You, ah, have me at a disadvantage, madam.”

She nodded gravely. “That is true, more than you know.”

Her hand moved out from the shadow of her lap. I saw the glint of a .45, pointed off to my left. She added, “I have your pistol in my hand and your seed in my womb.”

“My seed —” I drew a breath and tried to straighten my shoulders.

“Did you think one of these children had caught it? In her mouth, perhaps? We don’t allow that, Mr. Stone.”

And how do you enforce it? I wondered. What I said was, “What do you allow?”

“Anything and everything up to the moment the seed is spilled.”

“And then?”

“Then it must be caught in a nubile vagina.”

She had a distinctly British accent, what there was of it. “May I ask your name, ma’am?”

“Does that matter to you, sir?”

“Yes, it does. Circumstances to the contrary notwithstanding, I insist on knowing the owners of vaginas I inseminate.”

“As you say, circumstances suggest otherwise.”

“On the contrary: as you say, I failed to realize that it was a vagina.”

She cocked her head. “An interesting point, Mr. Stone. But how could you fail so?”

“I was concentrating upon Estri’s pleasure.”

“I know that.” She looked at the girl, still clinging to my shoulder. “And I’ll confess my astonishment. You have even learned her name! But are you aware that Estri is but eleven years of age and has never known a man?”

“I suspected the age and knew she was virgin, but I cannot believe she’s never known a man — or at least a boy.”

“You knew she was virgin? How, may I ask?”

“The tongue is a sensitive instrument, ma’am.”

“Yes, it is, but that is not the cause of my astonishment. I’m given to understand that your society is very like the British. Do you not enforce an insurmountable taboo against sexual knowledge of unripe children?”

“A taboo, yes; insurmountable, no. At least not in exotic circumstances such as these.” I waved at the rapt if uncomprehending audience. “What man could resist?”

“That is their purpose.” She smiled at the girls but only for a moment. She turned back to me and said, “My name best translates into English as Constance. You may call me Constance McKinney.”

“Thank you, Miss McKinney. Are you Scottish, then?”

“No, Mr. Stone, although my late husband was.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. He was a rare breed of man in any nationality.” She sighed. “Enough. We are now introduced, you better than I, but that is the way of a man with a maid, as the English say. If you will descend from this bed chamber, I shall bring you to breakfast and the talk that you requested with our dominatrix. Wouldn’t you like that, Mr. Stone?”

“Yes, indeed, Miss — Mrs. McKinney. But, ah, shouldn’t I dress first?”

She studied me. “Why don’t you have a holster for this pistol?”

“I seldom carry one.”

“Is that wise in this country?”

“This is my first trip off the base. By the way, what happened to my boy, Rejik?”

“He’s eating with Tuanti and Melki just now. Very well. Put on your britches. You’ll need its belt to hold your weapon, won’t you?”

“You’ll return it?”

She grunted. “We are women here, sir. Women do not kill. But I understand that you’ll feel much more comfortable with it near to hand.”

I took a small gamble and said, “I feel much more comfortable, as you put it, when no weapon is required. The boy persuaded me to bring it. I think now he meant, in the way of boys, to impress you with its power. Do you have another robe, ma’am?”

Mutely she extended the pistol. I released the safety and let the hammer down to the .45’s half cock position. Then I saw her hand re-extended, containing my wallet. I took it, commenting dryly, “I had wondered how you learned my surname.”

“You should count the money,” she advised blandly. I did quickly verify that the ID cards were still present before returning wallet and pistol to my britches.

She had cocked her head. “Would you truly be comfortable among strange women in only a robe, Mr. Stone?”

“You speak of comfort. With my seed in your womb, as you said, I’d be more comfortable with my given name in your mouth.”

She grunted. “How precious!”

“In other words, Constance, call me ‘Harry.’”

“Copulation creates familiarity.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your thesis?”

“Cart before the horse, eh?” I shook my head. “Either we’re friends, Constance, or you’re guilty of rape by misdirection.”

“Surely not! I merely caught your seed, which you were willing to cast away most profligately. Are you complaining, Harry?”

I had already opened my mouth to argue further but grinned instead. “No. Not a word.”

She smiled and took up the end of a blanket. “Here. Wrap in this and let’s go meet the mistress of this place.”

The light was stronger when we let ourselves down into the corridor. Her deft hands helped me position the blanket, tucking its corners into the folds. It made a respectable robe.

I looked back at the several girls’ faces regarding us solemnly from the aperture. “Will they fool with my equipment?”

She grinned. “The only equipment of yours that interests them is coming with us.”

In the better light I saw a mature native woman who resembled Moreti except for smoother skin around the dark eyes. Her plain gray robe, probably only another blanket, was pulled tight about her face. Beyond that I could see only the hand holding it closed and bare feet beneath it.

I asked, “What is the meaning of your word, vorsh?”

Her eyebrows rose. “How was it used?”

“Rejik wanted to have it when he met your girls last night.”

“I see.” She smiled. “It could be translated as strength or prestige.”

“As I thought. Constance, it occurs to me that I have seen much less of you than any other bearer of my seed.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Her eyes twinkled. “Is that in the nature of a request?”

I stopped and glanced around. We had passed a bend in the corridor. No one else was visible. I spread my arms toward her. “Will you kiss me at least?”

She studied me curiously. “Harry, a kiss means a great deal to the Meshir.”

I nodded. “So I learned last night.”

“What did you learn?”

“That kisses on the backs of the hands are exchanged only between husband and wife.”

“Rejik told you that?”

“Yes, and Melki reacted appropriately.”

“You kissed the back of her hand? Oh, yes; I recall, it’s a Western custom — though surely not for mere girls!”

“I did it teasingly, of course. But this is interesting! Touching the lips is very important, you say, but not the sexual organs?”

“The lips express love, Harry.”

“But not the sexual organs?”

“Mere lust. Anyone may experience lust, implying no commitment.”

“I see. I think.”

“A woman can experience it even without acquiescence. Did Melki kiss your hand in return?”

I thought about it. “If she had done so, what then?”

She chuckled. “I see that she did. I may have trouble with that one.”

I of course said nothing about Estri’s tender kiss. If a kiss on the hand implies marriage, how much more serious is one upon the lips? Two! She had kissed me after her orgasm!

The direction of our travel was away from the bright light. Soon we emerged into the same large cavern that I had crossed on my arrival. The sheet of flame still hissed above the rise in its center. A berobed Moreti sat cross-legged, I assumed, on a carpet spread to one side. A large silver tray lay before her, containing cups, a coffee pot, and platters of sliced bread. Two other women, one with gray hair peeking from her cowl, sat on either side. Eight pubescent girls, quite naked, stood further to each side, hands crossed behind their backs, clearly awaiting orders.

My guide waited beside me, watching me survey the entire cavern. I asked, “Where are your men, Constance?”

Her mobile eyebrow arched higher. “In paraphrase: if you were the only man in these caverns, in fact the only one in these mountains, what then?”

“You mean, would I run amok?”

“And leave your seed in all of us?”

“You put it as a question. Why is it I think that’s what you truly want?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Perhaps because it is.”

I shook my head. “Do you understand the expression, ‘pulling his leg?’”

She laughed. “Come. Our mistress is anxious to interrogate you.”

“Constance, that doesn’t sound friendly.”

“Harry, I mean this most sincerely: if you can find a way for us to exhibit greater friendship, please advise me immediately.”

“I already have.”

She stared, then nodded. “Your invitation to kiss. I am trying to protect you. Wait until you understand what it means.”

“Very well.” I extended my hand toward the group waiting on the carpet. “After you.”

We advanced upon the three women and settled cross-legged before them. I said politely to Moreti, “Good morning.”

Constance barked a short phrase, doubtlessly the translation of my greeting, and Moreti replied with a question. Constance spoke to me. “Moreti asks if our hospitality has been adequate.”

I had to smile. “Tell her that until last night I had only heard of such hospitality!”

After an exchange with Moreti, Constance snapped, “Where did you hear of it?” — clearly concerned that I might’ve heard about the Meshir.

I shrugged. “You may not be familiar with the American expression, ‘Southern hospitality.’ Long ago the southern part of my country practiced slavery. When a northern trader visited a southern slave holder, the trader was furnished a female slave to warm his bed.”

Moreti responded that the custom was far older in her land. I retorted that it had largely died out in mine, in fact was still practiced only among the very rich and powerful. This led to a discussion of the American civil war. It turned out that Moreti, or she and Constance together, knew more about it than I did. I wonder how!

None of the other women and girls was introduced.

Constance broke a piece of bread, smeared it with a meaty sauce and placed it in my hand. She poured me a cup of steaming greenish liquid, which I sipped out of thirst and politeness. It certainly wasn’t coffee. Some kind of tea, I guess. With a heavy load of sugar it might’ve been half way palatable.

Only Moreti and I spoke, Constance interpreting. When I had eaten a clutch of the bread and burped ostentatiously as the others, Moreti’s black eyes stared into mine and she said, “Tell us why you have chosen to visit us.”

I was confident she already had the story from Rejik but launched into the tale of the sudden rainstorm. She promptly interrupted, “Why were you driving on the ’Tweenrivers Road?” — which is exactly how Constance named it.

“I was returning to my quarters in the American compound at Fellavi.”

“That is a military compound, is it not?”

“It is.”

“But your clothing is not a military uniform.”

All four women and eight children regarded me curiously. I felt a chill despite the warm air and the warm cup in my hand. Captain Smith had warned us how quickly and permanently we might be snatched over the Soviet border, only fifty miles away, if the Russians learned we were here.

Constance broke the silence. “Do you sometimes leave your camp in mufti?”

I grinned with feigned embarrassment. “We aren’t supposed to.”

She translated and Moreti grinned in return. “How long will it be before you return to America?”

“Not very long. A few weeks.”

Moreti’s eyebrows rose. She exchanged glances with her two advisors then made a short speech to Constance.

Who said to me, “Your joining us for breakfast, Mr. Stone, has been a pleasure, but we must leave you now. Please remain and eat your fill. Mrs. McKinney will serve you as you wish and answer all your questions about us.”

While Constance was translating, the three older women got smoothly to their feet, not at all discomfited by long-crossed legs, and walked out of the cavern, deeper into the mountain. When I attempted to rise as courtesy demanded, Constance motioned for me to keep my seat. Seven of the eight girls followed the women. One remained, standing at parade rest, watching me.

I stared at Constance. She smiled slightly. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What’s your first question?”

I knew what she expected, of course. What I asked was, “What do you have under that robe?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Only my body.”

“Prove it.”

“Harry, surely you have more important questions than that!”

“More important? I have lots of questions, yes, but the genetic quality of my descendants is quite important to me.”

Her lip curled but her eyes twinkled, an interesting combination. Exasperation plus titillation? She rose up, slipping free of her robe in the process, and stood solemnly before me: a shapely brown woman of medium height and weight, with large dark nipples. Her breasts and belly were decorated with the stretch marks of motherhood. Her pubic triangle was lushly black, covering most of her lower belly. Her arms and legs were adorned with thin curly hair. She raised hands to head, perhaps consciously exhibiting thick tufts in her armpits, and spun slowly through 360 degrees.

I got to my feet, discarded the blanket and took her into my arms. She submitted readily when she understood that I would press cheek to cheek, not lip to lip. Her arms came down to hold me but I restrained one of them in the elevated position long enough to duck my face into the hairy armpit. She had no detectable odor until then. The armpit was musky, not at all unpleasant, but not the meaty odor I remembered from Florrie and a few other women. I recognized a subset of the common vaginal aroma. Of course I had to put my tongue into this fragrant nest.

She twitched. “That tickles, Harry.” Simultaneously with the protest her hand fell to my burgeoning erection.

“Does it?” I asked, licking her again.

“Are all men alike?” she mused, sighing oddly, still twitching.

I desisted long enough to answer, “No more than all women.”

“My husband discovered this, too.”

Interesting. Having a hairy armpit licked is stimulating? Certainly the licking is!

She could have easily broken away. Instead she kissed the side of my neck. We sank upon the rumpled carpets and took each other in the time-honored way, which I stubbornly maintain is still the most enjoyable. It had hardly been an hour since I inseminated this same vagina, which perhaps improved my stamina for this second trial. In any case I lasted till her orgasm fetched mine — and beyond, until her characteristic stiff jerks eased. Women are as delightfully different in the way orgasm affects them as they are in all other attributes.

We totally ignored the watching girl.

The carpets were poor padding. Though she never complained, I rolled off her soon as I recovered my senses and propped head on elbow to study her. As her breathing eased, she smiled at me. “Did that answer your first question, Harry?”

“Eloquently.”

“Then let’s have the second.”

“Very well, madam. If a kiss to the hand pertains to marriage, what does one on the neck signify?”

“Oh, Harry! I apologize for that. My late husband loved to lick me just that way. I forgot myself.”

“No apology is required. Whatever it means to you, to me it means only that you are pleased with me, which I’m very glad to know and hope to learn again.”

She smiled. “It’s true. I am pleased with you! … Except for your stubborn refusal to play the game Moreti expects.”

I had to grin. “Isn’t it always a major mistake to play as the opponent expects?”

“I suppose it is. But Moreti and I are not your opponents.”

“What is it you want me to ask, Constance?”

She chuckled. “You can be most exasperating, can’t you?”

“Can I? I’m sorry. All right, let’s play. What are you doing here?”

“Here? You mean, besides recovering from a most thorough poking?”

“Let me put it more precisely. What is the economy of this place? How can a relatively primitive organization of women exist inside a mountain without men?”

“‘Relatively primitive,’” she repeated as if tasting the words. She nodded. “With your background I suppose that’s fair.”

She rose to a squat, looking askance at me. “Excuse me while I wet my throat. This may take a while. Will you have more haoma, Harry?”

“Haoma is the tea? Do you have any sugar for it?”

“We have sugar.” While pouring a cup she snapped an order to the waiting girl, who left the cavern at a trot. She added with a grin, “Though adulterating haoma endangers your soul.”

“A sacred drink?”

“Yes. And that tells me how to answer you, Harry.”

I studied her. “All this has to do with religion, I take it — but not Islam.”

She grunted. “Indeed not Islam! — though we owe our continued existence in large part to Islam’s treatment of women.”

“Then what is the name of your religion?”

She stared at me. “The name of our religion has been lost — hidden, actually — for more than two thousand years. It is now forbidden to be spoken. But I can tell you the name of our god: Ahriman. Have you heard it?”

“I don’t think so.”

She nodded. “I suppose not. Well, then, have you heard the name, Zoroaster? You may know it as ‘Zarathustra.’”

I shrugged. “I was required to read Thus Spake Zarathustra, but as to who he was, Nietzsche only left an impression of wisdom.”

She shook her head. “You Westerners! You believe that nothing important happened east of Jerusalem.”

I had to nod. “That’s what we’re taught. But I’m willing to listen.”

“Then let me tell you of one of the great ironies of religious history.” She took a sip of her tea and began to speak at some length. A man named Zoroaster, circa 600 BC, affected the existing Persian religion as drastically as Muhammad later affected Zoroastrianism: that is, Zoroaster supplanted the old polytheistic religion with a duotheism. Constance’s “great irony” was that Zoroaster made Ahriman, the most fun loving of the existing pantheon, incidentally the patron god of whores, into the great devil of his new creed, while elevating one Ahura Mazda, a boring fellow noted mainly for righteousness, into the “Wise Lord,” representing all that was good. Presumably he chose Ahriman as devil in order to impact daily life least. Transforming into sinners all unchaste women and into sin all sexual adventure outside priest-blessed marriage may have been unanticipated side-effects, but they proved to be compelling ideas, going on after Zoroaster to permeate all civilization west of China.

The serving girl returned with a bowl of granulated sugar and spooned it liberally into my teacup: a definite improvement.

I’ve long concluded that religious discussions in general are a monumental waste of time but have to admit that they can shed light on how and why our culture adopted its rules. This “duotheism” struck a chord.

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “I understand the Christian religion has the same idea of a good god and his evil opponent. Presumably so does Judaism, where it came from.”

She hastened to correct me. Oh, no, polarized duotheism was not independently invented! The Jews believed originally in a single benign god, actually not such a bad fellow; he was given credit for disasters only after the fact. They cribbed their idea of the devil, God’s great opponent, from Zoroaster via the Babylonians. Evidence: the word Satan and the concept do not appear in the Christian bible until the book of Chronicles, written after the Jews studied Zoroastrianism during the Babylonian exile. Devil in the singular does not appear at all in the prechristian testament.

According to Constance, both the West and the Mideast owe most of their sexual hangups, not to speak of the oppression of women, to the coincidence that Ahriman was only the god of celebrities and other whores, and to the appearance 2600 years ago of a single asshole with a sonorous name, a persuasive tongue and for the problems of life a new explanation that elevated him to fame and fortune. “The devil made me do it.” What a wonderful idea!

The point is that the Meshir, though admittedly reduced almost to a monotheistic cult, are the last remaining adherents of the original Persian creed. Their religion, plus a certain convenience they represent, accounts for their failure to integrate into the surrounding society. Thus they can conveniently offer a place of refuge for unwanted daughters, a common product of the Moslem society, and perhaps more conveniently an array of semen catchers for ungratified males. The surrounding society pays for its convenience with food and other consumables. The male children resulting from these exchanges must be handed over to the nearest ayatollah at age five. Female children of course don’t exist unless the inquirer has a hard dick. And no man may reside in the Meshir caves longer than two days at a time.

“What about Rejik?”

A loyal opportunist, that one! After four years with the ayatollah he ran away to verify the rumored wonders of the American camp, but he never forgot his early youth.

“Surely you’re more than a handful of females here, Constance.”

She regarded me warily. “Much more than a handful.”

“Implying a significant traffic in food. Do you still maintain that I am the only man here?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Harry, think back. I never said you were the only man.”

Indeed she had said if and changed the subject cutely! “I’m told the locals have little affection for Americans. Should I have brought my pistol?”

“This place is a warren, Harry. The locals, as you call them, never enter here by the route you used. The doors for them are closer to their homes.”

“Huh! I’m surprised the local women tolerate you.”

“The local women have nothing to say about it. The Moslems have applied the full implications of Zoroaster’s doctrine.”

I looked around. “How long has that flame burned?”

“It was sacred to Ahriman before Zoroaster was born.”

“Incredible that an earthquake hasn’t snuffed it.”

She grinned. “It’s a sacred flame, Harry!”

“Do you believe that, Constance?”

She shrugged silently.

I studied her. “Let me put it another way. What is a bright woman, fluent in English, obviously educated, doing in this …”

“You were about to say, ‘god-forsaken place?’”

“In this place with a long past but no future?”

She poured herself more tea. At last she looked up at me. “Our women can offer a man more devotion than he finds at home, even among the locals. It’s especially true for outsiders. Over the centuries many have departed here as brides. I was one such. My husband, Ahriman bless him, chose me when I was thirteen years old, took me to his home and educated me in his culture. Unfortunately, because of my dark skin his family never accepted me. When he died, they took away my inheritance, including my two children. I had offers and could have stayed there, but without my husband I remembered happiness only here. So I returned.”

She took a deep breath. Her dark eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Harry, we need help.”

I nodded. “That I don’t doubt. What kind of help do you need?”

She sighed. “What we don’t need is the shorter list!”

I studied her, thinking what this might entail. “How many mouths do you feed here?”

She shrugged. “We have enough basic food: wheat, rice, beans, mutton. What we need is vitamins, medicines, books —”

“Books! Is your language written?”

She smiled. “Yes, though the scratches would remind you of cuneiform. What it is not is published! Books in Farsi, even in English, would have to do. We also need a wireless and a wind-powered electrical generator; I’m told you have such things for your remote receivers.”

“‘Remote receivers!’ What do you know about them?”

“That you use them to listen to the wireless communications of your enemies, probably to triangulate their signal sources.”

“My god, you’re technically trained, too?”

“No, but I lived fifteen years in England, Harry, and my husband was enthusiastic about technology.”

“Remarkable! I’d be surprised if one per-cent of Western women know about triangulation of sources.”

“They have men who know such things. We don’t!”

“I guess not.”

“Harry, what we need most is a conduit.”

I shook my head. “If I understand you, it’s incredible you don’t have one.”

She nodded. “You’re quite right; it is incredible! — except the reason is only too obvious. Until I returned here, none of us realized what we were missing. When I understood how barren life is here, how quickly our girls succumb to disease and complications of child birth, how defenseless we are against the occasional abuser, I was horrified. But it was always thus. No one had noticed.

“I was not the first to return, but I was the first from a deep immersion in Western civilization. I began to explain what I had seen and done. I made several journeys across these mountains myself. I taught Rejik’s mother to understand English. Together we have read and translated much of the Encyclopedia Britannica for our elders, particularly the history and customs of major Western nations.”

“I was told Rejik’s mother is dead.”

“She is to him. That’s how the ayatollah insists we treat our lads: another cause of horror.”

My wristwatch indicated 08:50. Constance saw the direction of my gaze. “When must you leave?”

I grunted. “Fellavi expected me last night. They’ll accept the rain as an excuse if I don’t dally here too long… Constance, it would be very risky for an American to become your conduit, especially for any significant volume of goods. You need an established merchant, one with an import-export business and a light truck. Have you kept up with your boys at all over the years? Isn’t there one with some of Rejik’s loyalty in private business?”

She regarded me thoughtfully. “The mothers do ask their visitors. I’ll check around.”

I spread my hands. “Though of course I’ll help you.” I grinned. “My two candy bars are poor compensation for your hospitality.”

“You owe us nothing, Harry.”

“I want to help! I can order a few things for you, such as vitamins or tools, especially books, but few medicines beyond aspirin. Or I can deliver local messages, though I’d be very surprised if you can’t find a customer who feels some sympathy for you. Ask among the younger ones.”

Her eyes flashed. “Then you’ll return soon?”

“Would I be welcome?”

“Very welcome, Harry.” She said something to the serving girl, who trotted off again. Turning back to me, she explained. “I’ve sent her for your clothing.”

We lounged facing each other. She smiled. “Surely you have other questions.”

I asked if she meant me to understand that this series of caves had been occupied for 2500 years. Who built them?

No one — Ahriman, if you will. The caves are a natural formation that men and women, mostly the latter, have modified extensively for three millennia. According to the records, a nursery for priestesses of Meshiru, the sister of Ahriman, had been sited here for the isolation, so that girls delivered to the temples might be certifiable virgins, a bloody maidenhead being Ahriman’s preferred sacrifice. Until Zoroaster’s success the nursery enjoyed state support. Afterwards it literally went underground while adherents to the old religion continued to maintain it. The real disaster was the arrival of Islam, whose soldiers failed to distinguish between Zoroastrians and Meshir. Their numbers had shrunk to a few dozen when an ayatollah with some sympathy for the plight of women was assigned locally. Learning that the surviving Meshir were at least as opposed to Zoroaster as himself, he recognized an opportunity to relieve certain pressures among his congregation and negotiated a modus vivendi. It is still in effect after nearly a thousand years.

A small procession arrived from the interior caverns, bearing my clothes, boots, pistol and flashlight. Rejik was in the lead, followed by three girls, the last rather short. The boy was fully clothed, including his coat. The three girls were naked. I thought I recognized Melki and Tuanti, but the shorty … She was probably Estri. I’d have to taste her cunt to be sure; I’d hardly seen her face! Though it was a pretty one, heart shaped with large flashing eyes that lowered demurely before mine.

As they neared, Constance spoke harshly to them. The three tallest stopped short, two expressions changing to convey innocence. Melki responded with a short speech. The shorty came around them straight to me. She had the pistol and flashlight, born loosely on two hands held level before her. She regarded the woman with an air of determination and assurance and spoke in her high piping voice.

Constance chuckled wryly and said to me, “Do you remember this one?”

“Estri?”

When I said her name, the girl smiled blissfully, fell to her knees and lowered her burden directly before my crossed legs. She immediately leaned forward and kissed my bare knee before rocking back onto haunches and crossed legs to sit quietly facing me, eyes downcast.

“I told you I’d have trouble with Melki,” said Constance with a sigh, “but this one bodes worse.”

“A charming one,” I remarked, smiling when the girl’s eyes flashed up to mine. She smiled in response before lowering her eyes again.

“Yes, charming.” The sarcasm was evident. “She is not supposed to be here! Incidentally, both she and Melki now claim to be your wives.”

“Do they! Is bigamy legal in Iran?”

“I don’t know if the shah permits it, though it’s certainly practiced. Harry, you can sit there in male smugness, flattered by the attention, but I assure you these girls are quite serious. Estri has as strong a claim, if you admit to kissing her mouth as she says, but your exchange of kisses with Melki was witnessed.”

“What is a husband’s responsibility among the Meshir?”

She grunted. “There is no husband among the Meshir!”

“No rules at all?”

“Oh, the rules! He becomes wholly responsible for his wives — and wholly in control of them. Their continued existence is totally dependent upon his good will and support. In effect they are his abject slaves. Yet so strong is a Meshir girl’s faith in men —” she smiled crookedly “— especially a blue-eyed one, that she will devote herself heart and soul to the one who favors her with a kiss.”

I shook my head. “You’re right, it’s flattering, but of course I’m in no position to assume such responsibility. Will you explain it to them, since we can’t talk to each other?”

“It will crush their spirits, Harry. I can’t believe you want that!”

“Well, I don’t! But, Constance, you know the reality here.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Still, Melki has been very kind to me and Estri is a beautiful child. I have no wish to hurt their feelings. Would gifts help?”

“They are both children. Of course gifts would help, particularly ostentatious ones.”

“Well, then, tell them I’ll bring them gifts in a few days.” I got to my feet, taking my underclothes from Melki. “And warn me before I try to kiss another one of you.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” she retorted.

* * * *

The good Sergeant Downs was sympathetic to my difficulties with the “drowned carburetor,” a malady I’d fortunately heard about only last week, and he promised to fix the heater. He’d been debating whether to notify the colonel that I was overdue. Glad I won that debate!

A doubly married man, eh? There’s a little PX here but a better one in Tehran. Guess I’ll soon ride the supply flight. A man has to take care of his wives.