Story: The Song of Ximena Aljibe Part #2 . . . #WesternWednesday
What does your soul sing when the sparrows fly west?
What hope does the desert eagle bring?
What sleeps in the nest?
What songs do the coyote sing?
A dread mist fills the streets and alleys. A fog of sloth brought by wrath; the dark man brings vengeance to the town that defiles a muse. And the rolling thunder would come again and again; Only Ximena new it was that dark man whom dwelt in the storm.
By the next performance the fog lingered; people are forgetful & apathetic . . . They will never forget again after this evening. A big night was planned. More than one performer and Ximena was to be the star, the one to close the night.
The dark man walks down allys unseen; hat hung low, collar turned high. One in each hand hangs the steaming colts. Though many saw him, none would remember the man who walks in the fog. The only remembrance comes in the form of dark terror and rolling thunder.
Crime of lust in the storage rooms, seeds spilled under the cellar door. Dark deeds in the minds of patrons filled with golden spirits. Music plays gently in the night air. Moisture stifles the sounds in the distance, but are still herd in the east by the riders who approached; comancheros on painted steeds.
Bandits of the waists, and the people of the desert town welcomed them (or rather welcomed the stolen wealth). Apathetic malice rode in the five hearts, whores and rape, opium and booze, the core of desire; and the big show.
Three notes began the show, two hard, one soft.
Nona Magaera began with a stomp on the bar she stood upon, then walked extending the legs gracefully but with great exaggeration with a wide swing of her hips. A sinful smile perked the corner of her lips as she sang a song of innocence defiled and virginity ruined. One could almost tell she was pregnant.
Then they walked in, the five bandits of the waists. Room was made for them. Seats were given to them. Whiskey was served. And as Nona danced and sang, a tear fell as she looked at the youngest of the comancheros but she covered it with a skillful swipe of her hand against her cheek but as the hand fell it caressed the very slightly protruding belly. The young bandit looked up in recognition, smacked his companion then pointed at the poor Nona, laughing with villainous pride.
The performance ended with the second woman leading in as None ran back to her room.
Decima Tisiphone came out with a rage in her eyes, even though she had a matronly look. Beginning her number with a scream that was either the sound of vengeance satisfied or sexual climax. Her song was not slow, her song was not sultry, but was more like a hard but satisfying fuck. It brought a new level of drunkenness to the crowd. A Dionysian dream was taking hold; which lead to next act as Dicima, instead of returning to her room, stepped down into the crowd and accepted the drinks offered.
Morta Alecto was a woman of dark attire, silk and lace in shades of black, magenta, and violet. She wore crimson on her lips, the color of blood. Skin pale like the high desert snow.
Her song and dance was slow, but her skill seemed off as if she waited for one set of eyes in particular. The performance was unlike any sung that night, more of a summoning than a song; but that would be correct. The object of her calling now stood in the large door. Then her song really began, as the dark man seemed to nod in response to the calling.
Fire was in the voice of Morta Alecto, and the Dionysian fever gained in heat.
One of the eastern bandits beat on Nona’s door, not the youngest who was now perusing matronly Decima, but no man longed for Morta though she shined with more beauty than all but one who now took her steps down the long staircase into the cravinous crowd.
She did not see him at first, but on the third step his pale grey eyes fond her hazel. He smiled pure wrath; pulled his pistols and let loose the rage . . .