John Masters by The Rock Page B

wicks in them so that they gave out a smoky reddish light. At the edge of the river and in the open place outside the temple to Astarte, boys lit fires. The fires grew larger, the dark beyond more dense and impenetrable. Shapes passed, embracing, and still Pendril did not come.
    When at last he came, she saw that he had been drinking. He had a small wineskin which he held up at arm's length, squeezing a jet of wine into his mouth, then, although she protested, into hers.
    "Come," he said thickly. "Come to the feast, the dance...." His gold earrings shook, glinting in the red light.
    She went with him then, to the rites of Midsummer's Eve. The time, like the people, passed with gradually increasing pace and passion. For the first hour she felt like a sleepwalker, gliding very slowly, one of a race of sleepwalkers. Then she moved more briskly and they, too, and the songs grew louder and louder, and faster the twanging of the plucked strings from the temple, and taller the fires, tall as men, and the young men began to jump over and through them, running, calling to each other, then leaping, and afterward shouting again in triumph. The wine splashed in her face, and a string snapped in her head. Her feet moved, faster, faster the drummer pounded, sweating, and suddenly there were women in serpent headdresses of gold and silver and with necklaces between their breasts dancing in front of the temple. They were naked, silver belling on their ankles, breasts jerking, bellies pulled in, mounds of love thrust forward. They sang, the fires roared higher. With a shriek a naked man ran by her and leaped like an antelope through the top of the fire. The people gasped, a priestess wrapped herself around him, and in a moment, as the dancer slowly swung, her feet spread wide, her body arched far back, Tamar saw that the man had entered her. They shuffled thus, locked, the man's face straining.
    The priests came out, chanting. She heard snatches of Hebrew, the sacred names of Jehovah, other languages, other names, other gods. There was kneeling and bowing before images of Sun, Moon, Stars, Winds, Clouds. The Golden Calf gleamed inside the temple, its doors now flung wide. The child that would be sacrificed at dawn sat enthroned in gold and silver finery, its eyes feverish and bright, its Ups parted in excitement. All around her there was dancing and lovemaking. She stood pressed against a house, her palms damp against the wood. The fire burned her face, and the sweat poured down her body. She trembled with the sounds about her—the groans of women, the chant of the dancers, the shriek of a boy missing his leap and falling into the fire, the smells of flesh, wine, lust.
    The high priestess appeared before them, legs widespread. Her eyes shone into Tamar's, worming down into the secret parts of her body. "Greetings, Jewess," she said softly. "What do you seek here?"
    "Nothing," Tamar muttered.
    "A man, I think? You are an empty vessel, quaking to the touch. There is a strong man beside you. Take her, Pendril. Show her how the children of Astarte serve the goddess. Go!"
    Pendril's voice was thick and deep. "You want me?"
    "She does not want you," the priestess said. "She needs you."
    "No," Tamar cried. "I have a husband."
    Pendril said, "In name. I lie too close, with only the canvas curtain between us. He never touches you."
    "Why do you think he sent you here with Pendril?" the priestess said. "Because he wants another man to calm you, that he may sleep in peace...."
    "Yes!" Tamar burst out. Then, aghast at what she had learned and said, she turned and stumbled away. It was dark by the river, and she heard him running behind her. She slowed and, at the edge of the wood, turned, her back to a tree, her hands clutching it. She waited, her heart pounding.
    He came slowly to her, and she closed her eyes. Her skin trembled, and there was a sudden warm wet release at her loins.
    He said, "I spoke ill. I am sorry. The high priestess does not