But in the last few days — if days and nights could truthfully be said to pass here — there had been signs that things were changing in what had been hitherto a virtually changeless place. There had always been strangers coming and going (trapped, the philosophizing Duke surmised, in the same infernal dream they found themselves in). But whereas in the past visitors had little or no effect upon the world they were wandering through, the trespassers of recent times had not been quite so guileless or so lucky. Several had perished in the region around the forest.
And now — as if all this were not strange enough — a new spectacle, stranger by some measure than all that had preceded it:
Sitting beside the road — nursing the object of their long search as though he were a commonplace baby — was a bare-breasted woman.
The Duke dismounted a few yards from where Tammy sat in the dirt, rocking the goat-boy in her arms. His lieutenants had dismounted several horse-lengths away, and were now creeping around the nursing woman, swords drawn.
Tammy saw all of this, but she registered nothing — not a word, not the raising of a finger — for fear of alerting the contented child to the fact that his time in this idyllic state was about to end.
Very cautiously, the Duke approached the woman and child, beckoning to his men to take their final positions. One of the men had brought a wooden box; clearly his own crude handiwork which he now opened and positioned behind the pair.
The goat-boy didn’t open his eyes, but he pulled his mouth away from Tammy’s breast long enough to say: “You don’t all have to creep around like that. I know what you’re up to.” He’d no sooner spoken than his interest in the Duke’s men was forgotten again and he was back to stroking the ample flesh in front of him. “Beautiful,” he said to Tammy. “Do you have names for your tits?”
“Names?” Tammy said. “Actually, no.”
“Oh you should. They’re amazing.” He kissed them, first left, then right, then left again, tender, affectionate kisses: “May I name them myself?” He asked this question with the greatest delicacy, stumbling over the words. Plainly the last thing he would have wished to do is cause offense.
“Of course.” she said.
“I may? Oh thank you. Then this must be Helena, who I sucked on, and this one I’ll call Beatrice.” He looked at Tammy, framed by her breasts. “And you? Who are you?”
“Tammy.”
“Just Tammy?”
“Tammy Jayne Lauper.”
“I’m Qwaftzefoni,” the goat-boy said. “Are you on the run from somebody, Tammy?”
“I was, I suppose, in a way.”
“Who?”
“My husband Arnie.”
“He doesn’t appreciate you?”
“No.”
The goat-boy began to lick Helena and Beatrice, again big sloppy tounguings that made Tammy shudder with pleasure.
“No children?” he said in the middle of a stroke.
“No. Arnie can’t … ”
“But you could, Tammy.” He lay his head against her pillows. “Believe me, I know about these things. You’re fertile as the Nile. As soon as you get pregnant these beautiful mammaries will become milk-machines. And your children will be strong and healthy, with strong, healthy hearts, like you.” Finally, he opened his eyes just a slit, his gaze first settling on her face then slipping sideways, to get a glimpse of the cage. “So what’s your opinion?” he said to her.
“About what?”
“Should I give myself up, or let the chase go on?”
“What happens if you give yourself up?”
“I go home. With my mother, Lilith. Back to Hell.”
“Isn’t that where you should be?”
“Yes, I suppose so. But how would you feel if I said you should be back with Arnie?”
“Oh no … ”
“So, you understand,” he said, running an appreciative palm over the smooth globes, then putting his head down between them, his chin in the groove. “Sometimes you just have to get away, at least for a while. But you know, now that I lie here, I think, maybe it’s time to give up. I’ve been running for years. Never let anybody lay a finger on me. Until you.” His voice, already low, went to a barely audible whisper, almost a hiss. “Are they very close now?” he said.