Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 07

"You!" another spectator challenged. "Where are you from?"

Busy blowing on her drink, Ally looked up. "Jail." She replied, "Like your mate just said."

"Oh really?" the girl curled her lip, patently sceptical. "Which one?"

"The one where they keep the criminals." Ally said darkly, then took a quick slurp. "The really, really violent motherfuckers, who lose their shit when strangers ask too many questions."

More spectators arrived and Ally quickly found herself the centre of attention. Even the heavily armed guards, 2 at the exit, a few more casually circulating the room, stopped what they were doing to dial in. "Would anyone like to tell me?" Ally asked, setting aside her first brew to cool while she got busy mixing another. "What is this place? And what the fuck are we doing here?"

"You don't know?" some snow princess demanded- Scandinavian, young and slim with legs all the way up to her armpits and big, anti-gravity breasts.

Ally rolled her eyes, creamer from ear to ear. "If I fuckin' knew, Dipsy Doodle," she said, swiping her nose, "I wouldn't fuckin' ask."

"Skank!" the snow-princess sneered, "You shouldn't even be here, not with us. We might catch something. And you better watch your mouth or I'll call security. I'm a Travelling Wife you know. If I complain they'll kick your head in."

Another girl, a little living doll, with long brown hair and light grey eyes, the likes of which Ally had never beheld, wrenched the blonde away by the elbow. "Leave her alone, Astrid! No one asked you."

The blonde turned and gave her the finger. "Screw you, Cass. Crawl back to the South American shithole you came from. And while you're at it get them to colour-in those eyes. You look like a corpse."

The brunette turned her bewitching grey orbs on Ally. "Don't worry about Astrid," she said, twirling a finger at her temple, "her brains are fried cos' she snuffed too much blow. She honestly believes she might be the chosen one. Hah! She's barely a showgirl. You two should trade places."

Another beautiful young thing weighed in, a wholesome, farm-girl type with long straight, mahogany hair and a peppering of freckles. Her figure was so perfect and her breasts, barely concealed under an almost see-through blouse, so full and firm Ally began to wonder if she might be hallucinating. "Stop it you two," she glared, "or we'll all get in trouble." She shot Ally a disarming smile. "Hi," she said, "My name's Hannabeth. How do you do?"

Ally looked at the proffered hand but made no effort to shake. "Awesome, ta."

"You're an Aussie?" the girl beamed, and Ally felt the urge to shield her eyes from the dazzling smile.

"How did you guess?"

"I'm pretty good with accents. You know, back home, we call Aussies Downunder Canucks. I'm Canadian you see."

"Right..." Ally replied snidely. "You know, back home, we call Canadians Half-baked yanks."

The girl's superbly sculptured, lightly freckled cheekbones bunched with a grin. "Saayyy... not bad. I haven't heard that one. What's your name?"

Ally gave the crowd a sullen once-over. "Alana."

"Alana? Well it's nice to meet you."

A coffee in each hand, Ally took a sip from one and then the other. "What is this place?" she asked the pretty Canadian.

Hannabeth looked around. "This? This is the departure lounge."

Ally's jaw sagged. "I'm at the airport?"

Hannabeth looked at her frowning. "What?"

"Seriously? Am I going home?"

"No, no, no," Hannabeth said, damping her dismay, "we're down on the dock. This is where we get on the ship."

"Ship?"

"The king's private yacht." she said and rubbed her hands together. "Can you believe it? We're finally off to the island."

"What island?"

"THE island. Treasure Island. For the Blood Moon."

"Stop!" Ally said, setting one coffee down. "Just stop... Now, from the beginning. In words of one syllable or less." She drew a flat circle. "What is this place? And what are we doing here?"

"This is the Bird House." Hannabeth replied. "And we're all here cos' we've been chosen as Travelling Wives."

"We have?" Ally frowned.

Hannabeth looked around the crowd of gorgeous young females. "Well..." she said, a little uncomfortably, "we have. Though I'm not so sure about you."

A passer-by said, "Showgirl!"

"We're not supposed to be mixing with showgirls." someone complained.

Ally swept her fringe back. "Hannabeth, please. What's going on?"

In a postural echo, Hannabeth hooked her hair behind a small, perfect ear. "This is the Bird House. Palace residence of the Travelling Wives. Where we've all been training for the Blood Moon Tribute."

Ally looked around. "The what now?"

"Blood Moon Tribute."

"Is that like some sort of beauty pageant or something?"

"What?" Hannabeth screwed her face up. "No. It's the Blood Moon. It's like this great big celebration, held every two years. To mark the birth of the country." She shivered. "I'm just so excited."

"What do you do?" Ally asked.

"Me?" Hannabeth arched her eyebrows. "I'm a fashion model, like most of the girls."

"At this stupid festival I mean. What did you train for?"

"Oh... well... we learned all about traditions and customs and stuff. How to dress, how to walk."

A passer-by muttered "How to keep our mouths shut." and Hannabeth shot her a glare.

"You didn't already know?" Ally pressed.

"It's just to make sure we know how to behave. With the elites. We're the king's official ambassadors, you see, and His Majesty is depending on us. And ten of us will actually go on to meet him. Like, stay with him, in his quarters. And the king will end up choosing a favourite. And he'll marry her, for real."

"So, when you say, 'ambassadors'?" Ally asked shrewdly. "What exactly do you do?"

"Oh, well... they... we... help to look to after the guests."

Ally looked at Hannabeth askance. "Look after them?"

Suddenly shifty, Hannabeth wet her lips. "You know. Provide them with company. Make sure they have the most fantastic time ever."

"I see. And who exactly are they? These lucky guests?"

Hannabeth shrugged. "Well, you know, the elites... the VVIPs. Tech barons and media moguls. Investors, financiers, princes and presidents. Movers and shakers, the world's most important men."

"Only men?"

Hannabeth looked around to a chorus of shrugs. "Pretty much. That's all part of the tradition. No women allowed, except for showgirls and servants. And us," she twirled a finger, "the king's ambassadors."

"Right..." Ally curled her lip, "so you're escorts."

An angry murmur rippled through the crowd. "Nuh uhh!" Hannabeth glared. "No way! This is all completely legit. Honestly. Most of us are full-time models. I was on a two-year contract with Balaam."

"Oh, Balaaaaam," Ally mocked. "Is that in Ulaaaan-baataaaar?"

Hannabeth tilted her head, like a dog listening to Einstein's equation. "No. It's in Bulgaria. I was on the Moonquake label."

"Really... do they make space suits or something?"

"Moonquake?" Hannabeth frowned, "You've never heard of Moonquake?"

Ally shook her head, though of course she had. 10-dollar sweatshop-rags with thousand-dollar price tags.

"Anyway," Hannabeth continued, "lots of us are models. And socialites and internet Influencers. Actors, V-loggers, all sorts of things. And we all want the Blood Moon on our resume. Lots of girls in Hollywood got their start at this festival. It's like... like... it's like some sort of super-networking week, with a few fringe benefits."

Ally took a pensive sip. Out of the frying pan into a perfumed melting pot, a flowery potpourri of young, high-class hookers. "What happens after that?" she asked, "When you finish... 'ambassadoring'?"

"What do you mean 'what happens'? We go home." 'With all the loot we can carry', the young girl thought. "Except for one girl." she said wistfully. "She gets to stay. And marry the king."

"A one percent chance?" Ally grunted. "Pretty shitty odds"

"Tell me about it." Hannabeth rolled her eyes.

"There's no way of getting out of it?"

"What?"

Ally hefted a shoulder. "You know... if you get fingered? And have to marry the king?"

"What do you mean?" Hannabeth demanded and flicked back her hair. "I'd kill for the chance."

Ally shook her head, nonplussed. "You would?"

"Why not?" the girl said, all starry eyed.

"Sounds like the original fate worse than death, if you ask me."

"Are you seriously telling me? You wouldn't want to marry a king?"

"Joe King or Fuck King?"

"No, I'm serious. Think about it. Great big palaces and villas all over the world. Maids and servants doing every little thing. Choppers and superyachts, your own private jet. A private jet! Can you imagine?"

Ally opened her mouth to cut the girl off at the knees, then closed it again. She made air commas. "So, the 'marriage.' It's permanent, right?"

"Yup." Hannabeth sighed dreamily, "For ever and ever."

"He's already got dozens of wives you know." Ally said.

Hannabeth nodded. "Even better." she winked. "Spreads the old bedroom duties around."

The entrance door, through which Ally had only recently been bodily dragged, opened once more and whispers went through the crowd. Girls averted their eyes, as a small, strawberry blonde female in a skimpy black dress strode in, casting her gaze about for any sign of a challenging eye.

"That must be Yuliya!" Hannabeth said under her breath.

"Who?"

"The Mafia slut. They warned us about her."

The gathering of aspirant Travelling Wives parted like the Red Sea, opening a path straight to the coffee machine. And Ally, who now stood with her back to the counter, holding her ground. Marching straight up to the coffee machine, the small blonde elbowed Ally aside, spilling her coffee, then reached for a Styrofoam cup and twisted it free. Ally checked herself over for spillage then shot the new arrival a glare. "I would have moved you know. All you had to say was 'excuse me'."

The woman grunted with derision. "Fuck you."

"Fuck me?" Ally piped, inclining her head, sensing that all too-familiar surge of adrenaline. "Well, guess who was hiding behind the door when they were handing our manners?"

Preoccupied with mixing her coffee, the woman turned her head but didn't look up. Lip curled, she offered a terse reply, which, Ally suspected, was not entirely dripping with contrition. Ally swept her fringe aside. "What did she say?"

A young girl fluent in English and East European replied. "She says, 'you'll sing a different tune when she ass-rapes you with her... her..."

"Strap-on." Hannabeth said. "When she ass-rapes you with her strap-on."

Ally screwed her face up and stood, opening and closing her mouth. "Well," she quavered, when at last she found her voice, "you just tell her... she won't be singing anything, when I rip the fucking thing off and stuff it down her throat."

Hannabeth took Ally's arm and walked her out of harm's way. "Be careful," she warned, "you don't want to mess with Yuliya. She might be little, but she's mean, and she's got a very nasty reputation. She does MMA. And someone said she used to be Mafia back in the day, but even they couldn't handle her."

"Well what the fuck is she doing here? I thought you Travelling what-evers had to have some sense of sophistication. At least some hint of decorum."

Frenchie looked at Hannabeth, clearly embarrassed. "She's a show girl." she said carefully, as if that ought to explain.

"Show girl? W... w... what do you mean? What sort of show?"

"Well... she does... 'sex'... shows."

"Her?" Ally grimaced. "Who in his right mind stick his dick in that? I wouldn't touch her with a forty-foot barge pole."

Hannabeth looked away. "Yes... well... let's just say she doesn't need volunteers."

Ally thought about it for a moment, then her face contorted like she'd just swallowed a mouthful of sick. "No fuckin' waaay!"

Several girls nodded.

"She uses rape?" Ally demanded aghast.

"Mmm hmm." The French girl said.

"It's actually one of the most popular shows." little voice said. "Or so I heard."

"Hang on." Ally raised her hand. "What's this show you keep banging on about?"

"The barracks show." Hannabeth said patiently. "For the troops."

Ally palmed her forehead, a little light headed. "For pity's sake!" she cried, "Can't anyone say anything that makes any fucking sense?"

The girls exchanged glances and Hannabeth drew a breath. "For the fighters." she patiently explained. "For the soldiers and the Palace guard, the VVIP muscle."

"It's all part of the tradition." an elfin little French girl went on. "While leaders of the conquered lands were lining up to pay tribute, their troops and body guards were put together in the palace barracks. A lot of them were deadly enemies who'd been fighting each other for years, so Salman kept the peace with slaves and dancing girls. To stop them from fighting. He kept them well-fed, drunk and entertained."

"Entertained?" Ally grimaced. "With ass-rape?"

The French girl flicked her hair back. "With lots of things, actually. Roasting people alive, pouring melted lead down their throats. Letting lions eat them."

"You fucking WHAT?"

"Yah hah... back in the day."

"And that's what they call entertainment?" Ally demanded. "That... that... that... that sort of depravity?"

"Oh, they don't do the roasting anymore." Hannabeth said flippantly. "Or the molten lead. And the lions are only for sports day. It's mostly strip shows and gangbangs these days. And chicks like Yuliya, though she's also very popular with the elites."

Ally raised a hand. "Hang on, hang on... I thought you said these shows were just for the head-kickers."

"That's another tradition." Hannabeth said. "King Salman and his commanders liked to hang out with the troops. Sort of a bonding thing. In the words of King Salman, 'the arrow knoweth neither king nor commoner. Only flesh'."

"Flesh and bone." Frenchie corrected.

"Same diff." Hannabeth shrugged. "Though these days it's VVIPs who like to hang out with the plebs, not the king and his commanders. They're always coming down to watch the shows."

"I see. So having their own live-in totty's not good enough?"

"Hmph..." Hannabeth sniffed, "call us what you like. At least we won't be working with Yuliya."

"Well neither will I." Ally sneered. She shot a glare over her shoulder at the Yuliya's back, briefly bedazzled by the sight of her hair, a glorious, shining honey-blonde mantle that reached all the way to the swell of her shapely round ass. "You tell her. She comes anywhere near me I'll kick her so hard in the box. She'll witness the Big Bang live-action replay."

Ally could almost feel the heat of collective embarrassment. "Mmm... yeahh... sorry." Hannabeth hedged, "But it's not like you'll be given a choice. You're a showgirl."

"For the thousandth time, I am NOT a showgirl."

"Well you're definitely not a Travelling Wife."

"No. I am not. I'm a fucking political prisoner.

The girls all gasped and several waved her down. "For god's sake," Hannabeth hissed, "don't say that."

"What?"

"That! The 'P' word. If you're really one of those you'll never come back."

"Well I'm not doing it!" Ally cried. "I'm not doing anything! Least of all with that... that... that fucking skank. I'd rather kill myself."

Hannabeth looked around uneasily while the other girls looked away. "You better be careful saying that."

Ally narrowed her tear-filled eyes. "Why?"

"They'll feed you to the cannibals." a voice said from the back of the crowd.

"You're fuckin' shitting me!" Ally breathed, as several girls turned, shutting the blabbermouth down.

"Nuh uhh." the French girl said. "They made us watch a video. At the end of our training. About what happens if a girl breaks the rules."

"What fucking rules?"

"The rules on the Island."

"Like, if you insult the king." Hannabeth said.

"By not doing your job." Tinkerbell added.

"We're all the king's property for the duration." the Canadian explained, twirling her finger. "All of us. Even you. It's the law. And if he wants to, the king can give you away, and there's nothing that you or anyone else can do."

"There was this one poor girl," a stranger added breathlessly, "he gave to a VVIP. He took her back to his country and they killed her and ate her."

"Bullshit!" Ally said. "This is bullshit! You're all fucking mad, the fucking lot of you."

"Nuh uhh!" Frenchy shook her head. "We saw the pictures."

"And, like, once upon a time," another voice piped up, "in Mexico. They cut a girl in half." The speaker drew a line from her crotch to the top of her head. "Right up the middle. With a chainsaw. While she was alive. They made us watch the video."

"And you still came?" Ally demanded in chest-heaving dismay. "Even knowing all this?"

The French girl shrugged. "By the time you reach the Bird House it's too late to turn back. After all the money they've already spent on you."

Hannabeth put a hand on her arm. "Besides... all you gotta do is follow the rules. And if you do you can have a really amazing time." Her eyes sparkled, and her face lit up with a big, dimpled smile. "Feasts every night, nude swimming every day. Sunbathing, archery, SCUBA diving, fishing. Live-in beauticians. And all the while you're hanging out with the world's most important men. The super elites- the kind of guys who can really set a girl up for life."

"Some of them are really nice." another voice said.

"And one lucky girl gets to marry the king."

A buzz of excitement filled the room. Who would it be? Charlotte, the girl Ally called Tinkerbell? Lucy, Mila, Sigrid? "That's all right for you," Ally sneered, "But what about the showgirls?"

"What about the showgirls?" Hannabeth shrugged. "Play your cards right and you can make a fortune. Like, Yuliya got paid over a million the last time. And for what? Bringing a little pleasure to the world. Then, when the Tribute's all over, off you go home."

"With a big fat bank account." someone said.

"Fame and fortune just for having a good time."

"Child's play."

"Money for jam."

"A walk in the park."

"Piece of cake with a cherry on top."

"Money for nothing..." one girl said and several girls chorused, "... and your kicks for free."

"Just long as you follow the rules." Tinkerbell said, and Hannabeth nodded.

"Just as long as you follow the rules."

***********************************************************************************************************

In the sumptuous, sweeping throne room, in his palace on the island, the king stood on a circular dressing stand, arm partly extended, a quartet of pages at his feet arranging his robes. A simple white linen thawb, with a flowing black bisht, the cuffs and edges trimmed with gold. On his head, a humble cotton keffiyeh, in red-and-white checks, with a black camel-hair igal, also bound in gold. All-in-all the ensemble, worth thousands, had been cleverly contrived to mark the king as a man of the people.

A commotion arose nearby and the king looked around. A gaggle of burka-clad bath-maids hurried past, herded along like misshapen blue geese by armed security, heading back to their pen after the king's pre-dawn ablutions. The bare-chested curator of the Royal Stool proudly followed, having scrubbed and polished the king's golden toilet, leaving it spic and span for His Majesty's next regal emissions.

Over by the chamber's rear wall, 3 robed and turbaned clerics stood in a muttering huddle, heads bowed, prayer-beads clicking, preparing to divine the morning's portents. Overhanging the level below, the king's private chambers boasted a wide, curved glass frontage, designed to follow the sun, as it rose and set every day, from the longest day to the shortest and all points in between. At dawn every morning, and at the going down of the sun, inlaid lenses focussed a dazzling sunbeam, for a fleeting few seconds, on a thirty-centimetre expanse of the pavilion's rear wall, revealing some hidden verse, penned by the Herald himself, buried within the clutter of a huge, intricate mosaic. The clerics already knew which verse- they had a computer program for that- but for the king, whether he believed it or not, the whole thing always came as a revelation.