Yearn by Tobsha Learner Read Free Book Online

biographer felt both the weight of responsibility and tremendous exhilaration. He was deeply conscious that the last person to have looked upon the manuscript was Banks and now he held it in his hands. It was undeniable; their lives were irretrievably woven together.
    D’Arcy glanced back down, his mind reeling between disbelief, complete fascination, and, if he were frank with himself, a deluge of sexual fantasy that had made it hard to continue reading with the cold eye of the scientist, the bulge in his trousers an uncomfortable confirmation of this distraction. In front of him were several paragraphs he’d marked in pencil—these contained the description of the climax of the ritual Banks had reported in the journal, a secret religious ritual of the native Polynesians that, if executed, imbued the main participant with great powers. But this ritual differed from other ceremonies witnessed by Banks and documented in his published journals. This one involved sex magic and of such detailed intensity that the ritual was not only extraordinary but transgressive. Certainly perverse enough to outrage those esteemed guardians of high culture, the Church of England, but also the members of the Royal Institute. D’Arcy couldn’t have been more excited. The diary contained material guaranteed to compel all manner of reader to buy the biography. It was a writer’s gold mine, a treasure of controversy that would make him famous. For the hundredth time in the past two hours, D’Arcy began to read the marked paragraphs:
    It came about that Otheothea, my native “wife,” had a quarrel with one of her friends over some breadfruit and coconut crops she was convinced the friend had been stealing. And she needed evidence to prove her case before accusing the friend and seeking local justice. She explained to me that there was a secret ritual that if executed gave the truth-seeker the power, for a limited time, to see through the eyes of anyone they named. “Truth magic” would be the nearest translation in our English tongue. She then asked me if I’d partake in the ritual, as it required two men, one of whom needed to be a Tupia (local priest), and two women, one of them a priestess. Eager to learn as much as I could about her culture and innocently thinking it would be a simple matter of the sacrifice of a few chickens and some chanting, I agreed. Never in the history of mankind has a man been so wrong. . . .
    After insisting that I should bathe and groom my hair, Otheothea led me to a clearing in a small forest beyond which it was possible to hear the pounding of the ocean against the rocks. It was (judging by the position of the stars and the lights in the sky) about two hours before dawn, the time of which was significant to Otheothea as she kept indicating my fob watch. She herself had dressed in little more than a grass skirt with a garland of flowers about her neck and woven into her hair that she had loosened and wore down her back. Waiting in the clearing was a young girl (perhaps as young as sixteen), a girl Otheothea had noticed me watching—for the creature was as lovely and comely as the young Aphrodite herself. Instead of being consumed by jealousy (as would be the custom of the women of my country), Otheothea had smiled and asked if I desired the girl. At the time, fearing I might insult Otheothea, I had denied it. But now I could see that she’d read my emotions more faithfully than I had assumed. The other person waiting in the clearing was a native man, a Tupia, another magnificent specimen of humanity, standing over six foot tall. His oiled and muscular body gleamed in the light of the fire illuminating the grassy plateau. Both wore ceremonial dress—grass skirts, beads, and necklaces of scarlet feathers. There was a formal, almost religious atmosphere, as if both were there as participants in a solemn rite.
    On the ground was laid a blanket, the pattern