Episode Ten: Seduced
The female adepts fascinated him now. How much softer than the males the females seemed, so much less threat in them. And they all had a startling new appeal he couldn’t figure out. It seemed to be ever inviting him into something happy, something he’d never known before.
When their laughs went higher it caught him short, and their everyday voices were musical, warmer to listen to, their actions carefully contained, in a way, (annoyingly). No matter their school, he couldn’t help noticing how the fierceness quickly dimmed from the females’ eyes once they weren’t practicing things or challenging anyone.
Proximity to the gentler ones among the females actually made him go silly inside, a thing that threatened his privacy and had to be hidden at all costs. He found himself snatching glimpses at the girls when they weren’t aware he was doing it, then daydreaming about what they’d feel like to hold, his heart burning at the idea of female faces finding him handsome and wanting his brave, exploring, strokes.
Back on his bed he replayed to himself their strange look of elegance as they sat down carefully arranging their long limbs, lounging differently from the men and boys, and defensively he tried to pin down the irritating charm of it. Unsuccessfully; there was one girl, one doe-like girl… but seeing her manipulate her vestal-virgin arts on someone, jolted his heart.
His noticing was noticed by others including the trainer of temple prostitutes, Omar Hassan, as well as the Tantric yoga master Gita, and most significantly, by Aktiarh.
They agreed: it was time for Hamar to make his next step toward manhood.
Summoned to Aktiarh’s chamber Hamar found himself addressed by Omar, and the yogi, Gita, who both stood smiling at him and then bowed. Omar casually turned to ply the room with scent from a perfume-burner.
Aktiarh cheerily said, “Welcome, Little Majus. Come, sit,” and then Aktiarh put on his own cloak ready to vacate the scene.
No one had told Hamar what this was about, and he sat down uncomfortably on the carpet. He recognized Omar Hassan as the thin man in colourful robes always herding a covey of young women around the place, and Gita was one of three other advanced yoga masters he knew taught in the senior Yoga atrium. He took in Gita’s loin-clothed body with its long, oiled, torso and stocky short legs shaved of hair, still unable to decide if the alien smoothness of the man was refined or perverse.
“You will study under them for awhile. Be gentle with him,” Aktiarh told the two with a laugh as he left the room, securing the door behind him.
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