Crushing the Snake ( or The Keys of Abyss)

By Xan

I collect antique books. Who could imagine that it would become a dangerous hobby? My friends who were weekend warriors were the ones that put themselves at risk. They suffered from sprains and pulled groin muscles. While my friends were lifting weights, chasing balls, and getting injured, I went on safe treasure hunts in used bookstores and antique malls. I had amassed a noted collection of the most obscure titles and authors. However it was book jackets, and embossed and tooled letters that intrigued me the most. If you have ever run your hand down the soft hide of a gold-stamped volume, or felt velvety parchment or rice paper you would know exactly what I mean.

Several weeks ago I was out of town on business in one of the larger east coast cities. It was Saturday morning, and I wasn’t scheduled to fly home until the evening. I had finished my work successfully on Friday, and was in the mood to do some serious book hunting before I was scheduled to return to the airport. One of my local dealers, a man who had helped me acquire several real treasures; had informed me of a neighborhood where I would find several outstanding bookstores.

I could have called up a buddy from college who lived in this city to go shopping with me, however I figured that he would be bored spending the day perusing books, so I decided to spend the morning exploring on my own. After a hurried breakfast at my hotel, I hailed a taxi. The driver was Jamaican, with a strong dialect, but he seemed to know the city better than any native. He gave me suggestions of places to visit. I had a feeling that for a large tip he would have told me where to find any type of action.

I handed him a generous tip anyway when we stopped, as he had been amusing. I looked around the street. It was quaint, with paved cobblestones, and old fashion signs advertising the various shops. They weren’t due to open for another half hour, so I purchased a local paper at a coffee house, and sat down at a cafe table outside to read the news as I enjoyed drinking a double espresso. While I was sipping the dark brew, a lithesome young man came over to my table and asked if he could join me. He introduced himself while brushing sandy blond hair from his eyes. His hair was rather long, and as I studied him I realized that although I knew he was a man, there was something almost asexual about him. He wasn’t effeminate, but I wasn’t sure what it was.

“I can always read another antiquarian” he winked.

His name was Graham, and he told me that he owned the shop across the street. I introduced myself, and laughed as I told him that he must be very successful as he recognized an eager customer. I told him what type of books I had collected in the past, and he seemed to be intrigued. He told me that he had a book that had just arrived from Europe a few days ago that might interest me. He planned to show it to a select group of people.

We walked across to his store. He unlocked the door, but kept the closed sign face up. Inside his shop, the massive amount of merchandise displayed on the shelves was impressive. The place was spotless, so I knew the many books would be well selected and cared for. There were also ash leather chairs, and oak tables scattered about. He didn’t let me stop to admire a first edition that caught my eye, as he led me into the back room where he opened a safe, and removed a solander case which housed the book he wanted me to see. I was expecting a folio from the size of the solander; therefore I was surprised to see a sextodecimo. It looked like a fallen leaf drifting in a large lake. I did not own any other tiny books, as six or seven inch books usually held very little interest for me.

“Go on” he told me, “Take it.”

I was expecting the cover of the small book to be tactile, but it was beyond soft, almost like feeling the down of a baby dove, it felt almost like the pelt of an ermine.

“Is it made of Vellium or Morocco?” I asked Graham, who seemed well informed in his business. It was too smooth and silky to be made of calf or goat, but I could tell it had to be some kind of animal hide.

“No” he giggled, “Guess again.”

I really couldn’t so I opened the book up, expecting the pages, due to the age to have signs of browning or foxing. I was surprised to see that the pages were in perfect shape. I was shocked when I saw the first illustration! The illustration was not at all what I expected from a book titled “Keys of Abyss”. It showed a monk in an austere dress, the man had an angelic face, but what floored me was he was holding a penis in his hand. I should mention it was no longer attached to anyone. In his other hand he held an asp.

As I skimmed through I saw that there were pictures of young men and boys being castrated. Later I learned that “Keys of Abyss” was the penis, according to the Skoptzy, and removing it was “crushing the serpent”. .I was starting to get aroused which was the last thing I expected to happen. My penis throbbed with the anxious beat of my heart. I was getting excited from this strange book. I looked at the details with heighten awareness. I saw a beautiful young male without any genitals at all. He was called a mansuh, and then there was a picture of a tonsore castrating a young Roman boy. I felt myself ready to explode! I had to own this book! Just then Graham reached over to take the precious book away from me.

“How much is it?” I whispered. I was ready to pay any amount of money to own this book.

“It’s for sale, but only in a sense.” He informed me, “You have to barter for it, because it can never be purchased with conventional money.”

“What do I have to trade to get this book?” I asked him, although I had a queasy feeling that I already knew the answer.

“You must supply a cover for the next volume” he told me as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“There has to be another way to own it.” I insisted with a voice that squeaked like my voice was changing again.

“He laughed as he said, “There is no other way to acquire it.”

“Do you own a copy?” I asked him.

“Yes he said softly, and as we were alone he pulled down his pants. He was as smooth as a woman, except for a pair of lonely balls. Where his penis should have been was a fading scar that looked like the ghost of a dancing snake.

I dropped the book, now that I knew what the cover was made of. As I did it opened and I saw my name written on the bookplate in elegant letters.

I ran out of his store as if it was on fire, and booked an early flight home….

…Tonight, as I look at my collection of books they have lost their value to me. All I seem to think about is the little, soft sextodecimo. I crave it! Each day I get closer and closer to owning it. I dial the bookstore, as soon as Graham answers, I hang up. But with every phone call I stay on the phone just a moment longer.

THE END