by Steve Moore
And if I can but think and write, and dream, what marvel phantom palaces might be built, up here on Shooters Hill…
And yet, perhaps, The Bull itself somehow partakes of all that makes me marvel; or someone living in it.
After supper, Mistress Brown invited me to share a drink with her; I thought this was quite sweet of her to try to make me welcome. And yet I could not. I was too tired, the world was all too strange; I missed my Liz. I asked her to excuse me; when I saw the corners of her lovely mouth a-suddenly so drooped, I promised I would drink with her tonight. I almost promised more than this: that if she would but smile again then I would ever be her slave. A moment then she looked at me all quizzical, as if I was some beast incomprehensible.
‘Young man,’ she said (I almost died for shame to hear her call me so), ‘a thousand hulking brutes would lay down flat upon the ground for merest chance to drink with me. I do not know if you are wise, or you are stupid; and yet, I think I like you. So go to bed and rest your head; tomorrow night, we’ll drink so much, that surely you will lose it.’
I did not know if she was kind or she was not; and yet, the moment passed, we smiled, and laughed, and so at last I took me to my room. To my great delight, I’ve obtained a corner room upon the upper floor with windows facing both to east and south: to east I look out over little villages called Welling and East Wickham, and across the wide and rolling Kentish country; to south the trees are far enough away across the road for my eyes to wander up and down a vast and starry sky. More to the point, I can look toward the rising Moon and, with this elevated viewpoint, see the first appearance of her lovely radiant head above the far horizon, then gaze for hours upon my beaming Muse as up she sails serenely to the zenith of the dark-night sky (the sunrise, of course, I intend each day to miss). This causes me far more than merest pleasure. I feel myself thus welcomed to my temporary home, and to the beginning of my work, by the world’s oldest and most beautiful Goddess. My pleasure it was somewhat marred by hearing, down below, some drunken wretch upon the road who would sing patriotic songs and, worse, ‘god save the king.’ So, all frustrate, I asked the Moon above, with all her gracious pleasure, to deliver him forthwith into the brutal hands of the nearest ugly press-gang. My evening, it had gone astray.
I looked upon that sweet and silver crescent; I was so sad to be here on the Earth and wished that I was up there in the Moon. The Moon it is a world of ladies; I hate the world of men.
I woke to neighing horses, clattering hooves, slamming doors and squeals of poorly oiled wheels. And, as I said, I did not know quite where I was, except it was too noisy. I realised at last that even at The Bull, the 19th century was too close; I fear I never will escape it.
I slept again a short while then, and know I dreamt of dearest Liz; I think she wept and missed me, worried for my safety too. I woke and missed her just as much; the more because there was so little I could remember of my dream.
I rose, but kept within my room; the day outside had turned to rain. And so the morning’s passed with writing in my journal; I’ll now to dinner, and then this afternoon, begin my work. I decided on awaking here to call the story Somnium. It speaks so sweetly of the Moon, and Goddesses, and unattainable longed-for love. And hardly formed as it may be so far, I know it’s full of joy and pain, and how they coalesce.
Its hero’s named Endimion Lee; his darling is Diana.
Friday, 21st September 1803
So, yester-afternoon I scribbled many notes, and arrived at a bare schematic of my story; but far too much, I do confess, I thought of dearest Liz. At last I knew the best for me was but to combine the two. I’d made two promises to my sweet young sister: that I would not return until my story it was written, and more, besides, that before Christmas I would again be home (I think foul scorn upon the wretched festival as far as its religion; and yet I do confess to thinking well enough of roasted turkey, brandy-flamed plum-pudding, and dancing with my Liz). And so I’ll write this tale for Liz, and surely be home in time to offer it as a gift.
And more, besides: my story’s set in that golden-glowed Elizabethan era, so close to both our hearts. So when I write each single word about that puissant Queen, it cannot help but bring another Liz to mind.
I went for supper. I think it was stewed duck; I hardly noticed. For Mistress Brown sat down there with me at my table in the hotel dining room. Before my supper it was even served, she had two glasses there upon the table; an open bottle of claret and a smile I thought was rather wicked.
If I’d offended her the previous night, she had the strangest way to show it. I told myself that, as the only rooming guest, she simply wished to make a fuss of me; but, honestly, I do not know the thoughts that put that sparkle in her eye. Young though I may be, I hardly think myself as handsome; and beyond that, she knew no single thing about me. And yet I simply knew that last night there’d be no possible escape: I’d drink with her or all my life here in The Bull, it would be hell. And so I let her fill my glass; for if she wished to make me welcome, I could hardly say her nay. I saw her husband glare at me, while passing to the cellar. I wanted then to tell him that I would quite happily be upstairs; I could not.
And yet, for all my earliest misgivings, I would not have missed that evening for the world. The first bottle of claret we drank there while I dined; she plied me with so many eager questions that I told her, if she had been a papist and a man, then she could easily have found extended work with all those villains of the Inquisition. I asked her if she preferred the rack, the pilliwinks or boot. She laughed and threatened me with further claret, pale sack and, if I would not submit at all, she’d have to resort at last, then, to the kiss. For that, I said, a stronger man than me would tell her anything she wished. She laughed the more, and all I ever thought to see of sauciness was there and dancing in her eyes. Of sin, however, I hardly could convict her. For after all, her dress was white, like Liz’s, or a Vestal Virgin’s, or rather more than this, I thought, the chaste and lovely Goddess of the Moon.
And so, I think, before too long had passed, I told her all she wished to know; I simply could not help it. I told her how the seizure it had carried off my father, so long ago I hardly could remember; more recently of fever’s grip that took my much-loved mother. Of how I’d learned my Latin and my Greek at old St Olave’s and St Saviour’s Grammar School in Bermondsey, where they had taught the same since the Virgin Queen was sat upon the throne; but having neither cause nor great desire, I’d then foregone a place at Oxford. I fear I may have said too much of breweries inherited in the Midlands, that meant I had no need of work, but gave me time to write. I told her how the family now was nothing more than Liz and I, but what I told her else I simply cannot think. I hope I did not make her think me rich, or suggest to overhearing ears there might be aught of value in my trunk. But whatever I said was said, and cannot be recalled.
And she, in turn, she told me tales of The Bull that made me laugh, or made me gape in disbelief. Of fortunes and of mansions lost and won there in the card-rooms; of teeth knocked out with billiard balls; of highwaymen escaping from the law while dressed up in their mistress’ clothes; of fornications on the very dance-floor, and how they said that certain present ministers of the crown were conceived there as a result. With such relish did she tell me, I hardly cared at all to think of truth or silly falsehood.
Yet sometimes, when she paused, I thought to see another, stranger light that glinted in her eye. I could not think quite what it was, but somehow (oh, it sounds impossible) I had the impression that someone else was looking out through her large and lovely eyes, and more, from a great distance too. And whoever that someone was, and wherever she was, the both were somehow more supremely real than anything to be found on Earth. And to that cool glance, all the stories dripping from her lips were merely passing entertainments, The Bull a flimsy stage-set, and all this world and all its passing show, but fictions. I confess I do not know if claret made me think this; I am quite certain, though, tha
t with further claret I forgot it.
The bottle that succeeded to the first, we drank it in her private parlour, a room of rather sybaritic comfort (or so it seemed to me) that stands behind the hotel bar-room; the chaise longue that she insisted we should share was padded, soft and covered overall with velvet, turquoise-blue and curlicued in gold. She sat quite close and offered up a toast: she to me, and so I offered her another in return. A blazing fire was in the room, and so she cast away the shawl from round her shoulders; and then that fairest skin revealed, betwixt her neck and (oh, let me write it here in private) her breasts, quite took my breath away. A third bottle of claret then succeeded to the second. By the fourth I thought her rather sweet, although I knew a decade separated her from me. No, I tell a lie. By the second I thought her rather sweet; by the fourth I could not tell quite who she was, but thought her mother, sister, sweetest friend and then I know not what. She confused me more by playing soft upon the harpsichord, and so reminded me of Liz, who entertains me thus at home. Or someone played, I’m sure they did. And someone helped me off to bed; I cannot quite say who.
I dreamed once more of silver towers, but now they were confused, somehow, with this vast Bull tavern where I sleep, as if from solid brick rose dream-stuff, sparkling and soaring, to flaunt its gemmeous splendours to a Moon-illumined sky. And one palatial door stood open and inviting; yet all beyond was darkness and I know not what. I was still hesitating on the threshold when at last the dream was ended.
I did not wake before dinner-time, and when I did my head was all a-throb. And going down the stairs I almost fell. I could not quite believe how Mistress Brown was sparkle-eyed and laughing. I told her then that all I wished was milk and more, perhaps, a cool wet cloth to wipe across my brow. She looked at me so sweet and so concerned. I thought she was quite lovely.
She said that she was bad, and helped me back upstairs. She laid me down and placed a wet cold kerchief on my forehead, closed the shutters and told me I should sleep till supper. More, she made me promise that nothing further would I attempt, and when I did so, then she kissed me on the cheek. I knew it was an impulse; she blushed so sweetly pink. I wanted then to call her back and kiss her ten times more; but she was out the door before I could. I thought my head was near to kill me, I could not quite believe it. I lay there thinking: ‘Mistress Brown, I do not know quite who you are, or what you’ve done to me. Last night I thought you angel down from heaven; today I think you dearest demon, and yet I do not know quite what to say. But for that kiss, I think, I will forgive you anything, even though my aching skull should crack and all my palpitating brain escape to freedom.’
I lay there till the daylight went and then, at last, began to feel a little better. Mistress Brown she brought my supper on a tray and served me in my room; I thought that rather kind. She brought a bottle of claret and a jug of cold boiled water from the well; made me promise, if I drank at all, I’d mix the two by halves. I told her that I would, and then I smiled at her weakly; she looked at me so gently. I do not know quite what it is that seems to make dear ladies wish to mother me. I’d think it was because I’d lost my own, but Liz has lost hers too; and when I’m in the grip of illness, then she is more sweet than mother ever was to me.
So after eating supper I felt rather more recovered, and since that time I’ve lain here on the bed and written all these pages of my journal. The Moon is up, the clouds have cleared; the time has come to work. I’m tempted just to drink the claret, but I have made a promise, and they tell me that the water here is good.
And so, I think, with a half a drink, and a full toast to the Moon, I’ll begin to write my story, to bring this world of dreams that’s formed within my head to life upon the page.
SOMNIUM
by Christopher Morley
(First draft, commenced September 1803. For Liz.)
When Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus Caesar deigned first to set his imperial foot upon the ancient soil of fair Britannia’s isle (four entire legions sent before him armed, to teach the warlike locals peace) he progressed triumphant from the Kentish coast toward what would, in latter days, be known as old Londinium, road-building as he came with marvellous speed. Primary road in all the land of Albion, ever the same though many-named… Vitellius’ Street, Watling Street, the Dover Road… those of us who stride its straightness nowdays might remember, on occasion, that it was builded by an emperor with a dragging limp, unable to place one foot direct before the other.
Eight miles from London Bridge, old Watling Street runs up, and over, and down high Shooters Hill, which ever had but a single name, and no one living knows precisely what it means.
But no, like ancient Claudius too, your author stutters in his speech. In the reign of that most glorious Queen Elizabeth Tudor, the Miracle of Time and Wonder of her Age, robber-haunted Shooters Hill bore an alias besides: the Hill of Blood.
And it is when this tall and wooded eminence bore so sanguinary a title, that our story begs its gentle reader’s leave… to begin…
‘Why how now, good my lord?’ asked Bartholomew Greene, an otherwisely amicable young page, excepting only his addiction to the plays, to the cant phrase, and all too loose iambics. Sir Endimion Lee, reining in his horse, just looked at him askance, and wondered at the crinkled autumn leaf that whirled a-sudden round his head.
‘Why stop you here, my lord?’ continued Greene. ‘This hill has all too ill a name.’
‘And you, my Bart, have far too loose a tongue,’ Master Lee replied in kind. ‘I pause because the breeze blows strange, and stars shine far too early. We’re benighted when we should be dusked, and the world, methinks, is somewhat out of joint.’
‘Oh, let it not be robbers, lord!’ moaned Greene, a-tremble in his saddle. But which of his lords he called upon, not even he could say.
Lee stood up in his stirrups then, and cast his eye around. A mile or so behind them, ancient Eltham Palace stood, three centuries old, or more. To their right rose deeply-wooded Shooters Hill, a dark and brooding threat beneath the nighted sky. Before them, the Well Hall Road (a muddy track) ran on to cross the wide hill-vaulting Dover Road that, running to their left, would take them on toward the lovely Palace of Placentia, sprawled along the riverbank at Greenwich. Placentia, where her Imperial Majesty Elizabeth no doubt awaited Lee’s arrival with her usual fickle temper and the irritated finger-drumming of her hot impatient soul. A soul that flamed the colour of her hair, worn loose in virgin style; yet in its cooler moments, storming temper calmed by an oiled and flattering word, would deign to dance with lesser men and courtiers, a goddess reaching down to take the hand of mortals. And Lee, all dressed up in his finest Spanish doublet, embroidered neat with silver, had clad himself to please her; or so at least he hoped.
All seemed quiet and familiar, and nothing different to the many times they’d ridden by before. And yet…
It was too dark, too early.
‘Ride onward, Bart,’ said Lee just then, applying a gentle spur. ‘I know not what’s afoot, but let’s away from here. The crossroads is not far ahead.’
‘The crossroads?’ gasped poor Greene upon the instant, eyes a-bulge to show their whites, iambics all forgot. ‘The crossroads are foul Hecat’s realm, and in this dark, her hellhound pack… oh master, let’s across the fields and avoid her howling hunt…’
‘And break our horses’ legs in unseen ditches? You’re a blockhead, Bart, and those hell-damned playmakers have addled all your brains. ’Od’s teeth, but I’m glad you cannot read; otherwise who knows what twaddle you might spout. Now let’s be on, and not another word.’
By all-unspoke agreement then, they put their horses to the trot, mounting the none-too-steep incline and arriving, in the end, at the expected crossroads. Far behind them now was Royal Eltham; to ride on straight would take them down to Woolwich Dockyards, haunt of raucous porter-swilling seadogs like Master Drake and all his salt-encrusted ilk. An ilk unliked enough by Master Lee that he’d be glad enough to make his
leftwards turn.
And yet, the darkness thickened.
Crossing himself like a recusant Catholic and muttering soft of Hecat’s dogs that hunt down young men’s souls, Bartholomew Greene pulled hard on leftward rein, and kicked his heels for Greenwich. Only, a moment later, though, to pull back on the bridle, for Master Lee no longer rode there by his side.
Greene looked back behind him then, but held his ground. For the sight before his eyes, he knew, was haggard Hecat’s work, and could be of no other.
Standing on the crossroads’ further side, toward grim Shooters Hill, a curious carriage stood. Greene recognised it straight as one of the new-called ‘coaches’ (though some did call them ‘chariots’), introduced of late from Europe, lighter and faster and more to the passengers’ comfort far than olden plodding wagons. But this…
This was all of silver sheen and glinting crystal, its seats upholstered with cloth-of-gold and smoothest satin, with peacock-feathered crests upon the brows of two fine milk-white mares that neighed and struck the stone-paved road with sparking metal shoes. Not from Europe, this, but quite another world. And suddenly the Moon was up, and though he knew it came from hell, the coach was all aglitter.
Neither driver nor passenger was anywhere in sight. But Sir Endimion Lee, that far-too-foolish master to whose service he was sworn, alas, was dismounting from his horse, and had his hazel eyes on coach alone. Bart Greene looked once upon the long brown mane and short small beard, the lined and world-weary face, the night-dark doublet that his master wore; and wondered if he’d ever see the like again. With a discontented sigh and all the urgent speed of a pave-besliming snail, Greene then turned back to join him.
