by Steve Moore
‘No, Théophile, I will not live in such a world and nor, I hope, will you. I want to live in Hermes’ world, which, though it is not here with us, was never quite destroyed. It hid, and saved itself for those who sought it, such as me, who thought it not a sin to live a sensual life, and think such thoughts… such pagan, lovely and, by Christian standards, evil thoughts as I do. I know you think me sweet, my dear, but all the line Sylvaire have been voluptuaries since the pagan Franks they first arrived, and took their joys promiscuous. And if I cannot gratify my body and my mind, destroy my foes like angry Mars and love my friends like soft and lovely Venus, all perfumed, and think then all the thoughts that can be thought within the world at large without a moral judgement just the same as Hermes-Mercury, trim the fatheads like young smirking Glycon, naughtier far than man and snake together, storm like triple Hecate when she magic-makes the world as she desires, and sleeps with all her dogs so dark, or copulate like Thracian Bendis of the leather dildo, then what’s the point of living, and what’s the price of body and of soul?
‘And more, I know, for there is one thing, earlier, I did not quite reveal… that Comte Alphonse he never died, at least as far as this world knows at all… there is no grave, there were no masses said on his behalf… he simply disappeared. And if his journals mention nothing of his finding of the book, I suspect that, having found it, before he wrote another word he then departed, simply, for another world. The book, I do believe, is more than just a history; it is a gateway too, and bridge across the worlds. For if it is but hardly here, and so ‘unreal’, in what we call the ‘real world’, then if we make the book itself quite real, then our world fades away, and so the book’s world too becomes the ‘real’. And using certain awful heretic spells I learned, all breathless and all gasping, writhing too, in Syrian Harran where even God was named for Sin, and old Cyclopean Baalbek next, foul incantations triple-wove that speak so sweet of peacock Gods like Melek Taus the evil, but worse by far of oiled, voluptuous Atagartis and her bloodstained doves and squirming fish that wore the golden earrings in their gills, then I shall make it so, and follow handsome, lewd Alphonse, and never once return.
‘I’d like to take you with me, if you’ll come. For Théophile, a life with you, my handsome friend, so virile and so charming, so ripe for sweet corruption, of sin quite dreadful to our parents, and just as much to those we know today in Paris and in Orléans, would seem quite sweet to me. I do not wish to shock you, and never will I speak to you of love, but Théophile, I want you… and more, I do not want you here, I want you in that other world… where you are father, brother, son and everything forbidden that here I may not have… and I will be your sister, mother, daughter, and we will sin, and sin, and cry our pagan bliss until the starry heavens weep their diamond tears of joy. And Théophile, my darling boy, I tell you this, if you refuse to go with me, then I will go myself, alone, and I will find Alphonse, the never-dead, and he will then be everything to me that once you could have been, and in his arms and bed mayhap then once or twice I’ll think of you as centuries pass, but mostly then, I know I won’t. And you will never have me, as all too well I know you wish to.
‘So will you come, or will you stay? I need to have your answer. Now.’
And Théophile looked once then at her soft, fair flesh, made golden by the flickering, flaming light, the magic letters he himself had painted on her lovely breasts that matched the letters he bore too from her, the stars that winked like Algol in her bright, enormous eyes, and decided there and then he could not let her go. And so he murmured: ‘Oui…’
She grinned a grin of such corruption then, he almost thought to see a snake’s forked tongue coming flicking from her ruby lips. But even that, which passed away, could not erase the simple realisation, which, he knew, within his heart, he’d known for many days: he loved her. And if that lovely face were but a mask for sin, he loved her none the less. And if he could not have her here, in a château in the Pyrenees, then he would have her still, in any mad and wicked other-sphere she chose.
The magic inscriptions painted on their skin they left exactly as they were, but dressed and ate and fortified themselves as best they could for the journey to a destination past the edge of this known world. Jacques, and all the other staff, she paid too much and thanked and sent them on their way; they seemed so sad to leave her, kissed her hands and wept such salty tears that spoke of all their love. And then at nightfall, when the Moon rose up above the horizon, round and full and staring down upon the world, an empty-eyed skull, it seemed, the colour quite of ancient bone, they hugged the once and kissed the twice, and took them to the library.
That book (for ever after would he stammer trying to pronounce its name) she held and opened for the final time, and read how when the Christians came the Sun itself, protesting, had expired, and after that the world was never lit but by the Moon. And this she thought a happy omen, standing there by lunar light that shone in silver through the window.
Then Eugénie began to sing those skirling Levantine enchantments of which she’d spoken earlier, that book clutched tightly in her hands, her eyes so full of flames that, looking close, one might have thought to see the fires that Nero set to fiddle to as all about him burned down wondrous Rome. And as her voice rose higher still, the very air began to shudder, and then she screamed so loud for Hermes Argophontes, Hermes Charidotes, Hermes Chrysorrapis and, glancing then at Théophile, for Hermes Epithalamites, but most of all for Hermes Chthonios and Hermes Psychopompos, to guide them on their way. And all the world was full of strange irisian shimmers, tiny lightnings too, and there upon the Moon’s face was a smirk, and in the air were scents, both sweet and foul, the like he’d never known.
And Eugénie, she shrieked and shuddered, all unstrung, writhing as she rent the universe in twain, her back all arched, her breasts so proud, her legs collapsing so she fell down on her knees; and then that lurid hell-gate opened wide, and skull-face Charon beckoned then that they should cross the Acheron, no obol needed for his boat, for Hecate and Aidoneus loved them both and wanted just to please them, wanted to initiate them in oh so many lovely worlds of necrophilia and corruption that made the worm their special friend and partner, till they tired of life and death together, and sought for pleasures yet more vile.
And Eugénie cried ‘yes’ to all the Gods and Devils offered, fire-tongued, without a second thought, and surrendered spirit, body, soul. And looking back once to Théophile, she cried out: ‘Will you come with me? Oh come, oh come, oh come!’
And Théophile surrendered body, thought he knew not what a spirit was, so relinquished that as well, but stumbled when it came to soul. For some old voice of Catholic God, of parents, or of schooldays, said ‘do not so, my child, oh do not so’, and so he hesitated but an instant.
An instant was too long.
For when he looked again, the lovely Eugénie was gone into another world, quite gone, and gone, and gone, and he was still in this one. And with her went that book of books, and all his dreams, and all his fond desires.
So Théophile, quite simply, fainted.
He woke at some time in the night, beneath a smiling golden Moon that seemed so sweetly sympathetic, looked round then once and realised, he sat there in a ruin. For everything of Eugénie, the things she had and all the things she loved, save Théophile, had accompanied her to hell; the library, the furnishings and half the château too, all were gone and one would think, on looking, had departed quite a century since. Or worse, perhaps, were never there at all.
And Théophile, upon the sudden frozen to the marrow, could only howl for Eugénie, and everything he’d lost, and stumble down the mountain, a beggar dead to all the world, for after all it seemed somehow his soul had gone with her in fact, and nothing but his body had remained. And spirit, well, he knew not what it was, and so he never realised he’d lost it.
They say he wandered ever after that, like Ahasuerus the Jew, with loss so plainly written on his face, and ‘Eugénie’
forever on his lips; and ragged, drunk and odorous, he oft frequented libraries and bookshops, asking always, with a stutter, for the O-O-Opusculum Mercurialis, the like of which no man had ever heard, and so he never found it.
Decades later, they still spoke of the ‘mad and mumbling Delore’, much as they spoke, on other times, of the well-known Flying Dutchman. And so he passed away from out this world and on into the land of legend.
But whether he went further still, to Eugénie and hell besides, that, no one ever knew.
But those of us who think it sweet to die, if only once we’ve tasted love, would like to think he did…
I did not know quite what to make of this at all. Some things, of course, I did not understand; but again, I have to think, that Endimion Lee would hardly understand such present things as the wretched Admiralty Telegraph, when beacon fires were all he’d know.
I too could see the similarities mentioned by the story’s author: the library, the silver château on the mountain, the writer and the character’s love of paganism and rejection of the world in which he lived; but all this treated with a bold and cynic hand, that spoke to me of an older author, even more worldweary than I am. And yet I was so sad poor Théophile had failed and faltered at the end. I thought then of Endimion Lee, and how I think to end his story. More though, I thought of myself, and how I might react if ever I was in a similar situation. I’d like to think I’d go where Théophile did not, my love of all things pagan is so strong. And yet I do not know.
Besides, I know such things they cannot be, and happen only in stories.
But then again, I thought: this ‘S’ says in his letter that he writes a Somnium, in which I appear as a character (and when he is not writing that, he writes another story just not quite the same); I write a Somnium about Endimion Lee; and Endimion Lee, Diana tells him, will write all of her. What, then, if there were only one story at the heart of this, and we three simply wrote it out in all our different ways? Or more, what if there was only one story, and all three of us were in it? (And what of Morion of Lyons? Now surely he’s a fiction…)
I hardly dare to think of this. At times I think I am too much enmeshed in fictions, and would be better on the coach away from here, to somewhere in the ‘real world’.
But stories are the life and soul of all the world to me. And after all that’s happened today, with hangings and with letters, I think my best escape is found with pen and paper.
So let’s be back to Endimion Lee and his elfin Queen Diana, as next they leave the theatre…
A corridor, the same as he had seen before, he expected then to find. He didn’t.
Before him stretched a mighty hall, of crystal walls and columns; its oversoaring ceiling, lapis lazuli it was, decked out with constellations. To start, he thought them diamond twinklers, but then he recognised them: stars. Though whether they were dream or real, he never could quite tell; and hap it didn’t matter.
Carnelian and tourmaline mosaiced all the floor; a thousand Moon-nymphs stood upon it naked, singing cosmic harmonies. At hall’s end rose a nephrite dais, nine steps leading to an amethystine throne; behind were all the banners of the Moon, its oriflammes and streamers, its pennants and its flags. The mostly blue and gold they were, though variegated white. And long and straight they blew out silky, a-snap and cracking in a wind that was not there.
And perched above the Goddess’ throne, the golden Moon-disc glowed, corona’d like a gem.
Endimion Lee looked back across his shoulder, wondering how from theatre he had come to here; and yet no door at all he saw. His sweetheart, though, remained at hand, and whispered in his ear:
‘Look forward, don’t look back, my love. Who knows? Perhaps tonight, you’ll find a sweeter chamber!’
He thought to find a hint of promise sparkling in her eyes; but then she laughed and, tugging at his hand, away she ran amongst her nymphs.
She led him to the dais and up it; far against his expectation, sat him down upon the throne and jumped into his lap. Her arms all flung around his neck, her bare breast in his hand, she kissed him long and deep. A tenth of a myriad Moon-nymphs they looked on, with smiling eyes and laughing lips, then sang their naked song.
‘Dear love,’ he said, when at the last she gave him pause for breath. ‘And is it right to put me on your throne, when all your maids are watching? And then to give me softest breast and kisses sweet, and such a lovely lapful?’
‘You asked to see Diana’s home!’ she laughed. ‘And in Diana’s home, Diana does those things that please her. Besides, millennia have passed away, Diana kissing nymphs: they are no longer jealous.
‘But if you’d rather be alone, my love, one further kiss and then we’ll go [he kissed her with his might and main, as if he’d never kiss again]. But I have one condition: until we leave this giant room, my darling man, then you must let me carry you!’
‘You carry me!’ his laughter was explosive, as down she skipped onto the floor, all sweet, petite and lovely.
‘My man,’ she said, both serious and a-laughing, ‘I know you see me, dressed like this, all small and soft, your lovely little darling. It’s time of this you were reminded: I am, besides, your Goddess.’
And so without another word, she picked him up and tossed him ’cross her shoulder. Then running lightly from the throne, she crossed the dais and passed out through another door.
She put him down and while he stood there all amazed, she tip-toed up and kissed him.
‘You see?’ she tittered sweetly. ‘You thought you’d got to know me! All those old thoughts that your mind might hold at home… of “mighty man” and “little woman”… for a moment, they were coming back. That queens would somehow be a-lessened, giving throne and showing love unto a man, and showing all the “weakness of their sex”. I know your queen, she suffers much the same: men cannot see that “love” and “virgin” go together. So should she show a smile, or give a kiss, they’ll make a woman whore.
‘Oh, love, I know at heart you did not think it so, for if you did you’d never be here. But throw aside what others think (not just in this besides); their thoughts pollute your head. Your heart, my dear, should always rule. Your heart is what I want.’
‘My heart is yours, sweet girl,’ he told her then, although he looked a-wildered. ‘And if in heart, or head, or any other way, I’ve sinned against your love, I beg you now, forgive me.’
‘Dear knight,’ she sighed, ‘you never did, and if you had, I would. But, love, this thought: that women, they deserve far better on the Earth below, I wish you’d take back to your world. For if there is a teaching of the Moon, that is not learned and mayhap never will be, I tell you it is this.
‘And now look where we are!’
A giant window, all of glass, he found himself before. He looked out on an empty place, with stony mountains rising in the distance. All sun-dewed gold they soared up high, beneath a dark and starry sky; and climbing upward to the zenith, a globe of blue and brown. Mercator never made the like, although he tried his best. Europe then and Africk too he saw, and when he squinted up his eyes, Eliza’s lovely land.
‘’S’teeth!’ he gasped, and grabbed her shoulder, reeling at a world all upside down.
‘Sweetheart, are you well?’ she asked, a-sudden. ‘I meant you no alarm. A small surprise, and nothing more, intended to amuse you!’
‘If this is small surprise,’ he laughed, a little thin, ‘then I’ll forego a big one!’
‘Come this way,’ she led him from the window, and through another door.
A long and lavish gallery stretched out far before him then, all windowed down one side. He could not help himself: he looked, and saw the Moon up in the sky. She hugged him all apologetic, sat him down upon a couch, sat herself upon his knee, and kissed him oh-so-tenderly. She was too sweet to faint beneath, so breathing deep, he upped and played the man.
Opposite the windows, all the wall was covered quite with paintings; spaced along the floor were sculptures.
And every one, in oil or stone, they all portrayed Diana, sometime naked, sometime clad; sometime queen or charming child. Here Diana, there Selene; three-form Hecate, magic, stern and mild. Sky-girl, huntress, night-lamp, priestess, all of these she was and more; and all her stories they were there besides. Here was Actæon, bold Orion, sad Niobe too; Endymion sleeping, horn-god Pan with thrusting yard; bed of Zeus and both their daughters, Erse dewy and Pandia all agleam; dark of Moon with Helios and nine months later, all the lovely Seasons.
She led him all along the gallery, showed him every one and told its story; and every time she did, he hugged her with a kiss. So they passed an hour or more, and all the time was sweet.
They wandered on, all hand-in-hand like lovers. Sometimes she led him up the stairs, and so into a basement; or otherwise they downstairs went, and climbed up to a tower. An inner gate, it led out to the gardens; and going out beyond, they found them back inside. A-mazed, he thought him, truly, then.
