by Steve Moore
‘Besides,’ he smiled, ‘I know you would not linger here. They say it’s fairy-haunted.’
‘Then let’s be gone!’ exclaimed Bart Greene, his voice too loud, his eyes all looking out their corners.
‘Aye, perhaps, we should,’ Lee told him then, and looked down for to find what rubbed him in his doublet. ‘But tell me, Bart, did you ever once, at night, dream dreams you thought so real, you had to think them true? And wake up all amazed, to find it was not so?’
‘I never did, my lord! Though once I dreamt of finding pots of money that…’
‘No more!’ commanded Lee, his voice all shaken, for now he knew just what his hand had found inside his doublet. And knowing that, he could not talk of money, far too base compared to dream. ‘Another word before we get to Greenwich, and Bartho’ Greene, I’ll thrash you for your life. Now ride ahead. I’ll catch you ’fore the crossroads.’
His harshness on the moment caused regret, and yet he had to be alone. He drew his hand out from his doublet, looked down upon a jet-black raven’s feather; remembered how she’d told him ‘keepsake’, remembered how he’d called it ‘treasure’.
He looked up then to woody Shooters Hill, he saw the lovely Moon arising.
And all his world dissolved in tears.
Monday, 22nd October 1803
Dear Gods and Goddesses of the world beneath the Moon, and all those more above, please help me get this down. I have to write this while I have the chance, and while I can remember.
I have not slept since yesterday afternoon.
As soon as I had finished, I read my final pages to dear Cynthia. She sat upon my knee to hear them; I thought this was so sweet. A charming kiss was my reward when at the last I stopped; by way of celebration, we transformed supper to a feast.
Although I thought I knew already, I had to ask her if she liked my work. She laughed and ruffled up my hair.
I kissed her.
I did not have to mention after that just how I wanted to spend the evening; dear Cynthia started preparing lanterns quite spontaneous. Yet before we descended to the cellar, Flora lined up all her darling maidens, so I could gently hug and kiss them, before we went down to the dark. Flora I embraced last of all, then Cynthia as well, because I could, and just because I wanted to. Even so, this kissing quite confused me.
So arm in arm and hand in hand, then down the stairs we went, my Cynthia and I, and through that ancient door.
I have to hurry on; I’m not quite sure how much longer I can write.
The white marble sculpture now showed Diana in her chariot, whipping up her horses; the curtain wall was fully built, and when we reached the sunken garden, there, below a glowing Moon, we found it full of pure white lilies.
But Somnium itself…
It stood there bright in all its old perfection, quite restored; and oh, it looked so wondrous. And more than this, it was a palace full of lights. Each window shone, and all around the walls were flaring torches set in sconces. Upon the roofs were flags and banners, all whipcracked in a wind that simply was not there. And everything else, it glowed so fine by Moonlight.
We went inside, and then I was so puzzled; for there, somehow arrived ahead of us, were Flora, Violet, Iris and the rest (dear Daisy too, she is a sweet young thing). Hardly dressed at all in gauzy robes, they curtseyed oh so charmingly and called dear Cynthia ‘Mistress’; to me they smiled and kept their eyes downcast, I could not understand quite why.
‘Sweet girls, I love you all,’ I said, and then they looked up all huge-eyed and all a-radiant. And as for Cynthia, I took her in my arms and kissed her; and all her maidens then they gently did applaud.
They brought us, too, great goblets of the finest wine. I cannot quite describe it. If, compared to plain and everyday sack, I’d never tasted strong Falernian; then this was just as much again, for this, I knew, was Moon-wine. A glass, and all my soul it was transported up to heaven. Dear Cynthia hugged me tight and held me up; several days passed by, it seemed to me, before my dizziness did subside. And when it did, I looked on darling Cynthia nude, and oh her eyes, they glowed.
We roamed about then at our leisure, and Somnium palace is a marvel. She took me to the library; it was quite as I had thought it: a place bewondering and bewildering.
For all those books I’d mentioned in my Somnium were there: all of them, the ones quite real, the ones that might have been, once upon a time, the ones I knew I had made up completely. Even Perkyn of old Hampton’s, which I’d added for a joke. Dear Cynthia grinned to see me so confused.
And more than this, she took me to a special shelf, and gave me such a kiss before she’d let me look.
And there, already bound and printed, was my Somnium. My journal too, the very one in which I’m writing now, that was there besides.
But there was more.
Another three books of Moon-romance were there upon the shelf as well, all gold-stamped with my name as author: A String of Lustrous Moon-Pearls, Sweet Sister Selena of the Star-Decked Night and High Diana’s Majesty. And next to these, another dozen journals. And Miscellanea of the Moon.
I tried to pick them up (for how I longed to read them) but found I simply could not. Cynthia explained it was because they were not written yet, existing only now as thoughts that might well come to be.
And as I stood there all a-wonder, my eye slid upward to the shelf above, and saw there five thick tomes that bore the name of old Sir Endimion Lee (who I thought I had created); and one of them, of course, it was called Somnium. Then glancing down I saw another Somnium too, and knew its author was that stranger of the future, ‘S’. It begged me quite to read it; and yet somehow I thought I knew its every word already.
I wished so much to linger, for every book around me was a miracle-text and treasure-scripture of the lunar heaven, and all I wanted then was just to sit and kiss dear Cynthia as she read them out to me.
She would not let me stay. Told me all these books could only be read by those who actually lived there, but hoped I’d read them soon.
I did not know quite what she meant. Some part of me it knew I walked in quite impossible worlds; another part thought simply that I dreamed; another said quite plain that I was drunk. Or worse than that, quite mad.
And some part (though I know not whether it was large or small), said all I saw and heard and felt was real.
I stood there all confused. Sweet Cynthia squeezed my hand, and smiled, and led me on.
She led me upward to a soaring tower that made young Severndroog seem midget. I looked down then on all the Somnium I had wrought, its buildings, its sculptures, its gardens and its jewels, and saw them all by glorious Moonlight; and more, I knew the darling woman in my arms, although she called herself mere Cynthia, was dear Diana Regina too. And more, she was my Goddess.
We arrived then at Diana/Cynthia’s bedchamber, exactly as I’d written that too, with all its huge round bed. And there were Flora and her darling girls as well, all naked too and all the sweeter for it. I’ve never seen so many lovely smiles.
I wanted then, of course, to take dear Cynthia straight to bed, and if her charming nymphs they wished to stay and watch, or better yet to join us, then I would be delighted.
So Cynthia Brown-eyes cried out ‘Moon mischief!’ with a laugh, and all those lovely girls they tickled me. I could not quite believe the way my own invention had come back then to haunt me; but, oh, their little fingers. If there was mischief in that room, it all was with the maidens; and how they were so naughty. All those tickles that I’d hardly dared administer them, they had no compunction now at all in giving back to me.
At last I realised they’d had my clothes off. Then tiny-fingered Cynthia tickled me while all the others held me helpless.
At last I cried surrender; another minute and I knew my heart would fail. It seemed the darling woman had played with me for hours.
She laughed and kissed me then, and called me hero; I was not quite certain why.
They let m
e dress again before we left the chamber, indeed, they tried to help me; themselves they did not bother.
And so we went downstairs, and slipped out of a back-door at the farthest corner of the palace.
Then Cynthia led me through a rearward garden I’d never thought was there; took me to the palace wall and out a hidden sally-port.
I knew where she was taking me. I did not know quite why. And more, to start, I did not even recognise it.
By day and normal sight, I know it all turfed over; by Moonlight how it sparkled white, all covered up with chalk-chips, mingled up with marble.
Yet there was more now covering up the burial mound besides, for carved memorial slabs lay on its flanks. They were arranged in order.
The latest one read ‘Sir Endimion Lee, beloved of the Moon. Taken up above the world and kissed for ever more, 1603.’
And there were others there before.
Guillaume of Eltham. Ælfred of Woolwyche. Lucius Albinus, Londiniensis. Odumnus the Trinovante. Others yet before I just cannot quite remember.
Yet there was space for more to follow. Two slabs were there already, quite uncarved. I thought I knew the names that would appear on both.
Somnium’s guardians, all of them; and watchers of the Moon-hill too. Lovers of the Moon, and just as much beloved.
The message was quite plain. Lay down the short and brutal earthly life; rise up to everlasting lunar bliss.
I have to hurry on. There is so little time to write.
As we returned through Somnium’s grounds, dear Cynthia said I had to make a choice; and oh it was a hard one.
For she and all her lovely girls were going back at last to Somnium; and Somnium, again, was returning to the Moon. She wished I would go with them. For there, at last, she’d take me in her arms, her bed as well, and rather more than kiss me. And all her lovely nymphkins, they would love me too.
But going, I would leave the world behind.
And worse, in going I would forsake my Liz.
She did not try persuasion.
We came back up the cellar stairs and found The Bull all closed and dusty. No maidens had come back with us; no drinkers sported in the taproom; and all the doors were locked.
I cannot quite say how, but I rather do suspect it has been closed since Jude Brown’s execution. But what this means, I simply cannot say.
I’m going with her, of course. Whatever that may cost, I know I have to. The 19th century world to me is as empty as The Bull.
The dawn will be here soon. We cannot stay.
There is a heartbreak pain in this, of course. I mean, my dearest Liz.
But do I have a sister? She has not written; I cannot find her letters. Indeed, I cannot find anything at all now that I am sure I had before I did arrive here.
And yet, in case she is, I’ve written her a letter, to leave here when I’m gone. Indeed, I have to leave it here, for somehow now I find I cannot quite remember even my own address (was it 7, or was it 9?). This journal and my manuscript I’ll leave as well; I know they are already there in Somnium, and Cynthia tells me every single thing it must be left behind.
Whether anyone will ever find them, I simply do not know. I am not even sure if they exist at all.
And as for me, I can no longer tell. Perhaps I’m real, or written by another. Perhaps in writing me, he made me real, if only for a short time. Or perhaps I’ve written him, when he was writing me. I really do not know. Or mayhap he and I, and all the other authors and characters we between us created, all are one somehow: one author, one story; one hero, one Goddess. Endymion and Selene.
Dear Cynthia is smiling at my door, and oh she looks so lovely. I have to put my trust in her, because she is far more than Cynthia. I know she is Diana Regina; and sweet Diana too.
And more, she is Selene, all haloed up with Moonlight.
Primal Goddess; dearest love; perfection of delicious dreams.
I know not what it means to leave, except renunciation. Perhaps I’ll die and leave this empty shell behind; or simply turn to Moonlight.
Oh, she glows and beckons.
I know I have to go all naked; but she is naked too, and so we are together in all things. She says I cannot take anything of the earthly.
And now she calls so urgent; I fear I will be left behind.
Dear Liz, if ever you existed in a real world at all, I cannot say how sad I am to leave you. And if you’re not, or if you are, dear Cynthia says that I will find you there with me somehow in Somnium; for all my lady-loves will be as one. In that I find my comfort. And yet, my Liz…
I have to go.
I wish that I could take dear Lizzie with me.
Sweet Liz, of all the women here below the Moon, you always meant the most to me, because you are my sister; and more than that, my love. I wish you so much love and happiness.
And if they tell you I am dead, then, darling, do not weep.
For I am gone to heaven in the Moon.
And now farewell.
Oh, Liz, this is so hard.
My sweetest Liz, I loved you.
Afterword: An Architecture of Dreams
A few years ago, Hackney hierophant Iain Sinclair was soliciting contributions for his forthcoming anthology LONDON: City of Disappearances, a collection themed around people, places or things that had disappeared, were disappearing or would disappear somewhere in London. In response I wrote a thick slab of rich, high-cholesterol prose titled Unearthing, an unusual excavation of my oldest, best and strangest friend, Steve Moore. While the South London occultist, author and oriental scholar was not, strictly speaking, disappearing at a more alarming rate than anybody else, he had always seemed to me to be deliberately liminal and ghostly in relation to the solid and shin-bruising world around him. Also, it occurred to me that when his vanishing inevitably happened then a unique, perhaps enormously important, human narrative might go unrecorded and unnoticed in a kind of double-dip deletion. Motivated thus, I set to work upon anatomising my consenting subject with his full co-operation, a dissection carried out without the use of anæsthetic. The resultant work has since become a lavish boxed-set audio recording and equally splendid visual narrative in collaboration with the photographer Mitch Jenkins. It’s been performed live in the massive subterranean catacombs beneath Waterloo Station, where the work’s real-life protagonist was in attendance as the intimate and sometimes painful details of his mortal journey were paraded before an enthusiastic audience of spectators, and the Moon alone knows where this constantly-expanding multi-media endeavour will end up, as musical, computer game or action movie.
Given this bewildering tide of exposure, I have no wish to reprise the biographic details of Unearthing here, save for those related to the pivotal point in the narrative where the emotionally deranged main character decides to write a novel that encapsulates his yearnings, his environment, his dreams and sense of loss; a grand old-school romantic fantasy that he decides will be called Somnium.
Dreams and fantasy have been, in retrospect, a major and defining element in my relationship with Steve since its inception, back in the formative days of the British comics and science fiction scenes. There was the fantastic nature of the comic books and the American science fiction paperbacks we both admired, wherein extraordinary dream-like visions were expressed with satisfying frequency. Indeed, many of our early pulp S.F. and comic idols later turned out to have channelled their ideas through Greenwich Village reefers, or from the material provided by their dreams. For instance, there was Steve’s great pulp role-model Gardner Fox, a prolific writer in a dozen or more genres with as many pseudonyms who penned the interplanetary romance Adam Strange in D.C./National Comics Mystery in Space, and who claimed to receive inspiration for his comic book work from another world, transmitted to him in his dreams. Whether Fox himself believed this to be true or whether it was just a brightly coloured and imaginative piece of wrapping paper meant to entertain his readers, it’s an indication of the way that the oneiric appeared t
o pervade the 1960s pop-cultural landscape that surrounded Somnium’s eventual author back then, in both his and contemporary society’s eventful, pyrotechnic and immensely influential adolescence.
When that adolescence took a psychedelic shift during the decade’s later years and through the 1970s, the dreaminess of things became, if anything, more noticeable and pronounced. There were the borderline realities that typified Steve’s early work with the then-fledgling Fortean Times, and the occasionally mystic or phantasmagoric drifts of our cannabinated conversation. Hours would be spent poring over whatever hallucinatory comic strip visuals one of us, usually Steve, had just discovered, whether that be the glittering stippled drift of Dave Sheridan’s Dealer McDope or the stupefying vistas of former architect Winsor McCay’s turn-of-the-20th-century newspaper strip masterpiece, Little Nemo in Slumberland. Dreams were very much on the agenda, and I can remember asking if he’d ever been afflicted by a powerful rushing in the ears when on the edge of sleep, something which I’d experienced intermittently since childhood, only to receive a very detailed and firsthand account of the phenomenon and its relationship to lucid dreaming, the first time I’d heard or understood that term. It was around this time that I began to realise that the waking part of Steve Moore’s life, the part I knew, was just the iceberg’s tip. There was another life entirely going on below the waterline. It would be some few years before he first began to diligently and methodically record his eerie night-adventures, all his lurid astral slapstick, but the blueprint for his later Twilight Zone persona was already firmly tacked in place.
Through the 1980s and the 1990s, reading through Steve’s last few weeks of dreams became almost a ritual part of my ongoing weekend visits to his family home on top of Shooters Hill, the neighbourhood itself a curiously sedate and dreamlike realm above the supine spread of London that I had become increasingly familiar with since my first stopover at age 14. Technically, I suppose this could be seen as evidence of occult grooming, but having for some decades had far too much hashish in my system to permit more than fragmentary recall of my own dreams, the opportunity to keep up a vicarious relationship with someone else’s midnight idylls, mysteries and nightmares proved both irresistible and rapidly addictive. In the same way that repeated reading of an author’s work acquaints one with the quirks and subtle ticks of his or her authorial style, the reading of somebody’s dream-life over a protracted period of time makes one familiar with the idiosyncrasies of their unconscious mind, the region of their creativity which they cannot control.
