by S. T. Joshi
Stealthily, you advanced toward the cottage and stepped onto the rough, mossy rock that served as doorstep. You looked, for one moment, as if you would not enter in; but then the perfume of the inner air wafted to you, caught you, entranced you. You crossed into the low-ceiled chamber that was illuminated by numerous candles, the scented wax of which helped to perfume the place. Your sense of wonder ignited and succumbed to the sovereign influence of Sesqua Valley. You then noticed the figure who sat, unmoving, in one dusky corner of the room, like some figure from a book of fairy tales. The shadows of the place at which she sat seemed almost to weave into the texture of her black skin, and when she began at last to move and work her spinning wheel you saw that she was unclothed from the waist upward. You listened to the faint sound of her moving wheel and tried to comprehend the garment on which she worked. I could almost hear your heartbeat quicken when she rose off her stool and floated to where you stood.
“Will you help me into this?” she asked, as one breast brushed against your arm. You clasped the thing she held to you with fingertips, and marveled that a woven garment could feel so light as to seem almost nonexistent, as though it were spun of web and shadow. Something in its quality made you feel so wonderful that you wanted to press it against your face and wash it into you flesh; instead, you watched as the black woman, her back pressed against you, wound her hands into sleeves and then used those hands to lift her length of red hair, into which you buried your face. Wasn’t it fantastic, when you closed your eyes, that an optical illusion whirled before you, bright particles that might have been stars dancing in some heaving heaven? We could not help but chuckle at how you whimpered when Marceline moved out of your embrace. She turned to smile at you, and you admired the perfection of the breasts that remained uncovered. Rank human lust polluted the atmosphere as your teeth began to grind.
I raised my hand so that a glimmer of light flickered momentarily at one place, and your noise transmuted as your eyes fell upon an item that was on a nearby table. Moving like a dreamer, you approached the table and took up the purple volume. When you brought the book to your nostrils and drank its old aroma you almost purred. Your eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting of the room, and thus you were able to read when you opened the volume to a middle page.
You wheel above me in some haunted space
And plot to pull my eyes into your dance.
I feel your cosmic cyclone on my face.
I lose myself within some phantom trance
That would disintegrate my firm foothold
With which I am cemented to this sod,
And transport me unto that region told
Of in the tomes that speak of Elder God.
I see the Elder God within my mind,
That Beast that dances in-between the stars.
I’m drawn to secret path on which I find
The Revelation that mutates and mars.
It is a ruin into which I ride
In celebration of the bleak Outside.
A feminine voice quietly joined your speech as you breathed the poem, and you raised your eyes to glance at Marceline as you quoted the final lines. It perplexed you to see her mouth unmoving while still some lovely voice accompanied your own, and it came to you that this voice was more like memory than actual articulation.
I said, “You seem quite familiar with that sonnet.”
“Yes,” you answered, “my grandmother read it to me often. I asked her once about this thing, ‘the bleak Outside,’ and she would tell me the most outlandish things, in a voice that trembled as fever burned her eyes. I think that was when I knew I wanted to write poetry myself, although I’ve never had the nerve to show my stuff to anyone. I love poetry—it’s transporting.” You stopped and thought. “Transporting—that was a word I learned from Grandmother, when she whispered of the Outside. You’d think the description of it would arouse a sense of horror or fear, but I found it alluring, far more enticing than dull reality.” You then removed your jacket and hung it over a wooden chair. “Not much circulation in here, is there?” you said, smiling as you strolled to one small window, at which you frowned. Instead of windowpane you found what appeared to be a surface of highly polished obsidian. We watched as you raised one hand at the black surface, as you shuddered at the chilliness that your hand encountered there. Marceline moved to you and placed her hand over your own. She guided your hand to the window, and through it, and laughed at your yelps as you touched the bleak Outside. She reached through the window with her other hand and then pulled out, in your conjoined hold, an ebony substance that simulated the texture of Marceline’s skin of jet.
“Let me take that, Ezra, and place it in my lap as I ready my wheel. Yes, the instrument is antique. We like olden things here, and drink their aura of past eras. You are a soul who cherishes the olden realms, we know. Let us clothe you, now, so as to enter the eldest of all realms.”
“You have been nourished,” I spoke, “by the spell of wonderment that spills from the spoken poetry of a child of Sesqua Valley. That magick has rooted in your soul, and thus you sought and found us. We understand how delicious it is to be kissed by the Outside, and how provocatively that passion plays within mortal blood and pumps audacity into the human heart. Oh, the longing—the dark elements that bloom in solitude and form a perfect approval of what to those who lack imagination is hideous.” I moved to you as I spoke and wound my talons in your hair. I breathed upon your eyes as I began to undress you. Nude, you watched the witch rise from her wheel and hold to you the newly fashioned robe as I backed into a shadowed place and brought forth my flute. You seemed to understand Marceline’s twinship with the cosmic void and with them that howl within it, and you tilted back your head to wail as she draped her fabric around you. As you bayed, you reached with one trembling hand for the book of Manly’s poetry, which you pressed to your heaving chest. Bringing the reed to my mouth, I filled the room with enchantment. Bending to you, Marceline kissed your mouth, and then she guided your lips to her perfect breasts, which you worshipped with your tongue. And as your mouth tasted her sorcerous essence, your ears reverberated with the woman’s impious laughter. Your eyes became lost in the black texture of her necromantic hide, that husk of darkness in which she kneaded you, until you felt like some lunatic god, passing through an element of nightmare wherein you stalked among the stars, the book of unholy poesy in your eternal hand.
The Reeds
Gary Fry
“I’m going to take a walk around the area, to see if there’s anything I fancy painting.” David paused, swallowed awkwardly, and then asked, “Do you fancy coming with me, Helen?”
His wife didn’t look up from her work on the kitchen table. “I’ve got this page to finish,” she replied, her voice no less strained than it had been back in the city.
“But your deadline isn’t for a few days, is it? I thought a bit of fresh air might do you . . . well, I mean, might do us both good.”
“I’m fine,” Helen added, the emphasis on the second word implying anything but.
David sighed inwardly, examining his wife stooped over yet another translation project. He’d hoped moving to the countryside might result in a reduction in her freelance workload, but here she was, two weeks on, still pulling in commissions. She was in demand, of course—fluent in three foreign languages—but that wasn’t the point. After his early retirement package, they no longer needed the money. But Helen definitely needed to relax.
It was still early days, of course. Their dream move to this cottage would surely serve them well in the future. David retreated from the kitchen and headed for the front door. He let himself out and then breathed in crisp autumn air. He looked around, listening. There were no yobs in the streets, no surveillance helicopters buzzing overhead, no distance sounds of police cars or ambulances rushing to scenes of human distress . . . There was just blissful silence.
Well, that wasn’t quite true,
David thought as he commenced walking down the garden path, into the quiet lane, and then along a fringe of woodland. Listening carefully, he heard many sounds: birds twittering at a distance; the gentle whistle of a breeze; animals at furtive work in the undergrowth. The smell here, too, was very different from what he was used to. No longer the stench of burned petrol or frying fat from convenience diners. Now he could detect only a lively scent of moist tree bark as well as the heady aroma of rich vegetation. The sky when he looked up was a clear fragile blue, with not a hint of city smog or dissipating exhaust fumes. After reaching a farmer’s gate, he clambered over its stile and then found himself within audible range of gurgling water. He headed that way at once, swinging his arms with unfettered joy.
He’d earned all this, of course, and shouldn’t feel guilty, despite still carrying a working-class chip on his shoulder. Three decades in teaching, trying to persuade unruly youths of the virtues of social science, surely granted anyone pardon from whatever cosmic forces ruled the universe. Smiling, David glanced up at a mist-ensnared sun. Despite his wife’s recent breakdown and resignation from her own teaching post, life wasn’t too bad. And Helen would soon get over it; this place had power to heal, he was convinced of it.
He’d reached a narrow stream whose banks were muddy slopes boasting no plant life. Indeed, the whole area—extremely flat and shielded from prying eyes by the surrounding woodland— was characterised by an uneven ratio of mud to vegetation . . . with the notable exception of a circular patch of head-high reeds, to which David started walking. He guessed that he was now about five hundred yards from his new home and that he’d be able to reach this area more quickly from his back garden. But he’d figure all that out later. Right now, he was too intrigued by the patch of reeds
It was about twenty yards in diameter, to judge from this perspective. The many thousand strands of grass were taller than he was, at a modest five foot nine. They waved back and forth with stately indifference, caught in a soundless breeze. Insects too small to identify busily flitted the stalks, as if relying on their seeds for sustenance. After David paced forward, hesitating several yards from the reeds, he stooped to examine shadows clustered among their lower halves. He thought he could see about three yards inside the mass, where darkness grew legion and concealed the place’s secrets. But what secrets could such a humdrum place have? Then he spotted several dead shrews curled up on the earth, but that was far from unusual. The soil around them appeared muddy and moist, perhaps residual seepage from the nearby stream. There was a sharp scent of sulphurous soil. But again, there was nothing strange about this. The whole thing was simply a patch of untended grass growing out in the wild.
But why did David feel uncomfortable in its presence?
Pacing backwards to get a better look, he recalled a concept from a school lecture, about the way humans attempted to get “maximum perceptual grip” on the world. They adjusted their bodies until sights, sounds, and smells around them could be satisfactorily assimilated. This had always worked for David, even when his wife had been driven to desperation by thugs in her classes. He’d recently taken to standing apart from Helen, not threatening her with familiar intimacy. Thirty years of marriage had resulted in a number of habits, and physical contact was one, particularly after discovering, in their early twenties, that they were unable to have children. But when Helen had suffered a nervous collapse, she hadn’t wanted him near her. He’d sensed this rather than having to be told it. Intuition had left him mindful of her difficulties. He’d been unable to recognize her lately, but surely that was only until she pulled herself together, adjusting to shattered beliefs she’d held for most of her life.
The reeds swayed back and forth, continuing to resist David’s anxious gaze.
Then a cloud covered the sun and the world grew dark.
The problem was that Helen was physically incapable of bearing children.
They’d discovered this early in marriage, after a few years spent trying to conceive. Medical tests had proved conclusive, and although Helen had taken it badly—she came from a close family and loved children—unbreakable youth had sustained her career as a schoolteacher.
Later in life, they’d considered adoption and even fostering, but mutual commitment to their jobs had preoccupied them, and the years had passed quickly. Working daily with children had served as an acceptable alternative, offering enough intimate contact to satisfy their parental needs.
But then school life had grown far worse.
After starting work in the 1970s, David and Helen could recall days when youngsters had had respect for authority and had been eager to learn. Working in inner-city schools had eliminated any idealistic expectations concerning pupils— most had come from poor backgrounds and struggled to study—but at least they’d tried and had been grateful to people who’d helped them. But more recently, children had developed a disdain for education and a genuine dislike for teachers. The profession simply hadn’t been the same.
David, more robust than his wife following a less than cosy upbringing, had tolerated daily classroom battles. But Helen, barren in middle age, had been pushed too far. A girl in her German class had slapped her across the face, and despite claiming to have coped after this episode, a few weeks later David had found his wife crying at home, sitting on the floor in the corner of their kitchen.
With no offspring to support, there’d always been plenty of money to invest and when David, at fifty-five, had decided last year to take early retirement, Helen—three years his junior— had reluctantly agreed to do the same. Their move, from urban sprawl to rural splendour, had occurred soon after, and surely now only pleasure would follow. The nearby village apparently had a number of children-based voluntary groups to get involved with, and David had attracted his wife to the area by alluding to these. What on earth could go wrong?
That night, after David’s curious experience near the reeds, Helen nearly forgot to take her sleeping pill. She’d been prescribed medication several months ago, but this made her so woozy that David had to ensure she took it when she was supposed to.
He stepped into the bedroom with a glass of water and found his wife half-asleep with a lamp on beside her. She looked strained under the shade’s arc, her face lined with turmoil. This wasn’t just a recent phenomenon, David realised; it had been building over years, a culmination of the devastating news they’d failed to address as callow youngsters, little more than children themselves.
David roused his wife, trying not to let her hands touch her breasts under the thick material of her nightwear. When she grumbled an incoherent response—for a mistress of so many languages, these phrases were surprising gibberish: “Fhtagn . . . Yog . . . Sothoth . . .”—he pushed the pill between her lips and then made her to wash it down with water.
Reassured that she’d now sleep—she’d lately developed a habit of sleepwalking, a revival of a childhood tendency— David crept across the room to shut the curtains against a preternaturally quiet evening.
He could see the patch of reeds from here, bathed in silvery moonlight. Well, how about that, he thought in a not entirely comfortable way.
The following day, while Helen finished her latest translation project, David gathered together his painting gear and returned to the stream he’d located yesterday.
He’d always had a creative streak but had had little time to develop this while teaching psychology, sociology, and philosophy. He was nonetheless keenly aware of debates about the limitations of science and how art could illuminate things empirical investigation struggled to quantify. He was a great reader of novels and listened to much classical music— Bruckner, Mahler, Strauss: the cosmic masters—but he’d chosen to pursue painting. He was very much an amateur, but eager to practice now that he had time to do so.
After reaching the stream—no, he should be honest and admit that it was the patch of reeds he’d come to paint—he set his gear on a muddy
plateau: stool, easel, and flask. Then he sat and mixed a palette of paint—greens, browns, and blues— and started sketching the phenomenon ahead.
He’d arrived today a different way, cutting through his back garden and across a field to this one. It was milder this morning than yesterday, with less damp in the cool air. Nevertheless, a breeze continued to sweep across the area, causing the reeds to writhe with ruffling haste. Shadows stirred among the multiple stalks, like too-thin creatures, eyeless and vague. Once David got down the outline of the thing, he started filling in with broad brushstrokes, attempting to capture its solidity without losing its aliveness.
Meanwhile, he reflected on his wife back at home. The truth was that her failure to engage in these early dalliances in their new community troubled him. They hadn’t made love in months, either, mainly because she’d been heavily sedated or irritably standoffish. At such times, he felt unable to do anything right, and she certainly held few reservations about reminding him of that. The present distance between them was saddening.
He glanced up at the reeds, comparing what he’d captured on canvas with the real image. It was a bad fit, the thereness of the thing evading his repeated attempts to elucidate it. The way the breeze rifled through its shimmering strands made David feel almost queasy and hardly lent him confidence about his burgeoning artistic abilities. The more he looked at the reeds, the less he felt able to paint anything at all. The grass appeared to dance beyond the grasp of his bewildered mind. He thought of a phrase he’d recalled yesterday—”maximum perceptual grip”—and realised that, with the possible exception of Helen’s recent behaviour, he’d rarely felt less in control of anything.
David had had a similar experience with Magic Eye books back in the 1990s. These had served as a useful way of teaching children how the brain made sense of the world. But he’d never been good at seeing the images hidden amid so many dots; he was too reflexively aware, and understood that people like him struggled to free up their psyches for such tasks. Whenever he’d managed the trick, however, he’d been conscious of how a chaotic realm could snap into focus, revealing meaning where previously there’d been nonsense . . . and a troubling nonsense at that.
