“You are looking rather rumpled, sir.”
“Yep, fell asleep without undressing. Are they off to the ceremonies?” He waved a hand at the passing folk.
“They are indeed. May I escort you, Mr. Kaplan?”
They moved off the porch as Simon and Cyrus were coming along the roadway with pipes at their mouths. Both children of the valley were shirtless, and Stanley noticed the embossed diagrams of scarred tissue on their chests. He turned to look enquiringly at his partner. Leonidas smiled and held up one hand, on the back of which a sigil had been etched.
They walked as sunset turned purple and darkened as twilight, not stopping until they came upon a large meadow and the tall black stone pillar that stood there. Others were playing a variety of musical instruments and dancing in the gathering darkness. Many had completely discarded their clothing, exposing the emblems etched onto their flesh to starlight. Nodding his head to the music, Stanley took the deck of cards from its pocket and then removed both jacket and shirt. Night’s wind kissed his naked flesh and slipped into his mouth, where it mingled with his moaning. A number of people encircled him, some of whom reached out to touch his shoulder as wonder flashed within their eyes. A number of those eyes were of silver hue. He looked down at his shoulder and was amazed to see that the etched emblem was glowing as if composed of yellow illumination.
Stanley felt an enchantment on his tongue as he studied the combined sigils on those who gathered round him. He began to speak loudly as he deciphered the combined signs, which formed an arcane language. All music stopped, and Simon was suddenly before him, wonder and amazement flashing in his unholy eyes.
“Speak it again! Great Yuggoth, we have never heard it so announced! Shout it, to the stars and beyond them!”
The outsider caught their fever. He shouted the alien tongue and then joined the screaming of ecstasy as the golden archway appeared before them, the arc of fire on which glowing emblems had been embossed. Stalking to the amazing threshold, Stanley unwrapped the Yellow Deck and held up the cards. One by one the cards flew from his hand and positioned themselves within the glittering archway, until one card only was left in Stanley’s hand, unturned. The mortal world transformed around him and became unreal. He felt his flesh alter as well, until he was not the thing he had been. The archway alone seemed valid and substantial, and he smiled as he crossed its threshold, as the unturned card he held burst into flame, as did his frame of flesh.
The children of Sesqua Valley watched and howled, as Stanley began to resemble a spool of melting celluloid. Yet still he mouthed the arcane language, that immortal and outrageous idiom, until the archway flickered and faded and took him from their view.
An Ecstasy of Fear
I
Sarah Paget-Lowe stepped off the train and into fog, a miasma so thick she could not see the majority of the small train depot. She stood and shivered in the chilly air, and then looked up at the sound of beating wings. A hazy shadow drifted over her, the outline of some large winged thing. Looking at the copy of Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market that she held, and that she had read during portions of her long journey, she smiled bemusedly. The thin book had dark green boards and its text was illustrated with color reproductions of artwork by the author’s elder brother, Dante. Had her choice of the book been a kind of presage, indicating what she could expect in this unfamiliar setting? Two figures approached her from different directions, and she waved a hand to the porter who carried her bags. Then she turned and named the young poet, Akiva Loveman, as he floated to her through the mist.
“I apologize for the fog—it’s quite unwarranted; usually our weather is fair and fine. Are these your bags?”
Sarah answered in the affirmative as the train pulled away and disappeared into the brumous cloud that had settled over the valley. She then followed her friend onto a dirt road and to the place where his car was parked. Her mouth curved at the sight of that vehicle. “This is yours, this beautiful relic?”
“Yes. It’s a 1928 Model A Ford Sedan. A local fellow sold it to me after I first moved to Sesqua Town. It runs perfectly well. I had new upholstery put in, but otherwise it’s mostly original.”
She watched as he placed her luggage into the back seat of the car. Then he slammed shut the door, turned to face her and held out his hands. “Welcome to Sesqua Valley. I imagine you’re exhausted.”
“I’ve never traveled so far by rail. It was a long journey, and I am a little tired.”
Escorting her to the passenger side of the car, he opened the door and stepped aside as she bent to enter the vehicle. “I have some nice stew and home-made bread awaiting you, and then you can have a quick bath and sleep as long as you like.”
Sarah moaned in pleasure and sank into the soft leather of her seat, trying to fight the temptation to shut her eyes during the brief trip from the depot to Akiva’s small house, into which she followed him as he carried her baggage from the car. She laughed, dismayed, as she scanned the cluttered living room in which they stood. “I thought gay men were neat and tidy by instinct. Good lord, Akiva, this place is chaotic! And what on earth is that?”
Akiva followed the direction of his guest’s stare. “Ah.” He walked to the statue and knelt to the altar he had built before it. She watched as two squat black candles were lit, and then the poet ignited a stick of incense. He did not rise as he spoke to Sarah. “Do you know the work of Bernard Buffet? He was a French painter linked to Expressionism, and illustrated editions of Cocteau’s La Voix Humaine and Lautréamont’s Les Chants de Maldoror. There’s a rather wonderful print he did of Dante, and when I first saw this statue I thought perhaps it was an effigy of the poet in the Buffet tradition, mistaking the spikes atop the dome for an exaggerated laurel wreath. Since then I’ve discovered a rumored legend of a dark god of chaos, who is said to wear a triple crown. Little is known of this supernatural being, although its myths are multitudinous, and its aspects are so varied that it has been said to be a kind of shape-shifter. Artists have often depicted it as a haughty Pharaoh of elder Egypt.”
Slowly, he rose to his feet and turned to smile at Sarah. “And you now think this is a representation of that deity?”
Lightly, the poet laughed. “I call it the Nameless Eikon. I burn incense and speak poetry in its honor. But I do not know his name.”
“‘His’? The attire, as it has been sculpted, seems genderless.”
“Men in ancient Egypt sometimes wore long clothing far more elaborate than what women wore. I usually address him as male because the chap I purchased him from did so as well, and he seemed to be an authority on the figure. Well, he hinted of the myths that whisper the legend of the thing. And isn’t there something about statues that have their palms facing forward, as this one does? I think I read that somewhere. That strikes me as a compelling gesture, for some reason—as if the thing is waiting for us to kneel before it and kiss the hand that is held aloft. I found it in a local antique shop and purchased it for a goodly sum. It gives the room such a splendid atmosphere, I find.”
“I hope you’re not being reckless with your inheritance.”
“No—no; not that two million is a lot these days. And since finding this hidden spot, my wants are inexpensive. I spend most of my fortune on rare first editions. I do a lot of traveling to bookshops around the country. It’s an extremely pleasant existence.”
She began to move about the room, walking to a tall oak bookcase that did indeed seem crammed with rare old books. “I’d get lonely for the city.”
“You wouldn’t if you lived here. It’s a fascinating little town. I’m so glad you accepted my invitation.” He walked to where he had set down her luggage and picked up her bags again. “Come on, I’ll show you your room. I almost never sleep in there. I’ve turned the smaller bedroom into a kind of office and library area, and I spend so much of my time there that I’ve installed a little cot.”
Sarah followed Akiva into a spacious bedroom. She admired the beautiful antique f
urniture that gave the lie to his statement about spending his fortune mostly on rare books. “This is delightful, it has a fine feminine air about it. You have a woman’s way, my dear.” He grimaced at her, although she ascertained that he was, in part, pleased with her praise. Walking to the window, she gazed out of it and frowned. “The fog has yet to lift.”
“Have you any appetite? Come on, let’s have a bit of food and wine, and then you can bathe and retire. You look travel-worn.”
“I can eat a small portion, and a glass of wine would be lovely. I’ll bathe in the morning. That bed looks so damn comfortable that I want to sink into it now.”
They retired to the small kitchen and she allowed him to serve her a small bowl of stew and a plate of bread that was still warm from the oven, on which she spread delicious garlic butter. As they shared their repast, she studied the young man before her, and he smiled at her investigating eyes. “Do I meet with approval?”
“You’ve aged.” He frowned in response. “Rather, you’ve matured. You still resemble a very young Rudolph Valentino, albeit with larger ears. Your sleek black hair quite shines, and your profile has never seemed so handsome. I think it’s your eyes that have changed—they’ve lost their juvenile frivolity. They’ve darkened with experience. This bread is delicious.”
He grinned at her change of topic as they sipped the last of their wine in silence, and then she rose from the table and returned to the living room, the aura of which caught her curiosity. Akiva followed her and seemed suddenly anxious. “Do you really find me so changed? Aren’t I as charming as I used to be?” She turned to him and saw a flicker of his former adolescence, his uncertainty and need to be liked. Walking around the room, she studied the various figurines, the objets d’art, the queer paintings on the walls.
“You’ve developed a taste for the macabre.”
He shrugged. “I’ve always had it. It’s become more acute since coming here.”
“You’ve been here half a year? How long do you plan to stay?”
“Indefinitely.”
“But what’s here that holds you?” He shrugged again, yet she thought his eyes were cautious, as if he knew secrets that he could not yet share with her. That was another new element in his personality, for he had been so garrulous with her in the past, sharing his ideas and passions and miseries without hesitation. Suddenly weary, she yawned; and then she went to him and kissed his brow before retiring to her room. It was in the bedroom that she sensed the lad Akiva used to be: here were the shelves crammed with Penguin Classics paperbacks, of which he had been so fond, and here the walls wore paintings that depicted scenes from Shakespeare and Dante and Milton. The atmosphere of the room seemed lighter than that of the living room, where his new and darker nature seemed to lurk. Stepping to a window, she looked out and saw nothing but thick mist. Not bothering to close its curtains, she walked away from the window and went to where her bags had been placed.
Sarah undressed and got into bed, resting her reading glasses on the bedside table next to its ornate antique lamp. Just as she was about to switch off the lamp, Akiva appeared at her door. Quietly, he entered the room and sat next to her on the bed. “This is my newest work,” he whispered, handing her a notebook. “It’s still very rough, but I thought it might interest you. No, don’t look them over now, you’re sleepy. Wait for the morning, when you’ll be rested and attentive.”
“My dear child, you cannot give me this and not expect me to glance at it before retiring. Now, go and close the door. I’m in need of silence and solitude.”
He took her hand and kissed it, and then he vacated the room. Reaching for her glasses, Sarah donned them and opened the notebook. Akiva’s admirable hand had written out the lines of poetry in violet ink, the same shade with which he penned his correspondence. Sarah glanced at the first two poems, which were his usual kind of sonnet, the form he liked best. They were admirable poems of praise that paid tribute to the beauty of Sesqua Valley, one of which sang of a twin-peaked mountain of white stone that seemed to stand as emblem of the region’s unique nature. She then turned the leaf and came upon the curious thing. She read it twice, her forehead furrowed.
“Out of the depths of dreaming came
The antique thing that called my name.
It shook me from my placid rest,
Commanding me to kiss its breast.
My mouth pressed to its marble hide.
New longing was not satisfied.
The pale thing called me brother, said,
‘I am the Dreaming and the Dead,
Fallen from distant vortices,
From whirling far-off galaxies,
Past dying suns and chilly stars.
I come to kiss thy psychic scars.’
Looking down I was perplexed
To see the beast was double-sexed.
‘Kiss me there,’ it spoke to me,
‘And penetrate my mystery.’
I did not heed its queer command;
Instead I took its pale hooked hand
And with its talons pierced my eyes.
Through blood and tears I scanned the skies.
I saw the crawling stars that named
Me as their own. Thus I am claimed.”
This was like nothing he had written before, and although it was too strange to be understood, its imagery whirled within her skull. Sarah set the notebook onto the wooden floor and shut her eyes. When the pale antique thing crept to her from its secret lair, she struggled mentally to awaken. Instead, she felt the hooked hands that pressed her mouth unto a marbled breast.
II
Soft light filtered through morning mist and illuminated the valley. Sarah raised her face to it and shut her eyes, letting the texture of her skin drink in the subtle warmth. This was a nice alternative to the dark troubled dreaming she had experienced during the night. She inhaled the fragrant air of Sesqua Valley as her toes, curling, pushed into yielding earth. The air, as Sarah sucked it in, tasted sweet, almost cloying, as if composed of elements that were of a different nature than that with which she was familiar. As she scanned the surrounding sights, it felt almost as if she had entered into a fairyland. The place was so different from Providence, had such a singular atmosphere. There was an impression of agelessness in the region, and to have entered it was to fancy that one had stepped out of time, stepped into some province that was unspoiled by modernity, although it contained aspects of human dwelling. But even that seemed queer to her: each dwelling that she had looked upon possessed its own queer personality, its own peculiarity of design.
Sarah stared past the woodland, to the distant twin-peaked mountain. The stone of which the mountain was composed sparkled in the soft morning light. Like everything else in the valley, this titan of white rock contained its own distinct and curious personality. The tall twin peaks resembled arched pointed wings that sprouted from daemonic shoulders. To gaze at the mountain was to feel that it could rise at any moment and stalk toward one, crushing one’s puny shell of flesh and bones beneath a mammoth hoof. As she gazed at it some shapeless blurred thing, black and winged, rose from it and then descended into the mist that covered much of the woodland.
A hand touched her shoulder. Sarah looked at Akiva and returned his smile. “Enchanted by our local beauty?”
“That is exactly right. Utterly mesmerized. I’ve never seen so many trees. It’s a wonderland of beauty. You’re up early.”
“I have a new thing I’m anxious to continue working on.”
She nodded. “I read some of your new work. I found it rather odd. It has a quality that I can only describe as ‘sinister.’ Why does that make you smile so broadly?”
“Because I call these new things the work of my left hand. Living here, in Sesqua Valley, has had an effect on my imagination. I dream differently. Instead of the human noise that I had grown so used to in the city, I now listen to the whisperings of nature, its secret sounds. New sensations have resulted in new poetic visions, an innovativ
e form of expression. Coming here has invigorated me as an artist. I thought, perhaps, it may have a similar effect on you.”
The woman laughed lightly. “Ah, because of my taking a break in writing. You think I need a little kick in the aesthetic derrière. No, no. The truth is, I’ve been much too active, especially since Wilus died. I had no idea that he, too, had a heart condition, he never told any of us. He was my senior by half a year, and when he suddenly died at home I took it as a sign that I would be next. Foolish and melodramatic, I know, but there you are. It’s surprised you, my having two books published this year; I’ve always made it a habit to wait a year or two before writing a new book. What you don’t know is that I have three more completed books awaiting publication. Hopefully only two of them will be published next year. I went through a phase of mad productivity, because I thought I would be dead by the end of this year and I didn’t want to die without having added significantly to my oeuvre.” She looked at him and shrugged. “My doctors tell me that my heart is on the mend. I have thus slowed down, stopped writing. Now I can delve into other things, I can travel a bit if I feel up to it. Best of all, I can be lazy and relax. There you have it.”
“Excellent. All I knew was that you told me you had stopped writing for a while, and that distressed me. I invited you here to give you a taste of the inspiration that has recharged my creativity, hoping it could do the same for you. I still hold on to that hope. Sesqua Valley will inspire you in ways that are new and novel.”
Sarah shrugged. “I have no intention of doing any work here—or anywhere, for at least two years. But, yes—new inspiration, a new approach—that would be most welcome. I would like the next book I write to be absolutely unique.”
Bohemians of Sesqua Valley Page 4
