“Manly’s book was my key, you see, and the valley is my gateway. I’ve connected with the valley’s laureate, and I think he wants to crown me with his laurel. I am destined to become the valley’s new poet, to sing her glory as it has not been expressed for decades.”
“And why can’t Manly do this himself, if he still dwells here?”
“I think he is conjoined to the second shadowland and can rarely leave it, or rarely wants to.” He noticed the expression on her face and laughed heartily. “God, you don’t understand any of this. How could you? You’re far away from Providence, dear Sarah. Look, I don’t have time to explain it all now. I need to get this eikon to the Circle of Seven Suns. We’ll talk later.”
“Let me help you. I want to see this mysterious place that has so upset Simon.”
“But—I don’t know what’s going to happen when I evoke the Crawling Chaos.”
“Then it will be a learning experience for both of us. Do you think that thing will fit into your car?”
“Only just. I managed when I brought it home from the antique shop. It’s lovely, isn’t it? So smooth and black and—potent.” He wrapped his arms around the statue and began again to try and lift it. Shaking her head, Sarah went to assist him, and together they moved the effigy out of the house and into Akiva’s motor car. Before getting into the vehicle, the poet glanced at the moonlit mountain and frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
Akiva squinted his eyes with suspicion. “It’s too quiet, like the valley is holding its breath. Usually, when something really dangerous or cool is going on, the valley sends out a signal from beneath its ground, a deadly kind of pounding that alerts the children.”
“The children?”
“The ones who have silver eyes, the local tribe, whatever they are. They often refer to themselves as the children of the valley, without ever explaining what that means. I’ve sensed a lot of things in the months that I’ve lived here, but nothing’s concrete inside my mind. Perhaps after tonight I’ll have more answers. Let’s go.”
They both entered the car, Sarah having to adjust her head so that it would not bang against the head of the statue, which was protruding over the back of her seat. She remained silent as the car bounced along rough roads, toward the mountain. The road entered a place in the woodland where the trees overhead formed a kind of tunnel through which they journeyed. And then the trees were gone, and the mortals were moving along an expanse of dirt field. The mountain, now very near, hovered over them like some slumbering behemoth. Sarah cracked her window open and cursed. “Ugh, I thought I smelled something vile. What is that stench in the air? It’s sickening.”
“It emanates from the soil, or so it seemed to on the few occasions that I’ve visited this area. It’s like the ground is cankerous. Look at how yellow the dirt is? The children shun this place. I tried to get my friend Cyrus to join me on an outing here and he freaked out, said something about it being too near the mountain. I think they shun the mountain as well. It’s nice to know that there are places in the valley where you don’t have to worry about meeting its freakish clan. I think we’re almost there.”
“You think?”
“Well, I confess that last night’s all a bit of a haze. But I’ll recognize the wooded area when we get there. I’ll remember the signposts that Manly showed me.”
Sarah could not take her eyes from the bulk of Mount Selta, and something in the shape of the mountain increased her sense of unease. “This place is creepy,” she mumbled; but Akiva ignored her, seemingly intent on locating their destination. And then he stopped the car. “This is the place. It’s not a long walk. Are you sure you want to help me haul that statue down there?”
“I am not yet decrepit,” she scolded, and then bent to pick up the bottom portion of the statue. She felt extremely silly as they entered the woods, and smiled broadly at what a sight they made. Sarah noted that the vile stench in the air had dissipated and was replaced with a new scent, subtle and uncharacteristic of what she had thus experienced in the valley. There were spaces between the trees and thus bright moonlight illuminated their way. Then she noticed what she thought was an extremely freakish tree.
“Ah, there’s the totem. This is the right path,” the poet assured her. Sarah gawked at the towering thing as they passed it, having never seen its like before. The thing seemed skeletal and albinic, and the misshapen faces that it wore seemed composed of rotting mold and resembled no living creatures with which she was familiar. From some place beyond the totem she heard the sound of rushing water, and then she had to watch her step as the path began to incline downward and became a series of large stone steps, beside which a wide stream fell over rocks and boulders. Sarah could not understand why the woodland grew no darker as they descended—indeed, the moon, when she glanced up at it, seemed nearer to earth than it had at any other time. She could see the face in the moon, and the sight of it chilled her blood.
At last they reached the end of sloping earth. Although the statue was not very heavy, Sarah was tiring. When her eyes met Akiva’s, however, she saw that his burned with an almost preternatural ignition. Looking at her, he laughed joyously and showed his shining teeth. “Right over there. Watch your step, there’s a bunch of ferns just here. Can you feel the spray from the waterfall? It’s like drinking liquid aether. Okay, let’s lift him over these sculpted figures and set him in the center of the Circle.”
Trying to study the dwarfish figurines as they lifted the black statue over them, Sarah lost her footing, stumbled and fell onto soft ground. Her end of the statue pressed against the earth, and she let go of it as Akiva wrestled with the thing and put it into place in the center of the ring of stone effigies. The seven sculpted gnomes were grotesque in the extreme and filled Sarah with disquiet. Each creature held a pale white sphere over its dome, globes that caught the weird moonlight and appeared to drink in its luminosity.
“He’s here, I think.” Before Sarah could respond, she felt a beating beneath her hands, a pulsing from some place beneath the earth on which she knelt. The air grew chilly, and a mist began to rise from distant places in the woodland, a mauve-tinted mist that grew opaque. Sarah sensed the presence before she saw its silhouette moving toward them through the gathered haze. He was tall and lean, and he exuded a sense of energy and influence. As his features became clearer she thought it might be Simon without his characteristic hat; but then she noticed the distinction between this being and the beast. The gentleman before her was not quite as grotesque as Simon, although his features were just as animalistic. His eyes shimmered like glossy nickel.
“Greetings, Miss Paget-Lowe,” the stranger said, bowing his head to her. “Welcome to my realm. Please remain silent as we summon forth the Crawling Chaos. Akiva has been chosen to be the bard of the Old Ones.” Turning to the poet, the fellow took Akiva’s hand and smoothed its palm with taloned fingers. He then pierced that palm with one nail and began to etch into the poet’s flesh. Sarah thought that she could smell the blood that dripped from her friend’s hand onto the earth. She watched the tall fellow smooth her friend’s hand with his own, until the drops of blood ceased. Akiva showed her his hand, whereon the sigil that had been carved onto the black statue’s hand had been replicated. Moving out of the Circle, the strange one reached into a jacket pocket and produced a red flute, which he pressed against his mouth. Unearthly music filled the air, as did an unearthly reek. Looking up, Sarah observed the darker mist that was falling toward them through the other vapor, the greenish-yellow mist that churned unspeakably as it ceased its descent and billowed above them. From behind that rancid miasma she thought that she could just make out the circles of blistering globes of fire, and she saw the two winged things that sailed to them through the fog, beings that had been replicated in stone in the Circle of Seven Suns. The creatures settled near the base of the black statue, against which they huddled as they brought weird flute-like instruments to their misshapen mouths.
Sarah
looked to where the child of Sesqua Valley had been standing, but there was no one there any longer. Another shape stalked toward them, through the mist, and Sarah marveled at the black man’s regal beauty. She watched the figure drift to where Akiva stood and spoke something to the poet in antique Hebrew. Not rising from her kneeling position, she saw the strange dark one tilt toward her friend and kiss Akiva’s eyes, eyes that suddenly transformed, that grew black and liquid. And then the black man turned to her, drew nearer to her as he made motions to the air, the air that cleared of mist and sour fog. She saw the brilliant moon that cast its insane light onto her eyes, and then she howled as the black man raised a foot and kicked her head violently. Her vision blurred and she could see nothing but a congeries of red and black dots. The sound of insane fluting washed to her and embraced her head for but one moment, and then the sound departed, lifting skyward. When at last her sight returned, she saw that Akiva was trembling before her, his frantic fingers reaching at his black and burnished eyes.
“I am blind! Like in the dream I had when I visited the woodland and Simon found me! But this is not a dream! Oh god, I am blind. And yet, I see, beyond the blackness, beyond the dead moons. Oh, I see” he uttered, and then he began to howl like some idiotic thing. Gasping, weeping, Sarah rose and clutched the poet’s hand. Roughly, she tugged him from that place, up the rugged path and over the stone steps on which they occasionally tripped as Akiva screeched in Hebrew. When at last they reached the poet’s car, Sarah opened the passenger door and pushed the poet into the vehicle. Rummaging through his pockets, she found the car keys and rushed to the driver’s door. By the time she managed to turn the motor, Akiva had grown silent. He turned his altered eyes to her and her blood froze as she felt him peer into her paltry soul. “The seven suns,” he whispered, and then began to speak poetry of the strangest kind, poetry that contained a kind of alchemy of sound. Sarah listened, entranced, and then she put the car into gear and began to drive. She followed the roadway, away from the twin-peaked mountain, past the center of Sesqua Town, out of the valley. Finding, at last, the freeway, Sarah pushed on the gas pedal, guiding the car on its way toward Providence.
Unhallowed Places
A Poetic Interlude
Dedicated to Robert H. Waugh
I
It is the effect of night that swims within my liquid eyes as I kneel on this tainted soil and dig my fingers into unhallowed earth. Windsong moans through the cracks and crevices of a ruined church where air is no longer sanctified and sinless, and as I work my hand into the churchyard sod I pray the name of one strange god who tastes me in my deepest dreaming. It is this dread lord that has whispered to my psyche of the thing that I am destined to discover—the thing that, soon, I touch. I tighten my fingers around one of the triple spires and unearth the relic from its bed of dirt and darkness. There is no midnight moon to which I can hold up the artifact, and so I raise the thing to dimming stars and marvel at its alien beauty. I cannot ascertain what strange alloy has been combined with yellow gold so as to give the thing its platinum lustrousness. Its beauty captivates and I gaze at it for many minutes as I imagine that it was fashioned to be seen in darkness only, in this effect of night, wherein its magick spills forth and evokes wonder. I lift the relic above me and set it on my head, where the chilliness of its metal spreads through my entire tissue. I shudder as one bell from an ancient church peals its somber sound. The reverberation of that clanging floats through air toward the sea that swells before the old town below the hill on which the church stands. I turn my face toward the crumbling edifice and see that it, too, has been enhanced by the cloak of night that drapes it; and as I grimace at the rotted stone a thing from within the structure calls my mind, coaxing me to rise from bended knee and proceed in quest of sinister sensation, my diadem tilted on my dome. How solid feels the frigid earth on which I creep, how icy the starlight on my eyes that I reflect onto the rotted stones with which the church has been constructed. I lean and press my hand against the decomposing mineral and watch the reflected starlight frolic from it and pierce the essence of my eyes; and as my hand is held against that stone my mind seems to conjoin with the chilly surface so that, for one moment, I am as ancient as the granite that has formed the haunt of silenced prayers, and the hollow of my skull reverberates with a remnant of secret ceremony that was once performed beyond the wall I fondle. Ah, those echoed and unholy psalms, the deep low voices, the phantom plumes of rare incense that are sucked by nostrils. Oh, the shape that fumbles in secret festival in the corner of one eye.
I remove my hand from where it touches stone and step unto the threshold, through which I shall enter another realm. One oaken door on partial hinge invites me as I glance at the charred and splintered remnants of its companion on the ground, perhaps the victim of some lightning bolt. I smile at the lingering smell of destruction, and when at last I laugh my voice seems not mine own, and my lips are strangely shaped in alien form. I lick those lips and cross the threshold, into a nameless place, turning corners until I enter the vaulted chamber of some hall, where spectral starlight taints seven stained glass windows. How queerly the dim figures depicted on those windows shift on their smooth surface, where starlight and obscurity conjoin. I smell the smoke before I see it; but this is not the fragrance of ignited annihilation but rather plumes of adoration, coiling from altars where perfume of patchouli mingles with myrrh. But stay—what is that shape behind the veil of smoke, the black emanation that, drifting to me, parts the hazy curtain with its claw? I watch the hand snake through smoke and summon me with esoteric motion, that hand for which I reach and clasp—that hot hand! I see that hand lift mine toward a phantom’s face and sigh as the smoldering mouth moves against my skin. I lean nearer and kiss the eidolon.
The being backs away, behind its curtain of perfumed smoke, to where it is encircled by seven shrouded figures that are stained by shadow and starlight. Their alabaster faces remind me of the material with which my diadem has been constructed, and I laugh softly as they open shattered mouths and moan a liturgical chant in adoration of Crawling Chaos. My hands lift to the headdress of white gold and remove it from where it weighs upon my peak. I reach through fog and crown the eidolon with the relic I have unearthed from haunted soil, as a stream of faces beneath the tiara grin at me, mockingly. The haunter of the dark spreads its arms unto its shining faces, where eyes awaken as sparks that reflect on the shimmering flesh of seven adorers. I feel a fire on mine own eyes as they begin to cinder and melt; but before I lose sight absolutely the phantom filters to me and kisses my dissolving eyes, transforming those orbs of jelly into diamonds through which I peer into unknown dimension.
II
The bell tolled once, and so the lady stirred in her cathedra and raised her heavy head to the vaulted ceiling, where winged images among the broken shadows returned her somber gaze. Her cathedra was spacious and well-lined, its scarlet velvet cushions extremely soft, and on the ivory of its frame were fastened exquisite designs of constellations that made her dizzy when peered at in prolongment. She had no interest in those designs now, for the moan of wind issued from upper regions, among seven stained glass windows kissed by outré starlight. The lady listened to the airy sound and glanced through the haze of smoke and broken shadow that swirled about her, watching it lift to the arched and wounded window through which lonely windsong whistled. There she noticed the place where the window had been violated and its shrouded figure had lost one hand. Lifting like the smoke she rose out of the throne and floated on the floor of cracked stone toward the ruined wall into which the wounded window had been fitted; and there, on the unyielding surface of the floor, she saw the perfect pallid hand of glass, its semi-translucent white form seeming to her fanciful eyes like some murdered dove. Bending, she took up the delicate relic and traced its outline with one finger, and then she touched its smooth surface to her mouth and kissed its palm. Noticing that the alabaster fingers pointed to the crevice in the wall, she raised her fingers t
o the shrouded figure of the upper window and made to it an esoteric sign, and then she whistled as she squeezed her lithe form through the crevice in the wall, moving until she stood on churchyard ground. Her legs navigated her among the tombstones, beneath chill starlight, as trees bent above her in gathering wind. When she came to the spot where the earth had been disrupted she stopped and peered at the place where something had been exhumed, where the soil had been carelessly packed into place but not smoothed. There was no slab here to mark what might have been beneath, and so she moved one foot and with the tip of her toe drew a tomblike shape. Chittering, she dropped to her knees and etched her name within the shape with one finger of the hand of glass.
The lady’s attention was caught by an arresting cry. She saw the dark creature that balanced on one tombstone and regarded her with jadeite eyes, the wee kitten that did not flee as she approached and clutched it with one hand; and she laughed as it climbed upon her bosom and found its way onto one shoulder, where it roosted so as to purr into her ear, a vibration of sound that leaked into her head and moved behind her eyes, eyes that then beheld the distant archway made of hoary stone. Swiftly, the wee puss leapt from her shoulder to the earth and darted toward the archway, where it stopped and mewed as if to coax her to the spot. She stirred beneath stars and mist and moved to the enticing beast, following it through the archway into another place. The ground she walked on was so soft that it seemed almost as if she walked on cloud, and in the spaces above her the stars looked larger than usual. She fancied that she could feel the kiss of icy stardust on her eyes and mouth. The lady followed the small black beast until she noticed another being, pale and still, in one distant area—a statue of a shrouded figure whereon one raised arm had lost its marble hand. A bell tolled then, a blurred unfocused sound that crept toward her like some sightless freak, and at the vibration of that clamor the wee kitten scampered toward the archway through which they had just passed. She did not heed the beast’s behavior, nor did she notice how the statue’s solid form softened infinitesimally and shuddered when touched by vibrating air. The lady saw only the outstretched arm that lacked a hand, and thus she flowed to it and tried to fasten the hand of glass onto the place where the statue’s limb ended abruptly; but she pressed too violently against the figure’s smooth white marble, and her delicate hand of glass broke into three pieces. One sharp tip pricked her finger and she watched the dark liquid that, spilling from her, stained the shattered hand. Dizziness oppressed our lady and she dropped the pieces of sacrosanct glass onto the soft earth as, from the archway beyond, a little kitten cried.
Bohemians of Sesqua Valley Page 7
