The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  Something passed across the sky. A gull, no doubt. I refuse to join those seeing and seeking angels in clouds, in the smoke of battle or the shadows of death-beds. Granted, I’d followed an angel to sit among these tombstones and roses chatting to a pre-suicide. But that did not count as surrender to superstition. Chatterton’s angel was family madness, whether she herself was family or no. I recalled the words she gifted me as wedding present. Words of purpose: to deal with the mad natures of my new in-laws.

  She’d advised, ‘He who makes a beast of himself, escapes the pain of being a man. And so loses the wisdom’. Surely she held the Moon Tartan clan in aim for that arrow of insight. Staring at the mad dance of light, it all seemed clear enough.

  “You’ve had things backwards,” I informed Howl, as old soldier to new recruit. “Keep your wolf-self for when you want to live. When you must perform acts of insane rage and suicidal courage, stay a man.”

  Which words poured out all the wisdom I had in the cup. I stood, ass sore and cold from sitting on stone. Of course the boy wanted to stay, debate and declaim.

  “But Doe…” he protested, gesticulating towards the castle, where no doubt Doe danced mad jigs with vampiric cousins, quaffing sea-wine, singing of her victory. Sensible actions, all. “A deer is a thing of timid spirit. Yet she rushed in when I backed away.”

  I shrugged. “She used a deer’s speed to dodge the arms that slew Ape. But she kept human hands to use the spear. Human mind as well, I’d guess. Perhaps she and Bellow don’t go so deep into the animal-soul.” I shrugged. It was no art I knew. “You should ask her.”

  I eyed the path back to wine and warmth, wife and dance and sizzling mutton. Could I leave this gloomy creature alone to graves and roses, debating manhood with the stars? I should clap him on the back as camp-mate. We’d share tips on fighting and fornication. I didn’t want to. I thought him an idiot. Fully an idiot as I had been at his age. I had swaggered then with unearned pride. He gloomed now with pointless doubt. Came to the same.

  Before I could decide, a bell rang. One long leaden toll from a high corner of the castle. I shivered as the metallic ripple passed through stone and night and my frighted heart. In answer to the tolling, someone screamed high in the opposite tower. A long cry, horror-filled to cup-brim.

  Then in answer to bell and cry, the ground trembled. I expected graves to yawn beneath us. I whirled round about, rapier ready. No grave opened. No, they merely shivered, as I shivered. The white mist shrouding the stony ground swirled, forming faces and hands.

  “Ah,” sighed Howl. “Midnight already?”

  Chapter 9

  The Essay on Criticism, and Other Stage Props

  Let us return to Londonish. In narrative, I mean. I lurk there now, observing the imposter Rayne Grayish from shadow and disguise, while recalling my honeymoon on a mad Northern isle. Pleasant recollections. Occasionally violent, often terrifying. Always interesting.

  Yet I recounted only acts and words, places and faces. I gave the shell, never revealing the heart. Here, I shall put the truth to words. I was falling in love with my wife. Dueling with beast-men, standing solemn at grave-side, preparing for battle at the castle door, trapped in the burial room of a possessed doll… whatever insanity occurred, half of mind and all of heart was with my bride. Wondering what she thought now, how hung her wise hair this moment? What joy or sorrow twisted those red lips, the shy invisible brows? Above all, was she thinking of me?

  Infatuation is old acquaintance. A fire sparked by pretty face, the touch of hands, a revelation of ankle or thigh, just the coy toss of hair... these things enchant till you stagger drunk with imaginings, bold with desire, clumsy with lust. Till, till and till. Enough suns rise, the face beside you stares familiar as the one from your mirror. Touch becomes repetition, kisses taste sweet-stale as last week’s cake.

  I had not loved Lalena when we married. Nor mistook her mad obsession as love for me. She and I met on a dark crossroad of our lives. From that came our clasped hands, joined bodies. Not love nor infatuation put us side-by-side reciting eternal vows. Our marriage: a mad act of sane need.

  Yet each night since ‘I do’, I lay myself beside her, to awaken amazed that sun should rise, world should spin and this strange inebriation did not fade nor sour. What a thing, to swim up from dreams and turn, finding a face pillowed beside one, a face offering exact answer to every question that once tormented the mind through long nights.

  Bah. I was wise to talk of wolf-men and mermaids, abominations and ghosts. Simple to describe. Monsters are striking, so absurd that imagination draws them with a few strokes. But love? No description captures the reality. Perhaps love is one of the old ones of the Family, and defies chaining by name and word.

  So back to Londonish. The sun has climbed, Highstreet become the expression of Mankind as River. Wise carters and drovers take to the side-streets. The stubborn and foolish goad horses onwards, making halting progress. While hands reach from the humanity-river, help themselves to anything loose in the wagon’s unguarded contents.

  Rayne Grayish stands from the cathedral steps, stretches, scratches privates then strides though the crowd in sudden determination to be elsewhere. I consider. If he is bait, then I risk revealing myself by following. And what can he be but bait?

  Well enow. Assume hunters watch for those who follow Rayne Grayish. Find one and follow him, and you march safe in the back of the parade. Granted, I might be spotted by those who follow the hunter as he watches for those who follow Grayish. A tangled yet reasonable risk.

  But I study the roofs and windows, alleys and passing humanity. No primary watchers. No secondary watchers. No thuggish faces eyeing round corners, no dull idlers protesting their innocence with a bored yawn whenever I eye them. Puzzling.

  Rayne Grayish strides side-streets to quieter boroughs. He keeps a loping step faster than a stomping blacksmith. I could hurry but choose not. Pace of motion is full half a disguise. I might dart into doorway, become someone fleeter of foot. Perhaps the School-Proctor. In bag upon my back I carry a red periwig, cheap bifocals, a frock-coat, high collar and copy of Pope’s Essay on Criticism. I am anxious to become this scholastic bore. I shall stop strangers in the street, read to them of poets and wits, nature and watches.

  But if Grayish is guarded by competent hunters, they may note my change of appearance. Then again, they must at length wonder why a blacksmith grows familiar across different streets. I hesitate, wondering where the hell-fire these theoretical hunters hide.

  Grayish jumps to avoid a puddle of horse piss, putting himself in the path of two burly sailorish creatures. They hold animated discussion with no interest in steering ship’s course around obstacles. One thrusts arm out to remove him from the path… Grayish accepts the arm as a gift, pulls so that the sailor flies forwards, splashes face-forwards in the piss-puddle.

  The second man reacts on the instant. He strikes down with the short club one sees in dock-side taverns. Sailors call them pins, for no sensible reason. They are clubs, not a bit pin-like. Another man would dodge or back away fumbling for blade. I laugh in delight to see Grayish step forwards under the strike. The two men stand face to face as if to kiss, then the sailor collapses with knee to the stomach, strike to throat.

  But the first sailor is up, piss-dripping and furious. He draws knife, throwing himself at Grayish’s back. Almost I shout warning. But Grayish does not turn, merely steps aside letting the man fly past, landing upon the downed fellow. The two sailors tussle in confusion. Grayish kicks both to submission. Neither is dead nor unconscious; merely aware they hurt and that if they rise the man smiling kindly and mildly will hurt them more.

  I am not the only witness; yet by the time the street understands that free entertainment is at hand, Grayish is tipping hat to all, striding on. Well done, Master Grayish!

  He whistles to the sky, eyeing a maid emptying pots out a window. She cannot help but return smile, blushing at their lascivious exchange. But Grayish’s walk says
he will enjoy the day as it comes, and to perdition with other opinion. What an excellent fellow. Should I feel ashamed to declare it?

  Not a bit. Modesty was never my forte. Rayne Grayish is a fraud, but he is a wonder. And so I wonder will I kill him, or shall he me? A loss to the world either outcome. C’est la vie. I wander into an alley, wary of stray dogs and canny assassins. Naught but trash and shadow, stink and silence. Excellent. I swift-change clothes, sighing to hide my rapier beneath trash. Fresh bought and un-blooded. It will be gone on my return, of course. And my coin-purse grows light; I can scarce afford another. But a rapier is too tell-tale to carry in disguise. Improper for a proper school-proctor.

  Enter as blacksmith, exit as scholar. And yes, I wiped face of soot. Insulting that you should think to remind me. I hoist Alexander Pope’s Essay on Criticism beneath my arm. A poetic drollery critics should have flayed. But no, they loved it. C'est l'art. The bifocals pinch my nose and blur my sight. To see where I go, I must peek over, under and around them. Exactly as do true wearers of the things. I stoop my back, stride with knees scarce bending. A wooden doll of a scholar, anxious to attend some meeting of pedagogic dust and ostentatious Latin.

  The street grows crowded again, though noon-time is past. These are tradesmen sharing the city path. They should be manning their benches and counters, storefronts and booths. Some gathering of the working class occurs. Can Grayish be attending? Well, Gray would do so. So also, his imitator.

  Peering over the lenses blocking sight, I deduce our destination. For a moment my pedantic pace falters. A baker behind stumbles into my person, curses his doughy obscenities. Bakers always seem ominous and deadly to me. I reach for rapier but find only a book. And reaching for blade is no part of my scholar’s persona. I refrain even from drawing a modest knife. I shrug, put hand to glasses to study him, prepared to smite with Alexander Pope. He snorts flour, darts around. I follow after, comforting myself I would have won. I would have smote him to the dirt with my grasp of literary formula.

  As I feared, we come to the steps of The Church of All Souls. Elspeth’s old house of worship. Fine in that. This stone box filled with holy vapor brought her comfort. Comfort I had been too mutton-headed to know she’d needed.

  “I was a house-girl caught up in lords’ affairs. Spyings and beddings, and promises of a glorious future, with threats of a dreadful end. I lived in more fear and shame in a week, man, than you did in a year of war.” So she’d confessed to me.

  Well, her ghost confessed. In a dream, to be honest. Not a testimony to stand in sober court. Yet dreams, ghosts and memories make half my dance companions since she died. I scarce know the quick from the lingering shades.

  But if this church had been a place of comfort to Elspeth, not so for me. The cold solemn face stood witness to the final betrayal. The old life of the true Rayne Gray ended here, with my last friend passing me a sleep-poisoned cup. Ah, that was a knife thrust to soul and heart. No wonder I’d moved so effortlessly into the mad dance of the family. I’d been a kind of ghost; a soul with nothing solid left of life or love…

  I shake myself. Bah! to brooding. Pathetic as Howl. Next I’ll be sitting on tombstones, empty gun to head. I take a breath of determination and follow the crowd towards the door of the church.

  On the steps stand pamphleteers thrusting tracts and booklets to those entering. Not an organized effort. Multiple armies warring for God and Law seize advantage of the passing crowd. A tall presbyter in black hisses at a thick-set laborer in leather smock. A gangly boy moves smoothly between, stands in my path. His hair bound neatly behind, dark clothes, smart shoes; he might be page-boy for a wealthy house. Out of place in this gathering, in danger of being trampled. He takes from a satchel a booklet, offers it.

  I study him over the rims of my faux glasses. Something of family in those insistently innocent eyes... It might be a fresh-washed-and-combed Brick. I check ears; round. Not Brick. The crowd shoves about me, anxious to enter the church. I take the offered booklet; then to poke this solemn messenger I give him Pope’s Essay on Criticism.

  I expect him to stutter refusal of the offering. But he accepts with a bow, turns attention to others. I move on, watching for a spy, a knife, a clever eye seeing past disguise.

  Within is far too crowded. The inner church is packed, aisles filled. Just as well, I prefer to keep by the entrance. This may yet be trap. It makes no sense except as trap. Surely hunters fill the throng. Yet sniffing for danger I smell only crowd-sweat, mud, perfume, candle-wax, kerosene and dust. I spy none spying me. Grayish’s hat marches towards the front. I consider whether he will simply exit the back.

  I move towards the wall. An old man, a young woman consider my solemn school-house self. I smile, fumbling with hat, book and glasses. Harmless, they decide, and shift to give me space. Through an archway I watch events at the distant front. Figures speak, but crowd-murmur and stone pillar filter words to loud mumble. I see gesticulations, hear echoes of introduction. I watch in surprise as Rayne Grayish steps to the podium.

  There come shouts, applause, cat-calls. He smiles, waiting for this to cease. It never quite does. Here is no church service, I realize, but political meeting.

  “Was not this Gray ruffian sentenced to hang?” I ask the old man beside me.

  The girl next him shakes bonnet, rolls eyes. “His Majesty pardoned the rogue.”

  The old man looks left, right for royal ears. Then mutters. “The king is mad. All know so.”

  “But I heard Gray was torn to pieces in his cell.” I consider adding ‘by vampires’ but refrain.

  The old man shrugs. “That was some French family named Jacob or what-like. Rescued him, left some poor body in his cell, carried him to the coast. But he cut their foreign throats, came back to take his punishment like a proper English madman. What could they do but pardon him? God’s luck they didn’t make him bishop.”

  I watch Grayish deliver solemn words, expressing dramatic points with push and raise and flourish of hands. Now he shouts. The crowd shouts in return. At this distance it sums to a clearer cacophony. I puzzle, feeling I have witnessed this scene before. In dream? I recall the Abomination. Yes, it waved tentacles in just that conductor’s sweep, orchestrating truth and argument. Not understood, nor caring to be understood. Delivery of the Message, was all.

  The memory of the Abomination recalls to me the castle, and my wife. I lean against cold stone, watch this shadow-man mock my own dramatic gestures, listen to the incomprehensible mumble of his thoughts. I am forced to admit: if he is true shadow of me, he shall drone all the day. He shall have word and breath and stamina and opinion to stand declaiming till the audience sleeps or starves or wanders away converted to the Cause. For God’s pity, let us go back to my honeymoon on that mad island. Anything is preferable to this. Even a midnight courtyard fast congregating with ghosts.

  Chapter 10

  A Wedding Present Proves no Tea-Set

  “Wine, women and fire,” I said to Howl. “Let us seek these good things out.”

  Words needing no expounding. They summed the desires of a man’s heart. The fact that ghostly forms gathered about stands secondary to the eternal truth and rightness of the words. Secondary, I say.

  Howl, melancholy and morbid, showed no concern for faces swirling in night-mist. He only sighed in resignation. He supposed I encouraged him towards cheer and light. As I did, I did. Cleverly combining this ancient remedy for black humors with my personal desire to flee the castle courtyard. And flee we did, at casual pace.

  A wisp of white clad in ghost-kilt and pallor stood up from cold stone and old earth. A great two-handed sword loomed over his shoulder, crucifix-blade for a menacing penitent. The creature held palm out to bar the way. Howl walked on as through a cloud of gnats. I halted, considered circling. I faced the antique beard and mustache, the moue of anger. At me. Why me? Howl was the one who’d transpersed him. But the thing tugged the great-sword, raised it as executioner’s axe.

  I lunged, pi
ercing the very heart of fog. Ghost and I stared a moment at the blade fixed in wispy chest. Then with a mighty heave the spirit swung his fog-blade, achieving the result of a moonbeam attempting murder of a rock. Again we paused, considered our lamentable inability to kill and be killed.

  The ghost rolled vaporous eyes. I shrugged. Howl reached through the creature, grabbed my elbow, pulled me on. “Ach, don’t be playing with these fellows,” he chided. “It encourages the pesky things.”

  We continued; Howl marching brooding through the wraiths, I preferring to circle. At one point this caught me in tangles of rose bushes. I was not alone. A buxom-looking wisp stood beside me. A young woman, robe-clad, arms raised as though emerging from the flowers.

  I tugged my jacket from thorns while she considered me. Then lowered pale fingers, chose a fresh rose. I heard the stem snap. I blinked. These wisp-people were more than vapor? In proof, the white hand lifted the blossom. Offered it. Manners made me nod, accepting the gift. I took the flower, placed it within my collar. Fit token for Lalena, red as her lips.

  The ghost-girl raised hands again. Closed pale eyes and shivered. I understood she burned in this pyre of roses, and must do so alone. I backed away, circling past all night-forms, seeking Howl.

  He stood at the entrance to the castle. Beyond and within waited darkness, black as Stygian coal-cellars. He sniffed. “Some fool has put out the candles,” he growled.

  I menaced the dark with rapier and stern glare. “Ghosts or evil winds, no doubt. Best walk wary.”

  We continued on. The hall grew too dark even for my night-wise sight. Howl’s eyes glimmered yellow. Must have returned to wolfish form. Very sensible. The better to see you, my dear. I walked in the dark beside a werewolf. A suicidal creature who’d tried to bite my throat out, twice in two days. Still, that was past. I tapped before me, rapier reduced to beggar’s cane again.