by Katie M John
Song of the Moth
A Katie. M. John Fairytale.
www.katiemjohn.weebly.com
Song of The Moth
By
Katie M John
Copyright 2011 ©
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*
High in the dome of St Pauls Cathedral a boy crouches. He is ordinary in every definable way, extraordinary in every other. There is something about him which ensures that when you meet the bottomless pools of his green eyes, you shrink back into your soul and desperately search for a key that might lock out the monster in front of you.
His name is Nemo: One without name. It was a name given in jest by a cruel man with a wicked wit; a requirement for any man appointed to govern a London Workhouse. Nemo holds his name dear, after all, it is has become the whole reason for his existence.
He had selected the dome of the cathedral as he vantage point earlier that morning; slipping in past the crowds of tourists and making his way up the stone stairs – hiding in a corner of shadows. He doesn’t know why he still feels the need to do this because he is, like his name, a thing of nothing; invisible to everyone who doesn’t care to look. But she had looked. She’d searched into the sunlight and saw him for what he was. A momentary flash of brilliance had passed across her face before the stain of horror spread like a dark cloud.
She was probably at home now, propped up against thick linen bound pillows, being spoon fed sips of beef broth by a concerned and kindly sister. A sister increasingly frustrated by her mother’s refusal to call for a doctor. By now, the girl would be half mad. Within the month there would be little choice but to relocate her somewhere safe, far from the house and polite society. She would no longer be the young women they knew – she too would become something monstrous.
The thing is, once you look upon a goblin, you’re doomed.
*
Nemo stood and stretched out his arms into the early evening gloom. His black velvet jacket and white cotton shirt were both pinchingly small; as he stretched, they rode high, exposing a pale white, almost translucent stomach beneath. The button of his trousers didn’t quite meet the hole it was planned for and the whole effect was of an awesome moth about to burst from its chrysalis.
As if irritated by tightness, he took of his jacket and slipped the shirt over his head, casting them carelessly aside. Blue light bled through the small holes that encircled the crown of the dome. It gave the startling effect a magician’s box pierced by the ghosts of blue blades.
Nemo turned on the spot, his arms outstretched. It was a fluid movement, the movement of a dancer. He lunged forward, pulling in one clenched fist to his chest and outstretching the other to the farthest point of his reach. He had learnt these movements as a child, watching the Chinese Sailors through the bars of his dormitory window. Nemo, fascinated by their strange dawn rituals, watched them morning after morning. Eventually echoing their movements, he found in them a deep sense of satisfaction and a connection with his body. They helped him focus; see things for what they were. Now in the gloom of the fading day, Nemo set about an intricate set of these movements, travelling deeply to face the demon within.
*
Francis had found most of the day tedious beyond measure. Her mother had insisted on all of the women of the household escorting Mr. Smithe -Williams on a tour about town in the pathetic attempt that maybe she could pimp one of her three daughters into engagement with a man who, in her mother’s words, was ‘One of the most dashingly rich and eligible bachelor’s in town.’
Unfortunately, Francis did not quite share the enthusiasm either her mother or her sisters held for the young rogue. More unfortunately, she did not share the interest he showed in her. In fact, Francis would actually go as far as to say that she found the ‘dashing, rich and eligible bachelor’, rather repugnant; not that her polite and well trained smiles showed such a thing. Instinctively Francis understood Mr Smithe-William’s was a whole bag of trouble; a sweet and sickly bonbon with a nut at the centre that would take relish in choking you.
Their visit started with a trip to see Buckingham Palace and concluded in a visit St Paul’s Cathedral. Mr Smithe-Williams or ‘call me Teddy’ as he lasciviously whispered in her ear, was a keen student of architecture, although to be specific, Call Me Teddy’s only interest was in structures of a female kind. He spent more time smiling and winking at blushing, respectable young ladies, than he did marvelling at the genius of Wren.
Several times during the day, Francis fought off the compulsion to suddenly break into a run and leave them all behind. But the current ladies fashion of crinolines made this somewhat impossible, and so she spent several hours mentally scribing rhetoric against such stupid contraptions, particularly liking the image of them being fabric cages.
“Isn’t it just glorious, Francis?” Her mother’s voice came screeching across the peace of the Nave.
“Yes, just …” Francis couldn’t be bothered to finish and it didn’t matter. Before she could respond, her mother took Call Me Teddy by the arm and used her parasol in a rather threatening way to point out the finer points of Wren’s craft.
Francis took her chance to steal off to the side and took a seat on one of the cool stone benches. The day was ridiculously close, the kind of day that presses down on you and labours your lungs. She reached behind her, worrying the laces of the over tight corset, hoping to work just a small fingers worth of slack that might take the pressure off.
All at once the floor rippled up in wave, the smoke from the candles caused a thin layer of softness like a veil and just as if plunged under water, the room went silent. Then, amongst all of this sliding, rippling chaos, something came into focus as sharp as the edge of a blade at your throat. A boy, almost a man; an exquisite figure, tall and defined with skin whitely iridescent as marble, hair black as the raven’s wing, stopped mid step and, in slow motion, turned to look at her, just as if she had called out his name.
Francis grabbed at her chest, pulled at the stiff boned fabric, desperately searching for air. Fear and desire mingled into a powerful toxin rushing through her veins, speeding towards her heart and she knew when it got there, there was a possibility it would kill her. Across the distance, she saw his eyes – like emeralds burning against snow. He was beauty and horror all at once, but she couldn’t get a grip on the image in front of her because it kept shifting. Her eyes and mind no longer seemed connected, for what her eyes saw, her mind refused to accept. Her thoughts raced. She had seen the thing in front of her before, seen it inked in the pages of her fairytale book, and seen it lurking in the nightmares of her childhood.
The boy was a goblin.
“Francis, oh Francis!” Her mother’s voice was pitching high in panic and the vile sulphurous reek of the smelling salts burnt her nostrils, pulling her back into the real.
“Mother, the boy…the boy.”
“Which boy darling?” Her mother turned, quickly scanning the nave for the boy in question. “There is no boy, Francis. You’ve just taken a little turn. We’ll get you home and into bed.”
Call Me Teddy pulled Francis to her feet, wrapped one arm around her waist and with the other, steadied her. She flinched at his over familiar touch and attempted to move out from under his far too eager arm, but rather than letting her go, he tightened his grip. Suddenly the horrible sensation of b
eing trapped in an unfurling and inescapable destiny beat at her brain.
*
She’d been sitting, half obscured by the light when he had seen her. Even now, working through the movements, stretching out his lithe limbs, reaching into his own breath, he couldn’t shake her face from his mind. Memories of her looking at him, the sight of her face as she saw the monster beneath the surface, haunted him. He knew with that look she was undone. It was inevitable. It had never really bothered him before – but now it did. It bothered him greatly, and he couldn’t quite understand why.
That she should be here, sitting in the cathedral, was exactly as planned – she was his new prey after all. Edward, his master, grew impatient, pressing for events to take a quicker turn and, although he was convinced the mother had taken to him, he wasn’t entirely sure Francis was going to come to him as easily as expected.
Edward was an impetuous creature, damned right volatile when he didn’t get exactly what he wanted. Thankfully for everyone in The Kingdom, Edward not getting what he pleased was a rare situation.
Whilst hunting deer in the woods, Edward had seen Francis picking bluebells; her dress pinned up into her garters to stop it from getting dew drenched, her flaxen hair, escaping like strands of gold in the spring sunlight. He’d seen at once, how strong and vital her heart was; how full of passion and desire. He knew without doubt, that until her heart was beating in the palm of his hand, he’d be plagued by an unsatisfied desire.
So, why had he not killed her there and then? He’d been tempted, beyond reason. He’d felt the overwhelming urge to charge over and pin her against the tree before ripping her heart out through the cotton of her dress. But killing close up was never as exquisite as watching it happen in front of you; there was as more pleasure in watching another kill as watching one die. Edward liked to play with his food; in particular he liked to make sure the heart was seasoned with the peppering of pain, a pain that he liked to inflict himself. It wasn’t enough to ingest a pure heart, the heart had to carry part of him in it; the ultimate narcissist – the most frightening of all monsters.
Nemo did not fully understand such desires. All he knew was that somewhere along the path they had travelled together, Edward had transformed into a monster and as such, this Dark Prince had changed from his once saviour to his now captor. Nemo’s only hope of freedom was completing this mission.
One more. Just one more – then I can stop. Then, I will be free.
Nemo took in a deep breath, pushing out his right arm against an invisible force, moving his right leg round, so that his whole body spun on its axis.
Free!
He lunged. But why does it have to be her? Why her? All at once, he pulled himself up sharp, staring into the darkness before speaking into the night,
“Surely, the question is – why not?” he asked aloud into the gloom.
“That is always the real question, Nemo.” Edward spoke as he stepped out from the darker shadows; the flame from his match cast a yellow light over his face as he lit his cigarette. As quickly as it flared, it extinguished, returning him once more to a disembodied voice. “I’m curious; what great philosophical musing are you undertaking?”
“Nothing, Sir, I was just thinking aloud.”
“A dangerous thing – thinking. Take my advice, a man should always try and let someone else do that for him: It’s safer that way.” The red tip of the cigarette bloomed bright, “So you the girl, Francis?”
“Yes, I saw her, and she…” Nemo paused, knowing if he revealed she’d also seen him, Edward would be far from happy.
“And she … what?” A plume of white smoke made the shape of a love-heart in the dark.
“She … nothing, I was just thinking…” Nemo’s voice petered out and he desperately hoped that something would pop into his mind and save him from himself.
“Like I said, best not to think about it.”
“Yes, probably.”
In the dark, the whiteness of Nemo’s body created a patch of light. He knew Edward could see him and it served to make him feel more vulnerable than he usually did in Edward’s presence. They often met like this, in the darkness. For Edward, this favouring of shadows was purely a choice; unlike many of their kind, his monstrous status was not exposed by the sunlight. It allowed him to move freely amongst the human world – a talent which created a mixture of awe and envy in his subjects. Similarly, for Nemo, sunlight was fine unless channelled into a shaft and then, if caught in it, like earlier in the cathedral, he was exposed for what he was – a monster.
From the movement of the small burning O, it was observable that Edward was now pacing, agitated, excited. “So, he plan, boy; I intend to marry Francis before the end of the summer. In the meantime, I’m going to make Francis love me, stirring in her a passion like her virgin soul has never dreamt possible. At the moment you rip it from her, I want her heart right on the edge of madness, desperate for the night of our honeymoon, her heart overflowing with love and desire. You understand?”
Nemo’s head bowed in response, “When this is done, I will be free?”
“Yes, then you will be free.”
Nemo watched the little red light lead away towards the door and then disappear completely. With a great sense of relief, he was once again alone.
*
Despite what everyone told her, Francis knew her eyes had not lied. Cold tendrils of dreadful anticipation crept over her heart; she knew from the tales of the old wives, anyone who looked upon a Goblin was cursed to pay with their mind.
When the party arrived home, she’d been transported straight to bed in Call me Teddy’s arms. There was no denying, he had behaved just like the perfect gentleman, even offering to call on the services of his very own physician. At the door, just before he left, he turned his head to check on her; a small gesture, but one which showed a hitherto undemonstrated tenderness.
“Thank you, Edward!” Francis’s voice came out in a whisper and she was convinced he did not hear her across such a distance. If she’d seen the cruel smile of triumph play on his lips she may have thought otherwise – about everything.
The day had been exhausting and she fell into a hot, unsettled sleep. All through the night her mind refused to leave the two sliding images of the beautiful youth and the foul beast that flashed through his skin. Each time she gripped onto his beauty, she once again caught a glimpse of the horror beneath it; skin, green and reptilian; teeth, yellowing and sharp; his raven wing hair replaced by a damp shimmering layer of sap. What filled her heart with more horror than all of what she saw was the sense of hunger, the desperate hunger that came from the boy.
A flapping of wings, close enough to her to cause a disturbance of air, pulled her from her dreams and suffered her to wake in that awful heart hammering way of the terrified. Her hand flew out for the matches and striking one, she fell back in fear as she looked upon a large moth. At other times she might have considered beautiful but now, settled on her coverlet, it stirred in her a deep and irrational fear. Fumbling for the lost matches and grabbing for the candlestick, she managed at last to get the candle lit and look upon her attacker. The moth was the size of two hands, fingers spread wide; pale white with black markings that disturbed its otherwise stunning beauty – for those markings made up the image of a pair of grinning skulls.
Instinct screamed at her to destroy the creature, to smash it to pieces or else take the candle and set light to it and watch it burn. Before she could make a decision on a mode of extermination, it turned itself around and took flight across the room, leaving by the open window. Francis stumbled out of bed, slamming the window shut behind the horrible harbinger of death.
She leant back against the wall, calming herself and trying to deny the nagging sensation of there being something still in the house – something possibly like the ‘thing’ in the cathedral. Behind the fear, there was another stirring emotion, a feeling at once natural and alien; for as much as horror wormed its way
into her mind, beauty filled her heart.
Insane as it sounded, she knew she had fallen in love.
Francis turned to look out onto the moonlit grounds. Summer was coming. The birds were making their early morning dawn chorus and a fox, followed by her cubs, loped across the garden. The beauty of it all distracted her attention away from the red glowing O hovering between the Rhododendron bushes.
*
Most goblin and fae unions are not made in love, and the offspring of these unions are usually so deformed that they are unable to live past infanthood. Nemo was different; maybe because his mother was not full fae but half human, but whatever the reason, the result of all this species confusion was Nemo.
Until he hit puberty, Nemo was an ‘ordinary’ boy with ‘funny’ ideas; destined, according to the workhouse warden, to leave this institution only to find himself incarcerated in another – a lunatic asylum, just like his mother. In a funny way, the warden’s prophesy had come true.
It had taken several miserable months working as a scrub boy in Bethlem Hospital for the Insane, known to the locals as Bedlam; cleaning out the filth and squalor from the cells of the lunatics, before he had been promoted to Doctor’s boy. It was a role which required him to basically follow behind the eminent Psychiatrist like a shadow, running errands and carrying his bag. It was because of this privileged position, that Nemo found himself in the hospital’s ballroom, caught up in a dance for the lunatics.
As the music played the dancing bodies of the patients created the disturbing parody of a society party. Nemo watched fascinated, becoming captivated by the beauty of a woman dancing to her own private tune.
Her golden hair fell below her waist; her emerald eyes flashed brilliance in the candlelight. The whole effect gave the impression that she was a creature otherworldly; trapped and terrified to the point of insanity. Nemo saw how he wasn’t the only one captivated by her stunning beauty. The Doctor looked on her with a lust that almost made him salivate. Nemo was disgusted by it; felt a defensive rage stir – because Nemo had known as soon as he saw her, that the woman was his mother.
