Gathered Dust and Others (17 page)

The dark trees of the endless forest stood like quiet sentinels that watched me on my path, and as the way began to bend and drop toward a lower region I reached out for one nearby trunk, so as to support my balance; but it startled me, as I pressed my palm against the dendroid form, how unsubstantial the creature seemed, as if it could have been an element of a dream through which I wandered.  As I contemplated this, the pale sphere that was my attendant shot before me, followed by pale winged things, some of which reached for my hair and tugged me on my way, out of the forest at last and toward a field where slim black stones protruded from the ground.  It was only then that I became aware of sensation, as an experience of chilliness enveloped my flesh.  The ground on which I stood took on an aspect of solidness, its rough texture unpleasant beneath my naked foot.  The sky above me was black as pitch, but as I peered into its vaulted expanse my sphere of light floated just before my face and pressed against my eyes; and then it drifted from me, into the midnight sky, where it transformed into a bloated, fungoid moon that cast decayed light upon the slabs that tilted above the surrounding soil.  I touched one slab and tried to read the words that had been etched thereon when the silence of the place was ruptured by a sound with which I was somewhat familiar; for in my tower chamber there had been a collection of bells of various sizes, and I would sometimes entertain myself by lifting them and listening to their clangor.  What I now felt on the chilly air and heard within ear’s depth was a deep peal, as of from some distant mammoth bell; and wasn’t it queer how I could almost see the vibrations of the sound in the air before me and feel them push into my flesh, my eyes, my tingling mouth?  And when I followed that sound it was soon accompanied by a lighter trembling of noise – and this, too, I recognized, for one of my possessions in my chamber had been an antique music box that, once wound, played a lilting melody that often ushered me toward slumber.  The din that now reverberated in dark air was a similar sound, yet enhanced and weighty. 

I followed the enchanting sound and espied the rectangles of golden light that proved to be apertures of a tower that was not unlike mine own.  It was from this edifice that the music sounded, music that was a lure and summoned me to climb through one golden aperture, into a bright room.  I stepped onto a smooth and polished floor and saw the being that burned beside me, a figure that resembled me in that it had limbs and torso.  I saw that the room’s illumination came from the creature’s upheld hands, which burned with yellow fire.  I saw the others of its kind who stood dead still, their flaming hands providing the light by which the chamber’s other occupants moved in dance to the music that was performed by figures crowded upon a platform.  One of the dancers moved to me, and I marveled at her whiteness, at the artificial wings that had been sewn into her gown, at the touch of her gloved hands as they wove their fingers through my hair.  I marveled at the reek that emanated from my new companion, a heavy stench such as had never assaulted my nostrils; and yet, as much as it violated my senses, there was an aspect of it that I found comforting.  I was led into the dance and embraced by a fellow in motley who had lost most of the flesh that had once covered his visage, and I laughed at the sense of grim pleasure that emanated from his too-wide grin.  Another winged woman in white drifted to me, and I wondered why her feet seemed to float just above the gleaming floor.  My heart trembled violently when I beheld the white book that she clasped, the book that was opened to me.  I stood, spellbound, as the woman moved the pointed nail of one long talon into my finger, and I nearly fainted at the smell of the dark stuff that began to spill from my punctured flesh.  Her hand guided my own to press my wounded finger to the clean white page, and when I took my hand away I saw the insignia of my print upon the shimmering paper.

I was still gazing downward when the white book was removed from me, and thus I saw the image on the floor of polished glass; and I knew that what I was seeing was my own reflection, of which I had read but never witnessed, for there had been neither window nor mirror within my tower chamber.  I fell to my knees and touched my hand to my smooth likeness, and I marveled at how I was a thing of iridescent whiteness like unto the sphere of light that had once been my constant companion.  I laughed to see how thin the texture of my face had become, thus revealing the skull beneath my mask of flesh.  I knew that I would soon join the throng of friendly ghouls that crowded around me, and this knowledge so enchanted me that I raised my face and moaned in ecstasy, at which signal the others gathered ‘round me and offered me their ghastly hands, or that which had once been hands.  And I hummed in accompaniment to the orchestra’s macabre waltz as my compatriots knelt around me and welcomed me within their carrion caress.

Serenade of Starlight

I see the stars have spelt your name in the sky.

–Boy George

I.

We walked arm in arm beneath the humped moon, and I grinned at Stanley’s frowning face.  He held a piece of paper to an arched streetlamp.  “She said it was around here somewhere, at the top of the hill.  Curse the woman for not coming with us.”  I watched him search the crooked street that twisted before us, saw his frown deepen.  Pushing him against the ancient brick of the nearest building, I took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and placed one thin cylinder between his lips.  He lit up, and then he coughed.

“This is certainly a charming section of your antique town,” I told him.  “One can sense within one’s soul its agedness.  Why, even the hoary darkness seems more venerable than ordinary shade.”

Stanley groaned wearily.  “Please, Willy, don’t wax poetic.  It gives me gas when you talk like an Oscar Wilde fairy tale.”

Leaning next to him, pressing my back to the cool brick, I gazed toward heaven.  “Ah, dear boy, that is not a fairy tale moon.  It is the rapacious moon of Salome, casting its edacious light upon the doomed, the dead.”

“And the dizzy,” he rudely answered; but I shrugged off the implied put-down and took from my pocket a gold compact and tube of lip gloss.  Stanley pushed away and began looking into the windows of the buildings that lined the street.  “Here,” he suddenly shouted, a noise that echoed in the vacant street.  I went to him and looked at the small sign above a door.  I could hardly make out the dark letters.

“You’re certain this is the place?” I asked hesitantly.

“Of course it is.  There’s Eve’s sculpture.”  I joined him and squinted through the murky glass of the display window.  The work in question stood one foot in height.  Composed of smooth gray clay, it depicted two nude and hairless creatures standing near an
outré
skeletal tree.  The human figures were squat, their bald heads oddly formed.  Their facial features were amorphous and amphibian.  Each of the tree’s sinister branches ended in a serpent’s head.

“In the image of Frog created He them,” I chuckled.  As if in answer to my jest, an eerie wind echoed in the gables above.  Gazing through the cloudy window, I thought I could discern a faint illumination within, and shadows that crept through deeper darkness.  I went to the door and turned its chilly knob.  A fragrance of antiquity, of dust and darkness, wafted toward my painted face.

I entered in, followed by my companion.

We left somber night behind and walked into a different kind of twilight.  The glow within the shop was misty and muted; it fell on the shop’s items with a kind of ethereal grace.  It seemed, this light, as old as were most of the antiquities upon which it rested.  It was warm and primordial on my eyes.  How oddly it draped my tingling flesh.  My lungs breathed it in, deeply, and I imagined that I could taste dead aeons of forgotten time.

“I’m gonna look around.  If I find any cool jewelry, I’ll howl,” Stanley told me, and I raised my hand in regal reply.  I moved past pillars of brittle books and piles of furniture, ran my fingers across the dust that covered a brass lamp and smoothed the residue of dust into my mauve hair.  I looked at Stanley, who stood some little distance from me examining a piece of Egyptian statuary.  Were we alone is this forlorn place?  Was there no proprietor to deplete us of our gold?  I moved past a wall of faded photographs, watched by a myriad of dead eyes.

Coming on a small alcove, I stepped within it and stood before a curious display, gasping in delight at the armlets of white gold that sat on beds of purple velvet.  It was the necklace of black pearls that made me shout.  It took no especial sensitivity to beauty to fully appreciate their unearthly splendor.  How queerly they caught the obscure light of the little room, to catch and transpose it to a different order of spectrum.  I felt its weird reflection on my eyes, felt it sink beneath those jellied orbs and find my brain.  Taking my eyes from the necklace, I studied the statuette that sat on a brick of obsidian glass.  The thing was an image of some wild monster of nightmare, a winged mammoth that squatted on humanoid legs, whose pulpy tentacle face wore an aspect of age-old evil.  How strange, that this entity seemed vaguely familiar, like something witnessed in some pocket of forgotten memory.

“Entrancing, isn’t he?”

I turned and looked at the handsome young man who stood near me.  I had a kinky thing for those skinhead types, and he was a beauty, with an aura that hinted of danger.  I gazed into his aqua eyes.

“As entrancing as sin,” I simpered.  “He seems to be awaiting some secret thing.”

“Perhaps he waits for you.”  He reached toward a shelf that had been built into the wall and took from it a large pale seashell.  How fondly he held it, how tenderly he put its cavity to my ear.  “What do you hear?”

“An echo that mocks the sound of waves on sand,” I replied quickly; then paused as another sound, a dim vibration of humming, crept into my ear.  I frowned, and the sound faded.  Perhaps it had been naught but imagination.  I smiled as the young man studied my face with fascinating eyes; and then I felt a taint of unease as his wide eyes seemed to darken.  I turned to look again at the string of black pearls.

“You seem hypnotized by that necklace.”

“It’s exactly what I’m looking for.  I’m going to a ball and need a bit of sparkle, something simple yet stylish.  Those onyx gems would do perfectly.  But I sense that they are not available.”

“They’re not for sale, this case is for display only; but I could loan them to you.”

“My dear boy, you can’t be serious.  You know nothing of me.”

Stepping nearer, he spoke with soft low voice.  “I know that you’re a creature of fancy, a dreamer and a poet.  Wings of vision have brushed your brain.  You’ve seen things in slumber that you but vaguely remember, hazy things that fill you with fanciful fear and curious longing.  No matter the society you find yourself in, you are always an outsider.”

I arched an eyebrow.  With whom had this gentleman been talking?  “We’ve met before?”

“Not in the waking world,” was his enigmatic reply.  His thick lips formed an esoteric smile.  Everything about him seemed suddenly familiar, yet strangely so.  I watched his hands reach for the necklace, and quaked slightly as he walked behind me and placed the string of pearls around my throat.  His solid body, with its odd sweetly sour aroma, leaned heavily against mine as he fastened a clasp.  How cold were the hands that touched my skin, how colder still the onyx gems.

“Will?”  Stanley entered the alcove and grimaced at the scene before him.  I felt deliciously wicked.

“What do you think, my dear?” I asked, fingering the pearls.

“Oh, very nice.  How clever of you to find a color that matches your soul.”

“Do they make me look monarchal?”

    “Every inch a queen.  All you need now is a crown.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” whispered the young proprietor, who vanished for a long moment in which Stanley gave me a naughty look, which I superbly ignored.  When the young man returned, I gasped in wonder at the object in his hands.  “It’s been in my family for generations.  As you can see, it’s composed of the same material as the other items.  You’ll notice an identical pictorial motif, those curious aquatic creatures.”  He spoke this in his low, entrancing voice, never taking his eyes from me.  I sensed that his every word was pregnant with hidden meaning that I was somehow supposed to comprehend; but what he was trying to communicate I could not fathom, despite the urgency in his eyes and voice.

I reached for the tiara of white gold, shivered at the chilliness of its surface, studied intently its bizarre motifs.  I fancied that I had witnessed their likenesses before, in that elusive pocket of memory that had begun to beckon in my brain.  I brought the diadem to my dome.

“It must have gotten damaged in shipping,” said Stanley.  “Look at how it’s bent.  It’ll never fit.”    He proved correct; and yet, as I placed the magnificent work upon my head I was overwhelmed with uncanny sensation.  It was similar to what I felt when entering my grandmother’s old house.  Certain smells and shapes brought to vivid life long-buried memories, smells and tastes.  As the golden tiara pressed against my head, I sensed things both alien and familiar.  Oh, how its cold metal seemed to sink beneath my temple and chill my brain.   Shutting eyes, I seemed to hear once more the echo of song that I had detected when the seashell had been placed against my ear.  Softly, I hummed the semi-melody.  I sensed the movement of forceful water and swayed to ebb and flow.  I tilted and began to fall.

He held me in strong arms, and his unblinking eyes seemed triumphant.  Removing myself from his embrace, I took the thing of gold from my head and studied its eccentric shape.  Certainly, the large and curiously irregular periphery seemed intended for a head of freakish design.  However, the rim did not, as Stanley had suggested, appear bent or damaged – its metal was too perfectly smooth, unmarred in any way.  I turned to the silent fellow and handed him the tiara, then pulled out my wallet, from which I took my photo I.D. and a twenty-dollar bill.  “This is to assure my return of your wonderful necklace.  Stanley, this magnificent young fellow is allowing me to borrow these onyx gems for the ball.  Isn’t he divine?”