Gathered Dust and Others (18 page)

The young man took my hand and kissed it, then waved away my offering.  “My payment is the joy of seeing you smile, and knowing that my grandmother’s pearls will adorn a creature of exceptional beauty.  Wear them to your ball, and then return.  I’ll be here, awaiting you.”

I gazed into those blue eyes that seemed to contain some wisdom of the ages.  I could look into their beauty forever.  I could not pull myself away.  Grabbing my sleeve, Stanley muttered thanks and dragged me to the door.

II.

Waves of incoherent sound washed over me.  He held the large sea conch in his steady hand.  As I beheld its circular aperture, I felt myself fall into its swirling obscurity and become one with cryptic darkness.  Around me throbbed the sound of storm, of water, of electric air.  Curling shadow stalked my soul, a blackness I could taste.  The ebb and flow of sound became a riot of vociferation; and underneath that noise I heard echoed one fantastic name:

Y’ha-nthlei.

I whispered the strange, the beautiful word as his thick lips pressed against my throat.  Not closing my eyes, I stared steadfastly at the idol of chiseled stone that wavered in black space, the texture of which glistened, the eyes of which gleamed wetly.  His tongue at my throat played with the pearls against my neck, and as he kissed those midnight gems they broke free and dropped into his hand.  Madly, I laughed as he pitched them into sky, and I howled as they blossomed like aphotic blooms in some sunken city; a city of pillars, of gigantic steps that led to some monolithic crypt.  I convulsed with ecstasy as a liquid voice from beyond the sculptured mass of door called my name.

“Willy?”

I awakened to the loveliest pair of eyes I had ever seen.  Indeed, the entire face was composed of breathtaking beauty; not merely the loveliness of youth, but rather a radiance that seemed ageless.  She brushed her auburn hair from the smooth and perfect complexion of her face and smiled with full rose-tinted lips. 

“You asked me to wake you up before I left for the studio.”

Wearily, I stirred beneath the bedclothes.  “Ah, yes, darling.  What time
is
it?”

“Three in the afternoon.  Fucking Stanley had you out all night.  Whatever were you two about?”

“Well, he had to see
The Fags
reunion gig, that punk band whose singer was one of the first scene freaks to die of AIDS.  Then he led me in search of your friend’s shop.”   I threw to her a significant look.  Playfully, she licked her lips.

“What’d you think of Ian?”

“Is that his name?  I never asked.  My child, he made me so dizzy I nearly swooned.  In fact, I
did
swoon!  Actually, it was rather peculiar, for I seemed to almost remember him from somewhere…”

“From your dreams, perhaps.”

“My wet dreams, certainly.  And speaking of liquid dreams, I had a most peculiar one about your curious piece of art.”

“Really, you’ve been dreaming about
The Vault of Time
?  I’m flattered.”

“What exactly did it represent, some sacrilegious motif?”

She climbed into bed with me and pressed her bosom to my chest.  “The odd fact is,” she whispered, her face close to mine, “ it’s something I saw in recurring dream, a vision I had during an organic high.”

“My dear – narcotics!”

“Purely organic, bitch.  Don’t be such a prude.  If you’re a good girl I’ll share with you before you leave our old town and return to mad city life.”  I batted my eyes at her, then pressed my hand against a sudden pain that pierced my head.  “What?”

“My head feels rather queer, dear.  Have you any aspirin?”  She took my head into her hands and softly stroked.  In her low and lovely voice she hummed a tune that seemed familiar.  My flesh prickled.  I gazed into her eyes, those golden eyes flecked with green and blue.  Bending to her, I bit her lower lip and began to unbutton her blouse.  Moving her mouth to my ear, she breathed into it her strange song.  I fingered the dark nipples of her breasts and imagined that I could feel my skull expand with shifting shape, with delicious pain.  Her fingers combed my flowing hair.  Shutting eyes, I dreamed of Ian, and suddenly it was his hand that fondled me.  I watched his other hand twist the necklace that I wore until it broke.  Catching the pearls that spilled into his hand, he tossed them above us, and I watched them form a cluster of midnight stars that glimmered as darkly as an idol’s jeweled eyes.  Cosmic wind rose in melody, accompanying the song that was blown into my ears by hungry mouth.  It was a song to chill starlight, and as I listened  I saw the dead stars crawl across the sky and form an elder sign.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Eve whispered.  I smiled but did not open my eyes.  Lost is trance, I sank into bed.  When again I woke, the light of day had departed.  Staggering into the bathroom, I washed my numb face.  My head ached, and as I looked at my reflection I saw a curious thing.  My face seemed subtly altered, as did my dome.  I lifted a strand of yellow hair, loathing the feel of it, the sickly color of it.  Searching Eve’s toiletries, I found the razor.  How cool it felt against my scalp.  My skull still ached with dull pain, my eyesight was blurred, but I did not care.  I filled my hands with warm water and washed it over my newly-shaven head.  I dried my dome and studied it in the glass.  How wonderful it felt.  Leaning nearer to the mirror, I studied the shape of my altered eyes.

Her reflection joined mine.  She smoothed powder over my scalp, a strangely scented substance.  “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.  I suspected that you were linked, ever since you first came to visit staid old Stanley.  It’s fantastic how we sometimes know our own.  Your transition is occurring more quickly than mine, thanks to Ian’s art.  It’s apparent in my eyes alone, which are changing in color and shape.  But I’ve too much bloody human in my genes.   Ian tells me to be patient, because he says we have all time.  He’s been waiting for you, dreaming of you.  It’s cosmic fate, all of it!”

“Honey, whatever are you babbling about?” 

“We share a genetic history, William.  We are of the Deep.  You’re confused, I know, but sensations are swimming to your cells and awakening memory.  Ian has told me much that I can’t comprehend.  He’s taken me to Innsmouth, where once we thrived.”

“And how did he know that you are of this culture, or whatever it is of which we are a part?”

“Because of my art.  And because of where we first met.  Let me show you the place, now. “  And so she dressed me and drove us to a derelict section of the ancient town.  I could smell the nearby sea as she walked me through  what had once been a park, and as we approached an alcove I could hear the sound of falling water.  I beheld the tilted columns that composed a fountain, where water trickled from apertures in the stone.  Beyond the dripping columns was a wall of water.  Slipping off her shoes, and indicating that I should do likewise, Eve led me into the shallow pool.  As we passed beneath the columns I noticed that upon their surface had been chiseled symbols that were somehow familiar. 

She stopped before the granite wall and watched its flow of water.  “This is where I met Ian, when I first came to this antique town.  I came here and felt – I don’t know, a sense of destiny.  I had been sculpting for a few years, had a sketchbook filled with dream imagery.  You can imagine how stunned I was to find this place, for it corresponded to something I had beheld in recurring dream.  It was built in the spring of 1925, at a time when artists and lunatics around the world shared a singular vision:  of a city beneath the sea, of the slumbering titan housed therein.”

I walked toward the wall and let its liquid flow wash over my hand.  Shutting eyes, I saw the face that had been carved upon the surface that I touched.  I saw it as living entity.  I felt my knees bend in supplication.  Oh, my head, how it writhed with numbing pain.  I felt my skull stretch with shaping.  Kneeling beside me, Eve kissed my throat.  I looked past her, to where Ian stood watching us.  How magnificent he looked against the background of dark sky and dim starlight.  Ah, those cosmic gems, those stars that moved so as to form archaic cosmic symbols. 

Ian reached into his shoulder bag and brought out the tiara of white gold.  I trembled as he placed it on my head.  It was a perfect fit.

Graffito Flow

We stood, Phillippe Amarinth and I, in a gallery, looking at renditions of the Christ. I could tell from my friend’s expression that he had no especial admiration for the artwork. Phillippe was a connoisseur of death imagery, and he was hoping to find at this particular show a feast of sacred gloom. I turned to gaze at him as he laughed out loud while gawking at one rather shabby attempt at art.

“Here we have the Christ as some sort of Immaculate Masturbator. Really, that heart with its tawdry crown of thrones should be a phallus. Bah! Is that camp expression the face of one who has suffered ultimate indignation and torment? Is there any shadow of awful extinction, any trace of the profound poetry of the Lord’s magnificent sacrifice?”

His questions did not seek for answers from myself, and so I remained silent. Leaving the blue light of the main gallery we entered a room that was bathed in a crimson hue. The walls were painted red, and upon one surface there was a mess of painted lines and squiggles, looking as if some infant had gone wild with a can of spray paint. I chuckled at this sorry attempt at art and turned to leave but then I saw my companion’s face, the eyes from which a teardrop gently fell.

“This is amazing,” he whispered, holding up a hand as if to reach for some sacred object. “Don’t you see it, dear boy? Look again.”

Sighing, I turned and gazed at the mess on the wall; and slowly I began to discern a design, an image. My friend leaned near me and whispered in my ear.

“Yes, the more deeply one looks, the more he reveals himself. That madness of dripping circles becomes the lowered head, a head weighed by the sins of the world. And those sprays on either side, you see, are nothing less than the outstretched arms of crucifixion. It is almost nothing more than symbolic, and yet he is there in all of his tragic glory. Those drips—you see how they form into pellets of blood? My god—my god.”

And then he shuddered—from ecstasy or horror I could not tell—and I followed as he turned and fled from that place, rushing through the main gallery and finding our way outside. Stopping to rest against a wall, Phillippe placed an Egyptian cigarette into his mouth and lit up, ignoring my soft coughing and disapproving frown. It was twilight, and the full moon, tainted orange, sat low and large in the semi-darkness.

Taking one final puff, my friend flicked his cigarette into the gutter, linked his arm with mine, and led me strolling down the sidewalk. “Do you find it sad, Russell, the lack of originality in today’s culture, the lack of authenticity? Now, that gallery is reputed to be the showplace of radical Bohemian artwork, but did you see anything really daring? The clientele of cool seem lost in some kind of time warp. Did you notice that pale young child holding tightly to his second-hand copy of Kerouac and dressed in black? What a sad cliché. What a poverty of poetical imagination. The entire scene, from the artists to their art, is merely a copy of something else. That’s why I like you, dear boy.”

“You like me because I’m very young and very ugly.”

“Yes, I see the beauty in your bestial face, the wonder dancing in your wild green eyes. And I see your unaffected devotion to death, and to its manifestations. You were the first child that I ever picked up in a cemetery. I was instantly attracted to your oddness, an allurement that has made you such a hit in that freak show you travel with.”

“I find a peacefulness in places of death, and strange joy in images of the tomb. But I have to admit that that spray painting or whatever the hell it was we saw tonight got to me.”

“Yes, it was unique. That’s what I look for in art, yet seldom find. I saw it in Pilon’s tomb for Henry II and his Catherine, in those unpretentious figures of their nude corpses, those recumbent marble
gisants.
I saw it in Friedrich’s
Abbey in an Oak
Forest,
a work that is the epitome of eternal and melancholy extinction. It’s been compared to Ruisdael’s
Jewish
Cemetery,
but there’s no comparison. Ruisdael is all abundant movement, the wind in the trees, the rolling clouds pregnant with electrical life. In Friedrich there is nought but dry and lonely death.”

We had continued our stroll, and I saw that we were walking down Half Moon Street, on the deserted edge of the downtown area. The full moon was a little higher in the sky, and far more pale. Finally, we reached the end of pavement, pausing before a field of dirt. A figure sat some distance from us, bent and digging with one finger in the ground. The silent night was haunted by her low, uncanny singing.

We slowly approached her, and my friend leaned to me so as to whisper, “She draws in the dirt, like Christ. Perhaps she is full of parables.” When we were three feet from her, Phillipe squatted and smiled. “Good Madonna, we have come to learn our future.”

She had not stopped her soft low humming. Glancing at my companion for one moment, she graced him with an uncanny smile, then began to move her finger in the dirt. Phillippe’s expression became very serious as he watched the creation of her art, and I moved closer so as to see the moonlit portrait that formed beneath the creature’s moving hand. I gasped at the likeness of the portrait: it was my friend’s face, formed in simple lines; and yet it was devoid of life. It could have been a death’s mask made of dirt. Phillippe’s breath issued heavily from his moving mouth. Suddenly, he thrust his hand onto the ground and wiped the face away, then reached into a pocket and brought out a soiled handful of cash, which he tossed onto the ruined portrait. The woman stopped her humming, gazed at my friend’s face, reached for that face with a hand that moved its rough flesh across Phillippe’s smooth skin.