Bohemians of Sesqua Valley (11 page)

I sat in the yellow glow of my lantern, in my attic study, and tried to read the book; yet it was difficult to follow the lettering that would not be still beneath my moving hand. It is not easy to read faded dark etchings that subtly creep across a page as if to escape one’s touch, like insects that cannot tolerate the violation of hot human hands. Perversely, I placed my fingers over one section of rapacious ink, that ink that was a hungry blackness that did not move away but rather lifted so as to meet my flesh. Ah, what tricks may be played by the etchings of a potent wizard. How adoringly his quill spilled into wordage the story of your legend. You were a rare dream that he almost fancied was his personal perversion, his delirium of diabolic ecstasy. He saw you as some mystic whore crowned with jeweled stars, and he ached to sip the nectar of your pomegranate mouth, misunderstanding the dye with which your lips were stained. Although much mistaken of your nature, he saw enough of your hidden essence that it beguiled his imagination and debauched his dreaming. He wrote of you as one intoxicated—and that psychic inebriation exists still in his monstrous text, that sentient transcript that frolicked before my eyes and realized my hand. Oh, that wizard ink! It slipped inside my pores and spilled inside my veins, evoking you so absolutely that I beheld the foliage that screened your ancient tomb. I dreamed the slaughter within that tomb with which your ghastliness was celebrated, and I tasted gore upon my teeth. When I awakened from strange reverie I found that I had bit into my tongue and imbibed my blood—and yet it did not taste like something of mine own.

How rare, to have discovered one extraordinary testimony of your legend, recorded by the sorcerer who dreamed you. Although I am no mage, I penned a private grimoire of my own as images were revealed to me in midnight lunacy. I etched your symbols as they were burned into my brain by acidic vision, and I formed the fantastic map that showed me the way to your porphyry tomb. I hacked my way through growth and found your dwelling, and I performed the secret task by which your tomb was opened. I descended the dusty steps that led to where you reclined within your casket as an eikon of ebon stone that had been smoothed by the kisses of your acolytes. I found the ritual dagger, and although its blade was dull I used it with precision; for the sight of your empty bowl was pitiful, and the only gems I owned were my eyes, one of which I dexterously removed so as to place it in your basin. I set it there, inside that sad little space, as an outside wind moaned sorrowfully. But I was happy to hear your whispered sound, the faint vibration that slipped from your firm stone mouth. I felt that sibilant resonance touch my lips, those mortal petals that parted so as to pronounce your name; and, oh, the wonder that I knew, to see the hollow pits that were your eyes begin to smoke, to glow like cinders of some reanimated force.

The cinders in your eyes are gold and orange, and they are no longer dull like unto the mauve and ruddy porphyry of your nameless tomb. Your lips are black and dry, but not for long—for I shall tilt to you and press my mouth to thine, my mouth that I have split with the rough blade of a ritual dagger. And as I kiss you I will whisper again your name, the sound of which will echo inside your tomb, that forgotten zone where you will claim me as thy newest feast.

V

I want to kiss you, devil boy.

It’s true, I have not bothered to see you since that strange yellow day. I’ve been preoccupied with that house on Benefit Street, and the area adjacent to it. You never mentioned that wooded plot of land, so I suspect you haven’t really investigated the neighborhood of the shunned house. You have been excited by its legend—but it’s just a story for you, not something that dwells and dreams in haunted Providence. I was mesmerized as you spoke of it, that day of yellow light when you playfully described it. I could not resist going to prowl through it after we had shared our little meal. Everyone in the café on College Hill was talking about the yellow day, and we never did discover any explanation for the phenomenon. Do you remember the shadows of clouds on the pavement as we strolled to our rendezvous? Have you ever witnessed such shadows of clouds before? I’ve been aware of shifting light, of brightness darkening into shade as clouds obscured the sun; but this was different, this display we witnessed as it crept before us on the wide pale pavement—those unnerving and grotesque silhouettes of that which skulked across the sky as we inhaled the perfumed air of the yellow day. Do you remember how nervous it made you, to watch those shadows play across the surface of my eyes, so that the substance of my eyes mutated into something new and strange, enhanced by alien element? I laughed at you then, my child, and pulled you to me so that you could kiss my cloudy eyes.

It was the yellow light that made you think of the yellow house and its unfathomable aura. You had mentioned it, briefly, once or twice; but on this occasion you expounded on its history and spoke acutely of its place in the history of spectral Providence. You mentioned that Poe had often walked past it on his way to court Mrs. Whitman, or as he ventured to dream in this burying ground to which I have spirited you. Perhaps Poe sat on this very oblong slab on which we are posited. You mentioned the history of that yellow house and told the tale of how two gentlemen entered into it so as to pierce its mystery, with only one of them emerging alive and semi-sane. They had entered the residence with curious scientific expectation, but they were unnerved by the patches of mould that took on the most suggestive of shapes (perhaps like unto the curious clouds that followed us across the pavement on that yellow day). They worked at their task as their health was sapped by the titan thing that burrowed beneath the yellow house, that dead yet dreaming enigma. How enticing your voice sounded as you spoke of it, and how impossible it was for me to resist walking down College Hill after our tête-à-tête, so as to touch my hand to the yellow timber of the lower section of the house on Benefit Street. I did indeed sense something—yet it didn’t surge from the house itself but rather from the adjacent wooded vicinity. I pointed to the little spot and asked you about it, but you merely shrugged and then followed me to the black fence, behind which rose a wooded hillside. I had been instantly drawn to it because woodland had always been a kind of asylum for me from the world of men. And so I stepped through the gate of the black iron fence, onto a small patio of brick. I glanced at the growths of shrub, their large leaves, waving to me in the yellow light of that uncanny day. I saw the pathway of large flat stones, on which I walked to seven lengths of stone steps that took me deeper into the shady area. I glanced beyond my left-hand side, over a wooden fence and into the backyard of the shunned house; and I smiled at the nebulous shadow on the ground there, wishing I could dance in that darkness and drink its essence. You did not want to pause and walked ahead of me, to where the stone steps were replaced by three tilted steps of hoary wood. The pathway curved before us, and we walked upon its sod into a small grove wherein a thick old tree awaited us. How dim the place suddenly seemed, mutely tainted by the jaundiced light of the yellow day; and yet we noticed, at the same time, that other hint of illumination—the phosphorescent growth of mould that blighted the trunk of the ancient tree. How curious, the outline of that fungal stain that seemed to form a monstrous face from which infinitesimal threads of mist emanated. Something in the shape of that pale fungus drew me to it, and as I investigated its texture with the eyes that you had kissed an aroma arose, and I was intoxicated. And the tendrils of mist embraced my nostrils and entered into them, so that I could taste that of which they were composed. And that taste spread to the roof of my mouth, and down my length of tongue, to my hot throbbing throat. I laughed as I devoured. I think it was the sound of my laughter that made you flee.

But you cannot keep from me, sweet friend, for you have found me on this foggy day in Providence, and taken my hand, and kissed my eyes. I have passed my fingers through your black hair, to the two raised tufts that you had stained crimson and shaped so as to resemble horns. But oh, my love, I will show you something far more satanic than your pose. Do you see it there on the corner of my mouth, one little slice of fungi that awaits you? Come, press your lips to mine and let my tongue guide yours to that little shred of doom, and then swallow it and join me in my ecstasy of horror.

I want to kiss you, one last time.

VI

We sat, we writers, around our table, satisfied by our Italian meal, lingering over ice cream and coffee. Howard, our eldest member, had wanted us to gather at Angelo’s on Federal Hill, his favorite restaurant; he loved it because it had been in business since 1924, and thus was part of the past era that so mesmerized him and with which he was in love. Having happily devoured his three dishes of ice cream, Howie rose to his feet to toast us with his coffee cup and then pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

“My new prose-poem,” he announced, “for the little book that I am writing for Larry, whom some of you know. I call this new piece ‘Cinctured by Bright Winds,’ and it is based on a dream that I recently suffered. I say ‘suffered’ because this dream was dark and potent with danger, and yet one could not call it nightmare because there was nothing in it that was solid or clearly seen. It was all daemonic hint, swaying shadow and muted sound that encircled me like some phantom enclosure. It felt almost like dark vision, this dream, like creeping fate that crawled to me, full of promise and presage. Here is my little expression of it.”

Howie’s voice, when he talked, was very high-pitched, almost comically so; but when he read his work that voice transformed and deepened in tone, and its effect was amazing. His voice became musical and perfectly matched the lyricism of his prose. I listened, entranced, and when again I brought the coffee cup to my mouth its liquid was cold. A new party of people entered the establishment, holding the door open for each other so that a vigorous wind blew in from the street and tossed some of our paper napkins onto the floor. That wind was like a herald and we obeyed, pulling out our wallets and piling bills with which to pay our fare. And then we rose as one and followed Howard out onto Atwells Avenue, into the wind and below the street lights.

Compelled to lead the way, I walked past Howie and down the avenue, suddenly turning into an alley and paying no heed to the protests of my fellows. Old Howie was suddenly beside me and pressing his hand onto my shoulder. “Surely you’ve been down here before,” I told him, “what with your endless night-time explorations of this old town. No? That surprises me, you having lived in Providence for most of your long life. This Little Italy district has many old world charms, and here is one of them.” I stopped before a door that seemed composed of very old wood, the frame of which was slightly askew, like something one may find in a funhouse. “Come, gentlemen, follow me and meet our local Strega.”

I led the way across the threshold and into the crowded showroom, where fantastic things were on display. The place was lit by lantern light, and as I turned to wink at Howard I saw that his white hair, which had become disheveled by his running of nervous hands through it, almost glowed with the effect of the light behind it. The elderly fellow was in need of a haircut, and three lengthy strands of hair stood erect, making it look as though the poet was wearing a triple crown composed of pallid metal. I could not comprehend the look of distaste that was evident on his lean face.

“I thought you would adore this place,” I scolded him. “Your beloved past is here, in every corner.”

He sneered. “I see little more than squalor. Filth is everywhere. Look at those wisps of web. And there is a peculiar smell, like stale patchouli oil. Very unpleasant, this place.”

“It’s your racial snobbishness raising its snout again, that is all. Much as you adore Italian cuisine, you have always spoken of Italy’s people as a squalid race, dark and dirty. It’s too absurd; they are such beautiful creatures.” And then I espied the tiny vecchia signora who observed us from one corner of the room. She smiled, as if intuiting that she belied my expression of her race as beauteous—for she was not pretty, being deformed by incredible age and ugliness. Howard, who seemed to share Wilde’s distaste for unsightly humans, turned away and gazed at an object that hung upon one wall. I squinted at him, curious about the sudden noise that had erupted from his throat. I stepped to him and followed his upward gaze to the crux ansata that had been fastened to the wall.

La Strega crept beside me and spoke with raspy voice. “It was discovered in one very old church, perhaps you remember the story of what was found there just before its demolition in 1992? Perhaps the signore are familiar with the story, eh?”

“I am,” piped Howard, “from personal investigation. Some of you may remember my long poem, ‘Dark Church on Federal Hill.’ It was about that place, and what I found on the night I stole into it. I saw many queer things, some of which I have happily forgotten. But I’ve not forgotten that.” He pointed to the ankh. “It seemed preposterous, that an ancient Egyptian symbol of Life should be there, in that place that felt so deceased—and diseased. Gawd, the dry still air, like that of a tomb, and the dirt and darkness everywhere! Yah, the morbid art on the sooty panes of the apsidal windows!”

“Captivating darkness,” the ancient woman said, nodding her head, “especially in the upper reaches, that troubled lair. Did you climb the spiral staircase? To the tower chamber? Can you recall the air in that small room—its hot-house vapor, like reptile’s breath? Aha! The sinister light that trembles in your eyes as you see into your past. Did you run then, down the staircase and through the nave? Had you noticed the blackened panes of the large windows, whereon saints should have been displayed? With what had those windows been stained? Not soot merely. Methinks they had been touched by outer gloom and the being that fumbled therein. Portions of those windows have been pilfered by things that walk like men. Some of the windows were shattered just before the demolition. Their sooty shards have an allure for some who know the old and secret ways. There are some with a talent to raise the spectre of that foreboding church with sound and movement. Did you sense that spectre as you stood within that place? Most say that it has fled, to the stars and beyond them. Some whisper that it left a certain monstrous aftermath, an eidolon of blemish and soot that can be conjured.”