Bohemians of Sesqua Valley (15 page)

“So beautiful,” Simon intoned as he held the yellow flowers, “and so poisonous. I have a recorder made of laburnum wood, beautifully carved and with an amazing tone. I use it when I want to summon something particularly noxious.”

Monique blinked as she gazed about them. “The light is different here, weirdly diffused.”

“Everything is different here, nymph; we are near to the vicinity of the shadowed realm, to its barrier of dream. Manly wanted to remain close to home, and so he built his cabin in close proximity to the wraithlike rim. Come along, we’re almost there.”

They followed the narrow pathway together, side by side, and then she saw the little cabin in its charming setting. Monique could not suppress a gasp of joy as her eyes drank in the beauty of the scene, the remarkable loveliness of the tall trees that hanged their branches high above the small residence, the gorgeous beds of unfamiliar and fragrant flowers that surrounded the wooden structure.

“Welcome to my demesne,” the beast uttered.

The young woman fell onto the soft ground and sighed at how warm and wonderful the earth felt upon which she knelt. Like one intoxicated, she clawed into the soil and brought handfuls of it to her face and hair, rubbing the substance onto her flesh. She looked around and espied the object near to her, the sight of which made her cry out in amazement. Crawling on hands and knees to the bust, she embraced it, kissed it. “You have an amazing talent. There is a weird kind of sentience to your work, as if this were not a creation of stone at all but rather the fossilization of a once-living thing.”

“That is none of mine. My brother had the artistic hand.”

“Your brother? William Davis Manly? What a remarkable fellow he must have been. And I’ve seen the brother to this bust, on the mountain.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“There’s an identical replication of this work half-way up the mountain. Surely you’ve seen it.”

“We children of shadow never trespass onto the surface of Khroyd’hon.”

She stared at him, confused. “That is the dream name for Selta. No, I’ve never seen this other thing. But whatever it is, it’s not the work of William.”

“I tell you they’re identical, in every way. Obviously the work of the same artist. Manly visited Mount Selta, undoubtedly. Why can’t you walk on the mountain?”

“We do not. There are zones in the valley that disturbed us if we enter them. I’ve walked on the mountain twice, in aid of magick, and twice I have severely regretted it. I shall not repeat the error.” He watched as she petted the sculpted work, and something in the way she fondled it annoyed him. “But come, you wanted to see inside our home. Rise to your feet and follow me.”

The woman did as she was commanded and entered into the cabin with her host. The rooms were small and cluttered with fantastic debris. One wall was completely covered with over one-hundred flutes, all of curious design, which rested on fittings that had been fastened to the wall. Stepping into the bedroom, Monique sensed a powerful and morbid sorrow in the atmosphere, and using her arcane inclinations she deciphered that this was the place where the beast wept. She could smell his spilled tears on the pillow as she sat upon the bed. “More than brother.”

“What’s that you say?” Simon sat next to her, and his face wore an expression she had never seen it bear before. He did not protest as Monique took his hand and touched it to the pillow.

“Manly was more than brother to you. Your sorrow, your aching loneliness—my god, how you work to conceal that aspect of your psyche from everyone. You play at being cruel and monstrous, a masquerade that you have mastered. But it’s mostly nothing more than a fiendish mask, a toy of personality with which you torment others. So as to shield the torment of your soul.”

“I have no soul, nymph.”

“Oh, Simon,” she answered, placing one hand on his brow and the other at his chest, “you have more than most.”

“Nay, do not touch…” But he could not continue, for she had discovered his secret, and now she touched it with her witchery, which he had enhanced through his instructing her in alchemy. He shuddered and shut his eyes, and soon the hands that touched him became, in fantasy, the hands of another, of one whom he had loved and lost.

Hours passed, and the wan moon lifted itself over the twin peaks of the white mountain. A nude figure emerged from the cabin and stretched in the pallid beams that filtered through branches onto ground. The young woman saw how one beam fell directly onto the goatish bust, the sight of which entranced her. She saw the small creatures that had surrounded that bust and were singing to it, the small frogs with faces of human infants. Going to them, she knelt before the sculpture, allowed the wee creatures to kiss her hands as she joined in their song. There came, from beneath the ground on which she knelt, a growing pounding, as if some gigantic heart beneath her had awakened with preternatural life. Monique listened as the freakish amphibians began to chant, in thin high voices, to something in the woodland, some thing with which Monique had linked to, subconsciously. She listened to the strange and potent ululations that issued from the infant faces, listened until she had learned their language enough so that she could clearly speak it. Her voice, strong and clear, sang to the deity of woodland.

III

The small dark man emerged from the woodland and walked the road that led to Sesqua Town. Dressed in a suit of simple design, he held an undersized suitcase in one hand and a tote bag in the other. The morning sun shone in his dark eyes, those eyes that twinkled with humor as they glanced at the surrounding sights. He smiled at the quaint sight of the little business area, with its old establishments and sidewalks of wooden planks, and then turned to walk up a rising road that took him to a stately mansion of mammoth proportions. Climbing the steps of the porch, he found the front door open; and so he stepped through the threshold and entered a broad hallway, where interesting figures sat on antique walnut hall tables, and where fascinating paintings hanged on the walls. He stopped before one large painting and drank in its curious scene.

“Fantastic, isn’t it?” The dark man turned to acknowledge the youthful figure at his side. “It’s an original Pickman. There’s no signature, but the style is unmistakable, and he did other renditions of the same scene. Are you here to see the shop?”

“No, I’ve come to rent a room.”

“Ah, then I’ll introduce you to Leonidas. He’s just here in the show room.” He walked toward the double doors that, when opened, revealed a very large room that was crammed with antiques and curios. Two figures sat on an antique English oak settee made in 1780 and examined a large tome that rested on a beautiful hand-carved mahogany coffee table with white marble top. The taller of the two wrinkled his nose as if at an unpleasant odor as they took their eyes from the volume and regarded the dark man. “This fellow would like a room.”

Leonidas Creighton, arising and stepping to the stranger, was in his usual attire of black suit and caped black overcoat. His smooth white hair fell past his ears and just above his shoulders. Had he smiled, he would have revealed twin rows of serrated teeth; but Leonidas did not smile, for something in the nature of the outsider disconcerted him. “How long will you be staying?”

“That is undetermined.” The dark man’s voice was low and contained an undertone of buzzing that was quite peculiar; but the sound of it reminded Simon Gregory Williams of something he had encountered while investigating the mythic woodlands of Vermont, and he rose from the sofa and joined the others.

“I am Simon Williams,” he said, bowing slightly, “and I welcome you to Sesqua Valley. Pray, what brings you to our little outpost?”

The dark man returned Simon’s courteous bow. “Basil Scratch, your servant. I’ve come to dream visions of Khroyd’hon and enter, psychically, the valley’s shadowed realm. Merely as an experiment, of course.”

“You are quite informed about our realm,” Simon responded, in a low voice that was laced with menace.

“I am a keen occultist. I know that you prefer to keep the valley’s secrets to yourselves, and the mountain is indeed potent in shielding your dominion from most of the outside world; but there is another Outside realm, between the stars and beyond dimension, and in that place the valley is well known indeed.”

Leonidas stepped a little nearer to the dark man and peered into the fellow’s black eyes. “Ah, you are from Outside. Quite so. Yes, I see the void reflected in your orbs. This is a singular visitation. Cyrus, show Mr. Scratch to the Yellow Room. Your privacy, sir, is assured.”

“My humble thanks.” Basil bowed once more, and then followed Cyrus out of the room.

Simon’s mouth curled into a snarl. “Pah! That fellow smells like a goat den. Most curious, this. We shall keep a sharp eye on this researcher of our homeland. Penetrate the shadowed realm? Preposterous!”

“Calm yourself. His trick is obvious.”

“What trick is that?”

“Mr. Scratch was far too bold and outrageous in explaining his visit here. It was naught but theatrics, overly dramatic so as to conceal his authentic reason for invading Sesqua Valley. Oh, he is without doubt an occultist of some kind—but he is much more than he lets on. We shall go along with his charade, and we will study his every move until we blast his mystery. Don’t scowl so. This may prove quite entertaining.”

“Were you one of us, you would not find it so. You like to see me squirm, Creighton. The idea of my authority being thwarted pleases your sick and fiendish mind.”

The other fellow bowed. “Coming from the valley’s supreme fiend, that is a delicious compliment. But you’re mistaken. I have always supported you, however playful I may be at times, however wanton. True enough, I am and shall always be an outsider. But that is my lot wherever I have settled. I am quite singular, and my unnatural existence has had many dark moments. I have been condemned and hunted, thrown into prisons and pits, reviled and repulsed. It is only here that I have found the facility to exist as I am, in all my vileness; and that is why I have stayed here for eight decades, and will stay for eight more. The valley is now my home.”

But Simon was too distracted to listen, abruptly turning from Leonidas and marching out of the mansion, into the light. The sky was clear except for some few beds of flocculent clouds that drifted over the valley. Simon raised his face to the sun and wondered why the day was already so hot; usually the weather in his valley was pleasant, not something one would be aware of because of extremities of coolness or warmth. He walked into town, stopping at the first building he came to and listening to the sound of laughter that came from inside. His curiosity aroused, Simon entered the artists’ work studio and observed a small group of women and men who were at work on various projects. Sneering, Simon approached a shirtless fellow who was seated at a tall table and working on a sculpture.

“What is this, Meikle?”

The young man did not bother to look at Simon as he spoke, but continued his labors. “Amun Ra, in his ram personification. I’ve succeeded in making the horns especially wicked, don’t you think?”

Simon scrutinized the sinister goat-like countenance that the sculpture wore. “What a curious physiognomy you’ve given it. However did you envision such a visage?”

“Oh, I copied it from the bust on the mountain. I made a lot of sketches, of course, but the real inspiration came from my dreams of the thing.”

“Is this your sketchbook? Let me just glance through it.” Arthur aped nonchalance and returned to touching up his figurine as the beast studied pages on which the bust on Mount Selta had been sketched. Simon’s blood tickled in his inhuman veins. The sketched image was identical in every way to Manly’s goatish model. “Most peculiar.” He had not meant to speak the words aloud.

“Why is that?”

Simon shut the sketchbook and narrowed his eyes at the young artist. “I find it most peculiar that you outsiders invade the mountain’s exterior when you clearly understand that the area is proscribed. Your wanton behavior will not be tolerated.”

“Sod you, Simon. You have no power over me.”

Ah, what cruelty curled the beast’s malformed mouth. “Do I not?” Arthur watched as Simon’s eyes darkened with menace, and he felt his flesh prickle as the beast began to whisper phrases in a most peculiar language. The atmosphere in the room grew chilly and creepy, and the other artists stopped in their labors and observed the valley’s first-born shadow-spawn in fascination and fear. They watched, unmoving, as Arthur picked up a mallet from his table and began to smash his work of art violently, until it was merely a small pile of wreckage. Simon smiled at the rubble and then gently took the mallet from Arthur’s hand, kissed the implement and playfully tapped its leaden head against the young man’s brow. Then he tossed the tool onto the table and made his exit from the studio.

IV

Their bodies were intertwined within the circle of stones, their ritual of sex magick just reaching its climax. Together they screamed, and then they laughed and rested on their backs. Monique’s hand played through the mass of hair that decorated Arthur’s chest. “Is your beast soothed, my dear?” she queried.

The young man sneered. “Don’t use that word. Damn him and his arrogance. It was one of my finest pieces. He knows that art is sacred here. I’ve never seen him so nasty.” He paused and studied the girl’s expression. “What?”