Bohemians of Sesqua Valley (4 page)

A shadow filtered down the portion of a winding step way that he could see within the tower. Stanley backed away to where the woman stood as Simon Gregory Williams emerged from the arched entrance.

“What do you want, Marceline?” He turned his silver eyes to Stanley. “What are you doing with this hag?”

“I lost my way within the woods. She has been kind enough to escort me back to town.”

“Ah. And how goes your work with the Yellow Deck, sirrah?” He glanced at Stanley for the briefest moment, and then turned his outré eyes back to the weird woman, who returned a challenging stare.

“It’s going very well, thank you. I’ve made three photographic sets of all of the cards, and I am nearly finished with my own pen and ink replication of the deck. It’s fascinating work.”

Simon finally returned his gaze to the outsider, and his hideous mouth curled in what was supposed to be an encouraging smile. “Excellent indeed. And the deck is complete? I know so little about Tarot. All of the cards are there?”

“Oh yes, each and every one.”

“Wonderful. But this path is a bit out of the way, if you’re returning to town. Whatever brings you here?”

“This edifice figures in the Yellow Deck’s Tower Card. I knew it would interest this fellow to see it.”

“Is this where you live, Mr. Williams?”

“No—no, it merely houses a portion of my occult library. Nothing that would interest you, I’m certain.”

Stanley raised his shoulders. “Probably not. I’m not interested in mysticism or any of that. I have an aesthetic interest in Tarot decks—a professional interest.”

“Just so.”

“I did almost have a reading from the Yellow Deck, from Miss…”

“Miss Dubois,” the lady responded.

“Indeed?”

“But she didn’t after all, feeling there was no need. It appears that I am doomed—I have looked at the entire deck, and to do so seals one’s fate. So I shall have to be festive and foolhardy, since tomorrow I die.” Stanley chuckled, half-heartedly.

“We can aid you with festivities, with tomorrow’s gala.”

“Hmm? Oh, Old Twelfth. Yes, that will be interesting. I am always interested in food and drink and merriment.”

“I shall see you then.” Simon bowed and then stretched his hand to the woodland path. The woman, linking her arm with Stanley’s, led them away.

IV

Darkness curtained the valley and crept into the corners of Stanley’s eyes as he studied, in golden candlelight, his replication of the Yellow Deck. He had suddenly found electric light too brilliant, its glare too piercing on his eyes; and so he had purchased the candles, and their soft living light filled him with a peace of mind and a calming of the soul. This gave him pause. What was there, within his soul, that needed tranquility? New senses seemed to have infiltrated him, weird and uncanny and troubling. He experienced this most when in the company of the locals who owned silver eyes and queer faces. Their eyes gazed at him in ways he had never been studied before, and their faces seemed to conceal secrets that might prove dangerous to comprehend.

He was thirsty, and so he extinguished candlelight and vacated his small chamber. A tawny moon cast its light upon the twin-peaked mountain, and as he studied that titan of rock his disquietude sharpened. He had never seen such a sight, a tremendous thing that resembled a slumbering daemon with wings folded at its shoulders. He became aware again of thirst and curiosity, and so he walked to the main section of town until he came to an establishment from which a raucousness issued. Entering, Stanley scanned the room. Three persons sat at the nearest booth, two of whom he recognized. Simon, attired in clothing that had been fashionable in the 1930’s, sat with his eyes shut and his shirt partially unbuttoned. Young Cyrus was seated next to him and held onto a bottle and rag. As Stanley approached their table, the squat dark-haired woman among them stopped whatever she was doing to Simon with her razor and turned to gaze at the outsider. Her eyes were dark and slightly slanted. With bizarre motion she helped the razor to him, as if presenting it as a gift.

“Is it not exquisite?” The woman’s voice was low and husky, thickly accented, and he suspected that she might be Romani. “‘Tis Victorian mortuary razor, for the final shave.” She smiled and looked as if she might cackle at any moment. “Very old, and yet the ivory handle has not yellowed. So white, like the pallid faces at which it worked. The blade—so sharp.”

She pressed the blade to Simon’s exposed chest as the beast partially opened one eye and examined the outsider. “Ah, it’s you. Sit, join us. Cyrus, get our guest a pint of Sesqua grog.” He raised a hand and touched the woman’s arm. Magda—continue.” Stanley pulled up a chair to the table and sat, fascinated at the performance of the woman’s blade working at the mark of scarred flesh on Simon’s skin. And it did seem like part of some presentation, a ritual for public view. Cyrus returned with two pints of dark liquid, one of which he handed to Stanley. Taking the glass, Stanley touched it to the one that Cyrus held, and then he tentatively sipped the frothy brew. It tasted very good indeed.

He studied the woman’s work. “I’ve seen that symbol before. It’s runic, isn’t it? I noticed a series of such sigils attached to a tree deep in the woods. And weren’t they also set in stones at the entrance of your tower?”

“It’s a regional hieroglyph especial to the valley, a representation of thresholds. Used wisely it allows one to enter, symbolically, mystic realms. Etched onto flesh, it allows influences to enter into one’s corporeal tissue. We adorn ourselves with such insignia in preparation for Old Twelfth, the time when that that is is not, when we become the Other and dance beyond the rim.”

“I thought Twelfth Night was in early January?”

“This has naught to do with Christian holiday. Our ceremonies are our own.” Simon shut his eyes again as Magda completed her work. Cyrus placed a scented rag to Simon’s sepia flesh, and the beast opened his eyes again and stared at Stanley. The outsider felt his flesh chill as those silver eyes peered at him, those eyes that, he now noticed, contained iridescent particles of outré color. When the young man took away the rag, Stanley saw that there was no trace of blood on either rag or flesh; there was only the sigil, raised as white scar.

Magda joined Simon in observing the outsider. Crookedly, she smiled and raised the razor toward him. “Try it.”

“Oh, I don’t think…”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Cyrus piped. “The blade is cool and smooth. It’s soothing. See here, I had this made on my shoulder. You’ll need a mark for tomorrow night. Unless you have no interest in participating.” Stanley sighed and sat back in his chair; and then he stiffened momentarily when Simon tilted to him and began to unbutton his shirt. The beast’s countenance was very near his own, and Stanley took in the strange fragrance of the Sesquan’s flesh as his shoulder was exposed.

“What mark we give him, eh?” Magna queried in her gravelly voice. She frowned as Simon reached for the razor and took it from her hand.

“Allow me to assist.”

Magda shrugged. “As you wish, beast.” Stanley felt a wave of panic wash over him as Simon touched a talon to his breastbone. The creature’s warm breath fanned his face, and the silver eyes seemed to darken subtly as Simon pressed the razor’s sharp point into the human’s skin. Stanley had to shut his eyes, and as he did so the idea of Marta’s fear of the silver-eyed ones, as expressed in Kathleen’s notebooks, came to mind. The blade, smooth and cool, began to etch into the outsider’s flesh. Images came to mind, whirling in memory: the sigils of the purple tree, their replication in the Yellow Deck. In memory he saw the deck’s cards spread before him on the bed of his little room, until each and every one was captured in his mind. He watched, and the cards moved subtly so as to form queer words of an alien tongue. How he could utter those words was beyond his comprehension, but his deep breathing began to issue forth as rare language.

The blade’s movement ceased. When he opened his eyes he saw Simon’s large hand reach for the bloodstained hand on his shoulder. Amazement flashed in Simon’s remarkable eyes. “Did you hear what you were uttering?”

“What?”

“Are you familiar with the Aklo language?”

“What?” the outsider repeated, confused by the intense gazing he met from every other pair of eyes.

“It’s a language used in ritual, a summoning of other dimension.” Magda told him in a soft, low voice that was little more than a whisper.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve told you, I don’t dabble in the occult.”

“It seems to have dabbled with you, sirrah.” Keeping his hand on Stanley’s shoulder, he turned to Magda and spoke to her in an unfamiliar tongue.

“Va,” she answered, rising and exiting the establishment. Stanley looked around and saw that the place was almost empty of occupant.

Stanley suddenly felt restless and pushed Simon’s hand from him. He saw that it had been stained with his blood, and frowned as the beast brought that hand to his mouth. “I thought you said there’d be some gathering of artists here tonight.”

Cyrus, to whom the comment was addressed, looked awkwardly at Simon and bit his lower lip.

“They were discouraged, not wanting to congregate with me in attendance. They are, at times, a rather unadventurous coterie.”

“And you enjoy intimidating them.”

Simon gazed at the human with a sneer playing on his misshapen mouth. “Have you some strange insight into my character? Or do you merely dislike me?”

“Everyone refers to you as ‘beast.’ At first I wondered why. I wonder no longer.”

Simon burst out laughing. “Wonderful!” He touched his hand once more to Stanley’s new wound. “Is there pain?”

“None.”

“Excellent. But how sleepy you suddenly seem. So ready to sink into a realm of dreaming. Your heavy eyes—how can you keep them from shutting?”

And the outsider found that he was, suddenly, quite weary. The drink, he thought, was having its effect. Heavily, he picked himself up and stood with uncertain balance, his hands on the table supporting him. An arm linked with his own, and he smiled at the lad who began to escort him from the building. As they exited the place, a low sound of some haunting melody issued from within the place. Someone was playing a flute, a sound that seemed to follow Stanley to his little room, a song that echoed inside his head as his eyes closed in slumber.

V

He walked through shadow and mist, in a realm of rich dreaming, past trees that subtly danced in soft morning light. He watched the swaying limbs of branches and heard the rustling as leaves were kissed by wind. There was something vaguely threatening about that wind, as if it might assault his mouth and steal his mortal breath; and so he kept his mouth clamped shut, however much he wanted to chant the music that came from some distant place. He looked, through pale light and swaying shadow, as the ancient erection rose before him. Approaching the round tower, he pushed one hand against the arched opening and felt the embossed emblem beneath his palm; and as he kept his hand upon the sigil, the mark on his shoulder began to burn, and that sensation rose to his brain and infected his sight. Reality as he had understood it transformed, and that that was was not. The very ground on which he stood seemed to vanish from underneath him, and he felt as though he walked on air as he crossed the threshold and entered into the tower. The circling steps he climbed seemed like some coiled serpent on which he walked, and the air breathed in altered in substance as he approached the higher region of the darkened step-way.

He strode onto a round wooden floor, into a spacious chamber that was cluttered with shelves of books and tables littered with manuscripts and writing implements. Simon sat on one large table with a flute at his mouth, the source of the music that had lured Stanley to the site. The beast of Sesqua Valley looked so real that Stanley reached out to touch the grotesque face, and Simon smiled as he licked the outsider’s palm.

“This is a rare dream,” Stanley whispered.

“Dream, sirrah?”

The human laughed lightly. “Well, it must be, I could never have found this place in actuality. As I said, a rare delusion. Everything seems so real, however much my senses have been altered.”

“Altered in what way?”

Stanley moved away from the table and raised his hands, as if trying to touch the aura of the place. “Everything feels different—the light on my eyes, the fragrant air breathed in, the texture of stone and wood. My voice sounds like something detached from my being, and I can’t feel my mouth moving as I speak. And the cards in my jacket pocket feel so weighty, as though they were the one solid thing in this phantasy of dreaming.”

“How queer,” Simon answered as he watched Stanley reach into a pocket and produce the Yellow Deck. Stanley unwrapped the black cloth and dropped it onto the table, and then he began to shuffle the deck. Finally, he placed the deck onto the table, took hold of Simon’s hand and brought it so as to touch the deck. They moved their hands away and Stanley gazed intently at the deck, and then he reached for the topmost card. But his hand was stopped by Simon’s. “One moment, sirrah. Let us take this one card and set it aside, shall we?”

“One card unturned,” the mortal whispered. And then he began to do his spread, thinking he would use the Celtic Cross layout. The cards, however, seemed to have another idea, dictating to his hand where they wanted to be placed. When the spread was completed, Stanley saw that it resembled in design the mark that had been etched into his shoulder. His eyesight altered once more, so that he fancied that the diagram shimmered with sentience. He protested as Simon disarrayed the cards and collected them, then wrapped them in their cloth and returned them to the outsider.