by Steve Moore
While eating dinner, I could not help but notice Cynthia and her husband exchanging heated whispers, neither of them seeming pleased in any way about the other. And shortly afterward Cynthia proposed an expedition for the afternoon. I willingly accepted, although I must confess I thought that Brown himself was behind all this, and wanted me away from The Bull for some short time; whether this had anything to do with late nocturnal noises, I’d rather not conjecture.
A half an hour after dinner, I met her by the squat stone mounting-block outside the inn, and both of us were dressed for walking. It seemed we were away into the woods. I looked around for young Tom Watkins, asked if he’d be joining us. When she said he wouldn’t, I mentioned highwaymen and pistols; pointed out my walking cane would hardly cry defiance to a child. She merely laughed and told me everyone about the hill knew Jude Brown’s wife and how to leave her well enough alone. I told her, with my best, most-boyish smirk, that I was not from round the hill; she pouted at me, eyebrow raised, and said that we should be on our way. And as we went I thought that I would never like to suffer any sort of vengeance handed out by Judas Brown; but somehow I’m not really sure that that is what she meant. Besides, from what I’d seen a while ago, he’d know full well that I was with her.
We started down the road toward London, then turned aside to leftwards and so into the woods; and once we were beyond sight of the inn, she took my hand. She said it was to guide me on the path; I knew quite well it wasn’t.
Her smile it was so full of mischief; I wondered what it could portend.
A few minutes walking further on, she simply laughed at my amazement: a castle-tower rose up high before us then, all new and gleaming brick. I simply had not known that anything like this was here on Shooters Hill. She ruffled up my hair again to chide me for my gawping; this seems to much amuse her. I had to tell her of my shock; for when at first I’d seen its crenellations up there in the trees, a moment I had thought before me stood an outpost-turret of dear fantastic Somnium, a night’s-dream all a-sudden real by day. She had to lead me on until I touched it; and only when my fingers chafed the brick could I accept its earthly form.
Three storeys tall and all three-sided; three syllables its quite unlikely name as well: Severndroog. A single tower and yet it rejoices somehow to think itself a ‘castle’, though it is hardly ancient, erected as recently as 1784. At first I thought it nothing but a folly, but it seems it is a little more than that: a memorial to one Sir William James. I confessed to Cynthia that I’d never heard of him, knight or not; she laughed and told me to imagine how much the less his name would mean, then, a double-century hence. I looked at her, and wondered why she’d said that; why she’d choose that time.
For the sake of my journal, let me record that William James cleared the Malabar Coast of pirates (led by a certain Conagee Angria, whoever this unheard-of unworthy might have been) in the year 1755, and captured Severndroog Fort, bombarding it from the sea. I imagine it one of those minor skirmishes we seem to like to magnify, for the glorification of the ‘British Empire’, and all the baggage that entails of ‘enlightening poor savages’ far across the seas. Nonetheless, the conquering hero left a widow and she, in turn, left us ‘Severndroog Castle’ in his honour (I had to think of the Mausoleum, and Artemisia finishing off the tomb of her brother-spouse; and so, of course, I thought of Liz). A gallery within has paintings of the battle (our sailors so ‘heroic’, their foes but utmost cravens; I thought the image quite beneath contempt), and in the vestibule, a collection of the defeated Indians’ arms and armour. But mayhap yet: if we still wore armour, and had the less of guns, the world might then be far a better place.
I thought little enough of all of this; it seemed to me of no account. I suppose the British Empire’s well enough, though better ruled by queens. I could not help but wonder why dear Cynthia had brought me here. And then she gave the crone who keeps the door a groat, and so we were allowed to make our way up spiral stairs that wind up through the north-east turret. The first floor boasts a fine domed ceiling, rather more an ovoid than a sphere, with gilded plasterwork and lions’ heads, with smaller rooms in those two turrets not containing stairs; the second floor is similar but lacks a ceiling, merely showing heavy naked beams below the roof. I rather thought I’d like to live there, reclusive in a forest-tower and high up on a hilltop, far removed from all the mud-bespattered world; to cherish there a single lovely-eyed companion while all the laws and evils of the time pass by. Dear Elizabeth, or perhaps…
At last we reached the rooftop turrets. The view was quite astounding: we stood there level with the tree-tops, and a half a dozen counties stretched out all around. All of London sprawled before us; the Thames ran on for miles. I do not think I’ve ever seen quite so much of all the world at once.
I stared, and Cynthia ruffled up my hair again. I told her if she did that one more time, I’d kiss her. She did, her wide eyes full of challenge and head all tilted to the side, and so of course I kept my word. How many further repetitions followed, I cannot quite remember; at last she could not help but laugh, and fell into my arms. I laughed in turn and ruffled up her lovely hair as well; she kissed me.
She was so soft all wrapped up in my arms, I did not want to let her go; and yet at last, I had to. We left, though not before dear Cynthia had paused a moment for a private word with the old beldame. From there we came up stony Sandars Lane, and so passed by Hazelwood House, the new villa built where once there stood The Catherine Wheel, not long ago the hilltop inn, now superseded by The Bull. I looked about and some antiquarian part of me began to wish I’d had the chance to drink there; but Cynthia told me it had been but little more than just a house of ill-repute. I’ve no idea quite how she knew this.
I must confess, dear Cynthia Brown-eyes, she puzzles me enormous. Flirtatious, yes, and how she loves to play the temptress; and yet it seems she plays for no-one else but me. I think (indeed, I have to think) that these are no more than pretty games. And yet I cannot help but think of what I wrote last night: that Diana was a temptress too. And Diana is my Goddess quite supreme. But what this means, I simply do not know. For then again, there are some occasions when I see that same strange ‘distance’ that I found upon our first night’s drinking; as if temptation and flirtation were but games to please me, behind which stood a figure far more serious, with plans I do not understand.
Returning to my room, I found suspicious scratch-marks about the lock that guards my trunk. A swift inspection revealed nothing missing, and if my money still remained within I had to believe the trunk had not been opened. I know who I suspect, of course; it was too obvious that Jude Brown wanted me away from the inn. At the time we left, I’d thought this more to do with the noises that I’d heard in the night, and so, I have to think, did Cynthia. My heart it will not let me hold her any way complicit.
That said, I know a wiser man than me would leave The Bull forthwith. But temptress or enchantress, I think dear Cynthia has me now too much enmeshed within her spells, escape her if I would.
The evening, after supper, she wanted me to read to her all I’d written in the night, while sipping claret first, and later port, and sitting in her parlour. I saw Jude Brown, in passing by the open door, his face all full of sneers. I thought it best, when she had heard the whole of what I had to offer, to hasten to my room.
And yet, when I had, tonight I wrote and wrote, and could not write enough. The reason was too clear: the more I wrote, the more I’d have to read to her tomorrow, the more excuse we’d have to be together. Somehow I feel I betray my lovely Liz; and yet I know I cannot have my sister. But then I cannot have Cynthia Brown-eyes either. I would I could have both; and more I wish that they were both here with me now.
Perhaps all this desire’s provoked by what I wrote tonight…
And on the heels of sleep, a dream then swift ensued. Back in the woods he found himself alone, with strangely silent hounds, and wandering soft afoot. And yet, somehow, he knew that he was oth
er than himself, but seemed himself besides. Short kilt and sandals now were all he wore, and at his belt a dagger. The Moon shone quite as bright and clear as day.
A-sudden then, his hounds were off upon a scent, and yet he followed not; for somewhere close at hand he heard a peal of lightsome lady-laughter. The woods were thick around him now and grown so strange, it chanced, with flowery vines strung all about and orchids blazing quite too brilliant; and Moonlit moths of giant size drank up florescent nectar through their long and coiling tongues. A faint and eerie fluting drifted by upon the perfumed breeze; lush grass was underfoot; and high above, the diamond-brightened stars were all a-glitter. And all the night-time now was sweet and warm and still, and in the soft pellucid light a Moon-nymph’s simple sigh filled all the world with magic.
Still quite uncertain who he was, he stole across a glade; though whether then he followed on to flute, or laugh, or sigh, he never could tell after. Beyond an ancient fragrant clump of purple-flowered lavender, he heard the introspect and liquid chatter of a small loquacious brook, a-babble as it tumbled to a clear and bubbled pool.
And so at last, a little further still, beneath a shading lilac tree that drooped all overburdened with a scented mass of pale and pinkish blossom, he paused, and parted leaves, and looked.
Then wonder flew in through his eyes, seduced his mind and raptured quite his heart.
A wide and sparkle-surfaced lakelet stretched before his gaze, its crystal waters freshened by the onward-flowing stream that entered all-a-gurgle close at hand, then poured itself away so many yards beyond, where silver fishes leaped in frolic play about a coral step-stoned weir. And on the pool-side bank, all flushed and pink and warm with chasing fleet-foot deer… Diana and her nymphs.
A little dress of purest white she wore, that clung all close about her tiny waist and cupped up tight her lovely breasts. From dainty sandals rose up snowy stockings, knit like lace, of softest silk and clasped about her milky thighs with claret garters all of velvet, tied up tight with little golden bows. Around her charming neck a russet choker, sleek and narrow, made of satin, massy pearls a-dangle ’neath her chin; and on her brow, where ever it should be, the curving gilded crescent gleamed with Moonfire. And in her spilling chestnut tresses, two gilt brocaded ribbons and a creamy, scented rose.
She sat, so white and pink and sweet, upon vermilion plush, spread smooth across a grassy knoll; about her lolled her lovely nymphs, exhausted and expectant, their eyes upon their charming mistress.
A little sigh, an arching back, her hands stretched high above her, fingers interlaced, she thrust out then a long and shapely leg, a toe-point to a chosen nymph, a summons in her eye. The virgin-maid approached her queen, her head bowed down and both her knees upon the ground, and then, with tiny fingers dainty as a child’s, unclasped the royal sandal. The first removed, the other swiftly followed; a regal nod of thanks and after that the nymph retired to join her sweet companions.
Diana next drew up her knees and, with fingers daintier still, pulled slowly at the little bow upon her velvet garter; then swift untied the ends. The strap fell down upon the plush; she stretched out now her fresh-ungartered leg and looked along its stockinged length with gamine admiration.
The other limb was next released from out its claret band, and unbent then were both her white-hosed legs, knees and ankles both together, both feet pointed straight. And next, a sweet and girlish laugh upon her lips, she wiggled tiny toes.
Her pleasure all too obvious, next Diana flexed a leg, leaned forward and, with delicate twiddling of her thumbs and fingers, so slowly and so sensuously began to downward roll her lacy silken stocking. And inch by inch as stocking rolled, so inch by inch her smooth-as-satin skin was just as much revealed, a sweet and delicate milky pink, from perfect curving thigh (so soft and warm and tender) to rounded knee and so beyond, to lengthy shin and rounded calf, to graceful ankle, dainty foot and then at last, so small a-tip her lovely naked limb, her charming little toes.
He looked wide-eyed and open-mouthed along the bare and beauteous leg exposed before his gaze, a fever-sweat upon his brow. And next, with thunder-pounding heart and panting breath, he watched a second web of lacy silk rolled down and tossed aside, with just the slowness and the same delight with which she’d peeled away the other.
And then the Queen of all his Heart, and Golden Moon besides, stood up, forever young and pertly sweet, and reached behind her neck to gather up her nut-brown hair in both her little hands; then tied it up atop her head (at least the moster part) in brocade ribbon-bows. Next down she reached, her forearms crossed and hand to either hip, and took her tiny dress’s hem between her fingertips.
She looked around. His heart rose to his mouth just then, her glance upon his hiding place for long-belingered seconds, before it passed along its way; returning then, her searching gaze was paused again at where he stood there statue-struck and all a-drip with sweat.
And then, with slow inevitability, she did what he expected; what he’d always dreamed of, but never dared to hope.
A tiny wiggle of her buttocks, and then she brought the dress-hem upwards, bit by bit and little by little; and the higher up it went the less he thought to breathe. The bony project of her hip above her lovely thigh: the Moonbeams caught these both… the shadowed dark beneath her smooth-curved belly yet retained its secrets. Her flank (so sleek), her stomach next (so soft), and then her ribs (just seen, so dainty in the Moonlight); all these his eyes did overrun, and then he bit his tongue upon a sob.
The dress drew up above her wondrous breasts, as pale as snow, as smooth as silk and downy-soft, as round as ever full moons were. And though he’d rather stay quite still, he had to wipe away the tears. For fresh-released, her young teats wobbled, bounced and settled on her chest, standing pink and proud. Transformed upon the instant to a little boy who wanted suck, he could but stand and stare.
His transfixion quite complete, the seconds passed, and by the time he had his soul again the dress was high above Diana’s head, and then she cast it down upon the plush and stood there, charming, naked. In instants swift ensuing, her little hands ran down from shoulders, over breasts and lovely stomach to her thighs, as if she’d assay the impossible and smooth the perfect satin of her lovely nymphlet skin.
Her maids, as charmed it seemed as he who, peeping, watched her, began to chatter ’mongst themselves about some secret, sweet and much-desired privilege; then rose and stripped themselves as well.
And Endimion Lee, who still remained unsure quite who he was besides, looked upon them not at all, ignored their words, and simply gazed on naked Goddess, lovely in her glory, shining in the Moonlight, old as time and schoolgirl-sweet, baby-nude and perfect woman. And loved her, body, heart and soul; and wanted her with all his being.
A little laugh upon her lovely lips, sweet Diana stepped into the lake, paced until the water lapped her calves, turned and crooked a finger, summoning then a pair of nymphs. And turning all about, let the watcher in the lilac see those things he wished to see: her charming buttocks, sweet and round, that swivelled as she walked; between her thighs, the curl-haired portal of her maidenhood, unbreached for now and evermore, and yet for all of that, desired more than bliss and heaven; and perfect paps more treasured than the world entire.
A moment then she paused, remembering that her lovely neck was still encircled by the choker; reached up both hands behind her neck (and how her sweet breasts rose pursuivant), then swift unclasped the russet satin band and handed it a-nymphwards. With greatest care the maiden carried it ashore, returning with a carven phial of whitest alabaster; by then her naked queen had stepped away to thigh-depth in the middling lake.
Upon the shore, the other nymphs struck up a tune of Phrygian modulation, played soft on flutes and lyres, accompany to a wordless lilt. And Queen Diana, adding then a music laugh, sank down into the water till it lapped about her neck.
She rose up on a sudden, all a-splash, the watery streamlets pouring down her back to
trickle off her buttocks; and lovely droplets from her nipples dripped, her breasts all pinked from chilling in the waters.
And in the lensing drops that yet remained to cling upon her skin, the Moonlight sparkled rainbows bright, and dear Diana stood there wetly naked, yet still quite clothed from swinging teat to sparkling thigh in rich prismatic jewels.
Such beauty then he gazed upon, that he could hardly breathe.
She turned and waded back a little way to shore, to stand there knee-deep in the pool; the pair of nymphs, as naked as herself but quite outmatched for beauty, stepped up with smiles to meet her. A little giggle and a nod, then sweet Diana stood there pertly, hands on hips and all arch-backed, her chest outthrust and buttocks too besides.
The phial upended to the maidens’ palms released a flow of creamy unguent; a rub of hands and then it foamed all white and bubbly. And Endimion Lee, nigh fainting with desire, could hardly watch as first a maid spread all that oily froth a-down her lovely back to buttock-cheeks and let it ooze the full length of her legs. And more unbalancing yet to all his equilibrium, in fuller sight the second maid rubbed slippery lather all on slick and softly-bouncing Goddess-teats, and gently squeezed them as they squirmed, left them all a-wobble on release. Then further down those lathering hands they drifted on, across her ripe and lissom stomach, at last to rub and bubble soft and sweet about her thighs, till dear beloved Diana dripped and wriggled, wide-eyed as a child.