Somnium

by Steve Moore

  She laughed (her laughter is like sweet white wine and just as heady too) and then she said that as this was a Full Moon night, and marvellous for its beauty and its silver transmutation, so we should allow ourselves to think of Severndroog transformed, quite as I’d thought it yester-afternoon, and, until the glow of rosy dawn defaced the eastern sky, make it serve for Somnium. And more, for these few hours, that I should be Endimion Lee. I told her yes, if she should be Diana; she chuckled then, and said she was already. And then she loosed her cloak, and showed me what she meant.

  For underneath, she only wore a nightdress, of sheerest clinging silk and all of purest white, its neckline lowly cut to display a mass of golden necklaces that sparkled, full of diamonds, in the Moonlight.

  I looked at her and fell down on my knees.

  She laughed again, then looked at me so fondly, all shiny-eyed and head just tilted to the side. ‘Sweet boy,’ she said, and all her expression said the same, and then she bent forward from the waist (I could not help but look at what she had to show me; they were so lovely and so round), kissed my forehead and ran her fingers through my hair.

  ‘And would Endimion Lee just kneel there all a-goggle?’ she asked me next, sweet voice a-lilt with laughter, slipping gold-Moon earrings through her lobes, then placing (I knew not where she got it; though now I think of Charlton and of jewellers) a small tiara mounted with a crescent on her lovely head. ‘Or would he help a lady with her boots?’

  She spread the cloak across the turret-floor at that, to make a carpet for our comfort, then sat her down and pulled her nightdress almost up as far as lovely knees. I could not quite believe the things that she was showing me by Moonlight.

  I unlaced her boots and took them off, and then I kissed her naked feet; it was such bliss I knew I’d always be her slave. If she had asked me then to lay myself full length and let her walk upon me head to toe, I know I would have done so. Instead, she urged me next to open up the wine.

  I filled the goblets, offered to her one, and on the sudden thought to ask her if she did not feel the cold; she was so underdressed, the silk it was so thin it almost was transparent. She laughed and said she thought she’d be alright for, after all, she had a handsome man with her to hold her in his arms and hug away the cold; and if that was too little, then surely his hot kisses would more than quite suffice. I confess I stared again. For even when she was not being so surprising, she was so lovely to look at, I simply could not stop.

  ‘Sweet Kit,’ she said at that, so gentle and so soft and, ultimately, so kind. ‘I think you do not know a lot of women.’

  Upon the instant then I thought to bluster; yet no words would come out at all. She put her goblet down, then took my hand in hers (so small) and pulled me close; hugged me quite like Lizzie does whenever I feel sad. It was too much; she was too beautiful to be so sweet. I wept and sobbed. I hated myself for doing it, yet at the same time welcomed the release; and loved the feel of dainty fingers stroking through my hair.

  ‘Dear Kit,’ she said, ‘I listened to you read last night, and thought you had a soul I’d never met the like. If there are poets of the Moon, you must be of their number. And more, I’ll tell you this besides: no better offering could you make to Goddess than the words you offered me, all dreamy-soft and semi-drunken. Oh, be not like to other men, for other men would not sit here all distraught and weeping sweetly on my breast. Be Kit, be blessed, and know you are beloved.

  ‘And now enough!’ she laughed and ruffled up my hair. ‘I did not think to sit here bathed in tears!’

  With that she took my hand and touched it where I’d wept. At first I was surprised by dampness; then by softness; then I realised my fingers they were all a-curl about her lovely breast. I jerked my hand away.

  ‘Oh, Kit!’ she laughed and put my hand back, kissed me oh-so-hot and oh-so-long and all the time I felt her laughing in my mouth. And more, her little tongue was there as well. It tasted quite like honey. Just then, I thought, I would do anything she asked, in any way, for ever more; and more besides, I think she knew it.

  So when, at last, we parted lips and sat there all too breathless, then we raised up both our goblets, offered up a toast unto the Moon; after that she made another to Endymion, I then to Diana and, before another word she could intrude, to Cynthia besides. And more, I told her that if for tonight alone, she would not let me love her more than any other on the Earth, and kiss her till the morn, then I’d be over turret-wall and none would ever have my kisses. She put a finger to my lips to stop a further word, so gently but so firmly, told me I could kiss her quite as much as any man could want, and anywhere I wished besides. But most of all she wanted just to cuddle close and drink the wine and look upon the Moon, and listen to me then declaim of Somnium and dear Diana, out there in the lovely night. And if I spoke of Endimion Lee, and how he clipped and kissed his dearest queen, then all I spoke of should be acted out, for now tonight we were in Somnium, where dreams are nothing but the truth. And more, she wanted to be kissed so hot and sweet below the Moon by a dear young man who loved her, and to play my Goddess and let my fond caresses wander where they would.

  In all my life, I have not known such bliss. She was so soft, so warm, so sweet. I kissed her and I kissed her; I gazed into her lovely eyes and kissed her all the more. The Moon that had so struck me in the eye when she was upward-rising, now seemed both up there in the sky and down here in my arms. She shone her smile upon me; I kissed her till she glowed. We ate our bread and cheese and thought we feasted on ambrosia; drank our claret-wine straight from each other’s nectared lips.

  And then she snuggled close and demanded that I read to her from Somnium, while the lovely Moon was white-bright in the sky. She held the pages for me, leaning back against my shoulder so I could read and whisper in her ear, and all the while my hands, they wandered where they would. And at the end of every page she turned and let me kiss her; and oh, how I adored her, crescent-browed and sparkled-eyed. I read to her of Actæon all a-spy; and how she chuckled, eyes all wide with minxish understanding. And when I’d finished next she said, with just a little slyest teasing, that I for certain should have written more; I told her I was glad I hadn’t, for nothing now remained for me, but to kiss her till the dawn. A moment, then, she did appal me by refusing; but then she said she’d play Selene to my Latmian Endymion, and I should lay back in her arms and let her kiss me in her turn. And like the sweetest Goddess in the world, she did.

  The Moon moved in the sky; the night was all too short. When dawn at last a-lightened, all the wine was gone and so was all the food. The Moon was almost gone besides, and so she told me then that we should be as well; but first (I think—I’m sure—I know it was not merely drink) she pulled her nightdress down for just an instant, let me kiss her lovely naked breasts. The bliss, it almost killed me. Oh Moon and stars and heavens all above, the beauty of her breasts, all rosy-tinted by the dawn; or perhaps I merely wished and dreamed it all, and sweet imagination painted Titian breasts to linger in my memory …

  And then she told me that if I did not help her with her boots, she could not walk, and I would have to carry her; I was tempted, I confess, merely to have her in my arms a little longer; but knew my strength would fail. My head was spinning; all the world seemed dream.

  All dressed at last and cloaked, alas, I took dear Cynthia in my arms and kissed her as if it was the last time quite before the world did end. She clung so tight, the tears were in my eyes. And then we left our Somnium-for-the-night, locked up the door on dreams, and hugged our way back through the woods. At Watling Street she suddenly was imperious: swore me quite to silence, told me that what happened ’neath the Full Moon only happened once, and with the coming dawn that all would be forgot and then she would be nothing more than Cynthia Brown as usual. I told her yes to everything, but told her more besides that in my secret heart then she would always be Cynthia Brown-eyes the darling of the Moonlight, and never be as usual. And if what happened beneath the Full Mo
on really only happened once, then she should know that, if for only once and just that little time, I loved her. And last, I would not let her go at all unless she ruffled up my hair; and when she did, I kissed her.

  We slipped into The Bull and parting was such pain, the more so for its silence. I made my way upstairs and to my room, and tried to sleep. I could not. I thought of Cynthia Brown-eyes and her loveliness, and all that she had showed me. Her bare breasts first of all, of course, but more than this besides: her love, her kindness and her sweetest understanding. I confess, though, that I mostly thought about her breasts. I do not think there is a man on earth who would have differed from me in this; they were, quite simply, lovely.

  I may have dozed a little in the end, for on the sudden I found myself surprised to hear a knock upon my door. Dear Cynthia calling me for dinner; and telling me I had a letter too.

  Having laid down fully dressed, I opened on the instant; surprised her quite, still standing there. I told her I must have a private word, took her hand and pulled her into my room, then thanked her, so emotionally, for a lovely night. She looked at me all wide-eyed and all-puzzled, told me she had no idea of what I spoke. More, she told me that I must have dreamed whatever adventure I thought to thank her for, for she knew nothing of it. I must have looked at her so utterly downcast, it made her smile. She ruffled up my hair, and on the instant then (I could not stop myself) I kissed her. She laughed and kissed me back, all saucy-eyed and sweet (at least in that there’s nothing changed at all) then told me that my dinner and my Liz’s letter waited, and neither of them should be served up cold. I said that I would follow soon. I needed time to think.

  I sat there on the bed a moment, my head sunk in my hands. A part of me said Cynthia stood by all that we had said on parting, and held me to my oath of silence; and that her strong denial it was all too-well deserved, for I had sworn her not to mention one mere single thing. Another part, though, wondered if she had been speaking literal truth, and that I had quite dreamed of Cynthia-playing-Diana and Somnium-on-the-turret-top and sweet bare breasts all lovely in the dawn-light. I knew the Moon was full last night and wondered if, by sleeping in its rays, I had become a Moon-struck lunatic, as old Hippocrates says is oft the case. And if it was a madman’s dream, then oh it was so lovely, and how I wished that I could sleep it all again. Seleniazmos he called it, Hippocrates who was so wise; not ‘epilepsy’ as the later quacks have made him say, but just to be struck down by the Moon, to have its light shine in one’s brain, to feel its tender mercies on one’s lips. But I could not tell, or truth or dream, and worse, I knew that now I could not ask, for Cynthia had denied me. So how to tell then, what was real and what was not?

  I did not know, but thought it best I should decide; and so to make a decision that pleased me most of all. And that was that the last night’s sweet adventure was quite real, and that Cynthia’s rejection of my thanks was nothing more than chiding for my broken oath of silence. With that I found myself content, and made my way then down into the dining room.

  There, Cynthia herself, she served me with a capon, presented me with Liz’s letter, and offered to share a glass or two of sack. All this I welcomed well enough, but must confess, the most that interested me was sweetest Liz’s letter. And somehow then, it seemed to me, it was the most of interest to dear Cynthia besides.

  I read. I was agog. I lost all sense of time and space. And when I finished I looked up to see dear Cynthia all a-smile, and all my capon carved and cut by her fair hand. Another second and, I thought, she would have put it in my mouth.

  The trouble was, I read my Liz’s letter, and could not help but wonder quite if yet I did still dream. The first thing that she said was that she wished she was my bride, and did not care for all the world that we were brother-sister. She said she loved me; never had no other. And yet I knew, for all I’d wanted to say such things when last I wrote, I had not had the courage. I could not tell if this was merely dream, or all my dreams come true. I hardly dared read more, and yet, of course, I had to.

  She told me that she thought of me all day, but missed me most at night. She told me how, one night last week, as she made ready for her bed, she stood all naked there before her glass; thought to see me then all mirrored, looking over her bare young shoulder, staring at her back in life and all her front reflected (I know that glass and many times I’ve wished I had its eyes to look on Lizzie all undressed). She turned all eager to embrace me; found I was not there. Went to bed all disappointed, dreamt I crept in twixt the sheets and hugged her naked, lay with her and loved her through the night; and how she woke up wishing that I had.

  Told me that when I was at home it was so sweet she’d hardly thought at all; but now that I was gone she missed me so, and realised just how much time we’d missed for love. Hoped I’d finish writing soon, come home then and make her happy. Most bewildering of all, said we’d run away to some far town and change our names, live in bliss as man and wife, make love all through the night and have so many children.

  And Cynthia had cut up all my meat, and smiled at me, big-eyed yet somehow oh-so-far-away.

  And Liz had told me things I could not quite believe.

  I felt my thoughts betrayed them both.

  I knew I had to eat, or Cynthia would be offended; though all my appetite was buried in confusion. I drank with her as well, and thought she was so kind; a glass or two and then my head began to spin; the world was all too strange. I had to ask her to excuse me; told her that I did not feel well in any way at all. She helped me up the stairs and took me to my room, laid me down and tucked me up in bed. And kissed me then before she left, and stroked my aching head with such a tender hand.

  It was only then I realised I’d left my Liz’s letter on the table. I know that Cynthia read it; and somehow I was so glad she did. Some part of me it wanted to show myself to her all naked; and if it was not body, then certainly it was my soul.

  It’s not that I am ill (I think), but I am so confused. A little while I tried to sleep, but all my thoughts were full of Liz undressing. Her chestnut locks a-tumbling down her back, her little tongue-tip gliding round her lips, her lovely breasts and soft sweet thighs. And then a sleepy yawn, a stretching of that supple back, hands held high above her head; and such a beauty’s rump, my lovely sister has. And yet, for all she is so sweet and young, the more I thought the more with Cynthia I confused her.

  At last, though still abed, I took up pen and ink and wrote and wrote this journal. I’d thought, in setting out the night’s and day’s events, that somehow they might make some sense to me. Alas, they do not. The world is all a-mix, and who knows what is real? I’ve sent for, now, another bottle; hope that Cynthia will bring it up herself. And more, I know I hope that she will stay and drink it with me. For if I do not have a lovely ear to talk to, I fear I must go mad.

  And yet, perhaps, already that I am.

  Thursday, 4th October 1803

  Cynthia sent up my claret yester-afternoon, and did not come herself. Perhaps it was as well, for in my state of mind I don’t know what I might have said. I was too drunk for eating supper, so I took another bottle to my room instead.

  I took back Liz’s letter too, and now it seemed so strange. It almost said the things I thought it had. It said she sometimes wished that she could be my bride, if we were not brother-sister; said she almost wished we could run away and live in bliss as man and wife, rather than we would. I do not know quite what this means; my memory was so clear. And if my memory here’s at fault, then what of other things? Was Severndroog, as well, a dream?

  I wished so much for all the world to wind back like a watch, and make that letter read the way it did at dinner; for if it did I knew I’d take a coach forthwith and never leave my sister’s side. And yet the words defied me.

  I thought of many things to say to Lizzie in reply, but was too drunk to write a letter. Perhaps that also was as well; I probably would not have said them if I was completely sober. I fell asleep in mi
ddle-evening, woke at midnight to the sound of vile Jude Brown a-pounding on a key-locked door and cursing. I knew that it was Cynthia’s door he hammered; thought I ought to rise and go to her defence; but was too drunk to move. At last I heard him stumble off again, imprecations muttered all to Christ. I laughed and thought my Gods were stronger; thanked them for preserving Cynthia in her sweetness, for well I knew her for a co-religionist of mine. And then I slept through to the middle-morning.

  I dreamt that I was standing in a Moonlit garden, either back at home or here on Shooters Hill, the earth beneath my feet somehow alive and squirming, as if the roots of some long-buried and colossal tree were about to burst forth into strange luxuriant growth. In dreamtime, then, I suddenly looked forward into the future, saw the tree sprung up renewed and fruited then with heavy golden Moon-globes. Stepping closer, I saw each Moonfruit now contained a lunar palace; saw my Somnium in the nearest; knew the remainder must be dreams of other sky-kissed sleepers; wondered who they were. Woke up thinking all were somehow me.

  I think I must be suffering from exhaustion. Too much work, too much claret, too many late nights and, these last few days, too many strange excitements. Dear Goddess of the Moon I pray: let it be nothing more than that.

  And yet I find myself thinking: I write of my ideal world, I see it in my dreams; and these two blur together, for my ideal world is a lovely world of dreams. While here and now, so far removed from home, from Liz and all that was familiar, my ‘real’ world has turned so strange, so dreamlike in itself. Then how to tell the three apart… real, ideal and dream? And can one be turned into another? Or do they merge and all become the same? I know which one I’d transform if I could; but how, right now, eludes me.