by Steve Moore
Next day he merely cleaned the shelves, and dusted books, and noted down some titles, and looked at falling snow outside, and low dark clouds, and shivered; and never once read anything at all. Yet being Thursday once again, he dined as usual with his dear Comtesse.
All gold she was, and gold her jewellery too, with just a hint of amber; and Théophile remembered what he’d read of Mausolus. Some little wince must then have crossed his face, for when they’d eaten and progressed to coffee and to brandy, she produced some Turkish cigarettes and asked him, very precisely to tell her all the things he’d read since first he had disturbed her in the night. And that mere mention of how he’d presumed to hold her in his arms said: ‘tell the truth, or pay the price.’ And so, of course, he told her every single thing, and spared her not one awful detail, not even of the eels.
Quite pensive, then, she did become, and asked him if he’d noticed any change about the books themselves; and when he told her that, in their most delirious and obnoxious condition, they were quite as green as absinthe, she neither laughed nor looked at him askance, but nodded most decisive, as if this news was simply as expected.
‘Théophile,’ she said, and poured him out another brandy. ‘I must confess, I have not been entirely open with you and now, perhaps, I’m only going to be a little more so. I knew five years ago my uncle designed to leave me this château, and with it Alphonse’s library, to which I had been previously denied. And so I used the time to good effect. I knew the ancient Comte had spent so many years collecting books and, more, the wisdom that accompanied them, in Istanbul and Cairo, Damascus, Calcutta and even Samarkand; and, less exotic, in cold St Petersburg, Berlin and rainy London too. And so I followed in his footsteps, best I could, and added Marrakesh and other places too, attempting to learn the same as he. I will not tell you all the things I did, the bargains that I made, in order to find out what I sought; and never ask me of Bokhara, nor of its evil Khan. Some men would think the less of me for that, though some might think the more. I do not seek your judgement, and as the snows may chance to keep us here, together, for up to three months more, it may perhaps be better not to give it. And yet, it seemed to me, from what I’d learned, that what the Comte Alphonse had finally discovered, and somehow had brought back, was not a little treasure.
‘In Cairo, I read certain crumbling papyri in bastard-Greek, all mixed up with Demotic and old Coptic, about the dark and reeking mysteries of ancient humid Memphis, the city of the evil opalescent night; refined young ladies of our current age would normally find them horrid. Two things I learned within those texts: the first of great importance to myself; the second will explain your presence here.
‘You perhaps have heard of The Smaragdine Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, that states succinctly ‘As above, then so below’. I tell you now, that tiny text is nothing but a fraud; and, oh, the wasted ink that has been spilled about it. The true Smaragdine Tablet is an emerald-covered book, thrice-blessed indeed, but writ by Hermes, not by Trismegistus; yes, by Hermes, God of magic, trickery and spite, one eye a-wink through all the tides of time. And Alphonse, though I know not how, although I do suspect the price perhaps was more or less his soul, obtained that book, or brought it, all hidden and somehow just beyond his grasp, here to this very library.’
‘A green-bound book…?’ then interjected Théophile, a-wonder.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice so low. ‘But first, let me finish. The second thing I learned in Cairo, forgive me if you do not like. It was that, in the art of scrying, virgin boys or innocent young men were far away the best. In Singapore, a Chinese priestess of the Moon, white-faced and strange and oh so languid-eyed, before whom I laid out all my problems and designs, told me that such a book as this I sought, that was not quite of Earth at all, would best be seen indeed by eyes that, unlike mine and hers, had not been clouded by the dust of all this sinful world.
‘And so, my poor dear friend, your blushes tell me that you know what I’ve to tell you next. Seven applicants I had, to be librarian here, and six of them, in any real sense at all, were far more qualified than you were. But you had youth, and I had agents there in Paris who told me that your sins were little more than drink; and when the drink was a little more than little, a fist-fight or two perhaps, but little more than that. And they told me too, and this may cheer you, that you were fair to look upon, and honest, straight and true. And so I brought you here to help me. And everything they said of you was less than what you are.
‘And more than this, you have succeeded, more than I had hoped. For you have seen the book I seek, in all its strange disguises.
‘And now we have to find a way to grasp it.’
‘Eugénie,’ he said, and leaned a little closer, emboldened by the brandy, so he thought. ‘I fear you’ve studied more than I, for here are things I hardly understand. A book which hides in other books…?’
‘And rewrites them as it does so, but only for the instant you’re aware of it; and awareness only comes upon the fringe of sleep, or curious distraction; and once the realisation wakes you with a start, it slips away and hides elsewhere, as mischievous as its author.’
‘And are such strange things possible, in modern days like these?’ asked Théophile.
‘You forget, my dear young friend, this book was written by a God, and is a thing of Gods itself. Discard the learning that they taught you at the Sorbonne; the logic and the science of the 19th century are little use for this. The library at Alexandria might have contained the key, for there was found so much of magic and of theurgy, of Egyptian rites and of the Indian gymnosophists, Thessalian witchery and drawing down the Moon, and more, much more, besides. Rather more to the point, I half suspect that Hermes’ verdant book, if we can but clasp it close, contains the library of Alexandria itself, with all those myriad volumes collapsed somehow within. I wish I knew how Alphonse had discovered it or brought it here, but on this his diaries, which I discovered hidden in an oaken chest in uncle’s house in Paris, when I was but a teenage girl and long before I acquired the château and the library, are, alas, quite simply silent. All he tells is how he could not clasp the book itself, although it seems to have had a mischievous propensity for tormenting his young son. Again, an innocent boy, you see…’
‘Then how on Earth do we capture such a thing as that?’
‘We, or rather you, have made a good beginning. For you have seen the book; or perhaps more to the point, you’ve attracted its attention. And that, perhaps because of those same atrocious bargains that I made, was something I could never do. And so, tonight, my Théophile, I do propose, if you have for it the heart and stomach, that you and I should pass away the midnight hours together in the library. Oh, Théophile, do not allow yourself a smile, for nothing more I have in mind to clutch at than that book. So, no more brandy now; but… have another cigarette.’
So Théophile, although he found the Turkish tobacco rather strong, tried his best to refrain from coughing, and asked the Comtesse what she had in mind. Instead of answering, though, she took his hand and raised him to his feet, led him to the library, and said she would explain as they began. And so a few minutes later, sitting in a deeply-padded old armchair beside a roaring fire, in pale and golden candlelight, he took a copy of Plutarch’s Life of Antony into his hands and let her then explain.
‘This trickster book of Hermes,’ she commenced, producing a little gold vaned wheel on a stand which, when a candle lit below began to warm the air, span round and round and sparkled like the moonlight on a wind-blown darkling sea, ‘appears upon the fringe of sleep. But once it does, you either fall asleep completely, or else the shock of recognition jerks you quite awake. And so we need to keep you in that borderland a long-extended time.
‘The Turkish cigarettes we smoked, forgive me that I did not tell you, contained no small amount of fine hashish, the best the Ottomans can produce; and green, besides, just like the book. But that is just the start. I next propose to use upon you the subtle and mag
netic arts of Mesmer, or as the moderns call a similar technique, ‘hypnosis’. For that you’ll look upon this whirl of glinting lights, and listen while I lull you with an old soft song I learned in Isphahan, where choirs quite like the houris sing so sweet of paradise beneath the wind-bowed palms. And when you are a little touch entranced, I’ll tell you then to take up ancient Plutarch’s book, and so begin to read. And being then both in and out of Hypnos’ hands, we’ll hope to trap that other book here long enough… just long enough…’
‘Long enough for what?’ he asked, lighting up another of the tainted cigarettes, yet hardly thinking what he did.
‘For you to turn back to its opening page, and tell me then the title written there. For as the ancients knew, especially the Egyptians, if we can find the true and secret name of either God or thing, then it will fall at once into our power.
‘And Théophile,’ she continued after a pause, ‘you will do this for me, won’t you? For once we have the book, then we can do so many strange and lovely things… together…’
‘Of course I will, my dearest Eugénie,’ he said, already half-entranced, not merely with hashish, but with her beauty too. Her smile, at that, was perhaps a little wry.
And so he looked then at the whirling wheel, its rays and all its sparklings, and listened as she sang a wordless song more sweet than any old Ferdowsi ever wrote, of silver mists and golden autumns, of silks and satins, of aromatic scents and harems of Circassians, and peach and pear trees too, and sherbets chilled with snow, in old and perfumed Persia, where lithe young princes jewelled with sapphires dreamed such wondered dreams. And though his eyes stayed open wide, his mind fell half asleep.
And then a little later, she commanding, he commenced to read, aloud. A small amount of minutes passed, and then he spoke of Cleopatra, how she and Ptolemy were a pair of Siamese twins, joined side by side but full of hatred nonetheless, who slept with Caesar and with Antony, the both of them at once, the whole night through, in varying combination, and wheedled each for power. And then she coaxed him very gently, told him first he must stay calm, and then requested that he turn the pages back until he reached the start.
The book, although it seemed a little green, had slipped away before he found its opening. So Eugénie then softly kissed his forehead as a mother does, and lullabied him to a deeper sleep, this time with songs from ancient Luristan, unknown to all of Europe, and told him then to read once more. He opened up the book at random, found that Caesar was a werewolf on the full moon night alone and Antony, addicted to the lotus, had ate up four young girls alive, and died of satiation. And once again, at her instruction, he slowly, calmly, returned to the beginning.
And on the title page he read, and roundly did pronounce, ‘Opusculum Mercurialis’, though why Greek Hermes made his book a Latin thing, he could not quite decide, unless it was for humour and confusion. And green it was, and green it stayed, and when he looked again, it still was called the same besides, and green its binding too. And Eugénie smiled, and sighed, and snuffed the candle, stopped the wheel, and woke him with a kiss that, administered while he was still a half asleep, he hardly knew at all. And then she gave him another brandy, and sent him off to bed; and Théophile, still half bemused, did everything she said.
That night he slept and dreamed, and Hermes came to him, caduceus in his hand, winged sandals on his feet, winged helmet on his head, and such a smirk of debonair duplicity upon his face that, even sleeping, Théophile was forced to laugh. Then Hermes brought his darling Eugénie, brown-eyed and naked, to his bed, and charming sister Délia too, without her clothes, and when that wasn’t quite enough, that lovely Goddess who, the Queen of all the Night-time Air, and Mistress Leader of the Stars, wheels round and round this cold, unfeeling Earth and never stops except for love of young and handsome shepherd boys, with javelins in their hands. All three of them he clasped to him, so close, and unlike other dreams, he did not wake until he was satisfied entire. And Hermes watched, and laughed, and told him if he kept the verdant book quite to himself alone, then all these bright-eyed lovelies he would have for harlots evermore, and none would ever gainsay him at all. And Théophile then woke up all in terror, for everything he dreamed was sin, and every sin he dreamed was sparkling with allure.
And more than this, before he’d had the time to realise it was indeed the dawn light shining through his window, Eugénie had burst into his room, still wearing that same wisp of nightdress that cried out loud ‘dream all your lovely dreams of sin, and I will dream them with you, so sinful till the whole world ends’. But Eugénie had other things in mind, and ordered him at once to rise and join her in the library; and when he did, all dressed up in the proper style, she hadn’t changed at all.
And then she told him he should stoke the fire and strip down to the waist, so she could paint Egyptian hieroglyphics foully on his chest that came from ancient Karnak, and several words in Greek, that evil reeked, and certain Hebrew letters too, that seemed to him the worse, for they were angel-script and spoke of naught but demons. And when she had, she stripped herself quite naked, all unblushing, and told him he should paint the same on her; and how he trembled as he brushed those burning words across her soft young breasts. Then standing hand in hand, they called upon the name, Opusculum Mercurialis. Or he called it by its name, at least, and she sang noxious incantations hardly heard since golden gloried Rome fell from its might and crumpled like a craven to the conquering Christian horde.
Ten minutes passed and nothing happened, yet they did continue just the same; then Théophile’s attention wandered somewhat. For the beauteous Eugénie was swaying nakedly before him as she sang, and once again he saw her young bared breasts, and all the rest of her which, not exactly flaunted, was not exactly covered up. And sin began to heat up Théophile’s imagination then; and from the corner of his eye he saw a vagrant greenness first and, almost shyly, that quite improbable book slipped across the gulf of time and space from its strange, uncertain world and nestled snugly in his hand.
And Théophile, who rather feared the holding of it would burn his flesh away in agonies quite transcendent, then remembered all he’d dreamed, and tempting promises of Hermes, and six bright eyes that sparkled ‘yes’, and all the sin of his desire, and how it did allure… and handed then the book forthwith to eager Eugénie.
She clutched it close and made it fast with certain noxious recitations learned in Smyrna, that orient city scented all with myrrh and unbecoming foulness, and painted symbols on its back and front that would not let it get away, back to its own and other world, no matter how it sorely wished to. Then, without the merest thought of covering up her nudity, she took a pace or two toward the fireplace, opened the little, innocent-looking book and began to read aloud such evil things he thought he would expire.
How Remus had been sodomised to death by Romulus while giant birds of prey pecked out his bleeding lungs until he had no breath to scream. How Helen, cursed by all the Gods at birth because her beauty was too great, aged never more than up to twelve until her dying day, and always was a child in bed who did not understand at all the things that men desired, and did; and ever wished that she could die, and didn’t. How handsome Antinous, because he was too loved, was cut in tiny pieces by old Hadrian his lover, fried with onions, most sacred plant of Egypt, and eaten by the emperor, all his blood-sauce drunk as well, and bones boiled up for soup, till nothing did remain. And how Pyriphlegethon, the fiery river, rises up from hell each night, to burn the innocent as they pray to all their innocent Gods, who quite refuse to save them. And of the sex-life of the dead, decayed, which was more lewd than all the whores of Paris could imagine, put together. Of living stones that turned to fiery lions, all-hungry in the all-too evil night; of gates to other worlds where everything was worms, and maggots and corruption, stinks and blight. Of oceans turned to crimson by the blood of sacrifice, and all for nothing but the charm of coloured death. Of sepulchres that glow on moonless nights and spiders twice as large a
s Athens ever was. And hordes of giant rats that ate the sun itself when it settled on the horizon. So many things the slim, unwholesome volume seemed then to contain, he knew they would not all fit in, and somehow it was more than first it did appear… so many times more over.
And Eugénie, she stood there naked by the fire, and read with such a lickerish look upon her lovely face, that Théophile cried: ‘hold, enough!’ and asked her to explain. What meant this awful book, and why had she desired to have it?
Then Eugénie glanced up, and saw the look of innocent, tremulous pain upon his face and, if not for long, the spell the book had wove on her was, for the moment, broken. She put it on a table (it did not disappear), invited him to sit down in a chair nearby, sat down herself, and took his hands in hers, so small.
‘Dear Théophile,’ she said, a phrasing he thought rather pleasing, naked as she was, ‘I’ve always known, in ways that you perhaps have not, the difference between what’s real and what we think is true. For what we think is true is mostly what we have been told, and not what we have seen with our own eyes. And what we have been told about the ancient world, is lies, and lies, and lies. The Christians, when they took the world, they made it over as they wished, and so they made it plain and dull and boring, denied all mystery and all sensual entertainment, declared that incest, sodomy and bestiality, necrophilia too, and both the ways of Onan, all those things that make life sweet and full of interest and variety, were foul and horrid sin. And banished Gods and fauns and nymphs, lamiæ and sphinxes, chimeræ and wyverns, Mormo, Baubo, Gorgons, gryphons, gigantic worms that fed on shuddered maidens’ flesh till they were done away with quite by heroes armed with adamantine blades of orichalch, though always then there came another, hungrier than before, and larger too… and more, they did away with sorceresses, with their violet eyes and lovely breasts, and red hair swirling round their dainty ankles, who thought it fine to fornicate with fauns and pans beneath a golden gibbous Moon, and make sweet music with their sighs and gasps and cries and moans; and so they did away with spells and wonder too; and tombs that housed the living dead, and parricides that slept then with their mothers and charred their hands and feet besides, and drugs that show a glimpse of heaven and blind us then for ever more, and women with the heads of crows and feet of mice, and ladders quite of diamonds leading to the very stars themselves, that glitter in the night of time, and tell eternal hours of pain in hell. So hardly surprising was it then that men were bored, and prayed unto the Christian God to save them from this dullness. And he, of course, so full of goodness, leaves them as they are. Do you wonder then that men do open up a vein and die, a-weltering in red blood that’s all their own? The only surprise to me is that they do not do it sooner and more often.