by Steve Moore
But all its upward-soaring spires viewed exterior, just the way she liked it, rather than the way she made it just for him… then what a palace Somnium was. No tower tall that rose up more than five whole storeys had he seen before; Somnium overleapt it thrice. And all its walls and turrets, they were coroneted quite with jewels; and more, besides, of crystal they were builded. And tessellated domes, they sparkled opaline beneath the stars; and glorious banderoles, all a-glint with fiery gems, streamed long below the Moon.
A wondrous building, fitted quite for such a lovely Goddess. And when he saw her standing there before it, he thought that beauty’s surfeit, it would make him blind.
Within once more, she led him to a temple, built and dedicated just to her. All silver, moonstone, crystal were its walls; its floor, in gold and turquoise, mapped the full-formed features of the Moon; its ceiling was a dome of sapphire strewn with quartzy comets. And circling ever overhead, the phasing, changeful satellite, a disc of purest ivory.
More statues of Diana, nude, were placed all round the walls; he thought, perhaps, they were unclad for him. A swirl of fragrant incense wafted clear across the room, and scented up a vast, imposing throne. And then Diana, tiny feet a-patter, left him, climbed up on the seat and turned to face him, beaming lovely smiles.
A Goddess in her temple, then she was, awaiting his admire.
He dropped down to a knee; she ordered him to stand. In Athenæ and Roma, then she told him, one stood up to adore. The slave religions, they bowed down; but she preferred to look her lovers in the eye.
He offered then extempored praise, and told her how he loved her. He wished herself felicity, and everlasting bliss, and told her how he loved her. He called her blessings on himself, and on his queen and country too, and told her how he loved her. And many other things besides, and when he’d run out quite, he told her how he loved her.
And bliss to hear it from her lips, and in her temple too, she told him that she loved him just the same.
And so the day, it passed away. She showed him treasures of the Moon; she showed him things that never were on Earth. And all the time she kissed him. She showed him things from long ago; she showed him things more recent; but none unto his eyes were lovelier than she. She showed him all the best she had, because she wished to please him; and never was a better way for him to show his pleasure, but to hug her close and kiss her in return.
With evening and the brightening Moon, she led him on to chambers far more dainty. All frills and lace and feminine things he found about him now, and flowers oft en-vased upon the tables. The scents about him, too, far stronger then they grew; and sweetmeats melted on his tongue that seemed to him ambrosia.
A boudoir then she took him to, its carpet-floor all strewn about with cushions. A silent nymph tapped out an ancient earthen amphora, and poured out strong Falernian wine, a whole millennium its vintage; and then she left them quite alone to drink. And drink they did, and loved and laughed, and cuddled up and kissed. She pressed all close and let his hands go wander where they would; and let him kiss her anywhere he liked as well. He thought, since all the world began, two hours had never passed the sweeter.
All soft and charming drunk she was, when up she stood at last and took him by the hand. The boudoir’s inner door she opened then; Brazil-wood, red and dark it was, he noticed, and all inlaid with nacre. But once beyond, he paused, and thought himself in heaven.
He knew then, as she looked at him, all wide-eyed and all-lovely, she’d brought him to her bedroom. Nine feet diametered was the bed, a perfect Moonish circle, its sheets of whitest silk. Its mattress all of softest down, he knew, before he even touched it. And pillows shaped like round full Moons, he never saw the sweeter.
The gleaming lamps were crystal globes; the rugs were furs of polar bears. A fireplace of rowan logs, it heated, and it lit. No tapestries here; white lace hung all about the walls; above, a dome of glass, and through it shone the Moon. Beyond, a bathroom, mosaic-walled in gold; within, more wine, and crystal goblets, comfits and confections too.
‘Dear heart,’ she said, and kissed him oh-so-sweet. ‘A while ago, we talked of Fates, and given word, all hard. And now, my love, that test it is at hand. A test of all your love.
‘The question’s this, my dear: do you love me, quite enough, to hold me in your arms all naked, sleep with me all night, and more, within my very bed, that quite was made for love, to leave me all a-virgin? My sweet, I tell you, if you can, I’ll love you ever more; but if you can’t, then all is lost, and though I’d never harm you, you will not know me ever more again. There is no choice; the test is here; you cannot now withdraw.
‘But if you hug me all night long, with nothing more than kisses, then, oh my love, eternity it beckons.’
He hardly knew what words to say, or what to even think. He took her in his arms and kissed her eyelids, nose and lips, and gathered up his wits. A deep breath then he took, and said:
‘My love, a hard word’s never given easy, and this is hard as I can bear. To have the thing I most desire, and in the moment it’s obtained, to give it up entire; why, that’s a trial, too. And yet, they say, we only get the things we want when we have quite renounced them. And more, when we have no desires left, we’ve no desires unfulfilled.
‘Oh, love, Diana, sweetheart mine. My heart says yes. My body does not know. I think, though, that with all my soul I love you. Mayhap I love you quite enough, to even give you up.
‘But let’s to bed and test me. And even should I prove to fail, I tell you now, my love, the crowning moment of my life so far, will be to hold you naked in my arms in bed, and kiss you sweet goodnight.’
A little tear was in her eye, as up she stood on tip-toe, for to kiss him. All charming then, she helped him to undress; and very sweet she was to let him take her dress off too. Quite naked then, they turned and faced each other, eyes all greedy for the other’s form.
His yard was never standing bigger. She took his hand and squeezed it, sympathetic, said: ‘Come to bed, my love, and kiss me.’
The bed was far too large for what they had in mind, for all that either wanted was to hold the other close, and closer yet besides. In tight embrace they tried to melt into each other; in constant kiss they tried to breathe the other’s breath.
He told her that he loved her quite; she said she loved him too.
No other words were needed then, and so they used their lips to kiss. Sometimes, their smiles spoke little odes; more oft their tears spoke volumes quite enormous. But all the time their lips were used for kissing.
He could not sleep for hours, just waiting for the dawn.
Tuesday, 16th October 1803
At last, then, yesterday evening, after early supper (and much impatience on my part), Cynthia and I handed over the running of the inn to Flora, with strict instructions not to stand for trouble or uproarious celebrations of Jude Brown’s too-deserved demise; and if she cracked a skull or two, we’d think her none the less. The smile she returned for that was quite delightful; she is a marvellous wench.
And after that, dear Cynthia and I went back down to the cellar.
I thrust the key into that ancient lock and turned it, and found the door more willing to be opened than it ever was before. And I have to say that this time all my nervousness had disappeared and that, with our lanterns lit, it was I that took fair Cynthia’s sweet small hand in mine, and led her on. Not only because I wanted to see the more of what remained down there, but because I wanted to adventure with a lovely woman, hand-in-hand, and to face the great unknown beside her, and to feel that this time, if anyone needed aid and protection, then I should be the one to clutch her in my tender arms, and kiss her from her faint. Of course, for all of that, a part of me also knew that if Cynthia played the wilting maiden, all would be an act; for that same part suspected all of this a puppet-show, where Cynthia pulled the strings. Well, be that as it may…
My eagerness, of course, was quite misplaced. We followed once again the thread, left in pl
ace from our previous adventure; and as before, the first thing we came to was that sculpture of the whitest marble, portraying dear Diana bathing in the world-surrounding waters of the Ocean; except that this time she was no longer bathing. Instead, she’d stepped out of the lapping foam all dainty, and stood there now on tiptoe poised as all her wondrous nymphs (in whom I thought to recognise young Flora and all her lovely sisters) dressed her in a short and thigh-revealing chiton. And once again Diana was my Lizzie, and sweet Cynthia, and all those to whom, on Sunday morning, I was all too willing to swear away my soul. How these things can be, I know not; and yet I know quite well they are.
This first shock I managed to bear, I admit enwrapped in Cynthia’s softest arms, without undue alarm. The second, when we reached that ruined wall, was rather more the difficult. For that same wall had grown up high somehow, I’m sure it had; was taller than it was before. And now, in lunar marble, I saw chariot wheels in full, and maidens carved in stone up to the breast, and gazed upon sufficient to know that here was Diana, taking leave of her lovely and beloved nymphs, as she prepared to drive the silvery Moon-chariot swift across the starry sky. And I know it’s not my memory that’s at fault; that wall was taller than it was before.
We moved along the marble wall to the gateway we had seen before, and there was that name-plate once again, the one that read, but should not read, the quite impossible Somnium. I thought to take it back with us, to examine it more carefully in my room, and to have some proof of what we’d found; but Cynthia told me no. Better, she said, to find some way of propping it firmly in the stonework by the gate, and so to reinstate it and the palace (or whatever it is that we have found down there) that it names; or, perhaps, to re-found it. And so that’s what we did, though I confess I’m not entirely sure exactly what she meant.
This time, being better prepared and, in my case, still quite conscious, we decided to move on through the gateway. An avenue led onwards into darkness. A few feet to our left, the remaining wall cornered and then followed along beside the broad paved path. To our right, a little flight of steps led down some three or four feet. Taking these, we found ourselves in what had once, quite obviously, been a sunken garden of some extent, and a water garden besides. No water now remained, or plants either, of course, but wandering the paths we could trace the outlines of the various-patterned ponds and the water-channels connecting them, the shapings of the flower-beds and, more poignant far than any of these, the tumbled or broken statues that lay where they had fallen, appearing suddenly from the darkness as our lantern-light revealed them. Mostly of the whitest marble, all of them distinctly female, they portrayed the most beauteous Goddesses, and winsome nymphs, and lovely priestesses, in various states of dress or less; and when I saw one of dear Diana, crescent-browed and breasts exposed, I could not quite resist. I had to help her to her feet once more (she looked so sad, all tumbled and all overthrown), and then I knelt before her, head bowed down, before rising up to kiss those pure white lips, oh-so-perfect and oh-so-cold, before we moved once more upon our way. But before we did so, Cynthia clutched my arm and turned me round, and showed herself by lantern-light, quite posed as sweet Diana was, and with all her dress pulled down (or disappeared) and beautiful breasts exposed; and I kissed her soft red lips, oh-so-perfect and oh-so-warm. At least, I think I did, for the next that I remember she was dressed quite as before, and looking as if she never had been otherwise, and I was leading her onward through that garden and up the steps at its far side. And thinking back, I simply do not know if it was real, or if I dreamt that moment, inspired by the statue; or if I dreamt the entirety of what happened in the cellars last night. After Sunday morning, having abjured the Christian god and all his works, and any of the world that is not Diana or her own, it seems to matter very little; but last night when we returned from the underworld, it gave me much to think on.
That sunken garden I had not mentioned, I’m quite sure, in my own (far too poor) description of fair palatial Somnium, and thought I must include it; though last night when I read my manuscript again, I found out that I had. How this can be, I really do not know. All things Dianic and Somniac now become as strange and fluid as Moonlight dreams, and ‘facts’ they merge with ‘fiction’, and who knows which is which? Perhaps I’m mad, but think I’m not; or perhaps I’m not, but fear I am.
We rejoined the avenue at the garden’s farther side and, walking on a few paces more, we suddenly found ourselves in a world I knew (or thought) that I myself had written. A gatehouse rose before us, ruinous, I must confess. And yet I knew it, for I had described it exactly as it was, its outward surface covered entirely in plaster, in which were set mosaics composed of naught but precious and semi-precious gems, interspersed with gleaming gold. Two towers rose to either side of the broad gateway, with lovely and loveable images of divine Diana: one portrayed her as the earthly huntress, the other as the gold-girl of the Moon. Her lovely locks were done in agates, her lips with rubies, her skin with corals and tourmalines, her nipples with upstanding garnets, her dress, what little was to show, of shining diamonds, and topaz were her golden jewels. And how those gemstones sparkled in the lanterns’ light, and how I wished that I could look upon them in the brilliant silverings of the radiant full Moon. I trembled to see those mosaics, and moaned to see those broken turrets, that once forefronted up the lovely palace of the Dreaming Moon. For though it may be a strange and wonderful thing to build a palace in the imagination, to see it real quite takes the breath away; but to see it ruined shatters the soul in a way that I simply cannot tell of.
I looked upon the ruins of my fondest dreams, sat down upon the ground, and wept. And wept, and wept, and wept. I know not how long it lasted; it seemed I wept forever.
But lovely Cynthia who, with every passing thought, becomes to me yet more in truth the beauteous Diana, embraced me with a sympathy that told me fully that she understood, and kissed my tears away.
We then passed far enough through that great and lovely gateway to see an open space beyond, that our lanterns were far too weak to penetrate, and I knew that stretching before us was a spacious quadrangle; knew it most of all because I’d already written it so. I know this sounds like madness, and it is, and it’s real besides; and any thought of rational explanation I abjure, and leave it to any who think the world is simple, and objective, and comprehensible. And I leave it to them with my most vulgar scorn, because they have no dreams, no magic in their souls and, perchance, no souls at all besides.
But all that aside, by then the candles in our lanterns were burning down so low, that I began to fear that we might be stranded there in darkness before we’d gained the safety of The Bull’s familiar cellar. I have to say that, as we debated our situation, I could not help but think that, Liz apart, there was no one with whom I’d rather be lost in cloying blackness than with Cynthia; Cynthia whose eyes, so enormous-pupilled, were so sweet and sparkling in the lantern’s light. And I thought, from the faintest smile upon her lips, that she understood my thought and, for a moment, considered it; and then that same thought broadened her smile into a grin, and we agreed to retrace our steps, returning again on a later occasion with extra candles for the lanterns, and mayhap Falernian wine, and cold venison pies for a subterranean, nocturnal picnic; and I cannot think of anything else than Cynthia smiling at me at that moment, brown-eyed and lovely-locked, and looking at me with a mother’s love, as if I was a small boy who needed to be taken home, and put to bed, and lullabied to sleep with a lovely-voiced and lunar song.
And I can only imagine that indeed she performed that kindest service for me, for I remember nothing more until I woke this morning, abed alone, in my room which now, somehow, was full of sweetly-smelling flowers, the door wide open and nothing to be heard throughout the inn but the most musical feminine laughter, and giggles, and occasional sighs. And I knew then that there’s nothing more lovely than the sound, to man, of woman, when she’s happy and delighting in the world.
Although I
must have slept for many hours last night, I found myself so weary when I woke that I could hardly move. Young Violet, passing by my door all frilly and delightful in a pure white petticoat and seeing me awake, blew a kiss and went upon her way; a minute or two later dear Cynthia arrived. She felt my forehead and told me that I had the slightest fever; her touch was feather-soft upon my brow. I asked her if I’d dreamed last night; she grinned and told me only I would know.
The worm of thought that kept on wriggling in my brain was this: that desolate as I had been to see the ruin of my dreams, yet still those ruins had grown taller than they were before; certainly the carven curtain-wall had risen by two or three feet. Yet how, with passing time, do ruins rebuild their former glories? Does time in fact run backwards here, ruins un-ruinating themselves with every passing hour? Or if Somnium is somehow manifesting here (from Dreamland, or the Moon?) must it, for some reason, do so in reverse? I did not mention these ruminations to my nurse-in-chief, lest she think… well, whatever she might think…
She left and came back with a cordial, helped me sit and plumped up all my pillows; I almost called her dear Mama. And then I asked her if I had some letters; she shook her head so sad. Oh Liz, my Liz, what’s happened? I can’t believe you have not written.
I wanted to get up then and write, but Cynthia would not let me; I confess I was so tired I allowed her to persuade me. Instead she gave me a broad and wooden tray, on which to rest my journal, to place my ink-pot, my paper and my pen. I wrote a page or two of this entry for today, describing most of what had happened in the night, then Cynthia came up with oxtail broth and fresh-baked bread, and fed me with a spoon; I told her I could feed myself, she simply would not hear of it. Flora and Rose were looking in the door all sympathetic; after I had eaten, darling Iris came and played the lute until I took a nap.
Half-waking in the afternoon, I thought the Moon itself had come down from the sky and shone there in my room; a lovely face it then became, said: ‘Come on home to me, you are so weary of the world.’ I wanted then so much to just shrug off my tired and aching body and soar up to the realms of bliss. The Moon was beaming in my eyes; I wanted but a lunar kiss. And then my vision cleared, and Cynthia sat upon the bed before me, looking down with sweet concern. I reached up then and pulled her close and kissed her; and only then I noticed Flora sitting on the other edge of the bed, a pistol lying in her lap.