With little grace, but much speed, Xiao Gǔ and the sentry pursued until they gained the throne room. There, the king was relaying Xiao Gǔ’s story to his brother. The dragon turned as Xiao Gǔ entered. Hissing smoke and puffing clouds, Nyarlheiloong, He Who Dreams of Light, but Dwells in Darkness, raised a massive clawed fist, from which still hung a chain and broken shackles from his imprisonment, and spoke. “I owe you my life, young mortal. You have freed me, and given me the chance to right many wrongs this night; my tigers and I will fly out and set things back to the design they were formed to fit.” Xiao Gǔ then saw these retainers of the black dragon. They were five tigers, and each tiger had four fire-bearded heads and wide mouths full of saber-fangs. They were named Venom, Anger, Wrath, Vengeance, and Ghostbringer.
“The abasements I have suffered shall be put right. By the Light of zO and the Truth of the Teevs, and the mighty fires under the pot of ZuZu, I will return.” Promising joyous fortunes upon his return, the great black dragon and his tigers flew into the sky, crying out with ear-splitting roars as they marched through the heavens to have their revenge for their overlong isolation.
Before dawn, the warriors, showing no mark of torn or weary, returned. They crashed down into the grand hall, and a victorious grin split the face of Nyarlheiloong. The four-headed tigers roared triumphantly, and in a gleeful dance, the great black dragon stamped his mighty feet. Holding a rolled tapestry, Ghost stepped from their midst and gently unrolled it. Unfurled, it revealed Cassilda returned to the songs of earth.
“Wild, I went hunting to vanquish the hideous cowards, and upon finding them, unfolded my quicksilver claws. I offered the King of Death two beating hearts as a gift and he accepted them. As reward, honor returns and the flame that gives sweet to soul and skin and wakes color is forged anew.”
Untainted. Back. Free from the backhand of villainy. Cassi remembered spring and what could be spun from hope, her fingers trembled with possibilities. Her eyes were damp with joy’s tears. A princess, standing in a pool of blessed, golden sun that bathed the palace in majesty once again. Cassilda’s robes, no longer ragged, were woven of the finest rainbow-colored silks. With love and respect she looked at her father. The Amber King stood straight, and his sickly cast left him and he filled his lungs anew in the full majesty of the King in Yellow.
“Princess Cassilda I welcome you back to your father’s palace,” Xiao Gǔ said.
“Again, I am called Cassi, now that light has returned to this land… and we have you to thank for this. We could never have done this without your help!”
“But daughter,” cried the king as he stepped down off his dais and held her once again. “Tell us what happened. Was my brother terrible and rough with the Water Dragon King? Was there much destruction?”
Cassi tried to hide her mirth. “Oh, there was much destruction, My Lord Father. When my most illustrious uncle landed, and the paltry army my husband led fled in the face of the righteous anger of Nyarlheiloong. My husband, Pàng Chen was given a vicious but justified end. My uncle and his retainers bared their teeth and stretched out their claws. One furious tiger with fangs like magic knives bit off the hand that withheld bread, another bit off the other hand which withheld fairness, a third bit off a foot that stomped on dreams, the fourth one bit off the other foot that marched over hope, and finally the fifth opened Pàng Chen’s bowels. Nyarlheiloong, surrounded by purple flames, called my loathsome husband a scoundrel, a prince of evil, a liar, and an ogre of greed. The Great Black Dragon then opened his fearsome jaws and ate Pàng Chen’s head and heart, snatching the quicksilver of life-breath.”
“‘There will be no more FAT pleasures for this criminal! I, by right of fairness and judgment, deny him the fountain of life,’ roared Nyarlheiloong, as his tigers descended upon the lifeless remains of Fat Chen and devoured all, leaving not a trace, not even a drop of blood.”
The princess smiled sweetly and continued, “The Great Black Dragon’s worthy warriors then surrounded my father-in-law to keep him from fleeing. Cowering in the face of superior numbers and a greater class of fighter, the Water Dragon King begged for clemency. It was not granted. Uncle grabbed my mean-spirited father-in-law by the neck and cast him out to sea, where he was pursued by Uncle and his warriors, and imprisoned beneath the waves of the Southern Sea of Peace where he can do naught but gnash his teeth and dream in agony and eternal, undying solitude.”
A cheer rose through the court, and everyone cried the name of Xiao Gǔ, the hero. Feasts were prepared in his honor and his name was sung all through Karakossa. For three days and three nights, he was honored and feted.
As the end of the third day came, Xiao Gǔ feared it was time to go. He packed his saddle bags, and mounted Màn Lùjìng. As he did so, the princess stood there, blushing, bowed to him and said, “We will probably never see each other again!” Tears choked her voice.
The King of Golden Karakossa stepped forward and said, “My daughter owes you a great debt of gratitude, and we have not had an opportunity to make it up to you. Now you are going away and we see you go with a heavy heart!”
Xiao Gǔ bowed. “My Lord, it was an honor to serve you and your family.”
“My family was done much wrong by my daughter’s former husband and father-in-law, and she is now without a husband. I should like to find another husband for her. Do you know of anyone willing to take the hand of my daughter?”
Xiao Gǔ bowed again. “My Lord I would be honored to take your daughter’s hand if you would excuse my temerity. I have come to respect and love your daughter, and would much prefer to stay by her side.”
The king smiled, and turned to his daughter Cassi. “Would you have this man?”
“Would I have the man who traveled half the world for me, freed my family, and in so doing freed me from misery and captivity? Yes, Father, yes… I would have this man.” She smiled at Xiao Gǔ.
The phoenix-kite broke away from Màn Lùjìng, flying out over the Sea of Hali and burst into golden and crimson fireworks, bathing the wedding party in rapturous light. At that moment, jade and gold turned to flesh and Princess Camilla stood draped in green and gold raiment, where the turtle once was. The Sentry That Sees Behind Every Mask then stepped forward, and removed his fox-mask. Thale, brother to Cassi and Camilla stood in their presence. Cheers and rejoicing arose as the children of the King were returned to Karakossa.
Xiao Gǔ dropped to his knees and pressed his head to the ground in front of Camilla. “Oh great princess,” he cried. “Despise me not for treating you as my steed, for I knew not of your illustrious heritage! Forgive me, I beg you!”
Camilla smiled and took Cassi’s hand, bidding Xiao Gǔ rise. “Dear brother-in-law, none of this was an accident. It took many years, but you did all that was necessary, and learned all you could so that you could free my sister from her bondage, and my uncle from his imprisonment. How could I not be happy to have helped you along the way? It is I who should be thanking you.”
Tears of joy filled the majestic Golden Hall of the Golden King and joyous songs were sung. Xiao Gǔ and Cassi held hands, and bent to whisper phrases of endearment to each other, while about them another grand feast and celebration was held. That night when the Weaving Maiden Moon rose, she smiled and caressed all with soft light.
Xiao Gǔ awoke as though from a deep sleep, and next to him was the lovely Cassi. They were lying on the great hill, now covered with lush grasses, and crowned with a Cassia-tree in full bloom, dropping yellow petals onto the two lovers. From that time on both were very fond of each other.
Light grew over Karakossa and returned to the world, cold winds turned into warm zephyrs, and in front of every home the Flower-Elves made the long-dead lotus flowers bloom. Inside the comfort of every abode the soothing fragrance of Golden Cassi-leaf tea perfumed contented hearts.
Joseph Curwen was a boy of singular mien. His conduct unfailingly pleased his elders, for unlike other children, boys in particular, Joseph was couth enough to speak only
when spoken to, to keep his body still without appearing aphasiac, to accept with thanks whatever food or drink his elders set before him, and to forever convey the impression that he was enjoying himself.
His father, an Englishman, was so gifted in the art of conversation that scarcely a day went by where the elder Curwen would not receive an invitation for supper or a spot of tea with one of his neighbours in Salem-Village, many of whom were of nobler strata than the widowed farmer and his boy. Still, despite this slight disparity in social standing, Joseph would scrub himself clean after his round of chores and then accompany his father to hovels and posh houses alike.
One particular grey afternoon included afternoon tea in one of the finer homes. Gertrude Corey, wife of one of Salem Village’s most successful importer of spices, was their hostess. While Joseph was acquainted with Mrs. Corey, as he was with all those villagers with whom he shared the pews of the town church each Sunday, this was her inaugural invitation to the Curwens.
They huddled about the tortoise shell table in the drawing room as two servants executed the preparatory rituals for teatime. Slender side tables were set next to each of the three wingback chairs, cups and saucers of china the colour and sheen of wet bone were positioned, a trolley holding polished tea ware was wheeled in. Having supped in extravagant households before, young Joseph was markedly unimpressed by such pageantry. He was prepared to do nothing more for the next hour or so than sit stoically, sip tea (though only after his hostess had begun to drink hers), and steep himself in the fancies of his own interior world.
This was Joseph’s great secret; an eternal curiosity and an innate ability to satisfy said curiosity with whatever explanation his imagination could conjure, and the more outlandish the conclusion, the greater his amusement. What his elders mistook for attention to etiquette was in truth a prodigious lack of interest in the apparent, the mundane. It was as if Joseph’s mind was a pulsating toad that used any and all aspects of his immediate surroundings as lily pads, leaping-off points from which his reveries would vault to the summits of entertainment and absurdity.
He happened to be engaged in just such a mental exercise, concluding that the tortoise shell table was undeniably a rare breed of headless turtle that walked on carved wooden legs and sustained itself on slab cake served by its wealthy keepers, when destiny intervened and introduced to Joseph’s world irrefutable evidence of the Strange.
While fussing with an apt scientific name for his new species of tortoise, Joseph watched as one of the servants swiftly concealed his focal point with a circular doily of fine white lace.
It was a handsome thing, a very handsome thing indeed. Its centre was an out-fanning spiral of what looked to Joseph to be wolf’s teeth, laid out as adroitly as the God-forged ridges in horn coral. From this keen spread were figures, lean and lucent and nimble. Like revellers rapt in ceremonial dance, they formed a wider circle. Beyond this circle blazed a ring of pale fire.
Joseph likely would have equated this doily with a holy mandala, had he but known what a holy mandala was, so profound was its impact on him. For this highly feminine piece of decor managed to enlighten Joseph to a hitherto unknown aspect of his soul. Namely that the cause of his dumb aloofness and dependence on his own reveries was simply that, up until that moment, the physical world had never revealed anything that not only equalled but actually surpassed his own fanciful dreams. Like a white lace agate, the patterns held faint promises. Something grand was woven into that complex pattern, Joseph could feel it. It excited him, and frightened him also, for he knew that whatever dwelt within or behind that lace veil was not merely a product of his imagination, it was something beyond him.
After lamenting the village’s inability to secure a suitable minister for its fledgling church and forecasting both the seafaring weather and the harvest prospects for the coming year, discussion began to wane between the two adults. Joseph heard his father grunt “Well, my good woman”; a telltale sign that their visit was drawing to a close. Quickly Joseph gulped down his now cold tea, heavy with milk, and set the drained cup upon its saucer.
His father rose to leave while Mrs. Corey spieled off false promises of a future meeting. Joseph’s gaze remained fixed on the doily, whose ivory rim now seemed to spinning beneath the silver decanter, faster and faster. Would it vanish, he wondered? Heartsickness and panic coursed through his slight body. A black hopelessness that no child should ever know began to claim him as his father announced that they must return to their farm now. Was he never to see the white lace world again? Would its truth forever be denied him?
“May I have this?” Joseph blurted with a suddenness that startled both his father and their hostess. Mrs. Corey turned her puffy face to the boy, who was standing with his finger rudely indicating the doily beneath the tea ware.
He did not have to look at his father; Joseph could feel the fiery glare of disapproval scorching him.
“The doily, my child?” asked Mrs. Corey.
“Forgive him,” Mr. Curwen interjected, “it seems he has been possessed by the spirit of impropriety, Mrs. Corey. Please accept my apologies.”
The old woman raised a soft-looking hand, one completely unscarred by labour. “Nonsense.” She went to the table and requested that Joseph lift the silver decanter for her. He did so. She peeled the doily from the tortoise shell table and held it before him like a flag of submission.
“Well thank the good woman, child!” his father cried.
“Thank you, good woman,” Joseph echoed. He noticed neither his inappropriate phrasing nor the hostess’ chortling that followed it, so enraptured was he with the manmade web that was tented upon his bloodless fingers.
There was much tension wringing between father and son during their homeward walk through the groves of Salem Village, but Joseph was either oblivious or immune to such negative energy.
“I have a good mind to burn that napkin in the hearth and give you the switch!” the father grumbled as they entered their humble house.
“I will take the switch but please, father, do not destroy this!”
It was, Mr. Curwen privately acknowledged, a momentous occasion; the first instance of his boy expressing a clearly distinct opinion. The recognition of this hallmark tempered the father’s anger by lacing it with a humbling sadness. Their path through life had diverged and with each subsequent day the gap between their forking fates would widen until both sire and sired would appear as indistinct specks in the periphery of the other. So it had been for Mr. Curwen and his father, and his father before him, and likewise unto Adam and Cain.
“What is it about that little rag that you fancy so?”
“It made me promises,” Joseph replied.
“Promises?” retorted the father. “Come now, boy! What fool’s stuffing is this?”
“It has promised to teach me.”
“Teach you? What, pray?”
“It has promised to teach me what Fear is.”
“Really, boy! You know well and true what fear is! Must I once more tell you the story of how you became lost in the forest when you were five?”
“I wasn’t frightened in the forest, father. Never have I been frightened in the forest.”
With that, Mr. Curwen’s memory was clarified. The child was correct: when the search party had located him wandering through the woods in the gloaming, the boy had been emotionless. There were no tears, no cries, no moment of elation upon realizing that he was being rescued. Joseph had been collected, like an experienced wayfarer enjoying a fresh stretch of foreign terrain.
“I think it is high time you were in bed, child.”
Joseph did as he was told. He lay awake, and once he was relatively assured that his father had retired for the night Joseph satisfied the urge that had been chewing at the edge of his mind all evening.
He lit the paraffin lamp at his bedside, fine-tuning the knob until only the merest amber glimmer was cast. With care, Joseph draped the lace doily over the lamp’s chimney of contou
red glass. The flat-wick, now partially smothered, began to fume more persistently, diffusing strange runnels of heat up to and along the chamber’s low ceiling. Joseph watched these colourless streaks weep and weave through the shadow-double of the doily’s intricate pattern. They pressed forward, and seemed to carry some of the darkness with them, like soil upon the back of the ravening coffin~worm. Their trail appealed to Joseph’s eye, and he allowed his gaze to trail after them, which made him feel like their straggling inexperienced kin.
The doily’s lightless double appeared infinitely larger than the lace mat itself, which made Joseph ponder the curious nature of the great and the small.
Viewed in the distant corner of his chamber, the once minute figures were now rangy, their arms frozen in a gesture of heralding. The tedious weave had become a dais draped with curious flowers, each a different shade of black.
It was through these heralding figures and onto this offer-laden dais that the Sovereign of Fear appeared to the child Curwen.
Nameless, mute, this sovereign dignitary was known to Joseph as such through a mysterious process that worked underneath the act, the word, the thought. Unnervingly tall, unsettlingly thin, the Sovereign of Fear was dressed in raiments that were equally splendid and horrid. A simple sheet of the dreamer’s bed had been appropriated to form a monkish robe whose hood was cave-deep, cave-dark. Staring out from beneath this hood --- eyeless but observing --- was not a face but a ghastly hand with flesh the colour of fresh portico. Upon its bent fingers were rings of copper and lead, each of which bore a single letter from the grammar that is known to waking man only by the shriek of one flung back from the underworld of Nightmare. A pair of lustrous objects appeared to hang freely within the gape of the Sovereign’s flowing sleeves: the first, a flask aglow with a serpentine light of many colours; the second, a flower whose labial folds would be known the Joseph Curwen in later days.
A Mythos Grimmly Page 28