My House Gathers Desires

by Adam McOmber

  Early the following morning, Gottard and Chaths set out to locate the valley of the re’em. They made their way through the rocky landscape, with Gottard stealing sidelong glances at this curious “mirror.” The guide remained a silent presence. Any given query from Gottard produced, at most, a few mumbled phrases in Chath’s own language. The journey lasted longer than the monk expected, and soon the guide indicated they should make camp for the night. This would allow them to arrive at the valley by morning light. “It would be unwise to approach after nightfall,” Chaths said in words finally plain enough for Gottard to comprehend.

  “Are there dangers?” Gottard asked.

  “We are in the desert,” Chaths replied. “There are always dangers.”

  Despite a long day of travel, the monk found he could not sleep. A wind called from the distant hills. Small animals scuttled in the shadows just beyond the reach of the firelight. Gottard spent much of the night considering patterns in the flames. He imagined he saw within them the re’em, walking in circles. Wherever the re’em trod, black formations of stone appeared to rise—elegant horns that pierced the earth. The creature shifted and turned in the light. It drew nearer, then moved farther away. The re’em no longer looked like a sovereign. Instead, it seemed to Gottard that he watched the dance of some ancient god.

  After hours of this, the monk finally forced himself to turn from these visions. He regarded his sleeping guide and was surprised to find that the so-called mirror of the other man’s face had changed during the night. There was now something in Chaths’ features that reminded Gottard—not only of himself—but also of a boy called Aenor he’d known during his schooldays. Aenor had been a quiet sort, tall and thin, prone to exhaustion. He and Gottard often walked together along the stony banks of the River Lech. The boys skipped stones across the river’s silt-white waters. They talked of the life of the soul. They would sometimes sit together beneath a crooked tree. Aenor would put his head on Gottard’s shoulder, claiming he needed rest. Once, Aenor had taken Gottard’s hand and said, “My mother says I am handsome. Do you think I am handsome as well, Ulrich?” Gottard did not know how to respond to such a question. He merely waited in silence, gazing out at the white River Lech. Finally, the silence itself became an answer.

  The sun rose like a bronze seal above the desert. To Gottard, the white sky looked like the closed door of Heaven. The monk went to kneel at the edge of the firelight. He wanted to pray in order to soothe himself. His memories of Aenor troubled him. The boy had been gentle and so kind. Gottard told Aenor that he could not love him. He loved only God.

  “I bowed my head,” he writes. “As I began my prayers, I felt a terrible sensation. It was as if an invisible hand had pressed itself against the very surface of my soul. For the first time, my prayers felt as though they would not rise. They would not ascend the heavenly ladder. Instead, they remained trapped inside my own flesh. Confined in that prison.”

  This disturbance caused Gottard to call out, waking Chaths. The guide blinked at him in the morning light.

  “Can you hear my voice, brother?” Gottard asked the guide. His voice was pleading.

  “I hear you plainly,” Chaths replied.

  Gottard crossed himself. “And when I make the cross, can you see it?”

  “I can see your gesture,” Chaths said. He stood and brought water in a wooden cup. “You must drink.”

  Gottard did drink. He found he wanted to take Chaths’ hand. He wanted to feel the warmth of the guide, the life of him. “I recognize something in you,” he said.

  “You should drink more water,” Chaths replied.

  “Please,” the monk said. “You hold some secret.”

  Chaths knelt beside Gottard at the edge of the camp. It was as if he too intended to pray. But instead, he only gazed out over the landscape that was covered in bluish rock. Finally, he said, “It’s not an animal you seek, Brother Gottard. Not as you believe.”

  “What then?” Gottard asked.

  The guide lowered his head.

  “What else could it be?” Gottard asked again.

  “The animal does not exist as other things do,” the guide responded. “Sight of it is thought to be caused by a fissure that develops in the brain. A fever—”

  Gottard remembered feeling ill a few nights before he encountered the re’em. He’d attributed the sickness merely to the sort of malaise that often came on during travel. “You’re saying the creature is some kind of dream?” Gottard asked.

  Chaths shook his head. “The fissure—it allows a man to see crossways. The animal walks there in that light.”

  “I don’t understand. Crossways in the light?”

  Chaths offered more water to the monk. “This will help. The water soothed me as well.”

  “You’ve been afflicted by the fever too?” Gottard asked.

  Chaths nodded. “That is why I am to be your guide.”

  The idea that sickness had caused him to see the re’em troubled Gottard. Was it possible he chased some mirage? Was all of this a fool’s errand? “If I am sick,” he asked, “will I be cured?

  Chaths looked at the monk solemnly. “There is no cure, Brother Gottard,” he said. “There is only the valley.”

  Chaths indicated they should begin their journey before the sun rose too high above the mountains. Gottard did his best not to stumble upon the rocks as they walked. He felt ill from his sleeplessness. Perhaps, he thought, the fever might return. Soon, the two men came upon, not a valley, but a kind of tunnel in the low wall of a rocky outcropping. The same black volcanic stones that Gottard had seen upon his original encounter with the re’em surrounded the entrance to the tunnel. For a moment, the passage appeared to waver, fluctuating in shape and size. Gottard wondered if this anomaly was yet another symptom of the supposed fissure in the brain.

  Chaths indicated that Gottard must be silent once they were inside the tunnel. The horned creatures were not easily disturbed, he said. But there were other things that lived in the valley beyond the tunnel. Things that did not appreciate the presence of men. The young guide seemed troubled as he spoke, as if he could perceive some future the monk could not. Gottard wanted to provide comfort to Chaths. He reached toward the guide. But the guide pulled away, indicating that Gottard was not to touch him once they were in the valley.

  It is in Gottard’s description of the valley that the sense of his manuscript begins to falter. For what he saw after emerging from the other side of the tunnel does not correlate to any known topography in the vicinity of Mount Sinai. “It was a landscape, verdant and lush,” he writes. “Like a garden allowed to run wild. There were large bright flowers, maddening things with fleshlike petals as big as a man’s hand, and springs that spilled forth miraculously from stone.” Further along, the landscape began to change and the earth became covered with what Gottard describes as a new variety of rock. The monk posits that the pressure of ancient volcanic activity had caused crystals to form. The large crystals protruded from the earth and were of varying colors: deep vermilion, saffron, and azure. Sunlight streamed into the valley at an odd angle (crosswise, thought Gottard) striking the crystals and causing a prismatic effect.

  The deeper Gottard and Chaths moved into the garden, the more it seemed as though they were walking on the floor of a strange inland sea. The waters of the sea were composed of wildly contrasting colors, so utterly immersive that Gottard soon began to feel as though he was drowning. He fell to his knees finally, and Chaths came to support him. Gathered in the guide’s arms, Gottard forgot he’d been warned not to touch Chaths in the valley, and he put his hand on the young man’s face and then on his neck. Chaths was beautiful in that moment. “Not like a mirror,” Gottard writes. “He was entirely himself.”

  It was then that Gottard heard the sound of hoof on stone, and he turned to look out into the valley. Standing between two of the great crystalline formations that rose from the earth was the horse with the single horn. And yet, this was no horse. Gottard
was now certain of that. The re’em approached the two men, lowering its head. Colors that rose from the surrounding crystals appeared to intensify. They shifted to paint the body of the pale beast. Gottard, in his delirium, believed that the horn itself began to bleed. He realized the protrusion was made of neither crystal nor bone. It was some form of condensed light. It ran in streams down the creature’s face, filling its black and thoughtful eyes with color.

  Gottard reached out to touch the braided horn (for the re’em was now close enough for him to do just that). Yet before he could touch the horn, he sensed a second approach. Chaths had said the re’em were not alone in the valley, and Gottard realized with great and trembling fear that this was true. The monk writes: “The being—for it was a sort of being that approached—proved too large to actually be perceived by my eye. It seemed instead that the atmosphere, the very air of the valley, grew dense. And it also seemed that the being sang in a voice that was too loud to be heard by my ear. Yet I could sense the sound of it, nonetheless.”

  “What advances?” Gottard asked.

  “I am sorry, Brother Gottard,” Chaths replied.

  “What do you mean you are sorry?” the monk asked, turning to look at his guide. The young man was alive with bleeding color. Light swam across his body. He stood with his palm against the neck of the re’em.

  “You are not permitted,” Chaths said.

  Gottard felt a horror at this. For he wanted to understand this place, to understand the re’em. And even more, to understand Chaths himself. “Who grants such permission?” Gottard asked.

  Chaths did not respond.

  “It was then,” Gottard writes, “that the approaching form—the great intelligence—enclosed me. I felt as if I was drawn up into the palm of a vast hand—a hand too large for me to see. Chaths watched from his place in the garden, as did the re’em. I was lifted high enough I could perceive the entirety of the valley. All of it was alive with maddening color. I saw the lush and fleshlike flowers shining. I saw a whole heard of re’em running—making rivers in the shifting light. I was drawn higher still, until I felt that I was being pulled out into the heavenly spheres. I could hear the spheres singing; they joined their voices with the voice of the great being. And still, I was drawn upward, toward the cold Empyrean itself. When finally I awoke, I found myself on the hillside where I’d first encountered the beast. I lay beneath the crumbling black architecture there, already forgetting the colors I’d seen. Such was the dullness of our world. I called out for Chaths. My call went unanswered. The guide had remained in the valley. Likely he’d known all along he would stay. Perhaps that was the fate of all guides. And there beneath the black rock, I fell into a new delirium. I dreamed that I too would one day guide someone to the valley. And then I would finally be permitted.

  Metempsychosis

  Vienna, Austria 1902

  A traveling museum moves down the dim thoroughfares of Salzburg and Innsbruck, Eisenstadt and Enns. Tents unfold from black carriages after sunset. Canvas glows with lamplight. A carnival barker leans against a tall podium, the front of which is painted with a single, staring eye. The barker doesn’t speak. He looks as though he’s half inside a dream. A phonograph in the museum’s entryway emits a crackling voice. It’s a doctor making notes on a patient with a mysterious disease: “The subject reports a belief that she is, in fact, a machine. Life for her is a function of someone else’s devising. Speech is scripted. Action, no longer spontaneous. [The record skips.] Each day, the subject claims it is as though she’s been asked to play out a scene. When I inquire who has asked her to do such a thing, she will not reply.”

  After purchasing a ticket from the dreaming barker, patrons are confronted with the museum’s curious exhibition. In an antechamber, there are six faceless statues, diminutive men like brown homunculi. A placard explains the statues were retrieved from tombs in ancient Egypt. Pharaonic priests once used them during a ceremony called “the opening of the mouth.” The ritual was thought to bring clay bodies to life, and the statues acted as guardians of the temple’s treasure.

  A young female patron with a gathering of edelweiss in her hair leans close to her husband’s ear and asks if he thinks the statues might still be alive. Perhaps they guard the museum’s corridors at night. The husband takes his wife’s hand and smiles into his black mustache. “This isn’t a house of horrors, Annalise. It is merely a showing of history. A remembrance. Come along now. I’ll protect you.”

  Deeper still, patrons encounter the automatic chess player of Johann Maelzel that famously toured the Americas in the middle years of the previous century. The author E. A. Poe wrote of it. The automaton is said to have played astonishing games of chess, besting even the most skilled of competitors. It is broken now, a wreck of rust and peeling paint. One of the chess player’s eyes has fallen from its head; the other is nothing more than a staring silver orb.

  Arnaud Eisler, a baker’s son from Vienna, wanders the makeshift halls of the traveling museum, peering carefully into its cluttered and dimly lit chambers. He is admittedly not interested in the curious displays—the robot made of wood and leather that once belonged to a king of the Zhou Dynasty, the Book of Stones written by a Muslim priest that details how to fashion live snakes and scorpions from wax, or even the mechanical angel built during the Late Middle Ages that is said to turn its face always toward the sun. These are dust-ridden relics from another age. And Arnaud has only recently arrived in the fullness of his youth. He’s far more interested in his search for beauty. And it’s just that search that brought him inside the museum tonight. For, not more than ten minutes ago, Arnaud saw the handsomest of boys—a docent, according to the badge he wore—lingering at the museum’s tented entryway. The docent was possessed of such striking beauty: thick dark hair, firmly parted, and queer, inquisitive eyes. He was dressed in a well-fitted suit and leather jackboots. He looked nothing like the rough boys of Vienna. The moment Arnaud saw the docent, he desired him. He thought that if he could encounter this vision inside the museum, perhaps they might strike up some conversation. One thing would lead to another. And if the docent was so inclined, they might share a kiss, as Arnaud had so recently done with the son of a traveling merchant. That young man had tasted like stale cigarettes and liquor. This docent, however, would certainly taste far sweeter.

  Yet now that Arnaud has purchased a ticket from the gaunt, silent barker behind the podium and made his way inside the tent, he finds the docent has disappeared into the shadows. Arnaud quickly begins to feel as though he’s lost in a system of nested dreams. In one alcove, he sees what appears to be a mechanical black monk that rolls its white eyes and strikes its chest with a wooden cross at timed intervals. There too is a Roman suit of armor that’s said to be a metal soldier called Talus alongside a self-reading book belonging to Count Artois of Burgundy. The book drones endlessly in Latin, using a high tinny voice. Finally, there’s a mechanical bird with silver plumage and opal eyes displayed beneath a dome of glass. A placard explains that the Greek inventor Asclepius fashioned the bird. When wound, it is said to possess the ability to lead its owner to the very gates of Heaven.

  Arnaud leans against the pedestal. “Damned fowl,” he whispers. He should have gone to the tavern tonight or even to the stables where other young men are known to meet. He would have been guaranteed a kiss at least, even if it weren’t from the one he so greatly desires. It’s then that a voice behind him says, “Well now . . . what are your interests here?” Arnaud turns to see the dark-haired docent who’s miraculously appeared from behind a black curtain. The boy is taller than Arnaud first believed. He has a faint yet pleasing accent. There’s a distinct smell about him too, eucalyptus mixed with the tang of sweat. Arnaud’s face feels hot. He’s afraid he’s blushing. But then again, the flickering lamplight in the chamber is so dim he doesn’t think the boy will see.

  “Interests?” Arnaud says.

  The docent comes closer, wearing half a smirk. He adjusts the lapels of h
is own trim suit. “What have you come to see?”

  Arnaud looks at the metal bird—the mechanical guide to Heaven. He thinks of all the exhibits he’s encountered so far and finds he doesn’t know how to respond. “Have you ever wound the bird?” he asks.

  The docent shakes his head. “The key’s lost. All the keys are lost. So say the proprietors.”

  “I didn’t know the traveling museum was coming,” Arnaud says. “There were no fliers in the square.”

  “No,” the docent says. “I don’t suppose there were.”

  Arnaud realizes he’s already straining for a topic. Not a good sign. He came inside wanting to charm this boy, but now it’s as if his thoughts labor under the weight of some spell. He’s reminded of the heat in his own father’s bakery, the way it can make him feel light-headed in the late afternoon. “What’s the museum called then?” he asks finally.

  “Doesn’t have a name,” the docent replies.

  “Everything has a name,” Arnaud says.

  “It just a place where people come,” the docent says, “for one reason or another. They find us.”

  “And who are these proprietors?” Arnaud asks. “Who do you work for?”

  The docent’s lips are thin and pale, yet somehow still seem exceedingly sensual. “Do you want to take a walk?” he asks. “I can show you some things if you like.”

  Arnaud nods. Of course he wants to take a walk. And he follows the docent down a dim hall, admiring the slope of the boy’s shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. They soon pause to consider what appears to be a body beneath a sheet on a table. A placard nearby simply reads: “The Resurrection.” The body begins to move haltingly and make a coughing noise as if trying to clear liquid from its throat. The docent pulls at Arnaud’s sleeve. “Better not to look at this one for too long, I think.”

  The deeper the two boys move, the more Arnaud feels that he is missing some significant component of the traveling museum—a clue that would unlock the meaning of this place. He doesn’t understand how the museum is organized, or even if it’s organized. In one room, there’s a porcelain doll that laughs, showing tiny pearllike teeth. In another, there’s a shriveled brown hand that’s said to come to life once every thousand years. There’s a mirror that reflects a human shadow, yet no one is standing in front of it. Across the hall, there’s a chamber that, through some trick of light, appears to contain an entire ocean.