by Неизвестный
4 February 1849. Heat. Torpor. Fetid exhaled breath of creation. Tho’ it is but February, & more extreme temperatures to come in March & April.
An altercation with Mercury I fear has alienated him from me. & yet, I had no choice, for he had misbehaved, venturing into the Charnel House & feeding there, & reveling in filth, & daring then to return to me, his master, with a bloodied muzzle, & teeth sticky with torn guts, & the once silky coat V. had brushed, matted in blood & unspeakable filth. “Dog! You disgust me.” As I raised my fist to strike, he cowered only more slightly, the pupils of his bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits; this time, I did not restrain my blow, but struck the bony head; nor did I restrain myself from kicking the cur in his skinny withers; when his hackles rose against me, & his stained teeth were bared in snarl, I reached for my driftwood cudgel, & smote the beast over the head so decisively, he fell at once to the ground, & lay whimpering & twitching. “So, you see who is the master, eh? Not a debased specimen of Canis familiaris, but an exemplary specimen of Homo sapiens.”
For it is a matter of species, I begin to see. Plotinus had not the slightest idea, nor even Aristotle; & not even Gotthelf, tho’ living into this, the century of Darwin.
17 February 1849. & now, Mercury has died. I have covered the pitiful remains with rocks, to discourage scavengers.
20 February 1849. Life is stuporous, in the heat haze. I cannot grieve for my lost companion; by day I am too exhausted & by night I am too bestirred by rage. My Diary entries I make by lamplight, in a hand so shaky, you would believe the earth shook beneath me. For in a dream it came to me, all of Homo sapiens has perished in a fiery debacle, with a single exception: the Keeper of the Light-House at Viña del Mar.
1 March 1849. Cyclophagus, I have named it. A most original & striking creature, that would have astonished Homer, as my Gothic forebears to a man. Initially, I did not comprehend that Cyclophagus was an amphibian, & have now discovered that this species dwells, by day at least, in watery burrows at the edge of the pebbled beach: to emerge, in the way of the Trojan invaders, by nightfall, & clamber about devouring what flesh its claws, snout, & tearing teeth can locate. & in this way, Mercury died.
Primarily, Cyclophagus is yet another scavenger; tho’ the larger specimens, clearly males, & magnificent tyrants of the beach they are, reaching the size of a wild boar, will attack & devour—living, & shrieking!—such creatures as very large spider crabs (themselves a terror to contemplate) & a great-headed fish, or reptile, with astonishing phosphorescent scales, I have named Hydrocephalagus, & the usual roosting seabirds, gulls, & hawks, lapsed into unwary sleep amongst the boulders; &, as it happened the other night, poor Mercury, who in a terrier bloodlust had unwisely blundered into the domain of one of these nightmare beasts. I can scarcely record it in this Diary—I had once hoped to express only the loftiest sentiments of humankind—how, wakened from sleep, I heard my companion’s piteous cries, for it seemed to me that he cried “Master! Master!” & that my beloved V. cried with him, that I might save him. & so, casting aside my disgust for the Charnel House, I stumbled to Mercury’s side, as the doomed fox terrier struggled frantically for his life, trapped in the masticating jaws of a Cyclophagus male intent upon devouring him alive. Desperate, I struck at the monstrous predator with rocks, & tugged at Mercury, shouting & crying, until at last I managed to “free” Mercury of those terrible serrated teeth— ah, too late! For by now the poor creature was part dismembered, copiously bleeding & whimpering as with a final convulsion he died in my arms. . . .
I cannot write more of this. I am sickened, I am overcome with disgust. The shadowy regions of Usher are no more; Cyclophagus has invaded. Not the Gothic spider fancies of Jeremias Gotthelf himself could withstand such hellish creatures! In a nightmare vision my beloved V. came to chastise me, that I have abandoned our “firstborn” to such a fate. My astonished eyes saw V. as I had not seen her since our wedding day, when she was but fourteen years old, ethereal & virginal as the driven snow; & I heard her weeping voice as I had never heard it in life, in this curse:
“I shall not see you again, husband. Neither in this world nor in Hades.”
Unnumbered Day 1849. (?) Damn! to take up this pen & attempt inky scratches of parchment paper! & the pen falls from my talon fingers, & much of my ink supply has dried up that my patron (whose name I have misplaced tho’ I hear his jeering voice My boy! my boy! in the gulls’ shrieks & see his damned face glaring at me, from out the clouds). As my precious “library” of books et cetera is worm- & weevil-riddled, & unreadable; & my tinned foods, contaminated by maggots. How all of Philadelphia might shudder at me now, beholding such a vision: “Who is that? That savage?”— recoiling in horror & then with great peals of laughter including even the ladies. ECCO HOMO!
Unnumbered Day 1849. (?) I must remember, Philadelphia has perished. & all of humankind. & “only I have escaped, to tell thee.”
Unnumbered Day. The perplexity of stairs winding & twisting above my head, I have ceased to climb. Vaguely I recall a “lantern”—a “light.” & vaguely, a Keeper of the Light. If Mercury were here, we would laugh together at such folly. For all that matters is feeding, & feeding well, that this storm of mouths be kept at bay, from devouring me.
Unnumbered Day. In despair & disgust I have thrown the last of the contaminated tins into the sea. I have drunk the last of the tepid springwater in which, as I discerned with naked eye, translucent, tissuelike creatures swam & cavorted. So very hungry, my hunger cannot be quenched. & yet, it has only begun. The heat of the summer has only begun.
Unnumbered Day. Not quickly but yes, I have learned: where Mercury blundered, digging into the watery burrows of Cyclophagus before the tide fully retreated, impatient to feed on the succulent young that cling whimpering & mewing to the teats of the female Cyclophagus, I know to wait & bide my time amidst the rocks.
So strangely, the stench has faded. By night when I emerge from my burrow.
Where initially I shielded my eyes from my “prey”—even as my jaws ravenously devoured—now I have no time for such niceties, as the bolder of the sea hawks might swoop upon me & take advantage of my distraction. No more! I am quite shameless now, as my hunger mounts. Even temporarily sated I lie amongst the bones & gristle of my repast, in the stifling heat haze of Viña del Mar, & perversely dream of yet more feeding; for I have become, in this infernal place, a coil of gust with teeth at one end, & an anus for excretion at the other. If I am not dazed with hunger, I will take time to skin/defeather/declaw/gut/debone/cook over a fire prepared of driftwood, before consuming: more often, I have not time for such, for my hunger is too urgent & I must feed as the others feed, tearing flesh from bone with my teeth. Ah, I have no mystery for the flailing protestations & shrieks of the doomed:
—every species of seabird including even the smaller of the yellow-nosed albatross, that fly unwarily near my hiding place among the boulders, to be plucked out of the air by my talons
—great jellyfish, sea turtles, & octopi, whose flesh is leathery, & must be masticated for long minutes
—Hydrocephalagus young (delicate as quail, while the meat of the mature is stringy & provokes diarrhea)
—Cyclophagus young (of which I am particularly fond, an exquisite subtlety of taste like sea scallops)
—every species of egg (like all predators, I am thrilled by the prospect of an egg, that cannot escape from one’s grasping claws, & offers not a twitch of resistance; awash with nutrients to be sucked through the skull—ah! I mean to say the shell)
A rueful fact, not to be shared with V., or the habitués of my old Philadelphia haunts, that I, descendant of a noble clan of the Teutonic race, must share his kingdom with any number of lowly animal, bird, & insect species! Of these, only Cyclophagus is a worthy rival, the most fascinating as it is the most developed & intelligent of the species, tho’ far inferior to Homo sapiens. I have found it a most curious amphibian, ingeniously equipped with both gills & nostrils, as with fins & legs; no less unga
inly in water as on land, yet it moves with startling agility when it wishes, & even the females are very strong. Its head is large as a man’s, & its snout pointed, with rows of sharklike teeth; its upright, translucent ears humanoid; its tail of moderate length, to be picked up like a dog’s, or to trail off at half-mast, defiled with filth. Its most striking feature is its single eye—thus, I have named it Cyclophagus!—which emerges out of its forehead, twice the size of a human eye, & with the liquid expressiveness of a human eye. The novelty of this organ is its capacity to turn rapidly from side to side, & to protrude from the bony ridge of the face when required. The Cyclophagus is covered in a velvety hide, wonderfully soft to stroke; it is of a purplish-silver hue that rapidly darkens after death. When cooked over a fire, the flesh of the Cyclophagus is uncommonly tender, as I have noted; tho’ in the more mature males, there is a bloody-gamey undertaste repellent initially, but by degrees quite intriguing.
To think of Cyclophagus is to feel, ah!—the most powerful & perverse yearning. I am moved to let drop this tiresome pen, & prowl in the shallows off the pebbly beach, tho’ it is not yet dusk. Lately I have learned to go on all fours, that my jaws skim the frolicsome surf, & we shall see what swims to greet me.
Unnumbered Day. La Medusa. Jellyfish while living, the many transparent tendrils, so faintly red as to suggest the exposed network of veins, of a human being, offer quite a sting! dead, the tendrils are fibrous & oddly delicious, like spaghetti & to be devoured with a chewy, snaky-briny green like seaweed Vurrgh: a species of mammalian lizard of about three feet in length with short, poignant limbs & a feline tail, deeply creased skin, like fabric much folded coarse whiskers springing from the muzzle of the female an expression in repose both translucent & contemplative in the way of Socrates these creatures I have named Vurrghs for in communicating with one another they emit a sequence of low musical grunts: “Vurrgh-Vurrgh-Vurrgh” in their death agonies they shriek like human females, sopranos whose voices have gone sharp the meat of the Vurrgh is chewy & sensually arousing like the meat of oysters their golden eggs slimy & gleaming By chance I discovered that the Vurrgh female lays her eggs in wet sand & offal, at the north side of the island the Vurrgh male then seems to saunter by, as if by chance (yet, in cunning nature, can there be chance?) & fertilizes these eggs through a tubular sex organ, sadly comical to observe
yet effective, & in nature that is all that matters the Vurrgh male then agitatedly gathers the eggs into a sac attached to his belly, like that of the Australian kangaroo it is the Vurrgh male that nourishes the eggs until they hatch into a slithering multiplicity of Vurrgh young slick & very pale, the females speckled, measuring about four inches at birth, delicious if devoured raw
Cyclophagus is my prime rival here, for the cunning creature employs its singular eye to see in the dark & its snouted nose is far more sensitive than my “Roman” nose Cyclophagus has an insatiable appetite for Vurrgh young & would seem almost to be cultivating colonies of Vurrgh in the shallow waters just offshore very like Homo sapiens might do
These discoveries I am making, I might report to the Society of Naturalists except all that is vanished in a fiery apocalypse, that effete civilization!
Succubus: a sea delicacy a giant clam I would classify it often found spilling from its opalescent shell amid the rocks as a lady’s bosom from a whalebone corset pink-fleshed boneless creature that is purely tissue & faceless yet on its quivering surface you may detect the traces of a very faintly humanoid face Succubus I have designated this clam for the way in which, forced into the mouth, it begins to pulse most lewdly in agitation for its life its protestations are uncommonly arousing its sweet flesh so dense, a single Succubus can require an hour’s hearty mastication & quite sates the appetite for hours afterward & again, the damnable Cyclophagus is my rival for Succubus with this unfair advantage: Cyclophagus can swim in the sea with its serrated teeth bared in its mouth agape & trusting to brainless instinct as Homo sapiens has not (yet) mastered!
Hela I have named her my darling
Hela who has come under my protection Hela of the luminous eye Hela my soul mate in this infernal region ah, unexpected!
Hela, named for that fabled Helen of Troy for whom a thousand ships were launched & the Trojan War waged & so many valiant heroes lost to Hades & yet, what glory in such deaths, for BEAUTY! My Hela quivers with gratitude in my embrace never has she seen an individual of my species before! a shock to her, & a revelation my vow to her is eternal my love unquestioning having fled breathless & whimpering to me, a virginal Cyclophagus female pursued by an aroused Cyclophagus male out of the frothy surf of the pebbled beach as at twilight I prowled restless & alert, hunched over & with my cudgel at the ready Hela emerging as Venus from the sea to be rescued in my arms, from a most licentious & repulsive brute so large, he appeared to be a mutant Cyclophagus rearing on stubby hind legs in imitation of man terrible teeth flashing as if he would tear out my throat with his teeth ah! could he but catch me! as he could not & in triumph I bore my Hela away, that none of her brute kind might claim her ever again!
This has been some time ago in the old way of reckoning
I am never certain what “time” it might “be” I have forgotten why these pages have seemed important There is “month” there is “year” it is still very hot, for the sun has stalled overhead
How terrified my darling was, when invaders came noisily ashore to the Light-House of my “kind” it was clear! in a small rowboat & the mother ship anchored some distance away calling for the Keeper of the Light & finding no human inhabitant, searching amidst my abandoned things my former bed & thwarted in their search, in bafflement departed in our snug burrow we were safe from all detection & in this chalky bedchamber Hela has given birth eight small hairless & mewing babies whose eyes have not yet opened sucking fiercely at her velvety teats Tho’ these young are but single-eyed like their mother (& that eye so luminous, I swoon to gaze into its depths) yet each of the young is unmistakably imprinted with its father’s patrician brow my nose that has been called “noble” in its Roman cast the babies weigh perhaps two pounds, & fit wonderfully in the palm of my uplifted hand Ah, a doting father holding them aloft! into the light where it falls upon the upper shafts of the burrow (when the dear ones are sated from sucking, that is! for otherwise they mew shrilly & their baby teeth flash with infant ire) I like it that their tails are less pronounced than the tails of most newborn Cyclophagi their snouts far less pointed the “Roman” nose will develop, I believe the nostrils more decisively than the gills for Hela cares not for the old, amphibian life & her young will not know of it, we have vowed these precious young will thrive in the sanctuary of the Light-House this structure erected for our habitation, & none other for there can be no purpose to it otherwise it is our Kingdom by the Sea our nest here, & none will invade for I have fortified it, & I am very strong Yet gentle with my beloved: for her skin is so very soft, its purplish-silver hue that of the most delicate petals of the calla lily her soulful eye so intense, in devotion to her hunter-husband together we will dwell in this place & we shall be the progenitors of a bold & shining new race of Immortals
Hela my darling forevermore
“The Fabled Light-House at Viña del Mar” has been suggested by the one-page manuscript fragment “The Light-House,” found among the papers of Edgar Allan Poe after his death in 1849.
MR. AICKMAN’S AIR RIFLE
by PETER STRAUB
I
ON THE TWENTY-FIRST, or “Concierge,” floor of New York’s Governor General Hospital, located just south of midtown on Seventh Avenue, a glow of recessed lighting and a rank of framed, eye-level graphics (Twombly, Shapiro, Marden, Warhol) escort visitors from a brace of express elevators to the reassuring spectacle of a graceful cherry-wood desk occupied by a red-jacketed gatekeeper named Mr. Singh. Like a hand cupped beneath a waiting elbow, this gentleman’s inquiring yet deferential appraisal and his stupendous display of fresh flowers nudge the visitor over hushed beige ca
rpeting and into the wood-paneled realm of Floor 21 itself.
First to appear is the nursing station, where in a flattering chiaroscuro efficient women occupy themselves with charts, telephones, and the ever-changing patterns traversing their computer monitors; directly ahead lies the first of the great, half-open doors of the residents’ rooms or suites, each with its brass numeral and discreet nameplate. The great hallway extends some sixty yards, passing seven named and numbered doors on its way to a bright window with an uptown view. To the left, the hallway passes the front of the nurses’ station and the four doors directly opposite, then divides. The shorter portion continues on to a large, south-facing window with a good prospect of the Hudson River; the longer defines the southern boundary of the station. Hung with an Elizabeth Murray lithograph and a Robert Mapplethorpe calla lily, an ocher wall then rises up to guide the hallway over another carpeted fifty feet to a long, narrow room. The small brass sign beside its wide, pebble-glass doors reads salon.
The Salon is not a salon but a lounge, and a rather makeshift lounge at that. At one end sits a good-sized television set; at the other, a green fabric sofa with two matching chairs. Midpoint in the room, which was intended for the comfort of stricken relatives and other visitors but has always been patronized chiefly by Floor 21’s more ambulatory patients, stands a white-draped table equipped with coffee dispensers, stacks of cups and saucers, and cut-glass containers for sugar and artificial sweeteners. In the hours from four to six in the afternoon, platters laden with pastries and chocolates from the neighborhood’s gourmet specialty shops appear, as if delivered by unseen hands, upon the table.