Encounters with Enoch Coffin

by W. H. Pugmire

  He began to walk down the quiet lane, past the shops, some few of which were still open. Passing a dark men’s shop reminded him of his plan to buy some new clothes in the city, one reason he did not need to bring more than one medium-size suitcase with him now. He stopped for some moments and looked at the clothes dummies displaying tasteful fashion, and then he walked further along until he spotted a bookshop across the way, its door wide open and lights burning inside. It was a temptation he could not resist, and so he hobbled across the street and stepped into a spacious room where the walls were lined with bookshelves. Enoch observed the large sofa and the low table before it, some few chairs and two additional small tables. He thought he was alone in the room when he espied a cowled, cloaked figure bent unmoving over an antique spinning wheel. Enoch thought that the figure was napping when it slowly shifted and lifted its hooded head, and he wondered why the woman wore a mask. The mask smiled wanly.

  “I shall soon be shutting up. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Poetry?” He spoke in a hushed voice, matching the quiet tone of the creature at the wheel.

  “That wall. Do set down your suitcase, you look positively weary. Will you have a cup of tea?”

  “That would be delightful, thanks.” He looked over the poetry shelves and through the glass door of one locked case, in which he was startled to see a copy of the 1927 privately printed first edition of Yeats’s The Trembling of the Veil, limited to 1,000 signed copies. It had been some time since he had read the poet, and so he turned to the shelves and found a volume of the Irishman’s verse as the bookseller returned carrying a tray laden with tea things. He began to hobble toward her.

  “Do not entertain the idea of assisting me, you are quite incapable. Sit here on the sofa.” She set her heavy tray on the low coffee table before the sofa and poured Enoch a cup of tea, and the artist sighed gratefully as he sat. “You’ve been ravaged, young man.”

  “I was raped indeed,” he mumbled. “I’ve come to Kingsport for a three-week rest. My friend rented a cottage for me up on Central Hill.” The tea, as he sipped it from a delicate china cup, was steaming hot and delicious. He poured a bit of cream into his cup and reached for a sugar cookie. He turned to smile at his hostess and tried to nonchalantly study the peculiar face beneath the cowl, which she had kept in place. Although she was obviously past middle age, her face was strangely smooth, and Enoch wondered if it was indeed her face or some tight-fitting synthetic mask; and as he studied it he saw the way the soft light of the room was reflected upon the surface of her countenance, and also how an essence of that light was caught within the creature’s shimmering incandescent eyes.

  “Are you a poet?” the woman asked as she glanced at the book he had chosen.

  “No, I paint.” He finished his tea and struggled to his feet. “That was great, thanks. And I’ll get this. I don’t want to keep you, you said you were shutting up.”

  “Yes,” she answered, rising slowly. “The day’s earnings are already locked away, so you can come back another day and pay for the Yeats. That’s the Oxford 1940 first edition printed in London. Twenty dollars – some other day. No, we’ll leave the tea things there – the mice will enjoy the biscuits. I see my taxi has drawn up outside. You were planning on walking to Central Hill, I suppose, an absurd idea. Come, we’ll deliver you to your cottage.”

  “You’re very kind,” Enoch answered as he limped to where his suitcase sat and then followed the woman out the door and into the waiting taxi. “I’m Enoch Coffin,” he informed her as they rode to the Central Hill district.

  She nodded to him but offered no hand. “Patricia Olney. The weather has been cool this week. The tourists aren’t flocking quite as steadily as is usual, so you’ve chosen a good time to stay. Being that you are interested in poetry, you may want to know of a little – gathering – tonight at the Old Town Pub. A local (I suppose we must now consider him so) poet has had a new collection published by a resident patron. Should be rather a good show. Ah, here’s your address. Charming,” she said as she observed the small house. “Enjoy your Yeats, and we shall meet again anon.”

  Enoch stood on the pavement and watched the vehicle drive away, and then he shambled to the cottage door and let himself in. Charming was exactly the word with which to describe the place. The rooms were clean and well-furnished, and he found the refrigerator well-stocked with groceries and beer. Although he had no appetite, Enoch clutched a beer and glass and moved into the small living room, where he turned on a tall lamp and fell into a cozy armchair with his Yeats on his lap. He drank half of the bottled beer and shut his eyes, just for a moment he told himself.

  When he awoke, an hour later, he saw that night had fallen outside the cottage window. What had awakened him was someone unlocking the front door and boldly walking in. A young mulatto woman stood before him, shaking her head and smiling ruefully.

  “Honey, you’re a mess. Look at those circles under your eyes.”

  “Denise – how charming, your invasion. No, I’ve not been sleeping well. What time is it? I want to attend this poetry thing tonight. I need people. Lots and lots of people.”

  “Well, you’re not going out looking like that. I know you said not to get you any clothes because you wanted to shop in town, but I got you a nice casual suit that’s quite sharp. Take a shower and shave. I guess you’re talking about the Scot poetry reading. He’s a freak, so you may enjoy it. Go, get your ass in the shower and make yourself presentable.”

  The artist did as he was commanded, and had to acknowledge that it felt wonderful to shower his damaged body and brush his teeth and hair. He didn’t bother shaving but went to slip into underwear, and then went to the bedroom closet and found the beige summer suit that Denise had chosen for him, and hanging above it was a matching summer hat. A cool cotton shirt went well with the suit and completed the ensemble. Re-entering the living, he found his friend sitting in the armchair and reading Yeats.

  “This is nice,” he said, indicating the cottage. “Who owns it?”

  “I do. I rent it out to various chums who need to get away from their lives for a while.” She rose and stood very near to him. “Well, you certainly look a lot better. How are the limbs and all?”

  “I’m just glad to be out of the hospital. I’m okay.”

  “I don’t know what weird shit you got yourself mixed up with, Enoch, but I hope you’ll settle down for a while. You’re not the lad you used to be. Your wild ways are gonna catch up with you before you know it.”

  “My ‘wild ways’ aid my art, my dear. How do I look?”

  She got a little closer. “Baby, I could eat you alive.”

  “That will have to wait until I’m feeling more myself. Let’s go.”

  “I’ll drop you off, but that’s not my scene and no thank you.”

  They walked into the night and Enoch whistled as he saw her car, which was a testament to the lady’s wealth. The plush lining of the seats was like nothing he had experienced, and he moaned in pleasure as he leaned back, shut his eyes and ignored her reckless driving. Too soon the car came to a halt and the lady kissed his cheek. He stepped out of the vehicle and leaned on his walking stick as he watched his friend speed away. A couple passed him and entered the pub, from which a raucous racket issued. He was in the mood to party, certainly, despite the soreness of his limbs, and he clutched his cane securely and limped into the establishment. Ah – the loud obnoxious city life, how he loved it. And yet how queerly alien he found it, here in Kingsport, where such sport didn’t quite belong. The crowd was mostly young, reminding Enoch that the city was a place that attracted many young artists who created a hip and youthful ‘scene’ drenched in bohemian ways; and yet he thought that he detected a newer element of riot than he had previously noted in his few visits to the city, although perhaps it was merely this one occasion that had triggered this present zeal. He recognized no one, and his attire and extreme handsomeness caught everyone’s attention. He pass
ed the tables to the few rows of chairs that had been set up before a small platform, on which an intoxicated fellow addressed the crowd and inspired bursts of caterwauling.

  “You all know that I had promised ne’er to set pen to pad again, but to follow the sage example of exiled Wilde and merely dream and talk. But our exceptional proprietor,” and here the speaker held a glass of booze toward the bar, “a blessing on his head, has promised me a year’s imbuement of his cheap whiskey if I composed a new volume of my sardonic verses.” The crowd cheered, over which the fellow yelled. “How could I refuse? And now our generous Mrs. Prampton, of Kingsport Press, has issued my genius in chapbook form. So get out your pennies, my hearts, and spill them onto the lady’s table yonder, and scan my rhymes and sigh with me for this sad sick sphere, this mortal dust into which we all will fall. Nay, don’t be sad! There is drink and debauchery enough for all!”

  It was obvious that the fellow was playing up to the crowd, and it was doubtful that the poet was as inebriated as he pretended to be. Enoch went to the bar, ordered a drink, and was flirted with by a woman who invited him to join her group at their table. He accepted and entered that sexual atmosphere that was his forte, suavely playing with the smoldering lusts he nonchalantly ignited. He answered the usual questions about the artistic scene in Boston and explained his own work in simple terms, and then he asked his own questions.

  “Who is this fellow being celebrated tonight?”

  “Oh, that’s Winfield Scot. He’s been around ever since I’ve been coming to Kingsport. Kind of a weird dude, hangs out at some abandoned hovel up on Water Street.”

  “It’s not a hovel,” corrected the young woman whom Enoch had met at the bar. “It’s the home of a former sea captain known as the Terrible Old Man. Supposedly the guy was way over one hundred years old by the time he finally died. It’s said he left behind some treasure chest full of Spanish gold, but that’s never been confirmed.”

  “Why not?” Enoch asked, intrigued.

  “Bad juju,” piped up an older woman who wore a superior air. “If you stay in Kingsport for any length of time you’ll discover a rather infantile and superstitious fear among the locals. It’s never given concrete expression, but it’s palpable nonetheless. And some of it is centered on that two-story cottage where Scot has made his street-urchin nest. The place does have an undeniable aura of menace…”

  “It’s those fucking stones,” a young man interrupted, “painted all weird and grouped together like something out of Easter Island. They give me the willies every time I pass the place when I want to paint at the piers.”

  “And this Scot fellow lives there?”

  “Camps out would be the proper term,” said the superior lady. “On the front porch, huddled in blankets and reading by lantern light. We think he subsists on government money.”

  “Psycho money,” someone said, and everyone laughed. “Scott’s always said he was a poet but for all the years I’ve been coming here no one has ever known him to write a line – until now. They say his little book is okay,” the fellow concluded, unable to resist a condescending smirk.

  Enoch had had enough of the little clique. “Well,” he said as he stood, “you make him sound intriguing. Think I’ll mosey on over and check out his scribbling.” The others raised their glasses and bleary eyes to him, and he returned their sloppy smiles with a wink and foxy grin. As he walked to the table he saw that the poet had joined the woman seated behind it, smiling disdainfully at the crowd that ignored them. Enoch picked up a chapbook and skimmed through it.

  “I’ll take three copies,” he said as he plucked his wallet from his pocket and set a fifty-dollar bill before the astonished woman. “I have a couple friends who have a fondness for the esoteric thing.”

  Winfield Scot laughed. “You’re right there, mister.”

  “I seem to see a Clark Ashton Smith influence in some of these lines,” Enoch continued as he perused the pages of the copy he held. “It’s a shame America isn’t more acquainted with one of her finest poets. Do you know his prose poems?”

  “Exquisite,” the lady rejoined as she handed Enoch a twenty-dollar bill and two additional copies of the chapbook. “I’m Sally Pont,” she said, offering Enoch a genuine smile. The artist took her hand.

  “Enoch Coffin, of Boston.”

  Miss Pont smiled with recognition. “I have your illustrated edition of Naomi Neptune’s scandalous short stories. Your work is amazing.”

  “Thank you, that was a fascinating project.” He waved a hand to indicate the crowd. “Lots of fans here?”

  Winfield Scot smirked. “No, this is just a party crowd, here for the booze. Some of them will buy the book on their way home, maybe, as an afterthought. I told Sally that her 500-print run was far too optimistic.”

  “Not so,” she countered. “Most of my customers are online, and this will please them enormously. But thank you so much. I think you’ll like it.”

  “I like it already,” Enoch replied. “I can tell an authentic poet when I read one, and this seems excellent.”

  The woman observed his cane and reached below for a small plastic bag. “This has handles, it’ll make it easier for you to hang on to your copies.”

  “Thank you. I think I’ll find some silent place in which to read. Good night.” He smiled and moved away, worked his way through the packed crowd to the door and sighed at the taste of fresh air. His initial zeal for the party life had indeed departed. Stopping to lean against an antique lamp post that showered him with golden ambiance, Enoch opened the book that he had been scanning and read the opening poem. Its title was “Andromeda,” and it skillfully played with both the spiral galaxy and the figure of Greek mythology, creating an intoxicating evocation of mortal age and cosmic grandeur. Caught within the spell of the words he began to speak out loud, Enoch was not aware of the fellow who silently watched and listened until he paused and turned a page. The artist slid his head around and saw the poet watching him. “Making your escape?”

  “Gawd, at last!” He looked at the specter of the moon behind its miasmic curtain. “Ah, the night mist is coming in from the sea. The real Kingsport beckons. Been here long?”

  “Got in today, but I’ve visited before. I’ve never really explored the local nightlife.”

  Scot spat. “There’s a new constituent, crasser than what we’ve known before. But I don’t think the coarser kind stay for long – I hope not. Of course, I don’t commingle with the crowd, I did this tonight for Sally, who now realizes it was a mistake. The place for this kind of event is a bookshop. Let’s walk into the mist and get away from this electric fire.”

  Together, the gentlemen traversed down a crooked street that led toward the waterfront, from which a dull horn sounded. “I found a charming bookshop earlier this evening. Couldn’t believe it, they had a copy of Yeats’s ‘The Trembling of the Veil’ behind glass.”

  “Wants a pretty penny for it too, so she does. I like Yeats. In that work he wrote something about finding his style too ornamental as a young man, and so he decided to sleep upon a board. He didn’t, and he wouldn’t have found it much help to poetic style. I spend most of my nights on a porch, so I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Are you homeless?”

  “Not at all. So, you’ve met Miss Olney.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The old broad who owns the bookshop. How did she strike you?”

  Enoch sucked in air. “I was dumbfounded by her face. Couldn’t decide if it was some kind of covering or reconstruction.”

  “Yes,” the poet answered, nodding slowly. “She’s looked like that since returning from the High House, where she went to gather whatever elements she could find of her grandfather’s soul.” He laughed at the expression on Enoch’s face. “Or so the story goes. The face is strange enough, but it’s no match for her luminous eyes. I passed her once, in mist much thicker than this we’re walking into, and her eyes were absolutely glowing, scared the piss out of me. She ar
rived shortly after I did, almost thirty years ago now. I barely remember the way she looked when she first arrived, but whatever happened up there it did indeed transform her.”

  “Up where?”

  “The inaccessible pinnacle and its sinister northward crag – Kingsport Head and its house o’ dreams. No one ever mentioned it to you on your other stays?”

  “No.”

  “Well, very few would mention it, that’s right enough. And the mist often hides it at night, when one might chance to look up and see the lights glowing in the small windows.”

  “And Miss Olney journeyed up this ‘inaccessible’ peak and – ?”

  “Legend, dear fellow. What was your name? Ah, Enoch. A Hebrew name, the man who walks in the clouds with god or some such thing – just like old lady Olney’s grandpappy did, according to whispered legend. Wasn’t Enoch supposed to have invented writing? I think I read that somewhere. A blessing to his memory, if so.” He noticed that the artist was looking tired and studied Enoch’s cane. “I know where you can get a better one.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your walking stick. Come on, you’ll be impressed. It’s a twenty-minute stroll to my place. Let’s go.” Scot began to whistle a jaunty tune, the sound of which echoed in the vapor through which they journeyed. Enoch walked slowly, clutching his cane and limping through the mist after the other fellow’s lead, until they came to a raised plot of land encased by a tall black fence of wrought iron. Scot led Enoch up three stone steps and past the gate, into a yard where gnarled trees twisted over a curious display of large stones, oddly grouped and painted and slightly reminding Enoch of photos he had seen of the relics of Easter Island, although the way these present stones were grouped disturbed him queerly and alerted his arcane senses.

  They passed beneath the trees on the cracked stone pathway, and Enoch studied the aged and neglected house that leaned in darkness and billowing mist as he detected a bad smell that was a mixture of sea and death. Raising his eyes so as to peer above the antique abode, he detected three small objects with round owl-like faces and incandescent eyes that watched them high in the thickening vapor, until finally the beings were swallowed by the mist, taking the polluted reek with them. Enoch became aware of the fellow beside him looking at him inquiringly. “You attract things, don’t you?” And then the poet laughed and led the way up warped wooden steps to a long length of porch whereon were piled many blankets, books, and what looked like a gas-operated single-burner stove.