Encounters with Enoch Coffin

by W. H. Pugmire

  I turned from the device, and went to the Dream Lens. I reached out to switch off the lamp with the green filter over its bulb, but I could not resist the imp of the perverse and brought my eye close to the spyglass on its jointed arm. Through its quartz lens, I gazed through the green-tinted hexagonal panel and thus into the ancient brick tunnel below.

  She was still there, her slender nude figure crouched over a torn scarecrow that had once been a man. Thankfully, in this light the blood appeared black, but there was much black. Sensing me above, she tilted up her face to peer back at me. I was struck, as always, by the impossibly beautiful face that my father had long ago fallen in love with. The face he had given to angels in the stained glass windows of churches throughout New England. Her long white hair wild in her face, and her lips and chin smeared with glistening blackness.

  Minus the blood, it was identical to the face of my oil portrait in progress.

  “Oh, Mother,” I admonished her sadly.

  XI.

  (From the personal journal of Donovon Abraham Coffin)

  Failure, and failure again. But I have succeeded, at least, in escaping from their madhouse and returning here. Yet how much longer can I evade them? They may have already come here looking for me, and will no doubt do so again. Therefore, I haven’t much time.

  My dear son Enoch has been in the care of his aunts. I trust those spinster sisters will raise him well. They love art, and books, and I’m sure they will nurture him. I hope they will see that this journal reaches his hands.

  Yes, I hope you are reading this, my beloved son.

  I am proud of you. The proudest moment of my life, apart from my wedding day and the day you were born, was when I came down into the basement and found you had switched on one of the lamps of the Dream Lens. With a pad and pencil, you were sketching a flock of weird, crab-like beings with membranous wings soaring through the place between stars. You looked startled and ashamed, but I reassured you. Of course, I forbade you from looking into the Dream Lens unattended again -- until you were ready -- but my praise for your drawing was sincere. It was remarkable! You will be the artist I wish I had been. You will succeed where I could not.

  Forgive me for abandoning you, my son, but I hope you understand my love for your mother. If I cannot use the Dream Lens to join her in the Dreamlands as a fellow citizen of that realm, then I will lift the Lens aside and descend bodily into the brick and mortar labyrinth below.

  If I cannot join your mother’s pack, then what I want is for her to dismantle me with her own hands…consume me with her own teeth…digest me in her own belly until we are conjoined. Until I am part of her…one with her…forever.

  (Note: Joel Knox’s proposed magazine article, “Ghoulish Legacies: The Art of Donovon and Enoch Coffin,” remains unfinished and unpublished. -- EC)

  Unto the Child of Woman

  “By faith Enoch was translated that he should not see death;

  And was not found, because God had translated him…”

  -- Hebrews 11:5

  The New England artist considered the sun over Sesqua Valley with an artist’s eye, astonished that he had never witnessed such a sun, its radiance so soft yet compelling, its warmth so gentle. He didn’t feel the need to squint his eyes as he regarded it and half-fancied that he was seeing something new or alien, an antique globe of fire observed through a different kind of atmosphere than he had ever known. He sucked in the sweetly-scented air of the valley, the air that was another new sensation. Never had sun and aether seemed so seductive. Never had the verdant shade of woodland felt so cool and soothing on his eyes. He sat upon a boulder, his shirt removed so that his torso could bathe in balmy breeze, and sketched onto the pad that rested on his knee. Examining once more the twin-peaked mountain of white stone, he was astonished by its eerie sentience; for it struck his imagination that the titan of rock was more than mountain, that it was some slumbering god that would eventually reawaken so as to stretch its wings over the valley and darken the realm with magnificent unholy shadow.

  “What are you doing there?”

  “What does it look like? I’m sketching,” was the abrupt reply, for the artist did not like to be interrupted as he worked. A figure moved before him and blocked his view of Mount Selta. “Move your ass.”

  “I think not, sirrah.” Although the figure faced the sun, the artist could not see its face, which was hidden beneath a hat’s wide rim; but then the gentleman lifted his head a little and smiled at the expression of horror on the other fellow’s face. Simon Gregory Williams never tired of the effect that his bestial countenance had on those humans who first glimpsed it. But then his smile faded, replaced by a look of sudden interest. He sniffed. “You have been tainted by the Outside.”

  “What?”

  Simon pointed to the large black mole on the artist’s arm.

  “Oh, that. Yeah, remnant of shoggoth tissue. I guess I’m stuck with it for life.”

  Simon snuffled a second time. “It has altered your corporeal components. You may be surprised at how long a life you live.”

  “You’re a poet, right? No? Your speech has a lyrical ring. Well, I’d like to return to my sketch, if that’s okay with you.”

  “It is not. Selta does not like to have her image reproduced. I must ask you to desist, Mr. –”

  “Enoch Coffin, how d’ya do?”

  “Coffin? The son of Donovon Abraham Coffin? Well, how fascinating. Truly, you follow in your sire’s footsteps. And you’re an artist as well. Well.”

  “Well what, buddy? Yeah, he was my father.”

  “He came here asking some rather curious questions – about an antique lens that was a doorway to the Dreamlands. Rather ironic.”

  Enoch bent to place his pen and pad into his leather satchel, and then he grabbed his shirt and stood. “How was it ironic, mister?”

  “Ah – Simon Gregory Williams, your servant.” He bowed slightly. “Yes, quite incongruous. He wouldn’t tell us where he had garnered his information concerning certain aspects of this valley – we like to know such things and murther the source, you see; and so, naturally, we told him nothing. I could ascertain, from things he spilled in frustrated babbling, that he was a keen student of arcane matters, and yet he was so absorbed by his obsession that he could not detect the gateway beneath his very nose! Are you an adept as well?”

  “Proficient in alchemy? Yep.”

  “Then perhaps you have read that there are two earthly spots at which the world of mortality touches the realm of dream? No? Again, so like your sire; for there is indeed a gateway unto the Dreamlands, sequestered within our woodland divine. You’re from Boston, as was he? Well, there is more irony yet; for it was another artist from your region who found our local gateway and thus entered into the Dreamlands in years bygone.” The tall man moved at last, walking slowly away as he muttered in an offhand fashion, “I have a window by your father at my hut.”

  “You what? Show it to me immediately!”

  “Sirrah, you are presumptuous. I never shew anyone my home.” He then lifted his head a little to observe the sun. “And yet – and yet, when the sun is at this height, and its beams pierce through the trees and alight on the window just at this hour – oh, the fantastic array! Ah, the fairy colors!”

  Enoch clamped his satchel between his knees and put on his shirt. “Please show me. You cannot know what it means to me.” He straightened up, and the beast of Sesqua Valley saw the way the mortal’s eyes were glistening.

  “How long are you in town?”

  “Until Marceline tires of me.”

  “Marceline Dubois? Ah, she has engaged you in sexual rites. Excellent, in this season of the Black Goat with a Thousand Young. You are a singular young fellow. I shall make you a proposition, as I presume that you paint as well as sketch. I shall allow you to enter my abode, and you will paint my portrait. Agreed? Excellent. Come, follow me.”

  “Lead me where thou wilt, O Lord.”

  Cynically, Simon c
urled his lips. “How perspicacious of you, for I am the lord of this realm. Come, sirrah, before we lose this light.”

  The artist followed the beast down a road, across a small meadow and into the woods, and then things got a little weird. Enoch’s senses became overloaded with sensations, and he had to pause one moment and get his bearings. Simon’s soft laughter floated to him. “You are indeed in tune with supernatural forces. I can see in your eyes that they have consumed of weird words, and that awful tissue on your arm has mutated a portion of your essence in a wonderful way. You have a singular future ahead of you, long and adventurous. Did your father work in glass only?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where is he now, your sire?”

  “Don’t know.” This was not entirely a lie.

  “I imagine he found a way into the Dreamlands, as some rare mortals do. It must be a fascinating adaptation, for human blood and breath are alien elements there and need transmogrification – just as wandering this woodland requires a subtle alteration in the few mortals that are allowed to walk within it. You can probably feel the change on your eyes and in your flow of blood. We are almost there.”

  They came at last on a place where the trees were not so thick, thus allowing the sun to shine on the circle of bare earth on which a small cottage sat. Enoch observed the few painted stones that were grouped suggestively at one place and was reminded of a similar group of stones he had seen in a yard in Kingsport. He walked up to a small stained-glass window and touched his hand to its surface.

  “Nay, come inside, lad – ’tis more effective when viewed with the sun shining through it. Come.” Simon entered the cottage and left its slim door open, and his new acquaintance finally followed him inside. “There, you see how the easy sunlight illuminates the whole of the thing and how its fantastic colors swim on floor and walls. And here and there one can just make out the queer sigils that have been subtly planted within the various colored shapes. I had a friend in Salem commission the work for me; your father became, at the end of his stay here, so hostile that I don’t think he would have composed the piece had he known its eventual destination. We were adamant in our denial of his request, you see, but he, in his emotional state, was easily played with and spilled forth significant personal information. After he departed the valley I went on a small exploration of the churches and whatnot that wore his windows, and I was quite impressed. This small thing is wonderful indeed, but it cannot compare to the other.”

  “The other what?”

  “The other thing that I required of your sire, the magnificent arched sheet of stained glass that has been affixed to its especial erection. Perhaps Marceline will shew it to you anon. How odd, your pensive expression. You seem disappointed in your sire’s work.”

  “No – no; I was expecting another facet of it that isn’t there.”

  “The pale portrait of an albinic phantom? No, she is not featured in this small thing. I noticed her repeated representation in those works that I examined when I journeyed hither and yon. She was…”

  “My mother.” The saying of those words caused the artist’s voice to choke. “May I have some water or something?” And then, as he was looking around for a kitchen or sink, he saw the painting on the wall and began to shout and sputter.

  “Pray stop making that grotesque noise. Whatever has clutched you? Ah – the Pickman. Yes, it is admirable.”

  “But it’s of you!” Enoch exclaimed as he strode toward the painting and examined signature and date. “1926!”

  “Merely yesterday. It’s a playful portrait, of course, as you can see how he enhanced the sallow texture of my temporary flesh. And the eyes are too bright, they contain too much white, whereas you can see my eyes are in fact the shade of polished nickel.” At this the beast removed his hat and fully revealed his fantastic face. “The face, of course, is perfection – for portraiture was his forte.”

  “You look exactly the same!”

  “The same yesterday, today and tomorrow.”

  “What the hell are you, an Immortal?”

  “I am a child of Sesqua Valley.”

  Enoch peered at Simon’s face, with its grotesque combination of wolf and frog features, and suddenly grew afraid. Taking one last look at his father’s work, he backed out of the cottage and hurried through the woodland, confused as to direction and destination. But at last he came upon the clearing where he saw the small lake, the two-story house and totem poles. He stopped to catch his breath and ease his sense of panic, now aware of the way in which the valley and its elements had indeed altered his perception of things, if not his actual physicality. He breathed differently, and his eyes saw in a dissimilar manner. Those eyes now watched the black woman who moved within the depths of the lake, accompanied by a strange white thing. Enoch watched as both figures submerged and escaped his view for a few moments, and then the pale entity bubbled onto the water’s surface as the woman’s hand reached out of the water and entered into the creature’s substance. The white thing spread what might have been three wings and drifted lazily into the sky as Marceline swam toward land and crawled onto the earth, where she watched the uncanny being divide into particles that split apart and melted from view. Enoch walked along the lake’s edge and approached the woman as she lay on her back and smiled into the sunlight.

  “What was that thing with you just now?”

  “Hmm? Oh, an aspect of the Thousand Young,” came her nonchalant reply. “I was wondering where you went. Did you return to your little room above the store? I told you to stay here with me.”

  “These woods freak me out.”

  “You’re safe with me. Your body and mind will adapt. I thought you liked the region’s beauty, the soft green shade on your eyes, the sugary essence of our air.”

  “Yeah, it intoxicates; but there is something sick here, something untoward. I experienced a similar disquiet in Dunwich, which is also a land of primeval beauty. I encountered Simon Gregory Williams.”

  Marceline laughed. “Ho, no wonder you’re distraught! The Beast has that effect.”

  “He’s a devil.”

  “That and more. You’d be amazed at his occult library, which he keeps in an ancient tower in the woodland. Really, Enoch, this isn’t like you. Part of what attracted me to you is your propensity for wickedness, your lack of anything angelic. You have your fiendish qualities, as Simon has. No, this is something more. Some weird thing has touched you, deeply.”

  “His house has a window by my father.”

  “Yes, and there is another work by your father on a hill, before an altar. That is where we shall frolic tonight. Is that what has so affected you, seeing your father’s art so unexpectedly? It’s amazing that Simon allowed you to see his home at all – quite an honor, that.”

  The artist shrugged. “It got me thinking about my mother.” He shrugged again, but the deepening sorrow on his face was palpable. “You didn’t prepare me for any of this, cruel wench.”

  “This is your first mention of your mother. What sort of woman was she?”

  “No, I’m not talking about her in this place. I don’t belong here. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Fie, wretch. You belong here more than most. That aspect of you that is other than human makes you most welcome in this valley. No, I’m not speaking of the tissue that has been grafted onto your mortal flesh. I refer to that part of your heritage that is other than human. I smelled it on you from the first. What is your heritage, Enoch? Are you the child of a changeling?”

  He raised his hands in protest and shook his head. “No – nope, we’re not playing this game. I came here to fuck you during the season of Shub-Niggurath. My magick phallus is all yours, but leave my soul alone.”

  How smoothly she rose before him, with what uncanny motion, as if she were some phantom come to haunt him. There was fire in her eyes and annoyance in the sound of her deep breathing. “You would do well to consider how you converse with me. Were you an ordinary mortal I would have my
brother reduce you to rubble for speaking to me as you have.”

  “Your brother…?”

  “The Strange Dark One beyond the Rim.” Enoch’s sense of unease escalated as she approached him, her dark body moving with a panther’s deadly grace. “No, you cannot move a muscle. The pain will be severe for but a moment as I plant my talons into your brow and read your memory. Yes, you would scream if I allowed it; you would clamp shut your eyes so as not to look into mine own. Ah, my necromantic nails elongate and pierce your little brain. What was your mother’s name?”

  Enoch’s mouth barely moved as he whispered, “Lebanah.”

  “Ah – a Hebrew name, that potent alchemical language. Its meaning is linked to whiteness, to the moon. And she is an embodiment of all that is pallid, bleached – beautiful as smooth polished bone. Her hair is like spun milk, and silky. Do you recall her kiss? How strange, when you contemplate her mouth you see naught but teeth. Let me give you my sharp kiss then, in memory of your daemon-dam.”

  The temptress allowed him to wince as she bit into his mouth, and she laughed as, freed at last from her spell, his muscles worked again and allowed his prick to rise. She moved seductively and clamped him with her loins.

  “I don’t remember my mother ever kissing me,” he confessed, as tears dropped from his little-boy eyes. Beneath them, the buried thing that was the valley’s heart shook the ground with deep-rooted rhythm.

  Removing him from within her, Marceline gazed into the artist’s eyes. “Poor soul, I have never seen such sadness. It is the thing you never allow others to witness. You keep it locked in a secret chamber of your little heart. And yet it is enormous, and rules you utterly. Poor lamb.”

  “I want to see my father’s other window, the one on the hill.”

  “You will see it in moonlight. Come now, your sadness had exhausted us both. Let us sleep the day away. I have a dream I want to share with you, an ecstasy of vision. You have shown me your soul, Enoch. Now I shall show you mine.”