On misty bogs that depress the Northwestern Cascades that edge the Pacific, denominated by seafarer brigands, where they cast anchor and implored the protection of ankhs, incense, and hymns upon shore leave, there lined a woodland known as Stonybrooke. This name was given, we were told, by the thirsty souls of the adjacent village who linger in the pubs and stray no farther than the onerous paths allowed.
Not far from this village, about ten or so miles, there is a particularly silent, mist-filled hollow. A shallow, slow creek eased through it. Stagnant and thick in a dry summer, I wandered one autumn afternoon when the grasses were yellowed, the blackened bark of leafless trees my only shelter, and moldering earth and ice under my foot—conditions no man should seek longevity in.
Though many a year had passed since I trod the morose copses of Stonybrooke, I wondered if I might encounter the same frozen creek and the same decrepit masonry home with large paired windows atop a mossy and fat frame. A home, resembling a decrepit manor, perched atop its sodden tuffet like a watchful hawk eyeing its unsuspecting prey.
In this nature, at some obscure point in history, least to say forty, came an itinerant man, a wistful gentleman who possessed extensible observations of the queer characteristics of society, who had come for a constitution at Hayvenhurst Manor at the request of the manor’s proprietor. The man was short but lean, with wide shoulders, long arms that swam in his loose-fitting, long-tailed coat, hands that could’ve served as trowels, and heavy black leather boots that anchored him deep in the marshland. A blemished top hat adorned his mesocephalic head. His trousers, tight around his waist, wafted like flags, and at his flags, they were wet with particles of snow and mud from the sparse patches along the primitive road. One may have mistaken him for a vagrant, yet he spoke with the education of a distinguished pedagogue. None but a dauntless man with issued purpose dared to wander so far in a biting winter’s haze.
The man who introduced himself as Vivian Dubois, likely twenty, was well-nigh an ogre and should’ve been married properly with brutish young boys and poetic ingénues of his own, just as other handsome gentlemen of his age had raised. He kindly obliged me with an offer of an escort to the nearest inn.
I, who’d matched his kindness and vagrant inclinations, declined, for I had traversed the marshland before and was inspired to capture charcoal drawings of the melancholy beauty of a country equinox.
Then, as he wandered his way through bog and steam and black and orange woodlands, through clumps of snow toward the manor, the surreal stillness of the afternoon fluttered his imagination with, no doubt, the haunted tales spewed from the capacious mouths of village inhabitants.
A sudden rustle of fieldfares rustled the gnarled thicket, but without fear, he trudged onward, comforted by the songs in his own voice he had learned through worldly explorations, to the manor where not even the sun’s rays dared to venture.
Vivian, with rose red cheeks, arrived outside the stone path to Hayvenhurst Manor, whence he stopped to pluck a snowbell from its perch. The rarest of winter orchids, as sinfully blue as a Mediterranean sky, was pure enough to fill a room with love and wonderment.
He ascended the cobblestone steps to the front door and observed the shadow that passed beyond the window.
Vivian checked his perfect specimen. What in the dirt of the earth could grow so beautiful?
Floorboards grunted under footfall. As I was about to lift the knocker, the door creaked open. Looking into his uplifted gaze was a distinguished man: Master Esmund Howle.
Tall and chivalrous, he stood, but his face, cast in pale candlelight and deep shadows, expressed little welcoming. Esmund looked at the boy of a soft and foolish heart, tempting Vivian as he stood in rags on his porch, equipped with nothing but a wilted flower and undue confidence.
The master accepted the benefaction only with his eyes, never a hand, though he could not claim the same for the young Vivian Dubois. They exchanged salutations informally, by first name.
Esmund, rough in his chivalrous manner, was a propensity of nature, according to reasoners and traditions of yore. Conscious of adversaries in moral society, he had been, for the last decade, conscientious of a particular forbidden love. He’d become known as a scoundrel and blackguard, but Vivian, who had known Esmund intimately, was a playful woodland steed treasured more than a unicorn. He stood formidable at the threshold, burley and broad-shouldered, with a wide and narrow chest and rivulets of dark Spanish-chocolate hair primed with eel oil that flooded his shoulders. He stood properly and without unpleasant countenance, despite his arrogant reputation. He wore over his muscular frame charcoal-colored trousers that hugged his trunk-like legs and a midnight blue bellamy shirt. It was casually unbuttoned down to his naval to expose his chest, hirsute as a dire wolf’s and brawny as a plow horse.
Vivian was never certain as to whether Esmund was famous or notorious among Stonybrooke residents, but he believed Esmund relished in infamy. If an evening at a pub was disrupted by a brawl or horses escaped from a pasture due to a broken fence, Esmund was humorously and indirectly attributed. Vivian offered his own rectifiable assistance in the matter, for he understood them. They, those villagers, observed Esmund in awe, envy, or riddle. In a shared pastime, Vivian was Esdmund’s object of uncouth gallantry. His amorous caressing was as subtle as a bear in heat.
Esmund welcomed Vivian into his manor and stood, a gallant cock that patterned a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman that cawed in the pride of his heart more than his dwelling, glad for Vivian’s presence.
In the manor, he smelled at once, with a lightening heart, the roasted and braised foul and felt the warmth of a fireplace from a room nearby. Though the house was drafty, there was no need to don his tattered coat and remove it, unashamed of the soiled linens he wore underneath. And what was to expect after traveling such a great distance through the bog and by foot? There was, after all, no need for pleasant dress with none but Esmund to see it.
By contrast, Esmund was a perfect picture, thriving content in his liberal-hearted self. He was satisfied with his wealth but not proud. This was apparent in the unchanged décor of his home: wall art and statues of more value than gold. He was a sentimental man. There were many other things he’d rather be smug about instead, but he rarely displayed these fancies. Esmund, being exclusively favorited by the locals of Stonybrooke when, naturally, it suited their own interests, hardened themselves in humor at Esmund’s chivalry and mischievous behavior and understood he could trample them with impunity. Yet he demonstrated restraint when others would not. He was not boastful or dictating like the township’s leaders, and he chose to live simply as his own master.
There were, of course, within him faults of insecurity.
The solitary Hayvenhurst Manor, both extravagant in size and modest in accouterments, housed dusty and mildewy artifacts from the old kingdoms of Europe and Asia and sacred masks of African tribesmen. Esmund was not a traveler himself and had likely obtained these relics from the sailors and adventurers who moored their ships at the seaside. While these items were peculiar, they offered no monetary value, and where others saw no value, Esmund saw treasure. If only these worthless objects could talk, oh, the stories they would tell!
To light the green fabric halls where excessive men would’ve chosen a dozen or more candles, Esmund found six necessary. Though he could afford layers of tablecloths for every table and nightstand in the manor, one for every two had sufficed. And when the elite required a dozen servants and cooks for a manor of comparable size, Esmund adeptly looked after himself with perhaps only one or two to assist in meal preparation and minimal housework.
Esmund patiently waited to take his coat, as a polite host without a servant would do. He didn't need to follow such aristocratic rules; Vivian was a capable man but didn’t wish to offend.
Following Esmund into the house, he could see beyond the iron fence entwined with woody stems through the dusty, fogged windows until the haze became too thick to see even the gnarled black, leafless branches scraping the glass on the other side. The weather never came to full sunlight, and distilled sunlight cast dismal shadows that consumed each room, darkest in the halls and stairwells. Hayvenhurst Manor, in general, had mostly wood floors and sometimes stone in places, with flocked walls of emerald green and royal purple with wood accents. Crimson floor runners that would’ve been cheerful in a spring’s morning light appeared dreary in these later months. Vivian appeared a pale spectre draped ubiquitous shadows, and indeed that was the effect when summoned to dinner.
Bestowed upon him was a culinary abundance: a scrumptious pig plumped with apple pudding in its belly, smoked cinnamon lam, and molasses horse. Baked foul, folded snugly in a coverlet of pastry and swimming in onion sauce, married cozily to cakes a vagrant man dreamed of consuming with greedy eyes: ginger cakes, soda cakes, chocolate cakes, pumpkin pie, and a loganberry crumble made from the berries that grew at the cemetery gates.
Vivian’s mouth watered at the feast when a shadow lengthened over the table. Upon looking at its source, he was surprised to see the youthful woman dressed in a Bernardina gown of rich golden dupioni and taffeta, a closely fitted white bodice, and a square neckline that pressed her alabaster breasts up. Her hair, as golden as her dress, flowed in honey-translucent curls around her round porcelain face. Her eyes, Vivian noted, were sharp and unaffected by the darkness. A regal woman, she descended the stairs as if she were floating above them. Esmund introduced her as Sophia Collins, and they, much to Vivian’s despair, were to be married in a fortnight.
Vivian had traveled to an ancient land to know a true sphinx when he saw one. They were magic creatures; the legends of their beauty, he could see, were true. It must also be their poison tongue.
Most of them were ancestors from Egypt. Sometimes Greece, but all were impossible to rationalize with. Tricksters by nature, and of such alluring beauty, they required much attention and were confounded in the way. This one in particular. Vivian could not have imagined that one of those cruel potentates of above would take joy in intolerance; on the contrary, the Sphinx administered justice with discrimination rather than love and verity, taking the burthen off the backs of queers and offering strength and reformation in return. A rod was passed in time, and a Sphinx’s claim of justice was only satisfied by inflicting portions on those in need of welcoming home and who sulked within traditional society, to which the Sphinx claimed to be “doing duty from above.” Not a night where an urchin of respectable society passed without thanking her for freeing him of his illicit sexual burden: the craving for fellow men.
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Vivian piqued himself upon his attraction to Esmund, a burden which he rather enjoyed and had, for some decades, fathomed nestling in the master’s bosom. He did not want, nor cared, of the Sphinx’s society's life—not through dinner and evening, or weekend through a lifetime. Indeed, Esmund had invited him for a proposal, one of his connubial motives, but the proposal was not Vivian’s.
He, as gentle as his heart allowed, offered his blessings to Esmund and to the Sphinx, then removed himself from their presence.
On that cold and brackish autumn’s night, when a cloud possessed an ethereal moonlit glow and skeletal branches scraped at the window pane, Vivian retired to his bed alongside a lit but drafty fireplace. The dark shadows of footsteps flickered in the orange candlelight and were stopped outside his chamber door.
He had been reading when he shot upward once the door glided open. Illuminated by the swaying flames, Esmund entered, clad in a black and scarlet silk robe that hung loosely from his body.
Esmund closed the door behind him and intruded no closer.
Vivian, nightly dressed in his simple pajamas, had jumped to his feet, startled at the sudden and unexpected intrusion, and clutched the blankets to his chest as though it would conceal his offense. “You must be mad!” he scolded.
“I am in the grip of madness,” Esmund said. His voice was as rough as it was velvety, conscious of the Sphinx fast asleep in a nearby room.
Vivian tilted his chin high and took a threatening step closer. “Leave at once, and I’ll say nothing of what has happened here.”
Esmund stepped closer. “You won’t say anything of the sort. I remember you’re here on my invitation.”
“I’ll sleep outside then.”
Esmund took another step. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“I’ll ring the bell.”
“Who would come at this hour? And would you really let a servant find you with another man?” Esmund edged closer still.
“I don’t care about other men,” said Vivian. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking? You’ll be ruined if anyone ever finds out we even had this conversation. What would Sophia say? You’re getting married.”
A smile, both sinister and brief, flashed on Esmund’s face. “Not for a fortnight.”
“You’re not a virgin for your fiancé,” Vivian reminded him.
“I know. We were both there. I’m afraid a union like ours would ruin us both.”
“The world is changing,” Vivian said. “People talk of wars and revolutions, rights for women, and freedom from slavery. The world for us is changing.”
“The world may be liberating, but not fast enough for our time. I can’t bear for you to become a social pariah because of my irrefutable advancements, which is my reason for marrying Sophia. She can free us both of this burden.”
“I didn’t realize I was such a burden.”
“I respect you, which is why I believe you should hear it from me. Tomorrow we will have a proper goodbye. Tomorrow, we can be saved. We can live a normal society once more—one without secrets.” Esmund took him by the hand, for he could not stop trembling. “I’m sorry if my invitation led you to believe in something more.”
He relinquished Master Howle's grasp. “It’s just as well. A gull may love a toad, but where would they nest?”
Never having been called a toad, Master Howle flinched. “With a bit of imagination, a toad can fly too,” he said, pressing his lips against Vivian’s neck.
Vivian felt himself drifting through the air, light as a gull’s feather, to the bed, which was followed by the weight of Master Howle’s solid body on top of his. Their tongues indulged in a trilby and gave vent to their surplus of syncopated passion, a measure before the cotillion of Esmund’s fervent erection, sized like a leather billy club, fretting against Vivian’s waist.
“I cannot be led on if this is what you think I am, Master Howle.” Vivan said, gasping, his neck angled slightly, his hips betraying his words.
Being addressed formally by such a dear friend and lover pained him to such an extent that Master Howle withdrew his lips from Vivian’s burning neck. Then they were freed of their clothing. “If only once more,” Master Howle said. “Trust me.”
Vivian rolled onto his stomach, parted his legs, and urged Master Howle inside.
The candlelight had burned low while he slept in Esmund’s perspired embrace. Esmund stayed with him until a quarter past two, when he was certain Vivian wouldn’t stir upon retreat. Esmund brushed a strand of hair away from Vivian’s face and allowed his fingertips to brush against his cheek. His heart pranced like the flickering orange light illuminating his lover’s troubled face.
When the hour for him to depart had come, Esmund slipped out of bed, and with him he carried a vial of the viscous fluid, the sacred elixir of all human life.
Through the manor, Esmund, shrouded in a dark hood and cloak, drifted by candlelight down the corridors and descended the creaky staircase. Out the back door, he slipped into the dead of night.
Hoary gray moonlight from a low overcast set against black oaks crooked like fingers gnarled with arthritis. The frigid air smelled of a biting winter’s approach, spiced with decayed leaves and odorous swamp matter. A suffocating and motionless vapor clutched the marshland where the stony path from the manor ended and the marshland began. Ancestral gravestones jutted from the tar-like earth, sucking at the soles of Esmund’s boots. At the final row of graves, where the last glow of moonlight had been snuffed out by darkness and the only sound was the blood throbbing in his ears, Sophia stood, draped in white and gold, awaiting his arrival.
Esmund handed her the vial.
“His and only his,” she said.
“As you instructed.”
She took his hand, and in his palm, she dribbled the contents until they spilled over his fingers. Then, after freeing herself of her gown, she brought his hands to her flesh and massaged the fluid from her face, down her breasts, the hair between her legs, and to her feet. She spoke: “As the snail that creeps from the shell was turned into a toad, and therby was forced to make a stool to sit on; so the traveler that straggled from his own country is in short time transformed into such a shape that he is free to alter his mansion with his manners and to live where he can, not where he would.”
What remained of the fluid seeped into the marsh beneath the hazy moon’s light.
Esmund slept beside a dying fire that night and woke in the early hours of the morning. A solid iciness, like a snow-capped tombstone, ached in his bones, and when he awoke, he was cold as death. When he moved from his bed, he cried out in agony and grasped at the nightstand, sturdy and familiar in his grasp. Everything was the same around him. Even he, himself, was the same. Had Sophia’s remedy failed?
The ache in his body was worse now. Nothing had changed, and still the one thing he cared for, with heartfelt interest, remained crusted between his fingers. His fit went unheard by the staff, as did the crash of his chair when he expelled it from the vanity.
A boar folded into a pastry with cinnamon apple preserves had been served for breakfast. A plate of eggs with bacon and a wedge of cheese had been set for him, which had cooled to room temperature in his absence. He had arrived expecting to see settings for both his fiancé and his lover, but was surprised to find Sophia sipping her tea in solitude. She informed him that Vivian had been absent from his room since before dawn, which Esmund found peculiar. It was uncharacteristic of the itinerant young man to discount himself from such a feast. Sophia's discomfort surpassed Esmund's unease, prompting him to address the situation directly. Journeying could be quite stressful, and perhaps he had taken ill. Furthermore, he was eager to attest to Sophia’s magical invocation; if he could be near Vivian without unquenchable desire, Sophia’s charm had worked, and they would finally be free. Free of transgression, free from love.
Three sturdy knocks on Vivian’s chamber door and not a stir. Upon entering, he saw the red smeared across the floor as it soaked into the rugs. To his disgust, the mound he had mistaken for soiled linens, upon closer inspection, was a bloody skin shed from human bones.
Esmund was not a fainting man, but he could have been right then. A frozen breeze revealed his panting breath and guided his attention to the open window where, on the sill, were a set of twin gashes, claw marks from a beast unknown to Esmund and the world.
On unsteady feet, Esmund sprinted from the bedroom, through the manor, and exited out the back door. From his position on the footpath, Esmund could see the window ledge leading to Vivian’s room. Directly below, another set of claw marks in the soggy earth filled with rainwater. More continued into the woods. He screamed for Vivian’s return, but only the soughing pines replied.
Sophia stood behind him. “You are free now, for who could love a monster?”
He had demanded a cure at once from the Sphinx, but he had realized too late that love was not a disease that needed to be cured. When the Sphinx could not bring Vivian back, Esmund found himself staring at the window, at his reflection, as it faded away to condensation.
He no longer wasted thoughts on gentlemen’s etiquette or the pride that cawed in his heart more than his dwelling, for it was his heart he had betrayed and could no longer morally consider himself a gentleman, a warrior, or a husband. Hayvenhurst Manor, his home he had once cherished, was a strange and unwelcoming institution. He spent his days wandering aimlessly throughout the manor, ensuring each door was secured wide open. The servants, exhausted from chasing out wild animals and enduring the nightly wails echoing down the corridors, had departed, leaving only Esmund, the Sphinx, and the forest creatures in the manor.
“I won’t go! I cannot leave him!” To the cadence of some meaningless refrain, he returned to his bedroom and stood at the window. A fine grain mist had swallowed them, and for days thereafter, they only seemed to thicken.
Neatly arranged on the table were a porcelain teacup, a silver spoon, and a freshly pressed newspaper, awaiting his morning routine. Sophia had laid out a suit that he would not wear. An earthenware pot of coffee from this morning sitting on his nightstand had gone untouched. In the fireplace, embers faded under the rippling velvet coat of charcoal and ash. And the decorative golden rope used to draw the curtains shimmered in the milky light.
On the nightstand, the snowbell shriveled to dust. There, if he stood still enough, he could hear the faint, far-away sounds of something howling, mournful as a lone wolf but as powerful as a bear.
His risk was negligible. He had valued Vivian above all others, and yet Vivian’s consolation was no less than torture. He’d never again dream of their lives together, but he couldn’t bear to distance himself from the woods until one spring afternoon, when he wrapped the draw cord around his neck and stepped out the window.
It’s been many a year since I last stood at the marshes of Hayvenhurst, and the preceding tale is given, almost in these precise words, in Stonybrooke—a village that remains today as it was then. There you’ll find pleasant, however dreary, narrators I suspect to be in shabby clothing with salt-and-peppered hair, begging for profits in entertainment. The unfortunate souls who find themselves in the midst of their journey, who stop in for respite, a swig, and a tale, will turn doubt over in their minds. When their mirth subsides and the silence of night is restored, the local patrons are left with contemplation of their sons and daughters and husbands and wives who had throughout the years ventured into the marshes to almost never return. The few who come back frostbitten, terrified, and next to death shriek audacious tales of the beast in the woods and the sphinx who watches from the upstairs window, trapped forever alone inside.