The Children of Old Leech: A Tribute to the Carnivorous Cosmos of Laird Barron by Ross E. Lockhart, Justin Steele Page A
Authors: Ross E. Lockhart, Justin Steele
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window. I’d had more than a few drinks at the airport bar, and I could feel a headache trying to force its way out past my eyes. Outside, I could see our destination looming up out of the darkness, the two towers of the Sender Brocken , old and new. Like Tolkien’s Minas Morgul and Orthanc. The sun was still going down, and the towers stood out like shadows against the gloaming, their lights already on. Gleaming yellow ones in the windows of the old tower, now the Brocken Hotel, and blinking red ones to warn planes away from the new tower, a candy-cane-striped lance that jutted skyward from the peak.
“It doesn’t look terribly inviting,” Nicky said, noticing my inattentiveness and nodding at the towers.
“Now to the Brocken the witches ride . ” I intoned, and then, without bothering to glance and see his puzzled expression, explained, “It’s Goethe. From Faust .”
That was why we were going, of course. It was Walpurgisnacht, the night when the witches and devils gathered on the crown of the bald mountain to welcome the spring. Nicky and I, and whoever else was on the train with us, were the witches in this equation, and we were all gathering on the Brocken to kiss the ass of a black goat.
***
We met Henri at the Steadman Gallery. Nicky had some of his photographs there, as part of a show called “The New Decadence.” From his “Conqueror Worm” cycle—my name—all graveyards and ossuaries, done in lots of blues and greens with the occasional splash of red or yellow. A leaf, a salamander. They were good pictures, some of Nicky’s best, in my opinion, and I guess Henri thought so, too.
I don’t remember the other stuff in the show, but I remember Henri. Tall, old-fashioned handsome, Van Dyke beard, clothes like a Vincent Price villain. He carried a cane that was pure affectation, black wood with an amethyst top. He was a regular in the galleries, though word was that he spent more time in Europe than the States. Why he was in New York that year, I never learned, just as I never learned his real name. DuPlante was the most common surname associated with him, but how accurate it was, I can’t say. Henri kept as much about himself veiled in mystery as he could, kept himself interesting.
Even before we’d met, I’d heard about him. Rich, listless, a Decadent of the old school. He was known for throwing wild parties with strange themes, and for occasionally throwing large wads of money at young artists who caught his fancy, which meant that Nicky and I were of course very happy to make his acquaintance, to catch his eye.
Where exactly all his money came from was the subject of some speculation. One story went that his father was a lord, another that he was heir to a fortune in pornography. Some said that he’d been some kind of wunderkind and had invented some patent as a child and still lived off the dividends.
There were lots of stories about Henri, many of them contradictory, but he seemed to welcome all of them. There was only one that I had ever known him to actively refute. Supposedly he had an older sister, one whose tastes made Henri’s seem positively Puritan by comparison. Some people claimed to have met her, though never in his company. They always described her the same way, which was odd. Tall, dark hair, stylishly dressed. Always named Alexandria. I was so bold as to ask Henri about it once, but he replied, with uncharacteristic clarity, “I’m an only child.”
“Maybe she was an old lover,” Nicky hypothesized once. “Somebody who just pretended to be his sister.” It was certainly kinky enough.
Real or imagined, Henri didn’t like to talk about her. The subject made him visibly uncomfortable, was maybe the only subject I’d ever come across that did.
Luckily for him, I was less concerned with stories about where Henri’s money came from, and more concerned with where it went. The fact was, he spent it like water and never wanted for more, and Nicky and I had
“It doesn’t look terribly inviting,” Nicky said, noticing my inattentiveness and nodding at the towers.
“Now to the Brocken the witches ride . ” I intoned, and then, without bothering to glance and see his puzzled expression, explained, “It’s Goethe. From Faust .”
That was why we were going, of course. It was Walpurgisnacht, the night when the witches and devils gathered on the crown of the bald mountain to welcome the spring. Nicky and I, and whoever else was on the train with us, were the witches in this equation, and we were all gathering on the Brocken to kiss the ass of a black goat.
***
We met Henri at the Steadman Gallery. Nicky had some of his photographs there, as part of a show called “The New Decadence.” From his “Conqueror Worm” cycle—my name—all graveyards and ossuaries, done in lots of blues and greens with the occasional splash of red or yellow. A leaf, a salamander. They were good pictures, some of Nicky’s best, in my opinion, and I guess Henri thought so, too.
I don’t remember the other stuff in the show, but I remember Henri. Tall, old-fashioned handsome, Van Dyke beard, clothes like a Vincent Price villain. He carried a cane that was pure affectation, black wood with an amethyst top. He was a regular in the galleries, though word was that he spent more time in Europe than the States. Why he was in New York that year, I never learned, just as I never learned his real name. DuPlante was the most common surname associated with him, but how accurate it was, I can’t say. Henri kept as much about himself veiled in mystery as he could, kept himself interesting.
Even before we’d met, I’d heard about him. Rich, listless, a Decadent of the old school. He was known for throwing wild parties with strange themes, and for occasionally throwing large wads of money at young artists who caught his fancy, which meant that Nicky and I were of course very happy to make his acquaintance, to catch his eye.
Where exactly all his money came from was the subject of some speculation. One story went that his father was a lord, another that he was heir to a fortune in pornography. Some said that he’d been some kind of wunderkind and had invented some patent as a child and still lived off the dividends.
There were lots of stories about Henri, many of them contradictory, but he seemed to welcome all of them. There was only one that I had ever known him to actively refute. Supposedly he had an older sister, one whose tastes made Henri’s seem positively Puritan by comparison. Some people claimed to have met her, though never in his company. They always described her the same way, which was odd. Tall, dark hair, stylishly dressed. Always named Alexandria. I was so bold as to ask Henri about it once, but he replied, with uncharacteristic clarity, “I’m an only child.”
“Maybe she was an old lover,” Nicky hypothesized once. “Somebody who just pretended to be his sister.” It was certainly kinky enough.
Real or imagined, Henri didn’t like to talk about her. The subject made him visibly uncomfortable, was maybe the only subject I’d ever come across that did.
Luckily for him, I was less concerned with stories about where Henri’s money came from, and more concerned with where it went. The fact was, he spent it like water and never wanted for more, and Nicky and I had
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