shirt and ruff.
The turrets were crumbling. A slate slid into the gulf below.
“Alack,” mused I, shifting my weight on the antique cushions, each stuffed with a thousand rare moths. “Heavy is my lymph, for I am alone. There is nobody to share my gloomy abode, or help me repair the leaking roof. Solitude and hollowness are my lot.”
A rattling at the window; a feeble pressure on the pane which had naught to do with wind or rain. I adjusted my green cap, set down my drink and stood with a nervous jerk. The bare boards supported me from chair to latch, though they had been carved by my traditional enemy.
“What is this? A visitor? Enter, I beg you! There are soft furnishings inside, an iron chandelier and the memory of warmth.”
Throwing open the casement to admit my guest, I was astonished by his melancholy expression. There was more woe contained in the circumference of his visage than in all the dungeons of Asturias. A constant stream of tears from two enormous eyes had worn deep furrows in his cheeks; his lower lip curled down to his feet, which protruded directly from his neck, as if the rest of his body had fled this source of misery. His spherical form did not suggest harmony—he was studded with warts which seemed not to belong to him.
“I believe I know what manner of being you are,” quothed I, in a suitably formal tone. “You, sir, are a squonk. There is no sadder entity in the whole mistaken cosmos. But the natural habitat of your species, Lacrimacorpus dissolvens , is deep in the hemlock forests of Pennsylvania. How came you to my mountainous retreat?”
It was unfair to delay the creature on the sill. I bowed and beckoned and it hopped across the chamber to the grate. While it shivered and sneezed over the cold ashes, I retrieved the cushions, which had taken flight, attracted by the guttering tallows in the iron chandelier.
“Sit here, Señor Squonk, and render yourself comfortable. That is a curious medallion you have slung around your ears. I am Humberto von Gibbon, an exiled poet, formerly of Mogrovejo, now of the doldrums, in both senses of the word, for my island has been set adrift on that briny latitude, and my soul vainly drops like an anchor to lodge a halt, a sinking which entails it dragging along the bed of despair.”
My guest rolled its eyes at me, sneezed again and proceeded to lick its patchy fur, spattering raindrops, tears and dribble in all directions.
“Ah, so you misunderstand my motives? No matter, weepy one, I shall reassure you with a glass of Oloroso. There is comfort in wine, is there not? Observe the décor of my apartments. This castle on its giddy perch, to whose stone portals you have wandered, is the only habitation on this dramatic island. It was built by my worst foe, Ugolino Cadiz, for my unbearable confinement.
“Yet I am free to stroll the balconies and scheme a method of climbing into yonder gulf. Then I might construct a raft from trees and sail off to the horizon. Whether I perished or no, it would be of little matter. A gesture of resistance, at the very least. Here, I am marooned in a sequence of dismal chambers, each a slightly different shade of grey. Bells connected to pressure points on the floor chime whenever I walk through the labyrinth, seeking an exit.”
I poured a large measure for my new friend, but he seemed overawed by the vintage, easing his nose delicately into the bouquet and then recoiling.
“A little early for the fire of the grape, perhaps?” I queried. “That is understandable, though here the conventional hours are no longer observed. There is only one route through the interlocking cells of my dwelling, and the varying degrees of steely colour which greet my eye as I pace the route are cleverly arranged to form a distinct monochrome impression of my tormentor’s face, as if he designed the order and contents of the rooms on a grid-plan of his sneering countenance.
“So too the bells, when activated, sound a lilting
The turrets were crumbling. A slate slid into the gulf below.
“Alack,” mused I, shifting my weight on the antique cushions, each stuffed with a thousand rare moths. “Heavy is my lymph, for I am alone. There is nobody to share my gloomy abode, or help me repair the leaking roof. Solitude and hollowness are my lot.”
A rattling at the window; a feeble pressure on the pane which had naught to do with wind or rain. I adjusted my green cap, set down my drink and stood with a nervous jerk. The bare boards supported me from chair to latch, though they had been carved by my traditional enemy.
“What is this? A visitor? Enter, I beg you! There are soft furnishings inside, an iron chandelier and the memory of warmth.”
Throwing open the casement to admit my guest, I was astonished by his melancholy expression. There was more woe contained in the circumference of his visage than in all the dungeons of Asturias. A constant stream of tears from two enormous eyes had worn deep furrows in his cheeks; his lower lip curled down to his feet, which protruded directly from his neck, as if the rest of his body had fled this source of misery. His spherical form did not suggest harmony—he was studded with warts which seemed not to belong to him.
“I believe I know what manner of being you are,” quothed I, in a suitably formal tone. “You, sir, are a squonk. There is no sadder entity in the whole mistaken cosmos. But the natural habitat of your species, Lacrimacorpus dissolvens , is deep in the hemlock forests of Pennsylvania. How came you to my mountainous retreat?”
It was unfair to delay the creature on the sill. I bowed and beckoned and it hopped across the chamber to the grate. While it shivered and sneezed over the cold ashes, I retrieved the cushions, which had taken flight, attracted by the guttering tallows in the iron chandelier.
“Sit here, Señor Squonk, and render yourself comfortable. That is a curious medallion you have slung around your ears. I am Humberto von Gibbon, an exiled poet, formerly of Mogrovejo, now of the doldrums, in both senses of the word, for my island has been set adrift on that briny latitude, and my soul vainly drops like an anchor to lodge a halt, a sinking which entails it dragging along the bed of despair.”
My guest rolled its eyes at me, sneezed again and proceeded to lick its patchy fur, spattering raindrops, tears and dribble in all directions.
“Ah, so you misunderstand my motives? No matter, weepy one, I shall reassure you with a glass of Oloroso. There is comfort in wine, is there not? Observe the décor of my apartments. This castle on its giddy perch, to whose stone portals you have wandered, is the only habitation on this dramatic island. It was built by my worst foe, Ugolino Cadiz, for my unbearable confinement.
“Yet I am free to stroll the balconies and scheme a method of climbing into yonder gulf. Then I might construct a raft from trees and sail off to the horizon. Whether I perished or no, it would be of little matter. A gesture of resistance, at the very least. Here, I am marooned in a sequence of dismal chambers, each a slightly different shade of grey. Bells connected to pressure points on the floor chime whenever I walk through the labyrinth, seeking an exit.”
I poured a large measure for my new friend, but he seemed overawed by the vintage, easing his nose delicately into the bouquet and then recoiling.
“A little early for the fire of the grape, perhaps?” I queried. “That is understandable, though here the conventional hours are no longer observed. There is only one route through the interlocking cells of my dwelling, and the varying degrees of steely colour which greet my eye as I pace the route are cleverly arranged to form a distinct monochrome impression of my tormentor’s face, as if he designed the order and contents of the rooms on a grid-plan of his sneering countenance.
“So too the bells, when activated, sound a lilting
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