The Songs of Maldoror
Song III
Chapter 1
Let’s recall the names of those imagined beings — angelic by nature — that my pen, during the second song, drew from a mind aglow with light born of themselves. They die at birth, like sparks the eye struggles to track as they fade fast on scorched paper. Léman!... Lohengrin!... Lombano!... Holzer!... For a moment you appeared, clad in youth’s emblems, on my enchanted horizon — but I let you sink back into chaos, like diver’s bells. You won’t rise again. It’s enough that I’ve kept your memory; you must yield to other forms — perhaps less fair — birthed by the stormy flood of a love resolved never to slake its thirst with humankind. A ravenous love — one that would devour itself if it didn’t seek nourishment in celestial fictions — crafting, over time, a pyramid of seraphs more numerous than insects swarming in a water drop, weaving them into an ellipse to whirl around itself. Meanwhile, the traveler, paused before a cataract’s roar, lifts his face and sees — far off — a human swept toward hell’s vault by a garland of living camellias! But hush! The floating shape of a fifth ideal takes form — slow as the wavering folds of a northern dawn — on the misty plane of my mind, growing ever more solid…
Mario and I rode along the shore. Our horses, necks stretched, sliced through space’s membranes, striking sparks from the beach’s pebbles. The breeze hit us full in the face, billowing our cloaks and tossing back the hair of our twin heads. The gull, with its cries and wingbeats, tried in vain to warn us of a storm’s nearness, calling out:
— “Where are they off to at this mad gallop?”
We said nothing — lost in reverie — letting ourselves be swept by that furious ride. The fisherman, seeing us flash by — swift as an albatross — and thinking he glimpsed the two mysterious brothers (as they’d been dubbed, always together), hurried to cross himself and hid with his frozen dog under some deep rock. Coastal folk had heard strange tales of these two figures who appeared on earth amid clouds at times of great calamity — when a brutal war threatened to plunge its harpoon into rival nations’ chests, or cholera primed its sling to hurl rot and death into whole cities. The oldest wreckers furrowed their brows gravely, swearing those two phantoms — whose vast black wings all had marked during hurricanes above sandbanks and reefs — were the spirit of earth and the spirit of sea, roaming the skies in majesty during nature’s upheavals, bound by an eternal friendship so rare and grand it stunned the endless chain of generations.
They said — soaring side by side like Andes condors — they loved circling through the air layers near the sun, feeding there on light’s purest essence — but they’d only grudgingly tilt their steep flight toward the terrified orbit where the frenzied human globe spins, home to cruel minds that slaughter each other on battlefields roaring with clash (or slay in secret within city hearts with daggers of hate or ambition), gorging on living beings like themselves — just a few rungs lower on existence’s ladder. Or, when they steeled themselves — to stir men to remorse with their prophetic verses — swimming with mighty strokes toward starry realms where a planet churned amid thick fumes of greed, pride, curses, and sneers rising like pestilent vapors from its hideous face — a speck near invisible with distance — they never failed to find moments to bitterly regret their misjudged kindness — mocked and reviled — retreating to volcano depths to commune with the living fire seething in central cauldrons, or to ocean floors to rest their jaded eyes on the abyss’s fiercest beasts, who seemed models of gentleness beside humanity’s bastards.
Night fallen — its darkness a cloak — they’d burst from porphyry-cragged craters or undersea currents, leaving far behind the rocky chamber-pot where the constipated anus of human cockatoos squirms, till they could no longer glimpse that vile planet’s hanging form. Then — grieved by their failed try — amid stars sharing their sorrow and under God’s eye — the earth’s angel and sea’s angel embraced, weeping!... Mario and his galloping companion knew the vague, superstitious whispers fishermen shared at hearthside vigils — doors and windows barred — while the night wind, craving warmth, whistled round the straw hut, rattling its frail walls ringed at the base with shell shards washed up by dying waves.
We didn’t speak — what do two loving hearts say? Nothing — but our eyes said it all. I warned him to wrap his cloak tighter, and he noted my horse strayed too far from his — each cared as much for the other’s life as his own — we didn’t laugh. He tried to smile, but I saw his face bore the weight of grim thoughts carved by brooding — ever bent over the sphinxes that thwart mortal minds’ great dreads with a sidelong stare. Seeing his efforts fail, he turned his eyes away, bit his earthly bit with rage’s foam, and gazed at the horizon fleeing our approach. I tried to recall his golden youth — eager to stride pleasure’s palaces like a queen — but he saw my words struggled from my gaunt mouth, and that my own spring years had passed — bleak and icy — like a ruthless dream trailing bitter delights of disillusion, pestilent wrinkles of age, solitude’s terrors, and torches of pain across banquet tables and satin beds where the pale priestess of love — paid in gold’s glint — sleeps. Seeing my efforts fail, I wasn’t shocked I couldn’t cheer him — the Almighty loomed before me, clad in his torture-tools, haloed in horror’s full blaze — I turned my eyes and gazed at the horizon fleeing our approach…
Our horses galloped along the shore as if escaping human eyes… Mario’s younger than me — the damp air and salty foam splashing up chilled his lips. I said:
— “Watch out!... Watch out!... Press your lips tight — don’t you see frostbite’s sharp claws scoring your skin with burning cuts?”
He fixed on my brow and replied with his tongue’s flick:
— “Yes, I see those green claws, but I won’t shift my mouth’s natural set to dodge them — look if I lie — since it’s Providence’s will, I’ll bend to it — though its will could’ve been kinder.”
And I cried:
— “I admire that noble revenge.”
I wanted to tear my hair, but he stopped me with a stern look — and I obeyed with respect. It grew late — the eagle sought its cliff-carved nest. He said:
— “I’ll lend you my cloak to shield you from the cold — I don’t need it.”
I shot back:
— “Woe to you if you do — I won’t let another suffer for me — least of all you.”
He didn’t reply — I was right — but I began consoling him for my words’ harsh edge… Our horses galloped along the shore as if escaping human eyes…
I raised my head — like a ship’s prow lifted by a giant wave — and said:
— “Are you weeping? I ask you, king of snows and mists — I see no tears on your face — fair as a cactus bloom — your lids dry as a torrent’s bed — but deep in your eyes, I spy a vat brimming with blood — your innocence boiling there — its neck stung by a giant scorpion’s barb. A fierce wind fans the fire heating that cauldron, spilling dark flames beyond your sacred orbit. I pressed my hair to your rosy brow — and caught a singed whiff — they burned. Shut your eyes — or your face — seared like volcano lava — will crumble to ash in my palm.”
He turned to me — heedless of the reins in his hand — and gazed with tenderness, slowly raising and lowering his lily lids like the sea’s ebb and flow. He deigned to answer my bold question, and here’s how:
— “Don’t mind me. Just as river mists creep along a hill’s flanks and — reaching the peak — leap into the sky as clouds — so your worries about me have grown without cause — forming a bleak mirage over your mind. I swear no fire burns in my eyes — though it feels like my skull’s plunged in a helm of blazing coals. How could my innocence boil in that vat — I hear only faint, muddled cries — to me, just the wind’s moans passing overhead. No scorpion could lodge its sharp pincers in my hacked orbit — I’d say it’s sturdy tongs crushing my optic nerves. Yet I agree — the blood filling that vat was drawn from my veins by an unseen hangman last night as I slept. I waited for you long — beloved son of the sea — my drowsy arms fought in vain with Him who’d crept into my home’s hall… Yes, my soul’s locked in my body’s bolt — unable to break free — to flee the shores lashed by the human sea — to escape the sight of misery’s livid pack — hounding human chamois relentlessly through despair’s bogs and gulfs. But I won’t complain — I took life as a wound — and forbade suicide to heal the scar — I want the Creator to face its gaping rift every hour of his eternity — that’s my punishment for him. Our steeds slow their brazen hooves — their bodies quake — like a hunter startled by peccary herds. They mustn’t overhear us — too much focus might sharpen their wits — they could grasp our words — woe to them — they’d suffer more! Think of humanity’s boars: doesn’t the gap of mind between them and creation’s beasts seem granted only at the endless cost of untold pain? Follow my lead — sink your silver spur into your steed’s flank…”
Our horses galloped along the shore as if escaping human eyes.
Chapter 2
Here comes the madwoman dancing by, dimly recalling something. Children chase her with stones as if she were a blackbird. She waves a stick, feigning pursuit, then resumes her run — one shoe left behind, unnoticed. Long spider legs crawl on her neck; they’re just her hair. Her face no longer looks human — she cackles like a hyena. Shreds of phrases slip from her lips — few could stitch them into clear meaning. Her dress, torn in spots, jerks around her bony, mud-caked legs. On she goes, like a poplar leaf swept by the wind — her youth, her illusions, her past joys glimpsed through the fog of a shattered mind, spun by the whirl of unthinking powers. She’s lost her primal grace and beauty; her gait is vile, her breath reeks of brandy. If men were happy on this earth, that’d be the shock. The madwoman makes no reproach — too proud to complain — and will die without baring her secret to those who care but whom she’s forbidden to speak to. Children chase her with stones as if she were a blackbird.
A roll of paper drops from her breast. A stranger picks it up, locks himself in all night, and reads the script, which ran like this:
“After barren years, Providence sent me a daughter — three days I knelt in churches, ceaselessly thanking the great name of Him who’d finally granted my wish. I nursed her with my own milk — she who was more than my life — watching her grow fast, gifted with every grace of soul and body. She’d say:
— ‘I’d love a little sister to play with — ask the good Lord to send me one — and to thank Him, I’ll weave a garland of violets, mint, and geraniums.’
My only reply was to lift her to my breast and kiss her with love. She already cared for animals, asking why the swallow skims cottage roofs with its wing but dares not enter. I’d press a finger to my lips — urging silence on that weighty riddle I wouldn’t yet unravel — guarding her childish mind from too sharp a jolt, and quickly turned her talk from that sore topic, tough for any of the race that’s unjustly ruled creation’s beasts. When she spoke of graveyard tombs — saying their air carried the sweet scents of cypress and immortelles — I didn’t contradict her, but told her it was the birds’ city — where they sang from dawn to dusk — the graves their nests, where they slept with their kin, lifting the marble at night. Every dainty garment clothing her I sewed myself — the lace too, with its thousand twists, saved for Sundays. In winter, she claimed her rightful spot by the big hearth — she thought herself grown-up — and in summer, the meadow knew the gentle press of her steps as she chased hummingbirds — free spirits — and butterflies — with their maddening zigzags — wielding her silk net on a reed.
— ‘What are you up to, little wanderer, when the soup’s waited an hour, spoon growing restless?’
She’d leap to my neck — vowing not to stray again — but next day she’d slip off through daisies and mignonettes, amid sunrays and the swirling dance of mayflies — knowing only life’s prism, not its gall — glad to outsize the titmouse — mocking the warbler’s weaker song against the nightingale’s — slyly sticking her tongue at the grim raven watching her like a father — graceful as a kitten. I wasn’t to enjoy her long — the time neared when she’d abruptly bid farewell to life’s charms — leaving forever the doves, grouse, and finches — the chatter of tulips and anemones — the marsh grass’s wisdom — the frogs’ sharp wit — the streams’ cool touch. They told me what happened — I wasn’t there at the deed that took my daughter — had I been — I’d have shielded that angel with my blood… Maldoror passed with his bulldog — he sees a girl asleep under a plane tree — mistaking her for a rose at first. Who can say what struck his mind first — her sight or the resolve that followed? He strips fast — sure of his aim — naked as stone — he flung himself on her — hiking her dress to assault her modesty — in broad daylight! No qualms there… Let’s not linger on that foul act. Mind sour, he redresses in haste — scans the dusty road, empty of travelers — and orders the bulldog to throttle the bloodied girl with its jaws. He points the mountain beast to where the victim gasps and screams — then steps aside — shunning the sight of sharp teeth sinking into pink veins. That command might’ve seemed harsh to the bulldog — it thought he meant what was already done — and this wolf with a monstrous snout settled for ravaging the delicate child’s virginity instead. From her torn womb, blood streams anew down her legs across the meadow — her moans blend with the beast’s whimpers. She offers the gold cross from her neck to spare her — too scared to show it to the wild eyes of him who first planned to prey on her youth’s weakness. But the dog knew — disobey its master — and a knife flung from a sleeve would gut it without warning. Maldoror (how that name grates to speak!) heard the agony’s cries — baffled she clung to life so stubbornly — not dead yet. He nears the sacrificial altar — sees his bulldog lost to base urges — head reared over the girl like a castaway above raging waves — he kicks it — splitting an eye. The furious bulldog flees the field — dragging the girl’s hanging body a stretch — too long, however short — freed only by its jolting run — but fears tackling its master — who’ll never see it again. He pulls an American penknife from his pocket — ten to twelve blades for all uses — unfolds that steel hydra’s jagged legs — and armed with such a scalpel — seeing the grass still green beneath so much spilled blood — sets to — unflinching — gutting the wretched girl’s womb. From that widened hole — he yanks out her innards one by one — guts, lungs, liver — finally her heart — torn from their roots — dragged into daylight through the ghastly gash. The sacrificer notes the girl — a gutted fowl — died long ago — he halts his mounting ravage — letting the corpse resleep under the plane tree. They found the knife discarded steps away. A shepherd — witness to the crime — its doer unknown — spoke only years later — sure the killer had fled past the borders — safe from vengeance sworn if he talked. I pitied the fool who wrought this deed — unforesen by law — without precedent — pitied him — for likely he’d lost his reason wielding that fourfold-triple blade — raking her guts top to bottom — pitied him — for if sane — his vile act must’ve nursed a vast hate against his kind — to savage an innocent child’s flesh and veins — my daughter. I joined the burial of those human ruins — mute with resignation — and daily I pray at a grave.”
At the end of this reading — the stranger’s strength fails — he faints. Coming to — he burns the script — he’d forgotten that youth’s memory (habit dulls the mind!) — and after twenty years away — returned to this cursed land — he won’t buy a bulldog!... Won’t chat with shepherds!... Won’t sleep under plane trees!... Children chase her with stones as if she were a blackbird.
Chapter 3
Tremdall touched his hand for the last time — the one who flees willingly — always running from him — the shadow of man ever in pursuit. The Wandering Jew muses that if earth’s scepter belonged to crocodiles, he wouldn’t flee like this. Tremdall stands above the valley, one hand shielding his eyes to sharpen the sun’s rays, the other groping space’s breast — arm stiff and level. Leaning forward — a statue of friendship — he watches with eyes mysterious as the sea, tracking the traveler’s gaiters climb the coast’s slope, aided by an iron-tipped staff. The ground seems to slip beneath his feet, and though he’d hold them back, he can’t stem his tears or feelings:
— “He’s far off now — I see his shape tread a narrow path — where’s he bound with that heavy step? He doesn’t know himself… Yet I’m sure I’m not dreaming: what’s that nearing Maldoror? How vast that dragon — taller than an oak! Its whitish wings — bound by thick cords — seem strung with steel nerves, slicing the air so smooth. Its body starts a tiger’s torso and ends a serpent’s tail — I’m not used to sights like this — what’s on its brow? I see a word in symbolic tongue — unreadable. With a final wingbeat, it lands beside him whose voice I know. It says:
— ‘I waited for you — you for me — the hour’s here — I’ve come — read my name on my brow, carved in hieroglyphs.’
But he — barely glimpsing the foe — turns into a giant eagle, readying for battle, snapping his curved beak in glee — signaling he’ll devour the dragon’s hind alone. They spiral in tightening circles, eyeing each other’s strengths before clashing — wisely so. The dragon looks stronger — I’d wish it victory over the eagle — this spectacle, with part of me at stake, will stir deep thrills. Mighty dragon — I’ll spur you with my cries if need be — for the eagle’s sake lies in its defeat. What holds them back from striking? I’m gripped by mortal dread — come on, dragon — you strike first. That dry claw-swipe wasn’t bad — I swear the eagle felt it — wind scatters its fine plumes, streaked with blood. Oh! The eagle rips out your eye with its beak — you’d only grazed its skin — you should’ve watched that. Bravo — take revenge — snap its wing — no doubt, those tiger teeth are sharp. If you could close in while it spins earthward through the sky! I see this eagle curbs you — even falling. It’s down — it won’t rise — the sight of those gaping wounds intoxicates me. Sweep low around it — lash it with your scaly serpent tail — finish it if you can — courage, fine dragon — sink your fierce claws deep — let blood mingle with blood to form streams free of water. Easy to say — hard to do. The eagle’s hatched a fresh defense — born of this fight’s grim twists — it’s cunning — perched firm on its lone wing, thighs, and tail — once its rudder — defying efforts fiercer than before. Now it spins fast as a tiger — untiring — now it flops on its back — paws aloft — eyeing its foe with cool mockery. I must know who’ll win — this can’t drag on — I dread what follows! The eagle’s fierce — its huge leaps shake the ground — as if to soar — though it knows that’s lost. The dragon mistrusts it — sure each moment it’ll strike the blind side… Wretch that I am — it’s happened — how’d the dragon let its chest be seized? Craft and strength fail it — I see the eagle — fused to it like a leech — drive its beak deeper — despite fresh wounds — through the dragon’s neck-root into its gut — only its body shows — it’s at ease — in no rush to pull free — hunting something, no doubt — while the tiger-headed dragon bellows — rousing forests. There’s the eagle — emerging from that cave — eagle — how ghastly you are! Redder than a blood-pool — though you clutch a pulsing heart in your taut beak — your wounds so cloak you — you stagger on feathered legs — swaying — beak clenched — beside the dragon dying in frightful throes. Victory came hard — no matter — you’ve won — truth must be told… You act by reason’s code — shedding your eagle form as you leave the dragon’s corpse. So, Maldoror — you’ve triumphed! So, Maldoror — you’ve crushed Hope! From now — despair will feast on your purest core! From now — you stride — deliberate — into evil’s path! Though I’m near numb to pain — your final blow to the dragon struck me too — judge how I ache! But you scare me — look — look — far off — that man flees — over him — blighted earth — curse blooms thick — he’s damned — and he damns — where do your sandals tread? Where do you drift — wavering like a sleepwalker on a roof? Let your twisted fate unfold! Maldoror — farewell! Farewell till eternity — where we won’t meet again!”
Chapter 4
It was a spring day. Birds trilled their hymns in chirps, and humans — bent to their tasks — bathed in fatigue’s sanctity. All labored toward its fate: trees, planets, sharks — all but the Creator! He sprawled on the road, clothes torn — his lower lip hung like a drowsy cable, teeth unwashed, dust mingling with his blond hair’s waves. Numbed by heavy stupor — crushed against pebbles — his body strained uselessly to rise. Strength had fled him — he lay there — frail as a worm, still as bark. Wine floods filled ruts carved by his shoulders’ twitching jolts. Dullness — pig-snouted — cloaked him with protective wings and cast him a loving glance. His slack-muscled legs swept the ground like blind masts. Blood streamed from his nostrils — in his fall, his face had struck a post… He was drunk! Horribly drunk! Drunk as a bedbug gorged on three barrels of blood overnight! He filled the air with jumbled words — I won’t repeat them here — if the supreme drunkard lacks self-respect, I must still respect men. Did you know the Creator… gets drunk? Pity that lip — soiled in orgy’s cups!
A hedgehog passing stabbed its spines into his back and said:
— “That’s for you — the sun’s half through its arc — work, sluggard — don’t eat others’ bread — wait — you’ll see if I call the hooked-beak cockatoo.”
A woodpecker and owl passing plunged their beaks deep into his gut and said:
— “That’s for you — what are you doing on this earth? To stage this grim farce for beasts? Neither mole, cassowary, nor flamingo will copy you — I swear it.”
A donkey passing kicked his temple and said:
— “That’s for you — what’d I do to earn such long ears? Even the cricket scorns me.”
A toad passing spat a jet of slime on his brow and said:
— “That’s for you — if you hadn’t made my eye so big — and I’d seen you like this — I’d have veiled your limbs’ beauty under a shower of buttercups, forget-me-nots, and camellias — hiding you from all.”
A lion passing bowed its royal head and said:
— “I respect him — though his splendor’s dimmed for now — you lot — strutting proud yet craven — attacking him asleep — would you relish passersby heaping on you the taunts you spared him not?”
A man passing stopped before the misjudged Creator — and to the louse and viper’s cheers — shat three days on his august face! Woe to man for that insult — he didn’t spare the foe — sprawled in mud, blood, and wine — defenseless — near lifeless!…
Chapter 5
A red lantern, vice’s flag, hung from a rod’s end and swayed its frame in the whip of the four winds above a massive, worm-eaten door. A grimy hall, reeking of human thighs, led to a yard where roosters and hens, thinner than their wings, scratched for scraps. On the wall fencing the yard and facing west, sparse openings with barred shutters dotted the moss-clad building, once a convent, no doubt, now home to women who daily bared their wombs’ insides to visitors for a bit of gold. I stood on a bridge, its piers sunk in the moat’s muddy water. From that high perch, I gazed across the countryside at this structure leaning into age and traced every detail of its inner frame. Sometimes a shutter’s grate creaked upward as if forced by a hand defying iron’s nature: a man poked his head through the half-cleared gap, shoved his shoulders past peeling plaster, and dragged his body, draped in cobwebs, through that tough squeeze. Planting his hands like a crown on the filth pressing the ground while one leg still caught in the grate’s twists, he regained his stance, dipped his hands in a rickety tub of soapy water (generational grime rising and falling within), and hurried off from those slum alleys to breathe cleaner air in the city’s heart.
Once the client left, a naked woman emerged the same way and headed for that tub. Then roosters and hens swarmed from all corners of the yard, lured by semen’s scent, knocked her down despite her fierce thrashing, stomped her body like manure, and pecked her swollen womb’s slack lips till blood flowed. Sated, the fowl returned to scratch the yard’s grass; the woman, cleansed, rose trembling and scored with wounds, like waking from a nightmare. She dropped the rag she’d brought to wipe her legs, no need for the shared tub now, and crawled back to her den as she’d come, awaiting the next trick. At this sight, I too craved that house! I started down from the bridge when I spotted, carved on a pillar’s ledge in Hebrew script, this warning:
“You crossing this bridge, don’t go: crime dwells there with vice; one day a young man’s friends waited in vain after he crossed that fatal threshold.”
Curiosity trumped fear, and soon I stood before a shutter, its stout bars tightly meshed. I tried peering through that thick sieve, at first seeing nothing, but as the sun’s rays dimmed toward the horizon, I made out the dark room’s shapes. The first and only thing to catch my eye was a blond rod of stacked cones sliding into each other: it moved! It paced the room! Its jolts shook the floor so hard it quaked; with both ends it bashed gaping holes in the wall, like a ram battering a besieged city’s gate; its efforts vain, the walls held firm with cut stone; each clash bent it like a steel blade and rebounded it like a rubber ball. This rod wasn’t wood! Then I saw it coil and uncoil, slick as an eel, tall as a man yet never upright. Sometimes it tried, thrusting one end at the grate, leaping fiercely, only to flop back, unable to breach the bars. I stared harder and saw it was a hair! After a fierce struggle with its prison-like bounds, it slumped against the room’s bed, root on the rug and tip propped by the headboard. After a hushed pause, broken by stifled sobs, it spoke:
“My master forgot me here; he doesn’t come. He rose from this bed where I lean, combed his scented locks, and didn’t think I’d fallen before; yet if he’d picked me up, I’d not have found that simple justice odd. He abandons me in this sealed room after tangling in a woman’s arms; and what a woman! The sheets, still damp from their tepid touch, bear in their mess the mark of a night spent in love.”
And I wondered who his master could be; my eye pressed harder to the grate!
“While all nature slept in chastity, he coupled with a fallen woman in lustful, filthy embraces; he stooped to let her brazen cheeks, wilted in their sap, graze his august face; he didn’t blush, but I blushed for him. Surely he relished bedding such a one-night bride; she, awed by his majestic air, seemed to revel in matchless thrills, kissing his neck in a frenzy.”
And I wondered who his master could be; my eye pressed harder to the grate!
“Meanwhile, I felt venomous sores swell around my root, spurred by his wild lust for flesh; their deadly gall sapped my life’s seed with sucking mouths. The more they lost themselves in mad thrusts, the more my strength drained; at passion’s peak, I felt my root sag, like a soldier felled by a shot. Life’s torch snuffed out, I dropped from his famed head, a dead branch hitting the floor, no courage, no strength, no spark, but with deep pity for my owner, endless grief for his willful drift!”
And I wondered who his master could be; my eye pressed harder to the grate!
“If he’d at least clasped a virgin’s pure breast with his soul, she’d have been worthier, the shame less stark; he kisses with his lips a brow caked in mud, trod by men’s dusty heels! He breathes with shameless nostrils the stench of those wet armpits! I saw their last skin shrink in shame while his nostrils spurned that vile air; but neither he nor she heeded the armpits’ solemn warnings, the nostrils’ bleak recoil; she raised her arms higher, and he, with a stronger push, plunged his face into their pit. I had to abet that desecration; I had to watch that wild writhing, witness the forced meld of two beings an abyss split apart.”
And I wondered who his master could be; my eye pressed harder to the grate!
“Sated with her scent, he meant to rip her muscles off one by one; but, her being a woman, he spared her, choosing instead to torment one of his own sex. He called a youth from the next cell, there for a fleeting romp with one of those women, and bade him stand a step from his eyes. I’d lain on the floor, too weak to rise on my seared root; I couldn’t see what they did, but I know this: the moment the youth neared his grasp, flesh scraps fell by the bed and landed beside me, whispering how my master’s claws tore them from the lad’s shoulders. After hours battling a mightier force, he rose from the bed and left with dignity, flayed head to toe, dragging his peeled skin across the room’s tiles; he mused his heart was kind, he’d trusted his kin were too, so he’d answered the grand stranger’s call, but never, never had he dreamt of such torture by such a fiend; he added after a pause. At last he neared the grate, which split in pity to the floor before that skinless frame; clutching his hide, still useful as a cloak, he tried to flee that den; once past the room, I couldn’t tell if he reached the exit. Oh, how the hens and roosters shunned that long blood-trail, despite their hunger, on the soaked earth!”
And I wondered who his master could be; my eye pressed harder to the grate!
“Then he who should’ve prized his dignity and justice more rose, painfully, on his weary elbow: alone, grim, loathsome, vile! He dressed slowly; nuns, buried centuries in the convent’s crypts, jolted awake by that night’s clashing horrors from a cell above their vaults, clasped hands and ringed him in a funeral dance. As he sought his lost splendor’s shards, washing his hands with spit and wiping them on his hair (better spit than nothing after a night steeped in vice and crime), they chanted dirges for the dead, as if one had sunk to the grave; indeed, the youth wouldn’t survive that divine hand’s torment, his agonies fading amid the nuns’ song.”
I recalled the pillar’s warning, grasped what became of that pubescent dreamer his friends still awaited since he vanished. And I wondered who his master could be; my eye pressed harder to the grate!
“The walls parted to let him pass; the nuns, seeing him soar skyward on wings hid till then in his emerald robe, slipped silently back under their tomb lids. He’s gone to his celestial lair, leaving me here; it’s not fair; the other hairs stayed on his head, and I lie in this bleak room, on a floor crusted with clotted blood and dried flesh, damned since he entered; no one comes, yet I’m trapped; it’s over! I’ll never see angel legions march in thick ranks, nor stars stroll harmony’s gardens; so be it, I’ll bear my woe with resolve, but I won’t spare men this tale from that cell; I’ll let them cast off dignity like a useless rag, since my master did; I’ll urge them to suck crime’s rod, since another already has.”
The hair fell silent. And I wondered who his master could be; my eye pressed harder to the grate!
Thunder crashed; a phosphorous gleam pierced the room. I flinched back, some warning instinct tugging me; though far from the grate, I heard another voice, this one creeping, soft, fearful of being heard:
“Don’t leap like that! Hush, hush, if someone hears! I’ll set you among the other hairs, but wait till the sun dips below the horizon, till night cloaks your steps; I didn’t forget you, but they’d have seen you leave, and I’d have been exposed. Oh, if you knew my torment since then! Back in heaven, my archangels ringed me, curious; they didn’t dare ask why I’d gone; they who never raised their eyes to me cast stunned glances at my broken face, probing that mystery’s depths they couldn’t pierce, whispering thoughts dreading some strange shift in me; they shed silent tears, sensing dimly I wasn’t the same, fallen below my essence; they longed to know what dire choice drove me from heaven’s bounds to crash on earth, tasting fleeting thrills they scorn; they spotted on my brow a drop of semen, a drop of blood: the first spurted from the harlot’s thighs, the second leapt from the martyr’s veins, vile marks, unshakable stains! My archangels found my opal robe’s blazing scraps snagged in space’s thickets, floating over gaping throngs; they couldn’t mend it, my body stands bare before their innocence, a stark penalty for virtue forsaken; see the furrows carved on my faded cheeks: it’s that semen drop, that blood drop, seeping slow down my dry wrinkles; reaching my upper lip, they strain mightily and pierce my mouth’s sanctum, drawn like magnets to my relentless throat; those two ruthless drops choke me; I’d thought myself the Almighty till now, but no, I bow my neck to remorse shrieking:
‘You’re a wretch!’
Don’t leap like that! Hush, hush, if someone hears! I’ll set you among the other hairs, but wait till the sun dips below the horizon, till night cloaks your steps; I saw Satan, my great foe, straighten his bony frame from its larval slump and stand triumphant, sublime, rallying his scattered host, mocking me as I deserve; he marveled that his proud rival, caught red-handed by ceaseless spying’s success, could stoop to kiss debauchery’s human hem, sailing far through ether’s reefs and slay a human in torment; he said that youth, crushed in my refined tortures’ gears, might’ve grown a genius mind, soothed men on earth with poetry’s noble chants, courage against fate’s blows; he said the convent-brothel’s nuns lost sleep, roam the yard, gesturing like puppets, trampling buttercups and lilacs underfoot, maddened with rage, yet not so mad as to forget the cause rotting their brains (here they come, shrouded in white, silent, hand-in-hand, hair wild on bare shoulders, black flowers drooping on their breasts; nuns, back to your crypts, night’s not full, it’s only dusk). O hair, you see, my depravity’s unleashed wrath hounds me from all sides! He said the Creator, boasting as all’s Providence, acted with gross folly, if not worse, staging this for starry worlds; he vowed to tell circling planets how I uphold virtue and good by my own example in my vast realms; he said the high regard he’d held for so noble a foe fled his mind, and he’d rather grip a maiden’s breast, though it’s vile wickedness, than spit on my face, layered thrice with mingled blood and semen, lest he taint his slimy gob; he said he deemed himself, rightly, above me, not in vice, but virtue and shame, not crime, but justice; he said I should be lashed to a rack for my countless sins, burned slow in a blazing pyre, then flung to the sea, if it’d take me; since I bragged of justice, I, who damned him eternally for a slight revolt with no grave toll, must judge my iniquity-laden conscience sternly, fairly.”
He paused; though I couldn’t see him, that needed break told me emotion’s swell heaved his chest, like a cyclone churning a whale clan: divine chest, once fouled by a shameless woman’s bitter teats! Royal soul, surrendered in a lapse to debauchery’s crab, weakness’s octopus, abjection’s shark, morality’s absent boa, idiocy’s monstrous snail! The hair and its master clasped tight, like friends reunited after long years; the Creator, a defendant at his own bar, pressed on:
“And men, what’ll they think of me, once so grand in their eyes, learning my stumbles, my sandal’s faltering tread through matter’s muddy maze, my dark path’s course through stagnant pools and dank reeds where, cloaked in fog, crime’s black paw growls and glows! I see I must toil long to reclaim their esteem; I’m the Grand All, yet somehow less than men I shaped from a pinch of sand! Spin them a bold lie and say I never left heaven, locked ever with throne’s cares amid my palaces’ marbles, statues, mosaics; I faced humanity’s celestial sons and said:
‘Cast evil from your huts and let goodness cloak your hearths; he who strikes a kin, gashing their breast with murderous steel, expect no mercy from me and dread justice’s scales; he’ll hide his grief in woods, but leaves’ rustle through glades will sing remorse’s ballad to his ears; he’ll flee those haunts, pricked at the hip by briar, holly, blue thistle, his swift steps snared by lithe vines, scorpion stings; he’ll head for beach pebbles, but the rising tide, with its spray and dire creep, will whisper they know his past; he’ll hurl his blind run to the cliff’s crown, while equinox gales, piercing gulf caves and quarries beneath roaring rocks, bellow like pampas buffalo herds; coast beacons will chase him to the north’s edge with mocking glints, marsh will-o’-wisps, mere burning fumes, in their wild dance will bristle his pores’ hairs and green his eyes’ irises; let shame thrive in your shacks and be safe in your fields’ shade; so your sons grow fair, bowing to their kin with thanks, else, frail and shriveled as library parchment, they’ll march, spurred by revolt, against their birth-day and their mother’s foul womb.’
How will men heed such stern laws if the lawgiver himself flouts them first? My shame’s vast as eternity!”
I heard the hair forgive, humbly, its confinement, since its master acted from caution, not caprice; and the sun’s last pale ray fled my lids, sinking past mountain ravines; facing him, I saw it coil like a shroud. Don’t leap like that! Hush, hush, if someone hears! He’ll set you among the other hairs; now that the sun’s sunk below the horizon, cynical old man and gentle hair, crawl together from that brothel’s reach, while night, draping the convent in shadow, masks your stealthy steps across the plain.
Then a louse, darting from behind a ridge, bristled its claws and said:
“What do you make of that?”
But I wouldn’t answer; I withdrew, reached the bridge, erased the old inscription, and carved this instead:
“It’s bitter to hold such a secret like a dagger in your heart, but I swear never to reveal what I saw when I first breached that dread dungeon.”
I tossed the knife I’d used to etch the words over the rail and, musing swiftly on the Creator’s childish bent, set, alas, to plague humanity long yet (eternity drags on), with cruelties wrought or the vile spectacle of vice’s sores; I shut my eyes, like a drunk, at the thought of such a foe and trudged sadly back through the streets’ maze.