what use do we have for feeble hymns of wasted faith; for sordid songs of glory?
I come back to meet the monster.
(I come back, knowing now—and all along—I will only find myself).
The sea does not let me go easily. Minutes, hours, days pass as I battle to the surface; through frothing waves, the unseen currents that snake, turbulent, beneath. She tosses me end-over-end ceaselessly; until at last the wave broke and I find my head above the surface. I am not yet accustomed to the struggle of swimming; and it is always a struggle, I think, to rise. She does not want to let me go; and when I emerge on the edge of the beach that leads to the strange cavern, my hair hangs lank and wet in my face. Seaweed gnarls itself through the tangles in my mane and tail; a small crab falls from my shoulder and scurries away as I begin the long walk down the sand to the bone bridge.
This journey is not one of pride, however. No; it is a thing of survival, that I dredge myself up from the bottom of the sea. I cannot say what possesses me to return to the island so soon. The scars on my throat are pink and tender; my memory of the last time I visited seems too fresh. But when I reach the bridge, I do not turn back.
I walk across alone.
I enter the city’s gaping, cavernous maw alone.
Around me darkness stretches like a void—and yet if I look up, the darkness spins, and the ceiling seems dotted with luminescent stars. My eyes adjust; there are scarcely stars at all, but a multitude of small dragons peering back down at me. The stars are their eyes, and I turn my face away. On the ground around me, stones are veined through by gold and mercury; and where before the city had seemed austere, now I glimpse cottages made of crystal quartz, inhabited by incomprehensible creatures. I glimpse them as one glimpses the shadows of birds; almost shapeless, too swift to see the shape that makes them.
I do not linger.
I make my way to the same castle. It appears as if I had never been here; the stained glass window Damascus had shattered has been replaced by rough quartz. I hold my breath passing through the open gate; and once I hit the darkness beyond, I smell the blood.
The scent is faint.
I feel no fear, this time, as I press further forward.
(Perhaps it is because the monster in me is clamoring louder than all these other beasts; then all these other fantasies). I walk through a hallway of mirrors and then beyond; a room of skinned beasts; a kitchen that smells of flesh and fat; a hall of statues; a winding staircase that I thought I was walking up and somehow I end up down, down, down and into a throne room that looks out over the city.
There is a chair. This is where I expect to find the beast.
Instead, I find a woman and a bowl of skin. She has painted herself and I smell it; the blood; her warmth.
I recognize her.
But I also recognize that I am not the same man who met her, a lifetime ago.
And I am not the same man who asked Seraphina to paint me, a lifetime ago.
I stand dripping seawater. My lips twitch, and once, once, I may have smiled.
And my lips are too long; and my teeth are too sharp. And when I go to speak, I do not sound like myself.
“Do you believe there is a monster here?”
(I come back, knowing now—and all along—I will only find myself).
The sea does not let me go easily. Minutes, hours, days pass as I battle to the surface; through frothing waves, the unseen currents that snake, turbulent, beneath. She tosses me end-over-end ceaselessly; until at last the wave broke and I find my head above the surface. I am not yet accustomed to the struggle of swimming; and it is always a struggle, I think, to rise. She does not want to let me go; and when I emerge on the edge of the beach that leads to the strange cavern, my hair hangs lank and wet in my face. Seaweed gnarls itself through the tangles in my mane and tail; a small crab falls from my shoulder and scurries away as I begin the long walk down the sand to the bone bridge.
This journey is not one of pride, however. No; it is a thing of survival, that I dredge myself up from the bottom of the sea. I cannot say what possesses me to return to the island so soon. The scars on my throat are pink and tender; my memory of the last time I visited seems too fresh. But when I reach the bridge, I do not turn back.
I walk across alone.
I enter the city’s gaping, cavernous maw alone.
Around me darkness stretches like a void—and yet if I look up, the darkness spins, and the ceiling seems dotted with luminescent stars. My eyes adjust; there are scarcely stars at all, but a multitude of small dragons peering back down at me. The stars are their eyes, and I turn my face away. On the ground around me, stones are veined through by gold and mercury; and where before the city had seemed austere, now I glimpse cottages made of crystal quartz, inhabited by incomprehensible creatures. I glimpse them as one glimpses the shadows of birds; almost shapeless, too swift to see the shape that makes them.
I do not linger.
I make my way to the same castle. It appears as if I had never been here; the stained glass window Damascus had shattered has been replaced by rough quartz. I hold my breath passing through the open gate; and once I hit the darkness beyond, I smell the blood.
The scent is faint.
I feel no fear, this time, as I press further forward.
(Perhaps it is because the monster in me is clamoring louder than all these other beasts; then all these other fantasies). I walk through a hallway of mirrors and then beyond; a room of skinned beasts; a kitchen that smells of flesh and fat; a hall of statues; a winding staircase that I thought I was walking up and somehow I end up down, down, down and into a throne room that looks out over the city.
There is a chair. This is where I expect to find the beast.
Instead, I find a woman and a bowl of skin. She has painted herself and I smell it; the blood; her warmth.
I recognize her.
But I also recognize that I am not the same man who met her, a lifetime ago.
And I am not the same man who asked Seraphina to paint me, a lifetime ago.
I stand dripping seawater. My lips twitch, and once, once, I may have smiled.
And my lips are too long; and my teeth are too sharp. And when I go to speak, I do not sound like myself.
“Do you believe there is a monster here?”
