Date:         Mon, 18 Jan 1999 13:28:39 -0500
From: "flowery, glowery proses blossom" <mbarker@MIT.EDU>
Subject:      [WRITERS] SUB: Pilgrimage (Captivity - 6) [3]

[Third entry in the Pilgrimage Contest!  See
http://web.mit.edu/mbarker/www/pilgrim/ for more details... and send your
submissions to mbarker@mit.edu -- only 2 more days, so write faster!]

Captivity

I suppose many lonely souls have sat at their windows many nights looking
out into the flood of moonlight, sad with a sadness that knows no comfort,
a sadness underlined by a beauty that is in itself a pleasant kind of
sorrow -- but very few ever have seen what I saw that night.

Now I've caught your interest haven't I?  Suddenly you're keen to know
what this old man saw arent you? Good, that's as it should be. Now listen.
What I am about to say is true. Do not deny it or dismiss me as a drunken
fool.  I do not drink, nor smoke. People say that I am a bore, a man of
little intelligence and less wit. Perhaps they are right, but I certainly
did not imagine or dream the whole thing. No, what I saw that winter night
was real. How or why it came to be, I have no idea, but as I rested my
cheek on the cold glass, my breath condensing in hazy white patches, I
stared at the cracking paintwork. Bored and restless, I can not say what
first drew my attention outside. Perhaps it was the sudden lighting of the
street lamp outside my house, or the yowl of a horny cat. Either way I
casually turned my head, squashed my nose against that deliciously chilled
glass, and peered over my hazy breath.

 The lamp had not worked for many a year, but then that was not unusual.
The lighting this end of town was notoriously unreliable. Still it was a
welcome change to see the horrid thing working, and as it's harsh,
artificial light slowly built up and drowned out the silvery glow of the
watchful mother, I was able to view my surroundings as man had intended.

Have you ever noticed how inanely stupid the design of the street lamp is?
Instead of gayfully shedding light onto the darkened streets, it woefully
drops a column of sickly white, that does nothing but highlight the lamp
itself. I hate them passionately. Tear them down and let the yobs hang
about some place else. Bah!

Anyway, as my tired eyes drank in the stupid light of the street lamp, and
my mind said its bit aloft its own personal soap box, I became aware of
small movements, little alterations in the whiteness. With brow furrowed,
I knelt up, looking over the ever expanding breath pool, now complete with
nose impression, and stared out into the night. Minutes passed as I
squinted, blinked, sat up, sat down, and tried to open the window that was
so obviously painted shut. Cursing my laziness at house decorating, I
finally, and with much delight at my own cleverness, realised what they
were. Moths! Those little bits of beating papyrus that are so easily
squished  into black stickiness. How many there were, I could not tell,
but some were bigger than others, and they all spiralled around and around
within  the lamps glare. Not normally being one to take delight in the
quirks of nature, I sat there fascinated, legs crossed like a school boy.
Boredom will often make me do things I would not normally do, especially
when the television is broken.

What the moths thought, I have no idea. Did they coyly watch me out of the
corner of their eyes, wandering why a grown man should sit and stare at
their private party? Perhaps they thought I was stupid, addled-brained,
crazy, but  from where I was sitting they were the crazy ones. Watching
them wiggle and dart about I was reminded of little children dancing at a
party. Perhaps one of the moths held little party bags, ready to hand them
out to his excited friends?

 Anyway, as the moths performed their whirligig entertainment, I slowly
discovered reality knocking on my skull once more. Feeling sheepish, I
descended from  my childlike  high, disinterested  now in the moths and
their foolish antics. Incapable of finding anything else to do, my lazy
eyes continued to follow those crazy moths, and my mind drifted into the
never-regions of my brain. After ten minutes of thoughtlessness, and
through drooping eyelids, I noticed that the moths had gone. Their cabaret
was over and no doubt they had moved down town to a more exciting street
lamp. The night was finally devoid of life, and the only disruption to the
inky blackness, was that hideous column of unnatural light.

Strange isn't it how the moon's gaze gives everything a eldritch glow,
making it seem special, unique in its own beauty. Yet man's own attempt
does nothing but highlight the flaws and deviances of the world. Where
only twenty minutes ago there was a silver walkway to the stars, there now
could be seen a dirty, cracked path, troubled by weeds, and smeared in dog
poo. Even the small bit of scrubland behind the lamp had been transformed
from a rolling green ocean, to a fragmented mud mound with tufts of dying
grass.

 How cruel is Mankind to show such blemishes on the beautiful face of
nature?

By now I was tired and utterly, utterly bored. Rubbing my eyes and yawning
perhaps a little too exaggerated, I mentally prepared for the unavoidable
traipse upstairs. Standing once more and rubbing my aching knees, I turned
from the window, unwittingly giving a half moon to any unfortunate people
that might have been passing. Men of my age cannot help this, and besides
builders bum is hereditary.

 And so, holding the heavy draylon curtains I prepared to separate my
private world from everyone else. With a silent goodnight, and a nod to
the street lamp, I shut the curtains.

But this is not where the tale ends. Oh no, rather this is the beginning,
for on that night, as every other night before, the right curtain stuck.
As I yanked and cursed the stupid person who hung the wretched thing, I
saw motion outside. Whilst gripping the draylon monstrosity with one hand
and yanking with the other, I looked toward the lamp. Expecting the moths
to have returned in force I was surprised to see a lady's arm thrust from
the darkness into the glare of the lamp. Obviously still attached to the
unseen woman, it was raised but slightly bent at the elbow, with the wrist
and hand pointing downwards, as if she were expecting her fingers to be
kissed. The hand itself was clothed in an elbow length, red satin glove,
and I distinctly remember thinking how little warmth that glove provided.
Nevertheless, with my interest piqued, I stopped my pointless war with the
curtain and turned once more to peer through my window. It soon became
apparent that there would be no further movement, and I felt myself
becoming annoyed by the little tease. What could she be doing out there,
under what I now considered my street lamp? As my mood darkened, and my
fingers once more gripped the horrid drapes in frustration, the cheap
carriage clock on my mantelpiece struck one oclock. As if on que, the
mystery was revealed and the lady stepped into the bleaching light.

With ballerina like steps she glided into the whiteness. Her  toes pointed
downwards with each raised step, and her unwavering arm lead the way.
Eventually she reached the centre of the lamps gaze and stopped dead, as
if paralysed by the white harshness. Wearing only a tight red dress that
touched the ground, she stood poised to take her next flowing step. Gazing
on this beauty I found my heart beating just that little bit faster, sweat
prickling my palms. Her hair was sumptuous and blond. Curled in ringlets
that fell and scattered around her shoulder, it seemed too perfect to be
real. Her face I could not see for she wore what appeared to be a wooden
mask. Rouge decorated her hard cheeks, two swirls that looked to all the
world like the reddest of roses. Her eyes were hidden from view, but her
button nose, and full mouth were most definitely visible. Red lipstick
adorned those kissable lips, making her alabaster skin all the more pale.

 Now I am no dirty old man, but to look at this beautiful creature, safe
in the knowledge that she could not see me, gave me the sweetest of
thrills. Aroused once more, but not enough to need any rearranging I
stared on in expectation. And sure enough she did move. With the skill of
one used to the stage, my beautiful doe, so carefully, and delicately,
turned towards me and curtsied. It was a deep and sincere curtsey, as if
she were before royalty, and at first I was too taken back to realise the
implications of this bold movement. But then the stabbing pain of
realisation thunked into my brain. I was caught, goggling at this
wonderful woman. Trousers unnaturally stretched, tucked away behind a
curtain, I, the pervert, was found with the proverbial red hand. Eyes
wide, and panic dancing a merry jig  across my face, I ducked back behind
the now life saving curtains. What to do? What to do? Surely she had not
seen me?  Even if she had, I could deny the charges, ignore the abuse
screamed through my letterbox. And while I furiously rationalised my
actions, in the back of my mind lurked the urge for just one more peek,
one more glimpse of that heavenly body. Well, I say now, I must be cursed
with weak will, because within seconds I had dropped onto all fours and
was peering through the gap once more.

Expecting to find an angry face jammed against my window, I was somewhat
relieved at the absence of any such thing. Instead my private dancer had
turned away once more and now appeared to be picking flowers that, despite
her earnest actions, weren't there. Indeed the basket that she so
carefully
and lovingly placed them in, did not exist. Bewildered by this quaint
exercise I pushed my head further through my voyeur's gap, safe in the
knowledge that she was too busy to notice me. Periodically she would move
as if travelling to a new locale, but all the while she stayed within the
glare of the lamp. As I've said before I'm a man of neither wit nor
intellect and it took many a minute before I realised the point to my
darlings movements. She was a mime! A silent performer, acting exclusively
for me. Relaxing even more, I smiled at the thought of such an intimate
act. That is of course, until the man stumbled out.

At first I thought he had been pushed, but soon realised that this was not
the case. Rather the poor fellow perpetually moved in this obscene way.
Like a marionette controlled by an amateur, he stumbled and half collapsed
towards my goddess. With arms swinging loosely at his sides, and his feet
seeming to float above the pavement, he cut a comical sight, one which was
not helped by his outfit. Dressed as  Robin Hood, the poor fool did
nothing but provoke a snigger from me. On his face he too wore a wooden
mask, complete with rouged cheeks and a swashbuckling goatee beard.
Watching him  amble towards the lady, dragging his rapier behind him, it
occurred to me how wooden, how unreal this fellow truly was. Nevertheless
this train of thought was soon derailed as with mounting horror I watched
my angel hug and then kiss this wretched creature. They twirled and
twirled as he so horribly defiled her luscious lips, all the while staying
within the heart of the light.

 It was plain to see that they were lovers as they danced together, under
the lamp. Two faceless people drawn together out of the bleak night to
share each other's warmth and affection. I have to say I despised the man.
And then as if sensing my hatred, they stopped their dance and hugged once
more, unaware that a third person had stepped into the scene.

Little can be said about this third figure, cloaked in midnight black.
Looking  like an extension of the night, the only thing that gave him a
semblance of humanity was a top hat, and a pair of intense eyes that
peered over a heavy scarf. Silently he loomed over the pair, sending a
chill down my spine. As I sat in fear of this dark stranger it occurred to
me how the light had dimmed since his presence. Then  with a motion not
unlike a tornado, he swirled in between the lovers and swallowed my
princess into the folds of his coat.  She had gone and all I could do was
lean forward and bang my window in an attempt to motivate her lover. As
the idiot tottered around, clumsily trying to draw his sword, there was a
glint of metal within the dark folds of the stranger, and his hand emerged
holding an old, old pistol.

 If anyone ever tells you that at crucial moments in life,  time slows
then believe them, because as I knelt, hands smacking on the chilled
glass, time did indeed slow down. With a snail's pace the wobbling man
inched his sword free from his belt, desperate to defend himself. But he
was too late. With a cool indifference the dark fiend squeezed the trigger
of his ancient weapon, and,  amazed, I watched as the bullet moved towards
the struggling man. Cutting through the light of the lamp, it span and
span, until finally burying itself in its target's chest. Down went the
fool, crumpling like he had never  been alive. Blood spurted from his
horrible wound and I gasped as if I had been the one shot. Staring at the
fiend, mind numbed by what I had seen, I watched him shrug and silently
tuck the pistol back into his coat. Then with a sniff of the air, he was
gone, spinning off into the night like a cartoon character.

Time passed silently, and even my carriage clock seemed to respect the
moment and stopped ticking. Expecting the man to stand and take his bow, I
sat waiting. After ten minutes it was clear that the fool would not be
rising. Blood continued to dribble out of his ravaged chest, and  it lay
in steaming puddles all around.

 Now let me tell you, whatever I saw that night,  it was not a play.
Whatever those three strangers enacted outside my window was not a
frivolous spectacle, but a small part of a larger plot. And as I raced to
unbolt my front door it occurred to me how I had taken for granted all the
little miracles I had seen that night. The beautiful dancing lady, the
jerky Robin Hood, as well as the evil person of darkness. I had even seen
a bullet travel under the horrid light of the lamp, a feat impossible for
the human eye, and a man spin off into the night like a human tornado. All
these I accepted without the batting of an eye, but as I stepped out into
the freezing night air I could not, and still cannot believe what I saw.
Gone was the blood, the pools of lifejuice. What now splatter the path was
a sticky yellow syrup. It coated the weeds, the cracks and even the dog
poo. The body was still very much visible and as I cautiously approached
it I felt the wind pick up and ruffle my hair. Curiously there was no
blood on the body either. The yellow gunk oozed from the dead man's chest
as I knelt down beside him. Unsure what to do I grabbed his wrist,
desperately feeling for a pulse. The flesh was funny, it was hard and
inflexible, tinted a strange brown. Alarmed by this unnatural sensation I
dropped the arm and watched with horror as it shattered on the ground into
a myriad of wooden splinters. Fear gripped me  now as I watch the rest of
the man slowly crumble away into little piles of twigs and dead leaves.
Knowing not what to do I lay down next to him, shielding his diminishing
frame from the wind.

 Eventually, despite my best efforts he was gone, gently guided down the
street by the motherly hand of the wind. All that remained was the masked
head of the hero that I hated. With guilt gripping my mind I had to know
who he was, I had to see the face of  this clumsy oaf. Reverently I lifted
off the mask, hating myself for doing so, but doing it just the same.

 I think by now you know what I saw. The man I had loathed, the man who  I
secretly wanted to die, was me.

As I stared down in horrid fascination, the face slowly caved in and it
too crumpled into a mound of rotting leaves. Then with a loving kiss from
the wind he was no more.

I stood there for about an hour, unsure what to do. Eventually the cold
drove me in and for the rest of the night I sat at my window, waiting for
the sun to rise and herald a new day. But with the sun came insight.
Insight into the blessing I had received. For one brief evening I had been
a part of the bigger picture, the silent nocturne that occurs all around
us. I had been a character in the eternal struggle of light and dark.

The lamp has not worked since, and deep down I know it's dead. Dead like
the marionette, like me. Each night I sit, waiting for its resurrection so
that I also may live again and set off to find my princess. So come you
horrid light, show me once more the weeds and the cracks. Show me once
more the poo, and mud. But more importantly show me the nocturne one more
time.


"...they've gone on now, the good as well as the bad... They've done their
little song and dance in your life... They are that way in you now,
forever."  Jean Anouilh

tink