All Destiny MoON Fiction: A Mix of Old & New Short Stories Read online

  Was I even still in the water, or was this an ocean of blood? I didn’t know, but I was sinking in whatever it was! I was still panicking, stuck within myself. I couldn’t escape; it wouldn’t leave me alone. Confusion was taking over. I tried to remember what I was escaping? Was it myself, the dragon, the blood or some completely different monster I couldn’t put a name to? I couldn’t even hyperventilate; I was too busy suffocating on dragon’s blood. It had swallowed me; I was now swimming in dragon’s blood, I was sure of it. This wasn’t water against my hands anymore, my own scales were turning into dragon’s skin, they must be! I could hear voices muttering, it could’ve been my own - I wouldn’t know - I can’t remember what I sound like. What had happened? What was I?

  So that’s my story. You are with me in the present. I am still spinning now, struggling to get a hold of myself. The water is getting warmer. I try to speak, I try to say I am sorry, but flames come out instead, burning my mouth.

  I am pretty sure I am delirious. I know these cannot be flames. It must be blood, more blood. I don’t know if it’s my own or the dragons, but it is hot in my mouth. The blood is still all around me, I am sure I have more dragon’s blood left in me than my own. Oh Father, please help, help me please, I don’t know what’s what anymore! Has my mind left me and been replaced by more blood? Oh this blood - why won’t it leave me alone, why do we obsess with each other, this blood and I?

  I’m motionless now, a foetus floating in the womb, although the struggle continues in my head, fighting the bonds I’ve wrapped around myself. Sensation is returning to me, and I can feel hand, hands that guide me. I force my eyes open, trying to see the night sky of blood filling my mind. I am greeted by the sun and moon, blinking frantically, my eyes focus upon a pair of hands either side of me. Lucifer and Satan are holding me. The hot and cold of their skin ripples through me returning to me sensations I had forgotten.

  I force myself to look up, to take in the details. I can see myself reflected in their eyes. There’s an ankh round Lucifer’s wrist that presses into my back as they carry me together, as brother and sister. I am outstretched between them, draped over their powerful arms. They’re both so beautiful - had I forgotten this, or did I just not realise when I was a childe? It strikes a strange chord of longing and hurt in my heart. I want to reach out and touch them; I don’t want them to let go of me, I want to stay with them forever. They’re both so sad. I wonder why? Have they always been this sad and have I just never noticed, or is it me that causes them such discomfort? They are laying me down now; somehow my eyes have closed again. I feel a hot palm stroke my face.

  I remember being a child watching Lucifer - did she notice me then? It’s gone. I’m alone again. With the little strength I have, I shake my hair. It feels heavy, I am guessing still with blood. I think everything is composed of blood. I wonder if touching me has now tainted Lucifer and Satan? I wonder if that’s why they’re so sad?

  I wish I could say I’m sorry, but they’ve already gone, not that I can string together two words together anyway. Nothing is working right now. I can’t even tell if I’m shivering or having a fit; all of my movements have been slowed down, my mind unable to keep up with reality. Maybe I’m not moving at all. I want to cry; I feel so lonely. I think I’ve forgotten how to cry. Without warning, I feel myself being pushed against something, thrust forward by an invisible force into some kind of surface. It is hard, but brittle, and breaking into pieces as I put more pressure against it.

  Claustrophobia hits me, and I head butt it sharply, my hands not responding to the orders I give them. This must be my coffin they placed me in! I have to escape! I have to let them know I’m not dead! Using as much force as I can summon, I am finally free as the last piece cracks above me. Air is now filling my lungs’, it is coming in ragged gasps. I force my eyes open and am immediately blinded by light. I think I can see The Fathers eyes; they’re so sad, just like everyone else’s. I part my lips to call his name, struggling to form a word, my tongue feeling strangely unfamiliar in my mouth.

  I trail off before I begin. Realisation is pouring into me with every pained breath. I am staring into the face of a dragon. Egg shells are lying on the floor before me.

  As I stare at the porcelain jigsaw pieces, and in one jagged breath it all becomes clear, like a sharp blow to the back of my head that sends me reeling. The realisation alone is abysmal. I understand those sad eyes that stare at me now. She still remembers her life, still remembers who she killed. She’s like a living mirror. I understand now why mortals fear dragons instinctively - we’re all murderers. Now I know. I know what I am, and I know why I am. It sickens me. Why me? Why us? I know now; we truly are The Fathers saddest creations. I try to speak again, my tongue just about responding now, and the word comes out, thick and heavy like the tears that would be falling down my cheeks, could I remember how to cry.

  ‘Mother...’

  Ligeia by Edgar Allan Poe

  And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mystery of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.

  Joseph Glanvill.

  I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering.

  Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive, that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family-I have surely heard her speak. That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia! Buried in studies of a nature more than all else adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet word alone - by Ligeia-that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia? or was it a test of my strength of affection, that I should institute no inquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice of my own-a wildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion?

  I but indistinctly recall the fact itself - what wonder that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which originated or attended it?

  And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled Romance - if ever she, the wan misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided over mine.

  There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not. It is the person of Ligeia. In stature she was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her latter days, even emaciated. I would in vain attempt to portray the majesty, the quiet ease of her demeanor, or the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of her footfall. She came and departed as a shadow. I was never made aware of her entrance into my closed study, save by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder. In beauty of face no maiden ever equalled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream - an airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the phantasies which hovered about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features were not of that regular mold which we have been falsely taught to worship in the classical labors of the heathen.

  ‘There is no exquisite beauty,’ says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera of beauty, ‘without some strangeness in the proportion.’

  Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia were not of a classic regularity - although
I perceived that her loveliness was indeed ‘exquisite,’ and felt that there was much of ‘strangeness’ pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity and to trace home my own perception of ‘the strange.’

  I examined the contour of the lofty and pale forehead- -it was faultless - how cold indeed that word when applied to a majesty so divine! - the skin rivalling the purest ivory, the commanding extent and repose, the gentle prominence of the regions above the temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the luxuriant, and naturally-curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homeric epithet, ‘hyacinthine!’ I looked at the delicate outlines of the nose - and nowhere but in the graceful medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar perfection. There were the same luxurious smoothness of surface, the same scarcely perceptible tendency to the aquiline, the same harmoniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regarded the sweet mouth. Here was indeed the triumph of all things heavenly-the magnificent turn of the short upper lip - the soft, voluptuous slumber of the under - the dimples which sported, and the color which spoke-the teeth glancing back, with a brilliancy almost startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon them in her serene and placid yet most exultingly radiant of all smiles. I scrutinized the formation of the chin - and, here, too, I found the gentleness of breadth, the softness and the majesty, the fullness and the spirituality, of the Greek-the contour which the god Apollo revealed but in a dream, to Cleomenes, the son of the Athenian. And then I peered into the large eyes of Ligeia.

  For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. It might have been, too, that in these eyes of my beloved lay the secret to which Lord Verulam alludes. They were, I must believe, far larger than the ordinary eyes of our own race. They were even fuller than the fullest of the gazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley of Nourjahad. Yet it was only at intervals - in moments of intense excitement-that this peculiarity became more than slightly noticeable in Ligeia. And at such moments was her beauty - in my heated fancy thus it appeared perhaps - the beauty of beings either above or apart from the earth - the beauty of the fabulous Houri of the Turk.

  The hue of the orbs was the most brilliant of black, and, far over them, hung jetty lashes of great length. The brows, slightly irregular in outline, had the same tint.

  The ‘strangeness,’ however, which I found in the eyes was of a nature distinct from the formation, or the color, or the brilliancy of the features, and must, after all, be referred to the expression.

  Ah, word of no meaning! behind whose vast latitude of mere sound we entrench our ignorance of so much of the spiritual. The expression of the eyes of Ligeia! How for long hours have I pondered upon it!

  How have I, through the whole of a midsummer night, struggled to fathom it! What was it-that something more profound than the well of Democritus - which lay far within the pupils of my beloved? What was it? I was possessed with a passion to discover. Those eyes! those large, those shining, those divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I to them devoutest of astrologers.

  There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of the science of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the fact - never, I believe, noticed in the schools - than in our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. And thus how frequently, in my intense scrutiny of Ligeia’s eyes, have I felt approaching the full knowledge of their expression - felt it approaching - yet not quite be mine - and so at length entirely depart!

  And (strange, oh, strangest mystery of all!) I found, in the commonest objects of the universe, a circle of analogies to that expression. I mean to say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia’s beauty passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from many existences in the material world, a sentiment such as I felt always around, within me, by her large and luminous orbs.

  Yet not the more could I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view it. I recognized it, let me repeat, sometimes in the survey of a rapidly growing vine - in the contemplation of a moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of running water. I have felt it in the ocean-in the falling of a meteor. I have felt it in the glances of unusually aged people. And there are one or two stars in heaven (one especially, a star of the sixth magnitude, double and changeable, to be found near the large star in Lyra) in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made aware of the feeling. I have been filled with it by certain sounds from stringed instruments, and not infrequently by passages from books.

  Among innumerable other instances, I well remember something in a volume of Joseph Glanvill, which (perhaps merely from its quaintness - who shall say?) never failed to inspire me with the sentiment:

  ‘And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness.

  Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.’

  Length of years and subsequent reflection have enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connection between this passage in the English moralist and a portion of the character of Ligeia. An intensity in thought, action, or speech was possibly, in her, a result, or at least an index, of that gigantic volition which, during our long intercourse, failed to give other and more immediate evidence of its existence. Of all the women whom I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stern passion. And of such passion I could form no estimate, save by the miraculous expansion of those eyes which at once so delighted and appalled me,- -by the almost magical melody, modulation, distinctness, and placidity of her very low voice, - and by the fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by contrast with her manner of utterance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered.

  I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it was immense - such as I have never known in woman. In the classical tongues was she deeply proficient, and as far as my own acquaintance extended in regard to the modern dialects of Europe, I have never known her at fault. Indeed upon any theme of the most admired because simply the most abstruse of the boasted erudition of the Academy, have I ever found Ligeia at fault?

  How singularly-how thrillingly, this one point in the nature of my wife has forced itself, at this late period only, upon my attention! I said her knowledge was such as I have never known in woman - but where breathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, all the wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical science? I saw not then what I now clearly perceive that the acquisitions of Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding; yet I was sufficiently aware of her infinite supremacy to resign myself, with a childlike confidence, to her guidance through the chaotic world of metaphysical investigation at which I was most busily occupied during the earlier years of our marriage. With how vast a triumph-with how vivid a delight-with how much of all that is ethereal in hope did I feel, as she bent over me in studies but little sought - but less known, - that delicious vista by slow degrees expanding before me, down whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, I might at length pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too divinely precious not to be forbidden.

  How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after some years, I beheld my well-grounded expectations take wings to themselves and fly away!

  Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted. Her presence, her readings alone, rendered vividly luminous the many mysteries of the transcendentalism in which we were immersed.

  Wanting the radiant luster of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew duller than Saturnian lead. And now those eyes shone less and less frequently upon the pages over which I pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a too - too glorious effulgence; the pale fingers became of the transparent waxen hue of the grave; and the blue veins upon the lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously wit
h the tides of the most gentle emotion. I saw that she must die - and I struggled desperately in spirit with the grim Azrael. And the struggles of the passionate wife were, to my astonishment, even more energetic than my own.

  There had been much in her stern nature to impress me with the belief that, to her, death would have come without its terrors; but not so. Words are impotent to convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with the Shadow.

  I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. I would have soothed - I would have reasoned; but in the intensity of her wild desire for life - for life - but for life - solace and reason were alike the uttermost of folly. Yet not until the last instance, amid the most convulsive writhings of her fierce spirit, was shaken the external placidity of her demeanour. Her voice grew more gentle - grew more low - yet I would not wish to dwell upon the wild meaning of the quietly uttered words. My brain reeled as I hearkened, entranced, to a melody more than mortal-to assumptions and aspirations which mortality had never before known.

  That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I might have been easily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have reigned no ordinary passion. But in death only was I fully impressed with the strength of her affection. For long hours, detaining my hand, would she pour out before me the overflowing of a heart whose more than passionate devotion amounted to idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed by such confessions? - how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal of my beloved in the hour of my making them? But upon this subject I cannot bear to dilate. Let me say only, that in Ligeia’s more than womanly abandonment to a love, alas! all unmerited, all unworthily bestowed, I at length, recognized the principle of her longing, with so wildly earnest a desire, for the life which was now fleeing so rapidly away. It is this wild longing - it is this eager vehemence of desire for life - but for life - that I have no power to portray - no utterance capable of expressing.