The Fall of the Poet

“It’s getting late.”

“Indeed.” I didn’t look up, my eyes still scouring across the typed pages before me, trying to locate another error.

“You best go get to him then. I’ve only just had that painting in the hallway restored.”

I got up with a heavy sigh and put down my pen. I looked over at Edgar just once before I left the room. He was wearing khaki slacks and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his forearms submerged in the soapy water. The washing up was down and put away and he was busy shaping multi coloured strands of wool into felt balls of varying sizes. His short brown hair stuck up at the back and I longed to go to him, wrap my arms around him and nuzzle the exposed nape of his neck.

But I didn’t, I turned on my heel and left. I found our young charge in the upstairs lounge, the fire was blazing in the grate and he was asleep in the antique Chesterfield. I had never really liked the sofa, though the blood red colour was nice. Time was once when Byron curled up on the sofa wouldn’t take up half of it, now his skinny body lay along the back of it, his legs scrunched up and one arm dangling off the end. I lent over and shook his shoulder gently. He murmured, almost mewling, big brown doe eyes with long lashes blinking in the light. Byron was a pretty sort of kid, slim and willow like with a fine face and a shock of ice blond hair that was in a constant state of disarray.

“Eliot?” he murmured as I put an arm underneath him and lifted him into a sitting position. I had to remind myself, again, that Byron was no longer a scared child of six as he had been when he first came to us. He was almost eighteen now, and the hard muscles against my arm proved that.

“Time for bed kiddo,” I joked

His usually smooth brow furrowed and he stood. Byron was almost my height now and he stretched, his shirt riding up to give a slice of hollow stomach. He looked for the clock.

This was our nightly ritual. Every now and again we’d leave things too late and while usually I’d be able to control him, sometimes I wouldn’t. Hence the newly repaired painting. Byron always feels guilty in the morning when he sees what damage he’s caused, not the least the time when I came to wake him with eleven stitches in my face. But it’s not his fault.

I walked with him through the house and down the dark stone stairs, past the cellar and down into the basement.. The basement has a solid steel door two inches thick, fitted with four dead bolts with heavy duty padlocks and two regular barrel locks, top and bottom. It’s open right now but it won’t be soon. Inside the basement is divided into two sections. We are standing in the smaller of these. There is nothing here but a small wooden stool. The two areas are divided by bars. That side is the cage side. The bars are thick and close set and the door is heavily bolted. In the cell is an old rather decrepit looking bed and a heap of blankets. On the floor was Byron’s dinner, an uncooked leg of beef. Edgar must have brought it down while I was getting Byron.

He walked into the cage and I shut the door behind him and began to lock it while he stripped off his clothes. He handed them to me through the bars and ran a pale hand over his washboard stomach with a heavy sigh. He knew the form he wore would vanish soon. I went to the bars and kissed his cheek goodnight.

“See you in the morning Byron.”

“Goodnight Eliot.”

Taking his clothes with me, I locked the main basement door behind me, and as I ascended into the main house the screams and the growling began. I shut the wooden door at the top of the stairs and the noise of Byron’s suffering was trapped as well.

I finish rolling the last of the felt balls between my hands, rinse it and set it on the drying rack over the big blue painted aga along with its fellows. I feels good to have a job done, even though there is still so much to be done before I finish this piece. That what I love about art, there is always more to do. Still drying my hands I walk over to Eliot’s mess of papers of the table. Usually he writes in his study, but now I see that he is editing, massive amounts of text annotated with a red biro. I try and read in between his scribbles but I can’t make head or tail of anything this far through a plot, so I abandon the task. I hang the hand towel on the aga rail and leave the clean flagstone kitchen just in time to see Eliot going up the stairs with Byron’s clothes in his hands. I follow him up at a distance, my footsteps heavily muffled by the thick pile carpet.

I stop outside our room and lean against the door jamb, as he disappears into Byron’s room to put away his clothes. I can watch him from here.

His long ebony ponytail hangs down between his shoulder blades as he bends over to pick something up of the floor, bare feet, jeans and a white t-shirt. He stops in Byron’s doorway and I smile at him. His face is grim and his jet black eyes are downcast. Slowly he comes toward me and I wrap my arms around him as he buries his face in my shoulder. I can feel his hot tears through the material of my shirt.

“Hush love,” I say, ever so softly, as I raise a hand to stroke his hair.

He lifts his face and looks at me, three inches taller, not that it matters.

“It’s just so…”

“Unfair.” I finish for him and he nods painfully, “I know Eliot but there is nothing else we can do for him.”

The worst part of Byron’s condition is that sometimes he can control it, but we don’t know when that is or for how long he’ll be able to manage, so we can’t leave him in his room where he could destroy everything, including himself or us. He’s home schooled, but it’s not like he doesn’t have any friends. There are a whole host of people from all over the globe who he talks to on his laptop and his group of closest friends who arrive here every Sunday for a long rambling role playing session. Despite everything he is a happy young man and he seems to bear us no grudge for imposing such drastic but essential measures. The biggest problem for Byron is the fact that he will never be able to live alone, not even when he is a true adult.

I hold Eliot for a long time before we descend to the lounge and I get out a bottle of wine from the cabinet and two glasses. Eliot relaxes somewhat as he lets himself sink into the Chesterfield. I hunt for the TV remote and the smooth shiny screen above the fireplace turns itself on. We put on a film, purely for distraction and he sits smiling while I settle for using his lap as a pillow. He strokes my short hair and I wrap an arm around his thigh, no longer paying attention to anything else.

After the film finishes we sit around discussing it for a few minutes then I gather up the glasses and take them down to the kitchen and return to find Eliot waiting for me. We go upstairs together, into our bedroom, with the massive four poster done up with dark green velvet drapes. I remove myself from my clothes and leave them lying on the floor, not bothered to tidy up tonight, and slip into dark satin sleeping trousers. Eliot is sitting on his side of the bed, still fully dressed. I crawl across the bed on all fours and pull him gently back onto it. I kiss him and he tastes like red wine and dark chocolate. I smile at him in the semi dark. He smiles back and loops an arm around me, drawing me down to him. I peel him out of his clothes and we curl up together under the blankets in the dark. He has his arms wrapped around me, his nude body fitted around mine. I can hear him falling asleep behind me and in the dark I whisper soft words.

“I love you Eliot.”

He lets out a soft sigh and nuzzles my neck.

“And I you Ed…”

And then he’s asleep, dragged away from me by his dreams.

Eliot shuts the door. I wrap a thin stale smelling blanket around my shoulders and listen to each lock slamming home. Six locks and twelve heavy despondent footfalls are all I have time to hear before the pain starts. It’s not always the same. Sometimes I can hold it back a little while, or all night. Sometimes, times like tonight, the pain is worse than normal, far worse. It starts exploding along my spine, through my chest, my heart speeding up. Black light flashes behind my eyes, and I can hear, almost disembodied, my own sharp scream and then a roar. And then silence. I am surrounded by cool calm blackness and I know that I will soon be dreaming. I always dream, vivid lasting dreams. Sometimes they are pleasant, often strange, but mostly just confusing.

I feel carpet under my bare feet, the plush is thick and fine like silk. My left hand twitches and brushed my thigh. I’m naked. I open my eyes and look around. The carpet is pale icy blue and walls are white. I am in a longer wide corridor that stretches away into the distance as far as the eye can see. The ceiling is one unending mirror. I look up, down on my self and notice a dark space behind me. I don’t turn around, instead I start to lope steadily along the passage. It goes on forever. I jog, wanting to find an end to this plain expanse. I feel, suddenly and for no reason, very afraid of being alone, vulnerable in this corridor. I begin to run. I run for what feels like hours, until sweat pours off my body and my heart threatens to explode through my chest. And very suddenly I am brought up short by a huge four poster bed. The thing is ornate, gargantuan and there seems to be no way around it. I find a gap in the heavy black drapes and slip inside. It seems smaller from in here, I see something pale on the black covers and crawl towards it. A girl. She lies on her back, long white hair spread out on the pillow, glimpses of her pale legs in between massive amounts of skirt. Her breathing shallow and constricted by her corset. Her eyes are blue like the carpet and huge and her lips are scarlet. I bent over her, my hair falling in my eyes, my lips aligned to kiss her. As I bend lower her mouth opens and I am clouded and blinded by smoke.

The dream is over.

In the darkness, Eliot shivered. He had never been as badly afflicted as Byron. The boy’s curse was not unique. But while he lost all traces of humanity, Eliot had always been able to keep his mind. The constant attacks had ceased ten years ago, when he was younger than Byron. He whimpered, the creature in the basement must’ve been strong tonight to upset Eliot. He crawled out of bed, took a quick glance over his shoulder at the peacefully asleep Edgar and went down through the house to the cage.

The beast within was Byron. It had his shape, basically, but not his mind. Long blond fur covered his body and a dog tail hung between his legs. Eliot had only ever grown a soft short down of black and his eyes had turned entirely black and he kept his entirely human form while the pale beast in the cage had heavily clawed hands and wolf like feet. Eliot ran his tongue over ever so lightly pointed teeth, severely different from the fanged heavy jaw that opened to reveal a blood red mouth. The howl that issued from the cavern should have come from no mortal thing. The beast that was Byron flung itself against the bars of the cage. A leg of the bed was broken and one of the blankets was torn almost in two. The bone had been stripped of all flesh, snapped, and the marrow sucked from it.

It was approaching dawn and really there was no need to risk himself to calm the creature. He checked the door was closed and locked it and slipped the key under it. He opened the cage door and bolted it behind him. The pale beast flew at him and he grabbed its wrists. They fought until the creature realised this newcomer was like itself, and familiar at that. The beast curled up in Eliot’s arms and outside the day began.

Edgar came down to find them. His lover and charge curled up naked together under a single blanket. Both bore scratches from their fight. Sighing, but smiling, Edgar stepped into the cage to wake them.

Silvan Arown Elendal, 2006