Eldritch Tales (13 page)

And gleaming teeth that he would often bare,

With piercing eye, and stealthy roving glance,

And tongue that clipt the soft, sweet speech of France;

The Sieur was little lov’d and seldom seen,

So close he kept within his own demesne.

The castle servants, few, discreet, and old,

Full many a tale of strangeness might have told;

But bow’d with years, they rarely left the door

Wherein their sires and grandsires serv’d before.

Thus gossip rose, as gossip rises best,

When mystery imparts a keener zest;

Seclusion oft the poison tongue attracts,

And scandal prospers on a dearth of facts.

’Twas said, the Sieur had more than once been spy’d

Alone at midnight by the river’s side,

With aspect so uncouth, and gaze so strange,

That rustics cross’d themselves to see the change;

Yet none, when press’d, could clearly say or know

Just what it was, or why they trembled so.

De Blois, as rumour whisper’d, fear’d to pray,

Nor us’d his chapel on the Sabbath day;

Howe’er this may have been, ’twas known at least

His household had no chaplain, monk, or priest.

But if the Master liv’d in dubious fame,

Twice fear’d and hated was his noble Dame;

As dark as he, in features wild and proud,

And with a weird supernal grace endow’d,

The haughty mistress scorn’d the rural train

Who sought to learn her source, but sought in vain.

Old women call’d her eyes too bright by half,

And nervous children shiver’d at her laugh;

Richard, the dwarf (whose word had little weight),

Vow’d she was like a serpent in her gait,

Whilst ancient Pierre (the aged often err)

Laid all her husband’s mystery to her.

Still more absurd were those odd mutter’d things

That calumny to curious list’ners brings;

Those subtle slanders, told with downcast face,

And muffled voice . . . those tales no man may trace;

Tales that the faith of old wives can command,

Tho’ always heard at sixth or seventh hand.

Thus village legend darkly would imply

That Dame De Blois possess’d an evil eye;

Or going further, furtively suggest

A lurking spark of sorcery in her breast;

Old Mère Allard (herself half witch) once said

The lady’s glance work’d strangely on the dead.

So liv’d the pair, like many another two

That shun the crowd, and shrink from public view.

They scorn’d the doubts by ev’ry peasant shown,

And ask’d but one thing . . . to be let alone!

With fall long gone, and spring too far to cheer,

When little Jean, the bailiff’s son and heir,

Fell sick and threw the doctors in despair.

A child so stout and strong that few would think

An hour might carry him to death’s dark brink,

Yet pale he lay, though hidden was the cause,

And Galens search’d in vain through Nature’s laws.

But stricken sadness could not quite suppress

The roving thought, or wrinkled grandam’s guess:

Though spoke by stealth, ’twas known to half a score

That Dame De Blois rode by the day before;

She had (they said) with glances weird and wild

Paus’d by the gate to view the prattling child,

Nor did they like the smile which seem’d to trace

New lines of evil on her proud, dark face.

These things they whisper’d, when the mother’s cry

Told of the end . . . the gentle soul gone by;

In genuine grief the kindly watcher wept,

Whilst the lov’d babe with saints and angels slept.

The village priest his simple rites went through,

And good Michel nail’d up the box of yew;

Around the corpse the holy candles burn’d,

The mourners sighed, the parents dumbly yearn’d.

Then one by one each sought his humble bed,

And left the lonely mother with her dead.

Late in the night it was, when o’er the vale

The storm-king swept with pandemoniac gale;

Deep pil’d the cruel snow, yet strange to tell,

The lightning sputter’d while the white flakes fell;

A hideous presence seem’d abroad to steal,

And terror sounded in the thunder’s peal.

Within the house of grief the tapers glow’d

Whilst the poor mother bow’d beneath her load;

Her salty eyes too tired now to weep,

Too pain’d to see, too sad to close in sleep.

The clock struck three, above the tempest heard,

When something near the lifeless infant stirr’d;

Some slipp’ry thing, that flopp’d in awkward way,

And climb’d the table where the coffin lay.

With scaly convolutions strove to find

The cold, still clay that death had left behind.

The nodding mother hears . . . starts broad awake . . .

Empower’d to reason, yet too stunn’d to shake;

The pois’nous thing she sees, and nimbly foils

The ghoulish purpose of the quiv’ring coils:

With ready ax the serpent’s head she cleaves,

And thrills with savage triumph whilst she grieves.

The injur’d reptile hissing glides from sight,

And hides its cloven carcass in the night.

To call the Sieur De Blois an alter’d man;

With curious mien he oft would pace along

The village street, and eye the gaping throng.

Yet whilst he showed himself as ne’er before,

His wild-eyed lady was observ’d no more.

In course of time, ’twas scarce thought odd or ill

That he his ears with village lore should fill;

Nor was the town with special rumour rife

When he sought out the bailiff and his wife:

Their tale of sorrow, with its ghastly end,

Was told, indeed, by ev’ry wond’ring friend.

The Sieur heard all, and low’ring rode away,

Nor was he seen again for many a day.

And genial zephyrs blew away the snow,

To frighten’d swains a horror was reveal’d

In the damp herbage of a melting field.

There (half preserved by winter’s frigid bed)

Lay the dark Dame De Blois, untimely dead;

By some assassin’s stroke most foully slain,

Her shapely brow and temples cleft in twain.

Reluctant hands the dismal burden bore

To the stone arches of the husband’s door,

Where silent serfs the ghastly thing receiv’d,

Trembling with fright, but less amaz’d than griev’d;

The Sieur his dame beheld with blazing eyes,

And shook with anger, more than with surprise.

(At least ’tis thus the stupid peasants told

Their wide-mouth’d wives when they the tale unroll’d.)

The village wonder’d why De Blois had kept

His spouse’s loss unmention’d and unwept,

Nor were there lacking sland’rous tongues to claim

That the dark master was himself to blame.

But village talk could scarcely hope to solve

A crime so deep, and thus the months revolve:

The rural train repeat the gruesome tale,

And gape and marvel more than they bewail.

With icy talons gripp’d the frigid plain.

December brought its store of Christmas cheer,

And grateful peasants hail’d the op’ning year;

But by the hearth as Candlemas drew nigh,

The whisp’ring ancients spoke of things gone by.

Few had forgot the dark demoniac lore

Of things that came the Candlemas before,

And many a crone intently ey’d the house

Where dwelt the sadden’d bailiff and his spouse.

At last the day arriv’d, the sky o’erspread

With dark’ning messengers and clouds of lead;

Each neighb’ring groveÆolian warnings sigh’d,

And thick’ning terrors broadcast seem’d to bide.

The good folk, though they knew not why, would run

Swift past the bailiff’s door, the scene to shun;

Within the house the grieving couple wept,

And mourn’d the child who now for ever slept.

On rush’d the dusk in doubly hideous form,

Borne on the pinions of the gath’ring storm;

Unusual murmurs fill’d the rainless wind,

And hast’ning travellers fear’d to glance behind.

Mad o’er the hills the demon tempest tore;

The rising river lash’d the troubled shore;

Black through the night the awful storm-god prowl’d,

And froze the list’ners’ life-blood as he howled;

Gigantic trees like supple rushes sway’d,

Whilst for his home the trembling cotter pray’d.

Now falls a sudden lull amidst the gale;

With less’ning force the circling currents wail;

Far down the stream that laves the neighb’ring mead

Burst a new ululation, wildly key’d;

The peasant train a frantic mien assume,

And huddle closer in the spectral gloom:

To each strain’d ear the truth too well is known,

For that dread sound can come from wolves alone!

The rustics close attend, when ere they think,

A lupine army swarms the river’s brink;

From out the waters leap a howling train

That rend the air, and scatter o’er the plain:

With flaming orbs the frothing creatures fly,

And chant with hellish voice their hungry cry.

First of the pack a mighty monster leaps

With fearless tread, and martial order keeps;

Th’ attendant wolves his yelping tones obey,

And form in columns for the coming fray:

No frighten’d swain they harm, but silent bound

With a fix’d purpose o’er the frozen ground.

Straight course the monsters through the village street,

Unholy vigour in their flying feet;

Through half-shut blinds the shelter’d peasants peer,

And wax in wonder as they lose in fear.

Th’ excited pack at last their goal perceive,

And the vex’d air with deaf’ning clamour cleave;

The churls, astonish’d, watch th’ unnatural herd

Flock round a cottage at the leader’s word:

Quick spreads the fearsome fact, by rumour blown,

That the doom’d cottage is the bailiff’s own!

Round and around the howling daemons glide,

Whilst the fierce leader scales the vine-clad side;

The frantic wind its horrid wail renews,

And mutters madly through the lifeless yews.

In the frail house the bailiff calmly waits

The rav’ning horde, and trusts th’ impartial Fates,

But the wan wife revives with curious mien

Another monster and an older scene;

Amidst th’ increasing wind that rocks the walls,

The dame to him the serpent’s deed recalls:

Then as a nameless thought fills both their minds,

The bare-fang’d leader crashes through the blinds.

Across the room, with murd’rous fury rife,

Leaps the mad wolf, and seizes on the wife;

With strange intent he drags his shrieking prey

Close to the spot where once the coffin lay.

Wilder and wilder roars the mounting gale

That sweeps the hills and hurtles through the vale;