Moon Over the Monkey's Back, Part 2

And that’s where the damned matter should have rested, if not for today.  Whether from a discreet set of stimuli imperceptible to myself, or unconscious knowledge that there existed a disconnect between objective fact, with what was indeed possible, and my own, flawed senses; it was a markedly different world I woke to.  The hidden tear between realities, seemed to impress upon me a whole new ordering of daily phenomena and their hidden agencies.  So great is the ego of the intellect, I expect.  It was a world almost indistinguishable from the one that proceeded it but a day before, but one with which the most fastidious observation could highlight a maniacal and terrific choreography now present in all things.

Behind the coppery hedges, giant shadow and frost fingertips stretched over the dun fields.  Rowan berries burst ripe and red through the doddery white heads of traveler’s joy.  The sight of these ghastly baubles, being so incongruous with the bronze and rust foliage, set in the whole barren and frosted landscape, conjured into my imagination images of organs spilt from a gibbet.  Although in my mind there appeared the produce of human sacrifice smeared across the Wiltshire landscape, the salient depression of the morning was that it was my very own perception of these matters causing them.  That if some demented rustic had reintroduced the most profane Druidic practices back into the southern counties, there was a clinging and deep suspicion within me who that particular demented rustic might actually be.

I paced the springy turf of the riverbank restlessly.   In spite of seeing numerous trout through the river’s quick and glassy water I remained empty handed gone lunch.  In the afternoon, rolls of mist had sunk along the banks which left only the rise of green pasture opposite visible.  Blue rainclouds gathered over the steeple clock-towers of nearby Stockbridge.  A stone bridge gave entrance to the meadows from the village, over the pool that flowed into the river alongside me.  As I turned to make my way to sit upon it and enjoy a pipe I noticed someone turning into the iron gateway just beyond.  Once reached, I sat down on the stone flags and lighted my bowl, I reasoned that they must have thought better of the rain and ducked off behind the hedge, back towards the village, as not a soul materialized.  

I felt slightly at odds for being alone all of a sudden, in spite of the high street being a brisk few minutes walk from where I was sat.  As the rain started to fall I hid away my smoking material and, standing, noticed a movement up on the ridge past the farther bank.  A figure, not unlike the one I had just seen, was stood straight up in the field, staring, stock still.  As soon as I set off the figure moved closer towards me through the sheets of rain bolt upright.  Of course as I was making my way along the river perpendicular to the figure’s downward movement I was sure to see the course and ultimate design of his approach with a clearer sidelong view. Yet arriving at my gear and casting a quick head up I noticed, before he was masked in mist, his orientation towards myself remained complete and utter.  With more haste than I care to admit I struck out to the gate and beyond.  As I reached the gate, I turned back sharply.   I watched the bank of mist with a manic intensity.  A large soft knot of white cloud churned and released itself to be spread through the tall grass revealing - only grazing sheep and I let out a crazed laugh that caused me immediate embarrassment. 

It was not a moment later, while pacing single mindedly beside the crystal rivulet that led to the backs of allotments I became aware of a brisk footfall in the gravel behind me. 

I increased my pace whereby the following tread quickened – with not one stride lagging in its mimicry of my own gait.  The allotments now hard on the left, the path was a breast wide up to the café where the brook flowed out.  A mere fifteen paces.  I stopped.  The crazed and high babble of the stream played out over my mind.  But not two strides from me came the sounds of flint and gravel churning so slowly as to be almost indecipherable from the gargle of water.  I could not bear to turn as this creeping step ground itself one foot closer.  Looking down over the bank I was suddenly thrown in to a panic stricken angst.   

Sitting in front of the brazier at the Grosvenor Inn, with a glass loaded full of hot water and brandy, the most intolerable memory to process was not the image of my own self staring over the reflected shoulder; but the pure hate which was expressed through its dark stare. 

Upon returning home, I quickly kissed the girls and Eleanor, sat down at my desk, lit the lamps, stacked the fireplace high with kindling and opened upon the table a faded calf-hide journal I had looked out the previous night.  Pages of the battered codex were filled with what appeared to be  the most outlandish phonemes transcribed into the Roman alphabet, strange orthographic ticks, accents and highlights. 

It might have been delivered to him over a gin tonic at the consulate, or in one of those ma jiang dens down in the harbour, where he squat amongst natives, the pack of them red toothed and black eyed with that atrocious betel nut, as he chirped away with them, practicing.  It doesn’t matter where, but what.         

Then I found the page I sought.  A page, bearing the tightly handwritten text of my old acquaintance, and its curt, yet profound message.

17 September 186-

Have been summoned to the Court of the Monkey King.