Periclesiastical Mystery Tour - part one

[wytchcroft]

this is for aliasse and special thanks for insp. to inmyocean (yep, suze that means you, thanks!)
also some of the usual suspects have had their (unwitting) influence so thanks to Sibilla Luna, Yu and John, uncle tom cobbley, regina and all. hope it's worth a read and a smile.

apologies for earlier proofing errors!
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Of Cerimon and what he discovered:

 - What perhaps was affectation; the charcoal shift he wore of coarse linen that billowed about his ankles and scratched the skin of his chest and the white hairs upon it. And what of his staff, that hard varnished cane with the elaborate Egyptian headpiece. What of that? Watching him scrat about the shoreline, the rocky coves and inlets, he could taken for a madmen or eccentric priest and neither of these impressions would be false for he was certainly more than a little strange.

Hard to imagine then that this wild haired loner, this sackcloth wearing academic and practitioner of the hermetic arts, was, in fact, just as much at home within the plush apartments of the courts and palaces of Ephesus with their wide verandas and avenues of marble, their deep pile rugs of Persian design, their ornate fountains, groves and temples both cloaked in a haze of honeysuckle, herbs, spices and the musky incense that smoked and spat from every brazier.

Such then were the places, and so too the man; Cerimon, physician and magician royal.

Every day among the pools and dunes and shingle, gathering to him rare growths, shells, fish and ingredients of all kinds for potions fantastical. And every night in earnest perusal of the flames, the books, the magic mirrors and balls of gold and crystal.

He has a purpose now this Cerimon, beyond the routine, one that blends his vocational passions. He has a secret. Amidst his scurrying, he takes the time to open the door of his hidden chamber and gaze upon it, upon her. She has a name this concealed and silent goddess; he knows it well, Thaisa, wife of Lord Pericles of Tyre. The name was in a grief written note pinned to a locket around the pale grace of her neck. She had washed to shore in a dark box, washed ashore at dawn when none but he were abroad the cliff tops and the coastal paths. He had spied the object even at distance, as one who knows a stretch of sea so well may be want to – and he had hurried down for its collection, dragging the thing to shore with all his strength, an effort that tore at his tendons and sinews. But he had known - he had been sure (by instinct or by magical prescience) that it must be so, that the box and whatever was within must be revealed to him alone. And so she was, the breathtaking Thaisa, the white limbed corpse queen of Pericles.

There and then - and summoning all the names he knew as witness – he vowed to bring the dame back to life, to give bloom back to her body, her blood and self, to call her out from Hades and resurrect her to be reborn and renewed, here in Ephesus.

Oh, and he had done so, by dark knowledge and the trembling arts, by Holy prayer and sainted rite, by physic and by enervating drafts, by every resource that he could command, he had done so, he had succeeded. And he had installed her for her convalescence within his closet.

And now he studies her – and the same thoughts race around his head whenever he does so.

Marked by such a journey, from the water, from the dark, I cleaned the water from you, he thinks, washed away the salt warm water and the weeds, the dark sea weed, every curl of it, every rise of the tide each great wave is now your hair, those wild brown tresses.
Well, they would grow out in time, lengthen and straighten like a shadow before the sun and with the strength in her legs and spine, yes, just give it time.

Time. He writes to Tyre, to the King in mourning, and time passes indeed. What perilous roads his notes must have taken before they came finally unto the Court of that royal prince! And how much time had passed since then that he received the first reply? Cerimon has not kept track although he knows he should.

The messages Cerimon received (and which became a gradual and pleasurable correspondence) were bound within a wax coated binding and came from a certain Helicanus, a good servant who, it transpired, was deputy unto Pericles, and ruler now in all but name, his beloved King having fallen under a shadow as black and as silent almost as that grave from which his wife was just returned.

Helicanus is neither mage nor sage nor Doctor – but he proves a thoughtful and intelligent man and able to employ the provision of the skills he lacks. It is clear that, in his own way, Helicanus struggles to do the same task as Cerimon, to restore life to a vessel which housed none. He had told Pericles, and at once, that His Majesty’s betrothed was indeed alive and waiting for him – but his words had gone unheeded. Indeed they may not have been heard at all, or else dismissed as those of a phantom whose cruel pleasure was to pretend the news that Pericles most desired to hear.

And so, as Cerimon carefully keeps the health of Thaisa and each day seeks to give back her life, that prior life with all its precious feeling and memory so then does Helicanus, and the letters betwixt them - riding over vast tracts of land and through storm, over sea and through tempest by courier and messengers of every sort - become a chart of sorts, mapping their mutual progress, frustration and intellectual meditation.

Thus;  

Upon the great work and with some description of the court of Tyre:

How might another man relish now my office, Helicanus wrote, or indeed yours my good Cerimon! For surely, and with blackest irony, we both have been granted what so many might desire – indeed, what we ourselves might confess to having wished for, in some hour expressing nought but our very human weaknesses; for company, affection, power.

You, my friend, accompanied now by beauty, arisen from the ocean like a gift from Aphrodite, whilst I… I have been granted the keys to the kingdom; I am, in all respects, ruler of Tyre – and Lord of a cobwebbed throne.

Bitter then the taste of our ambitions, cruel the knowledge that our every effort is now spent on their undoing. We both, in seeking nought but the glad reunion of our two charges, nothing but the renewal of health and vigour and life for both Thaisa and Pericles, work, with love, against ourselves. It is good to reflect on this, there is no shame in such admission, (indeed the reverse,) for are we not men as all men are? Yes, we are mere men. But we are not villains, we are not base.

Now let me describe for you something of our general position and life here within the court.

Perhaps you imagine that we are some Island like your own, calm and picturesque? This is not so; our court floats upon the ocean yes, but ‘tis no island, or at least not in any natural sense. Before His Majesty’s eyes dimmed to their current vacancy Pericles bade us trawl the known world in vain search for the ghosts of his beloved, and indeed his former self. The court entire he did take with him and now we are a sprawling flotilla of almost countless vessels, from the sleekest clipper to the most ornate barques and schooners, sturdy luggers and stout tugs and barges.

Of all these craft, falling gradually into weathered disrepair, decorated by the years upon the sea in the saline colours of barnacle and brine, the most imposing is the ship that houses our liege, and his council and chief servants - one of which is my humble self. I have a small cabin and spartan, but I also hold the keys to a treasure, to riches greater than those held in many a landlocked strong room; tier upon tier of piled, heaped and tumbling wealth; the library. More then anything it is this that marks our beloved craft, the Seabird, and it is this library to which I escape when the hopelessness of our master’s condition threatens to break my heart and mind completely.

……………….

Of Duality:

Are we not, Cerimon wonders in reply, like all true philosophers (and those that would study the sciences of body and soul), torn by a choice between dualistic forces; the matter inanimate without the blood and life force – and the life force as nothing without that pre-eminent mystery of the spirit, truly Pericles stands as example of such a void, the life without the spirit.

As for Thaisa all is spirit all is animation and yet… un-wakened. And the choice I face today? a simple one; whether it be best to keep Thaisa close comparted in the shuttered gloom of my apartments, or indeed my secret cave, for I would fain harm those delicate orbs that are her eyes – or if ‘tis best to stand her in the evening gold of Ephesus evening when she may indeed be dazzled but surely also called forth, brought back into being, beauty called by beauty.

Light and dark, verily our lives hang in eternal balance between them, this way and that, a pendulum could as easily measure such moments as it does the ebb and flow of minutes and hours, a new device could be invented for such activity, a grand life clock…

Ah, Helicanus my friend, forgive me these meandering thoughts, I confess that they are the result of some little anxiety, to hold the care of such a one in my hands – the responsibility is great and only a fool would deny the weight of it .

……………

Like Dreamers Do:

A whisper of fabric she wears and a whisper of wind and wave, as she walks beside the sea in the evening light. Her willowy form seems once more made of something other than flesh and bones, that willowy form could have been carved and sculpted from the ocean’s loam, the golden sand, the thin high clouds wrapped around her bronzing limbs.

As she nears the watching Cerimon and the sleepy horses whose reins he holds, she lifts her head slightly, her eyes never quite meeting his. This is a dream, thinks Cerimon, all here is but a dream.

Ageless she looks to him so hard to believe, even to his practised medical eye, that she had been a mother - that from that smooth unblemished belly had sprung forth life just as she had emerged eyes closed and from the deep.

What span of years had passed and yet so completely failed to touch her?

A worrying thought nags at him as he observes her beauty, her somnolent grace… what if the ocean was not the Sea God’s domain but simply another gate to the underworld? It seemed possible, looking at her. What if she had come from the land of the dead, truly, and her time with him but borrowed – and what if, (ah I am seduced,) what if he was not bringing her back to the world, back to life, but instead she was luring him to her world, to death. What then?

And there, with the touch of dusk upon him and under the first frail glimmering stars, he laughs out loud. Old man, he chuckles, I have become an old man and I hardly noticed.

He is still laughing when Thaisa walks up to him and the snoring horses.

…………

Of the limitations of shock therapy (with midgets):

My dear Cerimon, it is another failure I must report, and each attempt more desperate than the last. I had spoken with my colleague Escanes and upon his advisement, and after consulting many volumes of radical lore, it was decided that a shock might be the only way to force the fretful King from out of his dark self absorption. It has oft been noted that sickly lovers pining unrequited may be cured of their affliction by the use of some careful imposture. Could not such a device be therefore helpful with our pining king? Perhaps, but I must admit that I have little stomach for such a gross deceit as to pretend the return of either daughter or wife. However, an alternative scheme presented itself to me. Many have reported the sharp effects on memory, or conscience, of watching a play of their misfortune; could this not be of benefit to our poor Pericles?

Thus minded, we prepared a drama worthy in all respects that contained therein the life, adventures and sad personal history of our great king. You may, and with some sense indeed, be wondering how such a thing could be managed, the production and performance of any complex show given the restrictions onboard – money, that is budget, is no object of course but there is a want of space. Indeed this issue did perplex us and for some time. There was however a solution. In sojourn with us (and but recently) was discovered to be a circus from the Isles of Lachos, such as had all the possible entertainments thereof even some few wild beasts and animals!  More to our purpose, among the diverse circus folk were found (and promptly called to our attention) some half dozen dwarves and midgets of good humour and much experience. We offered them a generous fee (as well our potential gratitude and that of the King) and they gratefully agreed.

Thus, and in full costume and with a script much laboured over by the best scribes we could muster, the production squeezed into our Lord’s chamber and was acted there before him. That the play was to the point I can attest for it caused me much sorrow to see those painful events re-enacted. But alas our Lord was unmoved. He followed the actions I am sure but without expression.

I realise now that such a scheme was doomed to fail for the simple reason that Lord Pericles is already too much gone amongst his recollections, such a drama as we presented was simply that which His Majesty already sees – indeed its shades surround him constantly.

Some of the crew were for easing the sudden depression, for like a black cloud the gloom of our failure had fallen upon us, by throwing the wretched actors o’erboard, and rare sport it did provide as one by one the gaily painted stuntlings were heaved into the air and came down splashing into the water wherein they bobbed like many a bright coloured buoy. They are drying out now upon a great washing line strung across the boat from which they came.

………………………

Some thoughts upon the binding of souls:

Oh subtle, strange, fantastical is this connection!

Helicanus, I caught her this morning staring at herself in the long glass which stands inside her room, that mirror I have used for divination and whose cloudy surface has oft-times cleared and shown so many clues and truths, life and the inner mysteries thereof, revealed to me – as now was she, Thaisa, in glorious reflection.

I thought at first, and simply, that she had fallen into a trance, bewitched by her own perfection. But no, her reverie was not upon the general beauty of limb, or flesh. The slopes of her breasts, the wide islands of the nipple rising from them, the cascading of skin, the downward ladder of rib to hip, the bones of the pelvis and that final floating grove between her legs, none of these held her interest or her gaze which was instead aimed entire upon a point between her belly and her abdomen. It was her womb she sought, her womb!

And as I watched she spread the fingers of one hand there upon the skin, as if measuring the span of that secret place inside and wondering at the miracle of it, just as I had done only yesterday’s eve.

Surely our thoughts, our minds, are in powerful conjunction? It must be so! 

…………………….

An argument upon the nature and effect of matrimony:

 “Am I” – the woman stops herself, raising a hand once more, the ring finger with the thin strip of pale skin that chains it. “I am married”, she states simply.

Cerimon gives nod, his wild white hair bobbing with the movement of his head.

“And yet,” her voice is low, still sounding unsure, of him, of herself, of words. “And yet you love me despite?”

Then comes a sudden light in Cerimon’s eyes, it flashes fierce and quick and far off. Like a lantern moving between storm lashed rocks it flickers and is gone.

“Despite?” His mouth turns down sourly. “My Lady, you do me an injustice. I do not love thee despite your husband, despite your marriage. I love your husband because of it. Don’t you see? Alone of all men, you have chosen him singled him out as worthy of your affection. Part of what you are, who you are – and therefore part of that which I love – is him, the emotions and experiences you have as the result of that choice, that husband, that matrimony. In loving you, truthfully and honestly and without shame or crude physical need, I MUST perforce, love him also, and may heaven bless what sunders us – your wedlock.”

He makes this long and impassioned speech all the while looking perplexedly off into the middle distance and with an earnest voice that reaches out, seemingly, to the same place. As he finishes, uttering the last syllables as if quoting some divine text, his eyes at last return to meet her own.

Upon that very instant she leaps upon him tearing with hungry fingers at his smock and what rises now beneath. “It was an arranged marriage!” she gasps, taking a great lungful of air before clasping her mouth around his.

He’s a creepy old duffer, she thinks, and too well meaning by half – but he was still a man and she was most definitely a woman. And anyway, it had been so long since she last… well it would drive anyone half mad, don’t you think?

Afterwards, messy though they might look, half embarrassed as they might be, and sprawling and disarrayed as they undoubtedly are, all the same, sticky and pungent, the taste of contentment is palpable.

………………………………………

End of part one.

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This fic is a sort of off shoot from reading Pericles and looking at some ideas (very different from this story!) that I had for adapting the play.

 

Comments

[charlie-bz.livejournal.com]

I like this even though I'm not familiar with the play of which it's based. No worries though...I'm getting the jist of where you're going. I think. :)

Loved this: And there, with the touch of dusk upon him and under the first frail glimmering stars, he laughs out loud. Old man, he chuckles, I have become an old man and I hardly noticed.

[wytchcroft.livejournal.com]

thanks! :))) sorry about the proofing frack ups - they be fixed now :))

[aliasse.livejournal.com]

The SEABIRD! *knowing chuckle* You minx.

I am astounded by the feat of imagination that this is: the detail. Also by how many beautiful turns of phrase you have crafted. It reminds me of how Rilke wrote a poem a day - and how practice makes perfect. (Is that another of my backhanded compliments? - I hope not.) You are certainly honing your style (creepy old duffer and all). This is the most fluent thing of yours I have read.

And it's for MEEEEE! AWWWWWWWW! It makes me almost willing to stop sulking. But not quite. After all, dear wytch, you complete my lj...

(You must have paused over having an ancient Greek say 'spartan'?)

practice makes surfeit

[wytchcroft.livejournal.com]

yes, i paused - in much the same manner as the hat in a monopoly jail, LOL!

new balls please!
your backhand is just one of your sporting strengths and where would i be without it eh? Doubles is much more fun than the other thing. heh.

and i'm glad you liked it, really that's a lovely bunch of comments! :)))) *blushes*