Ill Met By Moonlight

By Frazer Lee

published in Lighthouse Magazine #2, 2003

I begin with caution this disturbing tale, as it is not my intention to cause distress and tension in the male reader towards the opposite, fairer, sex. Unfortunately a greater effect may result within the psyche of the female reader as my tale can only serve to illustrate that the idea of the monstrous feminine is much, much closer than one expects.

It began with the moon. I remember it distinctly. I remember thinking it looked like a perfect slice of lemon floating in a glass of cold gin and tonic. This half moon transfixed me on that chilly night, much more than the entertainers who danced and cartwheeled their way through the cobblestones of Covent Garden. I stood rooted to the spot, gazing up at that moon, thinking if only earthbound sights had such power and beauty. Chasing memories of loves both lost and never attained from my cobwebbed memory I instead focused on the moon. Truly the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Until her voice. A voice like diamonds from over my shoulder.

“She’s looking back at you, you know.”

Frozen, I was, and not from the cold. This voice was a sister to the moon that so held me. Undoubtedly American in accent, with the ponderous articulation of the West Coast and a tingling quality from some hidden tone or pitch that only certain night creatures could, probably, hear.

Turning slowly around, God and His angels put a face to that voice for me, and in an instant I was utterly powerless. I remember every detail of her. Every curl, curve, shape and scent. The visual information of her being penetrated and wrapped itself around my brain. Within my entire field of vision was her face, like a projection on a silver screen. When I blinked, I could see the afterimage of that half moon. I was hypnotised. Her eyes were sharp green and blue. She had long black eyelashes, and a noble poise to her bone structure. The gentle slope of her nose and cheekbones accentuated her lips, which seemed to me as shiny red velvet as they parted cleverly in a smile to reveal teeth of pure white. She licked her lips with a quick movement of her tongue and took a step toward me, curtseying.

“I am Christine Nimbo. From Washington. I’m sorry, but I too have a fondness for the moon and such. I hope you don’t mind my breaking your concentration like this, mister…”

“Shaw. William Shaw. And I feel compelled to thank you for breaking my concentration. I believe it can be dangerous to look on such beauty for prolonged periods without the aid of a stiff drink.”

My forwardness shocked me. But as anyone who has fallen in love in the blink of an eye will know, the human character is infinitely adaptable in any given emotional situation. That did not however prevent her reply from shocking me even more. Glancing around the piazza, this delectable Christine turned a mischievous eye back to me and said, “Where can we get a good stiff drink then, Mister William Shaw, as I too have been gazing at that blessed moon for too damn long.”

Within two hours, over several glasses of very good port, I had learned all about Christine Nimbo from Washington. Her father had been ringmaster off a well-known travelling circus until falling in love with a local girl in Seattle who came to see the show every single night. Christine’s father decided to marry right away and tears were shed when his comrades learned he would not be accompanying them to their next port of call. The wedding reception was a spectacle with clowns, horses, elephants and trapeze artists all celebrating their master’s wedding in true carnival fashion. A feast was held in the Big Top.

Life became quiet when the circus left town, and Christine’s father took the post of teacher of Mathematics and English at the local schoolhouse. His wife soon became pregnant with Christine and they added an extra room to their small house in preparation for the arrival of their firstborn.

Their existence was idyllic for a while, that is, until the young father’s wanderlust returned to him. The magnetic pull of the travelling circus teased his very blood and in his heart of hearts, he dearly wished to be back amongst his brethren, learning new dialects and landmarks. The map of his mind had formed boundaries when he arrived in Seattle. His agony was great as he watched his beloved wife and daughter grow colder towards him as he spent less time at home and more at the alehouse, or walking alone in the woods. Soon after Christine’s first birthday, the ringmaster fled his happy home in search of that which called to him. His wife, aided by the light of the full moon, searched for him in desperation amidst the trees and over the tracks and plains until the sun came up. She returned defeated, her clothes tattered and torn, the next morning and weeks passed before the locals could get a word out of her. Christine’s mother had many admirers, but she never took another lover and stubbornly raised her daughter alone in near poverty. Fortune struck when Christine’s mother was offered a post in the local schoolhouse as her knowledge of history and her good memory made her a suitable understudy for the ailing history teacher Mr Vetch. Christine was therefore very well provided for and began to display the same keen, inquisitive mind as her mother and some of her father’s curiosity.

It was with reluctance and pride therefore, that Christine’s mother allowed her to travel to Europe to study and work in the multitude of fantastic cities she encountered. This decision was scandalous in the community at that time, yet to mother and daughter there was no question that Christine was capable of looking after herself. It was one year prior to her arrival in London that Christine was happily studying Spanish and making a handsome living selling flowers and coral to tourists in the bays of the Basque country. Christine received a telegram from the principal of the schoolhouse in Seattle telling her that her mother had died in a fire. The schoolhouse had burned down. Nothing remained of it, or her mother. Christine attended the memorial service and left Seattle quickly, as she found it hostile and changed. Her old school friends had become closeted and they sickened her with their aprons and backyards and cries of “Settle down!” No, Christine still had the ache of the traveler in her belly and set off once again for Europe, this time arriving in Paris. She took time to lick her wounds and enjoyed all that marvellous city had to offer, spending hours in galleries and reading in the cafes of the Rue Saint Germain.

Having studied hard for a year, and having accumulated considerable savings from her job as a florist in the Temple, Christine rewarded herself by moving on to London. She had never before experienced London’s galleries, cathedrals and bustling street markets. Christine found this city to be a joy that sang to her heart. She took lodgings in Hampstead and became a godsend to her landlady Mrs Harris, whose advancing years made it difficult for her to keep the house in order. Christine became as a daughter to her, helping out whenever she could, and scolding her for not taking a moment’s rest, even when out of breath. This was to be Mrs Harris’ undoing, as one day she had a heart attack whilst bringing coal up from the cellar. Christine returned from an outing to find her cold and lifeless on the stairs. The funeral was a slight affair, as Mrs Harris knew very few people and kept herself to herself. Her tenant had, however, become so dear to her in those final months that Mrs Harris left the house and all her monetary wealth to Christine in a will written not two weeks before her demise. She considered selling the house, donating the money to several charities, before moving on to another continent altogether. Yet deep inside, Christine had reached a state of grace and serenity. All her life, it seemed, she had been plagued by abandonment and death but had remained resilient and brave throughout. She could not help feeling that her benefactor had left her exactly what she needed at this stage of her life. Calmly, and without any fuss, she set about decorating the house in her own style, with dried flowers and gifts from the sea, Indian fabrics and church candles. Then she established a small florist’s shop in the commercial row of Hampstead Village nearby.

“It’s quite a story, no?” she said, drinking the last of her port and licking her sparkling lips as she set the empty glass down on the table.

“Good God yes,” I replied earnestly, the sweet song of her voice still gently murmuring inside my head, “I feel I haven’t lived listening to your story.”

“Oh you’ve lived alright Mr Shaw. Just not to the fullness of your potential, no?”

And with that, we kissed. And something changed forever in my heart.

I was working at that time as a clerk in a tailor’s just off Regent Street. The owner, a fat Jewish gentleman called Mr Caplan, used to work me like a dog. I was often given to wondering how business could be as bad as he always complained it to be when the pile of paperwork persisted to grow on the corner of my desk. Towards Christmas, the seasonal orders almost tripled and I found myself working increasingly long hours for, I might add, the same wages. I began to despair, as no sooner had I cleared the workload, an even bigger pile would appear as if by magic first thing the next morning. Gradually I saw less and less of my beloved Christine. My lunch hour shrank to about five minutes and once, I had so much work to do that I forgot Christine was waiting on the doorstep below my office in the belief that we were to go to the pictures together. Somehow remembering as I finished for the evening, I grabbed my hat and coat and rushed downstairs. Thankfully, Christine had been put in a cab by the concierge of the neighbouring Hotel Royale and sent home. The concierge was a giant of a man, rather like an iceberg in an overcoat, and he picked me up by my lapels and gave me a severe ticking off for my outrageous treatment of such a delicate flower as Christine. I rushed to her home, and although I could see smoke from the chimney and lights in her rooms, she would not acknowledge me. Unable to sleep, I arose from my bed and walked the great distance from my room in Bermondsey to Caplan’s of Regent Street as the sun came up. I was in no fit state for work and my employer seemed to sense the trouble in my brain and the storm in my mood. By late afternoon, he had given me a modest Christmas bonus and told me to take the remainder of the week off. This only gave me an extra day’s holiday of course, Mr Caplan being no fool, but his generosity almost caused me to fall off my chair in shock and served to lighten my mood considerably. And as my mood lightened, an idea formulated within me. For the first time in ages I felt as though my head and heart were working in tandem once more as when I had first met my beloved.

She let me into her house that evening. After a superb meal of spice and delicacy had been devoured by my very unworthy self, I sank to my knees and offered her the ring I had purchased on my way from the office. Her face was bathed in the firelight and I swear she never looked lovelier than at that moment. Her eyes communicated such a profound mixture of joy and sorrow that I could not doubt earnest reply of, “Yes, I will marry you Mr Shaw.”

Everything was as new again and we sat by the fire and talked animatedly over several glasses of our favourite port wine. Gradually, Christine moved our conversation from us, to me, to my job, to work in general. Transfixed as I was by her voice, I must admit that I became increasingly uncomfortable.

“The problem with all you Londoners is that al you do is work, no?” she said, “I mean you are truly obsessed with it. Work, work, work. I like to earn an honest wage, but life has so much more to offer. I’ve watched you losing your soul to a desk full of paper Bill, and I don’t like it, not one bit.” She always called me Bill when she’d been drinking. Especially port wine. “I don’t want my husband to be soulless to his wife, to his children,” she said, “And so, I want you to leave your job and never go back to that horrible place.”

“And if I don’t? If I refuse?” I knew the answer. Utterly in her spell. Utterly in thrall of her. Utterly powerless once again.

“Then I won’t… Can’t marry you my love because gradually, I’ll lose you anyway if I let you go on.”

“But how will we live?”

“In paradise my darling. You’ll move in here and help me with the florist’s. We’ll be a good team, no? It’s settled then.”

We filled our glasses and drank a toast to our happiness. I felt we were drinking to my death as a man. I even told her. She told me this was the typical male ego. I’m inclined to agree, even now. But in retrospect, I believe even so ugly a beast as the ego must surface on occasion, if only to preserve some kind of balance.

No matter. I did as she said and sent a resignation letter to Mr Caplan. His honourable reply consisted of my final wage and a glowing reference, should I require one in the future. Christine kissed the frown from my head as I read it and said we should place it in a frame.

We decided upon a rural wedding and took leave of London to get married in my parent’s village in Somerset. To my delight, my parents took instantly to Christine and we rejoiced in an open-air ceremony in the shade of huge trees one midsummer morning. The Second World War loomed, preventing us from returning to London, and we took my parents’ out-house as a honeymoon cottage. As the war raged on, Christine and I stayed safe in our bed and our love amidst the trees of my youth.

My wife was never happier. She craved the fresh air and the windows in our humble home were rarely closed. Sometimes I awoke in the middle of the night to find her gone; a warm indentation in the mattress where she had lain. I would creep to the open window overlooking the vast weeping willow and birches of the garden and watch her spinning and dancing there. All the while she had her head thrown back and she embraced the stars and the moon as their light seemed to rain down on her, my beautiful wife, dancing barefoot in the garden.

One such night, it was raining heavily and the roof had sprung a leak above our bed. I moved the bed to one side with Christine’s help and placed a bucket beneath the leak to catch the water. The drip-drop of the rain was to me as the tick of a clock and I was soon sleeping deeply. No such luck for my poor wife, who could not bear the sound, which conspired with the brilliant light of the full moon flashing and flickering through the rain clouds. A terrible migraine took possession of her skull and she ran out into the river night without even closing the door. I awoke soon afterwards and instinctively crossed to the window, narrowly missing the bucket, half full with chilly rainwater. I peered out into the garden as I latched the window for fear it would blow open and strike me. I saw nothing save the rain pounding the grass. And a panic seized me.

Pulling on my greatcoat and boots, I ran out into the storm crying out my wife’s name. The ferocity of the wind robbed me of my words. From the garden I could see her footprints heading in the direction of the lane. The full moon had a cousin that night, in the sheets of lightning which further illuminated the empty space where my wife should have been, distressing me further. I stumbled down the lane and into a thicket of trees before coming to a halt in a small clearing next a felled tree into which I had carved my name as a small boy.

I could hear breathing in the trees beyond. Crouching, as this seemed to improve my hearing, I concentrated on the sound and slowly moved towards it in this self-same posture with a quickening heart.

Eyes were watching me. Eyes like coals, hot and glowing, impervious to the cold and the rain. A low steady growl replaced the breathing and I stood erect, beginning already to retreat from this hider in the woods.

The beast erupted from the trees and tore at my greatcoat with huge white fangs, tearing a piece of my lapel away. Suddenly, the beast halted its attack and sat back on its haunches chewing the torn cloth slowly. I could see through my fear and the drizzle of my vision that it was a large wolf. Its eyes seemed very old to me somehow, like fossils encased in ice. Slowly, it chewed and sniffed before returning to its hiding place in the trees. I fought the paralysis that had taken me and somehow managed to turn and flee the terrible scene of my near-death. I ran and ran until I collapsed on my bed, fully clothed and soaking, numbed by the terrors of the wild and the disappearance of my wife. I battled with sleep, but passed out in shivers and whimpers as the rain pounded deafeningly on the windowpanes.

Several weeks passed and there was no sign of Christine. My parents were distraught and my mother grew sick with worry. We contacted the local authorities but their searches proved futile. Christine had gone. Ripped from my life like a flower from its bed.

The rains returned and my melancholy became to me as permanent as a siamese twin. The howling in my head upon her vanishing had leveled into a numb buzzing sound like angry bees. I had not slept for days and food was unpalatable to me. I missed Christine with every fibre of my being. I was stricken without her. The sound of the raindrops in the bucket next to the bed on this cool, wet night served only at first to remind me of the events of that terrible night. Eventually however, to my inmost delight, the sound of the water dripping soothed me to sleep.

Soft, warm breaths on my face awoke me. I slowly sat up and the breaths moved away from me, as if knowing their work was done. Astonishment. As I opened my eyes, I saw my beautiful Christine, kneeling naked at the bedside. She had leaves in her hair, mud and moss caked her soft white skin. Her eyes sparkled with the wisdom and joy of a traveler who has finally returned home. My breath stopped in my throat as I reached out to hold her. Then I saw her hands. Covered in blood they were. Blood both dried and fresh. Tiny catgut strands of gore hung from her wrists like bracelets. And in her left hand, she held a piece of cloth. In Heaven’s name, it was the lapel from my greatcoat, taken away by that massive wolf in the woods. Her eyes sparkled as if asking the question, “It’s strange, no?” and I dropped my gaze to avoid those eyes, suddenly so terrifying to me.

I wished I hadn’t looked down. For there, in the bucket of water next to the bed, I saw my wife’s reflection, perhaps for the very first time. In the still rainwaters collected there, I saw the hot coal eyes and wolf face of my wife. Looking back to her, I could see she was placid now, but I knew in the quickness of my terror that this beast was within her and would come out again. Ashamed of what happened next, I am. But I have no regrets, even now.

My wife climbed onto my trembling body gracefully and whispered into my ear that everything was better now, that she had returned and would never leave my side again. Her words burned my brain and her hot tears singed my flesh and we made love ferociously, over and over, like new lovers in their first heat. Me, a trembling mess of a man, and her at once beautiful and beastly, smelling of blood and meat and earth and dead wood.

Christine’s return was greeted with rapture by my parents and her absence was explained away by myself as a case of amnesia brought on by exposure. Certainly, my wife played the invalid, suffering visits from the family doctor and receiving silly gifts from my mother with the patience of a saint. But I could see her alertness behind those long lashes and heavy-lidded eyes. Something older and wiser than us dwelled in there. Reluctantly, my parents allowed us to return to London, my wife and I, back to the chaos, wreckage and strange peace left behind after the Blitz.

And so I became prisoner to the beast woman whom I loved, in the idyllic surroundings of our Hampstead home. I knew that I could never leave, for fear that Christine would find me in her altered state one night as I ran and ran by the light of that bloody full moon.

Every moon cycle marked a little death for me. Although the periods in between my wife’s transformation were filled with love and desire, I grew older and weaker as she remained young and strong.

I have been in this house for forty years now. Tonight is full moon and I have dutifully left the windows open for ease of exit for the beast. I am elderly, cold and stupid. Today I found the reference letter from my old employer in a box in the cupboard. It says I am, “Loyal and trustworthy.”

I dearly hope my wife, the wolf, remembers that when she returns. So greatly have I outlived my usefulness, I fear she may tear out my throat and take what meat remains on my old bones when she comes home through that window.

Funny no? I can no longer see any beauty, any beauty at all, when I look up at the moon.

The End