Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Nestled above
Nocturna‘s grand mahogany staircase,
Beyond an unassuming velvet curtain,
Lay rooms
Known only to a handful
Of trusted members.
A gentleman’s smoking room
With a wrought-iron balcony,Quiet reading chambers,
Guest apartments,
And, at its heart,
A private dining room,
Reserved each month
For the Curio Club….
The little ornate black box
was carried into the Nocturna Club,
By a little person.
Her name was Latty Flouse,
Or at least that’s the name
She chose to use here.
How old she was,
Nobody knew,
Her hair was perfectly white,
And stuck out
from beneath her black bonnet,
The train of her dark floral dress
dragged behind her,
Her tiny gloved hands,
Grasped her prize tightly.
As she greeted attendant Gideon Rook,
Who promptly
Showed her to a private booth,
Where he extended a small set of
Mahogany steps concealed within
the ornate booth bench.
Without a word Latty
Stepped up into the booth
And slid the box onto the table.
Mr Rook then departed
to collect her tea.
Raspberry was her tea of choice.
“Good evening, Mr Bloom”
She announced.
To the smartly dressed
and equally diminutive gentleman,
seated opposite her.
“My dear Latty,
is that what I think it is?”
He replied excitedly.
“Oh it is, please,
Be my guest”
Oleg Bloom,
Was a peculiar little man,
Always dressed in a dark pinstripe suit
with deep purple waistcoat,
And matching purple velvet slippers
that were currently
Tucked up onto the large bench seat.
Above his long white beard,
Stared two inquisitive blue eyes.
Oleg and Latty were Mycologists
And had spent their entire lives,
As global mushroom hunters.
Individually they have travelled the world,
in search of the rarest specimens.
Together they have single handedly populated
The Nocturna garden beds with
The most beautifully coloured fungi.
“I say Latty, this is remarkable”
Smiled Mr Bloom,
As he removed the lid from the box.
Gideon Rook soon returned,
Placing a small silver tea set on the table.
Out of professional courtesy,
He did not comment,
But was quite surprised by the
Bright glowing mushroom in the box,
it’s blue phosphorescent glow
Filled the booth,
Illuminating its smiling inhabitants.
Whom Rook now observed,
Were holding hands
Either side of the box.
Staring deeply at one another,
Not noticing,
That tea had been served.
Without looking away from Bloom
Latty asked Mr Rook to send for
Club manager Mr Carreau.
A request he promptly obeyed,
With a small bow.
Marcel Carreau was already on his way,
The astute Frenchman
Catching Rooks eye immediately.
He warmly greeted the pair.
“Bonsoir, Madame et Monsieur,
And what do we have here?”
Latty looked up at Carreau smiling,
“The Somnolucis Caerulea…
It’s the Dreamfire Lantern.”
“From the Vale of Sleeping Stars”
Added an exuberant Mr Bloom
“Oh you don’t say”
Replied Carreau.
Latty continued,
“According to legend,
the fungi grows where fragments
of fallen stars become buried
beneath ancient woodlands.”
Excitedly Mr Bloom adding,
“Its radiant blue glow never fades
and is said to brighten whenever
two soulmates meet.”
The pair returned their gaze
to each other.
“We’d like to add it to the
Nocturna collection.”
Latty continued,
Without looking away.
Marcel Carreau smiled warmly.
“It would be Nocturna’s honour
To become its custodian.”
Latty finally looked away
From Mr Bloom.
“It belongs here.”
“So do we.”
Mr Bloom smiled.
“I couldn’t have said it better.”
Carreau inclined his head.
“Then allow the club
To thank you.”
His eyes drifted briefly
Towards the bar.
Edgar Brillows
Already understood.
Moments later,
Gideon Rook arrived
With a polished silver tray.
Upon it rested
Two elegant crystal glasses,
Each filled
With a luminous sapphire cocktail,
Its pale mist
Drifting gently
Across the tabletop,
Reflecting the mushroom’s
Unearthly glow.
Carreau smiled.
“A small toast,
To remarkable discoveries.”
He quietly withdrew,
Drawing the velvet curtain
Behind him.
The conversations of Nocturna
Returned once more
To a distant murmur.
Inside the little booth,
Neither tea
Nor cocktails
Were touched.
Latty Flouse
And Oleg Bloom
Simply sat together,
Hands entwined,
Watching the soft blue radiance
Of the Dreamfire Lantern.
Until it became impossible
To tell
Whether the mushroom,
Or the two smiling mycologists
Were glowing
Most brightly.
Whenever the engine
Of Denham Carter-Smythe’s impossible motorcar
Echoed along Selwyn Lane,
Nocturna barman Edgar Brillows instinctively
Straightened his waistcoat.
Not because of Denham.
Because of his nurse.
Denham Carter-Smythe
A keen cartophilist,
Visits the club once a month,
Ready to trade and purchase antique maps,
Of unusual or exotic places.
Denham himself is quite the antique now,
Following a very long life of adventure,
He is now wheelchair bound.
This old wooden Victorian chair
is pushed into the club by is private nurse.
He spends his evening trading maps,
Secrets,
and leatherbound volumes.
Denham is a small ancient grey haired man,
Dressed in a long burgundy house coat,
with a matching fez perched upon his head,
Small round small spectacles balance
on the end of his nose,
and his legs are covered in a dark wool blanket.
He is wheeled into his booth,
To conduct the evenings business.
His nurse then makes her way to the bar,
To a particular swivel stool in a dark corner,
To await the gentle tinkle of Denham’s tiny bell.
Frau Olga Knochen,
A large intimidating Austrian woman,
Standing over six feet tall.
She is as much nurse,
as she is Denham’s protector.
Her dark hair is slicked back into a tight bun.
Rumoured to be a former psychiatric hospital Matron.
She is also an avid amateur chiropractor,
Who delights in the sounds of cracking backs.
She is unnaturally strong,
With powerful hands.
Her dark judgmental eyes,
Constantly survey other patrons,
With a look of displeasure
on her face.
Her deep gravelled voice seems like,
It should belong to an angry longshoreman,
Rather than a personal carer,
She has been known to ask patrons,
“You want crack back?”.
Appearances aside, she is very attentive to,
The collector who she refers to as ‘Mr Denham’.
It is rumoured that she once
Carried her wheelchair-bound employer
Effortlessly up three flights of stairs…
Wheelchair included.
Olga always situates herself,
At the nearby bar,
Close to barman Mr Brillows,
Where she can converse
And closely observe,
For she is quite infatuated with him.
Edgar Brillows always greets her with
“Good evening, Frau Knochen.
Your usual?”
She smiles briefly with a nod,
and the barman slides across
A delicate crystal glass of sour apple schnapps.
After several glasses,
She fondly refers to him as her Mausi or little mouse.
To which he politely remains professional.
It’s that aloof yet engaging professionalism,
That holds Frau Knochen’s utmost attention.
Dressed in an old grey matron’s uniform
With a black knitted shawl cast across her wide shoulders.
This mountain of a woman is formidable.
And would love to nothing more,
Than to squeeze the life out of
the charming Mr Brillows,
With affection.
Some time passes before
the barman can breathe a sigh of relief,
As the tinkle of a tiny crystal bell tolls,
Olga empties the last of her schnapps,
Sliding her small glass onto the bar
Gently towards an uncomfortable,
But still smiling Mr Brillows,
“Danke, meine kleine Maus”
with a smile and a wink.
She reapplies her standard expression,
before turning and crossing the floor
To attend to Carter-Smythe,
Who is madly waving an antique map scroll
In her direction,
As if celebrating some great discovery.
“Mr Denham, we go now?”
As she pushes the wheelchair,
The elderly man regales her
With the evening’s exploits.
As they pass the doorway he is heard,
to say,
“I have a map to a location
Full of Patagonian Maras
How wonderful.”
and
“And this one shows
The Seventh Lighthouse
That only appears
During eclipses.”
The passenger door closes,
The street rumbles,
and the vintage car,
roars to life.
before it slowly putts away
in a cloud of smoke,
Down the dawn lit Selwyn Lane.
“Your tea, sir.”
The waiter announced quietly,
Setting a polished silver tray
Upon the table
Between the two elderly patrons.
Black porcelain teacups
Rested neatly upon matching saucers,
Accompanied by an ornate teapot,
A delicate milk jug,
And a silver sugar bowl.
“Ah…
Good man.
Very good man.”
The elderly gentleman smiled warmly.
“Thank you, Mr Rook,”
His companion added.
Gideon Rook
Was one of Nocturna’s most beloved attendants.
His calm manner,
Impeccable memory,
And quiet professionalism
Had earned the affection
Of generations of members.
Nocturna was especially busy
This evening.
Every booth was occupied.
Soft whispers drifted
Between velvet curtains.
Ancient books changed hands.
Curious artefacts
Passed discreetly
From one collector to another.
Secrets were exchanged
As freely as tea and wine.
In Booth Three,
Silas Pembroke
And his younger sister Iris
Had become almost as permanent
As the wallpaper itself.
For countless years
They had occupied
The same secluded booth.
Always tea.
Occasionally wine.
Often guests.
Always conversation.
Silas possessed
A narrow scholarly face,
Wire spectacles,
And a once elegant black suit,
Now softened
By many decades of careful wear.
Iris resembled her brother,
As though time itself
Had carved them
From the same memory.
Her long dark gown,
Once the height
Of Victorian elegance,
Fell gracefully
Beneath a dark fur shawl.
Black lace gloves
Covered delicate hands,
While a matching headscarf
Framed her silvering hair.
Together,
They poured their tea,
Content simply to wait.
This evening’s entertainment
Had been eagerly anticipated.
For tonight,
Nocturna welcomed
The Pike Sisters.
Euphemia Pike,
Mistress of the cello.
And her younger sister,
Minerva Pike,
Virtuoso of the violin.
The sisters stepped quietly
Onto the small stage.
Neither spoke.
Instead,
They acknowledged the room
With a slow graceful nod
Of their heads.
Euphemia settled herself
Upon a simple wooden stool.
Between her knees rested
An ornate black cello,
Its polished body
Absorbing the lamplight.
Her bare feet disappeared
Beneath folds
Of a pale ivory gown,
While her untamed
White-blonde hair
Curled wildly
About her shoulders,
As though stirred
By unseen currents.
She drew the bow
Across the strings.
Slowly.
The first note
Rose from the instrument
Like the distant lament.
Long.
Low.
And haunting.
Minerva stood beside her,
Tall,
Motionless,
Her raven-black hair and gown
Flowing almost seamlessly
Into the darkness
Behind the stage.
Her violin entered
With quiet precision,
Its mournful melody
Threading itself
Around the cello’s smooth deep voice,
For thirty unbroken minutes,
The room scarcely breathed.
Tea cooled untouched.
Books remained closed.
Even whispered conversations
Fell respectfully silent.
When the final note
Slowly dissolved
Into the velvet darkness,
The sisters bowed together.
As the stage curtains
Were quietly drawn.
Only then
Did the applause begin.
Gentle.
Measured.
and sincere.
With the performance concluded,
The Pembrokes
Finished the last of their tea.
Silas carefully adjusted
His spectacles.
Iris gathered
Her shawl about her shoulders.
Then,
Arm in arm,
They made their way
Toward the entrance,
Where Hargraves already waited,
His immense frame
Holding the heavy black door open.
The siblings offered
A courteous nod.
Hargraves returned it.
Without a word.
Together,
They stepped into
The cool night air,
Disappearing slowly
Into the drifting mist
Of Selwyn Lane.
Fido Shrew,
A curious little gentleman,
Hunched of back and bent with age,
Arrives at Nocturna
Promptly upon the twelfth night.
With a courteous tap
To the brim of his black felt hat,
He acknowledges Hargraves,
Who returns the greeting
With a single respectful nod.
In one hand,
Shrew carries an ebony cane,
Polished smooth
By many decades of faithful service.
In the other,
A small black wooden cage,
Within which sits
A glossy magpie.
Her name is Matilda.
As they pass through the foyer,
She greets the house
With a cheerful warbling song,
As though announcing
An old friend’s arrival.
Without hesitation,
Shrew makes his way
Through the smoke-softened main room,
Past whispered conversations,
Books exchanged in silence,
And glasses catching
The amber glow of lamplight.
He slips into a private booth
At the rear of the club,
Where a heavy curtain
Of black velvet
Trimmed with lace
Is quietly drawn.
There,
He waits.
Not long afterwards,
McKinley Gripe arrives.
A short, broad gentleman,
Impeccably dressed
In a well-tailored black suit.
His neatly combed grey beard,
Small round spectacles,
And weathered leather satchel
Have accompanied him
For as many years
As anyone can remember.
He offers Hargraves
A warm greeting,
Before being shown
To the same secluded booth.
“Ah…
Lovely to see you.”
He declares cheerfully,
Allowing his satchel,
Heavy with books and manuscripts,
To fall upon the vacant chair
With a satisfying thud.
Shrew peers over his spectacles.
“Lovely to see me?”
His dry, crackling voice replies.
“Since when?”
Gripe smiles.
“I was talking to Matilda.”
He gently taps
The magpie’s cage.
The bird answers
With an indignant warble.
Both old men
Burst into laughter.
The curtain closes.
No one hears another word.
Gripe and Shrew
Have kept this peculiar appointment
For longer than most members
Can remember.
Since they themselves
Were young gentlemen.
On the twelfth night
Of every second month,
They meet.
They exchange barbs.
They exchange books.
Manuscripts.
Letters.
The occasional impossible curiosity.
A glass of red wine
Is usually shared.
Sometimes a fine cigar.
Always conversation.
For precisely
One hour
And six minutes.
Never longer.
Never shorter.
When the hour concludes,
The curtain parts.
One gentleman departs.
Then, several minutes later,
The other.
Never together.
No one knows
What passes between them.
Nor where either man goes
Beyond the wallpapered sanctuary
Of Nocturna.
No one asks.
That,
After all,
Is one of the rules.
And this curious little ritual
Is but one of many
Hidden quietly
Behind the black iron door
Of Nocturna.
On the twelfth night of every month,
The members arrive.
Not together,
But at measured intervals,
As though each has mastered
The art of arriving unnoticed.
Some remain only briefly,
Exchanging a book,
A letter,
A whispered confidence,
Before disappearing once more
Into the sleeping city.
Others stay until dawn.
Nocturna asks very little of its patrons,
Yet its two rules
Are absolute.
The first,
Within these walls,
No member shall ever speak
Another member’s true name.
Only the names
Chosen for Nocturna
May be used.
The second,
Nothing spoken
Within Nocturna
May ever pass beyond
Its walls.
Secrets belong
To those who entrust them.
The club door
Remains permanently locked.
Admission is granted
Only by invitation,
And by the judgement
Of its custodian.
His name is Hargraves.
Daniel Hargraves.
He occupies
A velvet-curtained alcove
Beside the entrance,
Where little escapes
His attention.
A man of imposing stature,
His broad shoulders
Nearly fill the doorway itself.
His head is clean shaven.
His beard,
Thick and black,
Frames a face
Marked by a single pale scar,
Beginning above the left eyebrow
And descending quietly
To the middle of his cheek.
His eyes are dark,
Alert,
And endlessly observant.
Few visitors
Forget meeting them.
His demeanour,
However,
Is one of quiet precision.
Measured.
Courteous.
Almost scholarly.
He greets every member
With the same calm respect,
Whether they are a first-time visitor
Or one who has crossed
Nocturna’s threshold
For decades.
Should a disagreement arise,
It seldom lasts long.
Hargraves possesses
The rare ability
To end unpleasantness
Without raising his voice.
Those few
Who have mistaken
His kindness for weakness
Rarely make
The same mistake twice.
He stands
As the silent boundary
Between the sanctuary within
And the disorder beyond.
Guardian.
Usher.
Custodian.
Protector.
When the heavy black door
Finally opens,
His deep, polished voice
Greets every arrival alike.
“Welcome to Nocturna.
May your stay
Be a pleasant one.”
Only then
Does he step aside,
Allowing another keeper of secrets
To enter the night.
A single crimson lamp
Glows through the midnight rain,
Illuminating a modest brass plaque
Bearing one word,
Nocturna.
Its light is no ordinary lantern,
But a beacon,
A quiet invitation
To an eclectic gathering
Hidden from the waking world.
This forgotten quarter of the city
Is seldom travelled.
Dark.
Cobblestoned.
Silent.
The old district rises around it,
Its weathered façades
Bathed in pale moonlight,
Watching patiently
As another night begins.
Of its many narrow laneways,
Selwyn Lane
Is the one most avoided.
Especially after dusk.
A narrow ribbon
Of black brick and old stone,
Untouched by modernity,
As though time itself
Forgot to reclaim it.
Halfway along the lane,
The façade of Nocturna waits.
An arched black iron door.
A small multipaned window,
Its glass too dark
To reveal what lies beyond.
Ornate Victorian stonework,
Blackened by soot,
Softened by rain,
Hints at a grandeur
Long surrendered to age.
By day,
The building is almost invisible,
Hemmed in
By the taller backs
Of forgotten buildings,
As though the city itself
Has turned away from it.
But night remembers.
And so does Nocturna.
Its patrons are never seen
In daylight.
Pale faces.
Black coats.
Quiet footsteps.
They move through darkness
Like shadows
Returning home.
Keepers of forgotten knowledge.
Collectors of curious things.
Librarians.
Storytellers.
Artists.
Magicians.
Dreamers.
People for whom
The ordinary world
Has never quite fit.
On the twelfth night
Of every month,
Without announcement,
Without invitation,
They gather.
Books change hands.
Stories are exchanged.
Strange artefacts
Pass quietly
From one custodian
To another.
Old friendships are renewed.
Ancient secrets are whispered.
No records are kept.
No names are spoken.
And before dawn,
The gathering dissolves once more,
Leaving Selwyn Lane
Exactly as it appeared before,
Silent.
Empty.
Waiting patiently
For Nocturna
To awaken again.
I’ve been me so many times now,
That I am lost in the echoes of myself;
I hear them calling, hear them calling,
From beyond the weeping gate.
There the shadows kneel in silence,
Wearing masks I abandoned in softer years,
Their mouths stitched shut with old confessions,
Their eyes like drowned lanterns beneath black water.
They beckon without movement,
A congregation of former griefs,
Gathered where memory rots in black corridors,
And time hangs damp with suffering.
The house within me has grown cavernous,
Its stairways descending into impossible rooms
Where sorrow sits upright beside the fire,
A patient dust covered harbinger of grief.
It knows me by every mask I have worn,
Calls each by name in the language of mourning,
And pours black wine into trembling hands
That no longer remember which flesh is mine.
I hear them calling, hear them calling,
The selves I starved, the selves I feared,
The silent twins of all my failures,
Their fingers pale upon the rusted latch.
Beyond the weeping gate they gather,
Neither wholly dead nor wholly memory,
Waiting where the dark folds inward,
Where sorrow flowers into sullen shapes.
For doom has lived beside me always,
A patient guest seated near the fire,
Its hands folded neatly in shadow,
Its smile thin as winter beneath the skin.
It speaks not of endings but of returning,
Of circles drawn in grief and dust,
Until I no longer know if I am haunted,
Or merely wandering the ruins of myself.
Stitched together from corpselike flesh,
Two fractured halves now beat as one,
Two broken souls once torn apart,
Dance beneath the waking sun.
But soft, hewn together forever,
Two lovers force light from the dark,
Like yonder light through broken windows,
Kindling fire from a dying spark.
Loneliness no longer lingers here,
Seated in the dress circle alone,
The symphony of this communion,
Turns silence into something known.
And when life’s chaotic theatre closes,
When the stage lies empty and still,
Two hearts remain in quiet defiance,
Beating together beyond all will.