On the twelfth night,
When crimson lamplight
Burned quietly
Against the rain,
And Selwyn Lane
Remembered
What daylight always forgot,
A familiar figure
Came stumbling
Out of the mist.
Not quietly.
Never quietly.
His stained safari trench coat
Hung from narrow shoulders
Like a weather-beaten tent.
A battered pith helmet
Sat defiantly
Upon a head
That had spent
Far too many years
Arguing with jungles.
Whether trousers
Lay beneath the coat,
No soul
Could honestly say.
Only long beige socks,
Mud-caked gaiters,
And great brown hiking boots
Introduced themselves
To the cobblestones.
Across his chest
Hung a worn leather satchel,
Heavy with impossible things.
A feathered serpent
No larger than a sparrow.
A taxidermied rodent
Bearing six glass eyes.
A butterfly
With transparent wings
That refused
To collect dust.
His silver hip flask
Appeared
Every few minutes.
Its curious contents
Smelled faintly
Of formaldehyde,
Mentholated spirits,
And regrettable decisions.
He swallowed deeply.
Smiled.
Then announced
To nobody in particular,
“They’re close tonight.”
“WHAT?”
The shout echoed
Along Selwyn Lane,
Disturbing only rainwater.
Daniel Hargraves,
Watching from his velvet alcove,
Did not flinch.
He simply inclined his head.
“Good evening,
Mr Marcus-Walker.”
The old explorer
Studied him suspiciously.
“You’ve not seen
The Moustached Guenons,
Have you?”
A pause.
“They’ve become
Exceptionally organised.”
Another pause.
“They’ve formed committees.”
Hargraves merely opened
The heavy black door.
“Welcome to Nocturna.
May your stay
Be a pleasant one.”
Marcus-Walker
Saluted gravely.
Then leaned close.
“There are alligators
Beneath your floorboards.”
“There are not.”
Hargraves dryly responded
“They’re extraordinarily patient.”
Henley snapped back,
“They are also imaginary.”
The bemused doorman responded
“So are taxes.”
“WHAT?”
He shouted as he wandered inside.
The library welcomed him
As it always had.
Books changed hands.
Secrets travelled softly.
Collectors gathered
Around velvet tables,
Examining impossible curiosities
By candlelight.
Marcus-Walker
Produced his latest treasure.
“A melancholy mongoose
Discovered
Near the upper Congo.
Notice
The expression.”
The assembled members
Examined it
With scholarly seriousness.
One offered
A first edition.
Another,
An ivory sextant.
A third,
A bottle
Containing rainwater
Collected
During an eclipse.
The bargain
Was concluded
With solemn nods.
“WHAT?”
Marcus-Walker shouted suddenly.
Nobody reacted.
Everyone had grown accustomed
To the interruption,
Like an old clock
Striking
At entirely the wrong hour.
From somewhere nearby
Came the unmistakable sound
Of an entirely deliberate
Explosion of flatulence.
Marcus-Walker
Turned furiously
Towards an empty chair.
“There!”
He cried.
“I warned you!
The Guenons
Have followed me again.”
Several members
Looked politely
At the vacant seat.
One even frowned,
As though
The invisible monkeys
Had committed
A genuine breach
Of etiquette.
Edgar Brillows
Placed a fresh glass
Before the old traveller.
“I trust
Your treehouse
Remains secure?”
Marcus-Walker nodded gravely.
“Twenty-six feet above ground.”
“The alligators?”
the barman offered
“Ah ha! powerless.”
Henley replied,
“And the Guenons?”
Brillows continued,
“They’ve mastered the bloody ladders.”
Brillows
Considered this carefully.
“Disturbing.”
“Profoundly.”
Marcus-Walker laughed.
Not a chuckle.
Not a smile.
But a roaring,
Wild,
Untamed eruption
That rolled through Nocturna
Like jungle thunder,
Leaving every candle
Momentarily uncertain
Whether to continue burning.
Hours drifted by.
Stories were traded.
Impossible maps unfolded.
Curious specimens
Changed custodians.
The night,
As always,
Passed unnoticed.
Then,
Without warning,
Marcus-Walker
Spotted
An elegant figure
Crossing the foyer.
Tall.
Broad shouldered.
Impeccably dressed
In black.
“My dear lady!”
He declared,
Removing his pith helmet.
“Might I interest you
In supper
At my treehouse,
Followed by…breakfast?”
The room
Became
Exceptionally quiet.
Daniel Hargraves
Slowly turned.
Marcus-Walker
Peered more closely.
“WHAT?”
A silence.
Then another.
“My profound apologies.”
Hargraves sighed,
The sigh
Of a man
Repeating
A familiar ritual.
Once again,
He escorted
The distinguished explorer
Towards the entrance,
One enormous hand
Resting gently
Upon his shoulder.
Marcus-Walker
Accepted his fate
With surprising dignity.
“Those damn Guenons
Set me up.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
Hargraves smiled
“They’re awfully vindictive creatures.”
Marcus-Walker was
becoming disorientated,
“So I’ve heard sir.”
Hargrave replied politely.
Outside,
The rain
Had begun again.
The crimson lamp
Burned steadily,
Watching the old eccentric
Disappear
Into the sleeping city,
Laughing wildly,
Arguing
With invisible monkeys,
Pausing
Every hundred yards
To shout,
With absolute conviction,
“WHAT?”
