Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
There are those
Who visit Nocturna
For the rarest spirits,
The whispered stories,
Or the peculiar company
One finds nowhere else.
Yet the regulars,
Those who have lingered
Long enough
To call the place home,
Will tell you
That the evening
Never truly begins
Until Mr Gideon Rook
Offers a gentle nod
And quietly says,
“This way,
If you please.”
It had been many weeks
Since sleep
Had carried the dreamer
Beyond the waking world.
Reality had become
Loud.
Heavy.
Uncertain.
Yet, in the quiet hours
Before dawn,
Sleep finally deepened,
And once again
The Ocean of Dreams
Called them home.
They awoke upon the seabed.
Great dunes of pale sand
Stretched endlessly
Towards the horizon.
Seashells lay exposed,
Their songs long silenced.
Ancient shipwrecks
Rested crooked
Upon dry earth,
The ocean
Had quietly abandoned
This world.
The light house on the peninsula,
No longer shined a guiding light,
The sky hung grey and charcoal,
The dunes connected desolation,
To death.
The wildflowers lay lifeless,
Brown dry and withered,
The stench of rotting flora,
Filled the sleeper’s senses.
The willow trees hung like skeletons,
over dried thought ponds,
where the bones of dreamfish dried.
The edge of the great forest
Seemed hollow and emptied,
No longer a dividing wall,
It was now open for all to see,
As the dreamer walked within,
Every tree stood barren,
Their trunks black from burning,
Ashes covered the empty ground.
Great ribcages rose from the ash
Like broken cathedrals.
Entire packs of Devourers
Lay where they had fallen
Their hungry jaws still open,
As though death
Had caught them Mid-howl.
The mountain peak itself
Was but a grey stone.
Hanging in the landscape,
Bereft of snowy caps
And its lush forest base.
Low grey clouds crowned
It’s forgotten peak.
There was nothing here for the dreamer
No beauty remained.
The Cranes were absent
From the sky above,
Replaced by a brewing storm
That darkened the land,
And no songbirds sung.
Back standing upon the peninsula,
Looking out over the vacant sea,
The ground shook and lifted,
Rumbling as the great serpent
Grimvael began his approach.
Perhaps this was the cause,
For the grim vista
They were now unable to escape.
Grimvael breached the surface
Red eyed and hungry,
Its vast black mouth opened.
The serpent consumed
Both dream and dreamer.
Darkness fell.
Then a violent gasp.
Rain lashed the bedroom window.
Thunder rolled
Across the waking world.
The dreamer
Sat upright,
Listening.
Hoping that Grimvael
Had remained behind.
While all the time knowing
That the great serpent
Always remained within.
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….
Gideon Rook carried
An aged bottle of rum
And two crystal glasses
Towards Booth Six.
Before he reached the velvet curtain,
A booming laugh rolled across Nocturna,
Followed by the unmistakable voice
Of Captain Abercrombie Marlowe….
Time,
And the restless city,
Forgot old Selwyn Lane.
Its weathered buildings,
Once alive with commerce,
Slowly emptied.
Doors closed.
Windows gathered dust.
One by one,
Their occupants
Simply went elsewhere.
Although some remain empty
To this day,
All quietly found
New custodians.
Purchased,
Not by developers,
Nor speculators,
But by club members
Of Nocturna.
Many gifted their buildings
To the club itself,
Allowing the sanctuary
To grow
Patiently,
Silently,
One adjoining wall at a time.
Behind ancient brickwork,
Doorways became archways.
Storerooms became libraries.
Warehouses became museums.
Forgotten offices
Became quiet reading rooms,
Cabinets of curiosities,
Map vaults,
Conservatories,
Trade halls,
And discreet apartments
Reserved for distinguished guests.
To the city,
The block still appeared
Forgotten.
Weathered.
Half abandoned.
But appearances
Have always been deceiving
When it comes to Nocturna.
Within those old walls,
Life quietly flourished.
Books found readers.
Collectors found discoveries.
Artists found inspiration.
Friends found one another.
And every twelfth night,
of the month,
The sanctuary grew
A little richer.
Nocturna is no longer
Merely a private club.
For many,
It has become
A way of life.
An entire city block,
Quietly devoted to curiosity,
Craftsmanship,
Scholarship,
Wonder,
And the preservation
Of beautiful impossibilities.
Three times yearly,
When the moon reaches an agreeable position,
The members gathered
Before the great carved oak doors
That separated
The warmth of Nocturna
From its hidden courtyard.
The lanterns burned softly.
Perfume drifted beneath the ancient arches.
Someone coughed politely.
Someone else
Had already begun drinking…
I’m delighted to share that The Valley of Ashes is finally complete.
I’m currently waiting on the production proof before announcing its official release, but I’m looking forward to making it available very soon for anyone who may be interested.
Working on two books throughout 2026 while continuing to explore other creative projects has been both exciting and incredibly rewarding, although it has certainly kept me busy. Completing The Valley of Ashes also brings closure to a creative journey that began back in 2020.
The project was born during the pandemic lockdowns, a time of deep introspection and reflection. What first emerged as a series of digital artworks, later inspired an ambient music album, and has now reached its final form as a book of long-form narrative poetry. Seeing the entire journey come full circle has been immensely satisfying.
I hope you’ll enjoy spending time in the Valley. Alongside the poetry, the book features a collection of antique-inspired illustrations that help bring its world to life, and I’m eagerly awaiting the chance to hold the finished copy in my hands.
As always, for those who regularly visit my website, much of the book’s content can already be explored on the Valley of Ashes world-building page.
Finally, thank you to everyone who has followed this journey over the years, whether through my former social media platforms or here on my website. This has been a deeply personal project, and your encouragement, kind words, and continued support have meant more to me than I can express.
This is the final installment of The Valley of Ashes, the long journey's end. It is lengthy, and perhaps should have been a page rather than a post.
However I wanted to offer some closure, for those readers who have been kind enough to follow the story with me.
“How long have I been here?”
The traveller whispered.
“Time, as you know it,
Does not exist within this realm,”
The deep, smooth voice replied.
The northern road
Had been difficult to travel.
Every step brought pain,
By the time the traveller
Reached the foot of the volcano,
Bare feet bled
Upon the darkened stones.
Standing beneath
The mountain’s immense shadow,
The traveller finally understood
How the Valley of Ashes
Had earned both its name
And its endless mantle of grey.
The great volcano
Spewed vast clouds of ash
Into the heavens.
The earth trembled beneath it,
Covering everything
In an oppressive greyness.
The skeletal remains
Of two enormous black trees
Stood silently
On either side
Of the summit path.
From every twisted branch
Hung an empty noose,
Ancient,
Weathered,
And worn
By countless forgotten years.
The climb was steep.
The soil of the Thunder Road
Had grown darker here.
The air carried a bitter cold,
A strange sensation
For one already dead,
When no feeling at all
Should have remained.
Ahead,
Two immense ledges
Of jagged black stone
Jutted high above
The valley floor,
Like the open jaws
Of some colossal beast,
Waiting to devour
Those who entered.
The traveller
Passed into the stone maw.
Within,
An immense being
Sat upon a throne
Forged from black volcanic rock.
Its crimson eyes
Met the traveller’s gaze.
Its broad,
Powerfully built frame
Was crowned with thick black hair.
Leaning forward,
The giant warmed itself
Beside the raging heart
Of the volcano,
Its molten fire
Visible through a vast wound
Torn into the mountainside.
The creature’s face
Appeared almost human,
Its skin
Dark ash-grey,
Its enormous beard
Black,
Long,
And flowing.
Upon its head
Rose a great pair
Of sweeping ram’s horns,
Ancient symbols
Of dominion
And power.
This was
The Master of the Ash.
Overlord of the Valley of Ashes.
The Keeper of Limbo.
“But it feels like I have been here
For ever, with no way out.”
The traveller continued.
“As I said, time is not what it seems here.”
The creature pauses.
“Regardless,
Your journey through my valley has been long,
Tell me… what remains
When everything is gone”
The traveller thinks of everything that has been lost.
Memory.
Legacy.
Identity.
Hope.
Fear.
Name.
Body.
Life.
Death.
Nothing remains.
Then, after a very long silence the traveller whispers,
“Choice.”
The Lord smiles with a nod.
Because everything else was stripped away.
But every step taken through the Valley was freely chosen.
The traveller chose to continue.
Chose compassion.
Chose curiosity.
Chose to keep walking.
Choice is the one thing,
neither the Tempest,
nor the Storm Caller,
nor the Keeper of Souls
could ever take.
The Keeper of Limbo smiled.
A slow,
Almost imperceptible smile.
The volcano rumbled softly beneath the mountain.
The traveller bowed deeply.
Without another word,
The journey appeared complete.
Turning from the great throne,
The traveller began to descend
The dark volcanic path.
The black trees stood silently,
Their empty nooses swaying gently
In the cold mountain wind.
Each step carried the traveller farther
From the summit.
Farther from the Keeper.
Farther toward the Thunder Road.
Farther toward the Five Ways,
Where the Keeper of the Path
Still waited beside the mound of skulls,
Expecting another tale
From another journey.
Then,
“Traveller.”
The voice echoed
Through the mountain.
Not loudly.
Yet it carried
To every corner of the valley.
The traveller stopped.
Slowly,
Turning once more
Toward the throne.
Something had changed.
The mighty horned figure
Was no longer seated
Beside the mountain fire.
Instead,
Upon the throne
Sat the pale,
Legless figure,
Its vast black mouth
Curving into a knowing smile.
Long black hair
Hung across its bony chest.
The ancient wooden staff
Rested across its lap.
Black smoke
Curled lazily
From the end of its pipe.
The Keeper of the Path.
The traveller stood motionless.
Understanding arrived
Without surprise.
The Tempest.
The Storm Caller.
The Keeper of Souls.
The Keeper of the Path.
The Master of the Ash.
They had never been separate beings.
Each had been
A different face
Of the same eternal keeper.
Each lesson.
Each trial.
Each question.
Given by one ancient guardian
Watching over the Valley of Ashes.
The Keeper laughed softly.
The familiar sound
Of dry leaves
Upon ancient stone.
“You understand now.”
The traveller nodded.
“I do.”
The old Keeper
Rose effortlessly,
Its frail body
Straightening as though
Age itself
Had never touched it.
“You have no further need
To walk the Thunder Road.”
The traveller looked back
Toward the winding road below.
For the first time,
It no longer called.
The endless journey
Had reached its end.
The Keeper raised
Its ancient staff.
Pointing beyond the throne,
To the narrow opening
Within the broken wall
Of the mountain.
Beyond it,
the fire licked.
The great heart
Of the volcano.
Its white-hot flames
Roared endlessly
Within the living earth.
The Keeper spoke quietly.
“One final path remains.”
The traveller looked
Into the inferno.
Its heat
Was immense.
Its flames
Consumed everything
They touched.
For a single moment,
Old instincts returned.
Fear.
Pain.
The desperate need
To survive.
Then came remembrance.
There was no life left to lose.
No body to protect.
No death still waiting.
Only choice.
The final lesson.
Many had reached this place before.
Many had turned away.
Fearing the flames.
Fearing pain.
Fearing death once more.
And in that fear,
They chose the Thunder Road again.
Forever walking.
Forever searching.
Forever believing the journey
Was not yet complete.
The traveller smiled.
Stepping calmly
To the edge
Of the blazing chasm.
Then turned.
The Keeper
Had once more
Become the mighty Lord of the Valley.
His vast horns
Silhouetted
Against the burning mountain.
His crimson eyes
Held neither judgement
Nor command.
Only quiet understanding.
The traveller bowed.
The Lord returned
The gesture.
Nothing more
Needed to be said.
The choice had already been made.
With peaceful certainty,
The traveller stepped forward.
Into the fire.
The flames rose
Around the waiting soul.
They burned.
Not with agony.
But with truth.
Not into darkness.
But into light.
Brilliant.
Pure.
Infinite.
The ash was gone.
The road was gone.
The valley was gone.
Even time itself
Passed quietly away.
Only understanding remained.
And within that understanding,
At long last,
Came peace.
Oh Black Witch Moth of the night,
With wings of mottled dark brown velvet,
Seeker of the northern sun.
I see you not as harbinger of death,
But as a noctuoid beauty in the moonlight
Your iridescent colours tease,
As you flutter and search the night,
Seeking the ripest forest fruits.
You are known by so many names,
Mariposa de la Muerte in South America.
The Mourning Moth in the Caribbean.
The Duppy Bat of Jamaica.
Indeed, if you are a lost soul dear lady,
you may find a home with me.
“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.
