Charlotte, Queen Consort & La Renard
Charlottesville can in no wise be count'd a lovely Cittie - being too much removed from the Chesepeke Bay, and nonetheless suff'ring from the malodorous Humors of the Rivers that spring in the Indian Mountains. Now clogg'd by Traffic, none of it contributing to the larger Weal of Humanity, but only painting the Bro-Han in ever more garish Colors. Thus is the glorious Fame of Consort Charlotte defamed, by the peacock'd mockery of corpulent Beer-men.
Whilst on my Promenade I spy these husky Lard-Mannikins, the merest Semblances of Men trucking, bartering & spicing the Air with cries of "Hell yea!" & "Dude, shee is the hottestt of thee Bittches!" 'Tis a wonder of Coagulation, that such freakish Apparitions gain all the Rights & Privileges of a Land-holder.
Sundry Reflections, such as these, spring to my be-wigged mind as I stroll on Promenade. The native Cryes of the Bro-Han sting my blue-Velvet-jacket, and cloud the sweet Light of Contemplation with their Greasy Streaks.
As I click-clocked the Hours down Main St., I was accost'd by a wondrous Shade. In the softest tones ever struck by Woman-Tongue, the Twin of Mahmoud Ahmadin., Pres. Pers., ask'd, Did I know of a Butcher that might cut his Meat in a manner agreeable to the Customs of his Tribe? Tho' his ghostly semblance stole the Tongue from my Mouth, I did squeak some mild Directions, and pray'd for deliverance from Phantoms.
Long have I been plagued by this ethereal Daimon - the Twin. Thro' the long Chain of Semblances strung 'round my neck I discern, in ev'ry Link, Scratch & Chink that old Weroance, King Scratch himself. His Devillish Waltzes having been restrict'd to Surry Co., 'neath the sturdy James R., he gushes forth his Minions. Another good Virginian, Poe, was similarly afflict'd by a similarly trenchant Foe:
"...his singular whisper, it grew the very echo of my own. How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it could not justly be termed a caricature), I will not now venture to describe. I had but one consolation - in the fact that the imitation, apparently, was noticed by myself alone..." - Wm. Wilson, Edgar A. Poe
But to me it is this Quality that is most fiendish! To wander lone as a Light-house Keeper, haunted by the Figments of Ghost-Ships crawling thro' the rainy Night, each one tempting you with the Reflection of yr Noblest Friend's long-lost clipper - this wd be the most exquisite Tortute I cd imagine. And yet it is mine, already.
Given the murtherous Multiplication of sundry Friends, Acquaintances, Paramours, &c., & their dispersal thro'out the maddening Crowd of this Cittie, a single Explanation wou'd undo all the Devill's Fruit (as I call these Twins): I have been conjur'd.
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The Conjur Dr. has about him a queer Mystique, such that no Gent. from England, nor Divine fromm caped New England, cou'd effect the merest Puncture of his Power. Muttering his Chaunts & spells in remote Pine-Groves, he grinds Roots & dead-flesh & other queer artifacts into a magickal Mash, one with wondrous Powers of affect.
One Fiend in particular, King Bettie, I hold responsible for the singular Horror that overwhelm'd me yester-eve. Having visited the Tailor & equipp'd myself in the Florid Colors of a Gent., I did return home in the Divine's carriage, a useful contrivance encumbered with running-boards. At many Points I speculated about their uses: That perhaps, whilst on trading, some of Ned Bearskin's friends might hang from the Car, and swoop direct into a Trade, or that, given the noisome & wretched habits of Serving-Women, I might perswade them to cling to the Outside, rather than join my august Personage inside. Their Womanish perversions wou'd no doubt sully the Divine's commodious ride.
I arriv'd home, relieved of my Apprehension, & quite convinc'd that I had reach'd a safe Harbor. My fears doubled, however, upon Parking. No sooner had I taken my new buckled Shoe off the Pedals than I found my Nemeses, the very epitome of all that feeds on the dark Blackness of Forest-Magic: cats.
Beneath another Car, a tabby-Cat & a Cat oreo'd in black&white sat. They seem'd anxious, nervous even. Which was to be expect'd, as they were my Host's Cats.
I shd explain - Col. Fedore & his gracious Spouse Tess have made a Hostel of their Home, and allow'd yr Narrator to sleep, eat, & gambol about the Floors & walls. I have hung my Hats & trailed my scarves 'cross the floor, with no more Concern than if I were in my own Home. I am Vagrant, now, and carry mine inside me; thus is their Kindness amplified. Readers may remember my previous encounter with these Scalawag-beasts, these unbidden Freaks of Buttock-misery.
I have learn'd to trust nothing these Cats may say to me; for frequently do they speak in their Eldritch Tongues, dancing & Chaunting much like their Conjure-Masters. Their Syllables come closest perhaps to a Semitic-accent'd Polish; they draw cryptic Figures on the Ground, & when I visit them in the Kitchen-house, drop their Pens in all Innocence. But they lie.
Sighting these Mongrel-beasts, so devillishly afflict'd with the Intestinal-Complaint, I ran, in a horror, inside, to uncover whatever Thief or Wraith might have ransack'd my Host's Possessions. Nay, I found only the self-same Cats, mewling peacefully, swallowing & licking their noisy Tongues in Glee at my obvious Discomforture.
Some Readers, no doubt the learn'd J. Mortimer, will contest that this is a Random - like Black-34 running for Three full Days on a Roullette-Wheel, as it once did in London, before my Eyes. Some will argue for a mysterious Conjunctium, some Peculiar crossing of various Purposes, that happen'd to align with my Doings.
But I cry Fie on Them! and direct them to the Bone-rattling Creature, more spirit than Man, howling his Imprecations at the Moon, whilst I shiver in the blackness of Darkness!
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