Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“Utopia make thee free of it. I follow thee. I am dead, Elisa. Wretched King, adieu. You that are the audience of these actions, who see my words as symbols, who envision my life’s art, I wish I had the time, I would tell you who is dead. This is the end.”

“No, I won’t believe it. I won’t let you go, I’ll kill myself.”

“If you are my lovely, give me up. If you ever loved me, as you said you did, leave me here. I have done what I intended, he is a murderer, we have resuscitated vice. If he can fall, so goes harmony.”

“Do something, somebody DO SOMETHING,” Elisa cupped Joseph, crying to the audience.

“To be struck down… pierced by his sword… from his hand… that I had dreamed for… a mockery of fortune… a foiled event…”

Graham stepped backwards, “oh no, no,” his watery eyes remaining on the fallen. His hand relaxed; the great sword toppled to the ground, as he continued stepping back, away from his victim. Joseph reached his hand out towards him.

“You don’t weep so bitterly for my life, nor for your spouse… you strike at me not for her, but because you hide a wretched organ within your ribs, because you have not matured beyond your sister…”

Elisa managed to cradle Joseph’s limp body onto her lap and took a look at his wound. Graham backed away, towards the house; the agents had not taken a step, but stood in a half circle around the marble porch. “Oh Joseph…”

“Look you,” he gazed up into her eyes, “it was my life… to be the provocateur of his fall.” His head leaned back, and he gazed up into the sky. “That night, when we first spoke — do you remember? That was the evening of my life, I, the fool, knew more than any, absurd as I am, I became reasonable, possible… you see, I could not forget, we were but two… the folly was praiseworthy, it bore me on its back, I rode forward, let the windmills be armies and dragons and fortresses, herein lies the proper truth… time will mark it so…”

Elisa lifted her head, recalled the agents, her fiancé amongst them, Graham still retreating, the swords lying still: “DO something,” she pleaded directly to Vincent.

“Ask for no one’s help, my dear. Do not leave me now, I will be a grave man soon…”

She returned to him, cupping his cheek with one hand. “I don’t think I can do this… not without knowing you’re alive. Don’t die Joseph, I’m begging you, don’t leave me.”

“This, I’m afraid, is a time for fables and fairy tales, when princesses live happily ever after with true princes, when a child’s toy becomes legend… is this not what they were for? One story unfolding, as we are caught within its words, it will all have to come to an end…”

“I’ve had no time with you… I made compromises, I’ve saved myself, but I…”

“…have given me peace, I was inspired, felt enough to chance my quest, I have been graced with ever knowing you…” his face illuminated by moonlight as a cloud passed. “I see my other lady-love has come to say goodbye…”

“Joseph, I’ve only felt love once, I remember it… I don’t want to lose it.”

“You will only lose it if you decide to give it away. I soon will lose it, not for lack of want, but because the fool smiles in fate’s dooryard…”

“I will not give it… I will not give it away, I swear,” her words tangled.

“Here lies Mister Joseph ‘Morning Star’ Moore Mephisto, who lost his head as he fell from heaven, was expelled for the murder of his brother, exiled to the attic, raised on words, who could have been a poet, a painter, a philosopher, a soldier, an emperor’s jester, but reared his own demise on rituals, before he fled the garden, fell up, and spoke to cats… Who was nothing, yet was a silly something to one… I beg your pardon, I cannot stay, I have an appointment with my fellow ghosts… let the ferryman come (I’ve met him before)… move aside now, move aside for the stairs within that moonbeam… I would only ask, my dear, while you say those marital words… that you would mean one or two for me…”

“I won’t mean any of them,” she swore; stroking his hair, as he began to shiver slightly, closing his eyes, waking suddenly.

“I’ll give him my blessing,” he rose slowly. “I give you my blessing to marry her, you there, who watch me die quietly like good chaps, I give the one amongst you who protects her my blessing, the blessing of a dying angel — perhaps fallen, but not without charity.”

“I will miss you Joseph…”

“It comes as my life ends, my ears are still awake… I have waited so long for those words to be whispered… this is true folly… since death comes — and don’t think I know, he and I are old friends, I will take his hand willingly… these words were spoken to me at last… all was not in vain… even the clown can be a hero… if not for just one… and heroes have stories…”

“Joseph, I have to keep pressure,” he tried to move her hand away, “just a little longer.”

“When I close my eyes, they’ll be waiting for me… I can see them in their chairs, they’ll welcome me back… they often wondered why I didn’t stay… and she’ll be there too, my little Flower… all alone… he’s spoken so well of things… he’s seen the moon’s pocked face… he’s placed us out of the center… he’s understood chaos… they’ll be talking… I will be able to listen to them talking… they are thousands, old enemies and friends and time’s forgiven, now forgotten… surrender? No, treachery, I am treachery’s ambassador… she’ll be there, ready to stay? Yes, I fell finally… I’ve made it to their house… through the woods… over the hill… into the gate… this way please… forgive me… I am coming home for the first time… I don’t know where I shall stay… the threshold’s blue… I am being carried away… I leave you now… adieu, my princess, adieu…” his eyes closed.

“Joseph? JosEPH? JOSEPH? Don’t go.”

“My last words shall be: I love you.”

Joseph died (Wynne-Edwardsianly). Exeunt (marching, bearing off the dead bodies; a peal of ordinance is shot off). He, on the shoulders of four captains, like a soldier.

Elisa wept over his body as Captain Vincent stood behind her. Graham Greene was led away by the agents.

Joseph watched as he spirals into the air, her pained eyes, her tears rolling down her cheeks, her fiancé trying to console her. He clutched Flower’s arms as they ascended.

“Did I do it?”

“Yes, you finally did it.”

“It’s over then?”

“Yes.”

His transgression will be known, the guardian angels forsake Paradise, sin and death descend from the gates of hell and enter the city. They pave a broad highway and bridge over harmony, according to Joseph’s original path. The first prayer is said as Graham climbs into the car. The prayers are presented; they must no longer abide in perfection.

They looking back, all the eastern side beheld

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,

Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate

With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms:

Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;

The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and providence their guide:

They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way.

Proverbial curtain.

Christopher WunderLee is a writer from Seattle, Washington. The Loony: a novella of epic proportions was published in 2005, Visiting Hours , a collection of short stories, in 2007, and Kalopsia , a collection of his poetry, in 2003.