“Strange is the night where black stars rise...And strange moons circle through the skies...But stranger still is...Lost Carcosa.”
(“Cassilda’s Song”, The King In Yellow – Act I, Scene 2)
I emerged – I’ll admit hastily – from out of the dingy alleyway and onto the broad expanse of Bleecker St. Off to my left, just a few blocks away, rolled the busy causeway of Fifth Avenue – laden with the choking burden of mid-day traffic. To my right, Bleecker St. stretched on into a dim obscurity amidst a seemingly endless procession of buildings and shops. Digging into my pocket, I fished out a scrap piece of paper upon which I had scrawled down the address number of the pawn broker’s recommended to me by my friend. A short scan of my surroundings quickly located the place. It sat, hunched like a squamous clapboard toad, just down the thoroughfare off to my right.
A garish, half-lit, neon sign proclaimed the name of the place to be HAWBERK’S LOANS. Adjusting the package I was about to pawn under my arm, I crossed the sullen and silent road and came up to the door. Going over in my mind, once again, the necessity of relinquishing my old family heirloom versus the twinge of conscience its sale would bring, I took a resigned breath, pulled open the glass and metal portal, and stepped inside.
What met my gaze as I entered was a cacophony of bizarre artifacts and nameless curios. It was like some alien swap meet had exploded and then someone had come along and dumped a yard sale on top of it. It almost hurt the eyes.
As I threaded my way with a curious caution through the various shelves and stacks strewn about the place according to some lunatic design beyond my comprehension, a stooped and prunish figure emerged from some hidden back room and hobbled over to a central counter, where he took up position like some eldritch owl and peered at me curiously from over the rims of his ancient spectacles.
Picking a path through to where he perched, I approached the counter. As I did so, he looked me up and down appraisingly and said in a voice barely above a quiet and sibilant whisper:
“Have you seen the Yellow Sign?”
I stopped abruptly and looked at him.
“Excuse me?” I responded tentatively.
He smiled back thinly with wan, bloodless lips. “I said – how may I help you?”
Shaking off what I imagined I’d heard, I stepped up to the counter and placed the package I was carrying upon it. “Well…I’m in a bit of a financial crunch here, so I need to pawn this little baby off. Y’know – just until I can get back on my feet and all.”
The wizened old proprietor nodded sagely as he delicately undid the tape and newspaper wrappings with gnarled and spidery fingers that nevertheless displayed a dexterity beyond their appearance. “And what is it we have here then?”
“It’s a Confederate cavalry saber,” I answered him. “It’s authentic, I can assure you. Not one of those fakes that’s always floating around. Been in my family forever….”
The curious old shopkeep smiled up at me again. “Oh…I know it’s not a fake,” he returned easily as he cast his eyes back down with a curious reverence to the blade. “It is quite real…. Quite real, indeed.”
I paused and quirked an eyebrow at him. “And you can tell that just by looking at it?” I asked. “Thought you might wanna contact some sort of specialist or something.”
“No need,” he replied laconically as he ran his gaze minutely over its workmanship. “The proof is in the engraving. Here.” He delicately patted the burnished lettering inscribed on the flat of the weapon.
“Oh?” I said, my curiosity vaguely piqued. “How so?”
The wrinkled old caterpillar adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat perfunctorily. “It reads: Presented to Colonel Matthias Thibodeaux Upon the Victory at the Battle of Manassas. Were this a fake, it would have read the Battle of Bull Run.”
“Would it have?” I remarked, half to myself and admittedly somewhat fascinated at this bit of historical trivia.
“In most cases, yes,” the proprietor avowed. “You see…there are many who try to pass off Union sabers as Confederate ones. The Confederate ones are rarer on the market, and therefore command a higher price. They will tamper with the filigree on the pommel or change the hilt-guard…a whole host of minor cosmetic changes. It can usually be spotted. But in the case of this particular sword, the proof is in the inscription. For you see, the North always named a battle after the nearest river; the South, the nearest town. Bull Run was a river. Manassas, a town. Therefore, this engraving is authentic to the South. It is indeed a Confederate blade….”
“Well…fantastic,” I said with no small modicum of relief. “`Cuz I really need to get my hands on some quick cash pronto-like, or I’m going to be living under a bridge by the end of the week. What’ll you give me for it?”
The withered old scarecrow placed his bony hands flat upon the counter and peered up at me.
“One thousand dollars.”
“An authentic Confederate saber is worth five,” I countered.
“And I’ll give you one,” he repeated.
I sighed inwardly with a fatalistic resignation. I needed the money. And now. I knew I could get more for it at an auction, but I didn’t have the time for the luxury of an auction. I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could manage and said, “Awlright…I’ll take it.”
“Most excellent,” the shopkeeper almost purred with satisfaction. As he tucked the sword away under the counter and reached into a wrought-iron safe to retrieve the money, he squinted up at me and said, “For you to possess such trinkets as this, you must have a bit of the antiquarian about you, no?”
“Me?” I asked with a hint of surprise. “Oh no…not me. My parents did a bit of collecting. Grandparents too. They had all kinds of stuff like this lying around.”
“Nevertheless…perhaps I might interest you in a curious little piece?” he asked as he handed me a thick stack of well-worn twenty dollar bills.
Taking the proffered sum, I stuck the money into my pocket. “I was really just here to pawn the saber, to tell you the truth. I’m really not in the market to be buying anything….”
“No, no, no…” the shriveled old owl held up his cadaverous hands in a placating gesture. “There is no charge for this. I will include it as part of the deal for the sword. I think you will find it most curious.”
I looked at the man for a moment and then sighed again. “Well…awlright…fine then. What is it?”
“A book,” he pronounced deliberately as he bent down to fish around under the counter again. “A very old book. A play – to be precise.” When he came back up, he gingerly handed me a leather-bound quarto whose vellum pages were brittle with age. “The King In Yellow. An enigmatic work from France,” he explained as I took it from him. “First published in the 1890’s – and banned soon afterwards – but the tale itself is undoubtedly older. I think you will find it a fascinating read….”
I tucked the manuscript under my arm and thought to myself, I might as well. I had sold my Xbox two weeks ago for food money, so it wasn’t like I had any other pressing demands on my time.
I turned and traced a twisting path back towards the front door. As I pushed it open and was about to step out, I heard the wizened proprietor say behind me:
“The scalloped tatters of the King in Yellow must hide Yhtill forever.”
I paused and turned back to look at him.
“What did you say?” I asked him a bit suspiciously.
The thin octogenarian raised his wispy eyebrows at me as if in question.
“I said – thank you, and please come again.”
Shaking my head to myself as if to clear it of disquieting thoughts, I walked out of the shop and into the still, silent air of Bleecker St.
(Finis Part 2)
