Monstrophy, Vol. 1

The Town of Love

In the town of Love there is a festival, when strangers from near and far come to dance and sing and drink and court. And of all the young people of Love, none shines brighter than the Alderman's son, Erske. For his dark romantic eyes hook the hearts of many a man, and his soft chestnut curls beckons to their fingers, and his full lips whisper promises unfulfilled.

"Will you dance, Erske?" they ask.

"I am much to thirsty to jump and cavort, and I will not dance with you."

So he is plied with wine and beer, and dainty crystal glasses of sherry and port.

The Alderman's son has left a trail of broken hearts in his wake a mile wide, and his beauty is famed. But none he has met have matched his exacting standards, for he knows he is lovely, and desires no one but the man who is his equal. And of course, none is the equal of beautiful Erske!

"Will you dance, dear one?" they beg.

"I am much to tired to twirl and bend, and I will not dance with you."

So he is laid on cushions of silk and satin, and his elegant feet are rubbed with lotion.

The town of Love sits on the edge of avast green marshland, where the fog rolls thick and the frog-song fills the night. No one traverses the marsh for fear of the vodyanoy, the marsh-men, who will carry you to the bottom of their ponds if you do not placate them with gifts of tobacco.

"Will you dance, beautiful?" they plead.

"I am much to hungry to spin and dip,and I will not dance with you."

So he is fed quail's eggs from their fingers, and they shiver as his lips brush their thumbs.

The festival is old, centuries old, and the town of Love is famed for it's hospitality. Strangers are greeted like old friends, and everyone is welcomed with a wine glass pressed to their hand and a garland of flowers tossed about their neck. Love is prosperous because many beneficial matches are made at this festival, strengthening their links with the other towns.

"Will you dance with me, Erske? For I have heard of your beauty and traveled far." he asks, a handsome stranger with a neat beard and sharp coattails.

"I have waited for one as lovely as me, and I will dance with you!"

The stranger takes fair Erske by his trim waist and leads him in the dance, all others standing outside the circle they make, weeping for their broken hearts. Erske has eyes only for the stranger, and his pale green hair, and the wide watery eyes. They spin faster as they turn, Erske's elegant feet barely skimming the ground. Has the stranger always had water dripping from his coattails? Has his skin always been this damp?

"Will you slow down, dear stranger,for I fear I may fall!"

"You will not fall, dear Erske, for I have you now, and I wish to dance with you!"

Were his hands always webbed? Was his neck always gilled? Erske shudders in horror as he too late realizes his mistake and sees the vodyanoy plainly. But the marsh-man's grip is too tight, his speed to great, and Erske cannot escape the whirlwind of the dance.

"What is wrong, lovely Erske? Why are you so suddenly pale?"

"I know what you are, vodyanoy, and I do not wish to dance with you!"

The vodyanoy laughs and it sounds like drowning. The bystanders shield their faces from the hurricane the marsh-man has made with his dance, the waters of the marsh rising to answer. They glimpse poor Erske's frightened face as the waters crash down on their heads, and when the calm sets back in, the vodyanoy and poor, lovely Erske are nowhere to be seen.

In the town of Love, there is no dancing or singing, or feasting or courting. None weeps harder than the Alderman's wife, and the young men drink to forget the terrible face of the vodyanoy, and the terrible fate of beloved Erske. For his dark romantic eyes hooked a monster, and his chestnut curls are touched by none, and his full lips lay silent.