Till the breakin’ of the day.
Music plays a big role in what I do, every day. I’m enjoying the new coldplay album, and this specific song, “Cemetaries of London” really makes me want to go on a trip. I think I’ve talked about my vision of Old London at night, in the past…a dense fog, rain slicked cobblestones, light shining from impossible angles. Occasionally the sound of footsteps echoing from side alleys, and from somewhere off in the biting cold, a rhythmic tapping. Every door, locked and barred from the inside, every window shuttered. I’m trying to figure out how this fits into any story.
Is our hero being pursued? Running, panting and sliding down the street in terror? Perhaps, falling hard to his knees, he bites his tongue. Tastes the blood like iron spill from his lips. Feels the shadows closing in, the tapping seems to speed up. In the moment before it closes in, before the black cloud devours him, he turns to the darkness, raises his hand, and…Light. Shadows rear back, clawing over one another to escape the flame, anathema to darkness. What if that man isn’t our hero at all?
Maybe our hero stands with his back to a strong oak door, as the creatures of the night appear out of the maze of dusky streets before him. Increasing in courage as they increase in numbers. Growling, spitting curses, prepared to rip him apart, take what he defends. The rhythmic tapping of his cane against the cobbles is the counterpoint to the chaos embodied at the bottom of the steps. The denizens grow bolder as the fog steals in, sealing these odd fellows together, sealing them in their own world, a tableau, the anticipation of violence. The pregnant pause before the storms fury is unleashed. Finally, by some means unknown even to them, the mob elects a leader, and he speaks.
“We want it.” he sputters, half crazed.
“You shant have it.” replies our hero. And how they howl. Howl to raise the dead. Howl all of their rage to the night. And our hero, who is versed well enough in history to understand human nature, knows what will happen next. What will happen, no matter what he does. But he would do no less than what he must, even if doing less could save his life. So he raises his cane, draws something silver and glittering from his tweed jacket, and settles on his last words. Dante Alighieri’s words, in point of fact.
“Observe in me the contrapasso, for all that you have ever done.”
And they come, in full force.