Nocturne
I climb from the window to the top of my house. I use a trellis supporting climbing hydrangeas. Most nights, if weather permits, I spend my evening outside. Up on the roof, I await the nocturne. I watch the world darken, the ocean turn black.
Certain times of year, the sun sets behind the offshore island. It’s a bit of a stretch, but locals claim it resembles a sleeping dragon. For a week, at dusk, the sun lingers over the island’s northern shore (the head of the serpentine beast). This happens once in the spring, and once again in autumn.
It’s that time of year again —it’s spring— and Earth remains faithful to the laws of gravity. Above, the sun is a mighty bold bastard, but it knows when to pack its bags. When the hour is ripe, it falls to settle on the northern coast of the offshore island, and, during this brief configuration, the sleeping dragon stirs from its typical slumber.
The show is beautiful, but doesn’t last long —ten minutes, tops— before the dragon yawns the last of its flame. It succumbs to night, returning to its beastly dreams. Vivid colors fade, and darkness falls.
This is what I have been waiting for; the reason, each night, I climb to bruise my bony ass upon the terracotta tiles. I thrive in my secret space, away from scrutiny, where the world is enlivened by nocturnal melodies. Up here, my soul is nourished by the music: the song of owls and frogs, the wailing of peacocks; Netflix from open windows, evening doldrums, domestic violence, and, on occasion, bedroom passions (if I’m lucky, a room with a view!).
Unlike some flowers, hydrangeas stay open all night. Like me, they are comfortable in the dark. Their perfume is strong, adding richness to my ritual; a waft of succulence to the dampening air. Hydrangeas beautify the stage. They are a garnish to my midnight meal.
I watch Mr. Brown strike Mrs. Brown across her jaw. I hear their little boy skitter across the floorboards, retreating to the land of dinos and robots. It becomes clear, visceral, a perfect family portrait amid the blooms that bear the night.
I see the native owl dart from tree to tree, the tiny mouse airmailed in its taloned grip. Below, at the banks of the culvert, the frogs groan in perfect rhythm to the torture and delights of their neighbors. The peacocks scream in elation or anguish —it’s hard to say which— singing primordial music to honor the night.
I witness young Mrs. Singh mount her older husband, the feathered masks they both wear as she thrusts, but he does not parry. I see obedience, humiliation, and I am struck by fascination. I am moved by utter admiration, in awe of their creative minds. I enjoy each second of their play, their long, salacious nocturne.
Like an owl in the night, I train my eyes on Mrs. Singh, who, like an owl in the night, rakes her talons over her husband, a helpless mouse. I see the wine-stain birthmark, how it looks like blood flowing down her sacred navel. I see the wine stain on the bed sheets, or maybe blood, melted wax.
I suppress a giggle, but am aroused despite the scene’s humor: the image of Mrs. Singh running to the kitchen, returning with a tub and ladle. Two roofs away, I sit back and enjoy the feast. I see Mr. Singh get his just desserts, eating pudding from the depths between his wife’s prodigious glutes. Amid the banquet, their oaths echo under a cosmic spread of stars. Their act is elevated, made holy in the shadow of a sleeping dragon.
At some point, the chill sways me to climb down from the trellis of climbing hydrangea. The mosquitoes, which have feasted on my blood, persuade me to retreat, to call it a night. I take comfort, knowing I am not the only one who is packing it in. Inside, I watch from my window, guided by their dim-lit lamps, their television screens, the small luminous square of their phones. I see them all wind down, retiring for the night; Mr. Brown sleeping off his angry, drunken spell; the Singhs wrapping up their festive debauchery. And next door, like clockwork, before his family rises, there’s Mr. Smith, who starts his day as he always does, with kiddie porn and grapefruit juice.
In the light of day, when the sun has returned, I squint in the morning and fondly recall the night. Mr. Smith emerges, dressed and refreshed. Under the sun, he smiles, nods, and waves. But I see through the daytime glare, the facade of cheer. Yes, I know how it works—how at night, their smiles turn to sneers, their salutations to slurs.
There is a monster in each one of us—be it spring, summer, autumn, or winter. There is a dragon in us all, and though it sleeps, it never goes away. When the stars align, and the configuration is right, it stirs from its slumber. It rises from within.
The dragon sleeps, but eventually it wakes, sweeping across our world like an astral body of flame. It rears its ghastly head. It bares its fangs and whips its tail. It burns those it touches, and delights in breathing fire.
James Callan is a writer from Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, BULL, X-R-A-Y, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere.
‘Nocturne’ is the eighth featured piece in the Urban Pigs Press CASTAWAYS callout, which celebrates the release of the latest Urban Pigs title Robinson Crusoe Maybe by guest editor Colin Gee. Colin is founder and editor of The Gorko Gazette and author of several books.
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