The Sleek Skin of the Leviathan

Uncle Emiel

Mother stood tucking

wisps of hair under her white bonnet

the birds embroidered on her dress 

hopping nervously  

as Jacob reached the front door

the wooden top in hand

A tall man in a plain, somber coat 

unadorned hat 

stockings and stick

stepped down from the carriage

took his mother's pale, outstretched hand

and spoke: Such a long time, sister

I've saved all your letters, brother. I feel as if you haven't been away an instant

Although she was turned away

Jacob knew she was smiling 

and he smiled, too

Is something amiss, sister? You look...

No, no. All is well. Perhaps I'm a little tired, that's all. Come in! Come in!

Mother turned

spying Jacob lingering in the doorway

Run fetch your brothers, now. Tell them their Uncle has arrived.

Emiel's bright eyes, like stars

 alighted on Jacob 

holding his gaze 

for a few seconds 

not friendly, not unfriendly

he didn't appear important 

at all 

Not like the ancestors in the somber portraits 

with their stiff collars and 

grave, time-ochred  faces 

not 

like the esteemed men of town 

shiny silver thread lacing their bright, colorful coats

their high, horse-hair wigs caked with powder

In fact, he looked rather plain

in his dark clothes 

In actual fact, he looked rather like. . .

Jacob tore himself away, dashed off 

down the lane to the workshop where his brothers toiled, 

before Mother could catch breath to reprimand him

He wears his own hair, thought Jacob 

amazed

as he 

ran

per

haps

per

haps

 he was 

also 

a strange 

boy

That night, the sound returned

to Jacob's dreams

but there was a different timbre to the nightmare

Instead of searching him out 

poking into every corner to find him 

the creature seemed to be 

                                                 hiding

Seemed to have 

                                             altered its form 

into a 

low, discordant murmur 

bundled, wrapped and nestled 

into the darkest recesses of furniture and 

under the hard cushions of the divan in the good parlor

Jacob himself 

now roamed out of his bedchamber  

a candle guttering in the flat bowl of the candlestick 

held above his head

He was the one peering out of the window at the milky-white

moonlit stable yard below

He was the one 

peering through the slats of the banister 

at the dark rectangle of the front door

The candle flame threw and tossed light 

as he walked through the house, his shadow 

looming like a second, dark Jacob behind himself 

The creature was there

somewhere but nowhere 

Only a murmur

Only a sound