Chris Port Blog #353. With This Ring: Tales and Ale - Love and Filth

My first idea of heaven is watching gothic horror films while being watched by an anti-social black cat who stares at me for no good reason whatsoever. Questions such as “Why are you so evil?” or “What do you want?” just elicit more staring (possibly something to do with telepathy, incompetence and cat treats).

My second idea of heaven is pubs and writers, so last night I was like a pig in muck with Tales and Ale 3 - Love and Filth. Thank you to all.

This was my contribution - with an emphasis on the filth (although not in the way you might think).

Writer’s Note

There are two versions of this story. The first is the one performed last night, edited due to time-constraints (we cut some of the love, not the filth). The second is more poetically self-indulgent and slightly more sympathetic to the wife. I’m not sure which is better.

I based the whole thing on a shaggy dog story I once heard (horror is just comedy with the laughs taken out). For an earlier bare bones sketch, see October 2011’s With This Ring. 

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

First Version

 

With This Ring...

© Chris Port, February 2014

“I love you” said the old man, just as a crow cawed in the yew tree.

His wife frowned, suspecting intimacy. It had been five years since they’d tried any of that nonsense.

“I know, darling” she sighed. They continued slushing through the leaves.

There was usually a comfortable silence on these walks. After forty years, their marriage had settled like a cat in an armchair. But today something hung unspoken between them – like the smell of a distant bonfire.

“Do you love me?”

 

The question took her by surprise. She turned to squint at him.

 

How frail he looked in the brittle November sunset, like a suit filled with sticks. His face was still handsome, she thought. Crevassed, but distinguished. And he’d kept his hair, a plush shaggy white.

 

His eyes shone kindly at her, still the same cornflower blue. She had forgotten how much she loved those eyes; those eyes which had gazed down at her in the long grass, forty summers ago. She blushed at the memory and felt it lower down too, as though some long-sleeping Spring were trying to push up through grave dirt.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

“Of course I do, silly.”

 

He smiled sadly and nodded. Even after all this time, she never knew whether he read her thoughts. But they shared the same memories, so perhaps that was the same thing.

 

“I’m afraid I have some bad news” said the old man, mildly. He was looking off now, looking into the black dripping trees. He sounded as though he was talking about rain.

 

She knew before he said it. He was thin as the sunlight and his morning coughs emptied him. Afterward, while he slept in his armchair, she would clean the blood specks off the privy.

 

“Have you been to see the doctor?” she asked.

 

He smiled and nodded again.

 

“Not long now” he said, as though talking about the first snowfall.

 

“What about me?” asked his wife, “What shall I do?”

 

“You’ll have the house” said the old man. “And there’s a little in the bank. But not enough, I’m afraid. You’ll have to take in some dressmaking from the town. It won’t be so bad. You always liked sewing.”

 

She silently did the calculations. They weren’t good.

 

“There’s one more thing” said the old man. He gently clasped her left hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. 

 

“I leave everything to you. If needs be, sell what you must.” His thumb moved to her wedding ring. “Even this.”

 

She said nothing. The ring had been in his family for generations. It was ancient Danegeld and would fetch a tidy sum at the pawnbroker. 

 

“But not this.”

 

He held up its twin on his own finger. It caught the last of the sun and gleamed like the first star. From the marshes came a curlew cry, cold as worms.

 

She shivered. “Let’s not talk of such things” she said breezily, rubbing his thumb and pulling away.

 

He gripped her hand like a kitten by the neck. She froze.

 

“My, how cold the bones get.” His eyes glittered in the dusk, not cornflowers now but sapphires. “My darling wife, will you bury me with my wedding ring? I should like to think of you in my long sleep.”

 

What could she say? She nodded. A great burden seemed to lift from him and they walked home in silence. By the time they got there, the roof was silvered with frost and moonlight. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

“It’s one of a pair” said the pawnbroker, three months later. He peered at the ring through his eyeglass.

 

“How can you tell?” asked the widow.

 

The February daylight was ghostly. He held the ring up to the lamplight. “There’s an inscription here on the inside.”

 

She had never noticed it. “What does it say?”

 

The pawnbroker dropped the eyepiece into his hand. “I’ve no idea, madam. They’re runic characters. But I recognize the style. They always come in pairs.” A sly look crept over his face. “Do you have the other?”

 

“No” said the widow, picturing her husband’s ring finger in the dark.

 

“Pity” he sighed, adjusting his calculations. “It’s a nice piece on its own. But as a pair, I know collectors who would…” He stopped himself. “They have mystic value, you see. If you can believe in such things.”

 

It was clear from his tone that he believed more in money. So did the widow. She took the ring back.

 

“I’ll be here tomorrow” she said.

 

The doorbell jangled shut like a cash register and the pawnbroker looked thoughtfully after her. It was true he didn’t know what the runes said. They were a long dead language. But he had once dealt with a similar pair of rings, and it had not ended well - for the seller, at least. He had done quite nicely out of it. A traumatised priest had offered him a Christian translation after consulting forbidden books. If accurate, the wife’s ring had said this:

 

“What God hath put asunder…”

 

Although not a Christian, he could guess the other inscription. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

The widow twisted her ring in the candlelight like a conscience. It had been a hard winter. Surely her husband would not begrudge her food? And after all, what need have the dead of gold?

 

‘Till death us do part’ was the promise. She had kept her part of the bargain.

 

She found his gardening shovel and dozed in his armchair till sunset. Then, as we all must do when sinning, she observed herself as if in a dream.

 

The graveyard sparkled like fallen stars, and the stone angels said nothing. The winter earth was iron, but she came from healthy peasant stock. After an hour of grunting she was slick with sweat. An owl watched then turned its head away after a field mouse. At last, the metal hit cheap wood. It had been a modest funeral.

 

Not in the least squeamish, she scraped away the wriggly things and prised open the lid. The wood groaned then shrieked and putrescence hissed out. It was the worst smell in the world, and she would never forget it: sewage and corruption and wet things under stones. What a piece of work is a man when God’s work is undone.

 

She avoided looking at his face. Those cornflower eyes were long gone. What nestled in their place was greenish-black and squirmed. With cotton tweezers, she pried the slimy gold from his skeletal finger.

 

It took another hour to make him respectable. By the time she returned home, the roof was silvered with frost and moonlight. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Placing her prize on the bedside table, she fell into a troubled sleep.

 

A voice whispered. “I can’t remember you…”

 

She woke up in terror. The house was silent. Eventually she fell back into bad dreams.

 

The voice whispered. “Is this where I live?”

 

She awoke again. Silence. Then back to her nightmares.

 

The voice whispered again. “I am coming to bed, my darling.”

 

This time, she did not wake up. She lay there like a tiny forest animal, too frightened to breathe, playing dead.

 

She heard slow, horribly familiar footsteps approach the bed. She dared not look. She felt the covers slowly pulled down by horribly familiar hands. She dared not move. The bed moved like a stomach dropping as a horribly familiar weight settled next to her.

 

“Oh the bed’s a fine and private place,” whispered the voice, “and we I think do there embrace…”

 

The next morning, the milkman came to collect a bill but could raise no answer. He peered through the window like a jeweller through an eyepiece then raised the alarm.

 

The wife was dead in her bed.

 

“Heart attack” pronounced the Doctor, pulling the sheet up over her face. “Such expressions are quite common in such cases.” He glanced at her horny feet protruding. “She probably died of a broken heart. They were inseparable.”

 

Later that day, the removal men came to take away everything of value. But of both wedding rings, there was not a trace… 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Second Version

 

With This Ring...

© Chris Port, February 2014

 

Measuring the Dark

 

When all mysteries are explained away

men will still lie awake in winding sheets

- mere ghostly shapes in the fabric of space -

measuring the dark with their small heart beats.

Master of fears, hearing nothing singing,

do not ask “Who is this who is coming?”

 

“I love you” said the old man, just as a crow cawed in the yew tree.

 

His wife frowned, suspecting intimacy. It had been five years since they’d tried any of that nonsense.

 

“I know, darling” she sighed. They continued slushing through the leaves.

 

There was usually a comfortable silence on these walks. After forty years, their marriage had settled like a cat in an armchair. But today something hung unspoken between them – like the smell of a distant bonfire.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

The question took her by surprise. She turned to squint at him.

 

How frail he looked in the brittle November sunset, like a suit filled with sticks. His face was still handsome, she thought. Crevassed, but distinguished. And he’d kept his hair, a plush shaggy white.

 

Suddenly, she caught herself in the mirror of his look. I’m old, she shuddered. Pleasantly plump, but a crab apple. And a dry womb that never bore fruit…

 

His eyes shone kindly at her, still the same cornflower blue. She had forgotten how much she loved those eyes; those eyes which had gazed down at her in the long grass, forty summers ago. She blushed at the memory and felt it lower down too, as though some long-sleeping Spring were trying to push up through grave dirt.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

What could she say? What could she say to make him understand? That her breasts had been soft as ice cream in July, and their souls had mingled in secret places. That they had groaned like animals and wept like children. And that five years ago he had wept in the impotent dark, and she had held him gently as a mother. Oh what a life lay in one word.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

“Of course I do, silly.”

 

He smiled sadly and nodded. Even after all this time, she never knew whether he read her thoughts. But they shared the same memories, so perhaps that was the same thing.

 

“I’m afraid I have some bad news” said the old man, mildly. He was looking off now, looking into the black dripping trees. He sounded as though he was talking about rain.

 

She knew before he said it. He was thin as the sunlight and his morning coughs emptied him. Afterward, while he slept in his armchair, she would clean the blood specks off the privy.

 

“Have you been to see the doctor?” she asked.

 

He smiled and nodded again.

 

“Not long now” he said, as though talking about the first snowfall.

 

“What about me?” asked his wife, “What shall I do?”

 

“You’ll have the house” said the old man. “And there’s a little in the bank. But not enough, I’m afraid. You’ll have to take in some dressmaking from the town. It won’t be so bad. You always liked sewing.”

 

She silently did the calculations. They weren’t good.

 

“There’s one more thing” said the old man. He gently clasped her left hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

 

“I leave everything to you. If needs be, sell what you must.” His thumb moved to her wedding ring. “Even this.”

 

She said nothing. The ring had been in his family for generations. It was ancient Danegeld and would fetch a tidy sum at the pawnbroker.

 

“But not this.”

 

He held up its twin on his own finger. It caught the last of the sun and gleamed like the first star. From the marshes came a curlew cry, cold as worms.

 

She shivered. “Let’s not talk of such things” she said breezily, rubbing his thumb and pulling away.

 

He gripped her hand like a kitten by the neck. She froze.

 

“My, how cold the bones get.” His eyes glittered in the dusk, not cornflowers now but sapphires. “My darling wife, will you bury me with my wedding ring? I should like to think of you in my long sleep.”

 

What could she say? She nodded. A great burden seemed to lift from him and they walked home in silence. By the time they got there, the roof was silvered with frost and moonlight. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

“It’s one of a pair” said the pawnbroker, three months later. He peered at the ring through his eyeglass.

 

“How can you tell?” asked the widow.

 

The February daylight was ghostly. He held the ring up to the lamplight. “There’s an inscription here on the inside.”

 

She had never noticed it. “What does it say?”

 

The pawnbroker dropped the eyepiece into his hand. “I’ve no idea, madam. They’re runic characters. But I recognize the style. They always come in pairs.” A sly look crept over his face. “Do you have the other?”

 

“No” said the widow, picturing her husband’s ring finger in the dark.

 

“Pity” he sighed, adjusting his calculations. “It’s a nice piece on its own. But as a pair, I know collectors who would…” He stopped himself. “They have mystic value, you see. If you can believe in such things.”

 

It was clear from his tone that he believed more in money. So did the widow. She took the ring back.

 

“I’ll be here tomorrow” she said.

 

The doorbell jangled shut like a cash register and the pawnbroker looked thoughtfully after her. It was true he didn’t know what the runes said. They were a long dead language. But he had once dealt with a similar pair of rings, and it had not ended well - for the seller, at least. He had done quite nicely out of it. A traumatised priest had offered him a Christian translation after consulting forbidden books. If accurate, the wife’s ring had said this:

 

“What God hath put asunder…”

 

Although not a Christian, he could guess the other inscription. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

The widow twisted her ring in the candlelight like a conscience. It had been a hard winter. Surely her husband would not begrudge her food? And after all, what need have the dead of gold?

 

‘Till death us do part’ was the promise. She had kept her part of the bargain.

 

She found his gardening shovel and dozed in his armchair till sunset. Then, as we all must do when sinning, she observed herself as if in a dream.

 

The graveyard sparkled like fallen stars, and the stone angels said nothing. The winter earth was iron, but she came from healthy peasant stock. After an hour of grunting she was slick with sweat. An owl watched then turned its head away after a field mouse. At last, the metal hit cheap wood. It had been a modest funeral.

 

Not in the least squeamish, she scraped away the wriggly things and prised open the lid. The wood groaned then shrieked and putrescence hissed out. It was the worst smell in the world, and she would never forget it: sewage and corruption and wet things under stones. What a piece of work is a man when God’s work is undone.

 

She avoided looking at his face. Those cornflower eyes were long gone. What nestled in their place was greenish-black and squirmed. With cotton tweezers, she pried the slimy gold from his skeletal finger.

 

It took another hour to make him respectable. By the time she returned home, the roof was silvered with frost and moonlight. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Placing her prize on the bedside table, she fell into a troubled sleep.

 

A voice whispered. “I can’t remember you…”

 

She woke up in terror. The house was silent. Eventually she fell back into bad dreams.

 

The voice whispered. “Is this where I live?”

 

She awoke again. Silence. Then back to her nightmares.

 

The voice whispered again. “I am coming to bed, my darling.”

 

This time, she did not wake up. She lay there like a tiny forest animal, too frightened to breathe, playing dead.

 

She heard slow, horribly familiar footsteps approach the bed. She dared not look. She felt the covers slowly pulled down by horribly familiar hands. She dared not move. The bed moved like a stomach dropping as a horribly familiar weight settled next to her.

 

“Oh the bed’s a fine and private place,” whispered the voice, “and we I think do there embrace…”

 

The next morning, the milkman came to collect a bill but could raise no answer. He peered through the window like a jeweller through an eyepiece then raised the alarm.

 

The wife was dead in her bed.

 

“Heart attack” pronounced the Doctor, pulling the sheet up over her face. “Such expressions are quite common in such cases.” He glanced at her horny feet protruding. “She probably died of a broken heart. They were inseparable.”

 

Later that day, the removal men came to take away everything of value. But of both wedding rings, there was not a trace…

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *