Fields Of

II. The Sign

Strange is the night where black stars rise,

And strange moons circle through the skies

But stranger still is

Lost Carcosa.

-The King in Yellow: Cassilda’s Song; Act 1, Scene 2

I entered my dim-light apartment and began the trek up the stairs. The yellow glow above me did little more than light my path, and I heard the building groan under the growing wind. After climbing three stories, passing through the hallway, and entering my apartment on the left, I sat in the feeling of gloom. The desire to write was overwhelming, but what should pass through my pen? I poured myself another glass, and began to pursue my shelves for some inspiration.

Beyond the poetry, plays, and prose, I discovered a work I hadn’t realized I owned. It was a skinny manuscript covered in a thin leather binding, a pansy stamped along the edge. I sat down and began to read, making it only through the first Act before setting it down trembling. The words on the page seemed to slip out of the work, surrounding my head with the grotesque and limbless forms. I put the work down, but struggled to remember why it had caught my eye in the first place; struggled to reconcile the urge to begin reading again.

After a momentary mediation between desires, I decided to take my leave for the night, pausing briefly to finish my drink, but it was empty. I felt my eyes growing heavy and went off to bed, shaken by this absurd evening.

III. The Dream

The battle raged furiously

Through the open field I wept;

The bed of flowers enveloped hope.

Before me was a golden pansy in a familiar place, producing an artificial light. It kept its distance as I approached, and the stars shifted above me. It was cold here, and prying eyes shifted in and out of sight. The field I had found myself was expansive; the dead grass crunching as I strode toward the bulb. Others too, moved to follow, seemingly struggling to move through the brush. But I understood its ways, mothing ever closer to that mystical source. They too, tried to grab me, but I held on to that joy of the golden Midnight, moving onwards and upwards toward wonderment. The fools could not hinder my pilgrimage to the King.

I awoke in a cold sweat, the ecstasy of the past night colliding with the duties of the coming day. Sunlight was peaking past the drawn curtains, and I realized I had slept in. I groaned, prying myself from the comforts of the bed that held me captive. The rest of the day was near the same. Bathroom, coffee, news and social media, writing, writing, coffee, writing, editing, stop.

As I finished my work day, it dawned on me that the piece I had read the night was indeed not mine. I quickened to my office to discover that that play was open to the second chapter. Picking up the manuscript, the title read “The King in Yellow.” Flipping to the first page, the proud name of Professor E. Hildensour was displayed. I figured I ought to return the piece, but maybe after I had read some more…

I shuttered to think about the pages I had just devoured: teeth and wrinkles, veins protruding, and the mysterious alluring land of Carcosa. Scraping footsteps slid beyond the door, and the dead grass grew around my feet. I would not get stuck in the field. Riddles and tricks, it began to tick in my brain that my office was black with darkness.

I knew I had to visit the Professor.