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stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: Devil's Spawn Tango
Fandom: "The Great God Pan" (Arthur Machen, 1894)
Characters: Arthur Meyrick, Helen Vaughn, the Devil
Rating: Gen
Length: 700
For: DW 100 Fandoms challenge prompt 049. swing.
Inspired by: Tango bajo la lluvia [Tango in the rain]
Summary: Artist Arthur Meyrick follows Helen Vaughn from London to New York to Buenos Ayres [sic]. In the short story, after Meyrick's death, his sketchbook is sent to Austin by Doctor Harding.
Meyrick followed her, of course. From London to New York to here. He’d had to. She was his muse. She was his food, his water. Without her, he could barely breathe, much less hold a pencil or a paintbrush.
He’d followed her from one side of the ocean to another, from one side of the equator to another.
Followed her, then lost her.
The city, this city that he didn’t know, had swallowed her up.
Where was she?
Helen.
He wandered about the streets, from the Plaza to the Recoleta, searching for her. An English medical man, Doctor Harding, had taken pity on him and given him a place to lay his head, but rest Meyrick could not.
On. On. On and on. On.
He went searching for her.
The one dismal afternoon, the rain pattering on the tin roofs and seeping into his skin through his coat, he found her.
Dancing.
In the middle of the street.
To the music of a gramophone somewhere.
He caught his breath and tucked himself in the shadowy threshold of a closed shop, his sketchbook tucked under this arm, his sodden pencils in his pocket.
She and her companion were locked in a tight embrace. They swayed together then marched for several steps, side-by-side, cheek-to-cheek, in a sort of hesitating waltz. Their clothes were dark and plastered to their bodies from the rain. They paused, and Helen kicked her feet and swirled her lower legs in half-circle patterns which mesmerised Meyrick.
The way their bodies moved together, like clockwork, suggested a familiarity, an intimacy which enflamed Meyrick’s jealousy.
Then Helen’s partner swung her into the air, his hands at her back, her body in a drooping curve about the stem of his arm. She held the pose for a few breaths, the rain beating down upon her, and Meyrick could discern every sinew of her body as if she were a nude studio model.
Oh, Helen!
She twirled back to the ground, and the two resumed their dance, swaying a few steps in one direction, twisting, turning, then swaying back.
She flicked her leg between her partner’s open legs, and Meyrick was reminded of a serpent’s tongue, and when he looked down he discovered, to his astonishment, that his sketchbook was open and that his hand, apparently of its own initiative, was, in fact, sketching a voluptuous adder with a forked protuberance.
Every scale of the reptilian creature was imbued with madness, sin, and the seeds of self-destruction. He shuddered, but Meyrick did not stop, ogling the dancers or sketching.
Helen was being swung in the air again, held aloft, then twirled into her partner’s embrace and turned ‘round and ‘round.
Like a child, like a doll, like a toy.
How they clung to one another!
Once more, Meyrick’s mad jealousy flared.
Meyrick swung himself from rage to despair, from fascination to repulsion, as he watched them dance, as Helen curled her body ‘round her partner’s, as they spun together in a tight circle, as Helen hooked one leg over his shoulder and let her head fall almost to the street, as she flicked and flicked her beautiful leg.
Meyrick looked down again, flipping the pages of his sketchbook, counting, one, two, four, six pages of dancing.
When the last bars of the song sounded, the two were kneeling, one leg bent upon the stones, one arm bent at the elbow, one hand touching the other’s cheek.
Helen’s partner turned his head sharply and found Meyrick’s gaze.
He found Meyrick’s gaze and shattered it, along with his reason, his health, and his future.
With his doom well-sealed, Meyrick looked down at his sketchbook where his hand still was moving. He watched with horror as the raindrops splattered upon the page and melted the lines and shadings as fast as he could make them. He watched with terror as the dark grey pooled and swirled and swung like a pair of dancers on a dark, dirty street.
The darkness settled into the exact likeness of the face that he had seen, the eyes that had clawed into his.
Meyrick scribbled at the bottom of the page.
The devil dances a tango with his daughter.
Fandom: "The Great God Pan" (Arthur Machen, 1894)
Characters: Arthur Meyrick, Helen Vaughn, the Devil
Rating: Gen
Length: 700
For: DW 100 Fandoms challenge prompt 049. swing.
Inspired by: Tango bajo la lluvia [Tango in the rain]
Summary: Artist Arthur Meyrick follows Helen Vaughn from London to New York to Buenos Ayres [sic]. In the short story, after Meyrick's death, his sketchbook is sent to Austin by Doctor Harding.
Meyrick followed her, of course. From London to New York to here. He’d had to. She was his muse. She was his food, his water. Without her, he could barely breathe, much less hold a pencil or a paintbrush.
He’d followed her from one side of the ocean to another, from one side of the equator to another.
Followed her, then lost her.
The city, this city that he didn’t know, had swallowed her up.
Where was she?
Helen.
He wandered about the streets, from the Plaza to the Recoleta, searching for her. An English medical man, Doctor Harding, had taken pity on him and given him a place to lay his head, but rest Meyrick could not.
On. On. On and on. On.
He went searching for her.
The one dismal afternoon, the rain pattering on the tin roofs and seeping into his skin through his coat, he found her.
Dancing.
In the middle of the street.
To the music of a gramophone somewhere.
He caught his breath and tucked himself in the shadowy threshold of a closed shop, his sketchbook tucked under this arm, his sodden pencils in his pocket.
She and her companion were locked in a tight embrace. They swayed together then marched for several steps, side-by-side, cheek-to-cheek, in a sort of hesitating waltz. Their clothes were dark and plastered to their bodies from the rain. They paused, and Helen kicked her feet and swirled her lower legs in half-circle patterns which mesmerised Meyrick.
The way their bodies moved together, like clockwork, suggested a familiarity, an intimacy which enflamed Meyrick’s jealousy.
Then Helen’s partner swung her into the air, his hands at her back, her body in a drooping curve about the stem of his arm. She held the pose for a few breaths, the rain beating down upon her, and Meyrick could discern every sinew of her body as if she were a nude studio model.
Oh, Helen!
She twirled back to the ground, and the two resumed their dance, swaying a few steps in one direction, twisting, turning, then swaying back.
She flicked her leg between her partner’s open legs, and Meyrick was reminded of a serpent’s tongue, and when he looked down he discovered, to his astonishment, that his sketchbook was open and that his hand, apparently of its own initiative, was, in fact, sketching a voluptuous adder with a forked protuberance.
Every scale of the reptilian creature was imbued with madness, sin, and the seeds of self-destruction. He shuddered, but Meyrick did not stop, ogling the dancers or sketching.
Helen was being swung in the air again, held aloft, then twirled into her partner’s embrace and turned ‘round and ‘round.
Like a child, like a doll, like a toy.
How they clung to one another!
Once more, Meyrick’s mad jealousy flared.
Meyrick swung himself from rage to despair, from fascination to repulsion, as he watched them dance, as Helen curled her body ‘round her partner’s, as they spun together in a tight circle, as Helen hooked one leg over his shoulder and let her head fall almost to the street, as she flicked and flicked her beautiful leg.
Meyrick looked down again, flipping the pages of his sketchbook, counting, one, two, four, six pages of dancing.
When the last bars of the song sounded, the two were kneeling, one leg bent upon the stones, one arm bent at the elbow, one hand touching the other’s cheek.
Helen’s partner turned his head sharply and found Meyrick’s gaze.
He found Meyrick’s gaze and shattered it, along with his reason, his health, and his future.
With his doom well-sealed, Meyrick looked down at his sketchbook where his hand still was moving. He watched with horror as the raindrops splattered upon the page and melted the lines and shadings as fast as he could make them. He watched with terror as the dark grey pooled and swirled and swung like a pair of dancers on a dark, dirty street.
The darkness settled into the exact likeness of the face that he had seen, the eyes that had clawed into his.
Meyrick scribbled at the bottom of the page.
The devil dances a tango with his daughter.