Ebony and Ash: A Tale of Three Wishes by Richard Eli Morse

Richard Morse was one of the circle of people H.P. Lovecraft traded letters with. This was recoded by Ben Tucker. Thanks to him and his production team. I’m attracted to this because it has a certain Venetian feel, particularly because I’ve recently been writing about theriac, their plague medicine.

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The city lay stricken, in those streets where once the carnival had passed to the sound of lute and hautboy, now masquers of another sort held reign, gray Pestilence, and livid Fever, and black-hooded Death. The houses, so short a time ago bedecked with sweet-scented garlands and precious stuffs, stood bleak and shuttered above the echoing streets. Inside the people crouched, with staring eyes and hands that trembled. No more did song or dance fantastic make bright their chambers; prayer and fasting rather, penance for their sins. “Sackcloth and ashes,” had the gray-robed friars thundered for many a year, and now were their warnings proved indeed.

But there were those who, having made a jest of life, would mock even at Death himself. In tall painted chambers they feasted, where peacocks stalked emerald and amethyst on marble floors, while the banished flute and hautboy murmured softly, and great candles guttered away into perfumed ruin. Wine and jewels and the white breasts of women against the pall of darkness outside. When the feast was ended the guests departed each to his home, hiding his face in a cloak nor looking to right or to left.

But there were three, greatly favored by fortune, who left the feast boldly and unafraid. Florian, Marius, and Leon, friends from childhood, scoffers who feared nothing of the dank and noisome streets. With lanterns of hammered brass in their hands and swords girded at waist they set out, singing a love song, a sugared trifle more befitting to some pleached alley than to this seething night. They had gone but a short way before they came upon an aged crone who feebly leaned beside an empty pedestal. A thousand years seemed lined within the wrinkles of her face, but her eyes were young.

Bidding them stop she cried that she, who ever loved bold youth, would grant to each one wish if such he should choose to ask of her. Believing her mad, yet willing to humor the fancies of a disordered mind, they wished. Florian spoke first and begged that all the wealth within the teeming world be his. Marius next bespoke the fairest of women for his love. Leon last, and hesitating—sought happiness to be his boon. Then laughing they passed on, and coming to the square, parted, each for his home.

Florian went swiftly, for now the moon lay hidden from the earth and darkness rode upon the air. But soon he needst must stop—some vast bulk stopped his pace. Holding his lantern high its gleam came back a thousandfold; from gold and silver and gems heaped high until they seemed to threaten Heaven itself. Falling upon his knees Florian bathed his hands and arms within this precious flood, and threw bright handfuls against the crouching night. But now there was within his grasp something which seemed to whisper of sinister import, and as the dancing rays fell clear upon it he shrieked and threw it far away—a skull. With stricken face he fled, but as he ran, through every vein a swifter racer sped, while shuddering pain was in every member. And the lips of Fever twisted in a jagged grin.

Now the moon tore from her web of shadows and drew strange patterns over rooftops and cobbled ways. Marius stopped short, beholding at an open window a face of beauty such is found in dreams only, and then but seldom. Leaping from the street, Marius grasped the sill. She made no outcry nor murmur even when he caught her in his arms and kissed her curving mouth. She smiled ever, while from between her lips there crawled a bloated worm. And Pestilence laughed aloud.

But Leon lay quiet and forever still in the great square, with two curs worrying at his feet.