Gibbous House 29

At what point my reverie became the fevered dreams of sleep, I do not know. What I do know is that the nightmare formed the last part of my dreams that night, while the first revised the day preceding Moffat’s death and resurrection. A short time after the madman’s arrival in the asylum, delivery had been made of a seaman’s trunk. It was a day the lunatic professed to be Moffat, for once. The supervision of its delivery fell to me as much did in dealings with the man. To my certain knowledge, the man known as Moffat never saw the good Doctor Duncan, at least not while alive; and when his dead, sightless eyes fell on Duncan’s countenance, that saintly Doctor was unaware of their owner. The rough porters who brought the trunk handed me a key on an iron chain. I gave it to Moffat, who placed it around his neck as though it were an alderman’s chain of office.

No sooner were the deliverers of the trunk away, than it was opened. Without removal of the chain, the man knelt before it and opened it. The expression on his face was that of a man surprised at a mound of jewels, gold and coin, though I saw it contained books and parchment, and in poor condition at that. Later I learned the reason for that look, and glad I was that I became apprised of it. We took some work from that portmanteau library every day and perused it carefully, whichever persona presented itself in Moffat’s tortured mind at the time.

On the day of Resurrection, he drew out three heavy tomes: Callisthenes’ account of Alexander’s expedition, the Gospel of the Hebrews and Malleus Maleficarum. Two Greek and one Latin. Would that I had known then a little more of the first two. However, in contrast to other days, Moffat - for once it was he who addressed me - laid the books aside on the cot, locked his trunk, and said:

‘My Jonathon, I have been your David these long years. Wouldst thou be mine and I your Jonathon at last?’

I had endured his attentions for some 3 years, but never once had I achieved such transports as he himself did, while he used me as his catamite. This was a new development; it would surely be a novel experience for me to use him so - and I assured him I was willing. He begged me to wear his own apparel and that I should permit him to wear mine. Truly, I believed it was merely a spice for his jaded palate, even as he placed his chain and key around my neck. Use him I did and with some pleasure. In the small death after the act I was unwitting, as he smote me mightily on the crown and I knew no more.

Until some hours later, when I awoke to see the purpled face of … whom? Moffat? Surely I was Moffat, in his clothes, his key around my neck. This other lay supine, the colour of his face testimony to the apoplexy that had carried him off. Stiffly, and mightily nauseous from the blow to my head, I shuffled to the door of the cell. Taking care not to move the corpse, I removed a ring of keys from what had once been my own coat. Opening the door I bellowed for help. In an hour, an attendant came, I knew his face, but he saw my clothes and took no account of the physiognomy above them. This ruffian siezed the keys from my hand, forced me inward and locked me in the room with the cadaver.

I know not what period of time passed before the sainted Doctor Duncan arrived. He checked the corpse and pronounced him as dead as I knew him to be. An enlightened man, he quizzed me, a madman, as to what had happened. I told him, more or less, allowing him to believe the evidence of his eyes as to the actors and their roles. He left convinced that the Largs boy had periished of a fit during which he had assaulted Alasdair Moffat, illegitimate son of the Duke of B______.

It took me very much longer to convince him that the blow to Moffat’s head had driven out the insanity. Some three years in fact.