The Last Candle - 2. Chapter 2

The Art

Of

Nose twitching

and

Ear twiddling.

Date – 22 February 2013

Montgomery Jordan Smith collected candles created by the best names in the world. Candle crafters were in possession of his contact details so it didn’t come to him as much of a surprise when he received an email inviting him to make an offer on a recent acquisition made by none other than the famous candle maker Benjamin Willowson.

He replied, saying he would be delighted to view the candle and made an immediate appointment.

Willowson’s Candle Crafters, by appointment to Her majesty, the Queen, had been in operation for 200 years, and one of the oldest reputable candle makers in all of England. Located in King James Street, the shop seemed to bounce out of the 16^th century. The large wooden bay windows offered passing traffic a mere glimpse of the stout Willowson passion for candles.

Benjamin Willowson met him personally the moment he walked in. He was a bulbous looking gentleman of exuberant means. His brainpan was elongated and his head appeared larger than the norm. His nose was red, a bright red that matched the colour of the couch in his reception area. His hands were marked with white patches, not a disease, but the burn marks of candle making.

‘Such an honour to meet you.’ Monty said.

‘Why, thank you kindly. I must admit, meeting an ardent collector such as yourself, one who appreciates the beauty in candles, the mystery of candles and the passion for candles, gives me great pleasure.’

‘I’d like to… you know…see the candle.’

‘Ah, yes. Of-course, follow me.’

They walked into the back of the shop and Willowson pointed to a large rectangular canister.

‘Is that it?’

‘That is it.’

‘Is it a candle?’

‘It is.’

He gripped Monty’s elbow and led him around the canister to the inscription. ‘It’s Chinese. I don’t do their language.’

‘I don’t speak Chinese either. But I know someone who does. What you asking?’

‘Two hundred.’

Monty slapped his bag on the library counter and loudly greeted the fawn man behind thick lensed glasses and rosy cheeks. His thick, dark hair parted on the side, and his lips pouted when he spoke.

‘Shhhh!’ Rebson’s nose twitched.

Monty leaned over the counter. ‘I need your help.’

Blood rushed to his face when Monty twiddled his ear. He pushed him away. ‘I’m working.’

‘Lunch?’ He whispered.

Reb’s eye and nose twitched together.

He never visited at lunchtime. This was a first and he seemed a little out of kilter with the idea. ‘You’re cheeky and lucky. I’m not doing anything, and I have the afternoon off. Besides, I’m bored.’ He checked the time on the large clock in the front of the library. It was just before lunch. As a temporary member of staff, he was entitled to work only three days a week.

‘Wait for me outside. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’ He said, half turning to walk away.

Lambieswas a German delicatessen but both ordered a hamburger. ‘Okay,’ Rebs sighed, ‘what is it? The last time you and that rat, Philippe, were having problems.’ He pronounced it Fill-ee-pay.

‘Phillip. Just say Phillip. This time it’s far more serious.’

‘Are you going to tell me already?’

‘I bought something. I was looking for an odd candle in the mall the other day and came across one that looks like Sagittarius, the Archer. In fact, it has the same shape as the archer. The thing with this candle is that it’s life size.’

‘Well, congratulations on buying a candle that looks like an archer. Get to the point.’

‘Last night, while preparing the candle to be lit, I discovered all these inscriptions on it and wondered if you could help me decipher it.’

‘Decipher the inscriptions? Just burn the damned thing.’ He slapped the air and twitched his nose.

‘I think you need to see this candle before we make such hasty judgements.’

His days spent in the field were over. He preferred being a librarian. It was safer. He had been approached many times to assist on expeditions and he had flatly refused.

‘Where is it?’ Rebs asked.

‘At home.’

Home was a studio apartment in Rivonia, north of Johannesburg. The building boasted curved lines and wall to wall mirrors. The inside smelled like weeping pine. It was sparsely furnished, the wooden pine floors had been varnished, and there were no pictures, leaving the white walls free to reflect the sunlight off the wooden floor. A black grand piano, of no special make, stood inside the round of a bay window that had a view of the Jukskei River. His sheet music lay scattered across the lid of the piano.

‘Composed anything great lately?’ Rebs asked, taking a quick peek at the sheets of music.

‘Writer’s block.’ Monty said.

He led Rebs into his study lined with books and two computers, two printers, and several small music speakers. He had moved the chair aside to make space for the candle. Rebs extended a hand and touched the Archer gently, and then his gaze rested on a symbol carved on the rump of this half man half horse.

A simple, cursive arrow.

Jupiter

The Archer.

'He has orbited the earth since time began and it was said that the day would come when he will dance and sing and drink the fairest wine. Qin selected him for his spirit of adventure and his carefree attitude. But he has a greater wisdom, and his own philosophy of self and identity.'

‘Nice. You believe that shit?’

‘I studied this shit, remember.’

Reb's concentrating stare never left the Archer's rump. What looked like a jumble of words had been inscribed into the metal casing. He could read Mandarin. He studied languages as a second major.

'Wait! There's more.' He read the message out in a soft, almost conjuring voice.

These are words that should not be spoken lest

The Squire of Mars

Be thrust upon the world.

The hair grows wild

On a fig from a

A large southern island.

Fate is in your hands.

Seek out this fruit

and squeeze Its juice

over a flame.

Be very concerned.

Once you have read this

There is no going back.

The curse has been set.

If you fail to find the fruit

Your brain will be

Scale.

'I think you should burn the thing and get it over with.’ Rebs said, losing concentration for just a moment.

Monty said, thoughtfully, ‘he wrote, ‘These are words that should not be spoken lest The Squire of Mars Be thrust upon the world'. What do you think he meant by that?'

‘I have no idea. Maybe I shouldn’t have read it out loud, the message?’ The tip of Reb's lip twitched. He scratched his chin.

‘Yeah, well he hasn’t started moving .’

‘Don’t jump the gun. What else does it say? Something about a hairy fruit. The only hairy fruit on a southern Island I know, well, besides you, is Kiwi fruit. He says we should get some and squeeze the juice over a fire or something. Let’s see that again?’

His gaze once again fell on the Archer's rump, but to his amazement, the writing vanished.

‘Where do we get Kiwi fruit?’ Monty frowned.