"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania."
W.Shakespeare, A Midummernight's Dream, Act II, Scene 1
(Dedicated to the memory of Arthur Machen [1863-1947], although he would never, NEVER, have written a story like this.)
*
At age 79, Arthur Benjamin, a retired chemist, was an over-weight, diabetic widower on the wrong side of his first heart attack. He also had a classic case of erectile dysfunction, probably as a consequence of his medical problems. Since the death of his wife six years previously, he had not tried to have a sexual relationship with a woman, whether a friendly encounter or with a professional. For several years he had contented himself with masturbation, usually while watching one of the several XXX VCR tapes he had acquired, but recently he had encountered increasing difficulty in achieving orgasm. He often read the newspaper advertisements for massage parlors, and was occasionally tempted to visit one of them. The thought of lying naked on a table while a woman, more or less undraped herself, massaged and pummeled his body, concluding with a "hand job", was intensely exciting. But an active imagination concerning the possible fraudulent use of his credit card, or stealing his identity, combined with a very real hypochondria, had so far kept him away.
This difficulty was not a topic he dared discuss with his few male friends, of whom a few were, like himself, widowed. Unexpectedly, one day, one of them, Bill Withers, told him about a vacation retreat in the Adirondacks at the edge of Lake Tetrahedron where couples and singles, both men and women, gathered for fun and games. Although nothing was said about it in the brochure Bill showed him, apparently almost all of the attendees were writers or would-be writers. Arthur had never written anything other than project proposals and reports, but he thought he might like to try his hand at short fiction, something along the lines of the pulp fiction he had devoured as a boy.
Bill had already signed up, and without saying anything explicit, it was clear that he was anticipating a couple or three romantic encounters in the two weeks. Arthur had no such dreams, but at the least, he could enjoy the mountain scenery, do some walking, perhaps write a
page or two, and enjoy good food and drink with convivial company as described in the brochure. Arthur was not find of driving, so he gratefully accepted Bill's invitation to go in Bill's car.
The ride up was pleasant. Arthur was bringing his laptop computer, and he found himself anticipating writing on it in a sylvan glade.
He was disappointed to find that the brochure's description of the accommodations was mostly copywriter's hyperbole. In reality they were at best a degree or two above those of a Motel 6. And the food was much closer to a high-school cafeteria than to a gourmet restaurant.
There was no assigned seating in the dining room, and there were not many changes after the first night. Bill quickly managed to get a seat at a table with four or five women of varying ages and degrees of pulchritude, while Arthur found himself at a table with two couples. One of the women talked ceaselessly throughout the meal, but said little. One of the men was deaf, and mumbled constantly, but whether to himself or to his companions, Arthur never found out.
The camp was managed by a middle-aged couple, Mr. and Mrs. Albert Holland. Mrs. Holland did almost all of the work with little assistance from Albert, except when heavy lifting was needed. Mostly Albert sat on a porch swing, smoking an ever-present pipe, eager to talk with anyone who sat on the porch. Somewhat to his surprise, Arthur found chatting with Al (as he preferred to be called) to be quite pleasant, especially about Adirondack mountain lore. Once Arthur asked whether there were legends about fairies hiding in the bushes.
"Fairies!" Al chuckled. "Not on your life, Mister." (Al never learned anyone's name; they were all "Mister" or "Missus.") "The only place there are fairies in these parts is in children's books. But we do have elves!"
"Elves?" said Arthur. "You mean little creatures with pointed ears dressed in green and brown who go around stealing milk from cows, that sort of thing?"
"No, no!" said Al. "That's story book stuff, too. Have you read Tolkien's Lord of the Rings? Do you remember the elves described in that book? Tall, handsome men, lithe, beautiful women—that's the kind of elves we have in these mountains. Except for one difference: Our elves are all female, no male elves, ever,"
"No males?" Arthur queried. "Then how do they reproduce?"
"Dunno. Of course people say these elves are very, very long-lived, so maybe they don't need to reproduce."
"Have you ever seen even one of these elvish women?" Arthur asked?
"Nope—and don't want to, either, I'll tell you, Anybody 'round here will tell you, having anything to do with them is bad luck any time, an' that goes triple on moonlit nights. Ol' Johnson down the road apiece, he apparently met up with some of them two years ago, on a night when the full moon was out, an' he ain't never been the same since. Believe me, you couldn't get me to walk out in them woods on a moonlit night for all the tea in China."
Arthur tried to get more information out of Al, who changed the subject and stubbornly refused to say anything more about elves.
On the fourth day of Bill and Arthur's stay, an unexpected newcomer showed up. Her name was Lola Lilychild. She was a tall, statuesque woman with a head of flaming red hair, that shade of coppery red hair that is seldom seen other than in Titian paintings.
By good fortune at dinner that evening, she seated herself at Arthur's table. She was wearing a sheer tight-fitting low-cut blouse out of which popped a magnificent pair of mammary glands. The other guests at table hardly seemed to notice her, but Arthur could barely keep his eyes off her, especially when she occasionally leaned over the table to reach for the bread basket or the butter, revealing an enchanting vista of a dark canyon between two white mounds.
He desperately but unsuccessfully tried to engage her in conversation. She would look at him, smile briefly, but her replies were monosyllables, mostly yes's or no's. After dinner he gathered the courage to ask her to go for a walk with him, which she politely declined, saying she wanted to unpack her suitcase. And with that, she went into the women's bathroom. Arthur thought of waiting for her to emerge and then at least try to walk with her to her cabin, but after a long wait, he gave up and went to his cabin.
To his intense disappointment, she did not appear at either lunch or dinner. Feeling depressed Arthur wandered around morosely after dinner. He knew that he ought to go back to his cabin and do a little writing, but there was a gorgeous full moon shining, so on a whim, he decided to walk at least part way around the lake. At first this was easy, because the well-worn path showed clearly in the moonlight. But soon afterwards this path led through a grove of tall trees which blotted out the moon. Fearful of falling in the dark with no help nearby, he started to turn back when suddenly he noticed a light just ahead of him on the path. As he stared at it, it rotated as if to indicate, follow me. Puzzled, as he stood still trying to make up his mind, the light's movement became more agitated. Finally, he thought, What the hell!, and went after it. Once in a while he stopped, sometimes trying to determine was where he was, and sometimes thinking of turning back. At these times, the light would start its rotating "Follow me" motion. Intrigued, Arthur went along with it.
After some fifteen or so minutes, the trees thinned out, and Arthur was able to make out the path. He noticed a well-worn set of tire tracks, set wider apart than would have been made by a car, more like those of a large motor home. Even in the semi-darkness, he was able to see that this vehicle left a distinctive herringbone-like track. And then not far off, he saw the vehicle itself, which was indeed a large motor home.
As he approached it, a door in its middle opened and a tall woman came out and walked toward him, her arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture. She was sporting a ring with a gorgeous reddish stone that sparkled when it caught a moonbeam. As she came closer, he saw that she had ash blond hair gleaming in the moonlight. They met and she wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, saying, "Welcome, Arthur! Lola and I had been hoping you would come for a visit." On closer examination, Arthur saw that for all her erect frame and prominent bosom, the wrinkles around her eyes revealed her age as being at least sixty, and maybe even older.
