“My Fair Lady cloaked in deep royal purple,
How is life over yonder?
A place between the heavens and below,
What a place to rest, to respite, to rise.”
A man at a corner of the flea market crooned, his voice sweet, yet sad and mellow. His long hair was matted and greasy, as if he hadn’t taken a good shower in days. The rug he sat on was full of holes and dirt, and his calloused fingers that strummed and plucked the strings of his old guitar were covered in soot. To any other passerby, he might have been seen as “scum”, and only few might have spared him a measly penny. At best, volunteers and do-gooders might have helped him with funds and food, but the average busy businessman wouldn’t care, though their companies preached their ethics. And there was Hugh Hughes, a man of neutrality. Hugh Hughes was neither man of great compassion, nor was he a man of wealth, but he felt that it was his duty as a good samaritan to help out a man in crisis. He had recently watched a short video online of how good deeds brought good karma, and decided to do some good.
He tossed a note of 10 into the crooner’s rusted tin full of pennies and wished him a good day. The crooner, however, didn’t look at him with any gratitude, and didn’t mutter a simple “thank you” either. He just continued singing his song, strumming the same chords over and over. He had a look at his eye, which seemed apologetic and full of regret. Hugh wondered what had happened to the man and walked away. Hugh could only guess that the man either committed a terrible crime or was just too unequipped for a proper job. In his thoughts, he swore to himself to never end up poor, dirty and alone – like that man. He wanted to be rich, polished and surrounded. And he was confident he would get there.
Hugh continued wandering around the flea market, trying to look for any antique goods that could be used for his future projects. There were booths displaying vintage jewellery, vendors polishing their old china, and some even had large booths with all sorts of furniture that looked as if they were someone’s grandparents’ past property. But there was nothing special that caught Hugh’s eye. He wanted something special, something unique, something that would be perfect for the camera. Filmmaking would’ve been the bane of Hugh’s existence if it wasn’t for his passion for it. He knew that it would be difficult to earn as much money as anyone else in other industries, but he was willing to give up a cushy life as an accountant in pursuit of his dream. He still remembered the dismayed look on his parents’ face when he decided to give up on his studies to become an independent filmmaker. He remembered the scoffs his friends gave him, and the harsh words they threw at him when he dared to share his dream with them. His memories of them all were like a deep scar refusing to fade away, and in turn, he refused to let the past go. He needed to prove everyone wrong.
“Antiques for sale! Antiques for sale!” a vendor kept shouting. Intrigued, Hugh went over to the vendor’s booth to see if there could be anything he finally fancied.
“Hullo! See anything you like, Sir?” the vendor asked politely. The vendor looked different from everyone else, and wore archaic clothing instead of the usual t-shirt and jeans. Perhaps the vendor was just playing a character.
“Nothing in particular yet, no,” Hugh replied as he skimmed through the items on sale. There were candles, goblets, and dried herbs on sale. He wasn’t quite sure what they could be used for, except for the beautiful jewellery and crystals that were also on display. As Hugh was about to leave, disinterested in what the booth had to offer, the vendor tapped his shoulder.
“Wait! Wait, please!” There was a sort of desperation in the vendor’s tone of voice that drew Hugh back. “Before you leave, Sir, may I interest you with this book I have?”
A heavy, leather-bound tome was placed onto Hugh’s hands. It had an uncanny look to it – old yet new, like it hadn’t aged a day since it was written. It smelt of flowers instead of the musty smell of wood other books had. It had no title, but a heart-shaped purple gemstone was embedded into the middle of its leather cover. To Hugh, it looked special.
“How much for this book?” Hugh asked as he searched for his wallet.
“Free of charge, dear Sir! You look as if you need it,” the vendor said with a smile that Hugh couldn’t discern as either generous or sly, but he couldn’t care less. The vendor was right – he needed that book. It was calling for him.
“Really?” Hugh asked coyly, in false disbelief. A book free of charge was just wonderful to him, and if it weren’t for manners, he would have just taken it away there and then with a brief utterance of gratitude.
“For true, Sir,” the vendor said. “Go along, now.”
“Thanks! You are very kind,” Hugh said as he walked away clutching his new obtainment tightly. His mind went wild with what could be done with the antique tome – it could be used as a prop, an object that could drive a narrative forward, or it could inspire him if he read it.
So, he read as much as he could. As soon as he got home, he began annotating the book as he read from chapter to chapter, until he was no longer able to continue on anymore. Patience was not a key virtue of Hugh’s, but creativity was. He was able to deduce – from his 2 hours of reading and annotating – that the book was about a young woman living in the 1800s, and her struggles of finding camaraderie. She was known mononymously as Sybil, and from Hugh’s deduction, was a brooding lass who liked reading and writing, but struggled to fit into high society. From what he had read, he was sure that it was something akin to the classic works of the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen. Stories like those were famous and beloved by the public, to his knowledge. He wondered why the old tome he had in his hand was not recognised by the public. It had no title, but the first page had the writer’s name – Sybil. “Sybil” seemed like a catchy and mysterious name to Hugh, so he decided that the title of the story he just read would be just “Sybil”, and that the indie film he would make based on her story would be just “Sybil”. Who Sybil was, Hugh might never know, but “Sybil” could potentially be the magnum opus of his trove of films.
So Hugh Hughes did it. He set up an entire team who liked his idea and his story that he told them was “based on a little vintage book he found at a flea market”. There was no denying that he spent a great deal of money and effort on the film, as it took over a year for him to complete the entire story. In the end, his film ended up becoming a period romance with its main character, “Sybil”, a socially awkward, plain but pretty young woman who fell in love with a rich man from high society. In interviews and marketing crusades, he told journalists and reporters that his indie film was based on great works such as “Pride and Prejudice”, “My Fair Lady”, “Jane Eyre”, “Pretty Woman”, and the like. Of course, he also gave an honourable mention to that “little vintage book from a flea market”. People liked his indie film, and they liked Hugh Hughes, the man behind the film, just as much.
Months after the success of his film, Hugh was able to afford a large apartment in the city center. He was offered jobs at famous film studios, and his previous works and short films began to become popular on the internet. Ever since “Sybil” became a worldwide sensation, people around him respected him and his craft, and often overlooked the fact that it was adapted from another book. Hugh didn’t mind – he was sure 60% of the story shown in theatres was his idea. His parents visited him more often, bearing fruits and homecooked meals, and bragged about his achievement and his brilliance to their friends. His friends who once mocked his dream called him, begging him to hire them should he ever need someone of their expertise. He knew he had won in life. He was at the point where people he knew would listen to his every whim, and would become his own personal bootlickers. He was unstoppable.
Yet, despite his new life of luxury and popularity, he was deeply disturbed by strange occurrences that kept happening back at his home. Every now and then, the lights in his rooms would flicker and fuse despite being brand new. The vase near his door always fell despite having no one or anything to push it. His dreams of being pulled down by his feet kept recurring every night. There were nights where he dreamed of being trapped in a box of serpents and insects. Something was amiss, something was abnormal – there was something malevolent in his residence. He was sure of it. He felt that there was something over his shoulder constantly, like he was being watched. Perhaps he was truly being watched, as ravens often peeked through his windows and perched on his balcony. He felt as though millions of eyes stared daggers at him every hour, every minute and every day. The gaze of the impalpable unknown was invisible, and it was unfathomable to Hugh as to why he felt it.
He kept his little book he fondly named “Sybil” in a glass case in his living room, like a heavenly gift that was bestowed upon mankind, protected and presented like an ancient relic in a museum. Except, it was only for Hugh himself to admire, as he always covered it when visitors came. However, the book was powerful, for sure. Not as a centerpiece or artpiece, but as something mystical. Hugh was convinced it was not a normal book. He understood that it brought him good fortune, yet the action of being near it would cause him to feel existential dread. He tried making sense of everything – he took, in his own mind, the most practical path, which was to visit a psychiatrist. Perhaps he was wrong and it was all in his head, but the psychiatrist could not help diagnose Hugh at all, saying that he was in perfect health. Hugh felt hopeless. Like the flowers in his bedside vase that slowly turned brown with each day, he too deteriorated drastically. He was still eating meals and splurging on luxuries to keep himself happy, he was still entertaining his friends and family with parties and conversation, yet he felt deeply empty inside. There was something wrong with his home, something wrong with that book, and he just could not prove it.
It all changed one night, however. Before Hugh went to bed, he attended an award ceremony and received awards for his beloved film, “Sybil”. He bragged boastfully about his achievements, his passion for filmmaking and how he worked hard for the film, and even drank and ate so much that he had to be carried back to his bed in his luxury apartment. For a moment, he felt a sort of peace, a sort of contentment. He felt as if he was floating in the sky, waving to doves and twiddling with the ribbons of kites. He felt free, far removed from reality, away from all the pressure of maintaining an image of a gifted filmmaker. One could argue that he felt too far removed from reality, as in actuality, he was. When he finally awoke from his dream of floating in the air, he found himself levitating from his bed. His vision was blurry, but he could hear women chanting all around him. He was perplexed – was he not alone at home in his bed?
“Hugh!” a deep, feminine voice bellowed. “You have angered me.”
“Who’s there? Is this a dream?” Hugh asked as he attempted to flail his arms around to no avail.
“Sybil,” the unknown lady announced, and the chants of other women intensified. “And no, Hugh. This is far from a dream. Wake up now.”
As soon as she gave that order, Hugh’s vision cleared. What he saw haunted him – there was a circle of women cloaked in burgundy, all chanting gibberish as they stood in a circle. There was a symbol on the ground decorated with all sorts of ornaments, candles, and dried herbs. The scene was baffling to Hugh, who was being restrained by an invisible force inches above his bed. Sybil – the lady that spoke to him – floated on top of him. She was not an apparition, and seemed human enough. Yet there was something about her that was different, as if she had otherworldly abilities. Perhaps that was true, as thick smoke swirled around her fingers, and connected the entire circle together, like she was lending everybody her energy. Hugh was able to deduce immediately that she was the leader, and he was under her control, whether he liked it or not.
“Do you know what you have done?” one cloaked woman asked, her tone dismayed.
“You have offended our Lady!” another woman yelled, her voice angry.
“You will pay for your sins!” yet another cloaked woman exclaimed, her words laced with conceit.
“May Our Lady have mercy on you,” a cloaked woman from behind her stated.
Hugh continued to struggle, yet everything he tried to do restrained him further, until he could only think of what he wanted to do. He wanted to speak, but realised that his mouth was sealed shut.
“Hugh, I wanted to forgive you,” Sybil said disappointedly. “I had such high hopes for you. I led you to that stall, and bewitched that vendor to hand you my book – my diary. Yet you did not read it properly, and adapted my story into a film so different from the source material that I could not help but laugh at its surface-level stupidity. Then you did not give me the proper credit, and took too many liberties with my story for a quick cash grab.
You wrote me as a plain, awkward girl who did not know how to fit into high society. Let me be clear, Hugh. I was in high society. I knew everything about it. I despised everything about it. I could not fit in because I could practice magic, Hugh! There was no man to save me, to guide me, to love me. I had but myself. I honed my craft for nearly two centuries, and gathered a coven all by myself just to be portrayed – no – reduced to a silly girl saved by a rich gentleman. Have you no shame, Hugh? Why did you only stop reading my story halfway? You insolent, dim-witted fool!”
Then the women in the room started chanting in unison, “Give Our Lady the respect she deserves!”
They repeated and repeated their chant until Hugh lost his consciousness. The last thing he heard was Sybil’s cackle. The last thing he felt was a strong gust of wind that engulfed him like a flame. Then, nothing.
It was pitch black. He was kept in Sybil’s shroud of darkness, and could not do, hear, or feel anything. He began to question himself if he even existed. What was his life, anyway? Did he truly do something so devastatingly wrong that a curse was placed onto him? All he did was adapt a book. He thought about it even harder. Perchance he did do something wrong, something considerably blasphemous. He should have read the book properly and cited it as a major source of his inspiration. If he wasn’t so greedy and had more compassion…
Then suddenly, there was light. Yet he could not feel his eyes opening, as he had none at all.
Fields, fields, fields.
Rows of dead crops.
Heat waves from the scorching weather.
Then, a raven swooped down from the sky and rested beside him.
“It is rare to find a hyacinth in this area,” the raven said to him. “You are an odd little flower to grow alone in such a place!”
“Ah, it must be planted here by Our Lady Sybil!” another raven chimed in cheerily as it landed beside him.
A moment later, a conspiracy of ravens flew down and around him, chanting,
“O’ Flower beside the road, how sad you are.
Why, little hyacinth, are you trapped there?
It is but a field of rotten maize!
What tragedy it is to be alone, afraid, anguished.
My Fair Lady cloaked in deep royal purple,
What – our lady – was your decree?
She said to her ladies,
‘A hyacinth for the greedy, the wrong, the guilty.’
O’ Flower beside the road, licking dust and tar,
How tragic you are, how terrible you fare.
May your sins of your past life be given grace.
A hyacinth for the greedy, wrong, guilty Hugh Hughes.”
Written By: Julia
Edited By: Amberlyn
