Princípios do Culto Secreto dos Monstros
Outono de 1840. O mundo, como uma baleia emergindo à superfície, incendiava-se nos olhos do jovem. Uma carta vinda de dezenas de milhas de distância, um viajante de terras estrangeiras, algumas histórias de imaginação fascinante. Cerimônias, objetos estranhos, espécies exóticas, artes invisíveis; escritos secretos de maldição, gatos-dragão de orelhas pontudas, pequenos seres sob o assoalho, castelos que caminham nos sonhos; ciência e mistério, fantasia e realidade. O jovem batia levemente sua bengala, cruzando-se com a era, cabelos negros voando e dissolvendo-se nas risadas despreocupadas atrás de si: “Quem se opõe a nós é sempre vilão!” diziam os monstros. ———— Também conhecido como: “O Fim do Ocultismo Provavelmente É o Chá da Tarde”, “Os Membros da Minha Seita Não São Muito Normais” Palavras-chave: fantasia vitoriana, misticismo, culto secreto, cotidiano de gente-gato.
Princípios do Culto Secreto dos Monstros
Before receiving that letter, Roland was still working at the county poorhouse.
He had been there since he was no taller than a wheel.
Everyone said they had never seen a child so beautiful. The female workers adored him fiercely; the nurses and cooks showed him special kindness—his face was thin and delicate, with black hair and slender arms and legs, and his golden eyes shone like amber stones.
No one didn’t love him.
No one passed by without teasing him with a few words.
That was until they discovered he was blind.
That was until he was sick all year round, one ailment after another.
Roland had thought he would spend his whole life in the “stable” (the children’s nickname for their roofed, walled shelter), or, when he came of age, be taken away to glue paper boxes, clean chimneys, or dig coal—he was clearly better suited to coal mining—saving oil more than others.
Until he received that letter.
“Wishing you good health, Mr. Collins.”
“If I may call you Roland.”
The woman reading the letter was Yarm Jones, who had cared for Roland for several years and was the only one unafraid that his blindness might be contagious.
“I am Will, the butler of the Collins family.”
Under the flickering oil lamp, she carefully held the corners of the letter, reading each word aloud.
The envelope was made of fine leather paper with a stamp; the ink was fresh, and when she rubbed it with her finger, a faint scent rose.
This was the scent of wealth.
Yarm Jones, experienced and knowledgeable, understood c
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