Crone, flustered, disparaging
I gave only one look at the aged grandmother: wrinkled, bony, hunched, almost bald, toothlessly champing her granulated lips, her eyes red and gummy, her withered paps flapping against slatted ribs. One look at the crone was enough for me.
But her daughter was an exceptionally beautiful woman, anyway when she was not talking, and her daughter was a superbly beautiful and shapely girl about my own age. She was the Crown Princess named Magas, which means Moth.
After our long stay at the palace, it was time to hit the road again, and so we went to make our final and formal leavetakings of the royal family.
“There’s one here in the palace to whom I would like my personal regards conveyed. Princess Shams is her name.” I said, when it was my turn to speak.
Moth’s mother threw me a disparaging glance, as her daughter retreated to a corner looking flustered. It was then that I realized what a fool I’ve been.
Speechless with astonishment and revulsion and horror and revulsion, I stared at “Moth’s sister” the wrinkled, balding, mottled, shrunken, moldy, decrepit, unspeakably old grandmother who together with Moth, had spend several nights together in my escapades.
She responded to my eye-extruding stare with a lascivious and gloating smile that bared her withered gray gums. Then, as if to make sure I did not fail of realization, she slowly ran the tip of her mossy tongue across her granulated upper lip.
I think I may have reeled where I stood, but I followed my father and uncle out of the room without falling unconscious or vomiting on the alabaster floor. I only vaguely heard the cheery, laughing, mocking goodbyes Moth called after me, for I was hearing inside my head other mocking noises.