Furs of The Moth Queen

I almost forgot about the trash bag in the back of my closet.  A long time ago, (I think maybe fifteen years?)I tied it in a triple knot, sealed it so no air would come in, and left it in the back end of my closet. Over the years, it was buried beneath the permafrost of unwashed laundry, which piled up and took over the closet as a whole. 

I should say I’m not a hoarder. My room is a mess, but that’s mostly because I’m forgetful and have a hard time letting go of stupid things. It’s become a problem, recently, because I just can’t let people into my space. And every few months I try to make changes, but then, shortly after, my studio ends up looking the same. And because it is a studio, because there isn’t much in the way of pushing things out of sight, my closet ended up being a time capsule of dread, which I would rather not think about. Except I think it might be time.

As I went through shirts I used to love, and colors I no longer wear, and that specific scent of mildew that things get when they are gross and old, I found the bag, and I remembered, though I never really forgot. And I decided to open it, tear into it, because there is no real alternative to opening knotted plastic bags, I was shocked. Who ate from my old grandmother’s fur coat?

My old grandmother’s fur coat, which was sealed from the world by virtue of three or more defenses, had holes, chunks and pieces missing from it. It looked like someone had been eating from it.

I, of course, suspected it was the greedy wrath of moths. But how did they get there? And why have I never seen them? Because I never see anything like that in my apartment. I’m always really afraid that there might be roaches or bugs, but they never come. And I am sure, if there was a moth problem, that I would’ve known about it, or would have seen something. My space had no windows, and I knew it inside and out. So where did they come from?

Unwisely, I began shaking the old, hole riddled coat, and released a cloud of dust and mummified dander into my poorly ventilated room. And through the thick screen of gray powder that spread all around me, I saw a shadow. A figure. A dark clump that floated with the grace of a really juicy fly. The creature, which was not big but definitely not small, landed in front of me, coughed, and when the air finally cleared, took the extra measure to gurgle its throat before speaking. 

“Let go of my coat”, it said with a squeaky, unmistakably French voice.

“Excuse me?”, I said, inexplicably ready to pick a fight with the abomination before me.

The abomination was a bipedal, moth-like thing, that was almost fairy-like, except it wasn’t at all pretty.

“You are not excused. Unhand my garment before you stain it with your human filth” It said, turning away from me. It then put its moth-ish mouth to the fabric, and cut out a perfect hole.

For some reason, that really upset me.

“But it is not yours, it is my grandma’s- I mean, it is mine!” I pulled the coat away from the creature, who stared at me blankly with its glossy eyes. 

I haven’t really thought of my grandma in a while. She was a hard person, sometimes. She started working in a sweater factory at a young age, and before she died, she told me about a strange creature she sometimes saw while working late nights. A creature with slim, sharp fingers that fit between the seams of clothes, and unfurled them just for fun, undoing week’s worth of work at a time.

“But you never wear it”, the not-fairy said patiently.

“That’s besides the point. When my grandmother passed, everyone went to her house, and picked something, except for my aunt and dad, who received custody of her old apartment. I didn’t really want anything, but I felt bad just leaving, so I took this coat, and nothing else. So it is my only memory of her”. I crossed my arms. I was resolute in standing my ground.

Nevermind the fact I was digging out my disaster of a closet to get rid of most of the things in it. Give to goodwill that which was salvageable and washable, and throw away all that should no longer exist in the world. Before even seeing the coat and its many holes, I had already known it would be thrown to the trash. I didn’t want to give it. And though I hated the thought of my old rags in some landfill, adding to the endless mass of destruction that eats at the earth and oceans, I was okay with this specific coat floating across the Atlantic straight to trash island. It’s not personal, it’s just kind of an ugly coat.

“Well, for the past five years  have been using this trimmed pelt to create a garment tapestry for her supreme majesty, Queen of all Moths, in her latest couture piece de resistance. I need this coat to finish my work, for as you can imagine, her Majesty does not take kindly to failures and disappointments, and she has the highest of expectations for my latest chef d'oeuvre!” the creature shrieked, going out of its way to use French words even when I could tell it didn’t need to. 

“A queen?” To counter the creature’s vocabulary, my voice turned a bit New Jersey, though I have never even visited that state. 

“Yes, the moth queen. All moths report to the moth queen. Taking bits and pieces of clothes from human closets to create glorious outfits for her. Mostly, we take a few scraps from the edges, leaving just a hole or two. But when I first brought a small piece of this coat to her domain, nearly five years ago, the queen loved it so much she insisted that I- simple ashen drone that I am- become her personal atelier, and use this coat to create a magnificent winter cape.” the creature declared, before dissipating into reverent sighs. “ And oh, what a true honor it has been..”

Something about it unsettled me. I felt like it was trying to trick me. Making me believe that something was special, when it was so clearly not. I pulled the coat closer, and held it tighter. “Well, then I hope you’ve gotten everything you need out of it, because it’s mine, and I am not giving you more.” Fuck this moth. Moths think that all fabrics in the world belong to them, but they do not. And it’s none of its business what I plan on doing with this coat, so it should just give up and go home.

“Name your price” it insisted, hanging off the coat with its insect hands. “ I have nothing to my name, but I will cut off my left hand and give it to you for this is my life’s work!” the creature screeched. “Not just my life, but my life’s work! And you should be so honored that anything of yours is coveted by the Queen, you-” the creature was losing its french accent, and something in me reveled in the confirmation that it was phony.

“You may not have my grandmother’s coat.” I repeated, meeting the hysterics with an unshakable calmness. I knew that if I just kept my calm for a bit longer, I could probably get away with it, the only thing is I had a hard time physically holding onto the coat. It had always unsettled me that my grandma felt comfortable in fur. That she was even proud to wear something that was once alive. A rabbit. Multiple rabbits. A rabbit that once skinned, was probably eaten by someone, who then pooped the rabbit, and later, at some point, probably died himself.  And through it the coat remained, existing as a carcass and a garment, and it was gross, but it was hers, and now it is mine, and I don’t like giving things away. 

“I told you to name your price, blundering idiot!” The creature persisted, and I decided to snatch the coat from its grasp completely, and condemn the obnoxious harpy to its queen’s cruel death. This coat is dear to me.

But when I held the coat of many holes and looked through the gaping veil, I did not see to the other side of my yellowing closet. I did not see the furious creature rapped with me in a small room. Instead, I saw the far away place from which all strange creatures come. A place where all missing scraps go. A place full of lint and pennies. A place where discarded string finds its use, stacking and weaving into something greater than the sum of its parts. A dimension of many colors.

And in the center of it, a little atelier workshop, and in the center of the workshop, a furious queen.

“Fluffy?! Fluffy?! Where is that skeeving mothball, Fluffy?”  she demanded, flipping through Kraft paper patterns impatiently.

If I could, I would describe to you the Moth Queen’s face. Her, no doubt, regal and royal features. But I couldn’t really find her face, because there were so many eyes on her clothing. Whenever I thought I identified a face, I realized it was just the strange pattern of her lapel, or a hand extending from her hat. I was mesmerized. 

She reminded me of the walls of some far away castle, with tapestries that commemorates a people and a past. Successful hunts, and jilted lovers. Family trees, and royal deaths. And all of those figures, peaking between the layers of her coats, could also see me. And I wonder what they were made of. Other people’s coats? Old polyester? Silk? I thought I saw goat skin and marmot hair lining one of her skirts, but I couldn’t be sure. It made me wish my studio had windows, so I could get pretty curtains that also looked like this.  

Poor Fluffy looked terrified, and seemed torn between disobeying the queen, and facing her wrath. I saw Fluffy’s creation hanging on a mannequin in the corner of the room. Whereas the rest of the Queen’s clothes appeared to be all the colors combined, Fluffy’s piece was just simple brown and gray. I could clearly see the patches around the collar that were pieces of my grandmother's fur. I remembered her wearing a really red lipstick with this coat, before going to the department store to smell the perfumes.I think it’s because I knew The Moth Queen would probably not like Fluffy’s creation, that I was suddenly fine with giving the coat away.

Fluffy flew into a hole in the coat, taking the whole coat into itself, and more than anything, I was just delighted to see a rabbit disappear.