Thrashing around like a man on fire, he tangled himself thoroughly in the thorns. He staggered and stumbled, losing his footing, then plunged head first down into the gully, just as had happened to Carol Cowley a few days earlier. But Cain was not so lucky. There were no bruises, scratches and concussion for him, but a skull cracked upon a stone and a broken neck. Instead of restoring his great-grandmother's line, he had shared her fate and ended it.
· Critical Massacre
Gordon Shimmin was a writer. A slightly reclusive gentleman in his sixties, with impeccable manners and a disdain for the vulgar, he dressed in tweed suits, always wore a tie and loathed modernity with a passion. He lived in a studio apartment overlooking Ramsey harbour, with its fishing boats and its swing bridge. Here he would sit in his armchair, gazing out of the window, seeking for his muse, stroking his black Manx cat, Solomon, who lay curled in his lap.
Gordon wrote fantasy stories. But he was very proud of his Manx heritage and he based his fiction upon the authentic themes and folklore of his Celtic ancestors, writing eerie tales of water horses, bugganes and phynnodderees. For the old country folk of the Island, the world of Fairy had not been a twee and childish thing, but a brooding threat, a supernatural menace whose denizens were feared and respected by their mortal neighbours. Gordon tried to recreate these fears in the tales he wrote for a contemporary readership. Some of his stories echoed the High Fantasy of Tolkien and Moorcock as he wrote about such events as the Battle of Fairy Bridge, between the human and Otherworld forces. But all bore his stamp of Gaelic authenticity.
Originally, Gordon's books had been published by a small press in Wales. Sadly, however, they had gone out of business when small publishers began feeling the squeeze and distributors were no longer willing to handle their low print run, specialist titles. This had dismayed Gordon for a while, as he considered it his sacred duty to preserve the tales and folklore of his native land, telling old themes in a new guise to captivate a modern readership. But then he had discovered the internet.
Gordon was not a great lover of modern technology. He swore that he would never own a mobile phone, not if his life depended upon it, and as far as he was considered, the only music worth listening to came on twelve inch vinyl discs with grooves on their surface. But finally, inevitably, he had gone out and bought himself a laptop computer.
He only intended to use it for word processing, of course. He had originally pooh-poohed the notion of writing using a computer, proudly declaring that his old typewriter had served him faithfully for many years and had always been good enough for his publisher. But then he had seen a young man at a neighbouring table in a cafe writing an essay on his notebook computer. Fascinated and spellbound despite himself, Gordon had watched as the man inserted text in the middle of existing paragraphs and even moved whole blocks around instantly. He began to covet, and just a few days later he was removing his new purchase from its box and placing it carefully upon his writing desk.
From that moment on, Gordon had taught himself computing and word processing from books. He found that although the whole concept of computers had previously been quite alien to him, he was able to understand how to use them perfectly well provided he could read the instructions in a book. Good old books, he would smile, there's still nothing to beat them!
Inevitably, he finally tentatively tried the waters of the internet, discovering when he did so the vast wealth of information and research materials that were available to him online. He revelled in this treasure trove. Then, lo and behold, one day he discovered something quite astonishing: some people were publishing their own books, and there were web sites where this publishing could be arranged, a print on demand service that would mail books out directly to fulfil customer orders and provide the author with a royalty payment every month.
Gordon had read and reread the information on the web sites: he need provide no money to finance the venture, publication was practically instantaneous, and royalties were paid monthly instead of six monthly. All he need provide were computer files of the interior pages of his book. Oh, he would have to learn how to format them precisely to suit the book,but that was merely a case of reading the instructions carefully and this was something that Gordon was very good at. It seemed too good to be true.
Gordon had decided to republish one of his earliest collections of stories first, a slim volume that had proved quite popular. He laboriously typed it all in, set up the page and font parameters to match the printed book, then uploaded it to the publishing site after setting up his account. He then spent some time using the web site's software to design a suitable cover, and he pressed the 'Publish' button. The cover price was slightly higher than the earlier edition, but it was still reasonable, and his royalty percentage was many times higher than any conventional publisher could offer. Then Gordon sat back and waited for the sales to happen.
It was thus that Gordon discovered the trickiest thing about self-publishing: you have to do all the marketing yourself, there are no publicists or sales reps to do it for you. If people don't know your book is out there, they're hardly likely to buy it. Oh, he had a few sales, but they were slow and infrequent, and he supposed these must be people who had encountered his work in the past and liked it, who had just put his name in a search engine by chance and been directed to his book.
So Gordon had reluctantly embraced social media such as Facebook and Twitter to promote his writings, and sales had grown quite a lot in consequence. He had then set to the work of typing up and republishing his whole back catalogue of eight books. Then, finally, he began work in earnest on his new material.
Gordon poured his heart and soul into the new stories, using all of the craft he had learned over the years, plumbing the profoundest depths of mythic knowledge to ensure that the archetypes he evoked in his stories rang true and would touch the reader's nerves, providing a real frisson of terror and excitement. Then, once he had edited and re-edited to his satisfaction, he published the book, under the title Weird Tales of the Isles.
Gordon wanted this, his masterwork, to be a success, far outstripping his earlier publications. Since he was responsible for his own marketing campaigns these days, he decided he would begin close to home. After all, the people of the Island would surely be interested in tales of fantasy and horror inspired by their own heritage? So he arranged to give a talk at a local hall, for invited guests plus anyone else who wanted to come along; he mailed a copy of the book to the local press for a review; and he badgered the local radio until they agreed to visit him at his home and record an interview with him.
When the evening of his talk and presentation arrived, Gordon dressed in his best suit, polished his shoes, and walked the short distance from Ramsey quayside to the hall. He got there very early, of course, so that he could watch people arriving. In fact, he arrived at the hall ten minutes before the caretaker appeared to unlock it and let him in.
Gordon had to wait a further half hour before the first invited guests began to show. It appeared that no one was going to be early. He had also advertised the event with small flyers posted in shop windows. A couple of curious people wandered in, but far fewer than he had hoped. Only about half of those who had been specifically invited seemed to have bothered to have turned up too. In total, there were perhaps twenty people in the hall when it came time for him to speak.
“Reckon it's time for you to go on and say your piece now,” the caretaker beamed at him.
Gordon shuffled uncomfortably. “I must confess the turnout is a little lower than I had hoped for.”
The caretaker shrugged. “Well, you should have picked a venue somewhere in Douglas if you ask me. People just don't want to travel to a little place like Ramsey for the evening just to hear a talk, not after a hard day at work. If you do it again, find a spot in Douglas: somewhere nice and central. You might get a few more people along then. Besides, you're not talking to yourself, and I've seen that happen before.”
“You're a great adv
ertisement for the hall,” remarked Gordon sarcastically. “I'm not a great believer in centralisation. I know from bitter experience what it did to my old publisher.”
“I'm just being realistic, chief. You've got a few here, though, and I'm interested in what you have to say. I don't usually hang around like this, you know, I just show up to let 'em in and then come back to lock up again when they're done. So you go on and give us all a good speech.”
Gordon did his best. He recognised at least one or two of the people he had sent invitations to: members of the press and representatives of the museum, as well as someone from the government, taking an interest in matters relating to culture and heritage. So he tried to address his talk to those people, stressing the importance of restoring the mythic archetypes of the Celts to national awareness, and how he hoped his stories might help to reignite an interest in traditional legends and lore, since the old tales were no longer told to children at their mothers' knees. “It is absolutely crucial that we Manx folk do not lose our identity,” he concluded, waving his arms passionately. “I sincerely hope that my little contribution, masquerading as an amusement, mere stories in a book, may help to place our values and heritage firmly at the forefront of our national consciousness once again.” He paused for breath and looked out over the faces seated before him. “Now then,” he beamed, spreading his arms expansively, “are there any questions?”
There were no questions and precious few comments, just a few vague smiles and nods as people filed out. The caretaker said, “Well said, chief. I'm right behind yer,” as he locked the doors a minute later, shutting Gordon out of the now empty building. His words were scant encouragement. Feeling a little deflated, Gordon walked slowly home. He sat in his chair, gazing out over the harbour for most of the night, stroking Solomon, who lay curled in his lap. If any had passed by beneath his window and chanced to look up, they might have sworn that he was continually muttering to the cat.
Gordon hurried to the newsagent on Friday to pick up a copy of the local paper. He returned home, spread the paper on the table and leafed rapidly through it, looking for a report on his presentation. He didn't see anything. Frustrated, he turned through the paper once more, looking more carefully this time. Still nothing. He savagely screwed it into a ball and hurled it into the bin.
He wrote nothing that day, but sat in his chair in a black mood, whispering vehemently in his cat's ear.
The following week, he was taking delivery of a parcel from the postman when the fellow said, “I saw the write up on your talk in the paper, Mr Shimmin. I wish I'd been there, but I didn't know it was happening.”
Gordon was taken by surprise. “Oh … er … well, thank you. Yes, thank you indeed. I did put up notices around town, you know.”
“I must have missed them,” shrugged the postman. “It's easily done, I spend so much time going from place to place with my head down, looking at the envelopes in my hand. You stop seeing the details after a while. Never mind, though, it sounds like it was very interesting. Hope you sell some books off it.”
The postman gave a cheery wave and was gone. Too quickly for Gordon to offer him the chance to buy a book himself, he noted sourly. He went back indoors, rapidly put on his shoes and coat and scurried out to get hold of a copy of the most recent newspaper. He felt a sense of relief, they naturally hadn't time to write up a proper report for the weekend's issue. He had been worrying for nothing.
Gordon had no trouble finding the article this time. It was accompanied by a photograph (none too flattering, he felt) of himself in mid speech. He put his glasses on and sat down to read:
BRINGING BACK THE PAST
by David Stephens
A couple of weeks ago, some curious flyers were posted in shop windows and on noticeboards in Ramsey, inviting all who were interested to attend an evening at the Community Hall where local author Gordon Shimmin would speak on the importance of Manx culture and legend.
Invitations were also sent to members of the local press and government, and I was selected to attend on behalf of The Manx Times. I may not be a Manxman myself, but even as a 'comeover', I know the importance of heritage to the Island and have every admiration for the incredible folklore that underlies our homeland.
I must admit that Mr Shimmin's presentation was not quite what I had been expecting. For a start, no opportunity for refreshments was provided, which was a bit of an embarrassing faux pas at such an event. After travelling a long way to hear someone speak, it is most welcoming to be able to enjoy a cup of tea and a biscuit at the very least. But this perhaps suited the tone of the evening, for Mr Shimmin appears to be a man of singular opinions and is perhaps a little removed from the world the rest of us live in.
The talk seemed to centre around Mr Shimmin's desire to sell his books. This is quite understandable: as an author, he needs to earn his crust through book sales. But as a promotional event, it was marvellously inept in both planning and execution. I had expected a little self-promotion, but I had also expected to see a selection of the author's books on sale, but there were none! Nor was his talk focused upon the Manx fables and fairy tales that have been passed down to us by such luminaries as Sophia Morrison or A.W. Moore. No, Mr Shimmin asserts that his representations of Celtic lore – which hover perilously close to horror rather than fantasy – are somehow more accurate and 'true'.
I'm afraid the majority of his talk went over my head. He stood before us, whirling his arms like a deranged Magnus Pyke, ranting about “archetypal patterns in consciousness”, “Platonic Forms” and the genetic transmission of spiritual principles. “It's in the blood!”, he kept exclaiming. “It's in the blood!” For those readers too young to recall Magnus Pyke, picture a windmill practising semaphore and you'll have a reasonable impression of this strangely animated diatribe.
I wish Mr Shimmin and his books well, but with his grim and uncompromising interpretation of what are essentially just children's fairy tales, his strange mannerisms and diction, and the fact that he is so old-fashioned in his appearance and attitudes, if he wishes to impress the ideas of the young, he is really going to have to try harder to reach out to their generation.
Gordon screwed up the paper and threw it across the room in a rage. Solomon, who had been sleeping on a cushion close by, raised his sleek black head and opened a questioning green eye. Gordon was waving his fists about, and when he saw that he had the cat's attention, he shouted, “What an imbecile! Why did they send somebody like that to my presentation? He possesses no depth of thought or understanding. He isn't even a Manxman, how did the editors expect him to comprehend our traditions?”
He began pacing up and down the room, waving his arms exactly as described in the article. Solomon's head bobbed back and forth, watching his every step. “Even the heading is wrong! It's not about bringing back the past! Is the man stupid? It's about restoring past values to the present! It's about realising that the mythic patterns that inspired our ancestors are eternal, part of our own heritage, a deeply ingrained part of our psyche! But oh no, he doesn't understand that part of my presentation at all, when I discuss the philosophical and psychological importance of folk tales, he – he – just scoffs at it, because he's too stupid to understand! Does no one read Jung these days?”
Finally, Gordon ran out of steam and sadly slumped down into his armchair. Solomon slunk onto his lap and Gordon ruffled the cat's ears. “Why are people so very, very stupid, Solomon? I don't know how to deal with these things. I'm so very lucky I've got you.” He smiled down at his cat, who blinked up at him and meowed soothingly.
Gordon felt that his next promotional venture went much better. He had arranged an interview with local radio and they had very kindly offered to send someone round to his own apartment to interview him at home, where he could feel comfortable and free of nervousness. The conversation would be recorded and then broadcast a couple of weeks later. Gordon thought this an excellent idea and thought he could make it sound very homely and sophisticated
by making tea as they talked. The sounds of the pot pouring and the clink of fine china would provide a lovely ambience for the talk, putting listeners at ease and helping them to absorb his words.
The young man they sent round to talk to him arrived at two o'clock on the appointed afternoon and was very polite and personable, much to Gordon's relief. He asked simple, stock questions about Gordon's books and their themes, what he hoped to achieve by writing them, and what readers should look forward to. He was also happy to chat about wider matters of Manx legend and folklore, though to Gordon's mind he wasn't very well informed and asked a couple of rather inept questions. Not to worry though, since these were just prompts and Gordon was able to redirect his detailed replies down the avenues he wanted. And all the while as they talked, he poured and stirred tea, clinking cup against saucer, creating an interesting soundscape for the listener.
Considering it was supposed to be a half hour interview, Gordon was surprised to find it was after four o'clock when his interviewer, Charles Warden, packed up his equipment and prepared to leave. As Gordon showed the man to the door, his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “Am I to be given a larger slot, then? Since you recorded so much material?”
Charles smiled in response. “Don't worry about that, Mr Shimmin. We always record more than we actually use. The tape will be edited, you see. When we speak, there are always lots of unconscious 'ums' and 'ahs' that we'll edit out. We'll also remove any repetition, tightening everything up a bit. That way we'll show you in the best possible light, giving crisp, clear responses to the questions asked. So don't you worry a bit, sir, we'll do you proud!”
The Eldritch Isle Page 9
