“Oh, jolly good,” said Gordon, feeling kind of pleased about this.
“It was very nice to meet you, Mr Shimmin. Thank you for your hospitality,” said Charles. “We'll let you know when the interview is being broadcast.”
“I shall look forward to it!” beamed Gordon with enthusiasm.
In the time leading up to the broadcast of his radio interview, however, Gordon's attention was captured by another report in the newspaper, this time relating to the tragic death of one of their reporters, none other than David Stephens:
POPULAR REPORTER DIES IN HORROR CRASH
Manx News Media are very saddened to report the loss of one of our very best up and coming young reporters, David Stephens of Onchan.
Readers of our newspapers will be very familiar with David's work, whether they know his name or not. He has been a stalwart member of our reporting team since he joined us from university two years ago. David was a very popular and likeable person, admired and respected by his colleagues and the public alike. He will be sorely missed and our editions will be much poorer for his loss.
David was returning home from an assignment on Wednesday evening, when his car swerved off the road and mounted a hedge, finally coming to rest in the field beyond. David suffered serious internal injuries in the impact and was declared dead at the scene. No other vehicles were involved in the accident.
David's car will be examined closely for defects, but police suspect that he swerved to avoid hitting an animal in the road. Fresh paw prints belonging to a small dog or a very large cat were found at the roadside near the point of the accident. Inspector Noble would like to remind readers of the danger of swerving to avoid animals: “No one wants to hurt a family pet, but drivers must be aware of the dangers of losing control of their car if an animal suddenly runs into the road. By swerving to avoid one accident, they may very easily cause another, much worse, one.”
Manx News Media would like to extend our heartfelt sympathy to David's parents and sister. Funeral and memorial service details have yet to be arranged.
“How very sad,” observed Gordon without the slightest observable tic of grief. He looked at Solomon over his spectacles and said, “Some people just have no affinity with animals.”
Solomon just looked lazily back at him and slowly blinked his green eyes, inscrutable.
Gordon's book sales had picked up a bit, but he suspected this was due more to his relentless canvassing on the internet than his presentation. There had certainly been no seeming escalation in local demand for his books: the libraries and bookshops on the Island weren't beating down his door for copies. It was all the fault of that fool Stephens and his mocking report, of course. So it was with a feeling of great anticipation that Gordon sat down in his armchair with Solomon curled up on his lap to listen to the radio at 3 o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon. His interview was about to be broadcast!
Gordon sat in his chair, a smile on his face, nodding along as he listened to his words. By the time the half hour slot was over, the smile was still on Gordon's face, but he was aware that he was forcing it and wasn't really feeling it. It took him a little time to put his finger on what was wrong. After all, they were his own words he had been listening to. But after an hour's reflection (during which the smile most definitely faded), he began to piece the causes of his disquiet together, and found that they were numerous.
The first thing that rankled him was that he had been promised a half hour interview slot. However, after two minutes taken for news headlines and weather, five minutes of surrounding waffle by the presenter, and three minutes of advertisements (hideous, brash things which totally spoiled the ambience of his interview), his slot was reduced to a mere twenty minutes, a third shorter than it should have been!
Recalling the two hours he had spent chatting with young Charles, Gordon began to reflect upon what had been missing from the broadcast. Upon listening to it, he had simply 'gone with the flow', but now that he thought back, his talk had been totally emasculated! The whole experience of listening to the interview had left him feeling empty and not actually any the wiser. “In fact,” he growled to Solomon, “I could sum the whole of the impact of that interview as, 'Old duffer writes fairy stories'!” All of the long explanations about the resonance between traditional stories and mythic strata of consciousness had been excised, relegating his painstakingly crafted tales as mere make-believe. His lengthy discussion of how the fairy folk of Celtic lore were a sinister and fearful force in the lives of the country folk of old Mannin, quite at odds with the twee twitterings of Disney, had been cut down to a single ineffectual sentence, taken completely out of its context and disempowered in the process: “Of course, to our forefathers, fairies were beings to be feared and respected.” No explanation, no discussion, no nothing. He had been portrayed – using his own cut-down words – as a fussy old crank who wrote old-fashioned books.
“Oh, Solomon, my dear old cat,” he sighed, scratching behind the large cat's ears as it purred contentedly. “A grave disservice has been done to me once again. How I wish you could help me to put matters right.”
Solomon purred more strongly.
It was only three days later when Gordon was listening to the news on the radio whilst taking a break from writing that he heard a particularly unfortunate local news item:
“We are saddened to inform listeners that Charles Warden, one of our most popular and well-liked young broadcasters, met with a terrible accident last night. He was climbing the stairs to his flat when he was attacked by a mad animal. His face was clawed and bitten savagely and the shock of the attack caused him to lose his balance and he fell down the stairs, where the animal attacked him once again. Charles' condition is described as stable, but particularly unfortunately the impact of his fall caused him to bite through his tongue. It seems unlikely that he will ever be able to broadcast again, though we hope to see him return to work here in some other capacity.
“Police have issued the following statement through Inspector Michael Noble: “It is clear that Mr Warden was the victim of a terrifying attack. The creature launched itself directly at his face. There are no known feral animals in the area, and the nature of the attack implies that this beast – presumably a terrier or similar small dog – has been specifically trained to be vicious. We are doing our very best to trace the owner and wish to remind the public that we will take very strong measures against the owners of dangerous animals.””
Gordon reached out and turned the radio off with a smug, decisive click. He looked up at a shelf, where a strange purply red lump floated in a jar. Then he turned to Solomon and said, “Oh dear, it would appear that Mr Warden will be incapable of carrying out any further interviews. I wonder what's the matter with him? Cat got his tongue, perhaps?” He snorted with laughter.
Solomon chortled in response, a sniggering laugh which sounded most uncatlike.
Later that week, the newspaper finally arrived which carried the review of Gordon's latest book. He sat down and opened the paper, flicking rapidly to the weekend reviews section near the centre. He adjusted his glasses and said to Solomon, “Well, puss, let's be magnanimous and give them one more chance to get it right, eh?”
First impressions were good. A fairly large colour image of the front cover of his book headed the review, standing out proudly on the page, sure to catch the eye of even the most casual reader. Gordon nodded his approval, then turned his attention to the accompanying text:
WEIRD TALES OF THE ISLES
reviewed by Benjamin S. Kinnin
It is always heartening to receive a copy of a new work by a local author. The encouragement of home grown talent is very important, and the Times is always proud to do its best to promote such individuals, bringing their work to the attention of the wider Manx public, so that all may enjoy it.
Gordon Shimmin has written a charming book of dark legends and fairy tales, many of them specifically referencing the Isle of Man. In his introduction, he explains that these tales have be
en deliberately selected and updated from many of the traditional stories of the Celtic peoples, in the hope that a new generation may be enthralled by them. This is surely a laudable aim.
I am sure that readers will get a lot out of this book. The tales are certainly interesting and entertaining, if a little grim and pessimistic at times. I didn't recognise any of the stories, but they feature the bugganes, phynnodderess and mermaids of Manx myth.
The problem is, I think this collection is likely to appeal more to mums and dads – or even grandparents – than it is to a younger generation. The language used is rather old fashioned and a little 'fuddy duddy'. Also, the writing style itself is rather dated. Effective fiction these days relies on dialogue to drive the narrative, not on the reams of descriptive prose so evident in Mr Shimmin's work.
Also, it is a shame that Mr Shimmin relies upon such well worn fantasy stereotypes as fairies, elves, dwarfs and giants. A little creativity to introduce some fantastic creatures of his own devising would prove much more interesting and would pay dividends. When children are confronted with exciting heroes such as Spiderman and Iron Man, and villains such as Darth Vader, these old bogeymen must seem a little stale.
Mr Shimmin's book is certainly as weird as its title suggests, and is a worthy purchase for those desiring a book of old-fashioned fairy stories. Perhaps next time he might consider something more pertinent to modern tastes if he wishes to captivate a new generation? Books these days should feature colourful heroes and highlight real issues such as the environment. A little less reliance on heavy prose would also be welcome. As it stands, Weird Tales of the Isles is just a little too 'away with the fairies' for this reviewer's tastes.
Gordon was shaking with anger as he threw the newspaper across the room. “Imbecile!” he exploded. “Make new creatures of my own devising? How in the Nine Hells is that supposed to fit in with my purpose of presenting traditional mythic patterns? The whole point of writing about elves, dwarfs and giants is that they are internally real, a part of the mythic landscape of our minds. That's the precise reason they resonate with us so! Tolkien understood that! None of these other fools ever get the fact that the creatures of myth are real. The problem with the new generation is that they're so out of touch with their own psyches, they're blind – utterly blind.” He shuddered and seemed to reach a decision. “Well, blind he shall be.” He reached out to ruffle his cat's head and said, “Solomon, my dear friend, I need you to do me a favour once more. Go and blind him – take his eyes!”
The cat stretched and yawned, then spoke in a whispering voice: “Gordon, old fellow, you'll blow my cover if you're not careful. Still, I must admit there's something particularly satisfying about ripping my claws through eyeball jelly.” And Solomon giggled once more, in a very uncatlike way.
· The Passing Place
The road was straight and smooth, a streak of grey that flew past beneath him. The scrubby grass on either side was a green blur, showing no differentiation. Around him was the sky, vast and towering, a pale blue emptiness marked only by faint wisps of white, too inconsequential to be called clouds. On this straight road, surrounded by the void, he sped towards his destiny.
Harry Fenton was a biker. For years he had been racing motorcycles as a talented and enthusiastic amateur. He had some small sponsorship from a couple of building firms near his home in Guildford, but he financed most of his racing himself. It was an expensive business, requiring travel, upkeep of bikes and the van to transport them in. It had also cost him his marriage, after his wife had found one too many engines stripped down on their kitchen table. But it was his life, and he wouldn't change it for the world.
He had been coming to the Isle of Man for the last twenty years for the annual TT races in May and June. For the last ten years, he had been racing himself, thrilling to be on a course that was all open roads, hills and dips, tearing up mountains and ripping through glens. The TT course was merciless and unforgiving; it was also the greatest buzz he had ever experienced in his life, a true test of his skills as a rider, and a real taste of freedom, almost a transcendental experience.
Now Harry was powering across the mountain circuit. He had passed groups of marshals and spectators all along the way, barely registering them as they blurred past. He was approaching 200 miles per hour, at one of the fastest parts of the course, when the strangeness started. There were no spectators here, no other riders were in sight, he was all alone, and he was about to enter the unknown. He had been expecting it.
Over the years, Harry had grown to know the other riders and many of the fans. The TT was not just a race meeting, it was a huge event in the social calendar, a time to meet old friends, to laugh and party, to celebrate their love for life and the sense of freedom they could only find on the back of a motorbike.
He had become firm friends with many of his fellow riders. They came from all over the world to participate in these unique races. He had met and bonded with riders from Germany, Ireland, France, Japan and the United States, all sharing a common love for speed and thrills. This shared experience was something that joined them all together, which could never be understood by the non-initiated.
Harry had bonded well with his fellows and they would laugh and joke together at the grandstand before they raced, they would trade stories and tips, and on the non-race days, they would drink together and party with a vengeance. They mourned together whenever a fellow rider was killed in an accident; motorcycle racing was a dangerous sport, and all of them were acutely aware of their mortality. Theirs was a brotherhood which deepened with every new year. Or at least it had until about three years ago.
Perhaps some hint of wrong had crept in the year before, when one or two people looked at the others slightly askance, with strange gleams in their eyes and tight smiles on their faces. But it was three years ago when the weirdness really became noticeable.
It all began with Ken Yamato, a Japanese rider who Harry particularly liked. He had a fine sense of humour and was always smiling. Like Harry, he hadn't a hope in Hell of ever coming near to actually winning one of the races. But that wasn't the point: it was the experience and the TT atmosphere that mattered. They could afford to just have fun and enjoy themselves whilst the quicker lads jostled for a podium place.
One particular morning, after a clear and clean practice session, Ken Yamato had pulled up at the grandstand after his final lap, taken off his helmet, and hadn't been himself at all. His beaming smile was replaced with a strangely unsettling grin, a fixed expression that never changed. His eyes were the worst things, though: gleaming and unfocused, as if they were fixed on some sight very far away, or turned inward to see things that existed only in his imagination. He didn't respond to his friends' hails, he didn't speak. He merely grinned and stared hideously, then slowly walked off, ignoring them all.
Yamato was only the first. One by one, a small number of riders changed that fortnight. They still raced, fluidly and quickly, but they ceased to socialise or even speak with their old fellows. They would stand apart, not even talking among themselves, but simply grinning blankly and hideously whilst their staring eyes gleamed with a weird light, reflecting things unseen. If anyone from outside their group approached, they would simply turn and walk away, ignoring all hails or calls, grinning all the while.
None of them returned the next year, nor could anyone find out what had happened to them. They – and often their families too – had simply moved away and could no longer be traced. But new members continued to join the group of grinning ghouls, until a fresh dozen of them departed and disappeared at the close of that year.
The next year followed a similar pattern. Harry found it maddening and very frightening. He could think of no explanation. Nor did the press seem to notice it. There was no outcry, no investigation into why so many world class riders were vanishing after changing beyond recognition. It was as if they had become something different, inhuman, and only he could see the change. If he mentioned it to any of his 'no
rmal' compatriots, they simply looked uncomfortable and changed the subject. Only one ever gave a hint that he had noticed it too, an Italian named Fabio Sacco. He seemed frightened and nervous, relieved that Harry too had observed that something horrible was happening. But before they had chance to investigate together, Fabio Sacco too changed during the very next race. When Harry sought him out, he grinned and stared and walked away.
Harry had then developed a theory, a very, very discomforting theory: he surmised that the only people who noticed the 'change' in others were those who were most susceptible to it themselves.
So now, three years on, Harry knew that his number was up. A sense of oppression had been upon him all day, and just before the race started, he had seen a small group of three riders standing there staring at him with deadly, gleaming eyes, their mouths stretched impossibly wide in sinister grins.
Now he rode like a demon, determined to put in the best race he possibly could, to remember himself, who he was. He would not change like they had! But he knew in his heart that he was racing to his doom.
And now he was alone: no marshals or spectators in sight; no other riders on this stretch of road. The void of the sky yawned all around him, hungry for his soul. He pulled back on the throttle, squeezing every last quiver of speed out of his bike. If only he could fly away from this doom right now...
In one instant, one timeless break between one moment and the next, the entire world changed and the horizon leapfrogged. Harry's eyes widened as the sky suddenly expanded to infinity, taking his consciousness with it. He felt as though he was being turned upside down, back to front and inside out. Then the cosmos retracted back to an infinitely small point...
The Eldritch Isle Page 10
