Daedalian Muse

by Jamie Crothall

Daedalian Muse

  by Jamie Crothall

  Copyright 2012 Jamie Crothall

  www.jamiecrothall.com

  Greyfield, Devon

  Greyfield is a village civil parish in the Teignbridge district of Devon, England. According to the 2001 census it had a population of 103. It is located between Exeter and Dartmoor National Park, just north of Ashton.

  It is rumoured that the entire parish burned to the ground in the latter half of the 19th century in an unrecorded fire. The authenticity of this claim is dismissed as superstitious due to the many incidents that have originated from the estate located within the village, namely several tragic fires.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Once upon a time’ is a terribly cliché way to start any tale, but to tell you the truth I’m not quite sure how else to begin. It certainly is an outlandish story and deserving of a place in the annals of any fairy tale anthology, though the details and outcome might prove slightly beyond the grasp of any younger reader. Yet are not the most complex plots relayed in simple tales? The fall Man from the Garden of Eden can be told in the simple nursery rhyme ‘Jack & Jill’, while a complex series of temporal distortions, anomalies, and the sound basis of many turbulent theories of space-time violation can be hinted upon within the pages of Lewis Carol’s ‘Through the Looking Glass’. Hardly the material for a child’s tale, but then again nor are half of those told by the Brother’s Grimm.

  My birth name is rather boring and hardly worth noting, but my father came to call me 'Tempus' – a Latin word for 'time'. An apt moniker for a sound gentleman who is always trying to poke holes in the delicate fabric, if only through thought and observation. I am what you might call an independent agent in the investigation of scientific anomalies, be it a haunting or a case of missing time. It is of my irrefutable belief that ghosts and goblins have no place in our ever-so-tangible world, as all have valid and reasonable explanations. Too often has the fantastic been favoured in pursuit of the truth simply because if is more attractive, but never have I been tempted to throw down the Principia Mathematica, hoist up the Malleus Maleficarum, and cry ‘hail’ to the spooks and boogeymen of fantasy. No wretch will be drowned in order to prove their innocence in the presence of my extensive studies.

  Yet I digress. I began my pursuit of truth and enlightenment under the most esteemed tutelage of my father, a self-taught man of pure genius. We were a notorious pair in our small English borough, two great minds called upon when the limits of human understanding drew up against a brick wall, whereupon our assistance would surely bring it down. Solvers of problems, conjurers of thesis, and producers of postulates, we would put to rest any uncertainty with the most clear and concise of explanations. However whereas I sought to lay to waste to notions of the fantastic, my father seemed to prefer indulging our clients in their fancy. He often let them believe that the creaking of settling floorboards was indeed the wandering spirits of long-departed residents. The path to the solution, he reckoned, was best explained as easily as possible, lest the client fear that they are being conned when lumbered with the volatile verbiage of the scientific burden they had not the foresight to apply. Exterminating a small colony of termites threatening the integrity of the flooring, explained as an exorcism, was of no moral issue to him provided the problem was solved and we were paid for our services.

  While I maintain that I took no pleasure from these misleading conclusions, at the same time I did not always do my best to fight for the light of truth. Fighting spirits, rather than insects, certainly gave us a greater renown and a slightly higher coinage, and often led to greater employment - greater in deed and payment. I feel it important, however, to mention that we were not con artists acting only in the pursuit of money. My father was a brilliant man who was well read on all the great scientific pursuits and methods, some of which he shared with no one but himself. To this day I do not know how he managed to cure the young Ms. Tilly’s infertility, but nine months after his most secretive diagnosis she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. As for our payments, for all the rewards we did reap we had little to show for it. While I did not question how he spent our money, it was nonetheless a great source of curiosity for me. I once asked this of Mr. Phip, a distinguished gentleman he often played cards with, but he merely told me not to concern myself with such matters. The last time I asked, Mr. Phip simply handed me a twenty pound note and advised me to not worry about it, and to buy myself something 'nice'. Despite my ambivalence, I nonetheless concede that he was a truly generous man. I decided to heed his advice, for I did not want to think suspiciously of my father, the man who shared with me his great knowledge and with whom I travelled with to the ends of the borough.

  The day my father died was the worst I had ever known, and it left me with a ponderous quandary. Penniless and with only half of the collective knowledge we utilized, I did not know if I had the strength of will, character, and brilliance that my father had carried us with. How could I continue on by myself? Alas I found that the question was, in fact, ‘how could I not?’. For all the insight my father - my teacher - had given me, I could not dishonour him by simply disavowing all I had learned. My entire life had been spent in the pursuit of understanding. Pythagoras sang my lullabies. Louis Pasteur nursed me with his discoveries. My world revolved around Kepler and Galileo. My heart beat with the teachings of William Harvey, and my soul ached for the lingering touch of Marie Curie. Charles Babbage’s resolve helped me stand up to schoolyard bullies, while Guglielmo Marconi’s theories spoke to me in waves. My life revolved around my father’s pursuits. In his honour I could not let that go to waste. Besides, I theorized that I might one day have a son of my own to pass my knowledge on to.

  My profession and practice, however, could not continue in the Borough. The stigma of my father’s methods adhered to me in ways I did not appreciate. While I give my father every respect, I did not want to continue practising his placating techniques. It was not in my interest to play to people’s weaknesses, but rather help them realize their strengths. For this I would have to leave the Borough and travel to parts unknown. With only my suitcase and a cage to carry Aristotle, my feline companion, I strode out of the Borough, realizing that for all my knowledge of the ends of the universe, I had never set foot outside the regional limits. I was a pioneer, an intrepid explorer thrust into worlds unknown. It was then that I became acquainted with this thing called the 21st century, and the stark, sudden realization that, for all my knowledge, there was much that I did not know. I made my way through the monstrous and mythological city of London, making my way further south with little employment to be found. Young people once thrilled at my father’s teachings, but they now drew their information from this ‘internet’, though I doubt that this fad will one day replace the experience that an audience with our elders brings.

  I stumbled upon Greyfield, in England’s southern-most parts, while reaching my own ends. I was beginning to give up hope, when it was returned to me in the form of a most endearing old lady named Mrs. Tellman, the hostess of a Bed & Breakfast that I spent my last few accumulated pounds upon. It was the type of village that did not require estate agents, for residents did not buy or sell homes, but rather passed them down from generation to generation. Mrs. Tellman occupied a moderate home, and was assisted by her son and daughter – both of whom were in their adult years and helped their mother look after the house, its guests, and the dear lady herself. With relish I savoured my last comforts of home, not knowing what hostel or shop doorway would serve as my home beyond that very night, and slept well for what could have very well been my last time. The following morning I entered the dining room to equally savour my last hot meal – a full English breakfast del
ivered with warmth, grace, and a morning paper. Thanking her dearly, I unfolded the local newspaper. It was a simple affair consisting of only a few pages and a single advertisement, the revenue of which was likely enough to cover the entire enterprise's overhead. The rather sensationalize headline read;

  'Construction Worker Injured - Haunted Mews Strikes Again!'

  I scarcely had the patience to read the entire article, but called to my hostess while my eyes scanned the room.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Tellman,” I said, my voice panicked, “but do you have a telephone?”

  The old lady approached me, a motherly smile upon her face which assured me that all was in hand.

  “Don’t worry,” she said warmly. “I’ve already made arrangements. You are to see the mayor at noon.”

  With great relief I ate my breakfast, no longer my last but the first of many more, for if my audience with their elected official went well then I would be employed, for the first time, as an independent investigator.

  CHAPTER TWO