Visions

In his dreams he saw many strange and wonderful things, and when he woke he tried to turn his visions into poems, though he found that most escaped his memory soon afterwards. But as time progressed, and the drug increased its hold, his visions brought darkness amidst the beauty. He saw a pavilion, set in marvellous gardens above a river, but he knew it was doomed to destruction. He saw himself on a mountain peak near his friend’s home in the Lake District, and listened to the music of the bells ringing in the valleys below, but the songs the bells sang were songs of death. He saw a young bride entering the castle of her elderly widower husband, and she was very lovely, but her stepdaughter saw in her face the yellow unblinking eyes of a serpent. All these things he was tried to record, which helped to relieve his pain. Each time his apprehension increased, but he could not abandon his search now.

After a while, waking and dreaming seemed to merge, and he was left unsure which was which. Sometimes when he walked through the streets at night, plagued by the insomnia resulting from the opium, he thought he had found the wondrous city that he had so long sought, only it was no longer marvellous, but sinister and haunted. Evil lurked around every corner, watching him from a distance, just out of his sight, and the people he met (but could not speak to, nor did they speak to him) were not noble heroes and ravishing beauties, but ghosts, who wore the masks of death. He realised he was being punished for his temerity. His awareness of guilt deepened, until he came to feel he had committed a crime so monstrous, so horrible, that even he could not be told what it was. I have blasphemed against the gods, he thought: no, it is far worse than that: my crime somehow threatens the very basis of the universe; and my punishment will be like none that has ever existed before.

He only knew of one way which might allow him to escape from these horrors: he must set them out in a poem, which would tell of a man who is guilty of a terrible crime and justly suffers an equally terrible punishment, but is eventually redeemed by his suffering and pardoned. Such an ending would provide him with at least some hope of release. But what precise crime would the man in his poem have committed, since he could not know it himself? He consulted his closest friend; also a poet, but more down-to-earth in his ideas. And William pondered for a while, and then said, “I was reading the other day about a sailor who was marooned on a desert island by his shipmates, who were disgusted by the fact that he had shot an albatross. It appears that sailors regard this as a very wicked act, and also an extremely unlucky one”.
"Thank you, William", said Samuel, "I shall write the poem, and I shall call it 'The Ancient Mariner'"

A Puzzle

   I came away from the auction with a small box of Chinese bric-a-brac, which I had bid for because I liked the look of a piece of jade which formed one of the items. When I got it home, however, the jade turned out on closer inspection to be obviously modern, and not even very good quality at that; and I was relieved I hadn’t bid more. 
   Most of the other items in the box were frankly rubbish, but one or two attracted a second glance, if only to try to convince myself that my money hadn‘t been completely wasted. There was a carving in dark wood, beneath a glass dome smaller than a child’s fist, consisting of a man in a robe seated at a table. There was a teapot and a cup detached from the main carving and lying loose: probably the carving had been broken, but somehow it reminded me of those cheap little toys where you have to manoeuvre ball-bearings through a maze, or into slots in a picture. I even attempted to shake the dome to get these objects back onto the table, but failed miserably and gave up after a few goes. 
   At the bottom of the box was a medallion the size of a coin, on a chain. There were characters I couldn’t read on one side of it, and it surprised me, because I didn’t think it was the sort of thing the Chinese went in for. I suspected it wasn’t really Chinese at all, and I certainly didn’t find it at all attractive, but in an idle moment I hung it round my neck.
   For some reason, I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to return to the game, or whatever it was, under the glass dome. I shook it, and it took very little time or effort to get the cup and teapot into their right places on the table; but somehow they weren’t tiny any more: the whole carving had expanded until it was life-size, and I was right there beside it, watching. And the man in the robe was alive and moving. I watched as he poured himself a cup of tea, and then picked it up to drink it. And I realised that he mustn’t drink it, because the tea was poisoned; and I tried to shout at him not to, but no sound came out.The poison must have been very potent, because he collapsed almost immediately. And he realised what had happened to him, because he was able to lift his head from the table to look directly up at me, and his look said,
“YOU DID IT!”

A Beginning and an End

I have the opening and the concluding paragraphs of a story, but have yet to work out the middle!

Beginning:-

Until I inherited my parents' house and its contents, I had no idea that I had had a great-aunt Mildred. I wondered why her name had never been mentioned, and if it was her face that had been so savagely mutilated in the family photograph albums.
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Conclusion:-

Some careful research in the local parish records enabled us to locate Mildred's grave,in a remote corner of the churchyard. It was marked by a plain slab that had become covered in ivy. When we cleared this away, we discovered a huge frog lurking underneath. I was relieved that it wasn't a toad.  

Blogs

They followed each other's blogs and social media entries, though they had never met and did not even correspond directly. Their works were completely different: he wrote little stories; fantasies for the most part, whereas she wrote about the small incidents of her daily life, in a wry and amusing fashion. He deduced from these that she was a university graduate, young and unmarried, who worked in a college library where there were plenty of old books. She had no idea who he might be, or how old he was. 
   Because of this lack of contact, they built up imaginary pictures of each other. She saw him as a would-be warrior against the forces of darkness; he saw her engaged in a quiet but unsuccessful search for love. And both were right.
   They might have appeared to be opposites, but in the sight of God they were no more than opposite sides of the same coin: they complemented each other, and together formed a unity; for in their different ways they were searching for the same thing: the Absolute; the ultimate single Whole that is truth and love and everything.

Happy Christmas everyone!

The Duel: an episode from my historical novel

(This is another chapter from my historical novel of the mid-18th century. Wilkes, Churchill and Sackville are genuine historical characters; the others are imaginary)

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One day when I entered Child’s club I discovered Lord Staines in a state of great excitement. He brandished a paper at me, and asked me whether I had read it. I saw it was a magazine called the “North Briton”, which everyone knew to be written by John Wilkes, Member of Parliament for Aylesbury. I had often read it with amusement, and considered that it was a true friend of English liberty, though I had not yet seen the most recent issue. Staines told me, with such fury that his hands shook, that it contained a libellous attack upon him. When I took it from him to read it, I saw that it suggested that he was the catamite of Lord George Sackville, for whose sake, I recalled, he had resigned his commission in the army. The names were spelt thus: Lord S*****s and Lord G****e S******e, but anyone who was acquainted with public affairs would instantly know who was meant.   I told him that such low degraded stuff was beneath his attention, and best ignored; and that I was sure that his father would have given the same advice; but he said he had already written to Mr Wilkes, the supposed author, demanding an apology; but having received none, he was determined on a duel; so he had issued a challenge, and wished me to be his second.

   Accordingly, a few days later, immediately after sunrise, we took a coach out to Putney Heath. It was a bright morning, but cold. Dew lay heavy on the grass, and glittered on cobwebs on the bushes. There was no-one in sight except our opponent and his second, and another man I did not know, but was told he was one Doctor Blake, who was there in the event of any serious injury.

   It was my first sight of the celebrated Mr Wilkes. He was well dressed and slender of build, but his face was disfigured by the most violent squint, which caused his eyes to point in clean opposite directions. He talked merrily, and appeared entirely unperturbed by the peril of his situation. His second was a large, burly fellow; and I was astonished to discover that under his cloak he wore a clergyman’s gown. I was informed that this was the Reverend Charles Churchill, the popular poet who was said to be Mr Wilkes’s assistant at the “North Briton”.

   Doctor Blake then asked whether the two gentlemen were determined to proceed with the duel. Lord Staines replied, with no little heat, that his honour had been most grossly traduced, and that nothing but the most profuse and abject apology would satisfy him. Mr Wilkes appeared to make light of the whole matter. He said that Lord Staines could produce no evidence that he, Wilkes, was the author of the offending article, but having read it, his opinion was that it contained more than a grain of truth; and, furthermore, since Lord Staines had seen fit publicly to dub him a liar and a scoundrel, he was the one entitled to an apology. These words angered Lord Staines even more, which was undoubtedly Wilkes’s intention.  

   A case was produced and opened, containing a brace of very fine silver-mounted pistols. Churchill and I checked that they were properly loaded. I attempted to hold my hands steady, lest I revealed my fear by allowing them to shake: it was the first time I had ever witnessed a duel.

   Lord Staines and Mr Wilkes walked twelve paces apart, then turned and presented their pistols. Lord Staines fired first, and grazed his opponent’s coat, but did no further harm. 

Mr Wilkes did not seemin the least perturbed by this narrow miss. He then levelled his pistol at Lord Staines's beast, and held it there for what appeared an age,with a glint in his eye. Staines, I was impressed to see, did not flinch, but stood motionless, regarding his opponent with a cold stare. At last Wilkes, with a laugh, deliberately fired at the ground, so that his bullet skipped across the earth by Lord Staines’s feet. He then laughed and walked forward with his hand outstretched, congratulating Staines on his fine courage. Staines did not take the proffered hand, instead intending to reload and fire again; but Mr Churchill announced that, in his decided opinion, sufficient satisfaction had been given and that the business had been ended with perfect honour to both parties. He proposed that we should all adjourn to a nearby tavern and drink some wine. I agreed with this, and so did Doctor Blake; but Lord Staines said this was no kind of apology, and, again refusing Wilkes’s hand, departed forthwith, not even giving me a glance.

   Doctor Blake did not stay long, but I remained at the tavern with Wilkes and Churchill for the remainder of the morning. I discovered Mr Wilkes to be the most engaging of companions. It was not, I found, his first duel; for he had been challenged by Lord Talbot over a previous article in the same magazine, and that too had passed without blood being shed.

I saw much of him over the next few months, and read the “North Briton” with great enjoyment..
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Louisa in London: a scene from my historical novel

(This is a scene from the historical novel I am in the process of writing; set in the mid-18th century, as mentioned in an earlier post. Here Louisa describes what happened when she ranaway to London)

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It was only when I alighted from the coach, at the sign of the White Horse, that I became fully aware of how extremely foolish I had been, to travel without clear purpose, and with no-one to receive me, to a city of which I knew nothing. Such a hustle and bustle as I never saw, with goods and produce piled up everywhere, and people of all degrees hurrying to and fro about their business! One rough fellow rudely pushed me aside, without so much as a by-your-leave. Deep puddles of dirty water caused me to step warily. The sky overhead was dark with a pall of smoke. I had intended to ask the way to Lord Staines’s home, but now, alone and friendless, I found myself too timid to ask directions from a stranger. On the steps of the inn, an elderly man in an old wig and coat ogled me and laughed; but although his clothes showed him to be a gentleman, he made no attempt to assist me in my plight.

   Only one person marked me and approached as I stood there afraid and unprotected. This was a woman. She wore a vast skirt, red in colour and none too clean, with a dark shawl over a white mob-cap. I could not tell her age, for the paint lay heavy on her cheeks. I felt an immediate dislike of her; but she smiled and her manner was most obliging.

   “Hello, dearie!” she said, “Are you lost? May I assist you?”

   “Thank you!” I replied, “Pray can you direct me to Lord Staines’s home? I have travelled to London to see him”.

  “Lord, my dear: his honour’s house is but a short step from where I live! Let me conduct you there. You have a travelling box? My boy Jacky will carry it. Now; what’s your name and where have you come from?”

   “I am called Louisa, and I am the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Brackenridge Hall”.

   “Oh, Louisa: such a pretty name, and face as pretty as a picture too! And from Brackenridge? Why, my dear, I know that town well! My uncle used to live there! He was bailiff and churchwarden, Robin Clewlow was his name, did you hear of him? No? Ah well, it was years ago, before you were born! Anyway, it’s almost as if we were related!  My name is Margaret. Now I shall with pleasure conduct you to his lordship, but first you must permit this poor old woman to provide you with some sustenance, for you must be most hungry and tired after such a long journey!” She prattled on, scarce pausing for breath, and without putting up resistance I allowed her to take my arm. A coachman made a very coarse remark as she led me from the inn-yard and out into the street, but both of us ignored him.

   We walked on through many twists and turnings until I was wholly lost. We passed old buildings crowded together, and noisome alleys between, where the sun did not penetrate and dirty children played amongst piles of rubbish. The streets were crowded, and passers-by jostled us. In this confusion I was glad that my rescuer had my arm, for otherwise I would have been swept clean away in the throng. Eventually we reached her house, which I thought a rather mean establishment. The front room had no carpet or rug on the bare boards of the floor. Three or four women sat around on benches, and there were pictures on the walls, but before I do more than glance around I was ushered through to a back parlour.

   “Now, my dear, let us have a dish of tea”, said my hostess, and clapped her hands, at which a slatternly maid appeared and was given her orders. Jacky, the boy who carried my box, was despatched to run to Lord Staines’s house to announce my arrival. Whilst we had our tea and cake, she questioned me closely. Was I indeed Sir James Willington’s daughter? Yes, I replied; his only child. Did I know Lord Staines well, and did he know I was coming to London to see him? Not well as yet, I said: I believed our respective parents were thinking of a marriage, though his lordship had not yet made a proposal. His lordship had told me I would greatly enjoy the sights of London, but he did not know I was coming. And amidst all this, she kept complimenting me on my complexion and my figure.

   At this point, young Jacky returned, to announce that Lord Staines was not at home, nor any of his family, and nobody would be received that day. 

   “Well, my dear, here’s a to-do!” said my hostess (who, as I now recall, had never told me her surname), “Is there anyone else you know in the town? No? Then you’d best spend the night with me!”

   She led me up the stairs to a small room. I was now so tired that I scarcely noticed that the room was dirty, with the corners thickly cobwebbed and the bed poorly furnished. I laid down on it and was quickly asleep. It was only when I awoke that I discovered the door was locked. And there I was to remain for many days, with nothing to divert me and no-one to help me; for the small window looked out only on a squalid yard; and though I might bang on the door and call out, no-one came except the maidservant, who brought me food but refused to speak to me. I came to lose all hope of rescue.