View From the Spire

By J Scott Sly

…,oh blessed be,

the men that plot these vile heresies.

From lofted view of Anglo-spire,

we watch and wait whilst you lot conspire.

Whilst we wait, the world does turn,

we sit and wait in hopeful hush of a midnight burn.

Yet, through the years that come to pass,

little is done to upset the Mass.

With so much talk of Brimstone and death,

we've come to expect a better show yet.

And the men who promise to piss and conspire,

you've done little else than to stoke their fire.

There again...

Never Mind All That

By J. Scott Sly

It has been said of generations past,

that they were the ‘Lost Generation.’

Their existence in the years after the war

had been merely a lark.

Those who survived lived as a generation of holiday-makers

during a very ‘long week-end.’

I assure you, however,

because of their frivolousness, no generation

can claim the joy

of no longer seeing war in their future.

The Sparrow

By, J. Scott Sly

‘Forlorn! The very word is like a bell/ To toll me back from thee to my sole self!/ Adieu! The fancy cannot cheat so well/ As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.’ Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats

The sparrow occupies a middling space in the minds of most humans. The reputation of this particular avian harbours somewhere between the oft-hated swallow and the much beloved nightingale. The sparrow is a somewhat unique bird in that it has no actual marketable skills. The swallow, whilst hated, can build quite a cosy home constructed of earth and roadside rubbish. Then there is of course, the nightingale; a bird which has captured a romantic image of forlorn lovers for centuries. Many stories have been told about the bird that serenades these lovers through their restless nights of anguish. One has to admit that there is an innate romance to the idea of a bird such as the nightingale. There is so much fuss given to idea of the nightingale, so much so that people (namely that Florence woman) have taken to naming themselves after it (although one may note that this generally only happens under duress or whilst in Russia). This brings us to the story of the particular sparrow of which this story refers.

“I too can feel love,” said the Sparrow in a bit too great of a huff, “such yolks should not be the domain of the Nightingale alone.” The Sparrow, who had spent all day singing for passers-by and tramps in the centre square, was not in the greatest of moods. He had sung himself practically horse trying to gain the affection of those he met in the grassy expanse of the park, but with no great success. His efforts were for naught day after day. The Sparrow was beginning to become rather depressed as he was not even earning the small amounts of bread crumbs that he had once been given in return for his song. Today, the children were feeding the over-stuffed ducks and the (frankly) obese geese that gathered in the centre island of the small pond where most of the avian population had taken to dwell. The Sparrow purposively avoided this gaggle and preferred to spend his days amongst the pigeons, who (for whatever reason) adored the large statue of the bearded man near the entrance of the park. Whilst among the babbling (and rather stupid) pigeons, the Sparrow had a feeling of superiority, and felt that sympathetic humans might feel the same way. For a while, he was correct in his assumption, humans did often throw bits of their street-vender food toward the gathering of birds where he was, but he grew tired of the token bits, and wanted something more. The Sparrow began to feel that this was not the type of recognition that he wanted. He was a sparrow amongst pigeons, and thus felt that his place was elsewhere.

The Sparrow had unfortunately grown rather bitter by the time of this story telling. He had lived a short, but rather difficult life in the city. He was the eldest hatchling of a small flock of sparrows. Because of his position in the nest, he did not always get enough food, nor the attention he so desired from his parents. As a result of not truly feeling wanted after his younger siblings came about, and an incredible urge to leave the nest, the Sparrow flew away as soon as his wings would carry him. During his initial days upon leaving, the Sparrow felt such a wonderful feeling of emancipation. This feeling, however was fleeting and quickly turned into an intense loneliness.

The Sparrow of this story had an odd quirk about him. For whatever reason, he did not find himself attracted to other birds of (excuse the phrase) his feather, and instead preferred the odd and unique qualities of humans.

There are three known and accepted facts about bird & human or human & bird love:

It is not tolerated by the bird community, but strangely it is somewhat accepted in the human world (but only in certain circles).

Physically, it is rather difficult, if not impossible to maintain a relationship.

If the above criteria are somehow met, it is the domain of the nightingale almost exclusively.

This of course brings us to the jealously bit.

The Sparrow had taken his fancy of a young woman who lived a few blocks from the park where he lived amongst the pigeons. She was a breezy and carefree girl who did not seem to have any form of gainful employment. It appeared that she was simply one of those people for whom everything just sort of works out for the better. The basics of her description were easily described, longish (as was the fashion) red-brown hair, deep green eyes, slender frame, and a demeanour which, to most others would appear care-free. In her mind, however, she was anything but care-free. This particular young woman was, unbeknownst to the Sparrow, to be married on the twenty-fifth of the very month he had become smitten with her. To him there was just something very romantic about this woman who seemed to pass the day doing little else than picking flowers and feeding the birds. The latter of which he found that he particularly enjoyed.

She, for her part, seemed to have a bit of feeling for the Sparrow as well. On her daily strolls through the park, she always managed to pick him out of the crowds of ducks, geese, and pigeons. When she would happen upon the Sparrow, his tiny heart would light up, and a most beautiful song would bellow from his tiny lungs, reverberate through his hallow bones, and fill the air with the triumph of youthful love.

For his effort, the Sparrow believed that the young woman loved him with equal intensity as he. One chilly autumn after-noon, the Sparrow sat near the bench where he and the Young Woman typically had their rendezvous. He sat and waited for the majority of the day, but the Young Woman did not show up. Being the bird of initiative that he was, the Sparrow set out on the trail that she used to get home after their ‘appointments.’ He followed the winding trail which led him to parts of the park that he had never himself seen, but had heard of in the gossip of the park green (the ducks were particularly known for their gossip which was always juicy and always quite to the point). While on his trek he came upon many dangers he had never before encountered. His first trial came as he decided to rest his wings and walk towards the home of his true love. As he hopped along down the gravel footpath, he heard a rustling in the freshly fallen leaves that were littering the ground near him. This sudden sound startled him and he froze in his tracks. Cocking his head in an inquisitive manner, the Sparrow decided to keep moving for fear that the rustling noise was not a friendly creature of this particular park.

Hopping along at a much greater pace, the Sparrow suddenly felt a sharp pang of hunger in his stomach, and suddenly, with all the ferocity of his ancient ancestors, he began the hunt for sustenance. As he feverishly hunted for a morsel to eat, the curious rustling once again startled the Sparrow. This time, however, the Sparrow felt that stopping would not be wise as it seemed that whatever creature was making that noise was following him. With the little remaining energy he had in his tiny frame, the Sparrow attempted to take to flight. Due in no small part to his lack of caloric energy, he could not quite muster the energy to flap hard enough and fell harshly to the earth. He stood up, brushed himself off, and surveyed his surroundings. His fall was, for lack of any other description, quite embarrassing and he hoped that nobody had witnessed it. While he sat and regained his composure, he felt a sudden presence behind him. The Sparrow realized without turning round that this creature behind him was not one of the friendlier creatures he knew in the park by the shock of cold that suddenly permeated his entire body. Slowly and nervously the Sparrow turned to meet whatever this presence was. To his surprise, what met his eyes was one of the least friendly snakes that he had ever come across. At first the Sparrow was almost relieved to see the snake, for at least it was not a cat. Snakes at least have the distinction of either being bad or good, where as cats only seem to only be set in the aforementioned ‘bad’ mode.

“What do you want?” said the Sparrow in a tone unbefitting a bird of his classical composure.

“What I want is unimportant,” spoke the snake with an all-too-stereotypical lisp, “What you have is all the more critical.”

The Sparrow was frankly a little befuddled, “what do I have?” inquired the Sparrow.

At that moment, however, he understood what it was that the snake wanted; himself. With a rush of panic fuelled adrenaline, the Sparrow finally took flight and left the lunging snake to bite at the ground where he once stood.

The Sparrow continued to follow the Young Woman’s path, only at this point sticking to the air. Despite his extreme hunger, he continued forth, hoping to see the woman he loved. The path led him out of the park and onto a street that was quite busy. He only had a vague idea of where he was going, but since he had seen the Young Woman walk along this very street, he decided to continue leaving the direction to his well-tuned intuition. He was fighting against the current of large lorry slipstreams and massive cross winds as he flew down the street. His determination would not allow him to slow or to be derailed in his mission. In an effort to avoid the wind generated by the speeding automobiles, the Sparrow climbed higher in the air. During his accent, he noticed a figure in the apartment window to his left. ‘It’s her!” he shouted as he pulled a complex (and physically taxing) immelman manoeuvre, followed promptly by a safe landing on the window sill. The Sparrow could not believe his eyes, the woman of his dreams was only a mere matter of inches away from him.

The Sparrow’s tiny heart beat as though it were attempting to exit his body through his beak. The woman was preparing for her wedding by stuffing hundreds of lavender coloured envelopes and listening to strange music. The music that the woman was listening to reminded the Sparrow of the odd foreign songs that his grandfather, an explorer of some note in the avian community would often sing whilst rambling on at considerable length about his journeys. The Sparrow found that he did not much care for this music and attempted to drown it out with his own song. With all of his remaining strength, the Sparrow belted out the song that he knew best in an attempt to draw the attention of the woman. The woman, however, seemed completely unmoved by his attempt at song. Frustrated, and indeed quite confused by her lack of attention to his song, the Sparrow decided perhaps he should be so bold as to enter a little further into her room. With equal parts determination and a fear, the Sparrow slowly walked nearer the interior of the woman’s apartment. As he drew closer, his heart raced, but he felt more courage course through out his body. In his mind he was telling himself that “all is to be okay, when she sees…” Precisely as his mind was justifying his entrance, he smacked up against the glass of the woman’s window with a quite tiny, and to human ears, practically inaudible thud. He sat back, head spinning from the abrupt contact, contemplating both what had just happened as well as a solution to this deterrence.

After some thought, and a bit of recovery, the Sparrow resolved that he in fact needed more speed in order to get through the invisible barrier. The Sparrow leapt off the windowsill and swooped down the side of the building with incredible speed. As he looped back, he adjusted his pitch to make sure he was exactly aimed at the window. He figured that he must have simply been too close, and too low down to see the entrance to the room from his former perspective, so with a bit of courage he charged straight for what he believed was the open entrance to the woman’s room. With an incredible thwack, the Sparrow smashed into the window leaving his unconscious and tiny body lying on the windowsill. Luckily, the woman did hear this attempt, and opened the window. With a look of both disgust and compassion, she scooped the tiny bird into her hand and brought him into her room. “Oh, poor thing,” she cried, “Why did you think you could go through glass?” The Sparrow did not answer the Woman’s question, because at that exact moment he was not at all conscious, and was quite at risk of never being so again.

The Woman did not know what she should do with the bird, she knew that most likely he was either dead, or quite nearly on the brink of dying. Placing the Sparrow on a towel, she rummaged through her closet and found a shoebox suitable for use as a make-shift bird hospice. A few hours passed and the Sparrow regained consciousness, but felt that his head had grown a new appendage that served only one function; to throb with cruel accuracy. The Sparrow took a survey of his surroundings in an attempt to figure out exactly where he was. This new geography confused him, he found himself surrounded by fixtures that he had never come across in all of his travels. He did not know exactly what he was supposed to do in this new environment. So out of equal parts fear and confusion, he resolved to let out a chirp to signal his distress. Luckily for him, he managed to attracted the attention of the woman who had rescued him.

The Woman came over to the box and with kind eyes peered down at the tiny helpless bird. “What did you think you were doing flying into my window little bird?” Asked the woman in a kind voice that sounded as though it were at least one octave above her normal speaking tone.

The Sparrow looked at the woman and realized that he had finally made it inside the home of his beloved. He stood speechless; staring at the woman not sure if he should trust his eyes. It all seemed too good to be true. Just as he felt like he was once again wrapping his mind around the situation, everything changed. From down the hallway, there was a bellowing sound of a male voice, “honey, you home?” Boomed the voice from the hall.

“I am dear, I’m just in the bedroom,” the woman replied sweetly.

The Man came into the room in a huff and kissed the woman on the top of her head. The Sparrow felt a new rush of confusion and sadness as he witnessed this display of affection. The Man questioned the Woman’s decision to keep the tiny invalid bird, which he asserted was most likely ‘teaming with worms and whatnot.’ The Sparrow was hurt, again and again by this man whom it seemed the Woman had foolishly decided to love.

As the days went on, the Sparrow continued his recovery. The Woman had fashioned a rather crude little nest for the Sparrow, in hopes that he would eventually recover. The Sparrow found this trait in the woman marvellous. Here he was a relative stranger, injured and pathetic but welcomed into her home and nursed back to heath. The Woman had placed his little home near the bookcases in her room, which were positioned fairly near the window he had attempted to fly through a few days before. Although the Woman was kind hearted, and provided him great care, there was still an aspect of her life that he could not fully understand. Whilst in recovery the Sparrow saw first-hand what it meant for humans to love each other. He witnessed the passion and energy of the young couple as they tossed about in their bed, with complete disregard for the Sparrow. With this revelation, he knew that his love could not be translated into human love.

For all of the Sparrow’s life, he had heard the stories of the Nightingale and the unique place that bird held in the hearts of humans. He yearned to be that kind of bird. When he was a younger, the Sparrow had been told the story of the Nightingale, and the Rose. In this particular story, the Nightingale embodied the true desire that existed in the hearts of two lovers who were set to be in love. This story, the Sparrow believed, held a definite poignancy for his situation. The Woman may be in love with the Man, but her true desire to remain a free spirit would be better satisfied by the Sparrow.

For the next few days, the Sparrow could not help but feel with-drawn from the world. His wounds were healing, as was his heart, to some extent. He began to feel comforted by the idea that he must move on with his life and quit pinning after a love that could not be. As the Sparrow healed, he began to sing his song, filling the Woman’s flat with his forlorn melody that haunted and reverberated with aid of her hardwood floors. The Woman had become accustomed to his song, and felt that his presence brought the room together quite nicely. She believed, however, that allowing the Sparrow to leave would be the humane thing to do, despite his true wishes to the contrary.

***

The day the Sparrow left had been a sad one. The Woman and her fiancée had grown quite fond of the tiny bird. The Sparrow, however, felt saddened by the loss of a love, as well as the loss of a quest in his life. At the moment that the Sparrow hopped up to the windowsill, he turned round to take one last survey of the place he had once so longed to be. It no longer held the same sense of wonder and excitement, nor did he hold the enchanted feelings toward the woman he had been after. The Sparrow then took a daring leap from the window and took to flight upon his newly healed wings. As the wind rushed though his feathers and as he navigated though the dense urban surrounding he felt a distinct sense of relief. He was no longer pinned down by the haunting feeling of longing; he was, in effect free.

A short time later he had made his way back to the park where he again spent the majority of his days. The gravity of his loss began to set in, and the Sparrow once again longed for the Woman’s touch. Lying next to him in the grass was a student who had fallen asleep with his book opened. The Sparrow cautiously approached the young man and began to pore over the words of the book. The title was The Letters of Abelard and Heloise. The Sparrow read what he could in the situation, and picked up on Abelard’s feeling of longing, loss and cruel impotence. The Sparrow had found an instant spiritual connection with the heretic monk, and felt that perhaps he embodied some form of Abelard.

More time passed and the Sparrow returned to his normal, daily activities never loosing memory of the Woman in the park. For her part, the Woman no longer spent her days lounging freely in the park; or anywhere for that matter. She had moved out of the city with her husband, but the Sparrow held out hope that one day he would see her again.

As the Sparrow grew older, he had met many female sparrows, but never felt the same connectivity to any of them. He believed that one day the Woman would return, and all would be well. He understood that there would always be physical limitations, but it was her presence that he desired. He knew that if only she would return, they would be eternally happy; always together, but forever apart. The End

Of Course My Dear, Stanley

by j. scott sly

To: Herbert Legrand, Ph.D. 42 Ipswich Lane, Innsmouth, Massachusetts

Hullo dear friend and colleague,

Although it has been many years since last we spoke, I feel you are the only person I can trust with the information I believe I am in possession of. I have seen evils that defy explanation. These abominable forces have made themselves known in both man and nature. My report of these events coincide with a famous bit of our history, but let it be known that the history that has become common knowledge is far from the truthful telling of the events. Please read carefully my telling of the following; only then will you understand my current state of mental unrest.

As you may be aware, I took a rather long sabbatical from my studies. I was finding the long hours stuffed into an uncomfortable chair in the reading room of the library far too dull, and I felt that an adventure was in order for the new year. When my mind became set on such a (foolish) notion, my heart grew light and it was as if the entire world suddenly came into an acute focus for the first time in my life. The acquisition of knowledge had been my mission, but in what form? What can be learnt from books that cannot be learnt from the world surrounding us? These were the questions that I believed I needed an answer to. I was proud of my infantile naïveté; I realize now what a state of bliss it is to be unknowing.

As I ended my second year at university, I remember the odd feeling as you and my other classmates instantly passed me in social and intellectual rank. I knew then that I would most likely not return to my studies. Either out of shame, or disinterest, my time in academia was over.

I spent the next few nights drunk. I passed through all the local pubs in our small town, but felt a creeping sense of unease. I did not feel welcome at these establishments. The barman would pour my beer and pass it to me without looking at my eyes once. My former classmates singing school songs in a merry choir seemed to not even recognize me; or at the very least acknowledge my existence. I was an outcast from society in less than a week.

One night, as I lay in my bed listening to the sounds of the street, I heard a man speaking about the blessed call of “grand adventure” and how the retched youth do not value their available mental faculties and physical abilities. Whilst in school, I had only a passing interest in current events. I preferred the ancient mysteries to those of our bland society. I was aware, however, of the strange case of the missing doctor in the deep heart of Africa. This man outside my room was either raving to himself, a rather quiet mate, or perhaps to those of us who were lying in bed, waiting for instructions. Either way, I had a mission for the next morning. With a sense of contentment, I closed my eyes.

I awoke in a flash with the rising sun. It was winter, yet I woke bathed in a sticky sweat. I made my way to my wash basin and splashed the cold water on my face. As I peered into the bowl, I noticed that my reflection appeared somewhat distorted, but in not such a noticeable way that I could not simply attribute this distortion to the odd tricks of the light water can play. I cleaned myself, yet I neglected to shave out of an acute fear of the blade. I had a difficult time understanding why I had this sudden aversion to the razor I had used every day since I had been old enough to grow hair on my chin. I know now it was not out of fear of the blade, but out of fear of what the blade can be used for. Quickly I pulled on my trousers and shirtsleeves and headed down to morning tea with the landlady.

When I opened the door, however, I was rather shocked to see a tea tray lying in front of me. Had the old woman an appointment this morning? Why would she simply leave my tea out? It was the custom of the house for all of us to gather for tea. The old woman who owned the house had lost her son and daughter in an odd accident near the seashore of the neighbouring town. The events of the accident were never clear. The father, who had taken them to collect shells, gave such a mad account of the events, that his testimony was deemed inadmissible on the grounds of insanity. The old woman did not like to talk about the accident, or her husband, but she enjoyed the company of her boarders at tea. We would often sit in silence, glancing at each other and giving polite nods and smiles. The topic of conversation would typically centre around the quality of the tea, which despite its actual low quality, was always praised as the finest from Ceylon.

This morning, however, was different. I took the tray and returned to my room. I placed the tray on my desk and poured myself a cup of the tea from the pewter urn the woman used on Christmas for large gatherings. The tea was cold, bitter, and tasted of the grease soap used to clean the urn. I forced down the tea and decided to take my leave and see about a rail ticket to Newcastle where I might inquire about joining an expedition. I did not particularly care where I would go, nor did I have the desire to take the Civil Service exams, I simply wanted to go on an adventure.

As I walked through the town, there was a feeling again that I did not belong. I could feel people’s eyes burning through me. It was as if they knew that I had given up my studies for a frivolous adventure. The whole of the town sat in judgement of my hasty decision. Near the centre of town, I asked where I might be able to hire a coach to the station. I had asked three or four different drivers, but they all informed me that it was too far for them to make any money out of the deal. I was beginning to feel quite distraught. I made my way to the student pub where I figured I would have a bit of lunch then head back to my room and try to come up with a new plan. I sat at a table in the middle of the room, a position I believed to be advantageous to my being able to control my surroundings. This was when, dear friend, things became quite strange.

As I had mentioned, I sat myself in the centre of the room. I did not mention, however, that there was only a few other people in the establishment. There were a couple of Porter drinking old men near the bar, who had quite possibly been there since the pub had first opened fifty or so years ago. Sitting at the table to my left anterior, a well-sunned man was practicing his chess and smoking a rather odd looking yellow-cigarette. As I sat, I could not help but feel this strange man’s eyes on the back of my neck. I tried to turn round without making it appear that I was bothered by his presence, but I imagine my facial expression may have exposed my true feeling. I pivoted in my seat in an attempt to see if he were in fact boring holes in my skull with his wild, colonial eyes. As I shifted, our eyes locked and there was now no escaping conversation. I nodded and gave a polite smile. The odd man did not return these niceties, so I turned back to my table, awkwardly and silently. At this point I felt it best that I returned to my room to avoid any further embarrassment. As I started to stand I felt a hand on my left shoulder pushing me back into my seat. It was the colonial.

To my surprise, the man then proceeded to take a seat at my table! I was absolutely shocked at the brazen attitude of this man, so shocked in fact that I had yet to udder a single word that amounted to more than a confounded grunt. The man was clean-shaven, save for a small patch of hair just under his lower-lip and wore what may have been a fine suit at one point. He was worn, but not dishevelled and he looked at me with eyes that seen more in a few years than most men see in a lifetime. He then asked my name. I could not, at first place his accent. He was certainly not English, but I could not ascertain where he may be from. I told him my name in a small, childish voice. He smiled without showing any teeth, more of a polite grin, but there was happiness in his eyes. He could see that I was uncomfortable and quickly introduced himself as Thomas Van der Merwe. I asked about where it was he was from, presuming by his surname that he was Dutch. He told me that he was in fact from the Transvaal in South Africa. Knowing of the tensions between these Dutch ‘South Africans’ and the English, I trod lightly over the subject and moved simply, and a bit impatiently to my question of his intention in speaking with me.

At the beginning of the conversation he asked me the simple question of my name. I tell you friend, I froze at the question. Either out of fear, confusion, or truly out of a disease of the mind I could not answer the man’s question. At this point, he slapped the table and ordered the barman over to our table. The barman approached and took my order: bitter, pint thereof, and the man’s: a bottle of lowland lager. We waited for our drinks in awkward silence. The man rolled a cigarette with odd, yellow papers and a strange bled of tobacco that I have never seen. When I managed to force words out of my mouth, I first asked from which tobacconist he had purchased such tobacco. The man chuckled (once again not showing teeth) and informed me that such a blend is not available within the shores of England. In fact, his tobacco was a custom blend from his family’s farm in the Transvaal made not only of tobacco but of the Rooibos leaves and stems. I nodded as if I knew at all what he was speaking of, but in fact, I had not the faintest clue. Finally, our drinks arrived and the silence was broken by the standard, ‘ah, grand,’ and ‘cheers mate’ that typically accompany the arrival of much needed beer.

I raised the glass to my mouth, and was about to take a deep drink of the liquid, when the man grabbed my wrist and insisted on a toast. I accepted and held my cup over the table. The man then looked straight into my eyes and, with a disturbing frankness toasted ‘to evil.’ I paused, shocked by this strange toast. As the man drank down nearly half of his bottle of lager, I nervously put the pint to my lips and drank. The man then put down his bottle and looked upon me with a smile.

As we ordered round after round (by his suggestion) I found myself not only drunk, but comforted in his company. Although we did not talk very much, I gathered that this man could help me find the adventure I was seeking. We sat at that table whilst droves of people flocked through the doors of the tiny student pub. Around midnight, we arrived at the heart of our conversation. The man told about his childhood, growing up first in the Cape, and then moving inland with his father to work on the farm. When he spoke of his father, the man seemed to disappear into his eyes. There was a sudden and inescapable chasm between us when he spoke of home, there was something that happened, but I dared not ask what.

When he had finished speaking about his homeland, he asked me again my name. I responded appropriately, but the words felt shallow. It was as if I was telling a lie by simply telling him my name. I believe he picked up on this and grinned. The smoke from his cigarette was obscuring my vision, and the noise of the pub was defining, but the look in his eyes at that moment sunk into to my mind and have yet, even at the time of my writing this letter, to evade me.

I felt the effect of the drink heavily in my eyes, and I told the man that perhaps it were time for me to take my leave. I thanked the man for the beer and the conversation and arose from the table. The man then beckoned me to sit for one more beer. I protested, but was persuaded to sit and have one final nightcap with the strange man. As I acknowledged the man’s offer, he ordered another round then turned to me with a renewed energy. As we sipped our beer in a haze of drunkenness, the man asked me blatantly about my plans. He wanted to know, if I were not a tradesman, a labourer, a soldier, a civil servant, or a student; what was I going to do with myself? I told him that I had been wondering myself what it was that I was to do with my life. I told the man that I felt a calling for adventure. That I wanted to learn what made the earth the interestingly diverse place that it had become. The chasm in the man’s eyes appeared again. I sat, embarrassed that I had just spilt my soul to this stranger. I wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps he thought me a young, ideological fool. Or perhaps he thought me the mental defect I began thinking myself to be. As I sat self-consciously afraid of his next words a great grin appeared on his face as he took another drag of his odd cigarette.

We set out the next morning for Belfast via London. Because of my stint at university I was brought in as an historian and stenographer for a troupe of hired explorers in the employ of the strange man from the pub. As we made our way from my adopted university-town to Belfast, we picked up a number of ragged and weary looking men. These men scared me dear friend, I do not hesitate to tell you. They drank spirits out of label-less bottles and possessed accents of unknown origin. I attempted on one occasion to speak with one of these men, but found only abject futility in the matter. Once we arrived in Belfast, the final member joined our odd little convoy. This man spoke with the same Boer accent as the man I met in the pub. He did not smoke the same yellow-cigarettes, but in its stead a pipe that produced a most foul smelling smoke. The two men, the man from the pub and this man in Ireland embraced and spoke an odd language that sounding faintly Dutch, but with strange accents in the words.

We set to water that summer 1870 with the hopes of meeting with an explorer who had been living in America for some time. We were to meet him somewhere along what the French call the Côte d'Ivoire. We had been at sea for a few days before I started to feel the pining for home. I had never really considered the flat I was living in to be my home, but since I had been living there for more than two years, it had unquestionably become so. I missed tea with the landlady and the other residents of the house. The tea aboard the ship was not that bad, but it was different. It was not my familiar India tea, which produces the sense that one is capable of anything. The tea made aboard this ship was of South American origin, Yerba Mate, as I was told. This Mate, looks much like green China tea, but gives one the jitters like strong coffee. There was comfort in its warmth, but this comfort was fleeting. We also drank much spirits on this voyage. Drink which I had never tasted, and frankly never wish to taste again. There was a complete absence of creature comfort on this short journey, and this began to wear on me most heavily.

When we finally landed upon the continent, I walked on the foreign soil and felt the tinge of excitement that I had so long been craving. I looked around the harbour town and saw almost nothing which struck me as familiar. The man from the pub, who I had come to call Thomas put his arm around me in a most affectionate manner and led me to a smallish hut. When the wooden door was opened, I was actually surprised to see a full-functioning pub serving the seamen that came to port. Thomas explained that this pub was one of the more frequented establishments that came before the treacherous journey around the cape and was therefore a popular stopping point for those heading to the eastern-side of the continent. The crew and I settled in for the night at this pub, content to drink until forced out into the sickly-warm air. Up to this point, I was still quite unaware of the actual mission ahead of us, but I had not the courage to ask my employer for fear of looking foolish. That is when, perhaps sensing my unease Thomas pulled me aside and related to me the journey ahead. He asked me if I was aware of the missionary Dr. Livingstone who had gone missing in East Africa. I was somewhat aware, but asked him to remind me the specifics of the story. As you may well remember friend, Dr. Livingstone was an abolitionist and missionary who had gone missing after his last visit to England to talk of heroics. There was talk that the journalist Henry Stanley was to lead an expedition to search out Livingstone. I happened, as it were, to be requited into this expedition.

We spent a few months in wait for Stanley’s crew to arrive from America. The months spent in African taverns and tea houses changed me. I began to pick up small amounts of local Creole languages as we waited the arrival of the exploratory envoy. After quite some time, we received word that Stanley’s crew had landed on the continent and were waiting for us near Lake Victoria. Our ragged little group set off again to head for Kenya, where we would meet with Stanley’s men and find this Dr. Livingstone.

Dear friend, I am conscious of the length of this letter, but as Pascal once wrote ‘I had not the time to write a short one.’ I fear that if the events to which I was privy to are not written, they will indeed be forgotten. I will, however, spare you the account of the second voyage. We rounded the Cape and passed the shark-infested waters that make that crossing so dangerous. After a longish journey, we landed in Mombasa and proceeded into the interior.

Our guide, a local Kenyan named Jomo Muhimu took us from the relative comfort of Mombasa, to the deep jungle interior. Thomas, for his part translated Jomo’s directions the best he could, but I had the sneaking suspicion that neither of them truly had any idea where we were going. Whilst we were trekking through the harsh climate and terrain, I began to regret my decision to accompany Thomas on this expedition.

Day after day passed and the comforts became more and more sparse. The tea we had brought along with had long run out, as had the beer. The only water we found was brackish and could not be made the least bit potable. Jomo showed us a trick to harness the morning dew with the leaves of the low hanging trees, but the small amount of water was hardly enough to hydrate our bodies and our minds. The men and I became edgy and sniped comments at each other. These hurtful little barbs only highlighted our sense of discomfort in the situation, and out waning faith in the mission.

Finally we came upon the banks of Lake Victoria! I cannot describe the feeling of jubilation upon finding this lake, which at once felt as though it must be the original oasis which provided the ground water for Eden. As I bent down to drink the clear water, I felt an instant sense of ease. I cupped my hand and dipped it into the cool liquid. Each time as I brought my hands to my face, I felt a renewed sense of why I had come this far into the interior of Africa. When I had drunk my fill and the water in front of me settled, I once again saw a strange figure reflected back at me. When I saw this stranger in the reflection I smirked and then disturbed the water, obscuring the reflection and wiping the image from my mind. We met up with Stanley’s expedition shortly after arriving at Lake Victoria. We spent a night resting and plotting a course to Lake Tanganyika, where it was believed Livingstone had been.

As we made our way toward Tanganyika, I witnessed true evil in a form I never imagined. Stanley and his crew did not have the same modicum of respect that I felt the crew of my employ held for the native people. I tell you now dear friend, we were not perfect, but the atrocities I witnessed at the hand of Stanley’s crew I dare not repeat. I will say only that the claustrophobic and impending fear of unknown horrors are enough to drive a team of strong men mad; mad enough to open their guns upon women and children.

I apologize for the melodramatic form in which I am presenting this to you, but you must understand that since my return I have not been able to remove the images of these horrors from my mind. As I mentioned previously, my duty in this murderous crew was to perform the job of Historian. As we pushed through the bush, I recorded what I could of notable flora and fauna as well as interesting landmarks. With much zeal I took to sketching odd fetish statues and other native rock sculpture. The native culture, being far more advanced than we could have previously known before seems to have had some sort of contact with pre-Ottoman eastern traders. These traders were most likely involved in a slave trade -possibly originating from either Shiraz or Persia- and were likely forbearers of the European trade in our too recent past. I remark on this only because the sculptures that I recorded did bear a rather striking resemblance to those recorded in your own journal and that of your colleague (who being from the region himself may be able to shed some amount of light on my sketches). It is far too difficult to understand what the carvings are meant to be. One assumes a primitive God to the natives here. The creature appears to have the body of a man with the head of what might be a squid, or other tentacle sea-creature. The most peculiar element in the make-up this fetish item was the eyes. The eye sockets appeared at first to be empty, as with a Grecian statue. I beg to make the distinction of empty not blank as there was a space where perhaps eyes may have been placed into to make the stature appear more life-like. Upon further inspection however, it appeared that there had been some form of reflective surface inside the sockets of the eye –making it appear as though one’s own reflection was inside the eyes of this rather peculiar deity.

As we moved closer to Lake Tanganyika, I discovered more of these odd statures along the primitive road on which we were travelling. As you may have read in the newspapers, we were successful in finding the doctor, but I must tell you that the report which you have read was not the same which I wrote that day. When we came upon the doctor’s camp, there was an tangible sense unease about the place. We arrived about dusk to the camp and carried out a campaign of mad shouting at the prospect of finding the good doctor. After a good deal of riffling through tents and native structures, we came upon Dr Livingstone himself. The man was thin and emaciated and had a sunken look about his eyes. His skin appeared weather-beaten and chapped and his lips were white and seemed to have a layer of crust on them. As you have read, accurately I must say, our adventurer Stanley then ejaculated with his now famous line: ‘Dr Livingstone I presume?’ That, however, is where the accuracy of the story ends. I recorded the conversation between the two men verbatim and I reproduce it here for you. The actual account reads quite different from the newspaper’s over-zealous report of heroism. This is the draft I submitted to the Pall-Mall Gazette, only to have just one sentence used in the whole account. As stated, here is the version I witnessed:

[Stanley] ‘Dr Livingstone I presume?’

[Livingstone] ‘Of course my dear Stanley, of course. Never before have I been so glad to see another human being as I am to see you! I have been in the heart of it, the heart of darkness. Oh the tales I could tell of an evil so old it makes one's own religions like as if merely in its infancy. There secrets kept in the dark corridors, under the dense canopy where light seldom shows. It is in this humid, and fetid environ that this evil lives, feeding off the ignorance of the locals and drawing power through the millennia from the rotting corpses of the devout. My dear Stanley I must warn you, there is an evil that will soon emerge from its gruesome slumber, an evil which will destroy us all. Under the swamp lands, beneath the sands and seas lies the true first inhabitants of this planet, and they are coming dear boy, to reclaim what is theirs.’

Stanley stood in stunned silence after Livingstone’s seemingly mad diatribe. The crew and I believed that Livingstone had succumb to a bush sickness of some kind and worked at once to get him into a tent. It was our belief that perhaps the good doctor had perhaps become ill though a form of miasma from burning strange fungi or wood on his fire. All we really knew was that we would need to trek out with greater speed than we had trekked in.

We did manage to make it to Mombasa and finally London in good time. The Doctor was able to recover some amount of his wits and went on a lecture tour to enlighten others about what he saw whilst deep in the jungle. I attended one of these lectures and was quite surprised that there was no mention of his illness or of the odd beings he spoke of whilst on the shores of Tanganyika.

I am writing to you because of your interest in these curious stories and native legend. I cannot help but feel that perhaps the odd statues that I found littering the path toward Tanganyika are not in some way related to the beings Livingstone raved about. He may have been affected by some form of jungle fever, but I believe that he has witnessed something, something terrible that I pray will never emerge from the depths at which it may currently rest. The more I research these beings, the more connections I gain within the legends, but the fewer connections with sanity I hold. I pass this information along to you in hopes that you may continue my research into this odd cult. I can no longer trust my mind enough to point me in the right direction towards truth. In time I will send what research I have completed, but for now I can pass along but one piece of information. There is a land in vast reaches of the north, its name in unpronounceable to the English tongue, but well known in the dialects of the people who populate the area. This northern land is the home of what I believe to be an ancient race of beings. More than that I cannot yet say, nor did I want to continue with the search. There are some things that perhaps we are not meant to know. I wish you well with your university position in Massachusetts dear friend. Be careful with this search; do not allow it to consume you as it consumed me.

Your friend always,

Walter

Jamie

By J. Scott Sly

Let us just say, for the sake of argument, that I had a friend. And on top of that fact, (which is clearly expressed in the previous sentence), let us also make note that this friend’s name was Jamie. There is now a question that should arise in the mind of the astute reader (which may, for nearly all intents, and some purposes be in fact you) as to the specific gender of this friend. I will warn you dear reader that prying questions of this sort are best left to a time when we are better acquainted. For purposes of this story, however, I will dispense with the gender forthwith; male. This male Jamie (which if one must know is short for Jameson) was a very interesting sort. I hate to contradict myself so early in this expression, but perhaps interesting is a troublesome phrase. Jamie was (I apologize dear reader for one’s slipping into the use of embellished superlatives) the most interesting person in the world; and that is, be sure, no small feat.

The story of Jamie is, however, a rather short one. He was born, and, as you may have already guessed, he died. There is little question over these facts and there is little interest to those outside of his immediate family of the cosmic events that took place that allowed his birth, as the story is all-too-typical. Jamie himself found the story of his birth so commonplace that he has since stricken it from the self-explained record of his life. I shall explain it only because to one whose life is not extraordinary, even these commonplace events hold a modicum of wonder.

Jamie, like most men was born of the union of a man and woman (I will not go into details, but if an explanation is needed please seek the guidance of a practitioner of medicine). These particular people were quite common; the sort one passes on the street and does not give a second glance to. They were not poor, nor were they rich. They were pleasant looking, but not quite attractive, but they were certainly not ugly. These people carried on with their lives in the comfort of a small group of friends and relations and affected little in the world.
To this end, they could not truly be considered to be “good,” nor could they be considered “bad” by any sane person’s standards. The parents (as we will call them) were from what one could consider to be the very smallest of towns located in the Midlands of Wales, but they were not “bumpkins” as many would refer people of the region to be. Jamie’s father was to a degree, a learned man. He did not attend University, but had lived in a veil of old-world wisdom for his entire existence. He had travelled some, mainly to Cardiff to buy the more luxurious tobacco found in the city shops, as well as more tiresome travel as was a requirement of his job as an estate agent.
His mother had not been outside of their county for some time, but was born away from Wales, on the Isle of Man. To her, there was always a world waiting for her on the other side of the Channel or the Irish Sea. Jamie’s mother was a restless soul, who, perhaps to her folly read a few too many books about the world outside of their county. Though humble, this existence was far from painful. In fact, this small family had lived a rather fulfilling life up until the critical point wherein they found themselves wanting that certain something extra. What they felt was missing was the piercing cry of a child, as well as the astronomical debt accrued from the purchase of a larger home. Because they felt this void in their lives, they decided, as many do, to (please to be pardoning my use of a crude phrase) “have a child.”

Despite Jamie’s insistence that the story of his conception, and subsequent birth was, in his words, “quite simply the most depraved, yet strangely dull story that has ever been told,”* I (as the teller of this tale) insist that it was anything but dull. As previously mentioned, Jamie was born out of the union of his two parents, which in-turn led to a series of events that forever altered the make-up of this universe, and as far as one can tell, all universes. Though quite thoroughly and satisfactorily explained by modern science, the staggering amount of connections and consequences that are necessary to create life still manages to astound on occasion. Through all of these scientifically explained consequences there was born (once again my most valued reader, I do hate to over use the grammatical devise of the superlative, but in this case it is wholly necessary) the most interesting person in the world.

There is little known information about the childhood of Jamie. He himself never spoke adequately about this phase of his life, and, at least to date there is considerably little scholarship that focuses on any aspect of his early life. It is quite difficult to understand why there is little mention of his early years, but one can estimate that perhaps it is due to Jamie’s own insistence of the normalcy, and thus the commonality of his life.

The late-childhood and adolescence of Jamie is the beginning of what can be regarded as his rise to what, learned and securely tenured university professors deem “the origins of his pre-destined supremacy in the academic world.”** Much like the famed outsider Stephen Daedalus of James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Jamie lived a secluded life as a young man, choosing the printed word over human interaction. Jamie found himself wrapped in a world of adventure that made his own life seem completely and utterly boring. Within one afternoon, Jamie could travel through the deserts of Northern Africa, sail through the tropical waters of the Caribbean, roam the vastness of the American West, and contemplate the mysteries of existence.

Like his mother, however, Jamie was a restless soul. As soon as he had reached an appropriate age, he left home to pursue a life of learning. Jamie had been accepted to all of the best schools in Europe and the United Kingdom, but he instead choose to attend university in Queensland, Australia, in hopes of finding the adventure he had wished for his entire existence (which at this point had not added up to much in actual numbers). Upon arriving at university, however, he began to feel a dreadful unease. It was a feeling of dread that he could not quite contemplate, nor, in truth, did he truly wish to understand.

His time at Queensland was brief, as he felt quite bored with the rapidity of the lectures and the droning of his aged professors. What Jamie felt was needed was a change of scenery. At the first chance he had, he purchased a one-way aeroplane ticket to New Brunswick, Canada. Why he chose such a frozen, isolated, and provincial tundra is truly beyond my understanding, but given that his intellect is so vastly superior to mine, it is possible that New Brunswick is the most wonderful place to live.

Jamie lived in New Brunswick for roughly twelve years before I met him whilst in passing on a bustling high street in New York City. The circumstances of our meeting are once again owed to the power of coincidence; only this particular coincidence is not, at least to my knowledge satisfactorily explained by science. We met after attending a conference concerning the recent reissue of a collected works by a famous author whom I will not bore you, kind reader, with the unnecessary name of. We, though the power of coincidence that I (admittedly) insist on harping about ended up chatting about this new contribution to the vast catalogue of works by this particular, and for our purposes, unnamed author. Through the course of our conversation, there happened a small electrical charge that one may be familiar with when two acquaintances become friends. Therefore from our first meeting, we began a friendship that, I believed to be of the highest calibre both intellectually and simply on the level where two people of the (supposed) same species can have a bit of a laugh. As you may well have noticed given your (once again supposedly) unique skill of parsing one’s every word, I made a slight implication that Jamie and I were, per chance, not of the same species. I assure you, I am not implying that he is a super-human, or inversely that I am some sort of missing link between primitive man and the current, I am simply making clear that his mind was of a caste far superior to that of my own.

In the last paragraph I made mention to your own unique skill as a reader, I currently still hold that statement as a truthful one and would be willing (if you would be so kind as to allow), to make a guess that you are presently wondering what it is that made Jamie’s life so interesting? Well first, I complement you on your astute and warranted inquiry, second I would ask for your patience in my telling of what I believe to be an important story.

From the initial days of our friendship, I had learnt much of Jamie’s life in New Brunswick, but as established previously, considerably little was said about his formative years. In appearance, he was not particularly handsome. His brow was quite deep set, his eyes were perhaps a bit too close together (and tended to wander a bit), and his mouth was hard and unmoving. Jamie was a quiet man, who when asked any question, would answer in the most curt and unembellished way possible. There was wisdom behind his stoic demeanour, however, and I wished to further explore this hidden knowledge. Through much discussion (mostly from my side), Jamie and I had reached a conclusion that he should write a memoir of his most interesting life. We agreed that this work should be in full, vivid detail and represent, if possible, a modern telling of a Greek epic. We parted ways after reaching this conclusion, agreeing to meet again a year later to review the final draft of his work. Jamie had gone home to Wales to stay with his family, and I had gone back to Dublin to continue my professional career.

About a fortnight later, a courier delivered an envelope to my home at an unusually late hour. I opened the package (with, and I don’t mind telling you trusted reader, no small amount of trepidation) and removed the contents. Before I examined the pages that were contained within the envelope, I checked to see where this strange vessel had originated. To my surprise, there was no return address. With fear that this ominous package contained horrible news, I ventured to open the folded sheets of paper to attempt to read the words that, at this point seemed to hold any number of disturbing facts. Upon unfolding I noticed only a few words printed oddly in the middle of the page, these words I will recreate for you in facsimile:

I, Jameson, was born in a small village in Wales. I have both a mother and a father. I have been to both Australia and Canada. Thank you for reading.


With exhalant joy, my eyes poured over the words that sang out to me with the same comportment that would Keats or Tennyson. The base simplicity of the words reminded me of the animalistic nature of man, and the raw power which one can exude. Literature from this day forward would never be the same. Gone are the days of would-be “prose artists,” or so-called “poets” attempting to mimic Byron or Eliot. There is no need, as many scholars agree for the written word to even continue past this point of acute simplicity. Through his curt, yet moving memoir, Mr. Jameson proved with no doubt that he was truly the most interesting man that has ever lived.

*This quote is regretfully embellished due to the loss of his actual words over time. I seem to remember his words being similar, yet one cannot be absolutely sure.

**Stephens, Colin, The Incredible Mind, p.337-9.