May 19th 1536, was I can suppose, the day that The King totally lost his reason. So, now it is our turn to feel his guilt, manifest in slaughter. Nearly all the monasteries in Wales have been destroyed, by order of King Henry! Only a few of the Welsh Fathers have chosen to remain, fleeing the kings’ retribution by seeking sanctuary on pin pricks of rock, like Ynys y Niwl.
Being forced to pass my days on this island, means there is some delay in the receipt of news of the world beyond. Only when somebody, usually another member of the same Order, reaches The Monastery that I hear any information about distant parts, it’s frustrating…
Indeed, it’s taken a couple of years for me to hear that King Henry has executed Queen Anne; chopped her head off no less! If it wasn’t for that wet and bedraggled Monk in a faded blue cassock, who washed up on the island three days ago, I’d still be none the wiser. The Abbot doesn’t realise how much his fellow Brother’s like to gossip and I like to listen. However, those papist Monks who sought sanctuary in this old Viking refuge of Wyndwrayth, have mostly found only death, at the hands of Millar. I suppose I should have at least a modicum of sympathy for these poor souls but I don’t, the centuries of his slaughter have taken a toll on what little humanity I ever had.
The ‘Dissolution of the Monasteries’ continues apace. Millar finds times like these, stimulating but I can hear the fear spreading by whispers in the cloister. Everybody knows that Henry’s men will be arriving on the shores of Llyn Isaf before the summer ends and then, what will be left of this place?
So much for the mercy of their Lord. If he exists at all?
I have read many of the brethren’s holiest books and concluded they are simply folk tales, like parents recite to their children, in essence, to teach and frighten them into obedience. They would have done better, to frighten them by telling them tales about The Millar of Souls, at least he is real! When all is said and done, their Bible is like many other holy books. Mystery meets cruelty in a clash of unprovable events and long forgotten people, in the hope of giving birth to another religious movement to challenge the power and orthodoxy of the last doctrine.
My years have taught me, that this process usually ends up with many more dead than both sides can afford to lose. Civil wars and conflicts often herald the decline of their civilisation. It seems this latest argument of power is between two codes of the same fantasy religion, ridiculous!
I rarely see Millar these days and in truth, I am not aware of what he does for the majority of the time, up there in his tower room. When the Monks were slaughtered by the King’s men and they left the island with their plunder, he seized that feature of Wyndwrayth for himself. He pleasured himself creating a couple of slaughter rooms, practically placed and within easily accessible locations in the tower.
I am becoming aware of his growing agitation, which usually indicates he smells the approach of a death and hence the opportunity to feed. Over the long years that I have been his guardian, I have learnt that this is the point where I have to keep my wits about me and be ever more vigilant. Up until now, I have found no limit to the true depths of his depravity. With each life he takes, he not only grows stronger but larger and more formidable. It is my place to keep control of him, to contain his size and strength, thus preventing his free reign of terror being unleashed upon the earth.
Well, at least I have a good spot to bury the corpses where the soil is soft and mercifully deep. I did try to keep score once but it all became far too pointless, so these days I just make educated guesses. My latest best guess is 410 souls, accumulated over our time on Ynys y Niwl. I’ve considered those numbers for quite a while and upon reflection, 410 is not too high a number for the years. So, maybe I’m not doing too bad a job when it comes to keeping the barrel lid on Millar’s homicidal tendencies.
I have realised during the passing of these endless years, Millar and myself are inexorably bound together, in a form of mutual dependency. The world we inhabit together, lies somewhere between ‘tick and tock.’ Neither in this world, nor out of it, neither alive nor dead. An empty space furnished by imagination. We are sustained by Millar’s life force, which in turn is fed by his rather disgusting delight in slaughtering the innocent, preferably as slowly as possible, to extract the most horror and pain from his victims. He is like some monstrous, hairless, yet slimy feline, toying with his prey.
Millar seems content to live in his imaginary world within the tower, furnished by those memories of the souls he has taken. Over the years my skills at their manipulation has increased. I can now conjure up people for him to order and dispatch again and again. Those poor tormented souls will never be released.
Sitting on his bed, Nick looked down at his little gut, which was slightly protruding from his splayed open dressing gown and sighed,
“Well this won’t do,” he casually observed and rose to go to the double wardrobe and choose some more useful clothing. He didn’t really have much choice to pick from, because whenever Nick found something comfortable and easy to wear, he had a rather annoying habit of buying several of the item and storing them in his giant wooden dresser. He reached into the nest of coat hangers and selected a washed-out denim shirt and a pair of soft blue elephant cords. ‘Hmm, jacket, or waistcoat,’ he mused and without much delay, withdrew his much-favoured leather bomber jacket, gave it a quick shake and then threw it on the bed.
“May I suggest, that Sir might like to complement this look, with a nice soft scarf, or maybe a hat of some kind?” He said, self mockingly and struck a hard man pose, one which Robert Mapplethorpe would have been pleased with. The whole concept made him chuckle, even as he attempted to see which of his options, best suited the planned day ahead.
“Well Sir, we’ve got a rather fetching blue scarf, or perhaps I can tempt Sir, with a navy cap?”
He was snapped back into reality, by the scrunching sound of a vehicle pulling into the car park by the lakeside. Out of sheer nosiness, Nick moved over to the bedroom window and getting up on his tip toes, just managed to see the top edge of the rest area. His restricted view didn’t stop him observing the arrival of Lady Cleaver in a Range Rover, which immediately decanted one of their farm workers. Nick lost track of him as he appeared to move towards the old Land Rover with box trailer, the one he’d noticed on his way to the pub last night. A moment or two later, he watched as Lady Cleaver left the car park in the Range Rover and sped off towards Kornwy village.
“You fancy a morning joint, eh Nickle-arse?” He asked himself, as he applied todays liberal ‘splash’ of patchouli oil to his wrists. “Just a little touch of ‘Hippie Juice’ for good luck,” he added, as he rubbed another dab of the Indian scent on his neck. “Yes! And why not,” he both asked and answered his own question as he headed downstairs to pour his coffee and roll a doobie.
Fully prepared he parked his arse on the leather seat in front of Heddi, ‘Now to see about that e-mail,’ he thought, taking another toke on his Joint. The communication, turned out to be Alan T’s monthly update on his life and as usual, Nick took the time to read it fully. ‘Altorro,’ had been following this particular path of writing a sort of blow, by blow account of his life, ever since Nick had relocated to Anglesey. He seemed determined, that they should never lose touch with each other again. So, they wrote and tried to get together for a natter, at least once a year. A task made much easier since Alan had changed his day job, from Head Honcho at The Central Library, to what he referred to as, The Chief Engineer on The Snowdon Mountain Railway.
‘I’ll write back tomorrow, man,’ he silently promised. There was also a piece of junk from somebody offering him an ‘Amazing Diet,’ which he summarily deleted after it made him think of hot crumpets. Nick headed for his bread bin, only to find his stash of crumpets had gone mouldy. ‘Dammit Nick, what a wastrel,’ he thought. ‘Hmm I bet I know who’ll have some and it’s a while since I caught up on the local gossip. Maybe she knows about this Land Rover……Yes! Time for a trip to the Heath House!’ Nick threw on his Patchouli infested leather jacket, as he walked through the door.
Nearing the car park, he spotted the single bloke delivered by Lady Cleaver, in his overalls standing by the Land Rover, with its empty trailer still attached.
“Won’t start eh?” He offered, not waiting for an answer. “It’s the damp. It gets into everything around here.” The some-time mechanic, smiled back at him and muttered something about “damp starter plugs,” to which Nick simply offered, “I know the feeling,” continuing on his way with a wave.
Buckie spotted him and started barking as he opened the garden gate. “Not got anything for you today, I’m just looking for a drink this time…and a few crumpets.” The words had barely left his mouth, when Gayle opened the top of the door and called out,
“Black, two sugars? I’ve got some crumpets toasting if you want?” He’d been miles away and her intrusion, made him jump.
“Shit Gayle, you trying to kill me, or what?” he enquired, laughingly. “And the answer’s yes….., to both.” Nick called back, whilst rolling Buckie around on the grass and stroking his stomach.
Gayle soon appeared with the tray of crumpets and coffee, setting it down in the conseravatory and opening the door for him to come and sit with her. “Looks like this is our lucky day, old son,” he confided to Buckie, “play your cards right and we’ll both be winners,” he said quietly to the upside-down Cairn, who just continued squirming and wagging his tail.
“I knew you wouldn’t be far away, when I saw them come around to fix the Land Rover,” and before he was able to respond, she went on, “I called that bitch Lady Cleaver about it this morning. Knew it was one of theirs. That’s our car park and the new sign clearly says, ‘No Overnight Stays!’” She pulled a face, “They still act like they own the whole place.”
Gayle and Harold had bought their place from the Cleavers five years ago, on the understanding that they were going to sell the lake with the island and that the Heath’s, would have first refusal. They had spent a lot of money knocking down the old farmhouse and erecting their modern lakeside palace, in anticipation of purchasing the lake with the island and turning it into an exclusive hotel. Then, the Cleavers had announced that they had no intention of selling the lake, much to the annoyance of both Gayle and Harold.
“Do you think there’s something untoward going on, with Cuthbert down at the lake?” She asked and indicated to the car park, with her thumb.
“No, the man’s an idiot. I think we can forget about Cuthbert,” scoffed Nick, stuffing a crumpet in his mouth.
“Well, what about the Land Rover?” She replied curiously. Even though he couldn’t see the vehicle from here, he pointed out to her that the farm ‘mechanic’ was getting it started and it would soon be gone. “Hmm, I suppose so but you can’t be too careful these days…. ‘n anyway, I wouldn’t believe what that bitch said!” She retorted and sat back to drink her coffee.
“OK, what she said was probably true. It was just a problem getting it started after one of the farmhands stopped for a break, after delivering some sheep to one of the fields.” She sighed resignedly.
“Well there’s an empty trailer attached to the back of it you know,” he commented, reassuringly. “It would fit four sheep in nicely,” he added and smiled at Gayle, knowingly. Just at that moment there was the sound of an engine firing up and a pall of black smoke rose into the air. Moments later, they saw the offending vehicle heading off towards the Cleavers Estate dragging its empty trailer. Nick finished his last bite of crumpet, swilled it down with a final gulp of coffee and laid the empty mug, carefully on its provided coaster. Getting to his feet, he mumbled something about, “e-mailing one of his colleagues” and made his way directly towards the gate.
“Thanks for the refreshments, Gayle, I was just being nosey, that’s all,” he said as the gate swung open.
“I know you were and before you ask, yes, it was that obvious.” A now chagrined Nick, comically hung his head and purposefully winced,
“Oooh, right between the eyes, show a little mercy, won’t you?”
He was soon back home, still trying to put the remainder of his day into some sort of order. ‘Now for that e-mail,’ he thought and turned ‘Heddi’ on. ‘Hmm, joint first, Alan second,’ he added, rolled a quick one and lit it, before looking out of the window towards Ynys y Niwl and its mysterious mansion.
“It must have been nice living there once upon a time,” he opined. “All that quiet solitude and nothing to disturb the peace……” Nick continued privately postulating. ‘Bet he was an author,’ he mused, imaginatively filling in the gaps in his knowledge…“OK Altorro, let’s see what you’ve been up to then,” he commented as he headed back to the computer.
“Rack and Pinion y’all,” read the header, so as far as he could discern, it was genuine. “Yo bitch, how yer doin?” It read in utter comedic excess. “This bitch is doing fine,” Nick responded, in character as he sat down and reached for the ashtray. Alan’s frequent correspondences, which usually arrived at the start of each month, always had one thing going for them; they invariably had a solid vein of humour and intelligence running throughout. Plus, they always contained at least one intriguing concept to consider, or argue over if it came to it. During their school days, Nick and Alan Turnbull had been both bosom buddies and the bitterest of enemies, over some minor, though crucially important point of principal, be it political or ethical. Nick sat back in his chair, took a toke and read on. The next sentence, once again let him know, why Altorro and he had been friends for all these years. It simply read, “Mr. Swann, put down that joint and pay attention.” Nick, smiled affectionately and almost silently muttered,
“Fuck, am I that easy to predict?” Then, took another drag and began reading the e-mail carefully.
It seemed, that this year’s visit to Anglesey, which normally happened in the space between Santa calling and Hogmanay, was going to be delayed until mid-January because of Alan’s commitments to the railway.
“Funny, I was going to suggest that to you, when you called round,” Nick quietly said to the mail, on his screen. Then, so he wouldn’t forget, he made a note and stuck it on Heddi, for future use. ‘There’s too much going on at Christmas and things always seem to be rushed. If you call around, roughly on my birthday, you could stay here for a few days.’ Happy with that, he carried on reading and learnt all about what Alan was planning to do in his back garden. Then he ran across the question Alan wanted his opinion on: ‘Did he think, that there were too many Herons around for him to think of a pond with fish in it, or would that be simply too tempting for the beggars?’ Just exactly why Altorro thought he should know the answer to this one, was anyone’s guess. It was not a part of his everyday knowledge and was going to need some looking into before he replied, which was going to have to wait at least until this evening.
Nick’s Sunday’s had a certain routine and this one, had already been disrupted enough by his visit to Gayle’s. Normally, after Saturday night in The Poacher’s and a late get up in the morning, the day had planned itself. A bit of politics over the crumpets, followed by a game of Footie on the box and some relaxing music, while he planned for the week ahead. Any e-mailing of clients, or Alan in this case, was usually done after dinner, while some riveting serialised shit, was playing out in the background, on the T.V. He looked at his wrist watch, just to check the time, ‘two minutes to three, excellent!’ He picked up the stashbox, made his way into the lounge and turned the television on.
Due to his foresight in recording the game, he would not have to put up with the half time break, or the inane language and idiotic statements of the pundits. With the press of a button, half time would be eliminated and the game would continue unabated. Concentration was not something that normally worried Nick on a Sunday but the much-anticipated game, turned out to be a cold squib, dominated by two defences that totally stymied both attacks.
“Well this is tedious, they should have offered these idiots a point each and sent them home,” he commented with twenty minutes still on the clock. Nick thought about turning the game off but instead, chose to mute the sound and put the stereo on. “Best of both worlds,” he commented to nobody in particular and sat himself down again. ‘I could always have a look, for the name of that house,’ Nick proposed, as he rose and made his way over to the window. As he approached, the island came more clearly into view and he stopped to take a good look at Ynys y Niwl, floating on the calm water.
“Let’s check you out….” Nick, muttered and moved to the computer. He typed the name of the island into the search engine section and clicked. It was the fifth topic raised, after all the translation tools and Wikipedia entries had been discounted. ‘Ynys y Niwl. Unpopulated island on Llyn Isaf in Anglesey.’ Was all that the search engine could come up with.
However, further down the listings, there was more. Like the Welsh to English translation and its various meanings. Disappointingly, there seemed to be nothing that may lead to information about the forgotten house. Just as Nick was about to lose interest and go back to the boring football match, a map came to his attention. Again, he clicked and lo and behold, when the thing popped up, it was an old surveyors ground plan from 1726, which had been submitted when new owners had applied to alter its name from Wyndwrayth, to the Welsh, Y Wake Gwynt.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “there it is, Y Wake Gwynt! That’s the name of the place” Now, Nick was intrigued. He had been living on Anglesey for over three years and had picked up quite a bit of the Welsh language but ‘Wyndwrayth,’ was a different tongue. “I wonder what the origin of that one is,” he asked the empty room and yawned. “Oof, time to relax,” he commented, stretching.
‘Wyndwrayth, can wait until this evening, along with the e-mail to Alan,’ he decided. It would be an interesting item to raise later and it just might give him something to get his teeth into. Feeling well satisfied with himself, Nick clicked ‘Heddi’ off and sat himself down once more, in front of the television, reached over for the Cognac decanter and his stashbox.
“Ahh, it’s Sunday ‘n you done good, kid,” he said to himself, in a terrible Brooklyn accent, as he poured three fingers of the brown liquid into his glass. Then between sips, he stuck the cigarette papers together and placed them on the lid, before loading and rolling the doobie. ‘Two birds with one stone,’ he thought as he took a sip, then lit the joint and closed his eyes, letting the music carry him away, on an aromatic cloud.
The year 1349?
During the past few decades, I have made an effort to talk with Millar. Several things have been clarified for me, mostly concerning life, or as I should more aptly call it in our case, living death. The years pass and although I seem to age very slowly, Millar on the other hand, ages normally for him, an immortal. In a conversation that we had last spring, he casually estimated that he was over 4,500 earth years old but he could not be sure, as time has no meaning when you’re immortal. However, it did give me the knowledge that my position as Millar’s guardian, was far from unique. When I asked him about this, he clarified the situation by guessing that I was the tenth, or maybe eleventh holder of this role.
“Never mind,” he added, “You can console yourself with the fact, that you will die one day but not until you have fulfilled your part of the bargain you struck with my Father.”
I am not sure he tells the truth about the number of previous guardians, Millar lies for fun. After all, if they had lasted 1,000 years each, as in my own bargain, then that would mean a maximum of 4 previous guardians, as he was a young adult when sent here in punishment. Then I think what do I know, demons are notoriously manipulative. Maybe they struck shorter deals, or maybe Millar got so strong he destroyed them? It is worrying to be sure.
Millar is hard to like and I’m unfortunately stuck with him, for Odin knows how long but not more than a thousand years. I tried to trick him by asking him how long will I live. He just laughed mockingly and said:
“You Gideon, are to be my nursemaid,” he said sarcastically. He was laughing, on and off, for the next few days. Sometimes I could hear him chuckling, if such a thing is possible, somewhere from within in the copse of Lime tree’s. Eventually I asked him what was so funny about my question. His answer chilled me to my core.
“Well then,” he hissed. “How long do you think you’ve been stuck here on this godforsaken rock?” That was a very pertinent question, for as hard as I attempted to remember some event I could at least lock onto, the more the memory slipped away into the mists of time.
“Do you want me to tell you?” Millar said, looking out over the lake and grinning. Then somehow, he turned up the menace level and for the first time in god knows how long, I felt an essence of fear.
“You can’t remember, can you,” he sarcastically stated and repeated his question, revelling in my fear and confusion. “Come on then, give me an answer, or I’ll tell you,” Millar hissed and drew close to me, his foul breath flooding my nostrils and almost making me gag. “Three hundred and thirty-three long years and now something deadly, is coming this way.” He grinned widely and began to drool.
I suspected that he was just attempting to rattle my chains and spat back at him:
“How can you possibly know that?” I asked, sharply.
“I can smell it on the wind,” he idiosyncratically replied and then fell silent. Millar sat there and continued to look out, towards the far lake shore as if expecting something. Although I didn’t know what it was that I was looking for, I too crouched down and stared out across Llyn Isaf.
“There’s Plague on the far shore,” Millar said, with a distinctly twisted smile on his face, “and soon it will be here and we shall feast!” He said it with an alarming surety and more than a touch of glee in his voice. It was a tone, which I didn’t have the will to counter and the brethren would be left to pay the price.
Over the years, I have learnt through experience, that when Millar says “we,” much of the time, he is talking about himself alone. Looking back, I have seen many of these, so-called attacks of Plague, in many places and I fully expect this latest one will be nothing like as bad as the doomsayers predict. I don’t doubt, that many of the deformed, or those who have been weakened by age, along with some of the very young, will undoubtedly perish in its grip. However, I don’t see this island community having much to worry about. The Christian Monks have absolute control, when it comes to who’s allowed to set foot on Ynys y Niwl and they will protect the community, from the pestilence.
Millar is an uncaring and selfish creature. I don’t know exactly what it was he ate last night but eventually, after several hours of invisible, yet nevertheless continual consumption and just as I thought my stomach would burst, thankfully he stopped. I got the distinct impression, that he was out there, in those trees, which border the grassy hill. So, I went and took a squint at what he was up to these days….
I’ve just seen the remains of our shared meal and now I can’t dismiss the disgusting image of it, from my mind. I was just about to finish the setting of the fish traps, my lips craving their taste. After all, I reasoned, a small meal of my own wouldn’t make much difference to Millar’s growth, when I turned the corner by the great oak tree and tripped over what I naturally thought was one of its mighty roots. It wasn’t. It was the butchered body of some pilgrim who had made it no further than the shoreline, in his quest to pray with The Holy Father’s and that way, seek absolution.
The body was brutally mutilated, drained and discarded, once it had served its primary purpose. Great chunks of flesh had been ripped from the corpse and what remained, was simply left for the crows to feast upon. They had certainly taken their share of the spoils, beginning with the eyes.
However, it was the black pustules, which could clearly be seen on the remaining skin, that were the biggest distraction. The man was a plague victim and Millar had eaten much of the corrupted flesh, straight off the bones.
The prospect of devouring Plague victims, revolts me to my stomach but Millar insists that I’ll be ‘thankful for any such morsels’ by the time this Pestilence is over. I can but hope, that he’s wrong.
At first, Stuart thought he saw something move in the mirk below but he couldn’t be sure at this distance. He stood there frozen to the spot, as he peered into the shadows, senses on alert, trying to verify his perceived vision. ‘Did I imagine that, or is there really something down there,’ he mused and exhaled. He was about to give up and move along the landing, to the next room, when something caught his eye in the corner, by the bottom of the staircase. ‘It’s a dog, or something,’ his mind said to him but it inconveniently added a rider. ‘Yes, fine but whose dog would that be, on a deserted island?’ Now his imagination went into overdrive for a moment, running every unlikely scenario it could conjure: ‘It’s a Werewolf, a Morlock, or the Devil himself,’ his racing mind suggested before he regained control of its wilder flights of fancy. ‘Get a fucking grip Stuart, it’s most likely just the wind, blowing loose leaves around, or a rat….. most likely. So, let’s get on with it and get back to the tent, for something to eat and stick a plaster on this thumb.’
The thought of food seemed to have the desired effect. He moved on down the landing, checking door handles and giving doors a swift kick. The third door remained the only one to open as he approached a small wooden door unlike the rest. ‘Hmm maybe to the tower? Bet it’s locked.’ Despite the threat of an imaginary Werewolf, Stuart was finding this investigation of the old house, quite exciting and secretly hoped this one would open, so he could climb up to the top of the tower.
“Now let’s see what secrets lie beyond that final door,” he impatiently grunted. ‘There must be something in the air, a spore, or something like that but my imagination’s just running riot in this place,’ Stuart thought, as he slowly reached down for the final handle, which looked well worn. Then, he noticed an old key in its lock. It moved smoothly, releasing the levers with a barely perceptible ‘clunk.’ He grasped the well-used brass door knob and turned it.
“Open Sesame Bun,” he demanded as he turned it. Surprisingly, the door slid smoothly open, as if it had been well oiled, for many years. As it opened a wave of warm humid air rushed eagerly over him. Suddenly, Stuart felt he was doing something wrong by entering the tower uninvited. He quickly scanned the area to make sure that nobody was watching, before he took the first step inside.
He stood, transfixed by the sight of a spiralling stairway, ascending into the semi darkness. For a moment a faint green glow emanated from above, then was extinguished. ‘What….!?’ He clicked his torch on and shone it upwards….. ‘Nothing. I must have imagined it….. this place is getting to me,’ he thought.
He only had two choices, go upwards, or leave, re-locking the door, hoping against hope that it would be enough to keep a pack of inquisitive Scouts out. He wavered, ‘You’re here now, so don’t hang around, just get on with it and climb, unless you want to come back tomorrow?’ He looked at the cold dark grey steps, as they made their way up the tower. ‘You could always go and have a look at Room 3 and knock it on the head until tomorrow, it’s not like you’re camped miles away.’ He looked at his watch, it was later than he thought. The time seemed to have raced while he’d stood still and it was already becoming gloomy. There’s no rush, Stu,’ he interceded forcefully, ‘time to retire to the tent and return in the morning, after breakfast, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. After all, you’ve got the downstairs to check out yet…’
Argument over, Stuart turned, stepped out onto the landing, closed and locked the door behind him. By the time he reached outside, night was almost upon him and he struggled to find his way along the path to his tent, getting snagged by several brambles along the way. Then he emerged into the frosty light of the rising moon, which lay upon the glade, illuminating his tent.
“Full tonight,” he stated and turned to have one final look at tomorrow’s target, the tower, which was now bathed in a cold silvery light of gossamer mists, ascending into the crisp dark blue air of another clear, moonlit night sky.
During this last summer, he’d spent a great deal of time, fishing from this boat, holding one sided conversations with ‘her’ and as a bonus, he’d also eaten an awful lot of Trout for his evening meals. However, today the rods had been left at home and the maps had come out.
“Different kind of thing today,” he informed her, as he climbed aboard and put his rucksack down in a secure place, still easily accessible from the ‘Captain’s Chair.’ Nick had set his own rules, ‘for conducting oneself on the water’ and as pretentious as that was, the humour that it engendered was worth it. There were only three boats that plied the lake and they were rarely on the water together but that made no difference.
“Standards have to be maintained,” he said loudly, as Venezuela sedately made her way out of the boathouse at 5 miles per hour, with him standing stiffly, like some kind of crazy figurehead, jokingly giving the stiff right armed Nazi salute.
Ahead lay Fog Island and for some unknown reason, his heart was beating a little bit faster as the mist shrouded island drew ever closer. He had to circle the island carefully twice before he found a spot to tie up on. There was nowhere remotely possible except on it’s far side, facing the sheer cliffs rising from the lake. Even the spot he’d found meant he’d have to leap for it……. Giving himself the customary one wet foot:
When he was sure that everything was secured, he grabbed the rucksack, with its map and provisions, slung it across his shoulders and headed in shore. At the tree line Nick turned and cast a look back across the lake towards the dark, forbidding escarpment before setting off into:
“The dark interior of Fog Island,”
for which he employed a really rough Glaswegian accent, then laughed. Here he was, a mere eight hundred yards across the watery surface from his boathouse but at this moment, it could have been measured in years. A shudder of childish excitement rippled through his body. He recalled the dull glow of light he’d imagined he saw last night, coming from a source deep inside this green and tangled domain.
“Well, it’s hardly darkest Africa but it is equally deserted, or so I’m led to believe.” The Glaswegian had spoken again and it was now, that Nick realised he would be with him on the island, all day.
He’d barely taken half a dozen steps, when he ran up against the first major problem. Fallen trees and thick vines, seemingly blocked his way at every turn. He quickly realised that he was going to have to walk along the narrow shoreline of pebbles, which dropped steeply away into the lakes depths, until he could find a track that led inland.
“Inland, to what?” He cried out loud, as it seemed to him there was no break in the unforgiving foliage. Fog Island was quite large, as far as lake islands went, measuring roughly eight hundred yards in length, by two hundred and fifty, in width. Nick reckoned that he must have already covered at least half of its length by now, without seeing anything which promised him an easier path into the centre. He was about to give up and head back to Venezuela, when he spied a narrow gap in the tangle of tree limbs and creeping vines.
“Hmm,” he muttered. “Don’t get your hopes up, Nicolas, it’s probably just an animal track,” he said and then, suddenly stopped when he realised it was too wide for a rodent or bird. The island was supposed to be uninhabited and if that was so, how did the whatever it was that made the track, get here? He looked back along the trail, that he’d just taken, to the shoreline and from there, out across the expanse of water beyond. From shore to shore, there was a great deal of rather deep and very cold water, too much for any local animal to traverse, to reach the Island without a boat and there seemed nothing to sustain them anyway.
‘Indigenous?’ Mused Nick but dismissed that proposition, it was hardly the Galapagos. “Aye well, perhaps it’s a long-lost family of Velociraptors, or a wee Welsh Nessie,” he depreciatingly whispered in the rather pitiful Scottish accent. “Rats, plural!” he expounded as if a light had suddenly been turned on. “Of course, now why didn’t I think of that earlier?” Nick stated confidently, as if such a revelation was somehow novel. “Rats,” he said again, as he looked down at the trackway and attempted to estimate their size and number, by gauging the width of the path he was following. “They’re big buggers too,” he muttered, as he walked slowly onwards, his eyes darting from side to side warily….. “and there must be a lot of them….”
As he moved deeper into the hinterland, following this ‘Rat-way,’ Nick noticed that the air grew ever warmer and the humidity was rapidly rising. Underfoot, the ground became increasingly boggy and a thick layer of moss now replaced the slippery, pebbled landscape of the shoreline. There was a strong smell of mulchified and rotting vegetation in the dead air. Nick was starting to question the wisdom of coming here at all. ‘Maybe I should have told somebody I was going to come here today,’ he considered. ‘It might, after all, have been the wisest choice,’ he cautioned himself as he stepped into what could only be described as the prefect, Fairy Glen.
The red and white caps of Fly Agaric mushrooms, grew abundantly amid the bows of a surrounding copse of Silver Birch trees and in the short grass beside them, what appeared to be thousands of Psilocybe Semilanceata, better known as the liberty cap ‘shroons’ he’d consumed in great numbers, when he was a younger man.
“Look at them all,” he gasped and he bent down to pick a few, for old times’ sake. In his murky past, the discovery of this number of ‘magics,’ as they were parochially known, meant a couple of V.H.S Videos and a night or two of belly laughs. ‘They were indeed great days,’ Nick thought absentmindedly and smiled.
He didn’t know it at the time but he had inadvertently stumbled onto, what was the old croquet lawn of the once great house and as he looked up and over to the right, there stood the ivy-covered ruins, of ‘Y Wake Gwynt.’
“Wow! So, you really do exist…,” he smiled to himself.
Only a limited amount of dappled sunlight made it through the overlapping branches of the trees, crowding in on the observer, creating an intense feeling of claustrophobia. Nick sat himself down on the nearest piece of flattish land and after rummaging around in his ‘sack, withdrew his trusty old Ordinance Survey Map and laid it out on the mossy grass before him. According to the map and judging everything by the rule of thumb, he reckoned he was almost in the very heart of the island. Nick stopped and looked all around, for any sign of another living soul but nothing moved in the silent space. All around the old lawn was a thicket of knotted ivy and interlocking tree branches, which created the illusion of helpless imprisonment. It was almost as if the gardens, were still being tended by a ramshackle gardener, who had some unspoken ambition, which would be revealed only by the passage of time.
Strangely, as he’d approached the central area, a slight and somewhat sporadic breeze could be detected, drifting in from a South-Westerly direction. Since, this was a more comfortable area of the island, he decided to take his lunch here on this long-lost croquet lawn, before pressing on with his exploration. Taking his time, he ate his egg sandwiches, some biscuits and drank his coffee whilst smoking one of his pre-rolled joints. There was still more than enough time to take a closer look at the ageing mansion, glimpsed beyond ‘the green wall’ that lay between him and the dishevelled stonework, of ‘Y Wake Gwynt.’
Finished, he moved to secure the weighty rucksack into its position on his back and shrugged, to locate the straps that were trying to bite into his shoulders. Then, Nick stopped his struggling as he realised that since he was the only living creature on this island, there was no need to carry it. ‘Unless you account for the apparently massive Rats,’ he thought and just to be sure, secured the sack with the rest of its provisions, high up in a nearby Oak tree.
“Figure that one out, sucker’s.” He said with a self-satisfied sense of superiority, even though he hadn’t seen one of these imagined adversaries all morning. Confident his supplies were secured, Nick took his first step towards ‘Y Wake Gwynt.’ Eagerly, he sought any place to gain access to its inner sanctum…….
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“I really must go and give that place the once over,” he said, casting his gaze towards the lonely island, which appeared to almost float on the water. Its real name, was Ynys y Niwl. However, in Nick’s mind, his anachronism fit perfectly well and ‘Fog Island,’ seemed to suit it much better than the old Welsh name, which for him was a bit of a mouthful. A constant mist seemed to float amongst the tree tops, making the place seem ever so inscrutable. In company, if he was trying to be politically correct, he would refer to the rock as “Innis E. Newel,” disrespectfully pronouncing its ancient moniker, as if it were a bloke’s name. However, it served its purpose. The Welsh just wrote it off as, ‘another example of English ignorance,’ laughing at ‘the incomers’ pronunciation. Well it saved all that spitting and throat clearing, which made up much of the Old Welsh language. Nick took one last toke on his joint, then got back on his feet and stretched his back.
“Ooof!” He exclaimed as a couple of the vertebrae in his spine clicked back into place. “Oh yeah, that’s the way you do it,” he sighed, then chuckled as he broke wind. “Time to put Venezuela back in her boat house.”
When he’d originally discovered there was a vessel in the boathouse, Nick could hardly believe it. At first, he reckoned it was probably a derelict but on unlocking the access door, there, sitting sedately on the water, was ‘June.’ She was a beautiful old lady, once bedecked in polished wood from head to toe, this Grande D’am, simply spoke to him. “Cooool,” he’d remarked in amazement, as he gazed in wonder at her just floating there in the dark water. She needed a great deal of repairs. Her woodwork and the metal fitments, leather and enamel work, were all in serious need of some renovation but during the two years since his mothers’ death, ‘June,’ became the positive therapy he needed as he brought her back to life.
“You and me’s goin’ explorin’ tomorrah,” he informed the boat, as he lovingly stroked her refurbished bodywork. Then, he slowly cast his eyes back towards the letters on the stern of this gem and there it was, ‘Venezuela.’ He had changed her name, from ‘June,’ almost as a first act of ownership. ‘June’ sounded like a name from the thirties, authentic to her build but hardly inspiring. When he’d looked at the lines of this elegant, yet exotic creation for the first time, he’d simply commented, “No, you need something a little more imaginative!” His mind had slipped into overdrive, looking for that elusive, enigmatic, yet pleasingly suitable, alternative name. During those next few days, the name of the motor launch had many incarnations, none of them quite pictorial enough, until one day, he heard a song on the radio, being performed by a woman from Canada called Rita Connelly, whose song and title just felt right.
“Venezuela,” he’d said, “I like it!” It was a quirky enough name, one which maintained Nick’s vision of himself as an artistic man and it seemed to just trip off his tongue, as he’d repeated it, over and over again. “Venezuela.” He’d said for about the twentieth time. “Yeah, that’s it!” He’d emphatically intoned, an air of finality in his voice and then, as if to prove the point to himself. He’d said it again,
Even as the word was leaving his lips, he’d seen images of a warm azure blue ocean and an ice-cold beer, or two. “Venezuela! Yes, that suits you much better. You may have been built in the Thirties but you’re here now. ‘June’ was just altogether too ‘Famous Fivey’ for my liking …..” Smiling at these memories, the boat secured in her house, he casually made his way back down the gravel path towards the kitchen door. It was only a two-minute walk and to this day, he still couldn’t believe his luck. He was now the owner of a fantastic cottage, with a vintage motor launch thrown in to sweeten the deal.
As he took his first couple of steps outside, Nick could feel the first bite of winter on the westerly wind blowing directly into his face. It was coming straight off the cold grey mountains and there was nothing in the twenty-eight miles between their lofty peaks and the coast, to interrupt the flow, or warm up the air. He squinted a little, his eyes watering as he looked across the lake towards its island.
‘It’s time to go in,’ he thought, rising from the stone seat and turning towards the cottage. Then, he paused for a moment and raising his face to the sky, he turned and took a long, deep and measured breath in through his nose. There was something familiar in the tang, something that went far beyond the all-pervasive aroma of the Kelp beds at low tide and the salty sea, which was just a few hundred yards beyond the lake. Curious, he took in another long breath and held on to it, for a little more analysis. Now, as Nick released the breath, he suspected he could detect a hint of rain within the sample.
‘Sniffing the wind,’ as he called it, was as good a forecast as any other, in predicting the local weather. It had proved far more accurate than any of the generalisations that flowed like a river of conjecture from the Television presenters. He had learnt in the past few years that dependent upon the wind direction, a quick snort could generally predict with 80% accuracy, whether it was worth beginning an outside task today, or not. It was always better to wait a day or two, to avoid a deal of frustration, when inclement weather brought proceedings to a grinding halt. The few summer visitors who made it out here to the northern tip of Anglesey, often liked to call this kind of thing, ‘Country Ways.’ It was a mystery to them how these, ‘bumpkins’ were often correct.
He folded his arms as some scant protection against the worsening weather and cast his eyes up towards the ominously darkening clouds, flowing off the distant peaks like some kind of metaphorical lava, spewing from an invisible volcano in the heavens. He observed them as they raced past, trying to estimate the rate of knots they were moving. The grey mass was being propelled by a strengthening breeze, which had started the day as a gentle lilt but had been gaining velocity all morning and long since become a gusting wind. As the sun inexorably rose higher into the dark, cloudy sky and the land warmed up a little, so the wind increased and grew ever colder.
“Looks like there are going to be less and less of these mornings from now on. I reckon sitting out here, in a dressing gown and some tatty old slippers, is over for another year.” He grudgingly opined, sighed and turned to head back inside Bethyn Bryn. This day dawned every year but Nick never found, that it was any less of an annual bummer.
“I declare this autumn …. over,” he pompously stated, whilst closing the back door as if to shut the weather out until the next spring.
The warmth from the central heating hit his senses like a velvet wave and the desire to spend the remainder of the morning indoors, rose on his list of priorities. Standing there by the bay window, with the cold world outside, Nick casually looked at the small motor boat he’d tied securely to its Capstan, now bobbing around in the choppy waters of the lake. He’d strategically placed several old rubber tyres along his refurbished quay, to prevent any damage occurring to his new ‘Lady Friend,’ as she bobbed around in the water.
“Shit!” He cursed, as he realised the awful truth. ‘Now, I’ll have to reopen the boathouse and put her away again. Was it too much to ask for a few hours of peace and quiet, to partake of a little fishing?’ Pleading to the weather gods was generally a futile pursuit but Nick did it anyway, while watching the dead leaves by the quay begin to pile up against a long neglected drystone wall, in drifts. It was no use, he would have to put the boat away. Sighing, he turned away. His grandmother’s, ‘Better safe than sorry,’ mantra that he remembered from his childhood, which resonated with deeper meanings, came to mind. It was as if those four words came from somewhere within the depths of his subconscious but on giving it a little more thought, he considered correctly, that it was closer to the barely perceptible but omnipresent, ‘galactic hum.’
Nick, carefully took the top off his coffee and reached for his stash box. He considered briefly where he was going to sit but as usual, plumped for his Lazy Boy recliner, permanently positioned in the bay window, overlooking the lake with its little island. As he casually rolled himself another joint, his third already this morning, which considering he’d only been awake for barely ninety minutes, this was indeed going some, even for him. He calmly lit his latest ‘hand rolled cigarette’ and sitting in the ridiculously comfortable American sized armchair, his mind drifted away on leaden wings of the Marijuana ‘high,’ allowing an overpowering sense of security to flow over him.
“A touch more research, me thinks and this Coffee’s damn good,” he opined, reached over to pick up his iPod and flicked on some Beatles to get himself going, after his almost transcendental garden experience.
“O.K, Heddi let’s see what you’ve got for me, on this fair morning,” he said with Arthurian grandeur. His finger’s operated automatically as he typed in his Username and Password into the computer. Then, while he waited for her to fully boot up, he took another toke on his half smoked ‘dooby’ and washed it down with another mouthful of the surprisingly delicious coffee. “Right then, let’s see if you and me, can find another revelation,” he enquired and lazily typed: Anglesey Post archive+Llyn Isaf, in the Search box.
Yesterday, his attempt to glean a little more information regarding the history of Bethyn Bryn, had yielded little he wasn’t already aware of. He’d learnt of the estimated year of her construction, her previous owners and their family members. There seemed little else to glean from the census and council records, so it was time to look further. He’d decided last night, while watching The Papers on the BBC’s 24 Hour News Channel, that he’d have a look at some of the local press archives for something less dry. A click here and a click there, opened up the world he’d been seeking all along.
“At last, it’s not a scientific project, or anything heavy,” he said to ‘Heddi,’ and started to read. His eyes fell on a file named, ‘Mysterious Death’s and Curious Disappearance’s, 1900 – 2007 inclusive.’ Intrigued, he opened it and peered down at the long list of headlines. Then he saw a search box for the file and typed in ‘Bethyn Bryn.’ It threw up an article which read:
Mysterious Black Water Claims Two More Souls by Elrond Peters
The deep black waters of Llyn Isaf have struck again. This time claiming two more lives from the locality. Local farmer, Mr Bryn Hughes, 56 of Bethyn Bryn and Mr Jack Pritchard, 58 of Ty Croes. The two men were reportedly searching the lake and its mysterious island for Mr Hughes’ son David, 20 also lately of Bethyn Bryn.
I reported the disappearance of David Hughes only two months ago. His boat was found floating in the reeds off the island, Ynys Y Niwl after spending a night fishing on Llyn Isaf. The police put his disappearance down to falling overboard into the lakes freezing black waters and drowning, like so many have before.
Mr Bryn Hughes, inconsolable at his loss, refused to give up hope that his sons body may yet be found. He and his friend, Mr Jack Pritchard continued to search the lakeshores and the island. According to the police, it was on one such venture last Friday, in Mr Pritchard’s inflatable dinghy, that they went missing.
So far, no evidence of either men or their boat, has been found. Yet again, the police have filed this one under ‘accidental capsize and drowning.’ Their deaths bring the total number of those consumed by the dangerous black waters of Llyn Isaf since 1900, to 146.
A spokesman for Lord Cuthbert and Lady Cleaver, the present owners of the estate which includes Llyn Isaf, Ynys Y Niwl and the lakeshore and island properties, has stated that the lake will continue to be closed to all local people except for permitted shoreline fishing. However, those renting properties on the lakeshore have historic legal boating and fishing rights and can continue to use them. They have erected signs to inform and warn the public of the rules and dangers of the lake. In addition, the area is patrolled by Seth Gordon to ensure compliance and life rings are available at several points around the lake.
Mr Bryn Hughes is survived by his father Tecwen Hughes, 78 who remains living in Bethyn Bryn. Mr Jack Pritchard leaves a teenage daughter.