Ophelia In My Arms

I am hard to frighten. This is because I can feel Them when They are present—even if They hide. I am very hard to frighten, but Master Pricklylegs scares me—scares the living daylights out of the nine-year-old me who is also terrified of dead animals, rapists who live in the neighborhood woods, sexually abusive orphanage directors, and, of course, the Dark—especially if two long-faced men peer in at my bedroom door after midnight.

Why does Master Pricklylegs scare me? Because I like my demons safe. I like them black with red eyes and pitchforks. I like them as flitting, nervous shadows. I like them as hairless imps with piggish eyes who speak French—and thus, somehow, endear me to them. I do not like my demons as overlords of the afterlife who can kill the living at will, and often do so. I do not like monsters who know how to make Hell a comfortable place to abide. How do I reconcile Master Pricklylegs with my own philosophy of life? There is only one way, and it is similar to how I read Lovecraft and Ligotti and every other writer—not as if he puts forth an unamendable truth, but rather a speculation, a different angle on the old and familiar. Is it a salvific angle? Is it transgressive? Is it hopeless and hell-bound? Let us find out.

I, too, write from untoward points of view. If I did not—if authors did not do so—everything we write would be the same boring story using the same tiresome characters, settings, and tropes. Which is precisely why I like to read Jansen. He likes to travel. He is onto something new in postmodern speculative writing. He chooses—at least right now—to skirt the borders of well-known Speculative Fiction landscapes, but this is part of his charm… and a recognized strength for him in regard to readers who are unaware that books have been published between Moby-Dick and The Da Vinci Code. If I had never studied Lovecraft or Derleth or Le Fanu or Stoker, I might truly appreciate a writer who can glean the absolute essentials from three centuries of Speculative Fiction written in the English language.

Lord Dunsany is not only a favorite author of mine, but of most writers of the Fantasy genre. I refuse to read most books written after the mid-20th Century. Jansen is an exception.

Karakum. Study it, and then invite its author to your home the next time Dunsany is in town to see you. They will have much to discuss.

I have lived in New Orleans. I grew up there. But The Arrangement tells me something about that city which I never knew before—and maybe never wanted to know. But now it is too late. The nightmares will arrive shortly.

Ever wonder how most men see women—worldwide—even though they have mothers themselves? No? Then do not read The Undead Gun. Oh, you already have? Then now you know why we all need God.

The carnival is here, and the ghost town, and knives that talk, and necrophilia, and outer space exploration, and intelligent murderous insanity, and, yes, the giant stone cross children are terrified will follow them home. You have been warned.

Like Pre-Raphaelite art, the work of Jansen serves as a necessary jump backward toward Machen and Dunsany, Crawford and Poe—and away from the atheistic prejudice against (and intolerance of) the ‘other’ which, since the 1960s, has transgressed into the unspeakable, and often unreadable, travesties offered as the insipid speculative fare of our own day. Lovecraft has never been a great friend of mine either, Mr. Jansen, but you do the old man a good turn notwithstanding, to your credit—and the credit of those of us who will read any writer at all as we set aside prejudice and ad hominem attack, and even informed judgment, in favor of the hope we find—even if that hope only brings us from atheist unbelief to agnostic doubt. May the child to whom you dedicate this work, sir, be protected and empowered forever—and know without doubt that she is loved.

Scathe meic Beorh

Lughnasadh 2013

On the night of the full moon, chanting could often be heard from the church, all the way to the village.

But no one dared investigate…

Assigned to Amlwch

Preamble

Recently I drove to my Dutch publisher Verschijnsel in Mechelen, Belgium, together with Tais Teng, who also publishes work there. During that trip we discussed –of course- story telling and writing. During our conversation he mentioned he just read the latest Wonderwaan, number 24, and my story ‘Assigned to Amlwch’, which he found well worth the read, although it could have been written a bit more efficient and shorter. I explained to Tais Teng my reasoning behind the –intentional- way of writing the story as it is and I will repeat it here:

The original request from the Wonderwaan team was to provide them with stories in the tradition of the likes of Lovecraft, Smith and Chambers. So I read those authors and looked at their style. There was a lot of attention to detail in the early years of the twentieth century and a certain detached way of relating a story. This resulted in the need for a lot of research to create an optimal, perfectly situated story with as many authentic details as I could provide.

The main story takes place in a manor in Amlwch, which is located at exactly this location: +53° 24' 49.46, -4° 20' 36.09 You can still see the ruins of the mansion. The main character walks through Amlwch and sees the village as it was in those days. The ship he arrives on was an actual ship that sailed between many of the ports on England’s east and south coast. The inn he stays at existed since the earliest times of the village. The beer license above the fireplace is the actual beer license granted to the inn in the year the main character arrives. The people the main character is sent to investigate really existed, the years of their deaths are correct, their family, the fourth Baron of Alderley, really had an antiques collection with documents by ancient mystics, such as John Dee.

As I did my research –and it was extensive- I wove many facts and details into a coherent story, while trying to maintain the style of writing that Lovecraft used in his work. Granted, I could have written the story a lot more efficient, but I was trying for a specific effect.

When Tais Teng heard all this, he said: You should write some kind of foreword to the story, so that people understand why you’ve written it the way you did. Because now that I know, I’ll read it again and wonder if the details you mention are fact or fiction.

Further musings about Assigned to Amlwch

Lovecraft and I have never been the greatest of friends. On the one hand the Mythos and its derivatives were extremely interesting, on the other hand they sometimes gave me a ‘so what’ feeling when reading a story. I think that the supposed helplessness of the main characters in Lovecraft’s stories did not appeal to me. Still, the Mythos has reached cult status and it covers a significant part of the spectrum of modern Genre writing. So when the request from the editors of Wonderwaan came for a Mythos story, I needed to do some more research.

After reading works by Lovecraft himself, Chambers, Derleth, Hodgson and Smith, it was clear to me that the intention of the authors, the way I see it, was to explain the universe and man’s place therein. The method they used was to create unspeakable, immeasurable powers, to whom man was no more than an insignificant, short lived bug, or a sleeping god at the bottom of an ocean or disturbing plays about unnamable entities.

In fact, it occurred to me that Lovecraft c.s. wrote very human stories in which their main characters, sometimes with bad results, tried to overcome the obstacles life threw in their way. But in stead of identifying their inner ‘cthulhu’ they used the Mythos to explain their fears and the fatalism that is inherent to life. IANAP, I Am Not A Psychologist, but to me it seemed clear enough.

Back to the Wonderwaan challenge. I like to write. A lot. But it has to be my own universe in which my own creations walk around. So I will use the themes, but not the actual creations of the Mythos. Fortunately I can add something that does not exist yet, which is what I did. Perhaps others like it too and maybe they’ll write something in my universe.

The reason for the setting and the names I use, I can connect to a thought I once had about names in the various Mythos stories. They look like Welsh names. The editors of Wonderwaan agreed with me: they too thought Lovecraft’s origins lay in Wales. To complete it all, I chose the age in which Lovecraft wrote and a main character with seemingly insurmountable problems, while in the darkness something awaited him, patiently, hungrily.

Assigned to Amlwch

Undoubtedly many people in Amlwch were wondering what a London copper was doing in their quaint, quiet town. For which he could not give them an honest answer without incriminating himself or the London Metropolitan Police. Officially his assignment was to investigate the disappearance of one of the locals, but the fact of the matter was that his superiors needed him to be elsewhere. So it was either an unsolved case in faraway Amlwch, or the convoluted politics at the Scotland Yard, which would surely have cost him his position as detective-sergeant, if not his freedom or even his life.

The case he had been working on in London had taken him from the docks to the flower girls and the fancy men of Covent Garden, all the way to the west end of Oxford Street which provided a direct link to Regent Street. It was a sordid affair and one that apparently needed to be buried and possibly he along with it.

James of Wheatfen, superintendent Williamson said sternly, I must commend you on your brilliant detective work. His office at the Yard was large, opulent almost, the result of almost a dozen years of holding the post of superintendent and of course a solid friendship with Commissioner of Police Sir Edmund Henderson. The walls in his office were covered with the finest oak paneling and one wall held a huge bookcase filled with leather bound volumes of all the classics. Williamson was an erudite man.

Thank you, sir, James answered subdued. Williamson was not a tall man, but his black uniform looked crisp, his grey streaked beard was well kept and his eyes sparkled with intelligence. He presented the perfect image of the gentleman police officer and leadership emanated from his every move and word.

Unfortunately, continued the superintendent, brilliant detective work does not guarantee a brilliant result. He arranged the stack of reports on his desk into three neat piles. A report marked James of Wheatfen was on top of the middle stack.

I am aware of that, sir, James replied. How should I approach the matter?

I’m glad you asked, smiled Williamson. He inhaled and frowned, then relaxed in his high backed chair. He folded his hands beneath his beard and leaned his chin on them. This case has many aspects, obviously, he began, but sometimes you stumble upon information that is not to be disseminated to the public in general, do you understand?

James knew quite well that he was referring to the scandalous pursuits of a certain member of the aristocracy with close ties to the royal family, that he had uncovered, the kind of scandalous pursuits that could land one in gaol, duke or no duke. He nodded. Yes sir, I understand, sir.

Good man. I knew you would see it that way. And that is what I told Commissioner Henderson. Williamson picked up another file and leafed through it. This is right up your alley, Wheatfen. A mystery. And more important, a very distant mystery. Travelling there should take you about a week. The investigation should take you at least another week. Williamson stressed his words. At least a week, possibly more. And when you return a few weeks will have passed and everybody who has been involved in this particular case here, will either have been silenced or disappeared.

Sir, do you mind if I ask a question? James asked.

Not at all, Wheatfen, Williamson said generously. That’s what we’re all about, right? Asking questions.

Sir, why are you trying to protect me? James said.

Superintendent Williamson smiled. You’re a bright one, Wheatfen. Your work here is valuable, he said. The Commissioner agrees with me on that. His smile disappeared and his tone became serious. And of course keeping you alive and out of the way provides us, Commissioner Henderson and myself, some leverage over certain elements of the aristocracy. His smile returned. He threw the file on the desk before James, together with a small purse. Time to go, Wheatfen. The purse contains about ten guineas and a letter of credit that will allow you to draw funds from the local banks or money lenders.

Can I pick up my belongings, sir? James asked.

Afraid not, Wheatfen. I’ve arranged a coach to get you out of London. Williamson licked his lips. There is some urgency, I think you’ll agree?

James of Wheatfen saluted, then picked up the file and purse. As he walked out of Williamson’s office and into the busy corridors of Scotland Yard, he noticed the swirly writing on the folder, which read Amlwch.

Travelling to Amlwch was difficult. The first thing James did when he stepped into the coach was to peruse the files that Williamson had given him. From them he learned that Amlwch was the northernmost town of Anglesey, of Wales even. Williamson had chosen well, James mused; the town was distant from London, far removed from the machinations of the city and its rulers.

The case he had been assigned was more than three years old. Somewhere in 1878 one John Persifal Stanley had mysteriously disappeared from his mansion. Colonel Stanley was a widower. His wife had died of a malignant, wasting disease that doctors had not been able to identify, let alone cure. Local police could not establish with certainty that Colonel Stanley was dead or just missing, and reading on James discovered that it was actually the Colonel’s family that had insisted the files be sent to London to be examined by the experts of the Metropolitan Police. ...For matters of inheritance, were the exact words that described the situation. The remainder of the file consisted mainly of newspaper clippings that detailed some of the events surrounding the disappearance of the Colonel, but nothing conclusive. One fact of interest was the mention of the Colonel’s gardener, one Henry James Smith, who had been institutionalized at the Denbigh Lunatic Asylum not days after the disappearance of the Colonel on grounds of apparent madness. James made a mental note to see if Henry Smith was available for questioning.

It took James three days to reach the harbor at Portsmouth. Travelling to Amlwch by coach would take several weeks with roads in Wales generally bad or non-existent. He boarded the three-masted schooner Baron Hill which was a trade vessel that carried large oak beams to Amlwch and would return with a sizeable amount of copper ore from the Parys Mountain mines. The captain complained that his trips to Amlwch were much less frequent these days than just a few years earlier, due to reduced output of the mining operation in the area. Fortunately it looked like new owners were digging deep shafts to find richer ore.

Baron Hill sailed into Amlwch port at dusk on the fourth of May of 1881 and James of Wheatfen took a room at the Bellas Inn. The barroom was small, cozy, with a few old tables, rickety chairs and a large fireplace above which James noticed a small plaque that displayed the beer license of the Bellas Inn and the name of the owner, one William Hughes. The old inn had seen its fair share of travelers and traders and in its heyday must have been popular with the sailors and captains of the many copper vessels that sailed on Amlwch. These days he was the only guest and there were just a handful of customers who quietly drank a pint or two before leaving again.

Early on the morrow of the fifth of May, after a hearty breakfast with beans, eggs and sausages, James of Wheatfen set out from Amlwch port to Amlwch town proper along Upper Quay Street. A few vessels were moored in the inner harbor and workers were loading heavy crates into the holds of the ships. He watched the proceedings for some time, astonished at the loads the workers and sailors managed to lift, with or without mechanical help. The houses next to the harbor were working class with small windows and brightly colored doors. Across the harbor were the chemical plants that processed some of the noxious minerals that the Parys mines produced.

After about a half mile he turned right onto Machine Street until he reached the Police Station which turned out to be a small building of two storey’s, with regular houses to the left and right. The only thing identifying the building as a Police Station were the large, wooden doors, one room that sported bars before the windows and old, weathered characters painted on the front of the building that from a distance formed the words Amlwch Police.

James entered the building and found himself in a small office with a few chairs and a wide desk that separated the work area from visitors. He saw two constables at the desk, writing up reports from their small notebooks. He coughed and said: Good morning, gentlemen.

One of the constables looked up. He was a heavy man, well in his forties with a crown of red hair around a bald head and a huge, red and grey beard. And a fine morning to you, sir, he said with the heavy Anglesey inflection. I am constable Howard Macey, at your service. How may we be of assistance?

My name is James of Wheatfen, detective-inspector of the London Metropolitan Police. I arrived yesterday, James said and he showed his badge.

London you say? Oh my, said constable Macey. He smiled, showing the holes in his front teeth. And what business brings you to this remote town, detective-inspector James of Wheatfen? There was a definite hint of sarcasm in his words.

James stared at the constable, then said: Colonel John Persifal Stanley. Missing since 1878, last seen in Craig Ddu Manor by his gardener, a mister Henry James Smith who now resides at the Denbigh lunatic asylum.

Constable Macey’s smile immediately vanished. Sorry Sir, I didn’t know. Serious business that. The Colonel was always well liked around Amlwch. If there is anything we can do to help?

I could do with a cup of tea, actually, said James. And I would like to hear all there is to know about the Colonel and his late wife, Dame Mary Catherine of Mackenzie.

Very well, Sir, said constable Macey. He poured two cups and led James to the desk in the farthest corner of the room. They sat down across from each other and the constable explained the politics and workings of Amlwch and the surrounding area to James, who made notes in his little black book using his trusty pencil.

Constable Macey told the sad story of John Stanley and his wife and the tragic events that led to her death. Apparently John Stanley and Mary of Mackenzie had been very much in love, although their marriage had obviously been arranged as so often happened in circles of the aristocracy. In the winter of 1874, Mary had fallen ill. Initially she was diagnosed with a common fever, but even after the fevers had receded, she remained tired and weak and she was often in pain. Through all of this her husband remained at her side, helping her go about the manor and generally ignoring everything and everyone, just to be with her. Many times the doctors came and went, but none of them were able to properly diagnose her.

When Mary could no longer rise from her bed and the pains in her chest became unbearable, John Stanley summoned the best doctor in all of Anglesey to find out what ailed his wife. After a few hours of examination the doctor had proclaimed her illness to be a malignant growth that grew from the lungs and that sapped her of strength and will and that would finally cause her painful death through suffocation. An unfortunate condition for which no cure existed.

On May 11th of 1875 the doctor visited the manor for the last time, this time to proclaim the passing of Dame Mary Catherine of Mackenzie. John Stanley was completely devastated and he suffered several nervous breakdowns in the months following her funeral at St Eleths church.

Has the Colonel ever expressed any desire to end his own life? asked James.

Oh no Sir, answered constable Macey. He was a devout man, was the Colonel. No matter how large his grief, suicide would not be like him at all.

Very well, that I shall exclude from my discovery then, said James. I would like to have a look at the Craig Ddu Manor, if that is possible?

By all means, sir, said constable Macey. I’ll make a note that you are visiting there today. Would you need directions, sir?

James smiled. Yes, yes please. Although I’m used to London, finding your way in a new town always gives me problems.

Well, this one’s real easy, sir, explained constable Macey. "Just follow Machine Road toward the town center. A little further down the road you will see the road that leads up to the