Maps of the Lost volume 24
from within the whispering reeds
all the jibber-jabbers
Sometimes it's nice to get away, and be in solitude, which is why you book the tiny holiday cottage somewhere in rural Suffolk that you've never been and go on your own for a few days. You want to do some walking, and a lot of reading, and maybe drinking some of the wine you brought. It's the middle of nowhere, and you love the peace and the call of the birds.
One evening you decide to have a walk before you cook some food and open a bottle of Malbec, and so you wander down to the river and follow its banks. Where it starts to break into different streams that wind their way between tall reeds there's a little bench, and on the bench is a very old man, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the water.
You say hello as you pass, to be polite.
"Don't want to be out here," he says. "Not with them jibber-jabbers.”
"Thanks," you say politely, "I'll be back very soon," and you wait until you have walked past him before rolling your eyes, but do check back that he's not following you, because you can't be too careful about some of these rural types.
You pick a stream to follow and after a while you forget about him. But you haven't forgotten about your lasagne or the bottle of Malbec, and you're conscious that with the tall reeds you're not quite sure of the way back so you turn to head for home.
There's a sound in the air, a distant hum, and then a rustle which you think must be the reeds but seems to come from all directions at once. The hum rises, like a choir of a thousand different voices, and you start to panic, run, fall. The soft ground opens up to take you in, the reeds shake and shake in a frenzy, and as you are pulled under you can hear that all the jibber-jabbers are singing along.
Notes from the Cartographer
I realised this week that the sum total of all the stories written for Maps amounts to some 95,000 words. Which on reflection feels unnervingly book length, doesn’t it? I think so, and after talking about it occasionally in the past, I think it’s now time to make it happen.
I have other plans for Substack as well, over the next few months. Including, perhaps, the serialisation of a novel. Interested?
Maybe this has all come to mind because the long dark of winter has let slip the world and the trees are in bud and the blossom is on the blackthorn. It’s time for things to be made and grow.
If you think other people might like this newsletter, please do share it.
Just a quick note about Maps elsewhere: we’re no longer on Twitter, but you can still find us on on Facebook, the web, Bluesky or Instagram, as well as through various obsidian mirrors, scattering of burned leaves, murmurations of starlings and, of course, your unsettling dreams.
ignis fatuus
It’s late at night, you missed your bus and lost your mobile, it’s misty and chill, and at some point on the long walk home, you have taken a wrong turning and do not like the streets that you are walking through, not at all.
Warehouses present their blank faces to you and every shop is either shuttered or boarded up, although a couple of times you could swear that you hear voices within. A dark car slides past you, and you think about flagging it down, but feel foolish and also a little uneasy about how it seemed to slow as slid by, so you just let it go by until it is swallowed up by the mist.
Somewhere in the distance, you hear the sound of something striking metal, two, three times, and then silence. A few minutes later, from another direction, something you tell yourself was the sound of an animal in pain, four seconds of horror and then, just the silence of the mist and the dull tread of your footsteps and what you tell yourself is an echo, just an echo. You hear a car engine again, and this time you are about to stop it to ask for directions or a list, but you see it is the same car as before so you turn your head away and don’t look at it, praying that it doesn’t stop.
This time it drives past even slower than before, but when it’s gone you see it – only just, a glimmer in the mist, but then you see it again, moving in front of you, a tiny bright rectangle. Someone ahead has a phone.
You follow them, trying to catch up, but they must be walking fast too, and who could blame them in these terrible streets on this terrible night. You shout, and your voice echoes off unlit office blocks and small blocks of flats with no lights on, but the light bobs and weaves ahead of you. Of course, you think, they’ve got their headphones in. They’re closing out the world, flicking through tracks. I wouldn’t like to not hear what’s going on, but perhaps they know these streets better, perhaps they know these streets.
So, you follow the light as it flickers in and out of the mist, and you walk as quick as you can, but you can’t catch them. Sometimes the light is gone, and your heart sinks, but always you see it again, a glimmer down a side street, a glow in a narrow alley.
Then you reach the riverside and the empty wharfs and the towering cranes and the stinking water and the dark car is there, with its doors open and no one inside, and no one is in sight, but the light of the mobile dances out over the river and you stand blinking in disbelief, and then there’s a splashing from the water, as if something very large is climbing out.
echo’s answer
There's a cave up in the hills of the Peak District that you can get into if you have the bravery or the foolhardiness to squeeze through a crack in the gritstone rock and then slide along a passage where you have to shuffle sideways, as there isn't room to walk forward.
The cave is unremarkable, no stalagmites and stalactites, no glittering rocks that will sparkle in the light of the headtorch. If you shout, a short echo bounces around the walls and fades away.
But if you know the right day of the year, and the right time of that day, when you shout you will hear your voice echoing from the walls and you will hear words that you never said, another voice speaking back to you, bouncing around the walls and fading away. If you ask questions, be careful what you ask. You may not like the answer.
Maps Traced By Other Hands
I’ve mentioned the brillant works of Julian Simpson on Maps before, since when his Pleasant Green universe has…blossomed is the wrong word. Unfurled, maybe better. There’s a hint of darkness in the word. As well as continuing the fantastic Lovecraft Investigations and the spy-fi capers of Aldrich Kemp, he’s been planning some new ventures.
The next of these is really exciting. Arriving under the Lovecraft Investigations banner, ‘Crowley’ is a factual account of Crowley's life and (mis)adventures, but presented by the (allegedly fictional) presenters of the Lovecraft Investigations podcast, and other characters from that show.
A completely independent production, it’s going to be launched via Kickstarter, so if you are interested in backing it you can sign up to be notified on launch. Although all the details won’t appear until launch, the rewards for backing will include ‘exclusive access to the show, scripts, signed stuff, merch,’ an exciting sounding ‘awesome box of swag known as the Department of Works Field Kit’ and a frankly terrifying sounding ‘digital "Beast Box”’.
So much wonderful content is being produced independently by creators, and there’s a strong ecosystem developing which frees artists to produce the content they - and their audience - really want, rather than the metrics-driven blandness of so many media giants. But it can’t happen without backing, so please do consider it for this project.
The Ooser Speaks
(taken from the wonderful Readers Digest 'Folklore, Myths and Legends of Britain')
Trewoofe in Cornwall (apparently, pronounced ‘trove’) was a manor house for the powerful Lovelis family. At some point, maybe in the 17th century, Squire Lovelis chased a white hare which ran into a cave at nearby Boleigh. The squire and his pack of hounds followed, which strongly implies they don’t think about folklore as much as you do, gentle reader. Unsurprisingly they were met by the hare transformed into a witch, and if that weren’t enough, an evil coven, and if that weren’t enough, the coven were led by a demon.
This demon was no stranger to Lovelis, who recognised it as something that in human form had come to the village years before and seduced the squire’s wife. (All of this tale is a salutary lesson in what people had to do for entertainment before the internet). Lovelis swore at the demon, the whole grisly group turned on Lovelis, and when he finally emerged from the cave his friends - who obviously had thought about folklore more than the squire and stayed out of the cave - were shocked to find him singing wildly, and totally demented.
Trewoofe is now a farm. The cave is still a cave. And between the two, Lovelis and his hounds ride and rant and sing until this day.
the green name
Roving about the country lanes of Norfolk, you might find a tiny little church, tucked away between some trees. It looks very old, and like it has not been in use for a long time.
There's an equally tiny little graveyard to the west of the church, no more than twelve graves spaced out between the crumbling wall and a yew that looks as if it is older than the church. If you wander in to look at the gravestones, you'll see that most are plain, and so worn by the wind and the rain that you can hardly make out a name.
One stands out though, as over it stands an angel, forever looking down with sad eyes. You assume it must be the grave of someone important, perhaps the local squire, but the gravestone is blank, as if they forgot to carve it.
Across the west wall is a green, straggling splash of lichen. If you stand back at just the right spot as the sun starts to set, between the yew and the unmarked grave with the angel looking down on it, you may see how the lichen spells out a name. If it is the name of someone else, forget about it, it is probably someone you've never met. If it is your name, then oh dear, that is unfortunate. If you look to your right, you will see the unmarked grave is unmarked no longer.
the chime children
In parts of the country, there's a superstition that children born at particular times are 'chime children', who have special gifts. The superstition varies: some will tell you it's only those children born as the chimes strike for midnight, others that it is at the times a monastery bell would ring matins, others any time from midnight on Friday to cockcrow on Saturday.
The stories of the gifts vary too. Some say a chime child can see ghosts, or speak to fairies, or control animals, cure blighted crops, or see much that is hidden from others.
Almost all of this is crude superstition and embroidered tales by those who wish to set themselves up as storytellers or folklorists.
Almost all. Watch for the children born at the stroke of four thirty in the morning on a day when that is also the time of the highest tide. They may never learn this, but if they hold their breath and cross their fingers, and keep that breath held until they feel their chest is going to burst, and keep it held even longer until they feel that they are going to pass out, and keep it held even longer than that - time will stop around them for an hour, and they can wander the frozen world for that time and do as they please.
Beyond This Point There May Be Dragons
You’ve been reading Maps of the Lost. Or have you? It’s hard to tell. Maybe this is all just a dream. Or a prophecy, or a forewarning. I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is always welcome. You can just reply to this email if you like.
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Thanks for reading, and be careful on your country walks.
I'd proper love a real, hold in my hand book.
A real book of Maps, yes please!