hell hole
There’s a pothole in Derbyshire said by local legend to be the way the devil would flee back down to hell. The pothole’s been well-explored, and there’s no doorway or whiff of sulphur to be found.
That though is only because none of the explorers has been the third son of a fourth daughter, and been down on a day when the moon can be seen in the sky.
There is a door to be found by such a person at such a time, and it’s ringed in fire and you really do not want to go through it, though you may find that you have no choice in the matter.
Notes from the Cartographer
Together with what feels like half the internet this year, I’ve been re-reading The Dark Is Rising day by day, in keeping with passing of time in the book.
I read Over Sea, Under Stone first, and will go on and read the last three books after. Over Sea feels like a very different read, aimed at younger readers, exciting and occasionally a little scary (the owls and the dark men on the hill), but with a slight cosiness to it.
The opening chapter of Dark Is Rising lets you know you’re in a different book though. I love this chapter, one of my favourite openings to a book of this kind: right from the first couple of pages it sets up and sustains a feeling of anxious, ominous, menace, the feeling that you get when a storm is coming and you can smell it on the air, feel it in the way that the hairs on the back of your neck rise, see it in the way the horses chase each other wild-eyed around a field. Very quickly, the snow comes, and you’re thrown into Will’s story, and it doesn’t let up.
The story’s shot through with British folklore and myth, from Wayland to Merlin, Herne the Hunter (a story/archetype that calls to me for some reason) seventh sons and the coming of age, and the power of numbers and iron, and Susan Cooper uses these as hooks to hang her own inventions from them, through a story about the feeling of loss of the innocence of childhood, and the transition to the weight of adult responsibility. (I haven’t seen it, but from all accounts, there is a consensus: don’t watch the film, don’t watch the film, don’t watch the film.)
Today (22nd), a day without reading. But the story continues tomorrow…
Thank you, everyone who reads this. I hope that, in this weirdest, saddest year of all years, in whatever position you find yourself in, you find some light in the darkness over the next few days. Much love.
If you use the holiday time to read any weird fiction that really makes an impression on you, can you email me (just reply to this email) to let me know what it is? I’ll do a Maps readers’ ‘best of’ in the January issue, and perhaps everyone can discover something new.
wash day
You might be out walking in the hills, and catch sight of one of the many caves in this area. Most are unremarkable, a narrow split in the rock which goes back a few yards and no more, and you've wandered into enough to be bored of them now. The reason that this one catches your eye though is not the cave, it's what's outside it. Strung between a cleft rock and a rough stake driven into the ground, is what appears to be a washing line, with three or four pieces of clothing flapping in the breeze that's sprung up.
You're intrigued, and have read stories and watched videos on YouTube about life's hermits, who decide to turn their back on society and make a simple, humble life out in nature. You know in your heart that you wouldn't last a day, but it makes a pleasant fantasy.
So, you get closer, hoping that maybe the hermit will appear, and you will have a memorable conversation that you can tell people about at dinner parties. Maybe even a picture of the two of you, you with your arm held out to take the photo, the hermit blinking over his grizzled beard, perfect for Instagram. But then you worry he'll be upset, and that you'll have spoiled his solitude.
By this time, you're close enough to notice that the clothes appear to be shirts of some kind, made of leather or hide, and then a couple of steps after you're close enough to see that one of them has a beautifully executed tattoo across the back of it, and then before you can take another step the hermit comes out of his cave and he's delighted to see you after all.
slow and steady, they march
If you’re out fruit-picking in the orchards of the East Kent countryside, you’ll get used to the pylons which seem to stride across the fields like giants, the loud hum from the wires above you, and the strange feeling that something is in the air, making the back of your hair stand up.
It would stand up more if you knew that line was discontinued, and no power has come through it for over a year. The hum isn’t from the wires. It’s from the trees. And they are on the move.
Maps Traced By Other Hands
A short section, this mail. Do feel free to suggest any sites, zines or other content that might be of interest to Maps readers.
Folklore Thursday is a twitter hashtag. Every Thursday people post folklore related blog posts, quotes, and other oddments - be prepared to fall down the rabbit hole and lose hours if you read it!
The accompanying FolkloreThursday website is an online magazine filled with top folklore articles from the some of the best creatives and academics from around the world.
The Ooser Speaks
(taken from the wonderful Readers Digest 'Folklore, Myths and Legends of Britain')
A long time ago, up on Linton Hill in the Scottish Borders, a vicious and hateful worm made its lair. It terrorised the countryside with its ever-open mouth, scooping up sheep and cattle and people. The folk of the Borders were much troubled, until a local man named Somerville became their hero. He fixed a wheel to the tip of his lance, and coated it with pitch, resin and brimstone, set it alight, and when he charged the worm he rammed the fiery wheel into its mouth and down its throat, killing it.
see it sparkle silver in the night
Pitlochrie has a famous fish ladder, where the salmon can leap their way up the height of the hydro dam. You might be watching this spectacle one moonlit night, and think to yourself, I know salmon can be big, but I didn’t know that they can be that big. You’re right: they can’t. Neither do salmon have a head that can turn and see you in the moonlight, see you and remember you for later.
Secrets the Wind Whispers
Following on from my listening binge to The Shadow Over Innsmouth, I’ve carried on the eerie listening to two other BBC audio dramas: new story The Piper and adaptation of the classic TV series The Children of the Stones.
In The Piper, strange music makes children vanish, and a detective and her daughter uncover the terrifying secret behind it, helped by a strange child who appears to have stepped through time. The Children of the Stones adapts the TV series for audio and a modern audience (apparently a Netflix remake is coming for TV, too, though I know nothing more than that), and takes a different approach in that a number of the episodes are very short, 11-15 minutes.
If I’m honest…am disappointed in both, and I think much of that comes from the contrast between these and the Lovecraft serials by Julian Simpson, or other good BBC productions such as Tracks. It’s hard to put into words, but they feel and sound like ‘BBC Drama’ with the quote marks intended…a little stagey, a certain drama school and ‘BBC’ sound to the acting, despite a talented cast, a little old-fashioned…whereas the Lovecraft adaptations sound and feel more modern, the acting (or the direction of the acting) fresher, and the soundscape more immersive and less obvious (here’s a spooky bit, let’s make it echo…echo…echo).
I love audio drama, and the role the BBC has played as a flagship for it for years, but I do hope they can take some of the lessons from the best of their productions and apply it elsewhere otherwise I fear otherwise good stories might get left behind in the explosion of audio drama across the wider podcasting space.
them
There's a strangeness about them. If you looked at them for a while, you wouldn't be able to say what, but then again you probably would not look at them for a while, and would look away and at something else but would not be able to say why, and would tell yourself it was because something else had caught your eye.
They pass as human and they walk amongst us, and you will have passed them, or hoped they did not sit next to you on the bus or the train, and if you walk by one on the street when it's dark the hairs on the back of your neck will stand up and you will have to fight the urge to run. Anyone watching would wonder why you seem to shiver and walk faster, because all they'd see is you and a small man who offers no threat reading a bus timetable, or a woman sat on a bench, looking as if she is waiting for a friend.
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, as I’d really like to shape this newsletter to be what you’d like to read and hear. So, ideas, suggestions and comments welcome. You can just reply to this email if you like. Mistletoe picture courtesy of Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay.
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