

# The Indescribable Library Of Oddments
Copyright @2017 by Robert Cooke

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Printing, 2017

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by kitfosterdesign.com

https://robertcookeauthor.wordpress.com/
To a Pip who always enjoys my stories (even when they're not very good).

## Contents

  1. The Storyteller

  2. The Picture Of Anne Reilly

  3. The Grand Estate

  4. The Butler's Story

  5. The Chandeleur

  6. The Snickle Fairy

  7. The Tower That Always Chimes

About The Author

#

# 1

## The Storyteller

IT WAS A STRANGE DAY in late Summer that I first met the man who had forgotten his own name. I was at a small country fair in my home town of Southwold, the kind that happens every year, yet changes very little; almost an echo from the past. I say it was a strange day, but to be more precise it was a strange series of circumstances that led to me meeting this peculiar stranger.

I had planned to take a bus to the nearest city, Norwich, that day. Considering the bus takes an hour and a half it wasn't particularly near for me, in UK terms at least, but it was nonetheless the best choice I had in the area; which tells you a little about the paucity of large towns in East Anglia. As is usual with me, however, I missed the bus. This meant I had a good hour or more to wander around before the next one would arrive. I had for point of reference arrived 5 minutes early, so either the bus was very early indeed or it had simply not turned up at all, a situation I found all to common trying to use public transport in the backwaters of Suffolk. There are some things I do miss about living in London, there transport simply isn't an issue.

An hour is too long to sit around at a bus stop in any case so I decided I'd have a walk on the common for a bit as it was a nice enough day. It was typical English summer weather really; warm enough that I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, but with gusts of wind frequent enough for me to be carrying a hoodie over one shoulder to put on and off at need. It was only as I approached the far stretching common that I spotted the annual town fair, copious amounts of bunting and flags indicating its presence near to the sport fields.

I walked towards the various stalls thinking that it wouldn't harm to have a look around. It had been a number of years since I'd been in the town for the fair and I have fond memories of it from my childhood. As I've said it's one of those fairs that is stuck in the past, all the old favourites were there: Apple bobbing, pick the peg, throw the hoop, guess the sweets in the jar, that bean bag board thing. All the classics. It was a true stroll down memory lane as I wove myself between the menagerie of stalls; with crafts and different foods interspersed between the various games.

I'd been exploring the fair for perhaps half an hour when my eye fell upon something that seemed at once entirely out of place, yet perfectly fitting the environment too. Tucked away in a barely visible corner of the field was a small and battered caravan, the type which you might have seen at an old circus. Once upon a time it would have been horse drawn, with its large spoked wheels and ornately designed exterior. Its current state was none the less drab and in need of a fresh batch of paint. On its side hung a single faded sign with curved letters displaying a single sentence: 'Stories gratefully told and received'.

I couldn't help but be interested. The caravan, somewhat removed from the rest of the fair and attracting very little attention had seemingly taken the retro feel of the afternoon to another level. For some reason though I seemed to be the only one to think it at all noteworthy, with many fair-goers simply passing it by without a second glance. Taking a quick look at my cheap, battered, old Casio watch I decided I had long enough to have a brief peek and see what the deal was.

As I approached the run-down caravan I couldn't help but wonder how it had been brought to the fair. It was a horse drawn carriage, but there were no horses in the field. To be honest the wheels looked so battered that were the thing to be towed on a road I would be afraid they would fall off. Regardless of this fact I just couldn't see the thing being pulled by a modern car. The image just made me sad, it would be a snap shot of how the world has changed. With these changes the modern world seems more regimented, some of the excitement and mystery has just gone. The wonder people used to have going to a circus a hundred years ago or more has long since gone, as have the circuses themselves really.

I walked slowly up the wooden steps leading into the caravan, placing a hand on the aged paint as I went. It was a piece of history, one that didn't seem to attract the interest of the crowd like it had grabbed mine. I rapped once on the door, unsure if I should just walk in.

"It's open," a kindly old voice sounded from within.

And so I pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the cheerful sounds of the fair behind me.

***

The first thing I noticed as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside the caravan was the lack of available space anywhere. Shelves were filled with numerous objects from books to ornaments, keepsakes and curios. Similarly most of the other available surfaces were likewise filled. At the far end of the caravan, partly obscured by a faded set of curtains was a small bed where I assumed the owner slept. The owner himself was an elderly man with wild grey hair, he wore a tattered jacket over a smart shirt and was sat in one of two hard backed chairs placed around a small table to one side of the cramped room. The bearing of the man gave him a timeless aspect making it hard for me to pinpoint his age, he could have been anywhere between 60 and 160 and I wouldn't have been surprised. It was his eyes though that most captivated me, of any I'd seen in my life his really sparkled with life.

"Welcome, welcome!" the man said. "And what can I do for you today?"

I hesitated not quite sure myself, "Well, I saw your caravan and the sign on the side, and I was just curious I suppose, this really is a beautiful caravan. I can't remember having seen you at the fair before, are you from the area?" I inquired politely.

"I shouldn't say so no," the man replied bluntly with a smile.

"Oh okay," I responded slightly taken aback, "have you travelled far to be here? You are here for the fair right? I just saw the sign and assumed, you being near the stalls and all, I haven't just imposed upon your home have I? Wait, I'm rambling aren't I?" Suddenly I was unsure of myself.

"Oh good heavens lad calm down, take a seat. Yes I'm here for the fair, or rather I saw the fair and thought it a good enough place to stop for a bit. Lots of interesting people at fairs, you get a good mix."

I was unsure quite what to make of the situation I'd suddenly found myself in but not wanting to seem rude I decided I might as well take a seat. I couldn't help but gaze at the things around me, my eye falling for a moment on an intricately carved cuckoo clock whose hands had stopped. All the while the elderly man kept a knowing eye on me. Feeling an awkward silence rising, one looking back now I feel was firmly in my head, I suddenly realised I hadn't even asked the gentleman his name.

"I'm sorry, I've been really rude and haven't even asked you your name."

"Ah names," he exclaimed as though he had much to say on the matter, "they tell you an awful lot if you know what they really mean, where they come from and such. A name tells you as much about the person who came up with it you see as it does about the object in question. I once knew a man who people called Big Pete, he was a tiny fellow; was given the name more as joke I think, you know thinking about it I think his actual name wasn't even Pete..."

The man fell into a reflective silence, unsure if he was going to continue his anecdote I waited, though when a short time had passed and no more words were forthcoming I decided to intercede. "Sir.."

"I'm sorry I fell into my own thoughts a bit there, I have a habit of doing that sometimes, you asked me my name?"

"Yes, sorry, I'm Robert, or Rob, most people call me Rob." I mumbled nervously, trying to decide quite what I'd let myself in for.

"Pleasure to meet you Rob." The man said with a genuine smile. "Before I answer your question I feel I should tell you a little about this caravan and what I do here if you don't mind?"

"Of course, some of the objects you have in here are remarkable. Do none of them fall off when the carriage moves?" I asked, almost to myself.

"Occasionally, though I have some netting in one of the draws over there somewhere," he replied waving his hand vaguely in a direction, "I pin it across and it holds everything nicely in place." I nodded my head in understanding. "That's by the by anyway. Though I am glad you brought up my mementos. I travel you see, far and wide. From looking at these objects you could be mistaken into thinking that I collect things which is simply not true, or not the whole truth anyway. I collect only those objects that have a good story behind them, I keep them as a means of remembering those stories. A library of oddments you could say. Now I've been about my travels for as long as I can remember and more, I've immersed myself so much in my work that, well, sometimes I think I've forgotten my own story." A wistful sadness fell on his face. "I've been called many names over the years, but what is my true name? My first? I should know, of course I should, but its lost in the annals of time; along with why I started collecting these stories in the first place! Sometimes I think it's so that eventually one day I'll hear my own story told back to me and know it for truth; most times I think it's just because I like stories." He chuckled lightly to himself. "So there you have it! Call me what you will, I do not mind."

I was a bit dumbstruck I have to say, I mean what do you reply to that? I found the old man's story terribly sad but slightly unbelievable at the same time. How could you forget your own name? But then amnesia is a real thing and it's quite possible this kindly man had suffered a deep trauma in his past. One doesn't simply forget his own name for no reason, does he?

"Come on lad," he prompted me, "so what's it going to be?"

Saying the first name that came into my head looking at him I said, "Jeremiah. You look like you could be a Jeremiah."

"Ah yes, Jeremiah, a good name, I think. I believe it suits me, though how well..." He gave a shrug of his shoulders. "So can I tell you a story Robert? Pick an object, any you'd like."

Put on the spot like that I was temporarily frozen. What object to pick out of all of the strange things arrayed about me? The nervous tick I seem to possess where, when unsure what to do, I waste time looking at my watch caused me to glance at my arm and notice the time. I cursed as I realised my bus was in 10 minutes.

"Something the matter young man?" Jeremiah asked.

"Not really, it's just I'm supposed to be getting a bus in a few minutes; I probably should be going."

"Oh, I see. Surely you have time for one story though?" Jeremiah pushed, quite saddened by my claim.

I should have insisted. I mean my day had already been delayed enough, but something held me back; maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was guilt, but whatever it was it made me turn to the shelves and cupboards around me and look closer at all the objects. After all, at the end of the day why did I really need to go to Norwich? I didn't was the answer. I was mostly just bored at home and wanted to get out somewhere, walking around the shops for the afternoon seemed a solution. So why shouldn't I listen to a story instead, if nothing else this odd man looked like he had led an interesting life.

So scanning the small space around me my eyes at last settled upon an object. A painting actually, it was a portrait of a young woman with flowing black hair standing quietly smiling. I could tell the portrait was old from the clothes she was wearing, and the candle clutched in her hands, though not being a historian it could have been anything from before the 60's.

"The painting," I asked, "who is she?"

"Ah..." breathed out Jeremiah, a smile coming to his lined face. "A good choice, I think. At least it has a good story to tell, or two. You will miss your bus I fear?"

"That's okay, I shall just have to run my errands another day. I assume the story won't disappoint me?"

"Well that depends what you are after, I think the story one to make you think, but what do I know? I am but an old man who enjoys his stories. Can I get you a drink, before we start? A cup of tea perhaps?"

"I don't actually drink hot drinks really," I confessed, "a glass of water might be nice though if you don't mind?"

"It would be my pleasure. Now where to begin..." Jeremiah pondered, standing up and moving to flick an old kettle on, already filled with water. He then reached into one of the cupboards by the sink and cooker for a glass and poured me some water from the tap. Handing me the glass he continued. "I trust you are comfortable?" I nodded my head. "Well then I will tell you the sad tale of Anne Reilly."

I leaned back into a comfortable position and allowed the rhythmic tones of Jeremiah's voice to pull me into the story. The quiet hissing of the boiling kettle doing nothing to distract me from the tale. The musty smell of the caravan carrying me back in time as he spoke.

# 2

## The Picture Of Anne Reilly

BEFORE I TELL YOU any more about Anne Reilly herself, I should perhaps tell you the story of how I came to possess the painting itself. I found it, you see, in an antique shop somewhere near the Lake District; I forget precisely where. The lady who owned the shop, a superstitious woman, insisted that the painting was cursed. That alone was enough to attract my interest, for where men and women see a curse there is normally a good story behind it all.

Antiques shops, I've always found, are good places to find stories; they deal with history after all and what is history if not a bunch of stories? That is assuming of course that the owners themselves are curious people, in this instance I was quite lucky. For I myself had inquired about the painting, just as you have today. The best I can do is to tell you all that she told me and then you can make up your own mind on the matter.

***

"The less you ask about that painting the better," the owner of the establishment grumbled bluntly. She was a middle aged woman, probably in her early 40's, with straw coloured hair that fell to her shoulders and a slight northern twang to her voice. She was amiable enough when I first walked in but once I'd spotted the painting her mood soured rather quickly.

"Why is that? I'm interested in it, with a bit more information I might wish to buy it," I queried, rather confused with the woman's attitude.

"I very much doubt that. Look we have plenty of good stock here, trust me when I say you don't want to buy that painting." She looked at me almost arrogantly, as though this was an argument she had heard a hundred times and never lost.

"You're a very bad salesman you know that young lady?" I schooled her in jest. Much to my surprise she didn't find this remotely funny.

"You'll only come back demanding your money back a week later, this saves me the hassle." Came her grumpy reply.

"Why should I do such a thing as that?" I asked confused, peering more closely at the painting and admiring the fine brush strokes. "This is a fine portrait, I doubt I could be too unhappy about owning such a piece."

"The painting is cursed," she said hurriedly, waving her hand dismissively as though it was a matter of no importance, "now not being rude sir but can we drop the subject? I have some wonderful curios from the Victorian era over here you might be interested in."

"Cursed!?" I exclaimed with surprise. Having heard this I didn't want to let the matter go for I felt now with certainty that there was something there. Controlling my voice I asked. "Why do you say it's cursed?"

The lady in the shop sighed, of course she did, I fear she felt I was being something of a pain in the back side, but credit to her she gave in to my persistence.

"This painting," she said, deadly serious, "came to this shop in my grandfather's time, back then he knew nothing about it you see, it had come in with a bulk load of stuff from an old estate whose owners had passed away. Those who followed had no use for such things anymore and so they sold them to my grandfather."

"And in all that time you never sold it?" I asked incredulously.

"We did, well my family did, it was before I was born a lot of this you understand? They sold it, of course they did in those early days, pretty young girl like her, lots of men wanted to hang her on their wall. Everyone who bought it though, every single one, came back demanding their money back. Now we couldn't give it away if we tried."

"Why? What was wrong with the painting?"

"Cursed, I told you, or were you not listening? Everyone who bought that painting suffered a fire in their house shortly afterwards. They all blamed that painting, said it was possessed, haunted by the woman you see before you. Some of the people swore they saw the girl in the painting wandering their halls before the fires started. Not everyone survived those fires either." A glum expression overcame her face.

"Have you had a fire here yourself? You yourself possess the painting now do you not?" I asked, a multitude of questions beginning to form in my head.

I was curious you see, a haunted painting that caused fires? Such a thing you do not see every day, not unless you lead a very peculiar sort of life. I lead a life where I have seen, or at least heard of, my fair share of odd things. This however was something new. I can't say that I necessarily believed the woman's assertions, I've heard enough superstitions and tall-tales in my time to know that not all of them have much in the way of truth to them. That said there is always some knowledge or comfort to be found in a story, and those that cause such a strong feeling in people such as the shop keeper are certainly worth a bit of extra attention.

Anyway the lady continued.

"Only the once," she replied sadly, reminiscing, "I was just a young girl at the time. We had no trouble with it when we first got it. After the first couple of fires though word started to spread in the local area, you know how rumours go. Put off a lot of our customers that painting. So my grandfather had the bright idea to just take it down the dump, throw it there and be done with it. After all if we couldn't sell it what was the use of having it? That night though there was a fire at this here shop, burned half my grandfathers stock to ash before the firemen could put out the blaze. It was only the next day when grandfather was sorting through the wreckage of the shop that he found it."

"Surely not?" I gasped, in rapt attention.

"Aye, the painting was there, leant against an old chair. Struck him cold he told me. That was the first and only time the family tried to get rid of the thing, some things are best left alone. That there painting is one of them. I'd like nothing more than to cover it up, never have to see it again. But... it's like it has a mind of its own. I don't trust it. Whilst the paintings been on display there we've had nothing else happen here and long may it continue." The shopkeeper proceeded to start tidying a few things as I continued to stare at the painting.

"Why don't you sell it anymore then? Surely not everyone has heard the story, I haven't after all, besides, you would be surprised how short some people's memories are." I remember swiping some dust from the top of the painting as I turned, she clearly hadn't moved the painting in some time. Too scared of the thing to even clean it.

"How could I do a thing like that?" she replied. "Sell it to some unsuspecting person and watch as their house burns down? How can I have that on my conscience?"

"There might not be -"

"Five. There were five fires before my grandfather decided he couldn't sell the thing. That's not including the one here. My father, 10 years ago thought 'you know what, maybe it won't happen again' sold it to an unsuspecting tourist. Was there on the news a week later. Family of four killed in fire. He was devastated, was barely a week after that he left this shop to me and moved south. The painting? Turned up right back here the next morning. Apparently it's found its home."

She turned and walked away from the painting and left me where I was, not wanting to say anymore. I walked around the shop once more, but there was nothing else there to draw my attention. Antiques are old by definition and old objects normally have a story or two to tell; but that's not to say they're special stories. My mind, was fixated on the painting, I wanted to know more! Paintings... they can't cause fires. Or could they? What do any of us really know about the world? Stranger things happen every day. Before I left I felt the need to approach the shopkeeper one last time.

"Thank you for your story earlier," I said after she had finished talking to another customer. "I don't want to press but who is the girl in the painting? What's her story?"

"You're welcome, but I'm afraid I can't tell you much more," she said apologetically, "maybe my grandfather knew when he took the painting on, maybe he told my father too though I doubt that. By the time I came to take the shop on though, any information about the painting that was here had been lost. I can tell you the name of the estate it came from but not much more than that."

"That would be most kind if you wouldn't mind," I replied, pleased that I had some sort of lead to go on.

"It was the Reilly estate. From old Summerhill Hall about 20 miles from here. Ask around if you're that interested. One sec." The lady went over to her desk and found a small scrap of paper and a pen, before writing an address out for me. "That's the estate. I hope you satisfy your curiosity."

Taking the piece of paper from her I replied, "You're too kind. Oh and one last thing. How much for the painting?"

"I told you -"

Cutting her off I continued. "I know I know curses, death, houses burning down, all that. I'm not worried about that."

The look on her face was priceless, I can't forget it. A mix between anger and bemusement. "I don't want to be rude, sir, but have you not listened to anything I've told you?"

"Of course I have! And a wonderful tale it is too, I don't wish to forget it. I like to buy items tied to stories as interesting as this." I smiled in what I hoped was a cheerful and convincing manner. The lady put her head in her hands, trying desperately to figure me out. Many have tried, myself included to little avail.

"So many people have died, I can't. I just can't let you," she said lifting her head and running her hands through her long hair.

"Can't let me buy an item from your shop? Don't be ridiculous, besides I don't own a house to burn down."

"Don't own a house?"

"No! Ghastly, hard to move things, I travel around far too much. You needn't worry about me coming back and returning your painting. If it does end up spontaneously appearing back here again, well then you'll have just got some free money won't you? So name your price good lady."

The woman's mouth was wide open. Couldn't think of a single thing to say, I fear I might have been ruining her day, of course I was far too single-minded to think of such a thing at the time. She started looking around the room, I think she was hoping there would be another customer, some convenient excuse to avoid me for a while longer. Alas she could find nothing and eventually turned her attention back to me.

Tormented she asked, "Why? Why can you not just leave this be?" I have to say that looking at her face I was almost tempted to do just that, almost, but my curiosity was too great.

"You have to understand that the life I've led is one where I search for stories, truly memorable and remarkable ones. Now the prospect of your painting, and the small amount you've told me so far, lead me to believe that I have found such a story. Therefore the inability to follow up on it, to come to the root of the problem, is a nagging at the back of my mind; an itch that, however hard I try, I cannot scratch."

"So be it then. God have mercy, on your own head be it." She turned her back to me.

"I'm truly sorry if I have caused you distress with this matter." The woman simply waved her hand dismissively. "So how much did you want?"

"Just take it," she sighed defeated.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said just take it! I won't take your money for this. If you insist on damning yourself I won't charge you for the privilege."

"Well then madame, in that case I will bid you good day." I remember taking a glance around the shop at that instance, really fixing the place in my mind. "You have a nice shop here, it's sadly rare these days."

A brief smile came over her face that she quickly tried to hide. "Thank you."

It was then that she walked back over to the painting. With a final sigh and a not unnoticeable hesitation, she picked up the painting and carried it back to her desk. I observed as she carefully covered it in bubble wrap before binding it together with tape. Her fear of the thing did nothing to sway her steady hand as she went delicately about her work.

"I have one more question of my own, if I may," she asked me when finished, "you said you collect stories? Might I hear one?"

There was almost a pleading tone to her voice, her eyes betraying the need to take her mind off this day and the dreadful fate she felt that she was now bestowing upon me. I paused trying to decide what I should say. Sometimes there is a particular story a person needs to hear; sometimes it is necessary that a person chooses the story to hear (as was your case); yet sometimes, very rarely, I feel a person needs no story at all, or in the least I should not be the one to tell it, this was such a time. For you see the more solid a character I became in her mind, the more she would worry and fret over her choices in the coming days. So it was, with thought, that I at last answered her. "Of course you may, for the generosity you have done me here; but I fear not today. I have a need to investigate the riddle of this painting, having done that I'm sure I could return with the story you truly want to hear."

I could see the downcast turn of her eyes as I said this, I knew though that I had done the right thing. "Very well," she declared, "I will look forward to it."

"And I too," I replied taking the painting from her out-stretched arms. "It's always good to have something to look forward to. Keeps you going through the dark times. Thank you again, I must say I'm most excited right now! It's been a while since I've encountered anything to set my mind racing like this. I look forward to telling you what I discover."

With a final shake of the hand I turned around and strolled happily out of the shop. Emerging into the autumn sun I thought on my luck. The decision to stop at this shop, I have to say was a spontaneous one, I can't rightly remember why I stopped or why I was in the area in the first place; but I can tell you now that I was glad whatever the reasons.

# 3

## The Grand Estate

JEREMIAH STOPPED TALKING for a while and my mind slowly returned to the dim interior of the caravan. I took a closer look at the painting hung on the wall and couldn't help but feel a chill go through me as I peered at the young woman's vacant eyes. The candle held so lightly in her hands the only hint of the painting's dark history, I'm not a superstitious man but having heard Jeremiah's story I couldn't help but imagine the whole place suddenly burning down around me. Foolishness of course.

"So who is she," I asked, "and evidently the stories the shop keeper had heard were false?"

Jeremiah smiled mysteriously before standing and placing his now empty mug by the sink. "As to who she is, I will get to that shortly. Now having heard the woman's stories it would of course have been easy to dismiss them as such, just stories. So I did some digging of my own and imagine my surprise when they turned out to be true. So many fires... It hadn't been a dry year either. Of course that wasn't to say the painting was related to the incidents, but it was a very odd coincidence."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise, "Does that not worry you? I mean most people would call me a sceptic but if I were to own a piece of artwork that people said was cursed I couldn't help but feel slightly uneasy around it."

"Not so much, you see it's not objects that I fear, never objects. How could I with such a collection as this?" he declared, once more reminding me of the odd collection he owned. "No it's the machinations of men and women that I fear most."

"So you've had no problems then? With the painting, I mean," I enquired, keen to put my curiosity to bed.

"Well, as I'm still here talking to you then I think we can safely assume I've been okay so far. And I will tell you truthfully that I've owned that painting for a good few years now. So much as I can recall."

"So then is the painting cursed or not then? Come on you can't keep on taunting me like this, it's cruel!" I joked genuinely very interested now.

"Well young man. All in good time. If you will recall I was given the address of the estate that the painting was donated from, I'll now fill you in on what happened when I arrived there. So if you'll hold your impatience at bay for a short while longer all will soon become clear. Or at least as clear as I am able to make it." He leant back in his chair, trying to recall the facts I assumed, cheerful remembrance played out on his face. Clarity suddenly came to his distant eyes and as words started to flow from his mouth I was once more transported to a distant place...

***

It was only the next day, I think, that I sought out the address which the troubled shop keeper had given to me. I found it without too much difficulty, these large country estates that still populate rural England are quite hard to miss, believe it or not.

Summerhill Hall was much as you would expect a country estate to be, set in large grounds of oak trees and fields. I had to pass through a set of tall, grand gates as I entered the grounds; the initials of the place engraved in the wrought metal of the great doors. A crumbling stone wall encircled the entire grounds, so low and broken that it wasn't likely to keep anything out, or anything in for that matter.

As my little caravan rumbled along the gravel road up to the main hall I started to wonder what I should say, what I should do when I arrived, because you see it was a good number of years since the painting had resided in Summerhill. I confess I'm not always brilliant at planning these things out, mostly I just butt my nose in and ask. But who to ask? That was my dilemma. The current owners you must understand would likely have no clue about the family that owned the estate some 50 years ago or more. No it was a tricky situation but you never know what you can find in these old places and all was not lost yet. I decided I would just knock on the door and say hello, it never hurts to be friendly.

The sun was warm on my face as I climbed to the ground, feet crunching on the small stones. The building loomed ominously above me, grand, impressive, but not homely in my eyes. I walked towards the front door, climbing a sweeping arc of stairs to reach it, then rang the doorbell. I took time to appreciate the heavy iron knocker still on the door, a testament to less modern times, as the sound of the new doorbell played out inside the building. Its cheerful ding donging somehow out of place in the stately building.

It seemed an age before the great door was swung open. In front of me stood a blonde woman in her early thirties, chewing some gum. She was wearing sunglasses, a close fitting pink t-shirt and jeans. Now I of all people know you should never judge a book by its cover, but that being said I was suddenly feeling a lot less confident that my search would be a success.

"I swear to God if you're another snivelling reporter looking for a quick buck," she stated angrily, looking really quite unimpressed.

"Good morning young lady, I've -"

Her eyes suddenly took in my waiting caravan and smart clothing, I'd made an effort that morning you see, and lit up. "Oh! Are you the new butler!?"

"The new? -" I was taken aback. Me, a butler? Good heavens I could think of nothing worse. "I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else," I replied, restraining my abhorrence at the thought.

"Oh... Well why are you at my door then? Are you with the press?" the woman's face suddenly dropping.

"Press? Good lady please, why should I be with the press? No, I recently acquired a painting. It was sold from this estate a number of years ago and I'm trying to find out a little more about it. I don't suppose you have any old documentation lying around anywhere do you? From previous owners or the like?"

I flashed her my most dazzling smile, willing the door to remain firmly open and not slammed shut in my face. I felt at first like my question must have confused her because she took a long while to respond. I briefly entertained the idea that she was waiting for me to say more, but felt I'd been quite clear.

She leaned towards me and took off her sunglasses, revealing her piercing blue eyes and attractive face. "You don't know who I am do you?" she asked perplexed.

I must say I was perplexed too. "I do not, I've just arrived. Oh gosh!" I cried suddenly. "How rude of me, I never introduced myself. I'm, uh, John Doe, for lack of a better name," I held out my hand, "and yours?"

"Really?" she said ignoring my hand and all I'd just said. "Jessica? Jessica Kinsley?"

"Nice to meet you Jessica. Now sorry if I sound impatient, but the painting?"

Jessica let out an exasperated puff and shook her head slightly, looking at me with a face filled with disbelief. Finally she answered my questions with a resigned tone. "There might be something here, I dunno, I don't exactly spend my time going through those mouldy old boxes. Most of the stuff from the previous owners I had put away in the attic or a couple of studies that I don't need. What's the painting? Is it famous or something?"

I confess I should have been more curious about this women who answered the door, she apparently felt herself important enough that I should know her on the spot. The problem was that I already had one mystery, one thread to follow, if I strayed now who knows what maze of stories I could have found myself in. Narratives intertwine far more in real life than you tend to find in novels, it can be hard sometimes to keep your focus.

"It's a portrait actually, I don't believe it's particularly famous, or valuable in any sense other than what it represents. It is the story the painting holds that is the true wealth." I explained.

The woman Jessica didn't seem like she believed me, or that she really cared to be honest, but she didn't voice her opinion. "Right, well you can have a quick look if you'd like. Only in those rooms though! And only if I can see your horses there; I love horses, used to ride when I was a little girl," she said with a smile, continuing to chew loudly.

"I'm sure something can be arranged." I said with a forced smile. My horses are temperamental, I suppose the word would be, they're very particular who they let near them. I feared they wouldn't take kindly to this brazen and over confident woman. "Shall we perhaps see these rooms first? Once I'm done I'm sure my friends there will be ready for some lunch? You could help feed them if you'd like?" I feared I sounded patronising, although if I did Jessica didn't notice it.

"Oh! You thought I was showing you round? No, of course not silly! George will show you to the rooms," she said, a look of evident disgust on her face.

"Who is George?" I asked politely.

"George is the old butler, when I say old he's ancient, came with the house. Useless though, why do you think I had to answer the door? He's almost deaf and I've seen snails faster than him," she chatted away aimlessly. I became interested by the prospect of this 'ancient butler', how long had he worked in this house, what had he seen? I thought that it could only bode well for my search. A lifetimes worth of tales is no small thing, not that the young do not have tales, I'm sure you have your fair share, but to have seen a place change over the decades, to really witness times effects is another thing entirely. It is something I'm sure you'll witness eventually, be it a good or a bad thing. "George!!! We have a visitor!!!" Jessica suddenly shouted. "He'll be here in a minute," she smiled.

"Of course. I'm in no great rush," I replied cordially.

"Neither is he by the looks of things..." she muttered under her breath. I chose to politely ignore it.

We waited in silence, the only sound that of Jessica continuing to chew her gum, it was a long two minutes before George finally arrived. He was well presented in a classically styled suit, holding himself remarkably upright despite the evident discomfort with which he walked. He had slicked back grey hair and a proud look on his face, he would have looked perfectly in-keeping as the owner of the estate himself. He had the regal bearing, gained over years of work, that commands respect irrespective of words.

"You called mistress?" enquired George serenely.

"Like five times, yes I did. We have a visitor. Something about a painting, he would like to see all the old papers in the study and the stuff in the loft. Be a doll and show him around. Oh! It might even be your last job here aye!" she chuckled, giving him a playful if not overly friendly elbow. "Now if you'll excuse me I need to prepare for tomorrows shoot," she leant over to me before turning to go, "I'll see you and your majestic horses when you're done." She winked then turned and disappeared into the cavernous depths of the great house, leaving me standing on the front porch with the old butler and a sense of bewilderment.

"If you would follow me sir." George stated with a deep, droning voice.

"Of course, it would be my pleasure," I replied with a broad smile. "So, if you don't mind me asking, how long have you worked here?"

"A long time, a long time..." Was his response, his hearing seemed perfectly adequate to me. I didn't wonder if he hadn't answered the door as some kind of silent protest at his new charge. "I've served many masters here over the years, seen a lot of people come and go. I find it's the house that has my loyalty in these days rather than anything else. You wished to see the study is that correct?"

"If it's no trouble."

"No trouble at all. This way then."

At first I tried to engage George in conversation as we walked but when he wasn't particularly forthcoming I decide to instead turn my attention towards the interior of the house. Evidence of its current owner was everywhere in the living spaces, they were modern you see. Gone were the old furnishings that you would expect to see in a classic country estate such as this. They were replaced with newer leather sofas, modern art hung on walls, 'open-plan' I suppose would be the term. I wouldn't say it was bad, if anything it made the building seem more welcoming in some ways, but it was different. Certainly not what I was expecting and not exactly in alignment with the outside façade. Who am I to judge though? I live in a caravan after all.

We continued through the house and I noticed that not all of the building had been renovated in the same way. Either it wasn't used or just hadn't been finished yet, either could have been the case.

"It's an odd mix of design don't you think?" I said, half rhetorically.

"The lady Jessica has strong ideas about what she does and doesn't like. She's made quite a few changes since coming here," George replied.

"And you don't agree?" I queried.

"My opinion hardly matters here, it's not my place to say what should and shouldn't be," he answered, avoiding my question.

"Come now, that doesn't mean you can't have an opinion my good man." I lowered my voice. "Personally I think it's horridly out of place." I glanced around, for some reason paranoid that the lady of the house was right there and would throw me out for a single bad word spoken. I raised my voice again. "But perhaps I'm just an old man lost in his own time."

If the old butler agreed with me he didn't say as we continued walking in silence.

One thing that was unchanged in the grand residence, one thing that couldn't be changed, was the structure. The high roof and strong wooden beams still gave it the feeling of a country estate. The large arched windows were present in the corridors that faced onto the courtyard, trees and fields beyond them.

The sound of my feet echoed off the polished floor as we made our way through a maze of rooms and passages. What furniture and cabinets I passed seemed to be getting dustier by the minute as we passed beyond what was currently being used as living space.

These grand houses you see, in their heyday dozens would have lived there; with only a few residents and servants half the building is unnecessary and therefore becomes unused. It is one of the reason owners of many of these buildings open parts of them to the public, to get some income for upkeep but also so those unneeded parts of the building are kept maintained and used. The woman who owned Summerhill clearly had no need for such arrangements, poor George here was likely struggling almost single-handedly to keep only the active quarters clean; and those were not insubstantially sized either from what I had seen so far.

"The study sir," George stated at last as we arrived at a relatively small room tucked away at the back of the house.

"Please don't call me sir," I requested. I detest subservience you see, all men are born equal as the saying goes. I'm not sure George necessarily agreed though as he said nothing. Whatever makes him happy I guess, is what I thought.

I walked into the room and gave a sigh, this was not going to be a five minute job. The room was filled with cardboard boxes, chock to the brim with papers and files, almost burying the desk at the back end of the room. This wooden desk was in front of another tall window that poured light into the room, framed on either side by velvet curtains heavy with dust. A long book shelf ran one length of the room, full of time stained hardbacks on everything from plants to the history of the church. On the other side of the room was a coffee table holding a decanter that had long been empty and glasses so deep in dust I questioned if they could ever be fully cleaned. There was also a potted plant, withered but miraculously still alive; a sofa covered with a white sheet; and a single large landscape painting on the wall next to the door, from a place I didn't recognise if it wasn't fiction.

"I am ashamed sir," apologised George sadly, "that you should see the room in such a state...I...I am ashamed."

"You've nothing to apologise for my friend," I consolidated, "one man cannot hold back the passing of time, if the room is to be left unused then so be it I suppose."

"It never used to be like this," he continued, "of course there were more of us working here then... The new mistress doesn't care about this wing of the house, well she doesn't care much about the house at all. People cared here, once, long ago; maybe it's just easier if you don't." George was deep in melancholy, I've seen it before, when someone sees the work of their life coming to an end. Was it worth it, they think? "Forgive me, the foolishness of an old man," he apologised, a forced smile upon his face. I've never understood it, humanities need to apologise when being most honest.

"Easier perhaps, but I'm not sure it's better not to care," I said. Then suddenly curious about the depth of the butlers history here I asked, "Forgive me, but I don't suppose you were here when the Reillys owned the estate were you? It was a long time ago, you would have been but a young man then."

"I remember the Reillys yes, it was the Lord Reilly that first gave me a job here, I was only 14 years old at the time if I recall correctly. I was given a job scrubbing dishes in the kitchen. Why do you ask?"

I couldn't believe my luck, I thought it impossible that someone from those past days would still be here, but it appeared my luck was in. Over 50 years there... No wonder it saddened him so much to see this room in its current state. It made his impending replacement that much more bitter too, I wondered if he would still be allowed to remain in the building. It had been his home for longer than any of its recent owners. He must have spent almost his entire life here.

"The picture I purchased," I replied eventually, "it's a portrait of one of the Reillys, Anne Reilly. Did you know her?"

"Anne? Yes I knew Anne..." George sighed, a deep sadness in his voice. "It was a tragedy what happened to her, and one of my deep regrets. That someone should mention her now after all these years, I thought I had buried it in my past."

"What happened? If you don't mind me asking, there are... stories, I suppose, tales if you will surrounding the painting. I would dearly like to understand them. Forgive me but I have scant knowledge of this house or its history."

George was still standing straight backed by the door, the very picture of a butler; I could sense the discomfort of old age in the tension of his legs. A man of his years should not be made to stand all day, perhaps it would be an unintentional kindness him being removed from his duties, I thought.

"No need to keep standing there like a lemon, sit down my friend sit down! Here let's remove this sheet." I said, whipping the white sheet from the sofa, kicking up a cloud of dust and revealing the well preserved furniture beneath.

After a slight hesitation George conceded, walking over and sitting down on the soft leather. "That is kind of you sir, I will rest my legs for just a short while. I suppose I could tell you what happened, though it isn't a pleasant tale. No happy ending to make a man sleep well at night."

"Sometimes there is something therapeutic about the telling of a story, the sharing of a trouble. I pray you'll find my ears accepting ones. We have a good length of time before your mistress will start to agitate over my dear horses."

I took a seat on the sofa next to George, leaning back into the soft furnishing and feeling my own relief to rest my feet briefly. It is surprising how much walking it is possible to do in a residential building. George closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply, as though he was trying to summon up the past, channel the deep memories from his youth. When he opened his eyes, he looked to me and began his story. A story that shed some great light on the painting I now had in my possession, a painting that was resting in my caravan in the courtyard, brought back to its old home after a long long absence.

# 4

## The Butler's Story

"SO THE STORY?" I asked eagerly as Jeremiah fell into a long pause. "What was it?"

Jeremiah shook himself slightly as his mind returned to the present. "Sorry my young man, I was just drifting for a minute, recalling the story myself. Would you like a cup of tea? No, you don't drink the stuff you said, a wise course I think. I find I'm becoming dependent on the stuff; perhaps I should refrain and join you with a glass of water? If you'll pardon me a few minutes whilst I recall the rest of old George's story?" Jeremiah smiled at me, clearly enjoying my rapt attention.

"Of course, another glass of water would be nice," I replied with a smile of my own.

It was an interesting environment I had stumbled into, a pleasant experience that I had not been expecting. Better by far as a way of distraction than aimlessly wandering around the shops in Norwich. I wondered why it was that no one else had explored this little oddment of the fair. I wasn't too sad about it though and was glad that I was receiving a personal performance, it was like visiting a fortune teller or the like; the telling for me alone.

Jeremiah went about pouring two glasses of water from his tap. With his back to me he said, "You know, I could tell you an interesting story about a tea ceremony I took part in whilst in old Ceylon; a tale for another time though perhaps." He turned to me with a smile. "So many stories, it's a trouble knowing when is the correct time for each." He handed me a glass.

"Thank you," I said. "I have to say it baffles me how you can remember all these stories."

"Memory is a precious thing my young friend, but while mine may be strong in one instance, I find it painfully fragile in others. It's like a fleeting mist in the morning sometimes. But then you never know what hidden depths there are to your own mind until you have delved fully. Perhaps I will yet remember some things to surprise me."

I wasn't entirely sure that this answered my question but I sensed I would get no other. I sipped from my glass, glad for the fluid in the warm caravan. With the summers heat outside, even with the curtains closed the caravan was by no means cool. I glanced briefly at my watch and noticed it was now mid-afternoon. I wondered how much longer this story would take, not that I was in any particular rush anymore, but more out of a sense of curiosity.

Jeremiah took his place in his seat once more. "Well shall we continue?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied.

"Well where was I?" he thought for a minute. "Ah yes, old George the butler's story. Well it went something like this..."

***

"I had been working here perhaps a year by then," George started, "mostly in the kitchens to begin with, but as I began to gain the trust of my superiors I was occasionally given tasks and errands in the rest of the house. It was doing this that I first encountered the woman of your painting, Anne; she was beautiful.

I was enamoured when I first saw her, but if you've seen her portrait then you'll know as well as me. I was simply to deliver a message, but she dealt kindly with me, kind in a way her father the lord of the house never did. You see the lord was of the old stock of nobility, one who saw his servants as truly beneath him, a race apart in a way. Anne had none of those thoughts, she was apologetic if anything that she had servants waiting on her day by day. She treated us all kindly, as close to friends as could be in the circumstances. This of course only made me love her more. It was the affection of a young man, almost a boy really at the time, and something that I of course did nothing about. I was hardly the only serving boy in the house that thought himself in love with her. It was for the love of Anne Reilly though, that she received her fate.

Her father, you see, had arranged a marriage to a young nobleman of good stock. Arranged marriages were not so common, even in those days, and Anne was against it of course; but she feared the wrath of her father as much as us servants and eventually she consented. I do not know the details of how she came to agree but I did wonder at the time, and still do occasionally to this day, if she didn't just stop arguing as she planned to simply run away. It would have been like her, she was spirited, not the sort to bow to another man's will if she could help it.

Time passed, the months rolled by and yet she was still here at Summerhill. I fear her father got wind of any plans she had of escaping and put a stop to them. Anne grew more and more down-heartened, we could all see it. Where before she was the light of the house, by then everywhere she went she seemed to bring a cloud of sorrow. It was like seeing a wild animal caged, no matter the circumstances no one likes to be led against their will and this was certainly not what she wanted.

If her mother were still around I think she would have put a stop to the events, people always used to say that she tempered the lord's foul moods; but fate can be cruel sometimes.

They married in the springtime, Anne and the young nobleman James Denchester. There was a lot of work to be done by us servants; particularly for me in the kitchen as we had to prepare a great banquet for the wedding guests. I was in a foul mood the entire time I must say. The wedding went ahead, all the guests acting as though it was the happiest day anyone had ever seen; all of them having a far better time than the bride.

Jealousy, you might be thinking, the active imagination of youth." George laughed pained. "You know I thought exactly the same thing at the time, thought myself foolish for thinking that this wedding was anything but a happy event. As time passed though the true state of affairs came to light, or at least some of them."

It must be strange for George, I remember thinking. This was clearly a period of his life that affected him greatly, one that he was still anguished about, yet there was no one anymore, so far as I was aware, with whom he could talk about it. He was telling me his story, but as much as I was invested in his tale I wasn't there, I feared I wasn't the man to put his mind at ease. Still, as I'd told him I've always felt the telling of stories to be therapeutic and perhaps George simply needed to talk. Even were he not telling me exactly what I came to Summerhill to find, I wasn't inclined to stop him.

"Anne left Summerhill then, went to live with her new husband. I liked to think that it was here that she really wanted to be, despite her father's dark turns this was her home. She must have had good memories tied here as well as the bad."

"Why?" I asked politely.

"I wanted her to come back," he shrugged as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It wasn't just childhood adoration either, after she left the treatment of the servants definitely got worse. I think it was a way for the Lord Reilly to distract himself with the last of his family now gone from Summerhill. It was a funny state of affairs, he pushed so much for the marriage to go ahead but seemed utterly miserable once it had. I wasn't alone in dreaming that Lady Reilly would return and set the world to rights.

In my early days at Summerhill I used to like running errands around the house; as a kitchen boy any time spent running a letter was time not spent scrubbing pots. I listened to the educated folk talking, tried to copy the rhythms and patterns of their speech. I had much more of a west country accent in those days I assure you sir. When Anne left though, I avoided going on errands as much as I could, better to stay out of the way of the Lord's foul tempers than incur the wrath of him or any of the men he started to surround himself with."

"So what happened to Anne then? After she left I mean," I asked intrigued, but wanting him to hurry his story slightly, impatient as I am.

"She came back," he said bluntly, my eyebrows raising in surprise. "Her father fell ill, old Lord Reilly. You might think me a bad man for saying it but I wasn't sad about it. With the onset of his illness the lives of myself and the staff at Summerhill increased markedly. Joking and laughing returned once more, far from the earshot of the stricken lord. It was as though the pantomime villain had been dispatched; however it was sadly not to last.

After perhaps a week of Anne being back at Summerhill her husband followed, no doubt sensing the impending demise of his step-father and seeking to ensure events fell in his favour. Before that time I'd never really had any encounters with young Lord Denchester, but during those weeks and months I gained something of an understanding of the kind of man he was. I must say what I learnt didn't fill me with any joy.

Lord Reilly's illness was a long one, the winter weather doing nothing to aid his recovery; now if ever there was a man impatient for someone else to die it was Denchester. By all reports Anne was a near constant presence at her father's side as his illness worsened, despite the differences that had come between them. Though whether this was truly familial caring or simply as a lesser of two evils we will never know.

Rumours started to spread, I didn't share in the telling as you could never know if an idle word said would have consequences when working for people such as these. I did listen however, I could hardly not. The talk was that Anne was being beaten by her husband. Never in plain sight of course, the old Lord still had power in the house and wouldn't have condoned anyone doing harm to his daughter, whoever they might be. Still, the stories spread. Maids talked of seeing bruises on Lady Anne when waiting on her, others talked of raised voices at night. The exact truth I do not know, but as the saying goes there is no smoke without fire.

My anger was fierce to hear such things of course, the tempestuousness of youth. I skulked around the kitchens as though thunderclouds were following above me; worse by far than when Anne had simply left. The few times I'd been asked to deliver messages to her since her return she'd been distant and removed, like a shell of what she was when I first saw her. It was only good fortune, and perhaps the sympathy of my superiors, that kept me in a job for my mind was distracted. The fear that had been temporarily lifted from Summerhill had returned in full force and many of the staff, myself included, wished for the return of the days under Lord Reilly. He was a stern and angry man sometimes, but there was a madness about James Denchester that was far more unsettling than simple anger.

It was shortly before Christmas that Lord John Reilly finally died. Went in his sleep he did, his long illness finally getting the better of him. He wasn't a young man, but not old either really; the cause of his fairly sudden ill health was a mystery, though most agreed it was likely as a result of some untold stress. Some whispered foul play from Lord Denchester but for some reason despite my hatred for the man I never quite believed the whispers. He was absent from Summerhill when the illness started and I couldn't see him coordinating such a thing from afar; besides which poison just seemed too subtle for a man like him.

A funeral was held, only the most senior staff who had worked here the longest were invited to attend. The rest of us were left to mull over what this all meant for our own futures. Some left in search of other jobs, many others considered it; I myself was but a young man, still just a boy really and for me it wasn't an option. For a start my parents wouldn't have allowed it, aside from this I had started to gain an odd sort of attachment to the place since coming here.

With the death of Lord Reilly, it was Lord Denchester that took control of the estate, Anne being his only child. So it was that with her father out of the way Anne's beatings grew worse, bruises visible for all to see. It is a cause of distress still that I did nothing, but then what could I do? Speak up and I would never be seen in Summerhill again, what was a teenage scullion to do in such circumstances? All the servants whispered curses and insults behind the Lord's back but none dared say anything to his face. I'm sure that Anne tried to flee in the weeks and months that followed her father's death, who wouldn't in her situation? Failure though, I imagine, only made things worse; Anne was from then on kept under lock and key. A few weeks later, the unimaginable happened.

One night I was awoken by the cries and screams of the other servants. 'Fire! Fire!' they called. I ran into the corridor, the smell of smoke catching in my nose causing me to choke. I quickly followed the stream of running people out onto the lawn and watched in fear as fire blazed in one portion of the house. It was not long before the fire-engines were there, great streams of water working to tackle the crackling inferno, soon after the blaze had been put to rest. There was, however, no sign of Anne or her Lord husband.

The official story is that a candle was knocked over in their room whilst they both slumbered, the smoke suffocating them before they even realised the fire had been started. An accident, of course; I always wondered though, and I was not alone, if Anne hadn't simply hit breaking point. Better to die in a blaze of glory than locked in as a prisoner all her life being beaten like an animal. Or perhaps the candle was knocked over in one of their nightly fights; with the door locked they were unable to stifle the blaze or flee before it spread and consumed them. Again, I doubt we will ever know for the truth was lost with the dead. For many years after I wondered if anything would have changed if I'd but raised my voice, maybe I could have gone to the police and lodged a complaint..."

George fell into a momentary silence, so Anne had died in a fire, surely this wasn't merely a coincidence? With a deep sigh the old butler finished his recount.

"Anyhow the estate was sold on to the highest bidder. It transpired the old Lord Reilly had been in financial straights, a gambling problem they said, Anne's marriage to Denchester was intended to solve his money woes. With the lot of them now deceased many of the houses objects and antiques were sold off to pay for the extensive repairs to the house. This area we stand in was one of the wings spared from the blaze. I can only assume that the painting now in your possession was one of the many sold off in this time."

George looked downtrodden as he finished his story, it was like he'd been put through the wringer, then put through a second time as the first hadn't done a thorough enough job. Still as sad as he looked he seemed more relaxed after the telling if that is possible.

"Thank you for your story, it was most enlightening." I then added cautiously, "If you don't mind me saying so, I think it is useless to ponder over what might have been. Life is ifs, buts and maybes; sometimes though, tragedies just happen and there's nothing to be done about it. It is in the fires of such tragedy that men and women are tested, and you don't seem to have done too badly in your life. Look at you, more the Lord here than any of those you spoke of; be proud."

George was momentarily silent, his eyes betraying a slight glimmer of tears, before he laughed nervously, "Oh I'm no lord, but I thank you for the kind words all the same. I hope my story was of some aid, do you require any more time to look here?" He asked me, trying to remove the attention from himself.

"No, I think I have all the information I need thank you very much. A good job too for these boxes would have taken hours to search! I fear your employer would have whisked me away before I could have even made a dent in them. Talking of which I suppose I ought to fulfill my side of the bargain, my dear horses must be getting hungry in any case. Shall we?"

"Certainly sir, allow me to show you the way out."

We both rose from the sofa, quickly laying the white sheet back in its original position before making the long walk back to the front of the estate. I never told George why I had come there. Not specifically, I'm not sure how he would have taken it if I'd told him that the ghost of Anne Reilly had been haunting and torching houses for decades after her death. I did, however, show him the painting.

It did not take long for George to find Jessica once we had reached the entrance hall. Excitement evident on her face when I mentioned feeding my steeds. The three of us went outside and after introducing Jessica to my gentle horses I went and retrieved the painting from my caravan. As I picked the painting up my gaze couldn't linger long on those sad sad eyes, it was so much easier imagining the reason for the melancholic expression the artist had captured than knowing the hard truth.

As I showed George the painting he didn't react as strongly as I imagined he might, but then the events he told me about were long ago, a whole lifetime for him.

"Yes, that's the Lady Anne. A beautiful painting of her, very lifelike, if a little sad. Thank you for showing me. There were other paintings of her that survived the fire in the house, though as time passed and owners came and went they were eventually all removed or lost; this is the first time I've seen one in quite some time, thank you."

"My pleasure, I should be the one thanking you for solving my mystery!" I exclaimed.

George laughed, somewhat uncomfortable to be talking to me with his boss right there. Excusing himself he then shook my hand, thanking me again, before returning to his duties in the house. If he were truly being replaced and removed from the house then I expect he wanted to see as much of the place as he could before having to leave.

I looked over at Jessica feeding my horses and much to my surprise she actually had a fine hand with animals, far better than with humans it appeared. Fame has a funny way of making people forget how to conduct themselves in society. Perhaps though, I was just being too quick to judge. Thinking about it I had never even asked if George was retiring by choice, maybe he had finally decided it was time, at his age many would have said it was long overdue. I never did pose the question, I don't think I wanted the clarification for I felt that whatever the answer was it would have been unsatisfying.

So it was that I left Summerhill that afternoon, the mystery of my painting solved so much as I felt it could be. To this day I've seen no hint of a ghost or anything to suggest that the painting was haunted by the spirit of Anne Reilly. I did briefly return to the antique store to tell the owner what I had found, I confess that when she first saw me I fear she thought I wanted to return the painting. She was intrigued when I told her what I had discovered at Summerhill. The painting had spent many years in her store, its bleak history casting an unseen shadow on the shop; I think fear had stopped her from ever researching too much, nonetheless the intrigue would always have been there. Curious or not though, I don't think she was too sad to see the back of me and that painting; if she never saw either of us again I'm sure she'd die a happy woman. I rode away from that little shop on my trusty carriage and I've never been back since.

# 5

## The Chandeleur

"SO WAS IT HAUNTED?" I asked, eager for closure.

"I don't know," Jeremiah replied with a grin on his face, "as I said I've seen no proof to determine that it is, but one can never know."

"But whatever happened to getting the full story? I thought you wanted to get to the bottom of it all?" I retorted lightly.

"I did want the full story!" Jeremiah replied defending himself, his posture and bold reply suddenly revealing his sadness that he didn't have a more complete answer. "I wanted to know why all those houses burned down; but tempting fate with an object that's supposed to have burnt its previous owners to death seemed a bit reckless. Now I can't prove for sure that the painting's haunted, but there must be something otherworldly about it otherwise I'm at a loss to explain it all. Any other explanation seems as far a stretch as the improbable one we've been presented with."

"So why hasn't your caravan been burnt down?" I asked confused.

A proud sparkle came to his eyes. "Ah well I have two theories as to the reason. The first is that this isn't truly a house, as with all the other fires; it isn't a fixed abode and therefore perhaps the spirit feels free here. The second, and somewhat related, is that my caravan has no proper locks, a bolt yes, but no locks. All the other houses would have inevitably locked the painting in at one point or another."

"Because Anne herself was locked in and later burned alive? You think the painting is causing history to relive itself?" I asked somewhat rhetorically, trying to join the dots.

"It's a theory. I cannot prove any of it of course, not without running the risk of torching a building to the ground which I've never really fancied doing, could never understand those pyromaniacs..." Jeremiah tailed off, falling into reverie, something that seemed to happen reasonably frequently with him.

"I suppose it's nice to have some mystery left," I said after Jeremiah seemed reluctant to continue.

"What's that?" he said quickly snapping back to reality, "Yes yes you're entirely right. Why the painting was content to remain in the shop for instance is another thread whose end we may never find. It may be frustrating but then there is too little mystery in the world. It's not always necessary to dig too deeply, after all you will often find the truth to be less than you desire it to be."

"Absolutely," I agreed, deep in thought.

"So do you have any stories to tell young man? It's getting late in the afternoon but I'm sure we have time for one more. Come! You look like a man who has seen a lot in his short years, you certainly didn't balk at my tale of a ghost which is something that can't be said about most of the people I've told it to."

"I dunno," I hesitated. "I'm not sure I'm much of a storyteller."

"Nonsense! Everyone can tell a story, it's simply recalling a memory, so...?" he asked with an exaggerated upward inflection.

"Well I could tell you about my time in Peru, it's a long story though so maybe that's one for a different time. You'd probably think me mad anyway," I replied trying to dodge the question.

"Ah Peru, Darkest Peru as Paddington Bear would call it. I have a couple of stories from there. I await yours eagerly."

"Maybe you could tell another?" I asked hesitantly not wanting to impose too much. "Whilst I think of a shorter story to tell you?"

"Of course, though I'll hold you to that, it is a rare occasion that I turn down a request for a story. Did you have anything in mind?"

"Not really, I thought perhaps you could pick the object this time?" I asked.

"Very well, what to tell..."

Jeremiah stood up slowly, running his aged hands along the shelves and on and over the various objects. His eyes glided over the treasures like a child trying to choose some sweets, eyes wide with choice and possibility. Finally he settled on an object tucked behind some of the more prominent pieces, a relaxed humour filled his face as he reached for what to me looked like a simple piece of rope. He lifted it slowly out, twining it lightly around his fingers before bringing it to his nose and breathing in its smell, eyes closed.

"Yes, this will do," he stated calmly. "In the spirit of mystery this should do just the trick."

He held out the rope for my inspection.

"A piece of string?" I asked, not yet sold on this less than impressive piece picked out from amongst so many more noteworthy objects.

"I would have thought you'd have known better my friend, it's what this 'piece of string' represents that is truly interesting. A tall tale, perhaps, but a good one nonetheless. The sailor that told me this story certainly believed it to be true. There was a glint in his eye, some barely concealed horror there that told me as much as his words did."

"So what was this story then?" I asked, my interest now raised as Jeremiah began to weave the magic of his words once more.

"Well to begin the story I should tell you how I came to stumble across the tale myself."

Jeremiah stretched his arms before leaning on the small table. The vigour and excitement in his voice was unmistakable as he began his tale.

***

You see I was passing the time in the small French town of Villefranche-Sur-Mer, an old port town that still retains much of its character amidst the influx of modern developments. Just west of Nice and tucked in a bay generally untroubled by storms it boasts a popular and lively harbour. It was here that I encountered The Chandeleur and the sailor who told me his story.

It was a bright, sunny day in January, the temperature warm for winter, almost tropical compared to the biting winds you'd experience here in your native England. A small spattering of wispy clouds floated amongst the otherwise clear blue sky. You would no doubt be wrapped in many layers at this time of year, I though was perfectly warm in just my shirt.

There was a boat that immediately caught my eye as I walked absentmindedly past the old sea walls and pleasant mix of new yachts and old boats that made up the harbour. There was a tranquil peace about the place in the morning: the waters barely stirred; light played off the drifting masts that reached into the sky and twinkled gently on the horizon; the rhythmic swishing of the boats, the slow creak of ropes and occasional soft bell were the only sounds disturbing the air.

The calm however was suddenly disturbed by the sound of raised voices as an agitated sailor talked to some of the harbour mechanics whilst his boat was slowly being winched onto the slip-way. It was his posture and the change of atmosphere that he represented that drew me over. He was like an avalanche upsetting the delicate balance of a mountain; no it was more like seeing the moon rise in the early hours of the morning, freakishly out of place.

I walked over to the almost wild man who owned the boat. However before I could fully form an image of this man my eyes were drawn to the boat, it was a wreck. The main mast was torn in two; the support rails were twisted or missing entirely; the cabin was partially caved in; but most noticeable were the jagged dashes straight through the side of the hull. It was a miracle, I thought, that the boat had ever made it to the harbour. I could just about make out the name of the vessel, The Chandeleur, painted in faded letters on the side of the boat.

Turning my gaze to the owner I took in his shabby appearance. A full head of white hair sprung up in a shock above his head. He had an aged face, brought alive by bright eyes and exuberant expression. He wore a striped wool jumper and waterproof trousers as well as sensible deck shoes. I estimated the man to be somewhere in his 50's. He was gesticulating madly at the boat and talking in rapid French, with a dismissive wave of his hand though the mechanic he was talking to turned and strolled away shaking his head. The owner gave an audible gasp of exasperation before turning to stare at his wreck of a ship.

I quickly approached the distressed sailor, greeting him in French, we conversed in the same language though for your benefit I'll relay what was said in English.

"Good morning friend!" I greeted, trying to keep my voice cheerful and friendly.

"Morning," came the grumpy and dismissive reply.

This was a man distracted and without the time or energy to waste on such simple things as courtesy. Part of me thought I should just continue on my way, alas once more my curiosity won over. I fear that one day, before too long, my curiosity will snare me as completely as it did the long fabled cat. Fortunately though this was one situation where it turned out just fine.

"Sorry to bother you," I gestured to the boat, "clearly you have a lot to occupy your thoughts, but, well, what happened? Not to sound rude but that boat's looking a little worse for wears, I've seen bath tubs that have looked more seaworthy. How on earth did you even get it back to harbour? It is yours correct? And what happened to it?" The sailors mouth was open and eyes wide with shock at this point after my barrage of questions. "Sorry I get carried away sometimes. I collect stories you see, not books, good old fashioned stories, and something tells me this is a good one."

"Are you finished?" he asked, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Yes I think so, no, what's your name?"

"Jano," he answered after a slight pause, "and yours?"

"Haven't the foggiest!" I laughed, filled now with anticipation.

"And they're calling me mad..." he muttered to himself.

I fear he thought me slightly deranged. Fortunately if anything it seemed to make him less guarded, as though he could say what he liked to me without fear of rebuttal. In the end I think what came next was a way of him getting things off his chest, a release and the first step towards him moving on from whatever tragic event had befallen him at sea.

"There's no quick answer to your questions, not a good one anyway. They all think I'm mad of course!" he declared in disbelief, "Me! Jano! They've known me for years, I was sailing boats into this harbour when some of those fools were still in their mother's wombs. And they think what? That one storm will turn me crazy? They're the crazy ones. What did they think happened to my old girl?" he pointed to the boat, now fully lifted out of the water. "Did they think a gust of wind split the mast full off and tore holes in the side of her like she was made of paper!?" This tirade ended with Jano shaking his head in disbelief.

I looked into the man's pained eyes, laying a reassuring hand briefly on his tense shoulder. He turned to me, eyes weary and on guard, as though he expected that any second fire would rain from the skies.

"So what really happened? This was no shipping accident, I'm no sailor but anyone should be able to see that."

"Quite right they should," Jano replied, seeming to lose some of his anger. "I need a coffee, if you really want to know join me and I'll tell you the whole damn story, though it may be difficult to believe."

So we walked over to the small café just along from the slip-way at the front of the port. Plastic chairs and small cast-iron tables were laid out in front of the little booth which served the workers and boat owners that didn't want to walk the distance along the waterside to the main town. I approached the young woman who owned and ran the small business and ordered a couple of coffees. I fumbled in my pockets to pay the lady. After some initial trouble I was at last able to find a few coins that passed for currency at the time. I struggle with these things you see. So many countries, some of them seem to change currencies as often as a man changes his shirt, it's hard to keep track. Anyway that's by the by.

We took a seat at an unoccupied table, slightly away from the rest of the low chatter. I took a sip of the drink and quickly put it down, the hot liquid scalding the edge of my mouth; impatience once more planting its boot firmly in my rear. Whilst I waited for it to cool I leaned back in the not so comfortable chair and awaited the sailors words. He took a long sip of his own drink, seemingly untroubled by the same boiling liquid.

"That's better," Jano sighed contently, "I find it strange, this calm, it seems so unnatural, although I've seen it here half my life. Catches you unaware, you become used to the calm! It's calm, calm, calm, calm, calm then..." he claps, "Storm! Wild, wild storm!"

"A storm did all this?" I queried. "What, did you end up on the rocks?"

"If you want me to tell you what happened then no interruptions." he scalded with good humour, holding up a warning finger.

"Sorry, I get carried away sometimes. Please continue," I apologised.

"Where was I... Okay, let me start from the beginning and maybe you'll understand better. This boat, The Chandeleur, I've been sailing her, hmm, maybe 30 years now. A good amount of time has been spent in this port as it's close to where my family live, it's home for me. So for these scampering fools to call me crazy!? Sorry, anyway I've been sailing slowly along the Med from Spain for the past few days. Waters I've sailed a hundred times and have I ever had any problems? No! Last night though was different. I decided to sail through the night you see, I wanted to be home, I'd been gone a few weeks and was eager to see my family. I still am! They'll be wondering why I'm late."

"I'm sorry my friend! Don't let me delay you."

Jano waved away my apology, "I can't leave yet anyway, I have to wait for the mechanics to do their assessment. I'll try and find a phone later and get in touch with them. Anyway, the waters had been calm all day, no waves at all, sky clear like it is now. I was sailing," he motioned with his hand and made a swooping sound, "perfectly quickly for a few hours. Then out of nowhere the waves started picking up. I thought it was just a patch of ocean getting choppy for a little while so I continued, quite calm."

I was enjoying Jano's storytelling, he had an energy about himself that was almost over brimming despite his current bad mood; it was infectious. I like to think I can tell a good story when I hear one, my life has been spent collecting them after all, yet even I had something to learn from the engagement he had with his tale. It was clear as day in his mind, his hand gestures and rapid facial expressions embodying the story as he talked.

"It got worse though," he continued, "soon the waves were knocking my poor boat left and right. I was struggling to stay upright at the wheel. Despite this I had to lock the wheel and run to the lower sail before it was torn from the mast."

"And you were on your own?" I interjected, my surprise growing.

"I was," Jano smacked himself on his head, making a dull wooden noise, "stupid of me too! But, none of the forecasts predicted a storm and this should have been an easy trip. So there I was stumbling down the gangway, gripping the handrail tightly as I went, ocean spray flying through my hair."

The image of Jano struggling against a rocking boat gripping the rail made me smile as I recalled the direct English translation from the French of the handrail on a boat. 'Rope of life', it was certainly apt.

"I made it to the sail and clipped my support on the safety line," Jano continued, "I could hear the creaking of the sail as the heavy winds threatened to bring the whole mast down. You should have seen me! Hauling the sail down as the boat was being tossed about on the sea like a ball in a pinball machine. I was like an ant trying to fight back against a lion! I just got the sail tied down when a wave crashed over the deck soaking me head to toe. I was cursing all the way back to the wheel." Jano let out a colourful string of expletives to back up his point.

I spent the next 15 minutes trying to navigate the churning ocean as best I could. The sea only got worse though, I had no idea on what course my little Chandeleur had been thrown, all my navigation equipment was on the fritz. Rain had begun to lash down on my head. The rumble of thunder played like a drum in the sky; boom, boom, boom," he emphasised beating his hands on the table. "The distant crack of lightning would flash the night sky bright every so often, ink black storm clouds then made crystal clear. I'm not ashamed to say I was scared, I've sailed in some bad seas before; the Bay of Biscay, the North Sea, but this was something else. I said, 'Jano, time to make your peace with God because this could be it'. Of course it wasn't long before I thought myself cursed. You see that's when It arrived.

"It?" I asked politely.

"I don't know what it was. I've seen whales, this was no whale. You hear old sailors tales, you can hardly avoid them if you spend enough time around harbours; tales of giant sea creatures, leviathan, kraken, whales of unimaginable size. God help me I believe all of them now!

I was peering into the night in front of me, shining any light I could to try and predict the torrid seas. It was the lightning though, strangely enough, that was my best friend. Every flash illuminated the frightening scene about me. We are all at natures mercy. One flash lit what I thought was a strangely large wave on the starboard side and I braced for the impact, but then part of a fin broke the waters surface. Fin... it sounds insubstantial, I cannot describe it! This was closer to a wing, the wing of a plane or the largest bird you've ever seen; it was easily the length of my boat.

I swung my lanterns to that side watching as the great mottled grey wing stretched to the sky. I could just about make out the schools of barnacles that engulfed large portions of the skin as the storm raged all around. It was broad for a fin, that's why wing came to mind, it would have looked at home on a bird. It came to a streamlined tip delicate enough to look wrong on the terrifying animation. I watched stone still as it flexed once then whipped with a crack back into the water. A huge tumult was flung towards the boat and I was thrown to the deck as the force hit the side of The Chandeleur.

I was bruised but otherwise unharmed and quickly scrambled to my feet to re-grab the wheel. My gaze was flicking about me, my heart was beating as loud as the thunder echoing in the air. Where had it gone? What was it? What had poor Jano done to deserve this? But then there! In front of the boat, off to the port side was a huge head rising from the water.

Thin, almost like that of a dragon or a great snake, it slid out of the churning ocean and let out a roar that dwarfed all else. The sound shook me to my core. Another flash caused its massive teeth, each of which must have been larger than me, to gleam in the distance. The creature was unlike anything I'd seen, I was dumb struck, like one of the many bolts of lightning piercing the sky had struck me, bam! I could only stare wide-eyed as the rest of the great form emerged from the sea in an eruption of water. Eel like its long, scaled form was suspended in an arc in the air, defying gravity. With broad wings spread wide it flipped back into the water with a gigantic splash and terrifyingly headed back towards my small boat.

I was prepared for the impact of the waves this time, but nothing could ready me for what came next. I could follow the ripples of the creature below the sea's dark surface. I cowered as it rose from the waters once more, teeth bared as it clamped down like a vice on the front of The Chandeleur. Railing was torn and wood splintered but it seemed to recoil as its teeth bit into the metal hull. It lassoed its head dragging the boat left then right. I gripped on as a baby to its mother, afraid I would be sent flying off the boat if I let go.

The creature released the boat and let out a gigantic roar of anger or disappointment; boats are, it had found, not nice to eat. The sound reverberated through me at this closer range, I thought I could feel my very bones shaking. The beast dived below the waters, but I could only try and hide behind the wheel as it jumped from the depths of the ocean again, flying like the famed fish of the Pacific directly overhead.

Time seemed to slow as the monstrous form passed over me and straight into the ship's mast, ripping it straight in two. Ropes coiled and snapped, some twining around the serpent creature, and the top half was dragged beneath the water, smashing in the roof of the cabin as it went. The rest of the boat threatened to go with it as the remaining wires held while the beast dived deeper into the sea. Fortunately pressure played its role and with a snap the rest gave way, making the boat shudder once more and sending me onto my backside.

Before I knew it the monster resurfaced spinning in a circle and creating a small whirlpool, the force of which pulled all in the area towards it. Suddenly it lashed out with its long ridged tail; once, then twice digging these long lines you can see now in the hull. It was pure good fortune that the damage was above the water line. Though the smashing of waves and choppy waters still caused more water to enter my little boat than was safe. Anyway with another cry the beast dived into the water and out of sight.

I stood, rooted by the wheel, scarcely able to credit what I was witnessing. I waited and waited for the final attack that would spell my doom but nothing came. Minutes passed and slowly the stormy sea calmed, the sky becoming clearer. The moon hung above me full and bright, visible for the first time in what seemed like hours, it pierced the clumps of dark cloud that coiled about the night. A faint light in the oppressive sky. The ink black storm clouds that had blotted the sky so completely a minute ago seemed to be slowly breaking apart. I wondered then if my trial was over. The waters had calmed, the pummeling my poor boat had been receiving stilled. Almost against hope she was afloat and me still breathing on top. I took a steady course towards land, keen for once to be away from the wide sea.

In the soft moonlight I was left to look upon the wreck of my boat. I was split between grief and relief; my prayers had been answered but it wasn't without a price. My boat... 30 years I've had her, what would I do now? Even were I to get the boat safely into harbour I could never afford to repair her. The whole mast would have to be replaced, half the saloon had collapsed as the mast fell, not to mention the gashes in the hull, no simple holes to be patched. You can see the damage, how would you have felt?"

Jano talked in the past tense but it was impossible not to realise this was less than a day ago for him. The pain was still fresh and he had no more answers now to his questions than he did then. I wanted to console him but was for now at a loss, what can you do in a situation like that? Not wanting to interrupt him I let him continue his story.

"I spent the rest of the night alternating between steering and pumping water from below deck. It was a sorry state I arrived in when against all hope I saw the blinking lighthouse that signaled the entrance to Villefranche's harbour. It was a view I'd seen many times, but never filled with such relief. The last few hours had been the most stressful and insane of my life, with God's own help though I'd found my way home. With the sun slowly rising I navigated The Chandeleur carefully into the quiet bay, the scene before me a cruel joke in comparison to the violent seas I'd been forced to sail across scant hours ago.

So there you have it, I arrived and had my brave Chandeleur brought onto the slip, and that's what I received for my trials! Disbelieve and laughter!" Jano waved angrily in the direction of the harbour master's office. "Well to hell with them all! I know what I saw, by God I do, what do I care what they think anyway?"

Jano at last fell into silence, a suggestion of tears in his eyes as he thought about his ruined boat, his lost freedom. As a storyteller I'm all too familiar with having my stories laughed off as fiction. So in that moment something in his distress resonated with me. So I laid a reassuring hand on his arm and told him, "What do they matter? You've seen a wondrous, albeit horrifying thing, never forget that. Many people go through their lives without anything extraordinary happening, it's a rare thing having a story like you've been given."

"Ah, but what good is a story?" he asked me bitterly. "It's my boat that I want."

"Never underestimate the effect a good story can have," I lectured, "now come, tell me more about your lovely boat."

As Jano's gaze fell back onto the hoisted remains of his boat his mind began to reminisce and some of the pain and worry fell from his face. It was a long time before I at last bid him farewell. That 'piece of string' came from off his boat. That little string survived all that, remarkable really when you think about it. What other wondrous things have objects witnessed, away from the eyes of man? I'm sure my library would be immensely richer if we could ever know.

***

I observed the old man as his story came to an end. Wishing for a moment that I possessed half the vitality that he had in my own speech.

"So you believed his story?" I asked.

"How could I not? I had seen his boat, I'd seen the look in the man's eyes. If his story wasn't true then I dread to think what really happened to him."

"So what happened to the boat?"

"Sold," he replied. "It was left in the port for many years, more an apartment than a boat, slowly falling further into disrepair. Some of the damage was loosely repaired on the slipway but time and misuse did as much damage as that beast ever did. I don't think Jano ever really went back to The Chandeleur after that event. I'm not sure he could bare to see his baby in such a sorry state. The couple that took it on eventually sold it to a Parisian called Christophe. Even now it's being restored, regaining some of its old glamour. Pity, in many ways, that Jano will likely never know. Pity too that Christophe probably hasn't heard the boat's greatest story; though perhaps it is yet to be told, you never know."

"How do you know all this?" I asked him.

He smiled, "I keep my ears open, though mostly it is because I found myself back in Villefranche many years later, with the boat still there. It saddened me seeing it worse off than the first time I had seen it, at least then it had an owner who cared. It's remarkable the power a few words here and there can do. I was glad when it found a caring owner."

I nodded my head, curious what hand the old man had played in the boats recent turn of fate. Though I feared to pry too much. "I should like to see it someday," I said instead.

"You certainly should. It has a great history even without that fateful encounter with the sea-creature. 66 years old now. It was built in the same shipping yard as World War 2 submarines, the same techniques and materials were used. It was also the first luxury yacht in one of Monaco's main harbours. A claim to fame if nothing else. Though it's the small trips Jano liked to take that stood out most in my memory," he recalled, "the fishing trips with his kids and night time star gazing mean far more to me than any accolades."

"What was that creature? The one in the story?" I enquired, thirsting for more information.

With a shrug of his shoulders Jeremiah said, "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe we'll never know, but it's nice to know there is at least some mystery left in the world."

"Agreed," I replied. "It's just a pity it's getting harder to find."

"Perhaps," Jeremiah contemplated, "but sometimes I just think people aren't looking like they used to. Or they simply won't believe a mystery when it's presented to them; much as the workers on the dock wouldn't credit Jano's story. It makes what we do that much more important."

"What's that?" I asked confused.

"We listen," he stated, "simply that."

I nodded letting the calm of the wagon consume me for a time.

# 6

## The Snickle Fairy

"NOW THEN" said Jeremiah, breaking the silence, "you owe me a story I believe."

He smiled at me mischievously and I cursed, having completely forgotten I was supposed to be thinking of a story to tell. I glanced at my watch to buy myself some time, rather than out of any need to know the time, it was now late in the afternoon, the rest of the fair would have packed up by now.

"Need some more time?" he asked politely.

"No, no," I laughed, "though if I'm being honest I got so wrapped up in your story that I forgot to think about what I was going to tell."

He chuckled. "I see, well don't feel obligated to share, I merely ask out of curiosity. I'm sure by now you haven't failed to notice I'm a curious creature."

"No, I'll tell a story; you've shared some with me after all." I quickly had a think, trying to conjure up something, anything that I could tell. Suddenly a memory sprang to mind, why this particular memory came to me in that instant I don't know, but in the absence of anything else I decided to cease upon it. "Okay I think I have one, though it's not so much a story of my own experience as something a friend told me from her childhood. I've no idea the origin of the story, it's more folklore than anything else. I always remember it though."

"Sounds wonderful!" Jeremiah exclaimed. "Folklore is often rooted in some fact so I always find it fun to hear stuff I haven't heard before. What's it called?"

"Well I suppose it would be called The Snickle Fairy," I replied, "though I'm sure there's more to the story than I'm aware of. It was a story that my friend Lucy was told by her mother when she was a child, one of those old cautionary tales. 'Behave or the Snickle Fairy will get you!' was what she was told whenever she misbehaved."

"How interesting, I've never heard of this before. What's the origin?" Jeremiah enquired.

"As to the deepest origin your guess is as good as mine. My friend's Scottish though, so perhaps it came from around there. Snickle is a word for noose, though I'm sure you're aware of that already." Jeremiah's gaze betrayed nothing. "I think it originated from a Scottish word, though I may have my facts completely muddled. Anyhow the Snickle Fairy is supposed to be a demon that punishes people for bad deeds or ill thoughts. It would follow its target, often for years causing them bad luck and misfortune till eventually they would either die, go mad, or take their own life."

"How sinister," Jeremiah spoke lightly. "What sort of misfortune?"

"It could just be small things; a car splashing you, bird crapping on your head, slipping on the floor, paper cuts, losing coin flips; or it could be more serious, broken bones, falling down the stairs, losing your job."

"Well I shall have to make sure to avoid such a creature." Jeremiah stated, quite seriously.

"Yeah, it always creeped me out a bit. Lucy used to taunt me with the story when she wanted to irritate me. Even painted it once and hung it in my room as a joke when I was sleeping."

"Oh? What did it look like?" he asked with evident intrigue. Jeremiah leaned forward slightly and I couldn't help but notice him gently tapping his fingers on the table, impatiently waiting for more information. I tried not to be too disappointing.

"Thin, gaunt. It had long arms that were held at funny angles. Pale red, oh and it had this weird smile on its face; and small little wings on its back. Of course that was only my friend's representation of it, though it always stuck with me. Made me jump when I woke up to see that I can tell you! I got her back good for that one," I smiled.

"I would love to see that picture. Demons, spirits, fairies; they crop up in every country's folklore. I've always thought that there must be some fact to it all buried deep down."

"I've still got it somewhere I think, I'll have to try to dig it out. There was a little poem too," I replied.

"Very good! May I hear it?" Jeremiah beamed.

"I suppose, let's see if I can remember it..." I paused trying to recall. "Okay I think I have it. It's the way she told it that made it really creepy I think, so I apologise if it's not quite right."

Clip clap clop, a Snickle Fairy hops,

Clip clap clop, a Snickle Fairy flops,

Clip clap clop, a Snickle Fairy stops,

Clip clap clop, and makes your bones go pop!

Clip clap clop, a Snickle Fairy's thin,

Clip clap clop, a Snickle Fairy grins,

Clip clap clop, a Snickle Fairy skins,

Clip clap clop, your ankles when you sin!

Clip clap clop, a Snickle Fairy's bright,

Clip clap clop, a Snickle Fairy's right,

Clip clap clop, the Snickle Fairy's blight,

Clip clap clop, will make you lose your sight!

Run run run, a Snickle Fairy's red,

Run run run, a Snickle Fairy's dread,

Run run run, the Snickle Fairy said,

Run run run, until you are dead!

"So yeah, that's it," I mumbled when finished, self conscious all of a sudden. "There's probably more of it but that's all I know."

"Clip clap clop... is that the sound it makes?" he asked.

"I think so. Imagine that, 'clip clap clop', every time something bad happens. No even worse, 'clip clap clop' then knowing something bad is about to happen. No wonder people are supposed to be driven mad."

"Doesn't bare thinking about. And your friend still plays pranks and misbehaves?" Jeremiah asked me.

"Oh of course, it's never in a cruel way though. She doesn't believe in the Snickle Fairy anyway any more than she does the Tooth Fairy. I mean I don't either, but once you've heard it, every so often you can't help but think, 'yeah but what if...?'"

It was one of those kids stories that always comes back to me. Clip clap clop... there's that fear that one day you'll turn around and it will just be there smiling, the Snickle Fairy. Prancing behind you like a creepy jester, clip clap clop, for the rest of your life. People sometimes talk about having a guardian angel, the Snickle Fairy is if anything the opposite of that; a perpetual shadow causing you woe, there at the edge of your sight for the rest of your days.

"So your friend talked to you about this a lot?" Jeremiah asked.

"Well as soon as I'd shown the slightest discomfort the first time she told me the story I could hardly avoid it. I was plagued by it for a good couple of weeks before she eventually got bored. It became a regular thing in the evenings after a glass of wine, telling each other Snickle Fairy stories."

"So you both made them up?" Jeremiah asked.

"Well I did of course but Lucy wouldn't always, sometimes she'd tell a story she'd heard growing up, either from family or from her school days."

"May I hear one?" Jeremiah enquired politely.

"Of course. Let me think for a moment."

I thought long and hard, remembering a story I'd told once what was now years ago. I was fresh out of University at the time and it was inspired somewhat by those days. I breathed in deeply, composing myself before telling the story of Ash, a student that encountered the wrath of the Snickle Fairy.

***

There was once a young university student called Ash. Being both intelligent and attractive Ash was unsurprisingly rather popular. Alas with popularity came pride and after a short time that pride had turned into arrogance. It is an all too frequent occurrence when someone has been held up on a pedestal, they come to believe that they deserve the pedestal; so it was with Ash. Surrounded by his clique woe to any who disagreed with him or spoke in anything other than glowing terms. It is said that it was this bullying behaviour that caught the Snickle Fairy's attention, but then perhaps it was just the foolish arrogance that grew in Ash like a cancer. Either way it had found its prey.

One day Ash was at a party, it was a house party as students often hold. Now anyone who was anyone at the university was there, even some of the lecturers, and so too, as it happens, was the Snickle Fairy. Clip, clap, clop. Clip, clap, clop. Clip, clap, clop. The sound of the Snickle Fairy moving about echoed through the room; though it appeared that only Ash could hear it.

"What the hell is that sound?" Ash declared to himself, midway through one of his favourite songs. After a short while with the sound persisting Ash spoke up in irritation, "Come on guys, whoever is making that sound can you stop now, you're ruining the music for everyone."

Clip, clap, clop, it continued. Yet as much as Ash got angry and annoyed no one would own up to making the noise. They all just looked at him as though he was drunk or crazy. Then suddenly through the crowd Ash saw the Snickle Fairy smiling eerily at him from across the room.

"Did someone spread the word that it was fancy dress?" Ash asked one of his nearby friends, Greg, with a laugh.

"Was someone supposed to?" his friend asked in reply, taking a long swig of his beer.

"No it's just that guy over there," Ash gestured, "odd choice of clothes isn't it?"

"Bit harsh on Dave that isn't it? He might be a bit odd looking but he's alright." his friend replied perplexed.

"I don't mean fucking Dave! The guy with the long arms and creepy grin. With the black jacket and stupid little wings." Ash points more carefully, not understanding why his friend couldn't see the bizarre figure he was seeing.

"Mate are you feeling alright? You've not been taking stuff upstairs have you?" Greg asked him concerned. "You know half the things that lot take has weird shit in it."

"No course not, now stop being a dick and tell me who you reckon it is."

"Seriously mate, I don't know who the hell you're talking about," replied Greg beginning to get annoyed. "Now if you'll excuse me it looks like there's beer pong happening over there and I am going to partake. Why don't you get yourself a drink or something and lighten up. It's a Saturday, we don't even have lectures tomorrow, so enjoy yourself!"

Greg winked at him before disappearing into the crowd leaving Ash stunned. A creeping dread began to enter his stomach as he turned back to the Snickle Fairy and saw it still smiling at him. The Snickle Fairy gave Ash a slight wave and with a shake of his head Ash bolted away, taking his friends advice and going to look for a stiff drink.

His drink must have been spiked earlier or something, Ash thought to himself, or stress maybe it was stress? As he turned away though his leg catches on something he didn't see and he falls face first to the ground.

"WHEY!" everyone shouts as Ash falls. An uproar of drunken laughter filling the room, leaving Ash red faced with shame and anger.

"Who did that!?" Ash snaps as he gets to his feet.

He is ignored. If there was a particular culprit they'd long since vanished. Out of the corner of his eye though he catches the Snickle Fairy waving at him slightly, a single glance of the impish figure was enough to remind him why he'd been leaving in the first place. So he goes to do what he had intended and finds himself a can of beer in the kitchen.

Leaning against one of the counters with a sigh he cracks open the beer and curses as it fizzes up and all down his trousers. He quickly points the can away from himself but the damage had already been done. He looks around the room at everyone else and gives a nonchalant shake of his head and one of his trademark charming smiles before trying to pat off the worst of the liquid. Needless to say he was considerably more annoyed than he was letting show at that point in time. This party, had been a disaster so far, and a disaster it would remain it appeared. Ash was half tempted to call it quits and get some sleep; tempted, but he had a reputation to upkeep, it was barely 1am after all. So it was that Ash re-entered the fray, though perhaps it would have been better if he had just left.

The rest of the night continued to be a catastrophe for Ash, one misfortune after the other: He was knocking peoples drinks over; making badly placed comments in every conversation he had; a stray ping-pong bat even managed to hit Ash round the back of the head at one point. It was near constant. The Snickle Fairy had found its prey and was having a good deal of fun. Ash didn't know what dire fate had befallen him, it just seemed he was having some really rotten luck that night; he was soon to learn.

He awoke in the morning grumpy, hungover and running late for rugby training. He quickly showered and got changed, taking some toast with him out the door, before hurriedly heading to catch a bus to campus. Clip, clap, clop. Clip, clap, clop. Ash's feet beat against the pavement as he set a furious pace. Clip, clap, clop. Clip, clap, clop. 'Wait', Ash thought suddenly focusing, 'my shoes don't make that sound...' He stopped dead still and turned around. There it was again smiling, the Snickle Fairy, stood on the other side of the road.

After the night he had had this was the final straw. Ash crossed the road and approached the Snickle Fairy. Of course as far as he was aware this was just a student playing a prank, or some mental patient. The Snickle Fairy was neither of these things.

"Oi I saw you staring at me last night. What the hell's your problem?" Ash challenged. The Snickle Fairy, however, remained silent. "Hey! I asked you a question."

As Ash got closer to the Snickle Fairy his nose wrinkled in discomfort, 'has this guy showered at all this year?' He thought to himself as an indistinguishable smell assaulted him. It wasn't overtly unpleasant and didn't make him gag; but it was strong, a musty smell you couldn't help but notice. As he focused more on the Snickle Fairy's features he noticed that there was something slightly off about its face, something inhuman. It was only, though, when the Snickle Fairy suddenly vanished from in front of him that he began to suspect that it wasn't a student in costume after all.

"What in the -" Ash gasped. But before he could finish his sentence, or even process what he had just seen he caught the sight of his bus in his peripheral speeding past him. "Damn it, wait!" he shouted running for the stop. It was too late though, the bus was gone and with it any chance he would make training on time. The Snickle Fairy had, it seemed, struck again.

A missed bus isn't very impressive, I know, but it was only the beginning. Misfortune followed Ash around like a stray cat, unwanted and unwarranted. For the rest of the week Ash's mood gradually darkened as small occurrence after small occurrence stacked up and always along with them the sound of clip, clap, clop. He couldn't always see the Snickle Fairy, but every time he heard that sound he came to expect something bad would happen. It played on his mind, though at first he did nothing about it. Perhaps he should have done.

The following weekend there was a rugby game between Ash's uni and one of their rivals; Ash was the fly-half. Part-way through the game Ash was running with the ball, when all of a sudden CLIP, CLAP, CLOP. Ash lost focus, shocked by the sound, then wham! One of the opposition collided into him, Ash's ankle got caught as he tried to evade it and he cried out in pain as his leg went in directions legs shouldn't go. He was barely conscious as medics were called, his leg broken in two places.

He was in hospital for over a week before he was discharged with the broken leg in a cast and his arms clutching crutches. He didn't actually want to leave, that week spent bed-ridden had been blissful in comparison to the previous week. Nothing happened out of the ordinary and Ash might even have believed his torment was over if it wasn't for the infrequent clip, clap, clop echoing in his mind.

He became a recluse, leaving his house only when he had to. Friends and well wishers asked him what was up, but what could he say? If he explained about the Snickle Fairy they'd all think him mad, that he'd had too many painkillers or something. No, best they just think it's the broken leg.

The problem is inaction is a problem in of itself too. Ash's grades started to slip, his dour moods started to annoy those close to him as well. The other students, those that first idolised him, ever fickle started to turn against him and find other people to follow after. Ash was after all just another student, his university had thousands. Clip, clap, clop; it wouldn't leave him though. Whilst his life crumbled around him it was always there in the background. The Snickle Fairy was there too watching everything from a slight distance, a smile never leaving its face. Though where before it could have been said to have a look of playful innocence, the Snickle Fairy's face slowly began to take on a more menacing expression. How much of this was just in Ash's head though is anyone's guess.

For years it went on. Every flip of a coin, every roll of a die going against him. Ash slowly, but steadily descended towards madness. Clip, clap, clop. Clip, clap, clop. Clip, clap, clop. He even started reciting it himself sometimes. You see most of the time the Snickle Fairy would stay at such a distance that the sound was only a mere suggestion in the background. Ash could hear it but he was left to wonder sometimes if it was all just in his head.

His leg had long since healed but he never went back to playing rugby. He dropped out of university too before the end of his second year. A life that seemed destined for success was now spiralling in the other direction. Ever felt like you can't catch a break? Well Ash hadn't caught a break since that fateful party in university when he first saw the Snickle Fairy. He'd been drifting from bad job to bad job till at last no one would hire him at all. He was a barman that was always dropping drinks, a cleaner that made rooms dirty. Every job he got things would go inexplicably wrong. Clip, clap, clop till he ended up going on the dole.

Ash had tried running away once. Just hopped on a plane to try and outrun the prancing sprite that followed him everywhere he went. He flew all the way to Morocco hoping he could get some peace and quite. At first he thought he'd succeeded, but then on his third night clip, clap, clop. He screamed! Cried! Raged in his cramped hotel room! Imagine everything that could go wrong whilst you're at home, now imagine what could go wrong whilst you're abroad. The Snickle Fairy had a good time in Morocco, Ash certainly did not.

He tried to fight after that, ran almost feral at it when he was at the end of his nerve. Ash threw stones, tried to beat the thing with his fists and even tried knives and more deadly means, anything that he could think of in his deranged and fevered state; all to no avail. How can you fight the wind though? For that was what the Snickle Fairy was, dropping and fading out of view. Not a thing Ash tried so much as touched the Snickle Fairy, like a bowler constantly missing the stumps. After all how can you hope to hit a thing with no luck? The Snickle Fairy seemed to be drifting between worlds in front of Ash's eyes and maybe it was too for where does that hallow creature go when it fades from this plane?

"Why can't you just die?" Ash moaned in despair. If the Snickle Fairy was even capable of dying it was certainly in no mood to do so at command. With a wave of his hand he dislocated both Ash's knees and pranced away with a clip, clap, clop, leaving Ash in a writhing pile of pain on the floor.

It went on and on and on. Ash's spirit was utterly broken and much of his consciousness fled to the furthest reaches of his mind. He was in a waking nightmare. Clip, clap, clop for what seemed like forever. Finally, having lost any joy he once had in life Ash decided to take his own life, maybe then he could at least have peace, he thought. He would hang himself in his bedroom and finally be free. No longer would he be tormented, have every good thing turn sour. He would finally have an escape from that incessant sound and the creepy grinning figure that came with it.

The Snickle Fairy wouldn't let him have a clean death though, oh no! Ash slipped as he looped the noose around his neck. Instead of a clean break he was left hanging, slowly suffocating for minutes before he eventually died. The last thing he saw was the Snickle Fairy, gleefully beaming and waving at him, before his eyes closed for the last time. Clip, clap, clop chasing him into oblivion.

***

"So there you have it," I said at last, my little story finished. I felt very conscious of Jeremiah looking at me smiling. Being such an experienced storyteller I felt that my poor effort might seem insulting to him.

"A great story, I shall have to keep an ear out for these Snickle Fairies; you certainly wouldn't want to get on the bad side of one would you?" he said cheerfully.

I laughed. "No you certainly wouldn't. Thankfully I've heard nothing to suggest they're anything but stories, there are some things after all that are better confined to the realms of fiction."

"Of course, of course!" Jeremiah exclaimed. "I'm sure I've encountered many such in my time. The tricky thing is knowing which ones they are, there are many things we could wish were simply stories, but life isn't just the happy stories. Loss, grief, sadness and pain all play their part in the world. They make us grow, make us stronger too in the end if we're not crushed by them."

"That's very wise of you," I said honestly.

"Oh I don't know about wise, merely the observation of a man who has seen a lot in his life. I'm sure you'll have your own opinion on it all before you realise it," he replied.

I checked my watch, I really had spent the entire afternoon listening to and telling stories. It was a nice change; with television and the internet becoming so much more central to modern life, traditional storytelling wasn't something I had encountered as much as I might have done in the past. I sighed contently, in no rush to return to the outside world yet, and observed the room in silence for a time.

# 7

## The Tower That Always Chimes

WHEN MY FOCUS RETURNED to the man in front of me I noticed Jeremiah examining me, a curious expression on his face.

"What is it?" I asked unnerved, breaking the long silence.

"Oh nothing really, well it's a good story but it would be good to hear one from your own experience. You framed the idea of this Snickle Fairy very nicely in reference to your own life, but it would be good to hear about an adventure you yourself have had."

My first instinct was to get defensive, I've never dealt well with inquisition; but I was in his home and he'd shared a lot with me, in response I'd said very little really. I'm sure I could tell one story, I thought. Sometimes it's nice to reminisce anyway.

All in all I would say I haven't led an extraordinary life. Of the few remarkable things I've experienced up till now none of them can be told in a short and concise manner. There was however one brief anecdote that did spring to mind from my recent time in Thailand.

"Very well there is one small story I could tell from my time in Thailand, though I fear you'll find it unremarkable," I replied hesitantly.

"Nonsense my friend, if there is merit in the telling then there is merit in the hearing," he lectured. "What's your story?"

"It's basically about the time I encountered a tower that always chimes."

"Let's hear it! My interest has been caught now, hooked like a fish as they say!" Jeremiah exclaimed, leaning forward.

I chuckled, "Okay, well I was in a town some hours north of Bangkok. It was there that I came across the tower. It was at the centre of the town and had been built on a high mound. It seemed as though the rest of the town had simply sprung out from it; which it quite possibly had. Naturally whilst I was there I had to go and have a proper look.

I asked a local man when I arrived at the tower as to its origin and he told me that the towns founder, a religious man, had been buried there and a shrine built on the site to honour him and his life. The building had gold decoration, as many of the Thai temples do, though it wasn't as gaudy as some. This was much more restrained, it was mostly just some of the fringing that was covered in gold leaf. The main bulk of the building was actually constructed in the old style from teak with 5 different roofed layers, the uppermost of which was open to the wind.

The main tower is itself reached by a winding staircase that starts from the bottom of the hill and passes through the trees and plants that line the hill side. The entrance to this staircase was well signposted from the towns main thoroughfare and I managed to find my way there with little stress from the small guesthouse I was staying in.

Whilst climbing the tower what caught my attention most was a gentle chiming that seemed to be coming from the upper levels, it was only upon reaching the top though that I saw the cause. Small bells of mildly different sizes had been hung from the roof of the upper layer of the tower, dropping to around my head height. These ran the full length of the square room on all sides. With the building being unobstructed from the wind the bells are kept perpetually chiming, even in the lightest winds. There was something mystical about it. Standing at the top and looking over the town, with the towers embracing sound playing around me, I suddenly felt very far from home.

I inquired as to their purpose on the way down of course, how could I not? I was told that they represent the spirit of the buried monk and that whilst the bells chime the town will experience prosperity and be protected from the evil one, who I gather is the Buddhist equivalent of the devil. So far as memory serves they've apparently never stopped."

"What happens if they do?" Jeremiah asked, mirroring the very same question I had asked myself.

"Well the man I spoke to shrugged and told me, 'hopefully we'll never find out'. It seems to me that much of the history of the tower has been lost in myth and legend. I don't know how old it is but the town itself is at least a couple of hundred years old so I imagine the tower must be at least that.

I climbed to the top quite a few times during my stay there, almost every day. Apart from anything else the views of the sunset from the top were incredible. The town was pleasantly low on light pollution too so when the sun did set there was a sky full of stars for my eyes to feast upon.

There was a small shrine in the middle of the room too that was worth a look, though it paled in comparison to some of the splendor I'd seen in Bangkok and during past travels in South America. What it did have though was a personal touch. You could see that the shrine still meant a lot to the local townsfolk with fresh flowers carefully arranged and incense candles burning afresh.

I climbed the tower one final time on my last night in the town when it was late afternoon, wanting to see the sunset again before I left the town. It was empty that night, I had the whole place to myself. The tower wasn't really guarded you see, some of the local monks lived in houses at the bottom of the hill but that was as close as it came to guards. It was a sleepy, barely visited town after all. It was pure chance that I stumbled across it at all, wanting somewhere to stop for a few days in the middle of a long coach journey.

I stayed a good few hours reading and writing at the top before the sun's inevitable descent set the sky aflame above the town and distant jungle. I breathed in deeply watching the cacophony of colours for some time. It was one of the best sunsets I've seen and I've been fortunate enough in my time to see some crackers. I was so immersed by the scene that it wasn't till darkness crept over me that I noticed how silent it was.

The bells had stopped chiming."

"I find myself quite on edge I must say," Jeremiah whispered. "So what happened?"

I laughed, "Well that's the question isn't it?" I replied cryptically.

"Well come on let's hear it then," he chuckled, "I dare say you're toying with me."

"A little..." I admitted. "Thing is I don't actually know," I said sheepishly.

"What!? Don't know!" he exclaimed quite flabbergasted. "What do you mean don't know?"

"I don't know!" I joked cheerfully. "Look a tower that's been chiming for over a hundred years, one that signals misfortune if it were to ever stop, suddenly stops whilst I'm the only person there? I scarpered."

"You did what?" he said incredulously.

"I ran away okay?" I said laughing. "I'm not proud, but I didn't want to be the one that got blamed. You never know how superstitious people can be in small villages, I wasn't about to chance it."

"Weren't you curious?" he asked.

"Oh of course, a little bit at least. I didn't really think anything would happen, it sounded more poetic than factual to me. That said, if it did turn out to be true would you want to be on the receiving end of whatever unknown woe was about to be unleashed? Cos I wouldn't."

"But you could have witnessed a great event..." He grumbled, slightly annoyed with me; yet also, I think, knowing I was probably right.

"The people of Pompeii were witness to a great event, but that didn't go so well for them did it? Sometimes omens and warnings should be adhered. I'd had enough troubles recently to want to provoke more."

I couldn't quite believe I was lecturing this learned old storyteller, yet I felt the need to justify my actions. Childish though I felt at the time I feel sure looking back that I was correct. Though of course people will always have their own opinions. Besides, he'd left me in suspense regarding the truth of his painting, this was no different really.

"Ah lad, you shouldn't let bad events in your life put you off. Fear will make you miss many wonderful things. Take my little library for instance. A lot of these stories could have held me back in the future. That little bracelet there is a fine example," he claimed pointing at one of the shelves, "it was a gift from a Brazilian ranger after I saved his life from a giant anaconda." I looked at the bracelet, a twisted leather thing, and thought it was a pretty lousy gift for saving someone's life. Not that I was really one to talk, being somewhat adverse to gift giving at all. "Did it stop me from going in a jungle again?" he asked continuing. "Of course not."

"You're right, you're right," I sighed, "I guess sometimes I just want a quiet evening."

Jeremiah suddenly started laughing, his mood changing in an instant. "For that, can I blame you? I have found sometimes, I must confess, that there are periods when I'm not afforded the luxury of contemplating what I have already experienced. Life hurtles forwards at break-neck speed and I find myself feeling knocked about like a bumper car from one story to the next. Tonight has been a welcome relief. Having said that though, what do you think happened after you left? Or what might have been? It can be a fun exercise to wonder."

I started to think. Anything was the answer really. Anything can happen from one moment to the next, certain things are just a lot more probable. In this instance the obvious answer was that nothing happened; at least nothing out of the ordinary. After dismissing the obvious though my mind started to float towards the less likely scenarios, it was these that gave me the most enjoyment.

"I shouldn't like to guess," I said hesitantly, "but I'll tell you what would have been interesting if we're entertaining unlikely scenarios."

"Why of course! What is likely, after all? Do tell."

"So I was told that the tower was built as a memorial over a grave; but suppose that's not the whole story? How did the monk die for starters? I never did find out. The daydreamer in me whispers that what if the monk died in some struggle, a struggle against some dark force, demon, or monster of some kind. In his dying moments he managed to seal the devil away. The tower was built soon after, with the bells and holy symbols meant to keep the locked devil slumbering. If the bells were to stop... well maybe it would wake up. Maybe by now it is too deep in slumber to ever awaken, or perhaps it wouldn't break out right away. I dunno, what do you think?"

"I think you have quite the imagination Robert," Jeremiah spoke frankly.

"Sorry," I mumbled, a bit dejected.

"Oh it's nothing to be sorry about, imagination is a gift! I think that it's your story, you should tell it as you see fit. I also think that you must be on the right track, even if matters aren't as severe as that last story. There must be some deeper meaning to the tower, some better reason to the bells; why was the monk there in the first place? It is a question that seems to have been ignored. Perhaps I'll have to go to this tower myself and see what became of it. Was this long ago?"

"A couple of months I would say," I recalled, trying to count back the weeks in my head. Had it really been two months already?

"A lot of history can be lost in 200 years too. It's quite possible the man you spoke to didn't know the truth either," Jeremiah pondered, his eyes alight with possibilities.

"We can only wonder," I declared.

I glanced at my watch once more, feeling time creeping ever on. It was long past the time I should have left and I confess by that point I was starving. I also felt I'd intruded on Jeremiah's hospitality for as long as I could.

"Well I suppose I really should be going now," I announced with genuine regret.

"Considering you were only staying for the one story I guess we haven't done to badly have we?" Jeremiah smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye.

I stood up and stretched, grimacing as my neglected muscles complained at the movement. Jeremiah stood slowly himself, the picture of grace as he refuted the idea that he himself might be tired or aching.

"Do you have everything?" he asked kindly.

"I think so," I said with a smile, " I had little with me when I came out."

"Good, very good. Well young man it's been a rare pleasure. I do hope you keep exploring and imagining. The world can never have too many stories." Jeremiah's smile was genuine and I was pleased to note that he'd had as enjoyable a day as I had.

"I will certainly try! Thank you for having me and sharing your own stories. I hope I haven't imposed on your hospitality for too long."

"No no not at all! The sign is out there for a reason after all."

I made my way towards the exit and took a moment to look one final time at the marvellous array of objects. Some looked priceless, I could have swore I saw what looked like a diamond encrusted tiara stuffed at the back; whilst others looked like they'd been picked out of a bin, a scrunched ticket stub, a small tree branch and a discoloured toy car were some of the less noteworthy objects. As I was about to step out of the door though my eyes fell upon something I'd thus far overlooked, a great bunch of keys. The keys ranged in size from the very big to the very small, yet all possessed an age to them that made me sure it had been many years since they'd been cut. The ring that held them was remarkably designed and formed into the shape of a snake twisting around a closed chest.

Large bunches of keys have always fascinated me. Sometimes I'll encounter a bunch at a flee market or car boot sale and just think, 'what are they for?' Again it's the idea of endless possibilities. Somewhere out there is a man or woman who has lost their keys. Now I've lost my keys once or twice and know how annoying it is, I only have a couple of keys though. Imagine losing 20 odd! How much of a pain would that be? So staring at this elaborate bunch on Jeremiah's shelf I just had to ask.

"The keys," I said turning back to Jeremiah unable to hold the question in, "I have to ask, what are they for? If it's a long story don't worry it's just that keys fascinate me for some reason. I didn't notice them earlier."

"Hmm, an interesting thing to notice. I must admit I find them occupying my own thoughts rather more than I should like, for I honestly don't know. It is like a mosquito keeping me up at night, I know it's there but try and do anything about it and I feel like I might as well try and catch the morning breeze. There are only a few objects in my dear caravan whose origins are a mystery to me and those keys are one. Whatever the story is I fear it is locked away with my own past. I try them sometimes when I see old locks, but I've had no success thus far. I'm sorry I can't offer better explanation than that."

Jeremiah came to a stop, a pained expression on his face. What must it be like to lose your past? I've never even blacked out through alcohol, but from friends who have they say it's disconcerting. In the end though that's only one night and at least there you know the cause of it. How Jeremiah must be kept up at night contemplating his own past, inquisitive a man as he seemed.

"You know what," he said, resolution coming to his face, "these keys have done nothing but torment me these long years; why don't you take them? See if you have any better luck than I've had."

"Oh no I couldn't!" I replied shocked by the proposal. "I was only curious about them, I couldn't deprive you of a link to your past."

"Nonsense. My past is my memories, all of the stories I've gathered; it's not some forgotten relic relegated to the back of a shelf." He walked over to the shelf in question and picked out the large bunch of keys. He held them tightly in his hands for a brief moment, as though he were feeling their weight for one last time, before holding them out for me to take. "Think of it as a memento from your time here today; after all what use do I have for an object without a story?"

I sighed lightly, knowing that there was no arguing, "If you insist, I'll borrow them off you; if I ever find out what they're for I promise to return them with the fitting story attached."

Jeremiah beamed ear to ear, "Delightful! It's a deal then."

I took the keys from Jeremiah and found them surprisingly heavy. They looked to be made of iron or some other heavy metal but even expecting this the weight came as a shock. "Well I guess this is adieu then," I spoke, unsure what else to say. "Thanks again for indulging me, this afternoon has been a pleasant surprise."

I opened the door and stepped out into the cool evening.

"I do hope we meet again Robert, I should like to hear some more of your stories," he said, a kind smile on his face. "And of course I eagerly anticipate what you discover about those keys. I fear I've gained something of a mental block in regards to them; it feels like I've explored every avenue over the years, though of course that's impossible, I worry that my brain simply gave up on the puzzle long ago."

"It's no easy task, it's likely I'll have no more luck than you!" I chuckled. "Regardless of what I find I'd love to exchange stories again sometime, it's not something I do enough of these days." Then turning more serious I said, "I hope you have luck remembering what you've forgotten Jeremiah, I can't imagine what it must be like."

"Jeremiah..." he pondered, "It is a good name. Perhaps I'll have to keep that one."

As I was about to leave I suddenly paused. "Oh! I don't have much on me, but I think you should have this. It's nothing so grand as these keys, but, well..." I handed him the bus ticket that I never used. "The bus trip that never was! In case you wanted something to remember today with."

Jeremiah broke into a broad grin, " Wonderful! I shall keep it dear!"

We both said a final goodbye before I turned away and stepped out into the now empty common. It was only when I was half way home that I realised I had no way to ever find Jeremiah again. Facebook, Twitter, even email and phone were not things I imagined he ever used. Cursing myself for a fool I continued on my way, heavy keys jangling by my side and stories of mystery and monsters filling my head.

## Acknowledgments

Thanks firstly must as always go to my friends and family for all their support. Special thanks to Christophe and all the people I met in Villefranche for making me feel welcome during my time aboard The Chandeleur; keep dreaming! A shout out also has to again go to Kit Foster for another great cover design.

## About The Author

Robert Cooke is a writer and theatre practitioner from Suffolk, England. He has performed through out London and in Europe and writes for theatre, he released his first novel Darkest Peru in 2016. Travel is his passion, but when he has time off from disappearing abroad he likes to play tennis and badminton or simply laze around and read a good book.

To keep up to date with his goings on follow him on these platforms:

Twitter: @robcooke42,

Facebook: @RobertCookeAuthor

Website: https://robertcookeauthor.wordpress.com/

Newsletter: tinyletter.com/RobertCooke

