Crossing into the dark
Nov. 7th, 2017 10:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hypatia_66
Crossing into the dark
What is real, who’s that? Who’s writing this stuff?
***
“It’s come around again, and I’m all out of ideas.”
“How about vampire bats?”
“We did that – remember the Bat Cave Affair?”
“Oh, yes. Forgot. Bit over the top.”
“It’s Halloween; it’s OK.”
“How about a cemetery in the mist? Both of them losing each other; open grave; thinking they’ve got lost in time.”
“I like it. Why are they walking through a cemetery?”
“Short cut. They find themselves in it.”
“Okay, I’ll work it up and see where it goes.
“Not too frightening – there are kids watching the show these days.”
“Kids? – they don’t frighten easy. It’s the parents.”
“You know what tonight is?”
“I’ve had it rammed down my throat long enough. All those kids running about dressed in cobwebs and dark eyeshadow, demanding candy with menaces.”
“You are such a kill-joy. Don’t you have Halloween in Russia?”
“No, not at all. But, of course, it’s a very old and important festival in the Gaelic calendar as well as the Christian. I suppose this extravagant behaviour has always been part of it.”
His partner groaned inwardly. He’d set him off… Just go with the flow, get it over.
“It’s called Samhain…”
“Sow-in? As in pigs?”
“Yes. It marks the end of harvest and the beginning of the dark half of the year – the Romans celebrated it as a festival of the dead.”
“Really? Well, fancy that.”
“It’s traditionally a threshold where the border between this world and the Otherworld thins, and makes it possible for the spirits of the dead, and the Aos sí to return.”
“Ee shee?”
“Fairy people, spirits.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s Halloween.”
“All Hallows Eve – the night before All Saints day.”
“Safe from the spirits and the fairies tomorrow, then.”
“Indubitably.”
“What about tonight, though? Whooooo….”
“Be your age, Napoleon.”
******************
It was meant to be a short-cut, but like all short-cuts, it went so far and in this case petered out on the banks of a stream. There were no signs; it was now dark; and to cap it all the torch was living on borrowed time and had begun to flicker.
“There must have been a bridge, once.” They looked along what they could see of the bank.
“Who told you about this so-called short-cut, anyway?”
“Ah. Good question. I can’t remember. Whoever it was, said there’s a route through the cemetery across there, that’s all I can recall.”
A little night-blind because of the torchlight, the expert on obscure festivals said, “Don’t you think it would be better to retrace our steps and go the long way round?”
“Don’t be such a pessimist. Come on. Live dangerously, Illya. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few spirits.”
His companion sniffed. As if. Superstitious nonsense. He could walk through a cemetery at night. Fearlessly.
They turned to the right at random, and walked in single file along the muddy track. Following the fading torchlight, they could now see a faint light tracing a route across the water.
It was a narrow footbridge. As they approached it, the walkway brightened. They couldn’t see how it was lit – there were no lanterns, or spotlights on it from anywhere. They switched off the torch to save the battery and stepped onto its wooden planks.
The lights went out, and they could see nothing.
“Switch the torch on.”
“I’m trying to … …”
… …
“Oh, come on, this is such a waste of time. Let’s go back and start again.”
Silence.
“Are you still there?”
He called his name. Louder. Nothing. He reached for something to guide his way across and found a handrail. It was old wood, slightly slimy, slightly rotten. He hoped the bridge itself was sound as he fumbled his way across in the dark. If his partner had made it, so could he.
At the end of the bridge, unable to see anything, he stumbled and tripped. He lay winded, listening. He seemed to have rolled into a mist hanging low over this side of the stream.
“Napoleon?”
Still nothing. Then a whispering, a rustling as of soil falling. His sleeve twitched; something pulled his hair. “Oh, come on, that’s enough. Stop it. Stop fooling around.”
Distant high laughter greeted this. Damn’ kids. They must have switched off the lights and hidden themselves to jump out and annoy people. But who would they be expecting to pass at this time of night? And anyway, where was his partner?
He got to his feet, annoyed, and decided to go back without him. If he wanted to get lost, that was up to him. He felt around for the bridge handrail... Must be here somewhere. No… Which way had he fallen? Not that far, surely? It was like trying to find your way across a familiar room when the power went off – nothing was ever where you expected it to be. Now on his hands and knees, in case of falling into the water, he felt for the bank. It wasn’t there – it must be. He couldn’t have, he really couldn’t have fallen that far.
His knees were wet with the dew now; he could feel it falling in the air, dampening his clothes and his hair. It was very cold; clammy dank cold; the cold of the grave. Oh, come on! He stood up again.
Samhain, Halloween – utter nonsense…
A liminal time, a threshold – a bridge between this world and the Otherworld…
What was the time? When was midnight, or would he have to wait for dawn for safety? Don’t be absurd. He couldn’t see his hand before his face – but someone could. Something cold caught his wrist, something else pulled his scarf from round his neck. “Hi! Bring that back!”
He took a step and something kicked the back of his knee so that he fell awkwardly. That was painful – hope I haven’t twisted my ankle – no it’s all right. Get up, Illya, you’re imagining things… Where’s my scarf then? He stumbled again, and this time really fell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Yeah, not bad. How is he going to get out of this?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve kind of lost him, like he’s fallen out of the story, down a hole somewhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve had characters go off somewhere, haven’t you – develop a life of their own?”
“Sure, I guess. But you can bring them back – you’re the author.”
“You say that, and it’s easy with the other one – you nearly always know where he is – but controlling this one is like trying to load water with a pitchfork… He’s got away. I sometimes think he could live without me, easily.”
“Maybe he’s gone off with another writer – two-timing you – have you thought of that? You’d better call Dean or Alan, and see if he’s gone to earth with them… hah hah!”
“It could be someone else – these guys are quite promiscuous like that.”
“You just kill me, bud.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When he came to himself, he found himself in a hole. Feeling around, he discovered it was a shaped hole with straight sides, quite long. Some sort of trench? He reached up. It was pretty deep for a trench… The cemetery…
As he stood up and moved, the ground echoed hollowly. He stamped his foot on the soil under his shoes. He was standing on a box. Oh no… Really, this was too much. Kneeling down again, he felt around blindly to find out what it could be – though he badly didn’t want confirmation of his suspicions.
It had angled sides at one end, and … tapered towards the other end.
To prove how little this troubled him, he tapped on it.
Nothing.
See? It’s just a coffin. Coffins don’t contain anything living.
Relieved, he stood up again and reached for the top of the grave …hole … yes, HOLE … and started to pull himself up. As he kicked himself upwards, something caught his ankle and tugged him back. He almost cried out.
This is NOT happening, he told himself. It’s a figment. My imagination… Somebody’s imagination… Just a figment.
The lid of the box moved. Not very far. Enough for a wisp of something cold to emerge and fill the air round his feet with freezing fog. Alarmed, he jumped for the top of the hole (it’s just a hole) again, and this time kicked himself free. He lay gasping on the ground above. It was so cold. Not just dew, frost. He put a muddy hand to his sweating face. Get a grip. Stand up, you’ll die of cold if you stay there. No, not die, just get cold. He struggled to his knees, to his feet, and tried to move forwards.
Then came voices, hundreds of voices, screaming, “David...! …David! We love you!” they called. He struggled to breathe; there were cold arms around his neck; they were pulling his hair, scratching his skin, tearing his clothes, strangling him with his tie – what tie? He wasn’t wearing one tonight – touching him all over, grasping at his hands; cold lips trying to kiss his face, his mouth. He fought, and tried to pull himself free. “I’m not David, I’m Illya… I’m not David,” he cried.
“Illya isn’t real!” the voices shrieked. “David … David … David!”
“I’m real!” he wept.
“You’re a figment…. a figment... a figment…”
“I’m real. I’m alive … I’m going to live … for ever!”
“You’re just a character in a script…”
“I’m not … I’m not… I’m me…” he whispered, and fainted.
*********************
Torchlight shone on his face.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Nobody’s going to kiss you awake with that muddy face. You can’t lie there for ever. Where have you been?”
“Bob?”
“What?”
“Oh.”
“Are you OK? I was getting worried. I called and you didn’t answer.”
“Who am I?”
“Tsk. Who cares? You’re a smart-ish Russian called Illya. Now stand up and let’s get going.”
“Where to?”
“There’s no path this side. The short cut doesn’t exist – we’ll have to go back over the bridge and start again.”
“I told you so … Napoleon.”
“No-one likes a smart-ass, chum.”
**************************
(That mistake last night… Going down with something, perhaps. I don’t know even what day of the week it is… what’s the date today? Diary – All Saints Day, it says … that’s good. Must get a coffee).
The lines were fuzzy in his mind since last night. He was never like this, never – always word-perfect. That last scene, late last night – a really stupid mistake. Must have dozed off. He cursed himself again; it wasn’t unknown, just annoying, but it would still have to be redubbed. If it wasn’t too much of a close-up it might not be too obvious.
There was a knock on the dressing room door. Bit early, weren’t they?
“Who is it?”
“Illya. Let me in.”
“What? …Just a minute.” (I’m due on set, and I get some joker now).
He opened the door angrily, and…
(Good God… Good… God! …) “Who…” he gulped, “where did you spring from?”
“I got lost on the back lot last night. Couldn’t find you.”
“Come in before someone sees you. How did you get past the guard, when I’ve already arrived?”
“I didn’t. I’m always here.”
“Where?”
“I live here. With you.”
“What? I don’t live here!”
“You are real, aren’t you?”
“Sit down. What are you talking about?”
“You do really exist?”
They stared at each other – not even mirror images, exact duplicates – examining each other’s, their own, features. The fair hair, the blue eyes, the slight figure… the same clothes.
“Of course I do. I’m here. People know me, they’re going to call me in a minute.”
“That must be reassuring.”
“Not particularly. It’s what happens.”
There was a pause. “When it happens – what is it?”
“What is what?”
“What happens.”
Before he could attempt to answer this impossible conundrum, there was a knock and someone called, “David, you’re wanted on set.”
“Coming.”
He stood up and collected his folder and pen from the desk. “I’ve got to go.”
“Do I exist?”
He sat down again with a bump. (Heavens above! Just humour him). “You know that better than I do, surely. Well… You look as real… as me… so, yes, it looks like you do exist.” (I must be going mad – I’m talking to myself… aren’t I? Or dreaming. What did I eat last night?)
He looked again into his own blue eyes. “Do you want to stay here, while I’m…?”
“Don’t you think it would be more advisable for me to come with you?”
(Oh my God). “It’s all right,” said his image, “no-one will see me, not till you get there. Then I’ll be you being me – for a while.”
He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes (I’m David), and instead blinked and shook his head. (Maybe I need a brandy, not coffee).
They stood up together, a single fluid movement.
He opened the door and they stepped out as one. He closed it behind him and together they walked across to the studio. As he apprehensively crossed the threshold, the doppelganger silently vanished, so when he appeared on set he was alone, his lines clear in his head.
The director looked up. “Hi. Everything OK? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” said Illya. “I am, really,” and, looking over at Napoleon, responded to his reassuring nod with a demure smile.
“Great. We’ll need you both to dub over a bit of that last scene later. To get the names right – not like you, David. I guess it was late.”
“Yes. Sorry about that.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So, you found him.”
“Yeah, eventually. Napoleon found him.”
“Napoleon found him. Of course. Right.”
“He was in a bit of a state. Didn’t know who he was.”
“What do you mean, didn’t know who he was? This is a character, right? You’re the one who knows, not him.”
“He was totally out of it, kept going on about evil spirits and weird girls. I’ve had to rewrite the ending. It’s a bit weak, but I guess no-one’ll ever see it again after the broadcast.”
“Well, you’re right about that, but you are one crazy guy. … … What’s that? Phone for me?”
“… … …”
“…! ... !”
“What happened?”
“Bud, the show’s been cancelled!”
“What!”
So, now what? I bust a gut to create works of art – my only works of art – and this show won’t even see the light of day once. Goddammit, it’s all going to be lost for ever.
~~~
… … …?
“Who’s there? … … Illya?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yes, listen, my friend: it won’t be lost. It could have been the end, but it wasn’t – it isn’t. Remember, the seasons turn in an endless cycle of death and rebirth.
In that first season, our spring – our Imbolc – we were given life; everything was black and white and we knew who we were. Our second season, was our Maytime, Calan Mai – it lit a Beltane-fire that attracted the girls like moths to a flame.
What should have been a glowing midsummer season – our Lughnasadh – was closer to lunacy, and became our solstice, when the sun turned back, leaving us struggling to find the way. But that liminal, dark, fourth season sent us across a bridge, the threshold of our Samhain, to a kind of death.
Most of our creators have gone over the bridge into the dark long since, but I’m still here, and so is Napoleon. We were restored to life when others began to keep us in work – strange work sometimes, but it’s better than oblivion.
Those others, too, will pass into the dark. And when they do, Napoleon and I will still be here, wherever that is. Always. Like you, there will never be a time when we haven’t existed. We’re real, too; and even though you try, you can’t really control us. In the end, you’ll forget us, and then we’ll slip through your fingers like mist, like water into the sand, into liminal time, to follow the path of our own lives.
But not lost.
***************
*******************************
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Notes
A comment by DMcC, about acting, suggested this (entirely respectful) use of him. Apologies to him, nevertheless.
Gaelic seasonal festivals celebrated by the Celts of the British Isles and also of Brittany, France (Bretagne, or Lesser Britain), i.e. the Irish, Scots, Welsh, Manx (Isle of Man), and Bretons.
Samhain is the threshold of the dark half of the year; from the Gaelic for November, Calan Gaeaf in Welsh. It merged with the Christian All Saints Day to become All Hallows Eve, or Hallowe’en. Costumes are worn as disguise from the fairies or spirits. (Halloween wasn’t celebrated in Russia until the late 1990s. It’s regarded as a threat to traditional culture.)
Imbolc or Imbolg marks the season of rebirth, the beginning of spring and new growth.
Beltane: May Day, Calan Mai in Welsh: is the threshold of summer. Bonfires were lit to protect cattle, people, and crops.
Lughnasadh, Lughnasa, or Lunasa: English Lammas, is the beginning of the harvest season when the first fruits are gathered.
no subject
Date: 2017-11-07 05:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-08 09:02 am (UTC)I like the word gyre. Hadn't thought of that one.