Wylding Hall (14 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Hand
Chapter 18
East Hampshire Echo
April 14, 2014
Renovation of the oldest wing of Wylding Hall has been halted as the result of an unanticipated discovery: a Neolithic passage grave beneath the fourteenth century manor house. A construction crew led by Morris Taggersell of Taggersell Builders came upon the prehistoric structure when they moved a massive eight-ton boulder under a corner foundation. “I’m accustomed to finding surprising things during site work, but never something like this,” Taggersell said yesterday. “The owners have been contacted, and they have agreed to suspend any new construction until a proper assessment has been made.”
Preliminary examinations by an archaeological team from the University of Winchester have turned up flint arrowheads and other weapons, glass and bone beads, and a number of animal skeletons, as well as a human femur and skull. Carbon dating will provide additional information as to exactly how old the site is.
Chief archaeologist Dr. Elise Rossi made an even more surprising discovery when she unearthed a man’s modern wristwatch amongst a cache of grave goods that also included stone bird figurines and a bone flute. “We have absolutely no idea how that got in there,” she said. “There’s no sign whatsoever of any kind of disturbance that might have caused its inclusion with the grave goods.” Dr. Rossi added that carbon dating would not be necessary for that particular artifact.
Chapter 19
Nancy O’Neill
Will forwarded me the article about the construction—Jonno had sent it to all of them. Les was the one most upset about it; she rang me up. We hadn’t talked for about a year, so after she vented for a bit, we caught up. She sounds good—happy with Will after all these years. Much better match for him than I would have been.
What do I think it all means? I believe there could be any number of explanations, but I don’t feel comfortable discussing it.
Ashton
I’ve told you what I think. Julian is dead. The girl too, probably. Murdered and buried, or their bodies dropped into the sea.
Or drug overdose, or death by exposure from sleeping rough.
Or he might be in a mental institution—he was obviously going off the rails. He might have become so out of it, he forgot who he is. That happens sometimes. So, maybe he’s in a loony bin somewhere.
But I don’t think so. I think he met some horrible fate, and it’s a blessing we don’t know about it. That’s why I don’t like talking about it. One reason, anyway.
Will
The photos I saw in the pub—the hunting of the wren—the song Julian unearthed and a half-naked girl with feathers on her feet … it all adds up, doesn’t it?
Les
Jonno floated me his idea for us all getting together there in the summer, if Billy can arrange something with the owners. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’d love to see everyone, I’m just not sure I want to see them all
there
. But I’ll wait to hear what the others think. We’ll see.
Jonno
I’ve always felt that if Julian was dead, I would know it. He was such a big person in so many ways, his talent and his beauty, his belief that the world held a mystery he wanted to unlock. If he were actually dead, there would be such an absence in the world. And I don’t feel that.
There’s something else, too, something I’ve never told anyone, not even Barry. I would just as soon tell it now for anyone who wants to know. I’ll just hope the others won’t hold it against me.
Eight years ago, Barry and I were on holiday in Corfu. There was a festival going on, a saint’s day with a big procession and all kinds of celebrating and a massive crowd. Marching bands, street musicians, parades. People carrying ancient effigies and relics. Like that.
I was squeezing through the crowd on my own. Barry hates crowds, so he stayed back at the hotel. I kept my head down to make sure I didn’t step on someone or trip. Eventually, the street widened and I could look up again. It was still a huge throng, but I could breathe, at least.
And I saw Julian, I saw Julian Blake, edging through the crowd. The girl, too. I was so shocked, I couldn’t say anything, but then I shouted out his name.
He didn’t hear me. Neither of them did. It was so loud, I couldn’t hear myself. The girl didn’t look at me, and thank god for that.
But Julian did. Julian stared right at me. I started towards him, but at that moment an entire children’s orchestra came parading through the street. I tried to push my way through, but it was too late. He was gone. They both were gone.
Yet it couldn’t have been him. Because he looked exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him, over forty years ago. He hadn’t aged a day. Neither of them had.
And he didn’t know me, even when I was shouting his name over and over again. Just stared through me like I wasn’t even there. And then he was gone.
[Fin]
Author’s Note & Acknowledgments
There is a remarkable wealth of documentary material, written, recorded and filmed, online and in print, relating to the British Folk Revival, and I drew on much of it as research for this novel. I am particularly indebted to Rob Young’s
Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain’s Visionary Music
, an invaluable resource and the ideal starting point for anyone wishing to learn more.
While inspired in part by numerous real-life musicians and songwriters, the members of Windhollow Faire are all fictional, as is Wylding Hall itself.
My special thanks to:
My agent, Martha Millard, sole proprietor of the known world’s finest literary agency.
Betsy Mitchell of Open Road Media and Pete Crowther of PS Publishing, for easing this story into the world.
Sharyn November, who tirelessly read, reread, and commented on earlier versions of this book.
The staff at the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library at Cecil Sharp House, London, for their assistance.
The Atlantic Center for the Arts, Florida, for providing a residency during which an earlier version of this novel was written.
Farah Mendelsohn, for her insight and suggestions.
Bob Olson, for sharing his musical knowledge and enthusiasm, as well as stellar stereo equipment.
Greer Gilman, for her observations on the Watersons, especially Lal & Mike Waterson’s lost classic
Bright Phoebus
.
Callie Hand, for her suggestions and encouragement.
Most of all, my love and gratitude to John Clute.
A Biography of Elizabeth Hand
Elizabeth Hand (b. 1957) is the award-winning author of science fiction and fantasy titles such as
Winterlong
,
Waking the Moon
,
Black Light
, and
Glimmering
, as well as the thrillers
Generation Loss
and
Available Dark
. She is commonly regarded as one of the most poetic writers working in speculative fiction and horror today.
Hand was born in San Diego and grew up in Yonkers and Pound Ridge, New York. During the height of the Cold War, she was exposed to constant air raid drills and firehouse sirens, giving her early practice in thinking about the apocalypse. She attended the Catholic University of America in Washington, DC, where she received a BS in cultural anthropology.
Hand’s first love was writing, but many Broadway actors lived in her hometown of Pound Ridge, and by high school she was consumed with the theater. She wrote and acted in a number of plays in school and with a local troupe, The Hamlet Players. After college, writing stories became her primary interest, and the work of Angela Carter cemented that interest. Hand realized that she wanted to create new myths and retell old ones, using a heightened prose style.
Hand’s first break came in 1988 with the publication of
Winterlong
. In this novel, Hand explores the City of Trees, a post-apocalyptic Washington, DC. The story focuses on a psychically enhanced woman who can read dreams and her journey through the strange city with her courtesan twin brother. The book’s success led to two sequels:
Aestival Tide
and
Icarus Descending
. All three novels were nominated for the Philip K. Dick Award.
Beginning with the James Tiptree, Jr. Award–winning
Waking the Moon
, Hand wrote a succession of books involving themes of apocalypse, ancient deities, and mysticism.
Waking the Moon
centers on the Benandanti, an ancient secret society in modern-day Washington, DC. that also appeared in
Black Light
, a
New York Times
Notable Book.
In 1998, Hand released her short story collection
Last Summer at Mars Hill
. The title story won the Nebula Award and the World Fantasy Award. Most recently, she has published two crime novels focusing on punk rock photographer Cass Neary—the Shirley Jackson Award–winning
Generation Loss
(2007) and
Available Dark
(2012).
When Hand isn’t writing stories of decadence and deities, she divides her time between the coast of Maine and London, with her partner, UK critic John Clute. She is a regular contributor to numerous publications, including the
Washington Post
and the
Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
.
Hand is the oldest of five siblings in a very close-knit family. This photo shows them in 1967, on one of their camping trips to Maine and Canada. All five kids, then under the age of ten, shared a canvas tent with their parents. From left to right: Brian, Patrick, Elizabeth, Kathleen, and baby Barbara. “Maine imprinted on me during this time, which is why I’ve lived there for the last twenty-five years,” Hand says.
Hand in her driveway with her beloved family dog Cindy shortly before leaving for college in Washington, DC. “Note the skirt, made from a pair of massively embroidered jeans; my favorite red velvet beret, which my mother gave me for Christmas and which disappeared under dark circumstances a few years later; my Mom’s suede jacket (I added the denim cuffs); and needlework belt with my initials on it, made by my grandmother Hand. You can’t see them, but I was also wearing my lace-up Frye boots.”
In her journal, Hand once wrote, “I am being haunted by a town.” The town was Katonah, New York, which she transformed into Kamensic Village, the setting or background for much of her fiction. This photo from 1975 shows the train station where characters Lit and Jamie Casson make their escape at the end of the novel
Black Light
.
