From October 2011

An Entirely True Ghost Story

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I have met a few—most of them in Scotland. The most unquiet bunch waited on a hilltop in the middle of the Midlands. 

“Hilltop” sounds impressive, like Weathertop, like some majestic lookout crowned by ruins dignified in their decay, but this place was just a little hill surrounded by trees and sheep, barely visible unless you stood on it already. A ruined castle did crumble on that hilltop, but it was not crumbling in a graceful or tragic manner. There’s a difference between swooning dramatically and simply smacking your face on the floor after you pass out. 

Even if the set designer of my little ghost story chose to scorn the classics of gothic literature, somebody backstage knew the proper cues: a fog rose up among the tree, and surrounded the hill. Hardly remarkable, for Scotland—but, then again, most of the hauntings I encountered were hardly remarked on by the locals. “Oh, right, sorry. The ghost in that room hates men with beards. No wonder you didn’t get any sleep. Here, switch rooms. No bother, no bother, try the one across the hall tonight.”

I digress. Back to the hilltop. 

While walking across those unimpressive castle grounds, I noticed that I was angry. I had no reason to be, but that didn’t seem to matter. Old grudges and petty bits of unfinished business came bubbling up into memory, as though my brain were searching for reasons why I felt the way I already did.

This isn’t right, I thought (angrily). I don’t think this anger is actually mine.

In that instant a whirlwind took shape and surrounded the spot where I stood. Dried leaves spun in a perfect circle, twelve feet or so in diameter, and that circle began to contract. So I picked up a stick and drew a smaller circle in the dirt, around myself. It seemed like the obvious thing to do.

The whirlwind contracted only as far as that line. Outside my little barrier it continued to howl. Inside I continued to stand. The wind did not abate, and I had nowhere else to go. 

These circumstances went on for a bit. It’s strange to feel simultaneously terrified and bored. (The anger was gone. No, that isn’t true, but I no longer felt it. I watched it surround me instead.)

“I’ll leave,” I said aloud, “but you’re going to have to let me go.”

The whirlwind vanished. Leaves fell, hit the ground, and stayed there.

I stepped slowly outside my circle. Then I left, and got lost. Sheep can be surprisingly sinister looking when you run into them in dense fog. Eventually I found the town, and my room, and my bed. 

The next morning I glanced at an old map in the hostel lobby. The precise spot where I had been standing the day before, the place that expressed rage with wind and leaves, belonged to the executioner. His ax severed hundreds of heads on that spot. It’s possible that the heads are still unhappy about this. Frustrated by a lack of lungs, they all make do with the world’s wind.
 
I wonder if the local executioner had worn a beard like mine. Might shave before traveling next time.

Squibby, Squirky, and Neil Gaiman

In honor of All Hallow’s Read, I give you Neil Gaiman‘s answer to my favorite question.

The very first bedtime stories I remember being told were by my father, who used to tell us stories about a couple of squirrels—small grey squirrels who lived in the trees near us and had adventures and who would fight evil foxes. They were called Squibby and Squirky. And I remembering the worst part of that was when we moved. “But they lived in our tree, outside our old house. We’re hundreds of miles away. How can you tell stories about them?”

Neil also practiced the “reading by the hallway light,” trick at a very young age. This is a close cousin to the “flashlight under the blankets” trick, but the advantage of the hallway light is that you are not actually breaking the the “lights out” rule within the confines of your own bedroom. The disadvantage, of course, is that the hallway light tends to be dim. It leaves you squinting at your book. This may or may not lead to perfect night vision in adulthood.

I was a really early reader, which was kind of useful. I would be in bed with the door open just enough to read by, after I’m not meant to be up at all, with these strange English comics. I don’t even remember the title. Whatever these things they were, these English comics for three year olds, they were about woodland animals having adventures with jam. Lot of woodland animals in England, in stories, lots of little little happy hedgehogs making jam. By the end of it there was jam everywhere. Could’ve been blood, I suppose.

You can hear him deliver this answer here, towards the very end of a rather long video. The whole thing is worth watching, of course. Dave McKean is in it. (I’ll post about his answer another time.)

Habituated to the Vast

Catherynne M.  Valente‘s mother, a Broadway singer, often used “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” as a lullaby. Cat called it the “Tina Song.”

Cat’s grandmother chose The Arabian Nights over showtunes when she offered bedtime entertainment. Someone once said of The Arabian Nights that “through reading these stories, my mind became habituated to the vast.”

It’s a good quote. Charles Dickens might have said it. Patrick Rothfuss tells us that the quote belongs to Dickens, but Wikiquote insists that Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote it in a letter about giants and magicians and genii. The internet gives conflicting answers. It’s possible that a magician masquerading as Charles Dickens pretended to be Coleridge in order to forge that letter about giants and genii.

Regardless, reading Cat Valente will also habituate your mind to the vast.

Neal Stephenson’s Childhood Euphemisms

Neal Stephenson seemed especially surprised by this question. His forehead scrunched up as he tried to work his way back to his very first bedtime story.

“I remember D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths,” he said, “but that wouldn’t have been the first. Too many amputations, too many gods ‘marrying’ people. In D’Aulaire’s book Zeus is always ‘marrying’ mortal women…”

He promised to keep thinking about it.

Stephenson’s novel The Diamond Age is partly about the formative powers of bedtime stories, by the way.