A short story written for the Red Feather Award Summer 2019 Writing Contest
A MYTHLANDS MYSTERY
It is now the third hour since I entered the car. Since then we have been driving continuously, throughout the late afternoon and into the darkening gloom of the countryside ... or at least this is what logic and my senses tell me.
For you see, these last hours of my life have been lived, as the 24 hours before them, shrouded in secrecy, and with little visual clues to work with. And yet I continue to observe, and make of these events, what I can. It is the curse of the writer to notice details that others lack, and to convey these observations in the form of prose. Currently however, I am able only to compose within the confines of my own mind.
There is light within the car ... a most luxurious model, I am given to understand, though in my time such conveyances were still in the realm of the imagination. I sit comfortably upon my padded leather seat - near me, a book to ease the boredom - the same book I have had upon my person since leaving my home at the behest of parties yet unknown. The tome, that I have recently completed is a work by a fellow countryman of mine, my good friend Tolstoy. I wonder if Leo has been invited to this gathering? A supposition given fuel by the brief encounter I had with another writer, aboard the jet that brought us to the airport, from which we disembarked, blindfolded and guided towards the motor vehicle.
Ah, but my fellow traveller, the Englishman - he did not continue his journey in my company, for I am alone, shielded from the outside by the tinted windows. And yet for a few brief seconds my ... facilitators upon this expedition, they made the second of two mistakes. The first - I overheard a furious row between my initial guide, and another - each of the "guests" were meant to travel separately. Someone made an error putting me on the same aerial transport as Dickens. At the very least we were to have been kept in separate quarters while in the air.
They attempted to correct this by loading us, like so many cattle ... ah, but I am ungenerous. The employees of our mysterious host, have been nothing but gracious, and after all we ... I feel there are others and that each accepted the invitation, as I did, with curiousity and willingness. Mr Dickens and I were, shall I say, gently guided down the steps and then separated, each to our own limousine, where once ensconced in the spacious back compartment, blocked off from even seeing the driver, we - I assume the others had similar treatment - found food and drink of the most excellent quality, along with the books we had requested, taken from the plane. But no writing materials ... and so I am forced to construct this narrative within my own head.
I am curious as to how the next chapter will play out. But lest I forget ... the second mistake.
While arguing the first, our guides attention lapsed and the hood upon my head went slack. The light was already fading upon the airport runway ... a private affair obviously, as it would seem strange to the casual observer to see us paraded with our heads covered, and besides, the small jet planes were those employed by persons of extreme wealth. This was no surprise, given the money order for 100,000 that accompanied the exquisite invitation. If more than a few of us were similarly induced, this and other costs would run our host at least a million.
But I digress. In those unguarded moments, I broke the terms of the invitation and used the encroaching dark to lift my hood and satisfy curiousity. Some half a dozen jets and a like number of dark limousines. If Dickens and I had been transported from one place, then others had likewise been conveyed. We would then all journey separately by means of these luxury vehicles until ...
The rain splatters gently upon the windows and finally the vehicle draws up. I am first aware of the slight spitting crunch of gravel upon a driveway and as I breath in the cool misty air upon the opening of the door, I can smell the rain.
For a moment I expect the hood, but all I am offered is a helping hand, and the driver's words. 'We are here.'
Where is here? A grand estate, deep within the countryside - the manse pillared and of a classic structure to be found within England, and the England of my time ... perhaps slightly older, no less. But this in itself is no indicator, as these lands of Myth are rife with the Gothic, the Baroque, aesthetics of many times, many places ... many stories.
Around me, I see other men in black - drivers/escorts, and their charges. Charles Dickens calls out a cheery greeting. There are others ... four to be precise. Soon I will know them, the painter, the detective, the old playwright and the new. Disappointingly Tolstoy is not among their number.
A tall man, dressed as a valet or butler in the English style of the 1920's or 30's welcomes us. He is slim, handsome and clean shaven, with his black hair slicked back.
'Ah gentlemen!' he greets us. 'Do come in, out of the cold. Tea and refreshments will be served in the drawing room. May I take your hats and coats?'
The three Englishman and the Irish playwright react with all the good will of gentlemen, but the Italian who is the oldest of us all, angrily demands that the host present himself immediately.
The butler calms him with a few soothing words, and assures us that his master will reveal himself shortly thereafter.
Do I know this smooth fellow? It has been ... what will the year be, back in the mortal realm we all came from (A sidebar: five of us were real. Is this significant?) ... 2019, I believe? Seventy some years since I arrived here, for my second life. A tad over ten years more than I was granted in my first!
I have read much, become aware of much and travelled extensively, these Mythlands. It could be I know the butler, but perhaps this knowledge would not help, as so much has changed for so many of us. The eldest English gentlemen, like us he wears suits of a more modern cut but his facial grooming is distinct ... I unconsciously begin to stroke my own long beard, forgetting that I have been clean shaven for some years.
The hawk nosed detective has spoken ... he asked the butler for his name and was answered. The detective snorts and declares he knows the identity of our host, but he is disappointed.
'I am afraid, Sirs,' Jeeves answers, as he opens the door to the drawing room, '...that my previous employer has passed on, some years ago. I now work for another gentleman. Please be seated. I shall return momentarily.'
THE BOOK
After the most excellent tea and crumpets, Jeeves directed us to a grand dining room where each of us were shown to a specific seat . Apparently our identities not being instantly known, was part of the game and it appeared a source of amusement to our host. We were forbidden from introductions at present, though naturally I recognized them all and ironically the one fellow writer who I had not known by sight or previous acquaintance, had been introduced to me during the blunder that caused us to be seated together aboard the plane.
This got me thinking - was the character of our mysterious host, a wrathful one? Would he be punishing those underlings who had facilitated the mistake, or was it yet unknown to him?
Jeeves served a rather fine sherry and placed a tray with a key and an old red leatherbound book upon the table. Naturally this caught our attention until he distracted us with a statement and a question.
'Welcome one and all, to The Hall. My master has long been a fan of your various writings and art. He feels such illustrious company ought now to be known to each other, but not through such a mundane process as simple introductions.'
Jeeves turned towards the deductive genius. 'Perhaps, Sir, you might give us a demonstration of your prowess, and facilitate matters?'
As the gentleman's gentleman stepped back, the Englishman steepled his fingers and nodded.
'Very well. As I have a good idea of who is behind this, and amusing himself at my expense, I shall indulge him and save us some time. Gentlemen,' he addressed us. 'I fear that your presence here is mere sideshow ... though my implacable foe is one I assumed mostly humorless, he does have a small streak within him, a penchant for the theatrical, and it seems the years within this realm have changed him. I will make a show of my mental brilliance as he demands, and in doing so connect the dots, and get to the bottom of this, an obvious and audacious challenge to myself.'
'You think highly of yourself, good Sir,' the oldest Englishman stated. 'But I know you not and would perchance question that tis you, the centre of thine own world, who be in truth mere satellite or far flung star, orbiting naught but your own celestial self importance.'
The object of his scorn turned and nodded briefly. 'I see. Well, please remember that as great an impact as you have had on the mortal world, here you are but another reborn author.'
'And you, Sir, a character playing but a part?' quipped the Englishman.
The Victorian Englishman nodded. 'True, but no less real within the Mythlands. While you are a product of your time, in a literary sense, and many more formidable and less unintelligible writers ...' he nodded at Dickens and myself. '... have since debuted. Writers of long form novels, and not mere plays. No offence to you, Sir.' He addressed this to the Irish playwright.
The older Englishman sniffed. 'I have written two score of newer works since my rebirth.'
'Indeed you have, and thus presented further proof you belong in the dustbin of history.' A cutting remark indeed and quickly followed up. 'Your attempts to assume a modern persona are as pathetic as your continued attempt at relevance. Wearing 21st century clothing and half hearted speech therapy lessons cannot disguise your identity. You might also consider a shave, as your distinctive facial hair scarcely compensates for that ridiculous toupee ... Mr Shakespeare!'
William Shakespeare sat back, highly affronted. 'Of course you recognize me. Genius cannot be disguised but merely shaded, as the bright sun only hides behind clouds, to emerge anew, each glorious time.'
'Do me!' the Italian demanded.
The deductive genius yawned. 'Nationality, speech patterns, and you've maintained your hair and beard. The ponytail and trimmed goatee doesn't distract from a very distinctive profile, even if you have dyed them. I see by the markings on your hands and sleeves that you are still an active painter, Mr da Vinci.'
'Fantastico!'
Then he moved onto the men of his own era, Dickens being easy though my lack of a beard gave him a bit of trouble. Only the Irishman presented a challenge, being a 20th century type, and as we have seen, the Victorian deductive genius was less fond of playwrights than we prose novelists.
Jeeves clapped. 'Excellent Sir, you got four without much difficulty and when Mr ... gave you a clue in the form of his character, you successfully deduced his identity too! The master will be pleased. I shall return shortly with more refreshments.'
His withdrawal caused a slight reaction, which I observed with interest. Shakespeare was still sulking but at least two of the others appeared agitated.
'What did he mean about my character!?' declared the Irishman. 'Could it be ...'
But whatever he was about to say, was overwhelmed by the Victorian. 'He's spying on us! Watching us right this second ... this is intolerable!' So saying, he came abruptly to his feet and slammed a fist on the table. 'HOLMES!!! Come out at once and let's settle this like we did at Reichenbach!'
'Professor, I don't think ...' Dickens began, but the raging Moriarty was beyond reason.
Only one voice was loud enough to quell the criminal mastermind's rage. 'Nonsense, Moriarty. That Jeeves fellow just gave us a clue ... he's talking in riddles but they're not aimed at you. We're waiting for someone ... he keeps hinting at it, then he mentions my character. Can't you see!? We're waiting ... for GODOT!'
'God?' inquired Leonardo.
'No!' screamed Samuel Beckett. 'GODOT!'
'My dear man,' interjected Shakespeare. 'I know not even who you be, let alone this Godot.'
'I've read your play, Beckett,' Dickens broke in. 'If Godot exists in the Mythlands, isn't the point that he will never appear?'
While this exchange was taking place I had picked up the book and tried the key. 'Curious. This key is broken.'
'A broken key!' exclaimed Dickens. 'Could it be a literary reference ... to one of our works. Or something da Vinci painted.'
Shakespeare snapped his fingers. 'By all the seraphim of heaven and all the foul fiends of the pit! I have been reading a new book by a current author of earth ... The DaVinci Code! Tis all about mysteries and conspiracies!'
'They wrote a book about me?'
'Nay, good Leonardo. Though they used your name and ... could it be that one of your pictures contains a hidden message, as Charles says!'
'We're waiting for Godot!' insisted Beckett.
'Holmes!' snarled Moriarty.
'Er hem!'
We all looked up as Jeeves discreetly coughed. 'I'm most frightfully sorry, Sirs, but it appears the mast ... that is, I put the wrong key on the tray. The master is beside himself but still excited to meet you all, and will be in momentarily!'
THE HOST REVEALED
'It seems to me,' I began, '...that there has been a series of blunders involved in this whole business.' I told them all about the flight with Dickens and the argument I'd overheard.
'Holmes could be trying to keep us off guard,' Professor Moriarty began hesitantly, but I could tell he was beginning to question his own logic.
'Who knows what Godot is really like!' Beckett persisted, stubbornly refusing to let go of his idea.
'I am reminded of the title of one of my own books,' I mused. 'It was about a pure, perfect soul, but others saw him as an ...'
Suddenly the lights went off and I heard the sounds of chairs scraping.
'Murder!' shouted Shakespeare. 'Tis obvious now. We have been lured here so that a cunning fiend may claim the lives of some of the greatest minds alive!'
Dickens called out. 'Will, calm yourself. Have you taken your meds?'
Moriarty, meanwhile had switched track with his own paranoiac thoughts. 'Of course! It's not Holmes! He doesn't have the money or the resources, but my instinct is never wrong. Right era, wrong suspect ... gentlemen we face terror in the dark at the hands of ... Dr Fu Manchu!'
'What do they want with me? I'm just a painter!' Leonardo sounded terrified.
To the side there was suddenly a giggling sound and something moved.
'A great painter!' came a voice in the dark. 'All of you are great minds.'
'Godot? Is that you?' Beckett's voice held a tremor.
I looked around and suddenly I saw them - like two great bulbs of light, appearing in the darkness!
The orbs were near Shakespeare and da Vinci, who suddenly were screaming like two little girls!
Moriarty called out. 'Dacoits! Defend yourselves!'
'Oh dear!'
'Sir, the lights?'
'Oh! Go on then. I never expected all this fuss!'
Jeeves turned on the lights and Shakespeare found himself face to face with a huge bulbous green ... He screamed and passed out.
Dickens frowned. 'Toad ... is that you?'
Mr Toad sorrowfully adjusted his cravat and called out. 'It's me, Charles! What rotten bally luck! All the months of planning and you chaps have gone and ruined it all!!'
After that we all collected ourselves and listened as a bashful and slightly disappointed Mr Toad laid out all his plans and lamented that things had gone wrong. He had planned it to be a jolly, exciting, elegant and mysterious soiree with a big reveal, that had been ruined by our paranoia and panic.
Dickens turned to me after and whispered. 'Toad doesn't mean any harm, Mr Dostoyevsky. He is a simple but pure creature, much given to creating elaborate diversions and spending a fortune on them. I've known him for many years and he genuinely admires so called 'great minds' like ours.'
I nodded. 'Call me Fyodor, my new friend.' No wonder I had been thinking of my work, The Idiot. Toad had many hidden layers that I later learned of, but in many ways he was seen as my character had been seen.'
'Ah, Sir, perhaps we should serve more drinks and open the book?' suggested Jeeves.
Toad brightened up and put the second key into the lock on the tome. 'Capital idea, Jeeves! Now if all you brainy chaps wouldn't mind signing my guest book, I'll be able to prove to Ratty and the fellows that you were indeed guests here at Toad Hall!'
And so the peculiar gathering commenced and the mystery was solved!
NOTE: Mr Toad and Professor Moriarty are significant characters in MYTHLANDS: THE HEIST. This story is set a few months before the epic adventure begins. Charles Dickens has appeared in a story in this volume and Jeeves makes his first appearance as Toad's butler/valet after being hinted at in the main story. The other reborn writers are appearing for the first time.
As this has been written for an awards deadline, story 13 skips several drafted stories that have not yet been published.