Never a
fan of Grand Guignol horror whose conclusions offer no hope,
there is a strange kind of alternative offered in several of Sylvan
Dread's conclusions; of renewal and re-birth as part of a lost
primeval nature. Amoral, non-human
perhaps, but not entropic. Outside each tale's protaganist are the
secret motives of nature and its amoral drives for continued
procreation. Gavin's philosophical trigger is from the theory of
Rudolf Otto; the German scholar of comparative religion, whose Idea
Of The Holy is quoted from at the top of the first tale.
('Thistle Latch'). Described by Otto as a
"non-rational, non-sensory experience or feeling whose primary
and immediate object is outside the self,” this might be an aposite
definition for the uncanny as a whole.
'Primeval Wood,' the second tale here, concerns Neil Keller and the
hawthorn idol he discovers that appears to infect him with potent
dreaming, just as his relationship ends, leaving him vulnerable to
fight this unknown and unknowable foe alone. In 'A Cavern Of
Redbrick' a boy's regular bike ride around a gravel pit is suddenly
disturbed by the ghostly presence of a girl upon the roof of its
shed. This 'presence' leads him, unwittingly, to the revelation of a
terrible family secret and portentous conclusion.
In
'Fume' the warden at the holiday hamlet of Beech Point observes the
exodus of renters at the end of the summer season. En route home for
dinner, Clark spies a small, illicit encampment and stops off to
investigate. Within the sole tent he sees what appears to be a
swaddled corpse. Bursting its wrapping elicits the 'fume' of the
title that also burns his skin and causes a personal change –
inside and out - that may be more than mere hallucination. In 'Weaned
On Blood' an abbot, newly-arrived at a rural monastry, is initiated
into a sacrificial ritual as a means to sustain a much darker
tradition. The abbot decides, for the good of the brotherhood, to act
unilaterally to reveal the recipient.
In
'Mare's Nest', the husband of a couple still very much in love must
face the imminent death of his wife. He, a sculptor, she, a poet,
they agree upon a pact to both physically manifest and entrap forever
the spirit of her favourite self-composed poem of the title. If that
sounds trite, the tale's real strength is in the authentic depiction
of the husband's uxorious emotions, which are genuinely heartrending.
This is
the fifth collection by a writer who, being usually distant from
'horror,' I've previously overlooked. I see in the case of Richard
Gavin at least, this has been my loss. The territory and subject
matter may otherwise both be familiar to its seasoned readers. For
myself, glimpses of frightening beauty in Gavin's exotic prose style
transcends that in much of the genre.
According
to one of the three afterwords that inhabit this collection of long
short tales, Ron Weighell implies that his contribution to this
Blackwood tribute represents the fifth to feature his continuing
character, Dr. Andrew Northwoode, "respected Fellow of Belden
College, Oxford, and eminent scholar of antiquities various."
The Edwardian influence of the prose style and its derring-do usage
makes 'The Letter Killeth' easily the most traditional of these
three. A strange bequest delivered to the College library, its mystical contents, and
the malevolent force it threatens to unleash is well done and
informed and affectionate rather than merely derivative.
It
reads more like Machen-informed Wheatley, than Blackwood inspired,
but, as other recent author-dedicated anthologies have shown, such
inspiration doesn't necessarily mean bland homage. I don't
know of Weighell's previous work, but he's clearly a man of some
deprecating wit. He ends his short, intermediary afterword (the
first of three by each author) disappointed that he had to rely less
upon imagination than usual, since he's reached his ongoing
character's age-group.
'In The
Clearing' takes its cue from Pan's Garden's 'The Man Whom The
Trees Loved.' A city man who, from the opening line, "had never
made much time for anyone," suddenly finds a haven for some
peace and quiet, where time is all he has. Suspended from his post,
(for a reason left intriguingly unexplained), he suddenly faces what
has long been harboured, perhaps even repressed, within himself, as
previously unexplored feelings uncannily mingle with perceptions he
can no longer recognise or trust. Is what he sees merely from his own
point of view? Or is he being externally, objectively affected? The
tale has a brave ambiguity, that stays with you long after its end.
Yet, whether it is entirely successful – in its own terms - is hard
to guage in that I wasn't entirely certain what Howard wanted to
achieve. Rather than lead you, however, its snail pace demands your
attention and gradual recall.
In its
assured feel for the Edwardian uncanny, 'The Fig Garden' is classic
Valentine. A childhood ritual among friends, involving a procession
and the near-holy imbibing from a figtree, resonates across time and
the life of one man, semi-conscious of vague connections he can sense
but not clearly define. He comes to suspect he might have a role in
something far greater than himself. It vaguely reminded me of David
Lindsay's rare mid-Twenties novel, The Violet Apple, in its
philosophical theme.
The
dustjacket evokes that of Blackwood's one-hundred year-old novel,
Julius LeVallon, by its cool
colour pallette and of a sole figure standing awestruck and exultant
amongst a mountainous landscape.
