‘True.’ I looked back at the picture above the fireplace. ‘You certainly have a steady hand,’ I said.
‘Yes. A steady hand and deep concentration come from my days as a surgeon. I’m retired now, but one never loses such skills.’
‘Where did you practise?’ I took a bite of sandwich. It was good.
‘Guy’s Hospital for the first few years; then I moved back to Charing Cross, where I originally studied. I retired early and moved here to follow my hobby.’
‘Etymology?’
‘Ah.’ Mather smirked. ‘I think etymology is more your speciality than mine.’
‘Mmm?’ I looked up from my sandwich, raising my eyebrows. Then I realized my mistake. ‘Oh, it’s
ento
mology, of course. I’m always getting those two mixed up.’
‘It’s all right – I used to have the same problem, before my fascination with insects. Since then, nearly every book I’ve bought has had “entomology” on the cover. I’d much rather leave the study of language and its complexities to others. I imagine it must seem like quite a fruitless pursuit sometimes, considering how every language is in a constant state of flux.’
‘Yes. It’s amazing how fast they can evolve.’
‘Ah, evolution,’ Mather said, staring into the fire. ‘Another interest of mine. So simple, yet at the same time so immeasurably complex. It’s taken some pretty big leaps, but in the process has overlooked so much.’
‘Overlooked?’ I put the last piece of sandwich into my mouth.
Mather seemed absorbed in the dancing light from the fire. ‘Well, for example,’ he said, almost in a daze, ‘haven’t you ever wondered why, after all these millennia, our perspiration, while doing its job as well as ever, still smells and still stains our clothes?’
‘I can’t say I—’
‘And blood – why is it bright red and not transparent like water? Why does it give us away so easily with its pungent aroma. It only makes a predator’s job simpler.’
‘Maybe that’s the point,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s nature’s way of keeping a balance. I mean, if predators couldn’t track their prey they’d starve to death. They need some sort of advantage.’
Mather chuckled to himself and chose not to pursue the subject, but what he said had puzzled me. I was beginning to wonder where all this was leading, and had determined to return to the purpose of my visit when Mather stood up suddenly and took the cups and plate back into the kitchen.
While the sound of jostling crockery and splashing water came from down the corridor, I went over to one of the shelves of hefty volumes. Large, dry patches had formed on my trousers. It looked as if I was wetting myself in reverse. As a result of the drying, an uncomfortable spate of itching had broken out all over my body. I scratched my knee, then examined a couple of the titles on the shelf in front of me:
Manhunters of the Congo Basin
by M. Baxter,
The Queen of the Hive
by Hawke Ellison. One title in particular caught my eye:
Her Story
by R. H. Occum. The book lay on its side atop a row of similar editions. My curiosity aroused by the title, I picked it up.
The front cover featured a large pentagram with a mosquito in its centre and unusual symbols dotted around it. Above it was the title, printed in an antique script, and below that the author’s name in an equally elaborate font.
Leafing through the curious book, I saw that it wasn’t only the cover that used such a unique typeface. The entire text was lovingly arranged and printed, the accompanying engravings also reproduced in great depth and detail. As I looked from one illustration to the other, I saw a pattern emerging. Each one featured a mosquito, quite large in size, attacking one or more screaming people. The first few pictures showed Roman centurions fleeing the beast as if for their lives. On the following pages were depictions of early Saxon Britons, medieval Europeans, then various cultures and countries up until very recent times. The same monster seemed to have been causing all sorts of problems throughout history. I scanned a few portions of the text. It was a collection of tales about a fabled creature known as the Devil’s Hand – a formidable foe judging by the damage it could cause. I prayed that the demon creature depicted in the book was in no way related to the Ganges Red. I had nearly finished leafing through the book when I became aware of a presence nearby.
‘Quite a collection,’ I said nervously, turning to see Mather standing behind me in the doorway.
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘
Many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
, as the poem goes.’ He walked over and looked at the book in my hands. ‘I was quite an avid collector once upon a time. I used to spend hours scouring second-hand bookshops. It was an absolute joy to find that one.’ I handed him the book. He ran his hands over the cover. ‘Have you heard of the legend of Nhan Diep?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Ah, it’s a marvellous story in here from old Vietnam.’
‘Oh? My grandmother was Vietnamese.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. She met my grandfather when he went over to fight in the war in ’sixty-six. He was an American pilot.’
‘Oh. Well, perhaps she knows the story. It’s quite a popular—’
‘I’m afraid she passed away a few years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry.’ There was an uncomfortable pause.
‘So . . . would it be possible to see the Ganges Red? I’m anxious to get a good look at it. I wish I’d done a little more research before coming. I don’t know anything about it, I have to confess.’
‘Ah,’ Mather said, softly clapping his hands together. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t a good idea to disturb her at this hour. I fed her not long ago; she’s always a little irritable after feeding time. Best if we tackle that tomorrow.’
‘What is it about the mosquito that led you to contact me?’
‘Oh, so many things. The Ganges Red is the only example of her kind.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. And her size will quite stun you. She is too large even to be considered a freak of nature. No . . .’ Mather gazed up in what almost looked like reverence. ‘She is something else entirely. Many cultures have worshipped the Ganges Red. Accounts of this can be found in
Her Story
.’
‘Oh, right. As well as the legend of, er . . .’
‘Nhan Diep,’ he said, pronouncing the words slowly to make sure I got them this time.
‘Right, yes.’
‘You can borrow the book for tonight if you like. A little reading always helps me sleep. And it will set your imagination alight in anticipation of tomorrow’s introduction,’ he said, nodding his assurance.
‘Yes, I’d be happy to take a look. I don’t reckon I’ll have too much trouble falling asleep tonight though.’
‘Quite.’ He handed me the book.
I decided it wouldn’t hurt to have a scan through it in case it could be used in the article. I couldn’t think of anything more to say. My unease must have been noticeable, as Mather said, ‘I do apologize for any inconvenience, Mr Reeves, and will endeavour to extend every accommodation to ensure you feel comfortable and welcome, which, of course . . . you are. Very much so.’
‘Oh, thank you. I’m . . . It’s fine, really.’
‘Well, I like to retire to bed early so I’ll see you in the morning. I promise to make up for tonight by giving you the story of a lifetime tomorrow. No doubt you have had dealings with many charlatans, Mr Reeves. But you’ll be very glad in the morning, when you discover that I am quite different. The bathroom is at your disposal should you like to take a bath or shower. Why don’t I show you to your room, then you can use the facilities.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ I followed, tucking
Her Story
under my arm and picking up my damp bag on the way out. Mather’s hospitality was welcome after my troubled journey across the lake, but I was still left with an uneasy feeling that I couldn’t seem to shake off. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to upset him. So far there seemed no real reason for me to be concerned.
‘I’ll light the fire in there. If your bag’s still wet, it should dry quickly by the fireplace.’
‘Thanks, that’s great.’
Mather led me to the modest bathroom. The suite might once have been champagne in colour, possibly even beige – it was hard to tell: time had washed much of the colour out. It was clean, however, as was the rest of the room. Mather appeared to be a particularly neat individual.
The guest bedroom was small but cosy and looked as if it had been cleaned recently. The bed was freshly made, the covers turned back. I dropped my bag by the side of it as Mather busied himself with lighting the fire. In minutes it was roaring.
I dropped the book he had given me on the bed and stood by the small bedroom window, looking out into the dark. The wind and rain continued to torment the trees, but the thunder and lightning had passed.
‘Did anyone live here before you?’ I asked, as Mather stood, adjusting his spectacles.
‘Ah,’ he said, joining me by the window. ‘The previous owner was the one who built the house. He lived here for quite a while, but in the end, being elderly, he went to live with his daughter. I saw the house advertised in a newspaper. It looked like such a wonderful place. True, it was a big step into the unknown coming to live here, but the rewards . . . I’ve been reaping ever since.’ He smiled.
‘So how long have you been here?’
‘Oh, nearly five years, I think. Yes . . .’ He seemed lost for a second or two, as though some memory had caught him by surprise. ‘Excuse me, will you? The dishes require my attention.’ He sniffed and walked off in the direction of the kitchen.
I sat down on the bed and stared at my bag, from which wisps of steam were rising. A short time later I was sure I could hear Mather talking. He had been alone for so long, I could imagine that talking to himself was a habit he had fallen into very easily.
My host soon returned; he walked over to the fire, picked up my bag and felt the outside of it.
‘Hmm. I think you may need to empty this and check everything individually. Water can get everywhere.’ He looked at me, took off his glasses and proceeded to rub them on his jumper. ‘You do look a little washed out, if you’ll excuse the pun. I hope you haven’t caught a cold.’
I did feel pretty exhausted. The small-scale shipwreck and unpleasant weather had come as a shock to the system. I needed to rest.
‘Well, I tell you what,’ Mather said. ‘I’ll leave you to use the bathroom and get settled in. Why don’t you join me for breakfast at about eight o’clock tomorrow – then we can get started on the story.’
‘That sounds good,’ I enthused. ‘I can’t wait to see this mosquito of yours.’
‘Ah . . .’ Mather smiled. ‘All in good time. I’ll be reading in my room for a while if you need me. Don’t be afraid to knock.’ He turned to leave.
‘Right. Thank you very much.’ It was only then that the whole absurdity of the situation struck me. There I was sleeping in a strange room in a strange house with a fairly strange man, to meet some strange (if genuine) creature. There was also the fact that I’d nearly drowned. I had a sudden bizarre feeling that I was in someone else’s dream. Right then sleep was a very good idea. I made a decision to use the bathroom then get my head down.
Thunder clapped again outside the window. The storm hadn’t yet finished with the island. I looked at my watch. Water had found its way beneath the glass, enlarging and warping the numbers. It was a few minutes past nine o’clock. I grabbed the wash bag that had been drying by the fire and left the room.
I could hear the rainfall resuming with vigour as I walked along to the bathroom. There was a strong smell of disinfectant or bleach that I hadn’t noticed before. The shower curtain that ran around the circumference of the bath on a flimsy rail looked fairly new, almost unused. I washed, relishing the feeling of warm water on my face.
Minutes later, back in the bedroom and undressed, I pondered a little more on my situation. Aside from Mather’s boat, I knew of no other way off the island. I looked at my bag, now placed at a safe distance from the fire. Picking it up, I fished out my mobile phone and pushed the power button. Nothing happened.
Unclipping the battery cover, I groaned as water dripped onto my knee. I put the phone on the floor near the grate, where it could dry out slowly. For the time being there was no way of contacting anyone. Not that I thought I would need to call for help at that point. I just felt slightly vulnerable without that vital link to civilization. The Dictaphone, thankfully, was dry, as was the Nikon camera. Its carry case was a little damp, but on opening it I was overjoyed to see that little or no water had found its way inside.
I placed the Nikon on the floor by the bed and turned to look at the dancing flames. It was rare that I had the opportunity to appreciate an open fire, but I had a feeling that the desire to fall asleep would soon overtake me.
Before giving in to my exhaustion altogether, I slipped between the soft clean sheets and started reading
Her Story
.
Far back in the mystery-shrouded past of old Vietnam [I read], there was once a young, hardworking farmer named Ngoc Tam. He was an honest, generous man, who had taken for his wife a beautiful girl from a neighbouring village. Nhan Diep was a slender girl, full of life and good humour, but being a restless spirit she soon grew tired and disillusioned with farming, and longed for a life of luxury.
One day, without warning, she fell horribly ill and slipped into a weak, debilitating torpor. Tam found her lying on the ground and carried her back to the house. But despite his best efforts to revive her, Diep died in her distraught husband’s arms. Tam was inconsolable and wept for days. He shunned the help of friends and family and refused to leave the body of his wife or allow her to be buried.
Tam didn’t know how he could live without his precious Diep. In desperation he sold all his assets and bought a raft and a beautiful casket in which he placed the body of his wife. Taking the raft to the nearby stream, he set sail with an innate hope that somehow he could find a cure for his broken heart. On the twenty-second day of his journey, help found him.
He woke from a troubled sleep that morning to find that the raft had stopped at the foot of a mountain. Leaving the raft and the casket behind, he soon found himself climbing across a carpet of a thousand rare flowers. He stopped in a small clearing, then, as he continued up the mountain, he noticed an old man on the path before him, leaning on a curious bamboo staff. The man had long white hair that floated gently on the caressing breeze and wrinkled, sun-burned skin. Tam felt as though somehow this stranger already knew him.
At once it dawned on Tam that the old man was in fact Tien Thai, the genie of medicine. Tam fell to his knees, his hands clasped together, and pleaded with the genie to restore his beloved to life.
‘Ngoc Tam, I know of you and your virtues,’ the old man said. ‘But your wife’s hold on you is still strong. It will not be relinquished. You must learn to grow, not suffer from your love for her.’
‘But I cannot live any kind of life without her. I beg you, if it is within your power, bring my Diep back to life.’
The genie replied, ‘I shall not deny your request, for your love and grief are sincere, but I have seen great men entrust their hearts to the whims of selfish, fickle women. I have watched women of wonderful wisdom surrender themselves whole to the mercy of evil, heartless men. In a way I am glad that I do not understand – to do so must be terrible.’
Ngoc Tam was at once defiant. ‘You have no idea how wonderful a creature my wife is. I have loved nothing in life like I have loved her. I must have her back, or life itself is pointless.’
The old genie sighed. ‘Very well then,’ he conceded. ‘Do this: pierce your finger with a thorn from one of the bushes over there and let three drops fall on the body of your wife. Do this and she shall return to you.’
Tam jumped to his feet, rushed over to a large bush and snapped off a nasty-looking thorn. He thanked the genie profusely as he ran back down the path.
Tam nearly fell into the water in his desperation to get onto the raft. He scrambled on, lifted the lid from the casket and pricked his left forefinger with the thorn. Three drops of his blood fell onto Nhan Diep’s exposed palm.
Diep opened her eyes as though awakening from a deep sleep. Her wrinkled, pale skin suddenly bloomed with colour and vitality. She gasped and sat up, looking around. Tam took her in his arms and hugged her passionately.
The genie had followed Tam, and now approached the couple slowly. His eyes met Diep’s. ‘Forget not your obligations, Nhan Diep,’ the genie said to her. ‘Remember your husband’s devotion to you. Return his love, and work hard.’ He turned from the emotional couple, saying only, ‘Go now. May you both be happy.’