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THE KNOWING a Fantasy by Kevan Manwaring

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THE KNOWING a Fantasy by Kevan Manwaring APPENDICES Novel (cont.) Kevan Manwaring THE KNOWING A Fantasy by Kevan Manwaring (Continued from Section Two: Creative Component) Submission for a Creative Writing PhD University of Leicester June 2018 Supervisor: Dr Harry Whitehead Student Number: 129044809 ORCID: orcid.org/0000-0002-1756-5222 www.thesecretcommonwealth.com Page 1 APPENDICES Novel (cont.) Kevan Manwaring REMINDER TO EXAMINERS Motifs are included that relate to supplementary narrative voices, which can be viewed via the website (www.thesecretcommonwealth.com). See ‘Discover the McEttrick Women’ and ‘Discover the Characters’. The novel can be read without referring to these, but it may enhance your experience, if you wish to know more. Additional material is also available on the website: other voices from the world of the novel; audio and video recordings; original artwork; articles (by me as a research- practitioner); photographs of field research; a biographical comic strip about Rev. Robert Kirk; and so on. Collectively, this constitutes the totality of my research project. www.thesecretcommonwealth.com Page 2 APPENDICES Novel (cont.) Kevan Manwaring 22 Janey awoke with a jolt. Turbulence again. Felt like they were riding through a storm. Jim Morrison eat your heart out, she groaned to herself. Being cooped up in a soup can in the sky for hours on end felt like the very opposite of rock'n'roll. All but the safety lights were out. Around her, a small village of strangers slept above the clouds, swaddled in cellophane-static blankets, commode cushions and flight socks. She tried to stretch, but there just wasn't enough leg room for someone like her. The Ohio family were deep into the woods, going by their three bears' snoring. Why was she the only one who couldn't sleep? She flipped on the overhead light, and pulled out the journal. It had been a while. Ten Hail Mary's for the neglectful reader. Sorry, Father. Did she really want to return to the mad adventures of her ancestor? Checking the flight status, she saw there were thousands of miles and a confusing time- zone shift still to go. She wasn't entirely sure what time it was meant to be. Her body was confused, but it refused to sleep. Okay, Reverend. Desperate times, desperate measures. I awoke in a gloomy cell, my face pressed into rank straw. I moaned in pain as I sat up. Wincing, I gingerly felt my face where a fresh bruise was no doubt forming like a purple-heathered knowe. I was desperate for a slake of water. I hadn't eaten since leaving the Brownies' blackhouse. I called out to guards, my voice lost in the dank, dripping indifference. I shouted myself raw. What place was this? Was I in Purgatory? This hardly seemed like the enchanting Cockayne of Fayrie Tales. I had forsaken my home, my bed and my darling ... for this? Had my wits abandoned me? What had I been thinking when I stepped into that ring? Finally, the sobering reality of my folly struck me like a sluice of night soil cast from an open window in Auld Reekie. Reverend, how low have you fallen? Verily, these were the just rewards for my antiks! Weeping, I fell into a fit of despair and prayed heartily to the Almighty – as well www.thesecretcommonwealth.com Page 3 APPENDICES Novel (cont.) Kevan Manwaring as I could, anyhow, considering my hands were chained to the wall and my mouth was still gagged with a foul rag. This is where my hubris had led me. To think: I sought to free my wife from her enchantment when it is I who have ensnared her in my madness. I claimed a noble purpose to my studies, when other desires drove me. My prayers dried on my tongue. I collapsed in a despondent torpor. The belly of the whale consumed me as though I was Jonah himself. As I dreamed, finally, mercifully, I felt I was back in my manse (Beloved Insch- Alladine, O, that I were there now!), but it was made of glass. I felt vulnerable and intruded upon. The whole parish could see into my home, could observe my business. My research into Fayrie folklore was public knowledge, and was being roundly mocked. The faces of my neighbours were grotesque, distorted, with crude make-up on – white face-paint, and rosy cheeks, contrasting their dour clothes and the drear hills. The Bishop threatened the burning death for my Devilish Dabblings. As Minister I should have known better. What kind of example did I set to my flock? I was lower than a witch who gave suck to the Prince of Flies. My notebooks split open and blew across the lawn, into the mud, and I chased after them, fruitlessly snatching at them as a fickle breeze whipped them from my grasp. The cruel laughter of the parishioners became the braying of donkeys, the cawing of crows, the shrill squeal of a sow led to slaughter. Janey stopped reading. Not exactly lullaby material! She put the journal away, and put on the free ear-phones, plugging the jack into the entertainment. Selecting LA Woman, she settled back. Behind the lowered blind lightning flickered. Curious, she raised it. The sky was split by the sturm-und-drang. Very Wagnerian. She yawned. Then something caught her eye. In the arc-light of the next lightning flash. There. Silhouetted against the wing. A jet-black swan. It went dark again, as though someone had flicked a switch. Her heart was racing. Impossible! Not at this height. It would freeze to death. Plummet to the ground, a block of black ice. A quicksilver spike of lightning ripped the heavens. There it was again. www.thesecretcommonwealth.com Page 4 APPENDICES Novel (cont.) Kevan Manwaring She noticed it only had one webbed foot. The other ended in a stump. This time it turned its head. Eyes of flame stared back at Janey. The boom of thunder rocked the craft. She stifled her scream, just. Fumbling with her seat-belt, she shook her neighbours awake. 'Sorry, washroom.' They muttered and mumbled, but eventually let her by. On an impulse, she reached back and grabbed the biscuit-tin and blanket. Pulled the blind down, hard. Locking herself in the toilet, she wrapped the blanket around her. She couldn't stop shaking. That thing was still alive. Following her. To Scotland. Hands pushed out against the walls; took deep breaths. She was in the Death Star trash-compactor, being crushed to the death. Drowning in grey water. Junk. Up. To. Her. Eye-balls. The biscuit-tin. Old and solid on her lap. She held it like it was her life-support. Perhaps it was. Mom. Dotty. Molly. All of you. Help me. Please. Hands shaking, she prised it open and grabbed the first thing that came to hand. The school-slate. Cool and solid, she placed it against her forehead and breathed in the faint ghost of chalk dust. Janey awoke, stiff-necked inside the cramped toilet, the school-slate still on her lap. A gentle knock, then the concerned voice of the stewardess: 'Ma’am, are you all right in there?' Janey tried to orientate herself. 'Yes. Hold on a minute...' She splashed her face. www.thesecretcommonwealth.com Page 5 APPENDICES Novel (cont.) Kevan Manwaring Flushed the loo. Then, trying to smooth down the wrinkles of the night, she unlocked the door. The stewardess’ relief quickly turned. 'Please return to your seat. We're about to prepare for landing.' Rubber-necking passengers watched her stagger back to her seat. She smiled at their scowls. 'Sorry, Mile High Club. Gold member.' She must look at right state. But, hey, worst things happen at sea. The boy yawned and stirred as the mother fussed over her. 'Had us worried there. You were gone such a long while! We called for the stewardess in the end.’ The boy gave her a green-eyed look. ‘Here, have some of this before they take it away.' Thanking her, Janey sipped the coffee and tried to wake up. The shutters were up, and above the cloud-swaddled Old World the clean light breached the horizon. Of the black swan there was no sign. Perhaps all demons of the night had been vanquished. For now. Putting the school-slate back in the tin, and stowing it in her hand-luggage, she pondered what she knew of her great-grandmother's life, learnt at her knee while she was still alive. Janey had loved hearing her talk about the old times. She often got more sense out her than her mother – a lucid link to the past. Molly's promising flower had been thorned by tragedy. She had met her fiancé-to-be just before the sinking of the Lusitania committed her country to the War in Europe, although they weren't engaged until 1917, the day before he signed up. The day after the wedding he was gone. He had returned home once, on leave, to sow a child in her belly. He left not knowing if he had succeeded. Molly waved him off from Redsaddle and never saw him again. When it became apparent that his fervent efforts had not produced the harvest they had hoped for, she had blamed herself. For being barren soil. When she received the telegram she accepted it with a silent stoicism, and with it the typecast role of a lonely spinster. Widow McEttrick became a schoolmistress in the local town, and settled down to a quiet, but not unsatisfying life. The encounter with Sharp and Karpeles had left a deep impression on her – one that would stay with her for the rest of her days.
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