Echoes

Excerpt from the diary of George Fisher, latterly of St John’s Asylum:

7th April 1971. Fosse Manor.

I write this in the hope that, someday, someone might understand…

Kitty and Dr Pullman have been whispering again. Heads together, voices low, all furrowed brows and concerned glances. They think I’m going mad. They bother and fuss, convinced that that age and the vestiges of shellshock have finally taken their toll. I’m not mad, dear reader, I promise you that.

In hindsight, it was a mistake. I thought they might believe me. I thought they might understand. Part of me even hoped that Kitty, my darling sister, might have the gift too. It seems not, and since that evening things have been altogether different. Gin-fuelled and garrulous, I laid bare my secret, and now I am undone.

What is my secret? What did I utter, so that all that hear it think me quite mad? The truth, dear reader, just the truth. I see things. I hear things. Things that once existed but are no longer there. Things that sensible folk claim never existed. They’ve always been there, always spoken to me. You probably think I’m mad as well, don’t you?

I tried my damnedest to make Kitty understand, but I just left her ashen-faced and frightened. She insisted that Dr Pullman be sent for at once, certain I had been struck down by a sickness of the mind. Albert Pullman, a friend and confident of some 50 years, the family physician. He didn’t believe me either, and so the seeds for this sorry tale of my mental decline were sown. I wish they could see through my eyes. I wish I could make them understand.

I fear my time as a free, independent man grows short. I hear them talk of removing me from the family home and committing me to the care of the asylum, St John’s Home for the Feeble Minded. I have passed that god-forsaken place countless times, and each time thanked the lord for my freedom. Now, it seems, I am destined to view those rusted iron gates from within. I wish with every fibre of my being that it was not so.

I’ve had these experiences, these visions, since I was a child. The world around me has always spoken, yet it was only in adulthood that that I learned that my talent was special. I had always assumed that it was normal, and had been saddened to learn that others saw but half of the world that I experience. I’m different, but I don’t know why.

The manor grounds have been my home since childhood, and are alive with colour and sound. The hedgerows astride the long drive teem with the chatter of birds and wood sprites, each distinct voice as clear to me as that of my own dear Kitty. I know their names and their stories, and can recognise their distinct accents. Friend yellowhammer conversing with a hazel elf about the weather, wood mouse and tree sparrow discussing the farmer’s new hat. This is my world. Always has been.

Southwest of the manor, beyond the old ice house where the roe deer gather, is a dismantled railway line. I frequently take long walks into the fading light of evening, and the old railway line is a favoured haunt. It’s also the place where some of the most powerful visions occur. Perhaps visions is the wrong term. They’re not visions so much as living echoes, a past world viewed through a film of silver gossamer. As I walk beside the old railway I smell coal smoke, and hear the soft chunter of the small narrow-gauge puffer that once served this line. No trains have run here since 1882, and yet I see them clear as day. I tip my cap to Bill, the sooty fireman, and wave heartily at three carriages of cheery passengers as they pass. The echo fades as the engine steams out of sight, but I know that I’ll be seeing old Bill again soon enough.

Past the old railway are the ancient oakwoods, where the green man lives. I have spend many happy hours in his company, smoking my pipe and listening to his tales of times past when the trees were new. Crowds of woodland creatures would gather at his feet to listen, enchanted. I learned much of the world from hearing the green man speak. I will miss him. Happy times indeed.

These are but three of a great many experiences, however I must stop here. A black sedan is creeping slowly up the long drive, and Dr Pullman is walking to meet it. Kitty is weeping, trying and failing to cover her face so that I don’t see. I fear my time here is done, but will try to write more soon.

I am not mad. Remember me well.

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