La Befana è arrivato!


DM Novantasei

La Befana

con lo scrivendo da
Jonathan Beale ~ Arthur Davis
Patrick Theron Erickson ~ Robert J. Gregg
Abha Iyengar ~ Lyn Lifshin
Richard McGowan ~ Sissy Pantelis
Simon Perchik ~ AE Reiff
Walter Ruhlmann ~ Abilgail Sheaffer
Tom Sheehan ~ Michael J. Shepley
Patty Patten Tiffany ~ Townsend Walker

DM Novantasei
La Befana
ora apra a

La befana

Henryk Sienkiewicz ~ The Lighthouse Keeper of Aspinwall


DGG fur DMdJ

On a time it happened that the light-house keeper in Aspinwall, not far from Panama, disappeared without a trace. Since he disappeared during a storm, it was supposed that the ill-fated man went to the very edge of the small, rocky island on which the light-house stood, and was swept out by a wave. This supposition seemed the more likely as his boat was not found next day in its rocky niche. The place of light-house keeper had become vacant. It was necessary to fill this place at the earliest moment possible, since the light-house had no small significance for the local movement as well as for vessels going from New York to Panama. Mosquito Bay abounds in sandbars and banks. Among these navigation, even in the daytime, is difficult; but at night, especially with the fogs which are so frequent on those waters warmed by the sun of the tropics, it is nearly impossible. The only guide at that time for the numerous vessels is the light-house.

The task of finding a new keeper fell to the United States consul living in Panama, and this task was no small one: first, because it was absolutely necessary to find the man within twelve hours; second, the man must be unusually conscientious,—it was not possible, of course, to take the first comer at random; finally, there was an utter lack of candidates. Life on a tower is uncommonly difficult, and by no means enticing to people of the South, who love idleness and the freedom of a vagrant life. That light-house keeper is almost a prisoner. He cannot leave his rocky island except on Sundays. A boat from Aspinwall brings him provisions and water once a day, and returns immediately; on the whole island, one acre in area, there is no inhabitant. The keeper lives in the light-house; he keeps it in order. During the day he gives signals by displaying flags of various colors to indicate changes of the barometer; in the evening he lights the lantern. This would be no great labor were it not that to reach the lantern at the summit of the tower he must pass over more than four hundred steep and very high steps; sometimes he must make this journey repeatedly during the day. In general, it is the life of a monk, and indeed more than that,—the life of a hermit. It was not wonderful, therefore, that Mr. Isaac Falconbridge was in no small anxiety as to where he should find a permanent successor to the recent keeper; and it is easy to understand his joy when a successor announced himself most unexpectedly on that very day. He was a man already old, seventy years or more, but fresh, erect, with the movements and bearing of a soldier. His hair was perfectly white, his face as dark as that of a Creole; but, judging from his blue eyes, he did not belong to a people of the South. His face was somewhat downcast and sad, but honest. At the first glance he pleased Falconbridge. It remained only to examine him. Therefore the following conversation began:

“Where are you from?”

“I am a Pole.”

“Where have you worked up to this time?”

“In one place and another.”

“A light-house keeper should like to stay in one place.”

“I need rest.”

“Have you served? Have you testimonials of honorable government service?”

The old man drew from his bosom a piece of faded silk resembling a strip of an old flag, unwound it, and said:

“Here are the testimonials. I received this cross in 1830. This second one is Spanish from the Carlist War; the third is the French legion; the fourth I received in Hungary. Afterward I fought in the States against the South; there they do not give crosses.”

Falconbridge took the paper and began to read.

“H’m! Skavinski? Is that your name? H’m! Two flags captured in a bayonet attack. You were a gallant soldier.”

“I am able to be a conscientious light-house keeper.”

“It is necessary to ascend the tower a number of times daily. Have you sound legs?”

“I crossed the plains on foot.” (The immense steppes between the East and California are called “the plains.”)

“Do you know sea service?”

“I served three years on a whaler.”

“You have tried various occupations.”

“The only one I have not known is quiet.”

“Why is that?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Such is my fate.”

“Still you seem to me too old for a light-house keeper.”

“Sir,” exclaimed the candidate suddenly in a voice of emotion, “I am greatly wearied, knocked about. I have passed through much as you see. This place is one of those which I have wished for most ardently. I am old, I need rest. I need to say to myself, ‘Here you will remain; this is your port.’ Ah, sir, this depends now on you alone. Another time perhaps such a place will not offer itself. What luck that I was in Panama! I entreat you—as God is dear to me, I am like a ship which if it misses the harbor will be lost. If you wish to make an old man happy—I swear to you that I am honest, but—I have enough of wandering.”

The blue eyes of the old man expressed such earnest entreaty that Falconbridge, who had a good, simple heart, was touched.

“Well,” said he, “I take you. You are light-house keeper.”

The old man’s face gleamed with inexpressible joy.

“I thank you.”

“Can you go to the tower to-day?”

“I can.”

“Then good-bye. Another word,—for any failure in service you will be dismissed.”

“All right.”

That same evening, when the sun had descended on the other side of the isthmus, and a day of sunshine was followed by a night without twilight, the new keeper was in his place evidently, for the light-house was casting its bright rays on the water as usual. The night was perfectly calm, silent, genuinely tropical, filled with a transparent haze, forming around the moon a great colored rainbow with soft, unbroken edges; the sea was moving only because the tide raised it. Skavinski on the balcony seemed from below like a small black point. He tried to collect his thoughts and take in his new position; but his mind was too much under pressure to move with regularity. He felt somewhat as a hunted beast feels when at last it has found refuge from pursuit on some inaccessible rock or in a cave. There had come to him, finally, an hour of quiet; the feeling of safety filled his soul with a certain unspeakable bliss. Now on that rock he can simply laugh at his previous wanderings, his misfortunes and failures. He was in truth like a ship whose masts, ropes, and sails had been broken and rent by a tempest, and cast from the clouds to the bottom of the sea,—a ship on which the tempest had hurled waves and spat foam, but which still wound its way to the harbor. The pictures of that storm passed quickly through his mind as he compared it with the calm future now beginning. A part of his wonderful adventures he had related to Falconbridge; he had not mentioned, however, thousands of other incidents. It had been his misfortune that as often as he pitched his tent and fixed his fireplace to settle down permanently, some wind tore out the stakes of his tent, whirled away the fire, and bore him on toward destruction. Looking now from the balcony of the tower at the illuminated waves, he remembered everything through which he had passed. He had campaigned in the four parts of the world, and in wandering had tried almost every occupation. Labor-loving and honest, more than once had he earned money, and had always lost it in spite of every prevision and the utmost caution. He had been a gold-miner in Australia, a diamond-digger in Africa, a rifleman in public service in the East Indies. He established a ranch in California,—the drought ruined him; he tried trading with wild tribes in the interior of Brazil,—his raft was wrecked on the Amazon; he himself alone, weaponless, and nearly naked, wandered in the forest for many weeks living on wild fruits, exposed every moment to death from the jaws of wild beasts. He established a forge in Helena, Arkansas, and that was burned in a great fire which consumed the whole town. Next he fell into the hands of Indians in the Rocky Mountains, and only through a miracle was he saved by Canadian trappers. Then he served as a sailor on a vessel running between Bahia and Bordeaux, and as harpooner on a whaling-ship; both vessels were wrecked. He had a cigar factory in Havana, and was robbed by his partner while he himself was lying sick with the vomito. At last he came to Aspinwall, and there was to be the end of his failures,—for what could reach him on that rocky island? Neither water nor fire nor men. But from men Skavinski had not suffered much; he had met good men oftener than bad ones.

But it seemed to him that all the four elements were persecuting him. Those who knew him said that he had no luck, and with that they explained everything. He himself became somewhat of a monomaniac. He believed that some mighty and vengeful hand was pursuing him everywhere, on all lands and waters. He did not like, however, to speak of this; only at times, when some one asked him whose hand that could be, he pointed mysteriously to the Polar Star, and said, “It comes from that place.” In reality his failures were so continuous that they were wonderful, and might easily drive a nail into the head, especially of the man who had experienced them. But Skavinski had the patience of an Indian, and that great calm power of resistance which comes from truth of heart. In his time he had received in Hungary a number of bayonet-thrusts because he would not grasp at a stirrup which was shown as means of salvation to him, and cry for quarter. In like manner he did not bend to misfortune. He crept up against the mountain as industriously as an ant. Pushed down a hundred times, he began his journey calmly for the hundred and first time. He was in his way a most peculiar original. This old soldier, tempered, God knows in how many fires, hardened in suffering, hammered and forged, had the heart of a child. In the time of the epidemic in Cuba, the vomito attacked him because he had given to the sick all his quinine, of which he had a considerable supply, and left not a grain to himself.

There had been in him also this wonderful quality,—that after so many disappointments he was ever full of confidence, and did not lose hope that all would be well yet. In winter he grew lively, and predicted great events. He waited for these events with impatience, and lived with the thought of them whole summers. But the winters passed one after another, and Skavinski lived only to this,—that they whitened his head. At last he grew old, began to lose energy; his endurance was becoming more and more like resignation, his former calmness was tending toward supersensitiveness, and that tempered soldier was degenerating into a man ready to shed tears for any cause. Besides this, from time to time he was weighed down by a terrible homesickness which was roused by any circumstance,—the sight of swallows, gray birds like sparrows, snow on the mountains, or melancholy music like that heard on a time. Finally, there was one idea which mastered him,—the idea of rest. It mastered the old man thoroughly, and swallowed all other desires and hopes. This ceaseless wanderer could not imagine anything more to be longed for, anything more precious, than a quiet corner in which to rest, and wait in silence for the end. Perhaps specially because some whim of fate had so hurried him over all seas and lands that he could hardly catch his breath, did he imagine that the highest human happiness was simply not to wander. It is true that such modest happiness was his due; but he was so accustomed to disappointments that he thought of rest as people in general think of something which is beyond reach. He did not dare to hope for it. Meanwhile, unexpectedly, in the course of twelve hours he had gained a position which was as if chosen for him out of all the world. We are not to wonder, then, that when he lighted his lantern in the evening he became as it were dazed,—that he asked himself if that was reality, and he did not dare to answer that it was. But at the same time reality convinced him with incontrovertible proofs; hence hours one after another passed while he was on the balcony. He gazed, and convinced himself. It might seem that he was looking at the sea for the first time in his life. The lens of the lantern cast into the darkness an enormous triangle of light, beyond which the eye of the old man was lost in the black distance completely, in the distance mysterious and awful. But that distance seemed to run toward the light. The long waves following one another rolled out from the darkness, and went bellowing toward the base of the island; and then their foaming backs were visible, shining rose-colored in the light of the lantern. The incoming tide swelled more and more, and covered the sandy bars. The mysterious speech of the ocean came with a fulness more powerful and louder, at one time like the thunder of cannon, at another like the roar of great forests, at another like the distant dull sound of the voices of people. At moments it was quiet; then to the ears of the old man came some great sigh, then a kind of sobbing, and again threatening outbursts. At last the wind bore away the haze, but brought black, broken clouds, which hid the moon. From the west it began to blow more and more; the waves sprang with rage against the rock of the light-house, licking with foam the foundation walls. In the distance a storm was beginning to bellow. On the dark, disturbed expanse certain green lanterns gleamed from the masts of ships. These green points rose high and then sank; now they swayed to the right, and now to the left. Skavinski descended to his room. The storm began to howl. Outside, people on those ships were struggling with night, with darkness, with waves; but inside the tower it was calm and still. Even the sounds of the storm hardly came through the thick walls, and only the measured tick-tack of the clock lulled the wearied old man to his slumber.


Hours, days, and weeks began to pass. Sailors assert that sometimes when the sea is greatly roused, something from out the midst of night and darkness calls them by name. If the infinity of the sea may call out thus, perhaps when a man is growing old, calls come to him, too, from another infinity still darker and more deeply mysterious; and the more he is wearied by life the dearer are those calls to him. But to hear them quiet is needed. Besides old age loves to put itself aside as if with a foreboding of the grave. The light-house had become for Skavinski such a half grave. Nothing is more monotonous than life on a beacon-tower. If young people consent to take up this service they leave it after a time. Light-house keepers are generally men not young, gloomy, and confined to themselves. If by chance one of them leaves his light-house and goes among men, he walks in the midst of them like a person roused from deep slumber. On the tower there is a lack of minute impressions which in ordinary life teach men to adapt themselves to everything. All that a light-house keeper comes in contact with is gigantic, and devoid of definitely outlined forms. The sky is one whole, the water another; and between those two infinities the soul of man is in loneliness. That is a life in which thought is continual meditation, and out of that meditation nothing rouses the keeper, not even his work. Day is like day as two beads in a rosary, unless changes of weather form the only variety. But Skavinski felt more happiness than ever in life before. He rose with the dawn, took his breakfast, polished the lens, and then sitting on the balcony gazed into the distance of the water; and his eyes were never sated with the pictures which he saw before him. On the enormous turquoise ground of the ocean were to be seen generally flocks of swollen sails gleaming in the rays of the sun so brightly that the eyes were blinking before the excess of light. Sometimes the ships, favored by the so-called trade winds, went in an extended line one after another, like a chain of sea-mews or albatrosses. The red casks indicating the channel swayed on the light wave with gentle movement. Among the sails appeared every afternoon gigantic grayish feather-like plumes of smoke. That was a steamer from New York which brought passengers and goods to Aspinwall, drawing behind it a frothy path of foam. On the other side of the balcony Skavinski saw, as if on his palm, Aspinwall and its busy harbor, and in it a forest of masts, boats, and craft; a little farther, white houses and the towers of the town. From the height of his tower the small houses were like the nests of sea-mews, the boats were like beetles, and the people moved around like small points on the white stone boulevard. From early morning a light eastern breeze brought a confused hum of human life, above which predominated the whistle of steamers. In the afternoon six o’clock came; the movement in the harbor began to cease; the mews hid themselves in the rents of the cliffs; the waves grew feeble and became in some sort lazy; and then on the land, on the sea, and on the tower came a time of stillness unbroken by anything. The yellow sands from which the waves had fallen back glittered like golden stripes on the width of the waters; the body of the tower was outlined definitely in blue. Floods of sunbeams were poured from the sky on the water and the sands and the cliff. At that time a certain lassitude full of sweetness seized the old man. He felt that the rest which he was enjoying was excellent; and when he thought that it would be continuous nothing was lacking to him.

Skavinski was intoxicated with his own happiness; and since a man adapts himself easily to improved conditions, he gained faith and confidence by degrees; for he thought that if men built houses for invalids, why should not God gather up at last His own invalids? Time passed, and confirmed him in this conviction. The old man grew accustomed to his tower, to the lantern, to the rock, to the sand-bars, to solitude. He grew accustomed also to the sea-mews which hatched in the crevices of the rock, and in the evening held meetings on the roof of the light-house. Skavinski threw to them generally the remnants of his food; and soon they grew tame, and afterward, when he fed them, a real storm of white wings encircled him, and the old man went among the birds like a shepherd among sheep. When the tide ebbed he went to the low sand-banks, on which he collected savory periwinkles and beautiful pearl shells of the nautilus, which receding waves had left on the sand. In the night by the moonlight and the tower he went to catch fish, which frequented the windings of the cliff in myriads. At last he was in love with his rocks and his treeless little island, grown over only with small thick plants exuding sticky resin. The distant views repaid him for the poverty of the island, however. During afternoon hours, when the air became very clear he could see the whole isthmus covered with the richest vegetation. It seemed to Skavinski at such times that he saw one gigantic garden,—bunches of cocoa, and enormous musa, combined as it were in luxurious tufted bouquets, right there behind the houses of Aspinwall. Farther on, between Aspinwall and Panama, was a great forest over which every morning and evening hung a reddish haze of exhalations,—a real tropical forest with its feet in stagnant water, interlaced with lianas and filled with the sound of one sea of gigantic orchids, palms, milk-trees, iron-trees, gum-trees.

Through his field-glass the old man could see not only trees and the broad leaves of bananas, but even legions of monkeys and great marabous and flocks of parrots, rising at times like a rainbow cloud over the forest. Skavinski knew such forests well, for after being wrecked on the Amazon he had wandered whole weeks among similar arches and thickets. He had seen how many dangers and deaths lie concealed under those wonderful and smiling exteriors. During the nights which he had spent in them he heard close at hand the sepulchral voices of howling monkeys and the roaring of the jaguars; he saw gigantic serpents coiled like lianas on trees; he knew those slumbering forest lakes full of torpedo-fish and swarming with crocodiles; he knew under what a yoke man lives in those unexplored wildernesses in which are single leaves that exceed a man’s size ten times,—wildernesses swarming with blood-drinking mosquitoes, tree-leeches, and gigantic poisonous spiders. He had experienced that forest life himself, had witnessed it, had passed through it; therefore it gave him the greater enjoyment to look from his height and gaze on those matos, admire their beauty, and be guarded from their treacherousness. His tower preserved him from every evil. He left it only for a few hours on Sunday. He put on then his blue keeper’s coat with silver buttons, and hung his crosses on his breast. His milk-white head was raised with a certain pride when he heard at the door, while entering the church, the Creoles say among themselves, “We have an honorable light-house keeper and not a heretic, though he is a Yankee.” But he returned straightway after Mass to his island, and returned happy, for he had still no faith in the mainland. On Sunday also he read the Spanish newspaper which he brought in the town, or the New York Herald, which he borrowed from Falconbridge; and he sought in it European news eagerly. The poor old heart on that light-house tower, and in another hemisphere, was beating yet for its birthplace. At times too, when the boat brought his daily supplies and water to the island, he went down from the tower to talk with Johnson, the guard. But after a while he seemed to grow shy. He ceased to go to the town to read the papers and to go down to talk politics with Johnson. Whole weeks passed in this way, so that no one saw him and he saw no one. The only signs that the old man was living were the disappearance of the provisions left on shore, and the light of the lantern kindled every evening with the same regularity with which the sun rose in the morning from the waters of those regions. Evidently, the old man had become indifferent to the world. Homesickness was not the cause, but just this,—that even homesickness had passed into resignation. The whole world began now and ended for Skavinski on his island. He had grown accustomed to the thought that he would not leave the tower till his death, and he simply forgot that there was anything else besides it. Moreover, he had become a mystic; his mild blue eyes began to stare like the eyes of a child, and were as if fixed on something at a distance. In presence of a surrounding uncommonly simple and great, the old man was losing the feeling of personality; he was ceasing to exist as an individual, was becoming merged more and more in that which enclosed him. He did not understand anything beyond his environment; he felt only unconsciously. At last it seems to him that the heavens, the water, his rock, the tower, the golden sand-banks, and the swollen sails, the sea-mews, the ebb and flow of the tide,—all form a mighty unity, one enormous mysterious soul; that he is sinking in that mystery, and feels that soul which lives and lulls itself. He sinks and is rocked, forgets himself; and in that narrowing of his own individual existence, in that half-waking, half-sleeping, he has discovered a rest so great that it nearly resembles half-death.


But the awakening came.

On a certain day, when the boat brought water and a supply of provisions, Skavinski came down an hour later from the tower, and saw that besides the usual cargo there was an additional package. On the outside of this package were postage stamps of the United States, and the address: “Skavinski, Esq.,” written on coarse canvas.

The old man, with aroused curiosity, cut the canvas, and saw books; he took one in his hand, looked at it, and put it back; thereupon his hands began to tremble greatly. He covered his eyes as if he did not believe them; it seemed to him as if he were dreaming. The book was Polish,—what did that mean? Who could have sent the book? Clearly, it did not occur to him at the first moment that in the beginning of his light-house career he had read in the Herald, borrowed from the consul, of the formation of a Polish society in New York, and had sent at once to that society half his month’s salary, for which he had, moreover, no use on the tower. The society had sent him the books with thanks. The books came in the natural way; but at the first moment the old man could not seize those thoughts. Polish books in Aspinwall, on his tower, amid his solitude,—that was for him something uncommon, a certain breath from past times, a kind of miracle. Now it seemed to him, as to those sailors in the night, that something was calling him by name with a voice greatly beloved and nearly forgotten. He sat for a while with closed eyes, and was almost certain that, when he opened them, the dream would be gone.

The package, cut open, lay before him, shone upon clearly by the afternoon sun, and on it was an open book. When the old man stretched his hand toward it again, he heard in the stillness the beating of his own heart. He looked; it was poetry. On the outside stood printed in great letters the title, underneath the name of the author. The name was not strange to Skavinski; he saw that it belonged to the great poet, [Footnote: Mickiewicz (pronounced Mitskyevich), the greatest poet of Poland.] whose productions he had read in 1830 in Paris. Afterward, when campaigning in Algiers and Spain, he had heard from his countrymen of the growing fame of the great seer; but he was so accustomed to the musket at that time that he took no book in hand. In 1849 he went to America, and in the adventurous life which he led he hardly ever met a Pole, and never a Polish book. With the greater eagerness, therefore, and with a livelier beating of the heart, did he turn to the title-page. It seemed to him then that on his lonely rock some solemnity is about to take place. Indeed it was a moment of great calm and silence. The clocks of Aspinwall were striking five in the afternoon. Not a cloud darkened the clear sky; only a few sea-mews were sailing through the air. The ocean was as if cradled to sleep. The waves on the shore stammered quietly, spreading softly on the sand. In the distance the white houses of Aspinwall, and the wonderful groups of palm, were smiling. In truth, there was something there solemn, calm, and full of dignity. Suddenly, in the midst of that calm of Nature, was heard the trembling voice of the old man, who read aloud as if to understand himself better:

“Thou art like health, O my birth-land Litva!
How much we should prize thee he only can know who has lost thee.
Thy beauty in perfect adornment this day
I see and describe, because I am yearning for thee.”

His voice failed Skavinski. The letters began to dance before his eyes; something broke in his breast, and went like a wave from his heart higher and higher, choking his voice and pressing his throat. A moment more he controlled himself, and read further:

“O Holy Lady, who guardest bright Chenstohova,
Who shinest in Ostrobrama and preservest
The castle town Novgrodek with its trusty people,
As Thou didst give me back to health in childhood,
When by my weeping mother placed beneath Thy care
I raised my lifeless eyelids upward,
And straightway walked unto Thy holy threshold,
To thank God for the life restored me,—
So by a wonder now restore us to the bosom of our birthplace.”

The swollen wave broke through the restraint of his will. The old man sobbed, and threw himself on the ground; his milk-white hair was mingled with the sand of the sea. Forty years had passed since he had seen his country, and God knows how many since he heard his native speech; and now that speech had come to him itself,—it had sailed to him over the ocean, and found him in solitude on another hemisphere,—it so loved, so dear, so beautiful! In the sobbing which shook him there was no pain,—only a suddenly aroused immense love, in the presence of which other things are as nothing. With that great weeping he had simply implored forgiveness of that beloved one, set aside because he had grown so old, had become so accustomed to his solitary rock, and had so forgotten it that in him even longing had begun to disappear. But now it returned as if by a miracle; therefore the heart leaped in him.

Moments vanished one after another; he lay there continually. The mews flew over the light-house, crying as if alarmed for their old friend. The hour in which he fed them with the remnants of his food had come; therefore, some of them flew down from the light-house to him; then more and more came, and began to pick and to shake their wings over his head. The sound of the wings roused him. He had wept his fill, and had now a certain calm and brightness; but his eyes were as if inspired. He gave unwittingly all his provisions to the birds, which rushed at him with an uproar, and he himself took the book again. The sun had gone already behind the gardens and the forest of Panama, and was going slowly beyond the isthmus to the other ocean; but the Atlantic was full of light yet; in the open air there was still perfect vision; therefore, he read further:

“Now bear my longing soul to those forest slopes, to those green meadows.”

At last the dusk obliterates the letters on the white paper,—the dusk short as a twinkle. The old man rested his head on the rock, and closed his eyes. Then “She who defends bright Chenstohova” took his soul, and transported it to “those fields colored by various grain.” On the sky were burning yet those long stripes, red and golden, and on those brightnesses he was flying to beloved regions. The pine-woods were sounding in his ears; the streams of his native place were murmuring. He saw everything as it was; everything asked him, “Dost remember?” He remembers! he sees broad fields; between the fields, woods and villages. It is night now. At this hour his lantern usually illuminates the darkness of the sea; but now he is in his native village. His old head has dropped on his breast, and he is dreaming. Pictures are passing before his eyes quickly, and a little disorderly. He does not see the house in which he was born, for war had destroyed it; he does not see his father and mother, for they died when he was a child; but still the village is as if he had left it yesterday,—the line of cottages with lights in the windows, the mound, the mill, the two ponds opposite each other, and thundering all night with a chorus of frogs. Once he had been on guard in that village all night; now that past stood before him at once in a series of views. He is an Ulan again, and he stands there on guard; at a distance is the public-house; he looks with swimming eyes. There is thundering and singing and shouting amid the silence of the night with voices of fiddles and bass-viols “U-ha! U-ha!” Then the Ulans knock out fire with their horseshoes, and it is wearisome for him there on his horse. The hours drag on slowly; at last the lights are quenched; now as far as the eye reaches there is mist, and mist impenetrable; now the fog rises, evidently from the fields, and embraces the whole world with a whitish cloud. You would say, a complete ocean. But that is fields; soon the land-rail will be heard in the darkness, and the bitterns will call from the reeds. The night is calm and cool,—in truth, a Polish night! In the distance the pine-wood is sounding without wind, like the roll of the sea. Soon dawn will whiten the East. In fact, the cocks are beginning to crow behind the hedges. One answers to another from cottage to cottage; the storks are screaming somewhere on high. The Ulan feels well and bright. Some one had spoken of a battle to-morrow. Hei! that will go on, like all the others, with shouting, with fluttering of flaglets. The young blood is playing like a trumpet, though the night cools it. But it is dawning. Already night is growing pale; out of the shadows come forests, the thicket, a row of cottages, the mill, the poplars. The well is squeaking like a metal banner on a tower. What a beloved land, beautiful in the rosy gleams of the morning! Oh, the one land, the one land!

Quiet! the watchful picket hears that some one is approaching. Of course, they are coming to relieve the guard.

Suddenly some voice is heard above Skavinski,—

“Here, old man! Get up! What’s the matter?”

The old man opens his eyes, and looks with wonder at the person standing before him. The remnants of the dream-visions struggle in his head with reality. At last the visions pale and vanish. Before him stands Johnson, the harbor guide.

“What’s this?” asked Johnson; “are you sick?”


“You didn’t light the lantern. You must leave your place. A vessel from St. Geromo was wrecked on the bar. It is lucky that no one was drowned, or you would go to trial. Get into the boat with me; you’ll hear the rest at the Consulate.”

The old man grew pale; in fact he had not lighted the lantern that night.

A few days later, Skavinski was seen on the deck of a steamer, which was going from Aspinwall to New York. The poor man had lost his place. There opened before him new roads of wandering; the wind had torn that leaf away again to whirl it over lands and seas, to sport with it till satisfied. The old man had failed greatly during those few days, and was bent over; only his eyes were gleaming. On his new road of life he held at his breast his book, which from time to time he pressed with his hand as if in fear that that too might go from him.


Jonathan Beale ~ Blind as moles

After Notre Dame No. 2 (1907)

The statement stands – void like a statue –
Within space – without space.
The crippled state of the stone blurred,
From the seam to Babel’s
Misguided ideal to its false reality.
And as a vague part of the daily furniture.
Of they who pass by, on the bus or the tram
Reading books or newspapers.
Or just nonchalantly dreaming along.
In a form of, sui genis there for even the richest.
Why where these statements built?
There for dictates for the poor are no
Dictates at all – only silence as their ears bleed.
As they only seek a thin slice of paradise.

…and just seventeen years before,
A tempestuous restless mind
Commented on a similar scene.
Van Gogh’s ‘The Church at Auvers’ –
Who saw the impeding overshadowment
Of the doorless private members’ club –
He would never he could never enter
Or be invited in to share their cup by deed
As the might of blood spilled
One drop to wash the world – while
The earthly paths lead round to
A doorless Impenetrable man-made Island
Where the inhabitants find
Their own private Eden


Jonathan Beale has 300 plus poems published in such journals as DM, Decanto, Penwood Review, The Screech Owl, DM du Jour, Poetic Diversity, and also; Voices of Israel in English, MiracleEzine, Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, The Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, & (Drowning: Down in the Dirt July 13) The English Chicago Review, Mad Swirl, Poetry Cornwall, Leaves of Ink, Ariadne’s Thread, Bijou Poetry Review, Calvary Cross, Deadsnakes Review, The Bitchin Kitsch, The Dawntreader, I am not a Silent Poet, Pyrokinection, Festival of Language, ‘Don’t Be Afraid: An Anthology to Seamus Heaney’, Ygdrasil, the Four Seasons Anthology and The Seventh Quarry. He was commended in Decanto’s and Café Writers Poetry Competitions 2012. He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London and lives in Surrey, England.
His first collection of poetry, The Destinations of Raxiera, is available from Hammer & Anvil Books.

Destinations BEALE a

Tales of the Trolls



A peasant from Jursagard in the parish of Hanger had gone to the forest the day before Christmas, and started out for home late in the evening. He had just about reached the Klintaberg when he heard some one call out: “Tell the malt-swine to come home, for her child has fallen into the fire!” When the peasant reached home, there stood his wife, who had been brewing the Yuletide ale, and she was complaining that though she brewed and brewed, it did not have the right flavor. Then he told her what had been shouted at him from the hill, and that very moment a troll-witch, whom they had not noticed before, darted down from the stove and made off in a great hurry. And when they looked closer, they found that she had left behind a great kettle full of the best malt, which she had gathered during the brewing. And that was the reason the poor woman had not been able to give her brew the right flavor. The kettle was large, made of ornamented metal, and was long preserved in Hanger. It was at length sold at auction in 1838, and melted down.


In former days, when a child came into the world, his mother was known as a “heathen,” until she could take him to church to be christened. And it was not safe for her to leave the house unless she carried steel about her in some shape or form. Now once there was one of these “heathen” women in Norra Ryd, in the parish of Hanger, who prepared lunch for the mowers, and went out and called them in to eat. Then one of the mowers said to her: “I cannot come, for my sheaf is not yet bound.” “I will bind it for you,” said the woman. The mowers went in and ate, but saw no more of her. They went back into the field, and were about to take up their work again, but still neither saw nor heard her. They began to search, and hunted for a number of days; but all in vain. Time passed, till it was late in the fall. One day the weather was clear and sunny. To this very day there is a cotter’s hut, called Kusabo, that stands on a hill named Kusas, and the cotter who lived there went to look for a horse. And there on the hillside he saw the woman sitting who had disappeared, and she was sewing. It was not far from Kusabo to Norra Ryd, so he recognized her at once. He said[161] “O, you poor thing, and here you sit!” “Yes,” said she, “but you must never mention it to Lars”—that was her husband—”for I shall never return from this place. Even now I am only allowed to sit outside for a little while.”


Once upon a time a girl was hunting for berries on Kusabo mountain, and was taken into the hill. But she wept, night and day, which disgruntled the trolls, and they let her out again. But just as they were letting her out, one of the trolls hit her such a blow on the back that she was hump-backed for the rest of her life. She herself used to tell how she had been kept in the hill.


The Destinations of Raxiera


Jonathan Beale’s poetry is vivid, setting you right into the scene, feeling the words and the emotions deep in the spirit. Every poet has something to say, Jonathan Beale says it with zeal!

Stephen Jarrell Williams


The viewer of art watches the artist paint. The reader of poetry gets the back story. Edward Hopper’s subjects are still and quiet as the moment in which he captures them. Jonathan Beale’s poems get them moving again. He gets them talking, whispering, hurting, and dreaming. He speaks of rituals and cleansing. He tells all about the invisible among us who have disappeared. Lean in and you can hear dark secrets being told on the stairway at 48 rue de Lille. Hopper captures a moment in time, a quietness, a stillness. In The Destinations of Raxiera, Beale re-animates those moments into sparkling language.

Lori Cameron


Capturing the beauty of landmark paintings in vivid words of imagery that paint a picture in their own right, poet Jonathan Beale is truly a master. His words shed light on philosophical concepts that are essential to understanding the universal human experience. With simple yet descriptive word usage and a crisp word flow, his poems are a joy to read and make for a great reading experience.

Annamarie Buonocore


In his wonderful debut poetry collection The Destinations of Raxiera, Jonathan Beale paints striking word pictures based on the art of Edward Hopper. Beale manages to bring to life the beautiful but static images in a non-didactic and allusive way that expands the tiniest visual details into sensitive and engaging linguistic possibilities.

Simon Pinkerton

* * *

The Destinations of Raxiera

…from Hammer & Anvil Books
Available exclusively at!

Destinations BEALE a

Roy Edward Jackson ~ Deer Season


Camron Davidson arrived at Alchemy that fall and struggled to fit into the History Department. He thought it was because his colleagues were intimidated by where he matriculated though his college years. They weren’t. His arrogance annoyed them. In an attempt to assert himself he couldn’t stop reciting his CV to anyone he cornered. No one was interested in his strange dissertation on Goliardic Secular Medieval Technological Advances. Alchemy was a science based school and his colleagues in the History Department studied war and technological advances in weaponry in their college dissertations. When he was applying for tenure track positions he thought with all of Alchemy College’s strange festivals and strong science departments it would merge well with dissertation. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

He made one friend in his short time at Alchemy. Matt Anderson taught botany and lived life at Alchemy like an extension of his frat days. He had an ability to party with students but not get any trouble with the college for blurring lines. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t sleeping with students, which was all too common at Alchemy. As nights turned to their dark hours, much earlier in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in the fall than in most other places, Matt was able to charm anyone into doing things they normally wouldn’t.

In any other world these two would never have spent any time together. But stuck in the U.P. made Cameron crave companionship. The cold and darkness of the fall nights made him feel isolated and alone. All the expansiveness of the clear skies that allowed the stars to shine bright didn’t inspire him, instead he felt that the stars were closing in on him. The sky couldn’t have felt any closer. He missed the city lights of Berkley and San Francisco that blocked all those starts. It surprised him how much he wanted Matt’s approval. He wanted a friend and someone to pass those long dark nights with. His bruised ego inflated like he had never expected and before he knew it he was attending his first frat party ever.

Alpha Chi Sigma was the largest fraternity at Alchemy College and had the best post October festival party. ACS, or any fraternal organization at the school for that matter, wasn’t your typical frat. Houses at Alchemy were academic based and at a school with such a name there were three chemistry based frats, but the Alpha house was the oldest and most traditional.

“It’s just a little acid. Don’t go breaking our traditions here at Alchemy College Professor Davidson. During the Harvest Festival everyone throws back like it’s the late 60’s. Even the Profs.” By the next morning Camron Davidson couldn’t remember which one of his students said this to him.

“Come on Cam, it’s student brewed.” Matt said. “How potent can it be? Just a hit.”

“I’ve never done acid.”

“What the fuck dude? You went to Berkley.”

“I don’t think anyone at Berkeley has done acid since the 80’s. I’ve done ecstasy but I didn’t even know that acid was still around.”

“The different chemistry frats compete for best acid and honestly I think most is bunk, but if you have a chance at a semblance of a trip go with the Sigma’s.”

“What should I expect?”

“It’s mild man. You’ll feel good. But don’t drink on it. There’s no point. You can’t get drunk on acid and that cheap keg beer will make you pee all night. And the last place to spend the night on acid is in a bathroom.”


“Mirrors dude.”

Matt handed him the tiny square of paper. Camron let it dissolve on his tongue as instructed. He wasn’t sure what to expect and after ten minutes he was convinced it was bunk. He walked out to the front porch and looked over the campus.

Alchemy was a world away from UC Berkeley. Located in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan the daylight dried up by the end of September and by October the snow fall had accumulated to over a foot. The town of Ungula had a population of seven thousand people, half of them worked for or attended the college. The other half kept far away from the college and their festivals. Camron had mistakenly made those worlds collide with a war over parking tickets pitting campus security against the local police.

The Sigma party started to fill up the old frat house. The frat mansion was purchased in the early 1900’s and there were stories of hauntings and suicides. The party was well known among the Alchemy community and tourists who attend the festival as the one event everyone wanted to go to. The only people who didn’t want anything to do with the Sigma’s party, or Alchemy College, were townies and the police.

“Professor Davidson, what are you doing here?” One of the brothers asked while they were waiting in line for the bathroom. Camron had to go even though Matt’s warning of the bathroom echoed in his mind. He wasn’t sure if the student’s mouth was moving or he was reading the boy’s thoughts. Faces were becoming oddly shaped and moving around on torsos. “Hey, you in there Professor?”

“Yes. Matt Anderson brought me.”

“I like Professor Anderson’s class. We’ve been foraging for fun fungi.”


“Yup. How do you like it here?”

“I’m concerned that the walls seem to breathe.”

“Sure thing. Enjoy your trip Professor Davidson.”

Cameron made his way to the bathroom and once inside started asking questions to no one.

“Did to that kid really talk to me or did we telepathically exchange information? Is this acid working? Are the walls pulsating? Can they hear me breathe?”

He struggled maneuvering his zipper. By the time he got to peeing the toilet was pulsating and moving in and out with his heartbeat. He missed the bowl with his stream.

The mirror was enticing and horrifying. He examined his hairline and pores and never realized how large the holes in his skin were. After a period of time he realized that the pounding that was causing him a slight panic wasn’t his heart but someone at the door. The same student was waiting for him outside the bathroom.

“You OK in there?”


“You were in there like twenty minute. Looking at the floor it seemed you couldn’t pee straight.”

“Twenty minutes, more like two. Have you seen Professor Anderson?”

“Sure. Two minutes if you say so. Anderson’s around somewhere. He’s here a lot. He’s always bringing these two townies around. They like buying our foraged mushrooms.”

“Townies? What do you mean about mushrooms?”

“You take care of yourself Professor Davidson.”

The student walked away and down the stairs to the basement looking over his shoulder at his professor. Cameron wandered to the back of the house where a band was setting up and they put on a set just for him, he thought. The music flowed and the beat of the woofer synced with his breathing. It was his best live music experience. He went back and forth from dancing out of beat with the music to trying to unlock his phone to record them. Everything was moving fast, not blurry but his vision when looking ahead became full of motion as if he was looking out of the side window on a car. His peripheral vision, however, was locked like a still photograph.

“Hey teach, you enjoying yourself?”

“Yea, that set was great. Where you been Matt? I can’t believe no one’s watching.”

“Set? That was a sound check dude.”

“No, I’ve been here watching for like an hour.”

“I don’t think so, they just got here. That was like a five minute sound check.”

“Really, I must be confused. I really liked it, it was great. I tried taking a video but my phone’s broken.”

“I don’t think it’s your phone man. It’s just a trip.”


“Just go with it. Enjoy the party. I got some business to attend to. You stay here and enjoy the music. I see my buddies from town made it. We got to take care of something in the basement”

Cameron missed most of what Matt said as he was focused on trying to unlock his phone. “Wait. What did you say? Where are you going?”

He looked up to see Matt with two guys heading back into the house. Matt gave him a knowing smile over his shoulder.
Cameron continued to work on his phone. His swiping ability was altered and every time he tried to unlock it the letters and numbers flew off the screen and to the ground. He attempted to pick them up but they disintegrated with his touch.

A group of brothers sat on a couch watching. It took one of their girlfriends to assist him with unlocking his phone for him. As she passed the brothers she smacked her boyfriend on the head. “You guys are a bunch of dicks. Obviously this is his first time. He’s not your show monkey for fuck’s sake.”

She led him by the arm like he was blind.

“Come on, hold on to my elbow, your eyes are way dilated.”

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace quiet with a bright light. You’re all sweaty.”

She took him to a closet and pulled on the overhead light.

“Look at the bulb it will help those dilated eyes. Give me your phone. You seem to be struggling with it.” She gave him a reassuring smile.

She found a YouTube video of an old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon and left him.

“I’ll be back soon, just rest.”

“Wait, I need help making the sound work. Why Rocky and Bullwinkle? I don’t understand.”

She closed the door.

He still couldn’t swipe properly so he added his own dialogue to the silent cartoon. When the video ended he got up to find her so she could play more cartoons.

As he wandered deeper into the house he found a staircase with floating yellow kite streamers with letters. When the vent blew the black letters slid slowly off the streamer and turned into origami butterflies. He descended the staircase and found a door cracked open. Matt was in there with some of the brothers and the two townies. They were creating art, Christopher thought, on large paper perforated into tiny squares. The same paper squares that he and Matt let dissolve on their tongues earlier in the night. There were mushrooms laid out on another table next to the scale.

“Hey some kid told me you foraged in class, is that what you found?” He asked.

“Shit, what are you doing down here?”

“Who the fuck is that?” The townie yelled.

“He’s no one. Just some prof tripping. He can’t even make out your face. Don’t worry I got this. Come on Cam, let’s get you dancing to some more music.”

“I like music.”

Matt got him up the stairs, past the caution tape, and outside. The townies stood at the top of the stairs watching.
“Listen, take my keys and go to my office. There’s a couch in there. Lay down for a while. Watch something on my computer. Just don’t drive. Did you see those two townies? Could you make out their faces?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Good. Just go now.”

It was a straight shot from the frat house to Matt’s office but Cameron veered off course following snow that was illuminated by the campus rape lights along the pathways. He stopped at each blue light watching snowflakes dissolve when they landed. After an hour he mistakenly hit the panic button when he tried to pick up the one flake that didn’t dissolve and he alerted campus security.

“I need to go to his office.”

“It late Mr. Davidson, walk with us. Whose office? You been drinking?

“No. You know Matt from Botany. I need to go to his office.”

“Let’s give you a Breathalyzer and go from there.”

He passed the test and they walked him to his car. They were more than familiar with where he parked his car since he started the war with local police over his tickets. Campus security had a habit of turning a blind eye if one passed a breath test and the speculation on campus was they equally participated in the distribution of foraged mushrooms and chemically created perforated pages.

As they were walking away he heard one of them say, “What was he saying, his numbers were floating off his cell phone?”

“I know every year during festival I swear it gets weirder.”

“It’s guys like him that make me assured I’ll never attend one of those parties no matter what they pay. I’m good with the little cut we get for moving the stuff around. Bunch of hippy fools if you ask me.”

Camron lived close to campus but he was a distracted driver. By mistakenly hitting a button on his radio he changed the illumination light color and had to pull over until he could find the right color to go with the song he was playing. The song would end and he would have to find a new color to accompany the next song. This went on for seven songs until he found two in a row that could be illuminated by red.

Once he got driving he struggled making out street signs since the white letters were merging with the falling snow.
Although he couldn’t swipe or type on his cell, he could hit the button to activate Suri. She struggled understanding him and after a back and forth Suri took him out on CR14 leading him west of town, far from his apartment.

As the houses got farther apart and streetlights ceased to exist, he put on his bright lights.

Ahead he saw holiday lights blinking and wondered why they would have red and blue lights during Halloween. He followed the lights until suddenly they stopped and disappeared.

Soon he came up to a crossroads and an empty cop car was on the side of the road behind a truck. In the front cab of the truck were the two townies from the basement of the ACS party that Matt was doing business with. The cop was standing next to the driver’s side with his gun drawn.

The townie locked eyes with Camron. Although he had no clear vision he felt a sense of recognition that told him to get away fast. In the driver’s seat the townie turned to his friend and began to talk. Instinct kicked in and Cam speed up and spun his tires. The cop turned when the tire’s spun and that is when the shot rang out although Cam never heard it. His heart was beating too fast as his tires spun and he tried to regain control of his car, he was unable to hear the single shot that killed the officer.

After ten miles the snow began to fall harder and the flakes were large. His glasses slowly changed into magnifiers and he tried to see if it was true that no two snowflakes were alike.

At first he didn’t see the deer. That is how it always is when cars collide with deer at night. Deer’s lose their footing on icy roads and try to back pedal. By the time the animal is in sight, they are staring at the headlights. Camron’s deer was a buck. It was big and muscular and the antlers were like coat racks sticking out waiting to impale the car.

At impact their eyes linked and their hearts synched. In movies car crashes are always loud and the motion is slow for the view to see the impact and damage. When the deer and Camron collided it was fast, abrupt, and chaotic. There was no Hollywood choreography to the crash. It was violent and strangely silent. The airbag blew quickly and caused a deafening and ringing in his ears.

He tried to grab the wheel but it was pulsating and he couldn’t hold tight. It was slipping out of his hands. The car spun two times into a ditch. His head hit the driver’s side door making it into a spider web of broken glass.
All of his senses were heightened but the burn from the airbag on his face infused a pain inside him that he had never experienced before. He couldn’t control his shaking and when he got out of the car he saw the buck in the ditch alive. They stared at each other completely synched.

He tried to call 911 but still couldn’t make the swiping and numbers work so he ran down the country road a mile to a house. By the time he got there his face was on fire from the airbag burn. He dropped face first into the snow to cool it off. As he laid there he began moving his arms and legs and when he stood up he had made an angel. He decided to make two more, a trinity, to help him. As he made them a light upstairs came on and the widow flew open.

“Get the fuck off my property. I got a gun.”

“No, wait. I need help. I hit a deer and my car won’t work and the deer is alive.”

“To hell you did. I don’t see no car. I’m warning you get off my property.”

“No it’s back a ways.”

“Fuck you, I saw you’s making snow angels you fucking freak.” The man shot a warning into the air and he went running back the way he came.

He continued running and the cop car passed him. He felt safe when the cop car slowed, turned around, and eased up to him. His acid vision eluded him to the fact it wasn’t the cop driving the car. That man was dead and two flannel shirted townies were driving it now.

“That your car back there buddy? Hit a deer I see hey.”

“Yes, can you help me officer?”

“Sure thing hop in.”

In the car Cam and the townie locked eyes in the rearview mirror. The townie was looking to see if he recognized him. Although he couldn’t make out faces he felt that same sense of recognition he felt earlier and it showed slowly and easily on his face.

“Why aren’t you wearing uniforms?”

“We’s off duty.”

Camron knew he was trapped but strangely the acid allowed his thinking to overcome the panic.

“Did you shoot it?”

“What you sayin fellow?”

“I heard shots and wasn’t sure if it was you all or if it was that guy.”

“What guy?”

“At that house back there. He had a shot gun.”

“Don’t follow you bud, but we ain’t killing no deer. You’re gonna hafta to do it if it alive.”

When they got there the deer was still breathing. Cam’s thinking cleared.

“It needs to be put down.” He said. “I’ll do it, can I use your gun?”

“Looks like you got your first deer of the season, and on the first weekend. It’s only bow season though man. Can’t shoot.”

“But I didn’t hunt it. I accidentally hit it. If you don’t want to do it I can. Do you mind if I use your gun?”

“Well, it don’t seem right to shoot it? Laws and all. It’s only bow season.”

“But you are off duty.”

“Laws is laws on duty or off duty. I think you gotta use a knife.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I don’t think you have much a choice, or you can let it suffer. But I’s aint doing it. Here’s my hunting knife.”
The two men smiled at each other and waited him out.

“Right across the neck, it’s fastest that way.”

Camron paused and his and the deer’s heartbeats were no longer synced but he could read the deer’s mind and it was in pain and suffering. He had one chance to get away from the townies with the knife. Go at the one with gun, stab him, and then shoot the other. His mind was clear. If he was to get out of this situation that is what he had to do.
But his mind was too open. The deer was speaking to him. When he looked into its’ eyes he saw them watering and it wanted to die. He had a choice to take this moment to save his own life or end the deer’s pain.

So he cut its’ neck. It went slow and his eyesight began to clear up as the deer’s dimmed. He could clearly make out the deer’s face and it showed him gratitude. His breathing wasn’t as loud as before and his heart slowed down.

“Nice job teach.” The townie grabbed the knife slowly as Cam didn’t break eye contact with the deer.

“What did you call me?”

“Come on get in the back we will take you to the station. It’s late. You can lay down a bit and call Matty in the morning.”

“Matt, how do you know I know him? Listen that’s ok. I’m ok. Look there is a house up the way, you can drop me there.”

The two men gave a knowing glance to each other.

“Don’t think so buddy.”

They passed the house and Christopher looked at it from the rear window. He spent the rest of the time in the back trying to unlock his phone. Although his vision was clearer his swiping was no better and he never got it unlocked.
When they got to the station the two men opened the trunk and took out a portfolio case containing the perforated sheets and baggies of mushrooms.

“Evidence Professor.” One of the men laughed.

It was a typical small town station, like a movie set with four desks, a few waiting chairs and two cells in back.

“Come on teach, you can lay down in one of the cells.”

They escorted him to the back and closed the door to the cell. One of them fumbled with the keys and had to try four before finding the right one.

“Hey, why are closing that? Don’t lock it. I’m just going to lay down for a while. Don’t close it.”

“It’s for your own good. Well it’s for our good at least.”

The two men looked at each other.

“What are we going to do with him?” One of the townies said. “Do you think he can see straight yet? I don’t want to havta kill anyone else. Call Matty this his friend. He gonna haveta deal with this.”

“Fuck that. We take care of it now.”

The two townies continued back and forth about what to do with Cam.

When they weren’t looking Cameron took the phone out of his pocket and turned it off hoping enough time would pass before they decided what to do with him and his swiping ability would return and just maybe he could make a call before the battery died.


Roy Edward Jackson lives in Atlanta, GA and works as a librarian. He grew up in rural Michigan and has always been attracted to dark fiction about outsiders in extreme circumstances.