#HistFicThursdays - History Close to Home

One of the most incredible things about history is that, the older it gets, the more it resonates. It doesn't shrivel up like an old apple, or drop limbs and branches like an ancient tree, it just gets bigger. With every second which passes and every century which grows, history only piles up. Of course, there are aspects which fade, artefacts which succumb to erosion, but that's the archaeology not the history.

I don't remember exactly what got me into writing historical fiction, but I do know I have always loved that my family are hoarders of antiquities. Ranging from the colossal millennia-old ammonite fossil my dad saved from the children who were chipping it to pieces, to the papers which define my own thirty-six year history, we have kept so much. It has it's downside - moving house this year has been a long, drawn-out process of about five times as many trips as a normal family move - but the richness it affords is second to none.

But you don't have to come from a squirrelling family to find history for inspiration. Within a mile of where you live, something incredible happened. And I can say that with certainty. It's not always discovered yet, like in the recent example from Cambridgeshire when they discovered evidence of crucifixion whilst readying the ground for building houses, and it's not always going to hit the headlines. But it's always there and, what sets historical fiction writers aside from most of the population, is that we feel this history resonating through the ground and the air, even if we don't know why.

Here are three examples of what I mean from our own house here in the middle of nowhere...

Visually obvious, although largely unexplored in the past sixty years, is the broch at the bottom of the garden. Iron Age history is not really my thing - I know this is shocking for someone who lives in Caithness! - but there is something inexplicably exciting about knowing this area has been inhabited for so long. I don't know nearly enough to even begin writing a book on this era, but it did inspire a partially autobiographic little ghost story which I'll share at the bottom of this post. It's taught me that writing about history is almost as enticing as writing set in history... Almost!

When we bought the house, halfway through the legal proceedings, the owner decided to announce that we were buying the house "as is". This has meant several months of sorting through some sentimental and some inane objects which belong entirely to someone else's personal history. Among these were a pair of their daughter's first shoes which we couldn't bear to throw out, and a whole array of school certificates and artwork which have now all gone tip-wards. But, we haven't just inherited the belongings of the previous inhabitants, we've also inherited earlier bits and bobs. There was quite a shock waiting in the garage when my sister came face-to-face with an Edwardian lady, and the mystery of the three photographs began. In Caithness, we're lucky to have the incredible social archive of The Johnston Collection, and we have been trawling through them to try and find a likely match. We're about a third of the way through!

But there is a huge range of time between the Iron Age and the Edwardian period, and this little corner has had houses, crofts or farms on it every step of the way. Whilst digging what is soon to become the shrubbery at the side of the house, my sister (another one!) unearthed a horseshoe. Instantly it put me in mind of a quote from Children of Green Knowe, a much-loved book in this family, about Tolly's hunt for Feste's shoe:

"Is there among horse-shoes one that stands out for its delicate curve, suggesting the perfect hoof, the sure and dancing step?"
The presentation of the lawn would suggest the house once had a large circular drive, and this side of the house could easily have been the route to the stables. Or perhaps it was buried there deliberately. Either way, why was it left?

It doesn't matter where you live, history is surrounding you. There are a hundred stories of a thousand lives right there on your doorstep. Within a mile of where you lived, something incredible happened...

Go find it!

The Hunter’s Moon

After more than a decade in town, when the perfect house came up in the country, everything was done to secure a move as quickly as possible. It was an old house and, if it had to weather another winter uninhabited, it would fall into disrepair. It wasn’t only the house which was old. The area had been inhabited for thousands of years, as the broch at the bottom of the garden proved and the cairns on the next hilltop confirmed.

On getting the house, the first thing we spent money on were three trailcams and, after snapping countless deer, felines, and rodents, we managed to catch a pine marten prowling. It was my self-appointed job to check the videos and I got exceptionally good at watching the tall grasses being blown in our Caithnessian gales. If I began to go mad as I fast-forwarded through the three-hundred files, scanning them for life, I reminded myself of discovering the marten and how worthwhile each video might turn out to be. We had caught the shadowy creature in the area we called “The Wild Wood”, and I now paid particular attention to this camera.

Last month, on a windy October Sunday, I made another discovery.

As the trees began shedding their leafy raiment, the sun’s light became dappled and created halos of iridescent light on the camera lens. The branches which were still clad caused these circlets to strobe in and out of existence, while the wind continued to tear their clothing free, causing a hundred leaves to create a hundred videos. I flicked through these, skimming the surface of the woodland world as it passed before me at twenty times its usual speed.

I checked the time stamp: 13:35:24. I’d almost reached the time I changed the camera card, and we rarely caught things during the day. Still, being stubborn and meticulous, I couldn’t make myself delete these files without scanning them. I whizzed through the videos, half-blinding myself with their strobing.

And there I was.

I sighed despondently. Another card with nothing but waving grass and an over-inquisitive farm cat.

Something at the back of my mind was toying with me, like a unique memory to which only I was party. My finger hovered over the “confirm” button to delete all the files. I drew it back. Something was not right. Not wrong, either, just missed. I opened the final file on the card and realised this wasn’t the video I just watched. That was what had been peculiar about the earlier one. The person had walked up from the dense part of the wood, from the direction of the broch, the opposite direction from where I’d arrive.

I scrolled through the videos and found the one with this intruder. Sure enough, the time stamp was too early for me, but only by about three minutes. It’s not difficult to get into our wood, the boundary is precarious flagstones topped with a couple of strands of barbed wire. If anyone wanted to climb over, they easily could. I watched as this figure, wearing the dappled light of the sparse trees, walked onward until, as the wind caught the trees, another rainbow of light shot out from the sun. By the time the camera had refocused, they were gone.

Dragging the slider back, I watched as the person reappeared, wondering at a new concern I felt but didn’t recognise. They were short and stocky and, by virtue of the lumbering gait, I decided it was a man. Beyond that, it was almost impossible to describe him. He clearly thought better of his act and had turned around while the sun blinded the camera. There was no way he could have run past without casting a shadow.

I kept this to myself. There was no point in alarming the others when it might be nothing. But, over the next couple of weeks, he kept reappearing. It was always at the same time of day and the sun continued to swallow him. On dull days, which were growing more frequent, he was vague and little more than a silhouette against the increasingly bare trees. This made it easier to discern his shape, though not his features, and I noticed with interest that he seemed to be carrying various poles strapped at his waist or back. He also leaned on a walking stick with a peculiarly shaped top like an arrow. But the camera never picked him up any closer than the tangled trees.

Two weeks ago, curiosity got the better of me. Someone had been letting themselves into our garden for no apparent reason and, not being a frightened person, I was more affronted than scared.

It was another sunny October day and I stood beside the camera. From here, I knew exactly where to look. I continued to glance down at my watch, waiting for that moment when, regular as clockwork, he would enter our garden.

Having said I wasn’t frightened, I should qualify that I wasn’t frightened of people. So, when I saw something from the corner of my eyes, like a shift in the landscape which never took shape, I began to feel unsettled. But terror didn’t strike me until this vague blur solidified and lunged itself towards me. I couldn’t tell what it was, except that it was full of fur and teeth. It morphed seamlessly through the balustrade of the summer house where I was standing before something struck it and it fell, disappearing entirely.

I jumped as the alarm I’d set myself began beeping at my wrist. Turning towards where the man would appear, I heard cheering. The intruder was there for only a moment, accepting the audible but invisible homage, before the sun broke the trees. I sheltered my eyes and, when I lowered my hand, he was gone.

Shaken, I returned to the house, pausing to admire the full moon which was barely visible as it competed against the sun’s radiance. The Hunter’s Moon.