The Holy Island problem

The popularity of my Tales from Happy Island, led to an unexpected approach from the Off-Mainlander magazine.

 

“We’d like you to write an article about a man who can raise the dead,” they said.

“Would you?” I said. It seemed pretty unlikely.

 

“Yes, we would they replied. “And we’ll pay ready money.”

 

I didn’t stop to question the difference between ready money and money that wasn’t quite ready yet. I hastily agreed, which is why I found myself, just a few days later, sailing all around the mainland, to Holy Island, the destination where the Holy Man would be raising the dead.

 

The boatman had taken the day off to take us to Holy Island and Alun had come along. Living on an island with a total population of 0,000,002, adventure is something of a stranger to our lives, and this promised to be something beyond the routine.

 

It was a long journey, for Holy Island is located in the far North East of the mainland, but eventually we approached an island barely a mile or two from the mainland shores, which the boatman assured us was our destination.

 

What’s that big white brick building? I asked the boatman as we approached.

“That’s the Big White Brick Thing,” he said. The islanders built it as a landmark, so that ships sailing into Holy Island could use it to navigate.

 

“Does it help?” I asked. “Should we build one on our island?”

 

“No. It serves no useful purpose. Boats land in millions of places where there isn’t a big white brick thing to guide them. I guess somebody just had more white bricks than they knew what to do with.”

 

We landed in the harbour and made the short walk to the town (island’s enjoy the privilege of donning the name ‘town’ on tiny pockets of civilisation that wouldn’t even be deemed villages on the mainland). 

Alun had visited Holy Island once before in his youth, and was keen to show off his knowledge.

 

“That field,” he pointed to a scruff of struggling grassland, “is The Rocket Field.”

 

“The Rocket Field? Why, do they build rockets there?”

 

“No, no, there isn’t a reason for the name, that’s just what it’s called.”

 

We trudged on, passing a sign which said ‘Don’t drive into the sea’.

 

“That’s a pointless sign,” I said. “Who’s stupid enough to drive into the sea?”

 

“You’d be surprised,” the boatman said, “they have to fish out least one car every month. There’s a causeway, you see, linking the island to the mainland.” He pointed to the distant line of tar macadam, stretching from the southern shore. “Only some people don’t bother to check the tide, or even look in front of them to see whether or not the road’s flooded. Or perhaps they just like driving into the sea.”

 

I was learning a great deal about the island, but even more about the mentality of mainlanders, who I had wisely spent my life avoiding.

 

“Over there,” Alun pointed to the North East corner of the island, where I could just make out a castle, “Is the castle.”

 

“Is it a very old castle?” I asked.

 

“It is Jed. It was built by Henry VIII, in order to prevent a Scottish invasion.”

 

“Why, were the Scots likely to invade here?” I looked around me, but saw nothing particularly worth invading for.

 

“No Jed, I mean to prevent a Scottish invasion of the mainland.”

 

“Really! He built a castle here, on an island miles from anywhere, to prevent the Scots taking a pointless detour on the way to the mainland?”

 

“He wasn’t the brightest of kings was Henry.”

 

“You’re putting it mildly.”

 

The tour continued.

 

“See that rocky outcrop over there?” Alun pointed to the north east coast. “That’s the Heugh.”

“The Heugh?” I repeated. It seemed unlikely. “What’s a Heugh?”

 

“It’s the name of that outcrop of rock.”

 

“Why go to all the trouble of naming an outcrop of rock if the best name you can come up with is the Heugh? Why not just have an unnamed outcrop of rock.”

 

“You have a point, Jed. Naming things isn’t exactly a strength in these parts.”

 

As we approached the town, we said goodbye to the boatman, who wasn’t joining us for the raising of the dead, but was spending the evening in the Ship Inn, where he claimed he would be raising beer and whisky.

 

“You wouldn’t think a pub would be viable on an island this size,” I said to Alun. “How many people live here?”

“180 people altogether, Jed, but this isn’t the only pub. There’s the Coach and Horses, and there are also a couple of hotels with drinks licenses.

 

“180 people – four boozers for 180 people?”

 

“To be fair Jed, there isn’t much else to do here. Once you’ve admired the Big White Thing, the Heugh and the rocket field.”

 

We passed through the town and soon reached the priory, where the raising of the dead was to take place.

 

“The priory was founded by Saint Aidan,” said Alun, “who was banished from the mainland by King Oswald.”  

 

“King Oswald?” I said. “Are you sure. I don’t remember a King Oswald”

 

“I’m not making it up Jed. Your problem is that you just don’t know your mainland history.” This was true, I pride myself on not being able to name a single mainland king. I don’t even know who the current king is.

 

At the priory entrance we were greeted by an official with a clipboard who charged us ten pounds admission. The money, he assured us, would be used for the upkeep of the holy and ancient monument. Upon my insistence he issued a holy receipt, so that I’d be able to claim the money back on expenses.

 

As we turned the corner we saw the priory, or at least what remained of the priory, a handful of rocks arranged in a large circle.

 

“Ten pounds,” I complained to Alun, “to see some old rubble! Even the mainland council wouldn’t charge ten pounds to look at a few bits of old brick.”

 

“It’s an idea though,” Alun said. “I’m sure we’ve got some old bricks on Happy Island, think of the money they must make at ten pounds a head.”

 

A large crowd of people was gathered in ‘the priory’, or more accurately in the circle of old bricks for which we had been charged ten pounds admission. That’s ten pounds each, not for the two of us. “Don’t go on about it,” Alun said to me, but I think it’s only fair to point it out, imagine going all that way to visit a priory only to be charge ten pounds to see a pile of old bricks.

 

“We’re in time Jed. It hasn’t started yet.”

 

In front of us we could see the Holy Man, a pagan priest dressed in once-white robes. In front of him, lay what was recognisably a dead body. It was a grizzly sight, and many of the crowd were obviously uncomfortable at being thus entertained by a corpse.

 

After what seemed an age, the priest spoke.

 

“Ladies. Gentlemen. I know some of you have come a long way to witness this miracle. In front of me is the recently deceased vicar of Holy Island, Matthew Spurlitt. Tonight, in front of your very eyes, I shall raise the dead, in keeping with the reverend Spurlitt’s last wish.

 

The crowd hushed into silence as we prepared to witness a miracle.

 

The pagan priest began to mumble to himself, a strange chant, like no language I had heard, somewhere between a lament and a drunken mumble.

 

Slowly, miraculously, the corpse in front of him began to rise off the ground, with no visible force moving it, as if the very gods themselves were spiriting the body to heaven.

 

The priest continued to chant and the corpse continued to rise, until it was a full foot from the ground.

 

At this point the priest stood up to his full height, turned round and retrieved a large green hoop from behind a nearby rock. The pagan miracle-worker ran the hoop along the whole length of the corpse’s body, showing that there were no strings or other hidden means.

 

The crowd applauded and cheered and the priest took a discreet bow.

 

The raising of the dead was followed by a number of equally miraculous feats: sawing the dead body in half, making the dead body vanish and retrieving a rabbit from under the dead body’s hat.

 

“It wasn’t quite what I’d expected,” I said to Alun, at the end of the evening, as we were carrying the boatman back to the boat.

 

“It was very impressive though. You have to admit, we don’t get anything like that on Happy Island. I’ve still no idea where that rabbit came from. The hat was completely empty.”

 

“It’s just when they said ‘raise the dead’ I was expecting something different.”

 

“I know Jed, but that’s just the speel they come out with, these religious types. It’s all hokum, after all.”

 

We spent the night on the boat, as the boatman was in no fit state to sail and I hastily wrote up my article for the Off-Mainlander Magazine.

 

We set sail the next day, though the boatman was still not fully himself, and it was late the next evening when we finally reached home.

 

“Well, I won’t be going on an adventure like that for a long time,” I said to Alun, as I collapsed exhausted on my comfortable chair.

 

I couldn’t have been more wrong.