“I think you will find we can. It has already been decided”.
“Decided? What has been decided? What do you mean? Let me go, let me go at once!”
“You have been chosen. You came here of your own free will, Constable Neilson. No-one forced you to do that”.
“But I don’t under – what is that? Oh Dear God, what is that ahead?”
“It is where we are going, Constable. This is your final place on this Earth. This is where you will pray to your God, who will not hear you as we of this island ensure that our crops will grow next year”.
“But – no! Hey, stop that!”
“Hurry there, get him in”.
“No, no, no, don’t do this. Do not do this!”
“Hush now, Constable”.
“Hey there, don’t do – stop lighting that fire - stop it, I tell you!”.
“Quiet now, accept your fate”.
“No, you – can’t – don’t – please…. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me down to lie ….”
Illustration by Sonero
Chapter 2
Moneypenny’s cool eyes looked up at the sound of a hat landing unerringly on the rack near her door. She controlled her smile, not wanting to display her pleasure at seeing the tall handsome man who followed. His dark hair was brushed casually, allowing a thick comma to fall over one eye. A thin scar down the right cheek showed white against his suntanned skin.
“Moneypenny”, he said, “it’s been too long”.
“Perhaps if you didn’t wait until you were actually called here we might be able to do something about that”, she replied.
“The very same thought has occurred to me”, said James Bond. “So, tonight, why don’t you and I just –“
“Not tonight, James. You’re going to be busy”.
“Busy? I suppose you wouldn’t care to enlighten me about that?”
“You suppose correctly. Now, just you wait there and don’t touch anything”. She pressed a button on the intercom. ”Commander Bond’s here, sir”.
“Send him in”, came the metallic reply.
Miss Moneypenny waved a slim hand toward M’s office.
“He’s all yours, James”.
M was as usual stuffing tobacco into his pipe as Bond entered and was waved to a seat. After three matches he had persuaded the recalcitrant implement to work as it was intended, and noxious smoke began to fill the air.
“Now, Commander, I don’t believe you have anything pressing on hand for the next few days, do you?”
“Nothing that can’t wait, sir”, said Bond, who knew that M had known that.
“We’ve been asked to help with a missing person problem”, said M. “Inside Britain, which as you know is not our normal area of practice”.
“But surely, sir, there's no need to bring in our section on a relatively simple missing person matter”.
“The Chief Constable has convinced the PM otherwise. Complicating the matter is that it’s a policeman who has gone missing”.
“I don’t see why that should change anything”, said Bond. “Wouldn’t the normal thing be to simply send more policemen to look for him?”
M puffed some more smoke and indicated that Bond could smoke, too, if he wished. Bond reached for his Morlands.
“A further complication is that the island on which this man went missing has a quasi-autonomous relationship with the rest of the United Kingdom. Not exactly like the status of the Isle of Man, but along those lines. It was alright for one policeman to go visit – something about a missing child, I gather – but they would strenuously object to their territory being overrun, as they would see it, by hordes of police from the mainland”.
“And where is this island?” asked Bond.
“It’s in the Hebrides”, M answered. “Now, being of Scottish heritage you’ll know that the environment in those parts is generally not very hospitable but somehow they’ve succeeded in growing apples, avocados, pineapples, mango, banana, and tangerine to name but a few”.
“In the Northwest of these islands?” said Bond sceptically. “Facing directly into the North Atlantic Ocean?”
“It seems very strange, if not impossible. However, you can get a look for yourself. Catch a train tonight and check in with the police in Inverness to see about going the rest of the way”.
“Yes, sir”. Bond made to get up but M indicated that he should stay.
“There’s one more thing. The island is called Summerisle and the Laird is Lord Summerisle. I expect you might be having some words with him”.
M passed over a photograph for Bond to examine. He stared at the shaven skull, and the dark eyes with the whites showing all around the pupils.
The Inverness Police Force had been more than helpful. Naturally enough, they were keen to find out what had happened to one of their men.
“Howard Neilson”, said Inspector Rhesus with the faint singsong lilt common to these parts. “A good man, excellent at his job and went to church every Sunday”.
Bond remembered how things were with religion here in the North of Scotland. It was taken far more seriously than in the South, with several small but passionately followed denominations.
“I have no doubt, Inspector”, said Bond, “and obviously not the kind of man who’d take it into his head to just disappear on his wife and family”.
“Oh, he has no wife”, the Inspector replied, “he had not even turned thirty, still a young man to be thinking of such things”.
“Of course, of course”, murmured Bond.
“You’re not a local man yourself, Mr Bond”, the policeman said, “but I’m thinking you’re not a Sassenach, either”.
“My father came from not far away, from Glencoe”, said Bond, “but he and my mother died some years ago and I haven’t been back to the family home. Now, how would you suggest I get to Summerisle?”
“Well, the quickest way would be … can you fly a plane, Mr Bond?”
Bond was a little taken aback. He had expected some form of boat journey.
“I could fly a small plane, I learned how during the war. As long as you’re not expecting me to fly a bomber or a passenger plane”.
The Inspector laughed. “No, nothing like that. Come with me, I’ll show you ...”
The seaplane had been easier to handle than Bond had anticipated, and he found himself enjoying the flight. With frequent references to the map on the empty co-pilot’s seat beside him he was landing in the harbour at Summerisle before too long and found himself the object of much attention. A rowing boat came out to meet him and take him to the shore. He thanked the silent oarsman and slipped him a couple of pounds, which were thrust into an inner pocket without a word or nod.
His first objective was to find a place to stay, and the Green Man Inn seemed like where to start. Outside hung a stylised image of the Green Man figure he had seen on other pubs and public buildings in England and Scotland. He carried his small bag through the door. Again it was silent here, though he had the impression there had been a lot of chatter before he entered. A middle-aged barman, possibly the owner, seemed to be all of a sudden busy cleaning glasses until he elbowed an attractive blonde girl to see to Bond.
“Hello, sir, what can I do for you?” she said, her smile professional, her accent pleasant to the ear. Bond noticed another Green Man image on the wall behind her.
“A small house whisky, please”, said Bond. One doesn’t ask for “Scotch” in Scotland itself without drawing even more attention than he was currently drawing. He also didn’t know what the popular blend would be, the word “house” covering that.
She poured him a quarter gill while he made himself comfortable. She judged, correctly, that he was in no hurry to leave and did not ask for payment immediately.
“Will you be wanting a room, then, Mr ….?”
“Bond. James Bond. Yes, if that can be arranged”.
The barman came over sullenly.
“Aye, that can be done”, he said. “Willow, show Mr Bond here to a room once he has finished his drink”.
“Yes, Father”.
Bond swallowed the remains of his whisky. “Please, lead the way”, he said.
As he followed Willow’s enticing young behind up the creaking staircase he was aware of the conversation in the bar starting again below. He had no doubt who would be the subject of that conversation.
Willow showed him to a comfortable looking room.
“The bathroom’s at the end of the corridor, Mr Bond”, she said, her smile seeming more natural this time. “And I’m in the next room. You see this little bell here? Just ring it if you require anything. Anything at all”.
Their eyes met.
“Thank you very much, Willow. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind”.
Making a casual exploration, he could see a large mansion on a low rising just outside the smaller cottages which made up the main part of the village. An old tower was attached to the main building. Within half an hour Bond had visited the local small shop, walked along the harbour, and nodded hello to any of the locals he happened to meet. Not one word in reply, only a nod from the shop owner when he had bought some unneeded cigarettes merely to break the ice. The ice remained thoroughly unbroken until he noticed the sign saying “Library” and entered.
The librarian was blonde and very good looking, somewhat akin to an older version of Willow. For a moment he wondered if this might be her mother, but in a small community like this one it should be expected that there were many members of the same families all looking vaguely alike. On the wall behind her desk was the same Green Man image he had noticed at the Inn.
She looked up from her paperwork and smiled, the same professional smile he had noticed from Willow in the bar earlier.
“Hello, Mr Bond, what can I do for you?” she asked.
“You know my name?”
“Here on this little island strangers are news, Mr Bond. Word goes around very quickly”.
“Of course”, he said. “I’m here to look for a policeman, named Howard Neilson. I don’t suppose you met him?”
She looked thoughtful, and tapped her pen against her teeth.
“Neilson … a policeman you say?”
“That’s right. He was here very recently”.
“No, I can’t say I met him. And I think I’d have remembered a policeman, we don’t have police here, you see”, she said.
“But it’s a little island, you just said, and strangers are news”, said Bond as blandly as he could.
She shrugged. “No news, no strangers. Is that everything, Mr Bond?”
“Yes, I think so. Oh, perhaps one more thing – just say there was a hypothetical policeman here. In which direction would you say he would have went, hypothetically speaking of course?”
Without one change of expression she said, “Oh, definitely to the east I would say. There’s nothing of interest in the other direction”.
Bond smiled and thanked her politely. He exited the library and turned decisively west.
The ground was very green, with occasional trees and bushes beside the footpath which had been worn by many years of travel. He stopped to examine one – durians, which were known for two things. The first was that they carried an evil, pungent smell when opened. The second was that they should be growing nowhere near a cold climate such as Scotland.
After about two miles he came to a clearing at the top of a sheer drop. There seemed to be something ahead, so he went closer. Ashes, embers – something had been burnt here. There were dying flowers in what looked like bouquets, a few vegetables. He poked around in the ashes, not really knowing what he was looking for. What he did not expect was a human femur.
The light was failing as Bond went back into the Inn. Again he noticed the conversation suddenly stopping as he entered. If there had been a darts player he would have stopped mid-throw. Bond ordered another whisky from the pleasant Willow, the only person there who seemed willing to speak with him. The customers sat sullenly, barely even touching their drinks.
“Willow”, he said, “that’s an unusual name”.
“It was my mother’s name”, she said, “and if I am blessed with a daughter it shall be her name, too”.
She caught her father’s disapproving eye and walked off to clean something or other. Bond calmly drank his whisky and went upstairs. From his room he could hear someone, presumably the girl, entering the room next door then preparing for bed.
He lay down and tried to sleep. The sight of a human bone amongst the embers of a large fire of some sort had unnerved him, he had to admit. Perhaps in the morning he might phone the police station at Inverness and … someone was singing, close by. It sounded like a young girl’s voice. Willow, of course. She was singing a haunting melody, though he couldn’t quite make out the words. And she was slapping the walls and the door in time with the song. It seemed to be aimed at him, though he couldn’t have said why he felt that since he didn’t understand the words. The feeling grew stronger. He realised he would not be able to sleep.
Almost as if it were outwith his control, he got up and opened the door of his room. The singing grew louder, clearly coming from the room next door. Willow’s room. He walked over and opened the door.
She was standing by the bed, completely naked. She smiled and held her arms out towards him, still singing though more softly now. He closed the door and walked over to her.
The sunlight blazed through his uncurtained window with the cold light of those parts not far below the Arctic Circle. Bond threw on a gown and walked to the bathroom, passing Willow’s room with a smile.
After he had washed and dressed he went downstairs. It would have been too much to hope for that breakfast would be available here, so without much hope he went back to the small shop and bought some bread and cheese from the unsmiling woman behind the counter. As he walked, eating, he reflected how much he would have enjoyed some coffee as well.
There was a public phone box near the harbour and he made for that. He had been thinking about whether he should call M first, but decided that calling the Inverness Inspector was more logical. It was his patch, after all, and Bond may have discovered the remains of his man.
He went into the box, fumbling in his pocket for change, before realising that he was wasting his time. The phone itself had been removed. Why, he couldn’t guess. This didn’t seem the kind of spot for teenage vandals to flourish.
He had been stalling about his next step, but there seemed nothing else for it now but to go to the mansion and seek out Lord Summerisle. Bond began walking that way.
The door was answered by a middle-aged servant. Bond asked for the Laird and was shown silently to a large room with high windows admitting the bright unwarmed sunlight. The inevitable Green Man picture was on one wall, larger than the others he had seen, and this time there were other artworks he couldn’t identify as easily. All had something to do with trees and fruits and vegetables of unending variety, only some of which he recognised.
At a long dining table the librarian sat opposite Lord Summerisle, an elaborate breakfast set before them. Three other local men stood around the room, guarding the doors. Bond was not surprised to see who the Laird was.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 30,914Chief of Staff
Some really nice touches in this…loving the crossover 👏🏻
Two of the men walked quickly over to Bond and searched him, removing his Beretta. Aleister Crowley stood politely and indicated a chair next to him and the librarian at the table.
“Good morning, Mr Bond”, he said. “I have been wondering when you would decide to visit us. You will remember Ingrid, of course”.
The blonde woman nodded at Bond with a smile.
“Of course”, he said, “but each time is a renewed pleasure”.
“Please, join Ingrid and I here. Perhaps you might enjoy some breakfast?”
Bond walked over and sat down. “I was expecting to see you here, Crowley”.
“Lord Summerisle, if you please. I purchased this island legally some years ago, and the title goes with the island. Now, some coffee perhaps?”
Bond shook his head. He would have very much enjoyed coffee, but he knew better than to trust anything from this man’s table.
“Stubborn to the last, I see”, Crowley said, “you have not changed. And now, Mr Bond, I surmise you would like to ask me about Constable Neilson. That is why you are here, of course”.
“Of course. And then I imagine you will tie me to a stake and burn me just as you did that unfortunate man”.
Ingrid laughed, then Crowley joined in. “No, Mr Bond, we will be doing nothing of the sort. And he wasn’t tied to a stake, either, but you will not receive the honour of dying the same death as your predecessor. For one thing, you are not a virgin”.
Puzzled, Bond replied, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it, Mr Bond”, said Ingrid. “Constable Neilson was a very religious man as many people are in these parts and did not believe in sex before marriage. Not even with the beautiful young Willow tempting him to the best of her ability, which I have been told can be very tempting indeed. As I understand it, though, you did not require very much tempting at all”.
Again the two of them laughed.
“What the hell is there to laugh about?” Bond demanded. “What for God’s sake is so funny about being a virgin or not?”
“God has very little if anything to do with it”, Crowley said. “You should know me better than that. Only a virgin sacrifice will satiate our gods. Howard Neilson was sacrificed in the belly of a great wicker man to ensure that our crops continue to be fruitful and multiply the next season”.
Bond remembered the bone, the human bone, he had found in the ashes of what must have been what Crowley was talking about.
“That is insane”, he said, “you believe that deliberately sacrificing a human being causes your crops to grow? You’re mad!”
“Mad, are we? How do you think we manage to grow such fruits and vegetables as we do here? Papaya, coconut, passion fruit – here, on the edge of the northern Atlantic Ocean? Here, with the Arctic far closer than the equator? Our gods must be appeased or such bounties cannot come to pass. And I require the income from them to finance my endeavours here”.
Bond couldn’t find a reply. He had been wondering the same thing himself, but still there must be a rational explanation for this. Sacrificing virgins to pagan gods, in the twentieth century?
“Look, Crowley, I –“
Crowley looked at one of the nearby guards, who stepped threateningly towards where Bond sat.
“You will address me as Lord Summerisle, or perhaps Laird if we were on friendlier terms. As I told you, this is my island and I make the rules. It will be my son’s after I am gone. He would have enjoyed meeting you, I am sure, but he is studying in Transylvania at the moment while being stationed there after the war. Now, I will surmise that you are an educated man, Mr Bond, and even moderately well-read so I would like to ask you a question. Have you ever read Frankenstein?”
Bond stared at him, wondering why this sudden lurch into left field.
“What, you mean Boris Karloff with the bolts through his neck?”
Crowley tutted and sighed. “No, Mr Bond, that is exactly what I do not mean. I asked if you had read the book”.
“By book you mean the novel by Mary Shelley? No, I haven’t”. Bond had no idea where this was going but he didn’t seem to have much choice but to play along.
“To be pedantic, the young lady concerned was not Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. She had not yet married Percy Bysshe Shelley and was still Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin in 1816 at the time the book came into existence and was published anonymously – it took until the third edition for her married name to appear on it as the author. And, more to the point, Frankenstein was not a novel as you just said. She merely transcribed the information given to her by a man called Robert Walton, a sea captain who had met Victor Frankenstein at or near the North Pole. Captain Walton had written down the narrative the dying Frankenstein related to him, and he passed this on to young Mary – she was still a teenager at the time – who arranged for it to be published with the assistance of her husband-to-be Shelley, a noted poet”.
“Fascinating, but what does it have to do with us?” asked a bewildered Bond.
“Just this. Frankenstein is not fictional. Victor Frankenstein lived and breathed and walked the Earth just as you or I. He succeeded in conquering death by crossing the final frontier, by boldly going where no man had gone before, or since for that matter. The book in question is a story inside a story, and at times even a story inside a story inside another story. If you are familiar only with the regrettable efforts which Hollywood has made at telling this incredible tale, then you have been told less than half of the facts. Yes, I said facts”.
“All right, Lord Summerisle”, said Bond, “if I accept that as your position or theory, what of it? How does that affect us here, in the Hebrides?”
Ingrid spoke up, saying, “Towards the end, the monster Victor has made demands that he make a female, a bride for him. You probably know that part, Hollywood did get that right. Victor refuses until the monster starts killing off his own family, starting with his wife Elizabeth, then reluctantly agrees. He wants to go somewhere very remote to do this, so he goes to Orkney”.
“Or so he says”, added Crowley. “Have you ever heard the literary concept of an “unreliable narrator”, Mr Bond? Well, Victor Frankenstein was an unreliable narrator in no uncertain measure. He did not travel to Orkney at all. He went here instead, to Summerisle”.
Bond said, “But even if what you say is true, and I’m not accepting that for one moment, I ask you yet again - what does it have to do with us?”
Crowley and Ingrid looked at each other then stood up.
“Come with us, Mr Bond”, said Crowley. “I think you will find this very interesting”.
This is turning out to an exceptional story. The way you have informed those not familiar with Shelley’s novel is outstanding., it’s never slow or boring but forms an integral part of your story. Once again I applaud your imagination in merging not only a world renowned novel but an exalted movie as well, into the world of James Bond.
I cannot leave this comment without praising another exquisite illustration from @Sonero you two work together splendidly and I hope future @Barbel stories are all adorned with your work.
I will leave now as I fear that I’m coming down with cherry blossom poisoning 😂
Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.
Comments
That'll teach me not to take a few days off ....
😂
1949
Chapter 1
“You cannot do this! You cannot!”
“I think you will find we can. It has already been decided”.
“Decided? What has been decided? What do you mean? Let me go, let me go at once!”
“You have been chosen. You came here of your own free will, Constable Neilson. No-one forced you to do that”.
“But I don’t under – what is that? Oh Dear God, what is that ahead?”
“It is where we are going, Constable. This is your final place on this Earth. This is where you will pray to your God, who will not hear you as we of this island ensure that our crops will grow next year”.
“But – no! Hey, stop that!”
“Hurry there, get him in”.
“No, no, no, don’t do this. Do not do this!”
“Hush now, Constable”.
“Hey there, don’t do – stop lighting that fire - stop it, I tell you!”.
“Quiet now, accept your fate”.
“No, you – can’t – don’t – please…. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me down to lie ….”
Illustration by Sonero
Chapter 2
Moneypenny’s cool eyes looked up at the sound of a hat landing unerringly on the rack near her door. She controlled her smile, not wanting to display her pleasure at seeing the tall handsome man who followed. His dark hair was brushed casually, allowing a thick comma to fall over one eye. A thin scar down the right cheek showed white against his suntanned skin.
“Moneypenny”, he said, “it’s been too long”.
“Perhaps if you didn’t wait until you were actually called here we might be able to do something about that”, she replied.
“The very same thought has occurred to me”, said James Bond. “So, tonight, why don’t you and I just –“
“Not tonight, James. You’re going to be busy”.
“Busy? I suppose you wouldn’t care to enlighten me about that?”
“You suppose correctly. Now, just you wait there and don’t touch anything”. She pressed a button on the intercom. ”Commander Bond’s here, sir”.
“Send him in”, came the metallic reply.
Miss Moneypenny waved a slim hand toward M’s office.
“He’s all yours, James”.
M was as usual stuffing tobacco into his pipe as Bond entered and was waved to a seat. After three matches he had persuaded the recalcitrant implement to work as it was intended, and noxious smoke began to fill the air.
“Now, Commander, I don’t believe you have anything pressing on hand for the next few days, do you?”
“Nothing that can’t wait, sir”, said Bond, who knew that M had known that.
“We’ve been asked to help with a missing person problem”, said M. “Inside Britain, which as you know is not our normal area of practice”.
“But surely, sir, there's no need to bring in our section on a relatively simple missing person matter”.
“The Chief Constable has convinced the PM otherwise. Complicating the matter is that it’s a policeman who has gone missing”.
“I don’t see why that should change anything”, said Bond. “Wouldn’t the normal thing be to simply send more policemen to look for him?”
M puffed some more smoke and indicated that Bond could smoke, too, if he wished. Bond reached for his Morlands.
“A further complication is that the island on which this man went missing has a quasi-autonomous relationship with the rest of the United Kingdom. Not exactly like the status of the Isle of Man, but along those lines. It was alright for one policeman to go visit – something about a missing child, I gather – but they would strenuously object to their territory being overrun, as they would see it, by hordes of police from the mainland”.
“And where is this island?” asked Bond.
“It’s in the Hebrides”, M answered. “Now, being of Scottish heritage you’ll know that the environment in those parts is generally not very hospitable but somehow they’ve succeeded in growing apples, avocados, pineapples, mango, banana, and tangerine to name but a few”.
“In the Northwest of these islands?” said Bond sceptically. “Facing directly into the North Atlantic Ocean?”
“It seems very strange, if not impossible. However, you can get a look for yourself. Catch a train tonight and check in with the police in Inverness to see about going the rest of the way”.
“Yes, sir”. Bond made to get up but M indicated that he should stay.
“There’s one more thing. The island is called Summerisle and the Laird is Lord Summerisle. I expect you might be having some words with him”.
M passed over a photograph for Bond to examine. He stared at the shaven skull, and the dark eyes with the whites showing all around the pupils.
It was Aleister Crowley.
To Be Continued
I’m loving this already, Easter eggs and Crowley 😁👏
Superb illustration once again @Sonero 👏
Yes, he has excelled himself this time and there's more to follow.
Glad you're enjoying this, CHB. I warn you, things may not develop quite as one may expect. I was surprised myself!
Great work Barbel.👏👏
Loved the intro and the briefing with M.
Looking forward to reading chapter 3.
@CoolHandBond Thank you for the kind appreciation.
Jump up, jump up - off we go 👏🏻😁
Thank you, guys. Next chapter tomorrow morning (UK time), with more Sonero artwork to enjoy as well.
Illustration by Sonero
Chapter Three
The Inverness Police Force had been more than helpful. Naturally enough, they were keen to find out what had happened to one of their men.
“Howard Neilson”, said Inspector Rhesus with the faint singsong lilt common to these parts. “A good man, excellent at his job and went to church every Sunday”.
Bond remembered how things were with religion here in the North of Scotland. It was taken far more seriously than in the South, with several small but passionately followed denominations.
“I have no doubt, Inspector”, said Bond, “and obviously not the kind of man who’d take it into his head to just disappear on his wife and family”.
“Oh, he has no wife”, the Inspector replied, “he had not even turned thirty, still a young man to be thinking of such things”.
“Of course, of course”, murmured Bond.
“You’re not a local man yourself, Mr Bond”, the policeman said, “but I’m thinking you’re not a Sassenach, either”.
“My father came from not far away, from Glencoe”, said Bond, “but he and my mother died some years ago and I haven’t been back to the family home. Now, how would you suggest I get to Summerisle?”
“Well, the quickest way would be … can you fly a plane, Mr Bond?”
Bond was a little taken aback. He had expected some form of boat journey.
“I could fly a small plane, I learned how during the war. As long as you’re not expecting me to fly a bomber or a passenger plane”.
The Inspector laughed. “No, nothing like that. Come with me, I’ll show you ...”
The seaplane had been easier to handle than Bond had anticipated, and he found himself enjoying the flight. With frequent references to the map on the empty co-pilot’s seat beside him he was landing in the harbour at Summerisle before too long and found himself the object of much attention. A rowing boat came out to meet him and take him to the shore. He thanked the silent oarsman and slipped him a couple of pounds, which were thrust into an inner pocket without a word or nod.
His first objective was to find a place to stay, and the Green Man Inn seemed like where to start. Outside hung a stylised image of the Green Man figure he had seen on other pubs and public buildings in England and Scotland. He carried his small bag through the door. Again it was silent here, though he had the impression there had been a lot of chatter before he entered. A middle-aged barman, possibly the owner, seemed to be all of a sudden busy cleaning glasses until he elbowed an attractive blonde girl to see to Bond.
“Hello, sir, what can I do for you?” she said, her smile professional, her accent pleasant to the ear. Bond noticed another Green Man image on the wall behind her.
“A small house whisky, please”, said Bond. One doesn’t ask for “Scotch” in Scotland itself without drawing even more attention than he was currently drawing. He also didn’t know what the popular blend would be, the word “house” covering that.
She poured him a quarter gill while he made himself comfortable. She judged, correctly, that he was in no hurry to leave and did not ask for payment immediately.
“Will you be wanting a room, then, Mr ….?”
“Bond. James Bond. Yes, if that can be arranged”.
The barman came over sullenly.
“Aye, that can be done”, he said. “Willow, show Mr Bond here to a room once he has finished his drink”.
“Yes, Father”.
Bond swallowed the remains of his whisky. “Please, lead the way”, he said.
As he followed Willow’s enticing young behind up the creaking staircase he was aware of the conversation in the bar starting again below. He had no doubt who would be the subject of that conversation.
Willow showed him to a comfortable looking room.
“The bathroom’s at the end of the corridor, Mr Bond”, she said, her smile seeming more natural this time. “And I’m in the next room. You see this little bell here? Just ring it if you require anything. Anything at all”.
Their eyes met.
“Thank you very much, Willow. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind”.
Making a casual exploration, he could see a large mansion on a low rising just outside the smaller cottages which made up the main part of the village. An old tower was attached to the main building. Within half an hour Bond had visited the local small shop, walked along the harbour, and nodded hello to any of the locals he happened to meet. Not one word in reply, only a nod from the shop owner when he had bought some unneeded cigarettes merely to break the ice. The ice remained thoroughly unbroken until he noticed the sign saying “Library” and entered.
The librarian was blonde and very good looking, somewhat akin to an older version of Willow. For a moment he wondered if this might be her mother, but in a small community like this one it should be expected that there were many members of the same families all looking vaguely alike. On the wall behind her desk was the same Green Man image he had noticed at the Inn.
She looked up from her paperwork and smiled, the same professional smile he had noticed from Willow in the bar earlier.
“Hello, Mr Bond, what can I do for you?” she asked.
“You know my name?”
“Here on this little island strangers are news, Mr Bond. Word goes around very quickly”.
“Of course”, he said. “I’m here to look for a policeman, named Howard Neilson. I don’t suppose you met him?”
She looked thoughtful, and tapped her pen against her teeth.
“Neilson … a policeman you say?”
“That’s right. He was here very recently”.
“No, I can’t say I met him. And I think I’d have remembered a policeman, we don’t have police here, you see”, she said.
“But it’s a little island, you just said, and strangers are news”, said Bond as blandly as he could.
She shrugged. “No news, no strangers. Is that everything, Mr Bond?”
“Yes, I think so. Oh, perhaps one more thing – just say there was a hypothetical policeman here. In which direction would you say he would have went, hypothetically speaking of course?”
Without one change of expression she said, “Oh, definitely to the east I would say. There’s nothing of interest in the other direction”.
Bond smiled and thanked her politely. He exited the library and turned decisively west.
The ground was very green, with occasional trees and bushes beside the footpath which had been worn by many years of travel. He stopped to examine one – durians, which were known for two things. The first was that they carried an evil, pungent smell when opened. The second was that they should be growing nowhere near a cold climate such as Scotland.
After about two miles he came to a clearing at the top of a sheer drop. There seemed to be something ahead, so he went closer. Ashes, embers – something had been burnt here. There were dying flowers in what looked like bouquets, a few vegetables. He poked around in the ashes, not really knowing what he was looking for. What he did not expect was a human femur.
To Be Continued
That's a sharp observation by Commander Bond.
Durian trees are native to Southeast Asia.
What are they doing in the Hebrides?
-------
Great story Barbel 👏👏
Really enjoying reading this unique adventure.
Keep up the great work👍👍
P.S.
I wasn't expecting an 'Inspector Rhesus' in Inverness...😂😂😂
I am very happy you're enjoying this. There are plenty clues as to where this story is going .... or is it? 👺
That depends, should we picture Britt Ekland or Nicholas Cage?
You have to ask? 🤗🤣
Looking forward to more @Barbel 🍸
I believe the next chapter will make that very clear 😉
I'm glad to hear that, Sir M. 😀
That's cos he's Dr Know, of course.
😂😂😂
It’s great, very atmospheric, especially if you have seen the movie. I’m expecting a curveball, though 😁
Curveball? Surely you can't be suggesting that I would do such a thing!
Thanks, CHB. 😄
Illustration by Sonero
Chapter Four
The light was failing as Bond went back into the Inn. Again he noticed the conversation suddenly stopping as he entered. If there had been a darts player he would have stopped mid-throw. Bond ordered another whisky from the pleasant Willow, the only person there who seemed willing to speak with him. The customers sat sullenly, barely even touching their drinks.
“Willow”, he said, “that’s an unusual name”.
“It was my mother’s name”, she said, “and if I am blessed with a daughter it shall be her name, too”.
She caught her father’s disapproving eye and walked off to clean something or other. Bond calmly drank his whisky and went upstairs. From his room he could hear someone, presumably the girl, entering the room next door then preparing for bed.
He lay down and tried to sleep. The sight of a human bone amongst the embers of a large fire of some sort had unnerved him, he had to admit. Perhaps in the morning he might phone the police station at Inverness and … someone was singing, close by. It sounded like a young girl’s voice. Willow, of course. She was singing a haunting melody, though he couldn’t quite make out the words. And she was slapping the walls and the door in time with the song. It seemed to be aimed at him, though he couldn’t have said why he felt that since he didn’t understand the words. The feeling grew stronger. He realised he would not be able to sleep.
Almost as if it were outwith his control, he got up and opened the door of his room. The singing grew louder, clearly coming from the room next door. Willow’s room. He walked over and opened the door.
She was standing by the bed, completely naked. She smiled and held her arms out towards him, still singing though more softly now. He closed the door and walked over to her.
The sunlight blazed through his uncurtained window with the cold light of those parts not far below the Arctic Circle. Bond threw on a gown and walked to the bathroom, passing Willow’s room with a smile.
After he had washed and dressed he went downstairs. It would have been too much to hope for that breakfast would be available here, so without much hope he went back to the small shop and bought some bread and cheese from the unsmiling woman behind the counter. As he walked, eating, he reflected how much he would have enjoyed some coffee as well.
There was a public phone box near the harbour and he made for that. He had been thinking about whether he should call M first, but decided that calling the Inverness Inspector was more logical. It was his patch, after all, and Bond may have discovered the remains of his man.
He went into the box, fumbling in his pocket for change, before realising that he was wasting his time. The phone itself had been removed. Why, he couldn’t guess. This didn’t seem the kind of spot for teenage vandals to flourish.
He had been stalling about his next step, but there seemed nothing else for it now but to go to the mansion and seek out Lord Summerisle. Bond began walking that way.
The door was answered by a middle-aged servant. Bond asked for the Laird and was shown silently to a large room with high windows admitting the bright unwarmed sunlight. The inevitable Green Man picture was on one wall, larger than the others he had seen, and this time there were other artworks he couldn’t identify as easily. All had something to do with trees and fruits and vegetables of unending variety, only some of which he recognised.
At a long dining table the librarian sat opposite Lord Summerisle, an elaborate breakfast set before them. Three other local men stood around the room, guarding the doors. Bond was not surprised to see who the Laird was.
To Be Continued
Some really nice touches in this…loving the crossover 👏🏻
Thanks, Sir M. And I promise no Nic Cage.
It’s coming along nicely. Didn’t Bond buy bread and cheese in the GF book (it’s many years since I’ve read it)?
Pretty sure he sends Tilly to buy bread and some French sausage, plus of course some wine.
Raw Scottish sausage isn't very appetising 😝
Chapter Five
Illustration by Sonero
Two of the men walked quickly over to Bond and searched him, removing his Beretta. Aleister Crowley stood politely and indicated a chair next to him and the librarian at the table.
“Good morning, Mr Bond”, he said. “I have been wondering when you would decide to visit us. You will remember Ingrid, of course”.
The blonde woman nodded at Bond with a smile.
“Of course”, he said, “but each time is a renewed pleasure”.
“Please, join Ingrid and I here. Perhaps you might enjoy some breakfast?”
Bond walked over and sat down. “I was expecting to see you here, Crowley”.
“Lord Summerisle, if you please. I purchased this island legally some years ago, and the title goes with the island. Now, some coffee perhaps?”
Bond shook his head. He would have very much enjoyed coffee, but he knew better than to trust anything from this man’s table.
“Stubborn to the last, I see”, Crowley said, “you have not changed. And now, Mr Bond, I surmise you would like to ask me about Constable Neilson. That is why you are here, of course”.
“Of course. And then I imagine you will tie me to a stake and burn me just as you did that unfortunate man”.
Ingrid laughed, then Crowley joined in. “No, Mr Bond, we will be doing nothing of the sort. And he wasn’t tied to a stake, either, but you will not receive the honour of dying the same death as your predecessor. For one thing, you are not a virgin”.
Puzzled, Bond replied, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it, Mr Bond”, said Ingrid. “Constable Neilson was a very religious man as many people are in these parts and did not believe in sex before marriage. Not even with the beautiful young Willow tempting him to the best of her ability, which I have been told can be very tempting indeed. As I understand it, though, you did not require very much tempting at all”.
Again the two of them laughed.
“What the hell is there to laugh about?” Bond demanded. “What for God’s sake is so funny about being a virgin or not?”
“God has very little if anything to do with it”, Crowley said. “You should know me better than that. Only a virgin sacrifice will satiate our gods. Howard Neilson was sacrificed in the belly of a great wicker man to ensure that our crops continue to be fruitful and multiply the next season”.
Bond remembered the bone, the human bone, he had found in the ashes of what must have been what Crowley was talking about.
“That is insane”, he said, “you believe that deliberately sacrificing a human being causes your crops to grow? You’re mad!”
“Mad, are we? How do you think we manage to grow such fruits and vegetables as we do here? Papaya, coconut, passion fruit – here, on the edge of the northern Atlantic Ocean? Here, with the Arctic far closer than the equator? Our gods must be appeased or such bounties cannot come to pass. And I require the income from them to finance my endeavours here”.
Bond couldn’t find a reply. He had been wondering the same thing himself, but still there must be a rational explanation for this. Sacrificing virgins to pagan gods, in the twentieth century?
“Look, Crowley, I –“
Crowley looked at one of the nearby guards, who stepped threateningly towards where Bond sat.
“You will address me as Lord Summerisle, or perhaps Laird if we were on friendlier terms. As I told you, this is my island and I make the rules. It will be my son’s after I am gone. He would have enjoyed meeting you, I am sure, but he is studying in Transylvania at the moment while being stationed there after the war. Now, I will surmise that you are an educated man, Mr Bond, and even moderately well-read so I would like to ask you a question. Have you ever read Frankenstein?”
Bond stared at him, wondering why this sudden lurch into left field.
“What, you mean Boris Karloff with the bolts through his neck?”
Crowley tutted and sighed. “No, Mr Bond, that is exactly what I do not mean. I asked if you had read the book”.
“By book you mean the novel by Mary Shelley? No, I haven’t”. Bond had no idea where this was going but he didn’t seem to have much choice but to play along.
“To be pedantic, the young lady concerned was not Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. She had not yet married Percy Bysshe Shelley and was still Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin in 1816 at the time the book came into existence and was published anonymously – it took until the third edition for her married name to appear on it as the author. And, more to the point, Frankenstein was not a novel as you just said. She merely transcribed the information given to her by a man called Robert Walton, a sea captain who had met Victor Frankenstein at or near the North Pole. Captain Walton had written down the narrative the dying Frankenstein related to him, and he passed this on to young Mary – she was still a teenager at the time – who arranged for it to be published with the assistance of her husband-to-be Shelley, a noted poet”.
“Fascinating, but what does it have to do with us?” asked a bewildered Bond.
“Just this. Frankenstein is not fictional. Victor Frankenstein lived and breathed and walked the Earth just as you or I. He succeeded in conquering death by crossing the final frontier, by boldly going where no man had gone before, or since for that matter. The book in question is a story inside a story, and at times even a story inside a story inside another story. If you are familiar only with the regrettable efforts which Hollywood has made at telling this incredible tale, then you have been told less than half of the facts. Yes, I said facts”.
“All right, Lord Summerisle”, said Bond, “if I accept that as your position or theory, what of it? How does that affect us here, in the Hebrides?”
Ingrid spoke up, saying, “Towards the end, the monster Victor has made demands that he make a female, a bride for him. You probably know that part, Hollywood did get that right. Victor refuses until the monster starts killing off his own family, starting with his wife Elizabeth, then reluctantly agrees. He wants to go somewhere very remote to do this, so he goes to Orkney”.
“Or so he says”, added Crowley. “Have you ever heard the literary concept of an “unreliable narrator”, Mr Bond? Well, Victor Frankenstein was an unreliable narrator in no uncertain measure. He did not travel to Orkney at all. He went here instead, to Summerisle”.
Bond said, “But even if what you say is true, and I’m not accepting that for one moment, I ask you yet again - what does it have to do with us?”
Crowley and Ingrid looked at each other then stood up.
“Come with us, Mr Bond”, said Crowley. “I think you will find this very interesting”.
To Be Concluded
This is turning out to an exceptional story. The way you have informed those not familiar with Shelley’s novel is outstanding., it’s never slow or boring but forms an integral part of your story. Once again I applaud your imagination in merging not only a world renowned novel but an exalted movie as well, into the world of James Bond.
I cannot leave this comment without praising another exquisite illustration from @Sonero you two work together splendidly and I hope future @Barbel stories are all adorned with your work.
I will leave now as I fear that I’m coming down with cherry blossom poisoning 😂
You are very kind, CHB. Thank you.
Thank you @CoolHandBond for the kind appreciation.
Barbel you continue to amaze us all.👏👏
Keep up the great work...
Another very well written instalment, full of interesting details with a great narrative 👏🏻😁
Much appreciated, guys. Last part coming in less than twelve hours, a final chapter plus an epilogue.