James Herbert: A Personal Tribute

It is 3 am. My old house is quietly creaking as the wind sighs past the gables and the rain patters gently against the windows. It is a cold morning, but has the hint of a fine spring day.

         I am sitting at my desk and my thoughts turn to James Herbert whose books take central honours in my bookcase.

         I remember when I started writing fiction and as usual found inspiration difficult, but then James Herbert entered my life with The Secret of Crickley Hall. I was instantly hooked and then rapidly worked through all his books with The Magic Cottage and the Ghosts of Sleath being two of my favourites. Then he led me onto many more writers of the genre. Soon I began to go backwards to the 1920s and 1930s which although written in a completely different style, were just as entertaining.

         James inspired me to revel in his imagination, to read many other authors whom I had never heard of, and then eventually to produce my own book Catacombs of the Damned. Authors and readers worldwide owe so much to his genius. When you read his books you feel that you are actually there in the pages such is his skill. I feel that there can be no higher accolade.

        And outside, the rain still patters, the wind still sighs but the house is less cold. He would have loved that.

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Merlin’s Ghost

                 

                                                                               

                   Imagine: In deepest winter, the atlantic rolls in from countless miles of surging wilderness with a remorseless power which crashes and pounds the rocky outcrops of the Cornish coast. The cold, the dampness of the constant mist, the roar of the waves and their ceaseless drumming as they smash and batter the rocks where for thousands of years the sea has undermined the cliffs creates a wild and lonely landscape. One where humans are not welcome; one where the ghosts and spirits of the distant past can be felt.

                

   This is Tintagel Castle in Cornwall. Only a ragged outline of buildings long lost still survive, but it was believed to be the stronghold of local Kings long before the arrival of the Romans. In the third and fourth centuries a small hamlet started which grew steadily for the next few hundred years with earth ramparts being added, when suddenly, as the Dark Ages began, it was deserted. But in the thirteenth century it was again fortified with stone walls and became a local centre for trade - there have been found many remains of mediterranean pottery and glass from as far afield as modern Syria.

        

But the time of legends began after the Romans left when massive social migration produced a defensive leader called King Arthur. It was at Tintagel that Arthur was conceived so legend tells us and from that date he has moved throughout the world of pagan Celtic myth. It was even believed that he was born due to trickery by Merlin, who was himself born of a Christian mother and a Demon and who regularly bridged the pagan and christian worlds. It was even believed that Merlin caused massive stones to arrive from Ireland and that Stonehenge was built by magic!

                    But Tintagel is dominated by the sea. There is a dark and black-cragged cave below the headland where the ghost of Merlin is said to linger. This is a place of ancient sorcery where history and legend entwine and where the Spirit of Merlin still casts its spell.

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The Extraordinary Legends of Glastonbury

                 

      The small town of Glastonbury in the south of England is dominated by a 500 foot hill called The Tor, with the tower of a ruined church on the very top. Legends abound of King Arthur and his Round Table, but more interestingly it claims the presence of Jesus himself while travelling with Joseph of Arimathaea of Biblical fame, reputedly his uncle. Most of us know the famous hymn Jerusalem by William Blake which addresses this theory:

                                “And did those feet in ancient times,

                                 Walk upon England’s mountains green...”

Glastonbury is reputed to have had its seeds in the mists of the third century BC in an area which in those days was surrounded by swamplands and tidal waters. It was an island, often called the Isle of Avalon; alternatively dubbed The isle of the Departed Dead. Archaeological evidence abounds of iron tools, ornaments and pottery with even a dugout canoe in Glastonbury Museum as various tribes, now all lumped together as Celts, lived on the islands around the Tor. Ghosts and superstitions abound - remember that Stone Henge was already ancient by that time - and then the Druids made it one of their prime sites with the planting of groves of oaktrees which had huge religious significance. It seems that the Tor was primarily worshipped as an entrance to the Underworld; there were several similar hills but the Tor was the chief one.

Some specific legends:

    1. Joseph of Arimathaea.

        Joseph was a trader, reputed to be the uncle of Jesus, who travelled to England many times. Jesus went with him as a boy and spent a short time in  

        Glastonbury in contemplation for his Ministry. Joseph returned the last time after the Crucifixion with 11 companions to spread the Gospel of Christ

        and the story of the Resurrection. It is believed that he brought the Holy Grail with him to Glastonbury. He died there and was buried locally. But his

        tomb was moved during the tumult of 1662 and his remains vanished.

     2. The Holy Grail.

         This is generally thought of as the cup used by Christ at the last supper. Pontius Pilate gave the cup to Joseph of Arimathaea who caught drops of 

          Christ’s blood as he hung dying on the cross. This cup and the blood were then brought to Glastonbury. Legend tells us that it was buried at the

         foot of the Tor in a place now called Chalice Hill. Over the subsequent centuries those in Arthurian Legend searched, and found it.

     3. King Arthur.

         There has been so much written about him and his circle that it is tedious to repeat any of it. But he was centred around this part of the country, and

          after the recovery of the Holy Grail it was circulated regularly around the Round Table. But then it disappeared.

      4. The mother of the Virgin Mary.

          This is possibly one of the less likely stories. Ann was born in Cornwall and made a most unhappy marriage. Now pregnant, she caught ship to the

           Holy Land where Mary was born. At the age of about 15 Mary married a carpenter while Ann returned to Cornwall where Jesus visited her. Mary later

           travelled to Britain with Joseph of Arimathaea during the Christian persecutions and is buried at Glastonbury.

Finally, in my book Catacombs of the Damned I discuss ley lines. These are mystical connections between important religious sites which give life and comfort to those living or travelling on them - even birds are said to navigate along them. Maybe this is a long lost ability to use the earth’s magnetic field? Glastonbury is right in the centre of a huge system of ley lines which stretch from Cornwall to Avebury in Wiltshire and continue onwards to Norfolk. Another one runs from Glastonbury through Stone Henge to Canterbury Cathedral.

This blog post doesn’t do justice to the fantastic history of this part of the country. A visit for a few days is well worth the effort for those who like these mysteries!

Catacombs of the Damned is available in paperback and for Kindle:

 

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Catacombs of the Damned: Inspiration

This is what my house looks like, or rather feels like, on a dark winter night. When the moon is stroking the rooftops, there is an overhanging sense of something waiting to happen. The house seems to grow and looms over the passerby with a powerful presence which sleeps during daylight.

And when the winter storms strike, the clouds churn under the moon to let loose torrents of rain which cascade off the roofs and sound the drums of massive waterfalls; perhaps releasing a call to the water-spirits of prehistory which it is well known inhabit the Somerset Levels, while the wind howls around the Celtic crosses above the gables which stretch to the sky as if appealing for some pagan recognition.

And inside it is worse. The wind around the eastern end moans and laments as if to mourn the passage of some soul which still lingers - but it can only be heard from one of the rooms. At the other end of the house there is silence, but it is not a sympathetic peace; rather a sense of waiting, and waiting, till the storm moves on. We don’t know what it waits for; perhaps the Grey Woman who still tries to find repose while walking, or rather floating, down the corridor to the room where you can hear the wind. Surely she is a player in a tragedy that must have been re-enacted for countless centuries?

It is this Grey Woman who has inspired my book Catacombs of theDamned. My Grandmother claimed to have seen her on several occasions; always at night and whenever the storms were raging over the village. There was never any menace or threatening feelings, but rather this ephemeral figure floated down the corridors presumably in search of something long lost. And in later years several visitors have complained of a sudden coldness, always at night, while others have seen a grey shape moving randomly in the house, but always in the peripheral vision and, surprisingly, often during the day time. The last time this happened was several months ago when two visitors saw a shadow move sharply across an open door; but on looking twice there was nothing there. It was mid-morning.

Many of the other parts have been inspired by incidents elsewhere. For a really sobering experience, take one of the public tours around the Catacombs of Vienna Cathedral. This is in itself an awe-inspiring adventure with the main Cathedral part on ground level being overwhelmingly dark and menacing; but underneath the chancel where centuries of bodies are stored is like entering a world of real-life horror. Room after room of bones, many of them medieval plague victims, piled on top of each other achieving a macabre intimacy which produces a deluge of historical awe. Almost every large city in Europe has a similar problem of running out of graveyard space, and all have found a similar solution.

And so Catacombs of the Damned was born.

In the press: To read more about the inspiration for Catacombs of the Damned in the article by the Western Gazette, click here.

Catacombs of the Damned is available in paperback and for Kindle:

 

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