--even Swans Books On Tape presents The Fairytales Of St Sasha written by David Brownley read by Victoria Brownley-Plass--

Story One: The Choir Of Two Once upon a time there lived someone who was no one at all - who could not be seen or heard or known. Instead, everyone they met - family, friend or stranger - would see only what they wanted to see; hear only what they wanted to hear; and know only what they wanted to know. To be at the centre of every room. To be the song in every heart, and the heart of every song. Perhaps you think this a gift. Adrift without direction On an ocean deep and wide On a raft that barely holds two people Lying side by side And I remember when this felt like All the space I'd ever need I really liked you Once upon a time It's funny how this tiny world Seems to get bigger every day Now the arms that used to hold you Are pushing you away I know I said I'd never leave you And I meant it Yesterday--

Can I tell you a secret? I clocked you first I just didn't want to say anything Sometimes you can just tell By the way we look I don't know what it is But something calls out my name It says Come touch the hole in my chest I keep closed up with duct tape And superglue I have been scratching this itch for so long Now the bone's started showing through Check me out, I'm damaged goods Still fucked from all the drugs I took And boy, you'd best believe me Don't you dare come near me I'm a wreck, I'm a mess I'm an injoke to my friends And they don't think I hear the awful Things they say about me So go ahead It's alright You can kiss me if you like Can I tell you a secret you already know? I just want to hear the words come out Sometimes it's a little like We speak a different kind of language To everyone else in the world You say something too quiet To hear in a crowd But I read the bite wounds on your lips I have spent thousands on therapy Trying to learn not to do things like this Check me out, I'm damaged goods Still fucked from all the drugs I took And boy, you'd best believe me We could cure our crazy for a night Maybe two If that's the best thing we can do Then let's top up each other's glasses With each other's whisky Wait, I know your face from somewhere I think I saw you in a nightmare We were dancing on the blackened banks Of a river made of fire One missed step and I could lose you We could leave here if we choose But we are both cold-blooded creatures And we'd freeze out there So let our knees touch Underneath the table Wrap yourself around me, baby Like a tag around my ankle And go ahead It's alright You can kiss me if you like

Back then, there was no 'Other Side' to the forest. It went on forever and ever until you turned back or died in there. The perfect place to hide. --- When we first met we recognised each other immediately Two frightened & hiding-it 20-somethings travelling alone in the off-season both visibly lost both running In retrospect, it was inevitable how we tangled ourselves in each other splicing our frayed ends. We were young and high clumsy and fumbling, and we conspired late into the night whispering like twins up past bedtime Singing songs for each other from our battered water-damaged songbooks Explaining ourselves, I suppose in the only way we knew how We made plans to travel to New Delhi together in the morning and from there to Nepal or anywhere really And I fell asleep listening to your breathing and the sound of heavy rain on hot tin roofs like typewriters drafting a message home I'm okay. I'm safe. I love you. And I am never, ever coming back. --- "Who are you?" the stranger asked. He leaned in closer, but he wasn't listening. --- When I woke up, you were gone. I never saw you again. I went to New Delhi alone. I thought about travelling onward to Nepal but, you know, I am embarrassed to say that in the end I just spent the rest of my money on a ticket home I do wonder sometimes if I might have done the same thing. If I'd woken up first, I mean. Taken the cash in your wallet. Gotten dressed in the hallway. Taken your songbook instead of mine in the rush and the hurry. In another universe not too far from this one maybe I'm still out there. Still lost. Still running. Tonight the rain on St Sasha is falling like it did in Jaipur and I lie awake listening to the sound of my own breathing the typewriters clacking out reams of nonsense to no one in particular.

Story Two: The Girl Who Painted Death Once upon a time--

driftwood body and razorclam keys sea glass pedals and mica dust shimmer and shine come sing with me i want to break you open like a scallopshell figure out what makes you sound so beautiful all i know are the simplest chords triads fifths and rootnotes, but you make them more come sing with me i want to peer inside you with a microscope you washed up here from god only knows where in perfect tune and i can't bear to not understand things so here i go once again you think i'd have learned it by now man some things shouldn't be figured out and by peeking behind every curtain you find sometimes you see what you shouldn't some remedies don't need a hammer some mysteries don't have an answer but when all you have is a scalpel then everything looks like a cadaver driftwood body and razorclam keys beach piano, all covered in seaweed and salt come sing with me i want to crack you open just to see your pearl i want to learn what makes you sound so beautiful you washed up here from god only knows where in perfect tune and i can't bear to not understand things so here i go once again you think i'd have thought to correct it you can't keep the frog and dissect it by cutting the guts out of everything all you get is blood on the carpet some remedies don't need a hammer some mysteries don't have an answer but when all you have is a scalpel then everything looks like a cadaver

--and with desperation (and no small degree of madness) she takes the portrait of her love, and she takes one of the bone bowls from the kitchen - because it has to be a bowl of bone - and she walks to the western water at sundown - because it has to be there and it has to be then. And when the sun is at its lowest point, and its reflection forms a bridge between the horizon and the shore, she dips the bowl into the water and fills it with sunlight. And then she carries it into the forest and she sets it down in the darkest spot between the trees. The bowl of light seems to illuminate the very air she breathes. And she sits. And she waits. Around her, the old trees creak and moan to each other as if offended by the encroaching sun. --- The first strange thing about the island of St Sasha is that there never was any St Sasha There is no saint by that name mentioned anywhere --- The Beast growls curiously as it pads back and forth just beyond the veil of light. Dawn peers into the dark, but can make out only a vague shape at the edge of the shadows. She senses the Beast studying the portrait of her love. And when it finally speaks, the voice of the Beast seems to erupt from the earth like the forest itself must have done untold ages ago. --- Second, is that up until the 1890s when the last permanent residents left the islanders considered themselves to be directly descended from those who set up camp at the very edge of the world. Or at the very least, the edge of known civilisation. To the east of here lies mainland Britain, but to the west absolutely nothing Just featureless sea. --- "Hmph. New miracles," it says. "Human miracles at that. A troubling perversion. What would happen, I wonder, if you painted a self-portrait?" The notion makes Dawn shudder. The Beast grunts. "Of course. I should expect no better from a man. Brutish nosiness wrapped in the hide of curiosity." "So," says the Beast, and Dawn feels its terrible gaze come to rest on her. It paws the ground restlessly. "The dirt of this place irritates my hooves. Make your request." --- But there is a third thing about this place that no one ever seems to talk about and it's related to why the people who crashed here were stranded for as long as they were There was nothing they could use to repair their boat and instead they were forced to use the wreckage to build shelter which they later rebuilt with stone and then learned to hunt seabirds to compliment their diet of fish And then they became just another settlement who survived against the odds on a planet full of settlements who survived against the odds There's nothing unusual about that Except-- --- "You want me to undo this, do you? Fracture the magic? Tell you: 'It's alright, child - what the painting shows is meaningless. She might live another sixty years. Or she might die next week. Or tomorrow. Or five minutes ago, at home, in bed, alone, wondering where you are while you were sat here waiting for me.' " --- For all of the island's tapestry of fairytales about the things that creep between the ageless trees in the deep dark forest there never was a forest here. Not so much as a single sapling. Ever. --- "Listen. Listen to me now. You know for sure that she will not live to see old age. That is painful I expect. "But look at the portrait. Look at your work. She is older in this painting than she is now, yes? You know therefore that you won't lose her today. And you know you won't lose her tomorrow. And that is a comfort no other creature of your world can claim, am I right?" "I can't save you from this. Nobody lives happily ever after, child. We all just live. Until we don't." --- You know, it's funny. I am all alone here, and yet I feel compelled to whisper. --- And as the sun rises across the water to the east, Dawn nestles gently in the crook of her love's arm, her thoughts drifting to the days ahead - their lives stretching out before them like wild, uncharted ocean. And believe me when I tell you that they lived. Happily.

--ory Three: How Jack Lost Herself in the Hall of a Million Doors and Never Found Her Way Home Once upon a time--

This house is no place No road leads up here Just an empty space on the map And now I wonder if you were ever around My words are shortcuts No one can follow My movements mindless Old lines of code A writhing chorus that crawled into my ear While I was sleeping on the couch God, how am I meant to get you out Of my mind? Why do you keep hanging around Way past your time? What's it going to take to get the taste Of your name off my tongue? Bring me a pair of tweezers I'll pluck the buds out one by one This house is lonely It wants to keep me Its corridors twist in on themselves And now I wonder if I will ever get out My shadow dances beyond the candle My echo answers before I speak My reflection breathes lungfuls of fog On the far side of the glass God, how am I meant to get you out Of my mind? Why do you keep hanging around Way past your time? I see you in the dark behind my eyelids When I'm trying to sleep Bring me a pack of steel wool I'll scour the cornea until it's clean Comfortable and effortless Like a familiar hymn I sing while I think About something else Somewhere there's somebody new About to meet you I remember the feeling God, how am I meant to get you out Of my mind? Why do you keep hanging around Way past your time? What's it going to take to get the taste Of your name off my tongue? Bring me a pair of tweezers

The lighthouse on St Sasha was built in 1895, some years after the island's residents moved away and shortly before its final resident moved in. Today, the lighthouse on the island's west coast is, like most in the modern day, automated. The era of the hermit lighthouse keeper is long gone, with the majority switching to unmanned gas systems in the second half of the twentieth century. A handful of lighthouses were converted earlier - experimentally - to see what might work in the future as the industry moved towards automation. Only one - this one - was converted out of necessity.

--ey heard a soft rapping upon the upper windows, and a chorus of scraping and rasping as though a dense forest were pressed flush against the walls of their tower. But of course there was no forest. And there had never been a forest. --- I find it really difficult to sleep without some sort of sound playing, because when on the rare occassions I am forced to sleep in silence I hear things Sometimes it's something nice. There's an orchestra I hear sometimes I hear them tuning up and then they play some composition that I don't recognise. Most of the time, though all I hear are voices Lots of voices all at once, distant and indistinct to begin with like like I'm sitting in a busy cafeteria, you know? I can't pick out the words, but eventually as I drift off one of the voices becomes louder than the others I-- it's difficult to explain this to somebody who hasn't experienced it but it really feels like somebody has leant over me in my bed and spoken directly into my ear --- -- the echo of her call took so long to return that she almost mistook it for the voice of another - lost, like her, in the vast, seemingly endless hallway.

You pass my way every day but only today did I see beyond that crumbling façade the incredible things you could be So wipe off the damp and mildew Bite off the hand that built you My wonderful, murderous thing I see you clear now God wouldn't kiss you goodnight but soon you won't need her anyhow We predate the nation in which we were born and the graves that we dig will remain long after we're gone I have been waiting for you So please listen and you'll understand me when I sing - the breeze whistling through parts of me nobody's ever seen We are of kind, creature A pleasure to finally meet you My strange and unmerciful thing I feel like I know you He who cannot be contained Christ, let me hold you I'll be your tower without any windows or doors; your castle that bursts from the earth like pus from a sore I have been waiting for you

Ananke is the UK's most isolated lighthouse, and when her keeper died in 1938 after being the lone occupant since her construction forty years prior, the Northen Lighthouse Commission had serious trouble replacing him. Partly due to the lighthouse being here - on St Sasha. To be 200 miles from civilisation with no easy route home separates the aspiring hermits from those who see the lifestyle as a true calling. But, also, when news of the circumstances surrounding the keeper's death began to find their way into major newspapers, the enthusiasm of potential applicants diminished significantly. The strange and violent fate that befell David Brownley haunts the island to this day. And though there have been a number of hypotheses presented over the years, Brownley's lonely death has never been adequately explained.

Okay. Here we go. The fourth and, surely, the strangest thing about St Sasha, and the reason that this island has been stuck immovable in my memory since I was a kid listening to this tape of fairytales every night as I went to sleep A rescue vessel was sent to check on David Brownley, by then in his late sixties, after he failed to answer his radio for I think three days, I don't know. Rescuers found the island and the surrounding sea littered with thousands upon thousands of sheets of paper. Every inch of every sheet covered in writing - mostly rendered illegible by rain damage. Then, when they arrived at the lighthouse they found the door open and reams of handwritten pages beyond counting filling the building's interior hip deep. The powerful ocean winds had blown a good proportion of the pages out onto the island - but by no means the majority of them. Rescuers described trying to cross the room as being akin to wading through a bog. Brownley wasn't there. Eventually, though, he was found towards the north of the island. The rescuers found him lying dead in the grass, his clothing ripped to shreds and beneath, deep, bloody gashes in his flesh. It goes without saying that there is no known beast in this part of the world that could have caused injuries like this. The pages found on St Sasha that could be collected were burned as it was deemed a waste of resources to transport them off the island and the lighthouse was automated as a matter of urgency when applicants refused to take the job on the island where the previous keeper had been mauled to death by an unknown creature. And that, as they say, is the end of the story. --- But it wasn't the whole story. Not quite. No. Not quite.