Hello

I

​BOOK EXTRACT

 

I am Abraham Soar. Although that is not strictly true. It cannot be, because I am not entirely of this world. That’s obvious isn’t it? Here I am, on the page, and so you must see that I am just someone made up by William Blyghton, to let him say things without anyone knowing it’s him saying them – which is silly really, since everyone will know it’s him. That’s what it’s like for authors, always pretending to be someone else. So, here I am. On the page. Written down. Abraham Soar.

I.        I have to tell you that although William has written my name, he is not sure who I am. He has imagined me, but he doesn’t know why. You see, he is frightened, and he began this story in the hope that it would ease his fear. But now I am here, he doesn’t know what to do with me, and that’s because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He is stuck. He has made me in his own image – an old man. Now why choose this? Why couldn’t he have made me a young man, an adventurer sailing across oceans and making love to wondrous women on foreign shores – or nearby the shore, since sand is such a problem when making love actually on the shore; unless, of course it is pebbled, when it’s just very uncomfortable. Well, William couldn’t make me a young man because he has forgotten what that feels like. So, here I am, Abraham Soar. An old man – or so it seems.

        When I say I am a fiction, I have to tell you that from where I’m standing, it seems we are all fictions. You as well as me. The bits we see of each other are what we’ve made up. Or someone has. Over time. Because of what William has written, what you see is Abraham Soar, elderly and wearing brown lace-up shoes, black corduroy trousers, a white shirt buttoned to the neck, with a scarf and a cardigan. But that’s not really me. It’s part of the fiction. It’s the clothes that William has chosen for someone he has called Abraham Soar. And I’m not sure I would have chosen them. I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. I don’t mind them. At least they’re comfortable, which as we shall see is important to me. They’ll do. And William has provided me with a long overcoat, which I like. I wear it all the time. It is blue and of soft wool, and it reaches down to my ankles. And a woollen hat, too. Grey. For the summer he has given me a Panama hat. I like that.

        Sorry to go on about this, I know it’s difficult, but we must get it right. So, bear with me. Otherwise you will only see what William has written down. The surface. You will have no idea what it is to be me, the me you cannot see behind the me you do see. Of course, you can’t see me, not me. Only I know me, and even that is difficult. I would like you to know me, but here’s a thing: as I have said, William doesn’t really know this ‘Abraham Soar’ whose name he has written down. How could he? Not yet. He may think I am as he is, part of his fearfulness, and in a way I am. But there is more to it than that. Let me try to explain.

        At one and the same time, I am both what William writes down and something that he cannot know. He can describe me in the present, but there is part of me that lies beyond the present. I am both here and not here. I am his dæmon. I come from his innermost being, his soul, but I am both all of him and more than he can be. Can you imagine such a thing? William may have written me as old, but I’m not old. Not in the everyday sense. I’m not young either, or middle-aged. You see, where I have come from there is no age, and so I don’t feel any age at all. I am ageless. I am part of who William is, but not limited by that part that has grown old and fearful. I am his inner spirit and the outward expression of his hopes and fears. I am both the one who troubles him and the one who offers him comfort. It may seem to be a contradiction, but that, dear reader, is how it is when you summon up your dæmon. And now William is sitting in his study wondering what to do with me.