As of last month, Apocryphile Press has brought out The Falling Tower (available as an ebook and a paperback on Amazon and elsewhere), my Charles Williams-inspired novel in which Charles Williams himself (or, at least, his postmortem poetic Voice) is a character.
I am also — almost — a character, in that at least two of the four suitemates are more or less me: Mona, the disheveled chatterbox, and Eve, the…smug normie who writes boring poetry? Eve is very much an C.S. Lewis/Charles Williams baddie: a combination of my own more embarrassing qualities and a few things that randomly annoy me. If I succeed in writing sequels, I hope she will be able to demonstrate that this unimpressive set of faults is not actually damning in any meaningful sense (as my first reader said, it would be nice for her to avoid the Problem of Susan). Maybe she will even become an accomplished poet!
In the meantime, let’s watch her meet the Voice of Charles Williams himself:
“I know you—good Lady,” he said apologetically (she could
almost hear the capital L), “but awkwardly enough, I can’t recall
your name.”
“Eve,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’d better get to class,” she lied,
since he looked about to speak again.
She walked briskly out the door, into the foyer.
“My dear!” he called, coming after her. He laid a hand lightly
on her arm and then jumped back as if she’d shocked him.
She turned unwillingly to face him. His dear, was she?
He said, “I’ve only the right to trouble you any human being
has to trouble another—infnite, perhaps, and yet—but I believe
—or hope—that it is our duty to receive as well as to give—and
that such a one as yourself might condescend…” He said all this
quickly enough that she wasn’t sure she was hearing it correctly.
His abrupt gesticulations were distracting, too. Was he some kind
of medieval reenactor, with that lady stuff? Then why was he
wearing a suit? Or was he actually insane?
Eve nearly turned and walked away without a word. She
wanted to, but he looked just normal enough politeness held her
back. Besides, what if it was a medical emergency? She supposed
she could call someone (though, if that were the case, why on
earth didn’t he do it himself, or talk to the library sta#?). “What
do you need?” she asked slowly.
He looked stunned by this response. There was a suggestion
of tears in his eyes. He didn’t reply for perhaps a whole minute,
though a few times he seemed about to speak. Finally, he said,
again so hurriedly she could hardly understand him, “Perhaps—of
your goodness—the year?”
“2021,” Eve said, shaking her head. “I need to get going,” she
repeated and climbed the stairs rapidly. At the top, she glanced
back, and he was nowhere to be found. Still, she said to the clerk
at the counter as she showed the contents of her purse to prove
she wasn’t stealing anything, “There was kind of a weird man
downstairs.
Of Elsewhere 