Field(s) of Dreams I

Grumpydoctor is nine. It is one night lost in a cloyingly sticky summer, and he is peering out of his open bedroom window in the Police House at East Bridgford, enjoying the breeze. Grump has been reading by torchlight and nobody knows he is still up. A current pile of books rests on the bedside table, some he still remembers fondly: Willard Price's 'Amazon Adventure', C. S. Lewis' 'The Magician's Nephew', 'A Comet in Moominland', Susan Cooper's 'Over Sea, Under Stone', Alan Garner's 'Weirdstone of Brisangamen', Ray Bradbury's 'The Martian Chronicles', an inprint of 'The War of the Worlds' that terrified him deliciously.... copies lost to age and taste, shamefully abandoned. Where did those go? His child's library has been carelesly broken up and scattered, disseminated by charity shops and secondhand dealers, those books brittle and faded now but still working their magic; creased and scarred by their journeys, owned by any number of strangers. He wants *his* books back. Feels a frisson of shame.

Palm against glass, Grump is staring across the lawns and towards a cornfield at the end of the property which shimmers under a luminous sky. That field haunts his childhood. Even now he hears it rustling, sighing, tall stalks animated by moonlight and a whisper of breeze. He wonders what might be hidden in the corn. What might move secretly along its dark rows. What multitude of monsters can see him - a small figure, hand stilling the restless curtain - there in the window? Almost every night, whatever the time of year, the young Grump will wake with a start and cross the room to peer behind the curtain. Something of a ritual. Has he heard something? Is he convinced that he will miss the passage of something extraordinary out there beyond his back fence? Something or someone he hopes to see and be defined by for the rest of his days?

Grumpydoctor just a few nights ago.... getting ready for bed:

Another village. Other fields. He is closing his bedroom curtains, not at all happy with their kitsch '70s vibe, and waiting for The Flower to finish her endless nightly routine in the bathroom. The only light is from the lamp his side of their sagging bed. There is enough moon for Grump to see clearly across the road to the stables and paddock where three horses stand, mournfully it seems, heads bowed. Then comes an incredible sound, incongrous in the stillness, the rushing, thundering passage of a late train along the Grantham to Nottingham line. Grump sees it, a darker than dark shape pushing on through distant fields, now passing behind the shadowy tree line. A horn sounds (not a whistle these days of course) and it is a rude, angry, unnerving note that punctuates the quietude.

And the first thing Grumpydoctor thinks of is Bradbury's 'Something Wicked This Way Comes'... Mr Dark's Pandemonium Carnival coming to town, arriving by train.

He remembers.