Where the Rubber Hits the Road

All that can be heard is the sound of tyres on tarmac: the rubber hitting the road. The car’s engine, quiet and unobtrusive as always, has receded to the subconscious as a constant sound often does.

No rain falls, no wind blows, and the fog literally hangs from the trees, curtaining them. The fog curtain hangs across the road as well, and the higher we climb, the thicker it becomes. So we’re cruising; sometimes fifty kilometres an hour seems too fast.

The trees loom, emerging sullenly from the darkness as the car’s headlights strike them, then ebb slowly into the gloom once more. Landscape glides by dimly and there’s nothing for this passenger to do but stare into the darkness. And think. This is the kind of atmosphere that inspires me to think of all the supernatural mythology that has permeated society for, oh … centuries. Given that we are travelling through Australian bush, all of the aboriginal spirits and “debbil-debbils” are the first to leap to the mind: in my mind, I can see the humanoid figures with big round eyes depicted in indigenous artwork. If I really concentrate, I can see them slipping away among the trees, translucent in the fog. Ridiculous.

More trees slip by dimly in the fog. They are lit up, making them appear ghostly, enhancing the whole supernatural mythology thing. The light is not coming from our vehicle’s headlights, and as we round the corner slowly – the fog is now very thick (porridge, rather than pea soup, would be an apt description, I feel) – I almost expect to encounter Neuschwanstein, nestled among the trees. Or some gloomy Transylvanian edifice lit up from within by candles. About now, I’m waiting for the car’s engine to falter. It doesn’t.

Nevertheless, the whole cinematic fantasy begins to develop, as I look at those trees: the castle, with its huge timber doors; the dim hallways, adorned with gloomy, heavily-framed portraits, painted in oils; the huge rooms furnished with massive timber tables, chairs, and sideboards; the walls equipped with candle-holders (brass, of course!) and candles to light the way to the chamber containing the coffin, its lid slowly rising to reveal the occupant. A dapper gentleman, whose sartorial elegance is faultless – where in Hades would he get the brilliantine for that jet-black hair with its sharply defined widow’s peak? (He could have done with a trip to the dentist: those eye-teeth are just a little bit too long …) The few candles in the chamber deepen the shadows, but as our natty gent rises from his resting place, it’s unnerving to note that he doesn’t actually have a shadow. Skin pure white, and smooth as a sheet, lips unnaturally red, he’s hungry; the eyes gleam, and the teeth gleam, as he approaches, ready to charm his victim, and then sink the fangs in … Rosary beads, anyone?

The shadow of the crucifix on those beads appears on the wall, held up by a frightened would-be victim, looming far larger than the original object (there’s your cinematic dramatic licence, folks, courtesy of the special effects department, playing with whatever they had back in 1920-something), and our gent recoils in horror before it. No self-respecting supernatural apparition will meddle with The Cross.

The source of the light on the trees reveals itself as the headlights of an oncoming car, moving carefully through the fog, and soon it is gone, leaving darkness and breaking my train of thought.

For a moment or two, I dwell on someone else’s imagination: someone who had once camped up that Transylvanian castle, thirty-odd years ago, with images of ghouls in drag all doing “The Time Warp”. A cult classic, now, right up there with The Blues Brothers. Talk about trivialising mythology!

No, none of this stuff is real, now. If it ever was, which I very much doubt. It was simply a way of entertaining folk, and self, (by frightening the wits out of them! Whatever floats your boat…) during those long, pre-technology European winter evenings, when books were beyond the average income, and cinema, television, videos, DVDs, and computer games were yet unheard of. None of those supernatural apparitions actually exist at all!

I’m ordering extra garlic on my pizza tonight, just in case.