Dear mother,
in 1995 it must have seemed as though I had disappeared of the face of the earth. If you have been thinking of me as dead, I can understand this; if you have been organising global searches and campaigning then I'm proud of your efforts though they have not achieved their aim. I have thought long and hard about whether I should even try to send this letter but given the effort that missing persons enquiries can involve it seemed best not to leave you in the dark more than I could avoid. I write this letter in what should be 1999 so that it can be sent when the opportunity arises for such are few and far between.
Firstly I dare say that I will need to convince you that this is not some hoax - my writing may be recognisable but even if it is, more than that is needed so a few circumstantial details from my childhood that should not be known outside the immediate family. What will do? Teddy bears perhaps - I had your old one, named Boris, which you had replaced the cloth on the paws and which at some point lost it's left eye and got a bald nose; my sister's was called Erasmus, was pink and she rejected it after you put it through the washing machine. I'm sure that you remember the problem of the ants in the kitchen and the before dawn starts to our summer holidays to beat the rush hour through London - cold sausages for breakfast was always a key part of the adventure. My favourite toy was the working model windmill that dad made for me when I was about 6. Hopefully that gives you some confidence
So what happened to me? I don't really know but I seem to have travelled to another version of the world after a lightning stroke almost hit me. It's much less populated, much less industrial and at times feels a bit like the open day at a living history museum but despite arriving unprepared I have got myself sorted thanks to my obsession with windmills - for there is little in the way of streams here and windmills were unknown until I built mine. This was necessary as I could find no way back: the top of Cissbury Hill has a reputation for curious comings and goings and having lived here for some time now that turns out to be true. There is some sort of portal between worlds there; others can use it but it doesn't work for me. After a second failure to return with an experienced traveller I have decided to try no more and to send this letter with the next one passing through, though it could be some time before that opportunity presents.
As well as being a bit quieter and less technological, this world also has a lot of what I'd always seen as fairy tales - but for real. It was much to my benefit that I met one of them the night that I arrived here and most of them seem harmless to useful - as long as you keep the doors locked at full moon. A couple of other examples may entertain you: there was some sort of dragon a few miles west of us in the last century - the stuffed head in the inn is pretty convincing and the story is well attested in the local history and we get the treacle for puddings and the like from a mine a couple of hours walk away, at Sompting.
Know that my thoughts are with you and that I am fine, though completely stuck. Love and best wishes
Art
ps a couple of lines added now that I have the chance to send this - the milling business is thriving, I married last year and Jessie is pregnant and due in 2 months.
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