WHERE ARE THE BLOODY CHICKENS

By Bob French

Jacque Fermanaux stood quite still for several minutes as he stared down towards the low cottage at the far end of the valley and allowed a tired smile to creep across his dirty face.  He had avoided the road through the village and had used instead, the narrow twisting lane with its green hedgerows and sweet smells of the countryside.

As he stood in the late afternoon sunlight, he was conscious of the stillness of the warm air; the firmness of the land beneath his boots and the feeling that he had finally reached home. 

The melodic sound of a Blackbird high in the Poplar trees over to his left started to call out its evening song bringing a smile to his face as he took a slow deep breath.  He always liked sitting down with Monique after a hard day on the farm.  Just sitting there with her and the sound of nature surrounding them.  He always used to tell her it was their reward for working hard and caring for God’s land.

Something flashed way off in the distance and his mind was suddenly cast back to another time; another place, when the heat of the day made him suffer from thirst and the cold bitter nights bit into his bones. The endless miles marching with little direction from his officers or food to endure the endless trudging up and down hills, everyday praying that they would not be attacked by Spanish partisans or the British.

Many of his friends had simply fallen out of formation, or wondered off into the darkness.  He felt sad for Marco and Phillippe, his friends these past six years, who had, like him, been taken by the French Militia to fight in the Spanish War against the British.   They had vanished a few weeks ago and hoped that their deaths had been quick. These thoughts he knew would never leave him until his dying day.

Jacque Fermanaux adjusted his tattered rucksack, re-slung his rifle, gave his faded blue battle dress jacket a good brush, and started to move down the lane, listening to the gentle murmur of bees and the distant bark of some farm dog, as it scurried around after the sheep on the slopes of the valley.

He felt content with himself as he reached the canopy of trees that over the years had grown over to form a gateway to the valley. His valley.

Jacque was aware that the passing of time was different here.  There was no need to hurry here or there or rush to keep pace.  Everything seemed to slow down, the pace of the world cared not for the summons of the bugle or the fast pace and rush of the business of war.

Suddenly a figure appeared from under the eaves of his cottage.  His mind quickly recognized the red jacket and white cross belts of the British.  His instincts were automatic.  He dropped to his knee, cocked his rifle, and took aim. He was about to pull the trigger when from his left, another Red Jacket appeared with a small boy high on his shoulders. Jacque swung his rifle back to the first Red Coat and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud bang and everyone froze.

The Red coat who had stepped out from under the eaves of the cottage stood still, then after a few seconds, laughed.

“God Jacque! I knew you were a lousy shot, but that was ridiculous.  I think you hit one of the cows in yonder field.”

Within seconds, Jacque was joined by Marco and Philipp his two friends who had mysteriously vanished from the Regiment one night some weeks ago.

 

“What are you two doing in British uniforms?”

“It was the only way we could pass through Wellington’s lines and fool the Spanish Partisans.”

Everyone was talking at once until the small boy who had been gently put down by Marco, tugged at Jacque’s trousers.

Marco bend down and lifted the boy up to face Jacque.

“This Dominique, is your Papa. He is a very brave man and like us, has come home from the wars to take care of you and Mama.”

 Jacque, stared into the little boy’s eyes and quietly cursed that day he and his friends had been taken by the Militia at the marketplace.

“Hello son. I see that you have grown up to be the man of the house. Sorry I was not here when you were born, but……”

Suddenly they heard a scream and everyone turned to see Marie, Jacque’s wife, striding towards them.

They quickly parted, thinking she was going to embrace her long lost husband, instead, she stood calmly in front of him, stared into his tired eyes, then slapped his face hard.

“You said that you were going to buy some chickens at the market.  That was six years ago.  So, where are the bloody chickens?”

Copyright Bob French  April 2022

 

Tylywoch ~ 13

Tylywoch ~ 13 Map of Cheilin

By Len Morgan

The Empire could be loosely described as a ‘D’ shape on its side, bounded to the North by a straight edge represented by the Sabre Tooth Mountain Range.   To the South and West is the sea and to the East the wild wide, fast-running Staalbech River, where it joins the sea, at its widest, it is 130 miles shore to shore.   The Staalbech is infamous for the lives it has claimed over the years.   It is not and never has been swimmable, despite numerous children’s stories to the contrary.   Only Sturdy sea-worthy sailing vessels would ever attempt a crossing.   The far bank from Cheilin is Bluttland, inhabited exclusively by Bedelacq's fanatical nomadic worshipers; a vengeful god who demands blood sacrifices on the night of the New Moons conjunction which happens twice a year.   On conjunction night, the sky turns red, the stars shine brighter than at any other time and Bluttland, living up to its name, flows with Blood.   Strangers are well-advised to stay away at this time - as all are fair game… 

Cheilin by contrast is remarkably stable, the Clans rule with iron hands, and the Eternal City presides overall.   Outside the clock face, the forts and the thirteenth Clan hold sway.   To the North, the beyond the Sabre Tooth Range, live the Huren, the Meyan, and the Kurdik races.   The inhabitants of Cheilin have never been encouraged to travel, so few know much about these races.   Those that do are either living as exiles, permanently outside of Cheilin, or they are Tylywoch.

.-...-.

His mother died birthing him, his father laid blame for her death on him and was never able to completely forgive him.   His father thrust him as far from him as he could, allowing him to be brought up by his nurse Glamhorten, a beautiful self possessed woman from Bluttland.   She had been sent to seduce the father, but had found him a lost cause; he was hopelessly in love with a memory.   The next best thing was the son Taleen.  She possessed him instead, in the name of the god of vengeance – Bedelacq – the god of her people.   She remained his guardian and mentor for most of his formative years.   At the time of conjunction, she taught him to worship the one.   Inhabitants of the palace frequently found the bodies of dead animals in odd places, drained of blood.   Palek, prince Taleen’s father refused to be concerned over a few dead animals and the habits of his son and Glamhorten.   She was an excellent nurse and companion to Taleen, neither ever bothered him which was just how he wanted it.

When Palek died, Taleen refused to grieve for the loss of that distant stand-offish man who'd done everything to avoid contact with him.   He knew no remorse, only anger at being cheated of his birthright.   Glamhorten assured him he had been born to rule the world in the name of and to the glory of Bedelacq, the one. 

Taleen turned all his anger and hatred onto princess Veille, now ruling in his father's stead.   They all told him she was a usurper, a thief, they made him swear blood vengeance against her in the name of Bedelacq, his father, and himself.   Glamhorten now his constant companion supported him and introduced him to a young Blutt Priest named Wilden, who became teacher and mentor to the ten-year-old.  In the years that followed he counselled patience and consolidation.   Taleen united the 9^th Clan behind him, building alliances with others.   The dreams of one spiteful and vengeful young man became the dreams of the whole Clan such was his magnetism.   He was cunning beyond words, infiltrating the inner sanctum of the Emerald Palace and moving his forces into the Eternal city without raising the suspicion or concern of anybody there.   Even the Tylywoch, the all seeing all knowing, were caught wrong footed by his stealth.   With Wilden beside him, he executed his coupe fearlessly with panache and daring.   Taking over the Emerald Palace, and executing the pretender Empress he’d long ago dubbed the ‘Shampress’.   It now simply required that he display her body and those of her bodyguard, now universally accused of her kidnap and murder.   At the end of the incident, he would be regarded as a hero of the Empire. 

Wilden had coordinated the attack to coincide with a major conjunction, to give him maximum power for the complete success of the venture.   His sister Glamhorten had been sent to turn a major clan to the one true God, to provide his followers with allies in the Empire, when they invaded.   A holy war, a Jihad, had been declared to bring the whole world to Bedelacq.   With infinite patience, they had laid plans spanning decades.   Plans that were now nearing fruition.   Wilden smiled at the irony, he’d engineered a relatively bloodless coup, to ensure an inexhaustible supply of blood for the God of vengeance.   He’d already had several hundred lives on the day of the attack, now the dungeons were full to the brim with Red Guards and close supporters of the Empress.   They would all play their part in bringing about the earthly manifestation of the God Bedelacq, in the corporeal form of the Emperor Taleen!    In just a few weeks his life’s work would be realised.   Wilden was exhilarated; intoxicated with joy anticipating their success. 

(To be continued) 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 LOST AND FOUND   (Part 1 of 2)

by Richard Banks                       

I live in Denton, at least I use to. I like Denton. Thirty years ago it didn’t exist, now it does. Three cheers to the guys who made it happen. Denton is a new town for a new age, Yorkshire’s answer to Silicone Valley. It has more millionaires to the acre than any other town or city in the UK. If you want to get rich go to Denton. And just in case you’re wondering, I don’t work for the Tourist Board, I’m an accountant. What’s more, I’m a successful accountant which means that the people I work for pay me big bucks for a range of services that includes making their tax go away. That’s something I’m particularly good at and providing they’re good at what they do we all grow rich together. Happy days! At least they were.

         So, you’re asking, what went wrong, how come he’s not in Denton anymore. The answer can be summed up in just three words, The Sunrise Casino. If that’s not enough read on. In a way, in several different ways, Paulo Sivori and his casino were no different to myself. We both offered a service, the success of which was based on an understanding of arithmetical principles that, thankfully were beyond the understanding of our clients. We were bees around the honeypot and there we would stay until the pot was empty. But in Denton that was never, ever going to happen.

         At first, my only interest in Sunrise was the business they might be persuaded to put my way.  A formal letter of introduction was never going to be enough so I decide to pay them an unannounced visit in the hope of pressing the flesh with Sivori, the main guy. Unsurprisingly he was not in, or, more likely, not wanting to see me. Instead, I had to make do with Tom, a fresh faced graduate of the Harvard Business School who had just completed his internship at the company’s head office in Nevada. He was good, I give him that, and with the easy charm of one destined for great things deftly declined my kind offer. Seldom had rejection seemed so painless.

         I was about to make my departure when he offered me what I thought was the courtesy of a consolation prize – a tour of the gaming rooms. He left me in the company of an agreeable young woman in evening dress and a dozen gaming chips. “On the house,” he said, “have a good day.” Half an hour later I was chipless and reaching into my wallet to buy more. 

         This is not what I intended. In fact, it’s back to front, instead of taking their money I’m giving them mine. But no problem this can all be turned around to my advantage. I’m an accountant and numbers are what I know best. Choose a game, figure out the odds and make them work in my favour. So I choose roulette and for the next month, I’m at Sunrise every evening until late. Of course, I don’t expect to win from day one. While I’m developing my system there will inevitably be losses but once I know what’s what the cash will soon be flowing in. A month later I’m a hundred grand down and my bank account’s nearly in the red. But no matter, I’ve almost sussed it and as a ‘regular and valued’ customer of Sunrise, I qualify for a member’s account with a six figure credit limit. So, now when I get it right, I will make a fortune by playing with their money rather than mine.

         He can’t be serious you’re thinking, but remember I’m an accountant, I’m good at figures, I have a system. At least I nearly have a system and if I can only….... OK, we all know where this is going so let’s cut the proverbial and fast forward two months. I’m back in the office after another late night at Sunrise, the telephone rings, and fresh faced Tom bids me good morning and requests the pleasure of my company for a review of my account. “Can you call by at 3,” he says. This is the news I’ve been waiting for since applying to increase my credit limit, and judging by Tom’s untroubled small talk this is going to be no more complicated than the signing of a few forms. 

         I arrive with five minutes to spare and tell the girl on reception that I have a three o’clock with Tom Parker. She frowns but when I tell her my name she brightens up and says that I’m down to see Mr Vicinti. “It’s the third door on the right,” she says pointing towards a corridor marked private. Vicinti is the only guy in the organisation you don’t call by his first name. That is a secret known only to his friends and, judging by his unfriendly expression, I’m not one of them. If he has a nickname it’s probably Scarface owing to the etching down one side of his face. I sit down and his cold, grey eyes cut into mine.

         “Hi,” I say.

         He responds by opening a drawer in his desk and taking out a baseball bat. This he regards almost with affection before returning it to the drawer and slamming it shut. Given a choice Vicinti would rather be wielding the bat than passing the time in conversation, but business is business and can’t be done without something being said. He’s brief and to the point, “five hundred grand.” He looks at me as though I have just insulted his mother, wife and everyone else he holds dear.

         “I’ll pay it back,” I say. “I just need time.”

         Vicinti thinks that now is a good time and that if I have any thoughts about bankruptcy forget it. “That way Sunrise gets only a few cents on the dollar.”

         “But,” I say.

         “There’s no buts. We want the full dollar, 100 cents; in your lingo that’s £505,735.55p. Sell what you have and if that’s not enough beg or steal the rest. No one welshes on us. You pay or you pay. If you want to stay living there’s no other choice. Now, get out of my sight.”

         At last he’s said something I want to hear and I can’t get away quick enough, so quick that I almost collide with fresh faced Tom. Tom’s a nice guy although I’m inclined to believe that his presence in the corridor is not the accident he makes it seem.

         “Come and have a drink,” he says, “you look as though you need one.”

 

(To be continued)

        

Copyright Richard Banks

Haibun from me

 News round

Rob Kingston

 

News round

Mum was always first to rise. A stealth-like shake on the shoulder would see the remaining sleepers continue without so much as a disturbed breath.

out sharp a brief cat lick sharpens the light

On time to hear the 6 a.m dock whistle, I weave through the pre and post-war buildings, collect my round and make haste for the start.

Barking dog I own the broken clocks.

Like me and most, my dog Max was a bitsa (mongrel), he would head off to search out anything that moved in the shadows. Always finding something, always being someone’s alarm call

regurgitated war news I drag my feet through father’s youth

The papers of the time were filled pretty much as they are today. Ads, a bit of pomp and bravado, some sport, and the latest craze on the street.

rattling the blue blood a punk on the king's road.

Copyright Robert Kingston

 

 MAX

 PROOF

By Rosemary Clarke

Proof of Crime

Parliament states

When we all know

Of Partygate.

Proof of war crimes

Ain't it sad?

Is the world

Entirely mad?

Proof he hit her

Or she hit him

Our future is

So very dim

Many have seen

With their own eyes

No need for these

Evasion lies!

If no one listens

To what we say

The liars will

All have their day.

No more justice

Will come to pass

Then law will really

Be an ass!

Why can't we all

Tell the truth

Or soon we will need

Proof of proof?

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Tylywoch ~ 12

 Tylywoch ~ 12 Divine Light II

By Len Morgan

   She viewed the fighting dispassionately, watching from her balcony, as it unfolded before her.   It all seemed so unreal, a hundred individual cameos of ferocious frenzied hand-to-hand combat.   Each, a life and death struggle with an irreversible outcome.   Three or more Browns fell for every Red, but her Red guard were outnumbered ten to one.   The attacking force bore no visible markings, but she could identify a face here, another there.   They were the Surbatt of the 9^th Clan, and they would know that she knew.  She could see prince Taleen in the shadow of the shattered hardwood door.   With dreadful certainty, she knew they would kill all who defended her.  She knew also, that her Reds would gladly fight to the last man.   But, if she died they would have nothing to fight for.   It would all end and another Divine Light would be chosen and would shine in her stead.   She deliberately stood up tall and called in a loud voice she knew would be obeyed.   “Put up your weapons!”   The battle ended all eyes now on her.    “My soldiers will surrender” she commanded.   The Red guards held their weapons high slowly, reluctantly, many with tears on their cheeks, but they obeyed their Empress as always without question.   One by one they were disarmed.   Archers appeared at the door bows flexed, they drew a bead.   This would be it she thought, and smiled “I forgive and pardon you all” she said “No recriminations after I am gone...”

  The bows jerked in the hands of their wielders, and the air blurred before her.   She did not want to die, but she could not live with the alternative.   A young female body-double stood and took her place and pushed her unceremoniously down, falling on her like a sack of grain.   The air was forced from her lungs.   So this is dying she thought, as she lost consciousness. 

  The bloody corpse with six arrows protruding from it was dragged through a rear door, with the Divine Light still unconscious beneath it.   To all who saw it, the dead girl was the Empress.  Her bodyguard, now thirty five Tylywoch, barred the door and efficiently removed her to the throne room, the oldest and the most defensible part of the Emerald Palace.   They would neither confirm nor deny her death; they would simply play for time.   There were kitchens, food and water, a surgery, armoury, sleeping quarters, and of course, a temple dedicated to the twelve gods of Cheilin.   They could survive for many weeks in comfort, or eke out the provisions for months.   With their training, this could almost be indefinite.   All nonessential staff were ushered from the quarters, leaving only the Tylywoch and the Divine Light.

The archers swore to a man that their shafts flew true and found their mark.   Their sergeant thought the target had blurred at the last instant but acceded to the certainty of his sharp eyed young marksmen.  

.-…-. 

  The Knodd is a council of twelve learned elders, one from each Clan.   It is convened when a leader dies without leaving a clear line of succession.   They meet, talk, and propose one candidate from each of the Clans for consideration as the new leader.   After interviewing all the prospects, they vote by ranking each in their considered order of suitability (1 to 12).   The four that score lowest go through to the second ballot, where two more are eliminated, leaving a clear choice between two candidates for the final ballot.

   Three years earlier, their choice had been between prince Palek of the 9^th Clan and princess Veille of the 5^th Clan.   The gods had willed that the late emperor Daidan III's, eldest choked on a fishbone and his youngest died in a whorehouse fight, leaving no surviving issue to continue his dynasty, so the Knodd was convened to decide on a new line.   After much deliberation, and intrigue their choice had been prince Palek, the father of prince Taleen.   As is the custom, the Knodd made their choice on the first day of a new month and would ratify it on the first day of the month following.   This was normal and accepted practice, Palek would be emperor designate for thirty one days, prior to being anointed, this was to allow his enemies to wind up their affairs in the city and make good their escape before he was given teeth to bite them with.   This was largely symbolic and good humoured; many of Palek’s friends would make great play of fleeing the city, travelling in a caravan to an appointed oasis to celebrate his elevation to the divinity.

Palek was emperor designate for eleven days.   He died quietly in his sleep, and never became ‘The Divine Light of the World’.    The leaders of the 9^th Clan believed that prince Taleen would succeed to the office, by right of accession but, the Knodd was convened and princess Veille of the 5^th Clan, duly became the anointed Empress and ‘Divine Light of World’. 

Prince Taleen and his followers, an extreme sect known as the Surbatt, never slept easy with the decision and refused to ratify it in private or in public.   Many of the 9^th considered Taleen to be the legitimate Emperor, even to the point of anointing him publicly, in a parody of the official naming ceremony.   They vigorously maintained that the death of Palek had been contrived and could not have been natural.   They steadfastly maintained that it was instigated by the ruling sect of the 5^th the Chussagen and probably carried out by paid assassins from the hated Tylywoch, who dared to dub themselves 13^th Clan.

For three years they festered, biding their time, waiting and plotting revenge.   Then struck without warning...

.-...-.

So, the Cheilin Empire, was now ruled by Empress Veille, 1st of her dynasty, known to her subjects as the ‘Divine Light of the World’.   By custom She would rule from the Eternal City.   

There are twelve other major cities, each being within seven hundred and fifty miles of the Eternal City, each being the headquarters of one of the Twelve Clans.   Clan rule extends for two hundred and fifty miles in any direction from its central city.   The Eternal City has a border with a five hundred mile radius and is situated at the centre of an imaginary clock face.  The 1^st Clan situated at one o’clock, the 6^th at six o’clock, the 9^th at nine o’clock, and so on.

The Tylywoch (13^th Clan) administer the lands beyond the clock face, on behalf of the Empress. The Twelve considered they were welcome to its mainly barren waste and lawless tracts.  The 13^th act as a buffer between the Empire and the outside world.   The Clan lands are governed like feudal fiefdoms, the peasants within Clan jurisdiction were, clan property, members of the Clan in name only, and treated as little more than slaves by the ruling classes.   The bulk of their produce taken in taxes. 

 Outside the Clan lands was a political wilderness; rule is left pretty much in the hands of the General of Internal Security (GOIS).   His predecessor Aldor had set up and maintained  forty garrisons strategically placed around the outskirts of the Empire.   The 13^th Clan man the garrisons, feeding and clothing a standing army of 2000.   They come from the surrounding communities they are sworn to protect.   The trainees are hand picked upon attaining the age of sixteen.   They serve for two years then return to their community with prestige and sufficient funds to purchase their own land where their families prosper in peace and security.   In times of national emergency, they can be called back by their garrison commander or by the GOIS to defend their homeland from invaders.  Conscripts know that their families and community would be taken care of in their absence, it being that kind of close knit force.  Though manned at all times by 2000 troops, most garrisons could raise 5000 by putting out the call.   Their combined force would probably be in excess of 200,000 highly trained warriors.   To muster the army would take weeks, depending on the muster point, but weapons were another thing, arms are always in short supply. 

In times of emergency, a garrison would be able to muster 1000 to 1500 men immediately, while still leaving sufficient to administer the territory and guard the borders.   If necessary they could top up with conscripts from the local populace.   Because of its peripheral nature, 3000 troops of the 13^th would always be within a days march of most cities.   Within a week this could be 20,000, doubling in two and so on…   None were garrisoned more than four weeks from the Eternal City, the centre of the Empire.   These would not be green troops but veterans from  frequent border skirmishes.

  All those who serve, and their families, are granted membership of the 13^th Clan – the inner core of which is the Tylywoch sect.   Members received full rights and privileges, and the respect due to honoured clan members.  This bond of trust has been built up gradually, since the beginning, and is deeply ingrained in the culture of those not of the twelve.   They are a huge silent majority, not considered significant by the ruling classes of Cheilin, but they are a hidden army, a force for mutual self protection both from outside and from within.   If the Knodd ever declared a vendetta against the Tylywoch, in the event the 'Divine Light' was extinguished, they would be taking on far more than a nameless mountain village, thanks to the forethought of Aldor.

Each province an autonomous cell, self governed.  Each cell a unit of the largest army in the empire, capable of mobilisation within hours following the release of a flock of messenger birds.

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 DIANA

By Janet Baldey

Diana drove through the twilit lanes towards her home.  Humming softly, she pressed the accelerator and felt a familiar thrill as her Lamborghini responded instantly.  She loved speed, it spelled power and when she was behind the wheel she felt invincible.  She increased the pressure until the darkening landscape was just a blur and, with the wind storming through her hair, in no time at all she’d reached her driveway.  Gravel crunching underneath her tyres, she drove on until her home appeared in the distance.  As she deftly brought the sleek machine to rest outside the front entrance, she took a quick glance at her Rolex and saw with satisfaction that she’d knocked ten minutes off her record.   She stretched, relaxing back in her seat after the long drive, taking a moment to appreciate the graceful lines of the old manor house.   An acquaintance had once wondered if she realised how lucky she was and had described the house as ‘drowning in ivy’   Diana’s lips curled; a ridiculous statement from a ridiculous person.   Her family had worked hard for this and it was her inheritance.  Even though she’d rarely seen them, it showed they’d loved her.  In a way, she’d paid for it with her lost childhood and when they went they’d made amends by leaving her enough money to buy anything she wanted, fine cars, exotic holidays, maybe even, perhaps, the husband she adored.  Not that David didn’t love her, of course he did.  After all his infatuation with that silly girl hadn’t lasted long.  She shuddered remembering the awful scene when she’d confronted him.  The sparks had really flown that evening and no mistake but it had all ended happily.  It was when she mentioned changing her will that his attitude changed.  He’d gone a sickly yellow under his tan and had positively grovelled his remorse.  Since then, he’d been so sweet. Flowers, perfume, a foxy new coat.  She looked over her shoulder to the back seat where its fur was reflecting the glow of the setting sun.  

But she couldn’t lie to herself, she’d been relieved at their reconciliation.  When they’d got married, all her friends had envied her having such a tall and handsome husband while, frankly, most of theirs looked like toads.  It would have been so demeaning if they’d found out there was a crack in her marriage maybe even, God forbid, a divorce.  Not to mention her pals at the golf club, it would have been doubly awful if they’d been given that juicy bone to gnaw.  She shuddered again, thinking of Monica, with her aristocratic nose and foghorn mouth.  How her little piggy eyes would have shone as she picked over the remains of Diana’s marriage in full voice.  She sighed, never mind, that was all in the past. She and David were even closer now. 

         She opened the door of the car and with fluid movements began to swing her legs outside, then she stopped and a frown marred the perfection of her forehead.  The house was in complete darkness, with not even a glimmer of a light to be seen.  David should be home by now, surely he wasn’t still at work.  Really, men were so inconsiderate, after being away for a week, he should be waiting for her with a chilled martini ready mixed. Her lips tightened thinking she might have to insist he gave up his potty little job, if this continued.  After all, it wasn’t as if they needed his money.  Her scarlet fingernails tapped on the steering wheel in time with the tic of the cooling engine.  Suddenly a thought flashed into her mind and for an instant she thought the unthinkable.  God forbit that it was happening again; quickly she wiped that idea from her mind.

         She let herself into the cool darkness of the hall and made straight for the bar.  She needed a stiff drink to calm down.  Carrying the glass in one hand, she kicked off her shoes put her drink on a side table and curled up in her favourite armchair.  Suddenly, she raised her head and sniffed, she could smell something, something familiar that nagged at the back of her mind, something that shouldn’t be there but which she couldn’t put a name to.  She sighed and closed her eyes, she was too tired to think, whatever it was could wait. After a few moments she felt herself drifting away.

         The thunderous sound of the God of War jolted her awake and abruptly both her eyes and her mouth flew open.  Her heart was thudding in tune with drums and after a few seconds it dawned on her that the mobile in her chest pocket was clamouring to be answered.  Still muzzy with sleep she groped for it, held it to her ear and heard David’s dark chocolate voice filling the silence.

         “Hi darling, it’s me.  Welcome back.  Sorry I’m late but I was held up at work.  Look, I’m a bit stuck.  I’m at the station and there’s a queue a mile long for the taxi.  Sorry to ask, but would you be a perfect love and pop down to pick me up?”

         She was almost out of the front door but stopped abruptly when she realised.  That smell, it was perfume but not hers.  Although adulterated by sweat and, she closed her eyes and swallowed, may be even sex, still she was sure she could put a name to it.  Anais Anais, a brand that she’d rather die than wear.  For a moment the world wore a grey mist and she sagged, clutching at the doorframe.  “Come on Diana,” she whispered, “you’re stronger than this.”  Dragging herself upright, her lips thinned to a steel line and she ran to her car, jumped in and roared away gravel spurting from beneath her wheels.

         The second she’d gone, a dark shape stepped out of the shadows and stood watching as the red eyes of her taillights disappeared.  She’d be driving too fast, she always did and the route to the station took in a steep hill with a hairpin bend at the bottom.  David’s lips twisted into the semblance of a smile, it had only taken him a few minutes to do what was necessary.  Ridiculously easy really.  He wiped the oil from his hands and entered the house where he lit a cigarette and settled down to wait. 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 Everything Must Go

By Len Morgan

The sign on the gate said ‘EVERYTHING MUST GO’ The front door was open and the curious wandered in looked around and came out with something they thought might be of use to them.  On the way out they passed an honesty box outside the door with a notice that said:

For the victims of Covid 19 in all its forms…

Some contributed, others did not.  By the gate, a ‘House for Sale’ sign was posted.

A Luton van pulled up outside.  Two men in their forties got out.  They opened the rear doors of the van.  In the next two hours, they removed the contents of the dining room, bedrooms, kitchen, and loft.  The gaffer put a bundle of £50 notes in the box.  As they drove away two young men entered the gate and removed the ‘honesty box’.

 

A passer bye shook her head in disapproval, “that money is meant for charity,” she yelled.

 

They laughed and pointed to the sign:

 

EVERYTHING MUST GO

Tylywoch ~ 11

 Tylywoch ~ 11 Divine Light I 

By Len Morgan 

   They were less than a day away from the Eternal City, when they heard the circulating rumours.   The Emerald Palace was or had been under attack.   The stories varied, but it seemed that the raiders, who most thought were Tylywoch, attacked from within. They overpowered the household guards and the Empress’s bodyguard, taking her captive.   Some seemed certain that she was already dead, others that she and her retinue were, barricaded in the throne room complex refusing to allow anyone in or out. 

As they approached the city, the trickle of refugees became a flood.   Foreign workers and merchants put as much distance between themselves and a site of potential carnage as possible.   People who were not native to the city had a habit of being blamed for things and often ended up as the first casualties.

Weilla was concerned, “What is happening, could it really be Tylywoch?   No! that would be ridiculous…”  she voiced aloud her disbelief.

Galyx sucked on a back tooth choosing his words with care, “That really depends.   If the Divine light were truly in danger and it was the only way to protect her they would.  I certainly would!   It would be their duty to do so,” he said with dreadful certainty. 

They entered the city just before dusk.   A city, familiar to Galyx, that Weilla viewed for the very first time with awe, she could scarce hide her surprise and wonder at its beauty and size.

“We will be staying with a local merchant and his family, they are Tylywoch and will be in a position to brief us on the situation with facts rather than idle speculation.”   He made no attempt to hide his contempt for hearsay.    They are an important intelligence group, and have been living in this city under constant threat for more than five years …”  Galyx halted and pulled her into the shadows.   They watched as a troop of militia marched by, stopping a group of new arrivals.   Their papers and persons were searched.

“Are we in danger?” she whispered.

“Best to be safe, the Captain of militia is an old adversary and some of his men may also know me.” As he explained, he led her down a side street away from the military presence. 

Fifteen minutes later, they stopped and knocked on a heavy wooden door – 3 short, pause, 1 long, 2 short.   They waited thirty seconds, then Galyx rapped twice more and waited.   Within moments, they heard a heavy bolt being drawn back.   The door opened, and they were ushered in.   The lights were off and the curtains drawn, they stood in total darkness for several moments until a voice said “welcome friend.”

“May chance never be a factor.” Answered Galyx, as the door was barred once more.

From a curtained side room a young woman appeared with a lamp, closely followed by an older woman.   Galyx embraced the short fat merchant, his wife and his daughter.   “This is Galt, his wife Amree, they were members of my first Quad.   This is their daughter Schell, she is about your age Weilla and was trained in my home village.”   The young women exchanged greetings.

Amree and Schell produced pastries and wine. They sat and consumed their simple but filling meal.   When the remains of their meal were removed from the table Galt cleared his throat, and began his briefing.

“There was no warning given, we were all caught by surprise.   Three days ago the Surbatt attacked.   We called our team together and went abroad to gather information.   It seems they were gathering to celebrate the conjunction of the moons in the manner of the Bluttlanders.   The 9^th Clan had apparently been infiltrating the city for some weeks, arriving in small groups and keeping well out of sight.   Then without warning, they converged on the Emerald Palace in their thousands and were let in by insiders from their own clan.   They knew what they were doing.  They struck at key strategic points, taking over strategic positions with the element of surprise and superior numbers.   By all accounts, they should have snuffed out the Divine Light and taken power in a relatively bloodless coupe.   But, they underestimated the Tylywoch, who even now defend her in the central chamber of the palace…” 

“The throne room,” said Galyx in amusement.

“Correct!” said Galt.

“The Surbatt have spread rumours that the Divine Light is being held hostage by Tylywoch.   They cannot now allow her to live, or the truth would come out.   Our clansmen are defending against overwhelming odds.   While most loyal troops from other clans seem either to have swallowed the story or have been sent out searching for Tylywoch or any suspicious characters that may be aiding them. Others, more savy, have been arrested and now reside in the accommodation beneath the palace; against their will.  That includes most of the Red Guard.”

“I cannot believe they surrendered,” Galyx said.

“She ordered them to put down their arms” Galt explained.

“They may well be our only chance, I’ve got to get in there and free them.   Is there an easy way?” Galyx said thinking aloud.  

“The only sure way in is to get arrested and handed over to the Surbatt for interrogation.   You would need a damn good plan of escape though, the other members of our current quad are down there with countless others called to aid our clansmen, there are dozens still unaccounted for,” said Galt.

“Have pigeons been sent?” Weilla asked.

“All our birds were released when they started the house to house searches.   The cages were used for firewood.   In answer to your question, there should be a number of Tylywoch bands heading in our direction at this moment, but we don’t know how far away they are or how much time we have…”

Galyx stood up, coming to a decision, “I’m going in!” he said with finality.   “If the situation worsens or if I fail to return in twenty-four hours, assume the worst.   Weilla as our only other Generalist, I would expect you to take command and give the necessary orders, no matter how painful.  At all costs, you must ensure the safety of the Empress.”

“Schell, observe.” Said Galt.   She went up into the roof space and watched Galyx stumble drunkenly into the street, and straight into the hands of his old adversary and drinking partner. 

“Captain Vadeem!   What is happening?   I’ve been back in the city for less than a day and it seems as if there’s an emergency in progress.   Why are you and your men not ensconced in some cozy tavern enjoying the fruits of your just and righteous labours.   Come, let me pay the first reckoning…” He stumbled clumsily towards a nearby tavern.

“One moment sir,” said the captain, “papers if you please.”

“Oh come on Vadeem, it’s me Galyx, why be you so officious…”

“Papers!” the captain demanded more forcefully, a hard edge creeping into his voice, a determined jut to his jaw.   Galyx saw also, the number of unsheathed swords now pointing in his direction.   He chose not to acknowledge them, brushing them aside as he took several steps towards the captain.

“Of course old man,” he answered brusquely fumbling inside his tunic.   “Orders are orders, believe me, I know.”   He handed over his wallet and the captain took his time studying his papers.  

When he spoke, his voice was cold and formal.   “Captain Galyx, you are under arrest as a possible enemy of the empire.   You will accompany us to a place where you can be detained and properly questioned, until such time as your involvement in the kidnapping of our illustrious Empress can be established.” He turned to his patrol, “Take him to the guard post.”

“Arrest?   Kidnapping?   Enemy of the empire?   Are you delirious?   I’ve just arrived back in the city after six years absence fighting border skirmishes in the back of beyond.   My remit is to protect the Divine Light with the last drop of my blood if necessary, that makes me an enemy?   You’ve been listening to reactionaries from the 9^th!   I’d have thought you’d know better,” he said noting the force of his words hitting home in the mind and the eyes of captain Vadeem, a good and valiant warrior from the 5^th Clan.   He was about to pursue it further when the truth dawned.   The patrol was an eclectic group comprising elements from various clans, most significantly a third of them were from the 9^th Clan.   He fell silent.  

His arms were seized from behind, he deftly feigned a stumble and shook them off.  

“No need of help gentlemen.   I’ve now quite recovered my composure.”  He unsheathed his sword and presented it hilt first to the captain so fast, that none had time to react.   Without another word, he started to walk in the direction of the nearest guard post in that sector of the city.  

“I think sir, he should be taken to the palace for interrogation,” said a crusty sergeant from the 9^th.

“Sergeants outrank officers in the 9^th?” asked Galyx.   Without further comment, he changed direction heading towards the Palace.

(to be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

TOMORROW

TOMORROW 

By Sis Unsworth 

John did so hope for tomorrow, or the day after that may still do,

but how to live through the present, he really didn’t have a clue.

He’d gone and caught Covid last Monday, standing at the local bar.

Now he was in full isolation, just for enjoying a jar.

All day he stared through the window, hoping to catch someone’s eye,

his house was so far from the pavement, he felt he wanted to cry.

He didn’t mind being alone there, he quite liked his own company,

He had his old tom-cat there with him, he stroked him on his knee.

It wasn’t isolation that got to him, the one thing he really did fear,

He must be okay by tomorrow; he was down to his last can beer.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

EVERYTHING MUST GO   (2nd & Last)

by Richard Banks

  As usual business was brisk and by 2pm he was almost out of stock when the ranks of his customers were augmented by the Angel.

         “Is it time?” asked Ernie.

         The Angel thought not. He motioned at the few things left on the stall but even when they were gone the Angel seemed disinclined to do anything but observe. 

         “What now?” protested Ernie, impatient to get the dying over with and his new life begun.

         “Everything must go,” replied the Angel, staring at Ernie and the remaining obstacles to his passing.

         “What, not my….?”

         “Everything!” thundered the Angel. He continued to watch as Ernie unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it onto the cart where it was snatched up by a rough sleeper who also laid claim to his shoes and socks. Another man of bedraggled appearance grabbed Ernie’s trousers. He looked thoughtfully, but without enthusiasm, at Ernie’s boxer shorts before deciding that they were best left where they were.

         “Can we get on with it now?” pleaded Ernie clinging defensively to the waist band. “No one’s going to want these.”

          For once the Angel raised no objection and on the peremptory instruction of “follow me” set off between the market stalls, turning left into Railway Parade and second right into a narrow lane of dismal appearance that had somehow acquired the name Paradise Road. He stopped outside a large Victorian building and rang the doorbell. “Tell them who you are and that you have an appointment with the Archangel at 2.45.” Without further comment, the Angel began to walk away.

         “Aren’t you going to stay?” said Ernie.

         “No,” replied the Angel, “things to do and people to see. It’s down to you now.”

         A panel opened in the door and a face peered through it. The voice belonging to the face said, “blimey, what do you want?”

         “Ernie Smallpeace to see Gabriel please, I’m his 2.45. I’ve just died, at least I think I have, to tell you the truth I’m not too sure.”

          “You look alive enough to me,” said the face. “Is this how you usually show up for meetings?”

         “Ernie assured him that the Angel had left him no choice. “Everything must go, he said, so it all has, everything except what you see. Have I not done enough!”

         The entity on the other side of the door expressed the opinion that he had done more than enough to gain admittance. The panel slid shut and the sound of bolts being drawn was followed by the opening of the door. The figure that now came into view was deceptively humanoid, his heavenly attire consisting of a white, knee length coat over a polo necked T-shirt and denim jeans. Reassuringly the initials IHS appeared on his coat pocket.

         “So, you want to see Gabriel?”

         “Yes, that’s right, Gabriel the Archangel.”

         “Oh, that Gabriel. Then you had better come in. My colleague here will show you the way. You follow on and I’ll bring up the rear as they say. Don’t want you getting lost before you see Gabriel.”

         “No,” replied Ernie; this was not how he thought it would be. Slightly reassured by the ascent of two flights of stairs he was shown into a small, windowless room with upholstered walls. His two attendants hastily withdrew to the corridor outside and shut the door. By the light of a single light bulb shining down from a protective grill in the ceiling he surveyed the empty space around him and the dark grey, walls that in several places bore the initials IHS. Yes, he told himself he was in the right place. This was no more than a reception area for the necessary processing of new entrants. Once done all would be well and he would be up and on his way, hopefully, kitted out with something to wear. Perhaps, he thought, it might ease things along if he sent up a prayer. He was about to kneel down and cup his hands when the rattle of key in lock heralded the arrival of a visitor. To his relief, the door opened to reveal the Angel and a tall, bearded man who announced that he was James.

         “What, James the Apostle?” said Ernie, wondering if this was a step up or down on Gabriel.

         “No, I’m James from Ilford Health Services. I gather that you know this man and are seeking entry into the Kingdom of Heaven?”

         Although the answer to both questions was yes the accompanying statements of fact did not auger well for his onward journey. “You mean you’re not the apostle and this isn’t heaven.”

         “No,” said James, and whatever my friend may have told you he isn’t an Angel. This is the Paradise Road Psychiatric Unit where I work and this man, when we can stop him from escaping, resides here. If you would also like to stay I can arrange a psychiatric assessment, if not, you had better leave.”

         The Angel frowned and said that this should not be allowed to happen. Although Ernie was a gullible fool he was also a good man who deserved to go to heaven. He had been prepared to sacrifice everything that he owned for the uncertainty and poverty of another world that he sensed and valued but barely understood. He had faith and those with faith should always have their reward.”

         “But why bring him here?” said James, “this is Paradise in name only. Surely you know that?”

         “I do, but no one, even in this grim place, should be without hope.”

         “And what hope have you brought who daily adds to my troubles? Don’t say you are about to leave?”

         “Indeed I am,” said the Angel. I take this man to heaven and would gladly take you. All you need is faith. In faith, there is also hope.”

         “Oh, that again,” said James. “Do you never give up? I only wish you were an Angel but you are just a man.”

         “But I am an Angel,” insisted the Angel, “and if you are not coming we must be off.”

         James wondered what might be said that hadn’t been said before, but he was too late, the conversation had ended and he was alone.

 

The End

Copyright Richard Banks