AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE 2

AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE 

 Richard Banks

       Aunt Mabel was an elderly lady of ample proportions who no matter the occasion was always to be seen in what my father described as her widow's weeds. Having once come to our house with a bunch of daffodils for my mother I assumed that these must be the weeds to which my father referred but when the expression continued to be used, flowers or no flowers, I eventually tumbled to the fact that he was referring to the unrelenting blackness of her attire. To me she resembled a black cloud and as her visits to us twice coincided with heavy downpours of rain I became convinced that Aunt Mabel and rainy days were never far apart.

         My aunt being a widow was easier to understand. She had been married briefly to a man named Bert who was killed in WW1 forty-one years to the day before I was born. My birthdays were therefore a reminder to her of a tragedy from which she never really recovered. It is said that at my christening she shed enough tears to fill the font. 

         She was, of course, my Great Aunt who was usually invited to family gatherings that also included her brother, my paternal grandfather, but after he died her visits became less frequent due, partly, to her moving into residential care. Although she was still reasonably mobile and clear in her thoughts and conversation my father’s acquisition of his first car, a Hillman Minx, made it more convenient for us to visit her rather than the other way around. This we did with great regularity, four times a year, our visits seldom lasting more than an hour although to me, deprived of my playthings, they seemed a good deal longer. Nevertheless my presence did on occasions provide her with a certain melancholy pleasure for she had begun to perceive in my appearance a resemblance to her late husband. Indeed I so raised her spirits that her usual expression of sad resignation sometimes gave way to a smile that also brought an unexpected gleam to her dark brown eyes.

         It was in the early Spring of 1968 that my father declared that our first visit of the year to Aunt Mabel was to take place on Easter Sunday but that it was not to include me. I was still recovering from the measles and although no longer infectious was not, due to my remaining spots, allowed out beyond our back garden. I was, therefore, left in the care of my fourteen year old sister who, once my parents were gone, disappeared into her bedroom to play records. This was fine by me and I set-out my soldiers on the living room floor confident that the ensuing battle would not be disrupted by the intrusion of unwanted feet.

         I was nearing the conclusion of the Battle of Little Big Horn when I became aware of an interested spectator in the form of Aunt Mabel. As she had not rung the front door bell she must, I thought, have gained entry to the house through the side door which in those days was closed but never locked until evening. She regarded me with a smile that by the standard of her past sad glimmerings was almost radiant.

         “Have the soldiers won?” she asked.

         I explained that this was Custer’s last stand and that he and the seventh cavalry were soon to be wiped out by the Cheyenne and other tribes.

         Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Then, Harry, it’s just as well I came when I did. I tell you what, let them have a truce for awhile, I have something to tell you. Come on now, sit down next to me on the settee. It won’t take long and as it involves the giving of a present I’m sure you’ll find it time well spent. And if Mr Custer has his wits about him he might very well slip away unnoticed.”

         I was about to explain that the battle actually happened and that there was nothing I could do to save Custer and his men when I noticed that she was reaching into her handbag presumably for the gift she had mentioned. A moment later the battle was all but forgotten by the sight of a yellow tin bearing the words, ‘Colman’s Mustard’. My face must have registered both surprise and puzzlement although as I was behind it only Aunt Mabel would have known this for sure.

         Don’t worry,” she whispered, “there may be something different inside. Shall we see?”

         I nodded vigorously and through unblinking eyes watched as she lifted the lid to reveal some crepe paper within.

         “Oh dear,” exclaimed Aunt Mabel, “I hope there’s more than paper in there.”

         For the first time, I realised I was being teased and that Aunt Mabel had a sense of humour that was as mischievous as it was unexpected.

         “Go on reach inside, see what you can find, but be gentle it’s very precious.”

         I inserted the fingers of both hands and almost immediately felt the smooth, cool object within. I raised it up and having discarded the paper still clinging to it saw an enamel egg. I should have been disappointed - after all what use was an enamel egg to a boy who spent most of his spare time playing soldiers or football - but I wasn’t, far from it, and Aunt Mabel observed my reaction with evident satisfaction. She had judged me well. I had a soul that, despite my childhood obsessions, could be touched by the alluring appeal of fine art, and that egg was, without doubt, the most beautiful object I had ever seen.

         “Let me tell you about it,” she said. “Have you heard of Peter Carl Faberge?”

         I shook my head.

         “Well, he was a very gifted craftsman, a jeweller and goldsmith, who made all sorts of lovely things for the Czar of Russia and other royal people. In addition to everything else he did for the Czar, each Easter he would make him an egg, like this one, which he decorated with gold, silver and precious stones. They are wonderful works of art that if sold today would cost the buyer many, many thousands of pounds. Yes, you may well open your mouth in disbelief. However, I mustn’t raise your hopes too high, this is not a Faberge, but it’s the next best thing. This was made by one of his pupils, who in 1912 set up his own studio in Antwerp, Belgium. He soon became successful in his own right attracting many well to do clients, including a Duke and several Earls. So, you see you have something very precious that today can only be found in museums and private collections. That is all but this one, and for that, we have to thank your great uncle Bert.”

         “Is that the Uncle Bert who was killed in the war?”

         “Yes dear, he was my husband, although not for very long. We married in 1916 just before he left this country to fight the Germans on the western front. We should have waited until the end of the war which was only two years later but we weren’t to know that at the time. We were young and in love and in far too much of a hurry to wait. We honeymooned in Yarmouth for three days, which was all we could afford, and a week later I saw him leave this country on a big ship from Portsmouth harbour. I thought I would never see him again but three months later I did. He arrived, unannounced, at my parents’ house, where I was still living, on the day before my twenty-fifth birthday. It was the best present I ever had, the only one I truly wanted but he was determined that I should have something really special to commemorate an event which was as important to him as it was to me.”

         “And that’s when he gave you this egg,” I said, anticipating her next line. “It must have cost him an awful lot of money.”

         “Well, not quite, but it did cost him his tobacco allowance for two weeks and for someone who loved his pipe as much as he did that was a high price to pay. You’re looking puzzled, dear boy. Let me explain. Your great uncle was allowed a quantity of tobacco each day which he gave to another soldier in exchange for the egg. How the soldier came to be in possession of it is a mystery we will probably never have the answer to, but in war, many things are lost and found, or more likely looted from damaged houses.”

         “The thought that I might be in possession of stolen property, at last, became too much for me and, several years after the ending of the war, I took the egg to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London and tearfully confessed all, although I had little to feel guilty about. That’s when I found out who the maker was and that, as I suspected, it was worth a good deal of money. I thought they were going to take it away from me, and for a while they did, but after a month it was returned to me by the Director of the Fine Arts Department, no less, who said that a bill of sale existed for the egg but that the purchaser could not be identified from the records of that time. Therefore unless someone came forward who could prove their ownership my assertion that it had been purchased legally, if somewhat irregularly, was sufficient title in law to make me the owner.”

         “I should have been happy, sold it at auction and used the money to buy myself an annuity that would have provided me with an income for life, but I didn’t. A pity, especially as Bert would no doubt have wanted me to do so. Instead, I kept it on my dressing room table as if it was a religious relic. You see, I couldn’t bear to be parted from it. Indeed in my depressed state of mind, it would have seemed like a betrayal of Bert if I had. It was, of course, a huge mistake. Miserable as I was I should have come out of mourning after a year and made the most of my life, but I never did. Life became a terrible burden, and only now it is over am I able to feel the way I once did. Your parents think I’m a dreadful old hindrance; they have done their duty by me but derived little pleasure from my company. I hope, Harry, you will think better of me. At least you now have the egg, so take good care of it. And if anyone tells you it’s not yours tell them that’s it’s written in my will. Any questions? No? Then I had better be getting along. I could be leaving by the side door but if you close your eyes and don’t peep I can be on my way a little more quickly. I have an important engagement in two minutes time and I don’t want to be late, not after fifty-one years.”

         “You mean you’re off to see Uncle Bert?”

         “I think so, dear, I certainly hope so. Shut your eyes and wish me luck.”

         I did. On opening them again I realised I had not thanked her for her gift, but by then she was gone.

         An hour later my parents returned from the care home with the news that Aunt Mabel was, in my mother’s words, ‘passed over’. By then I had finished the Battle of the Little Big Horn and placed the egg at the back of my games drawer. My father seemed very gloomy about his aunt and was not at all pleased when I was not.

         I said nothing about Aunt Mabel doing some of her ‘passing’ by way of our house - they would never have believed me. As for the egg I kept quiet about that too until the reading of her will when I said that she had already given it to me during one of our visits to the care home. As the will said nothing about its likely value and I was equally reticent on that subject my parents assumed that it was an inexpensive bauble which, after a brief inspection by themselves, was soon forgotten.        

         Twenty years later I sold the egg to the V&A for a good deal less than it was worth and invested most of the cash I received in a new Hillman for my father and a house for myself and the girl I was about to marry. If I had any regrets about the sale they were few in number because by then I was an Assistant Curator at the Museum and therefore able to see the egg on any day of the week that I wanted. More importantly it could also be seen by the many thousands of visitors that every year passed through our doors. It was, I thought, both the right and sensible thing to do, and as I have yet to be struck by lightning I can only assume that Aunt Mabel thinks so too.

                                                                             Copyright Richard Banks 

Tylywoch ~ 16

 Tylywoch ~ 16 Return to Hartwell

 by Len Morgan

When Jax returned to Hartwell, he entered the forge and quietly watched as Terrek put the final touches to a fine ivory-handled stiletto blade. 

Terrek broke the silence, “I read your notes while you were gone, didn’t have much else to do, business was slack and there was nothing pending...”

“So stop crabbing around, get to the point!   You didn’t like them?” 

“On the contrary, your ideas for mechanisation show insight and imagination.   The work was harder without you so I built a few of your devices.   Your use of gears,” he turned to a large mechanical hammer, raised by foot power, and the new double sided ladle running on tracks and able to be poured with one hand, “It pours smoothly without any splashes or spills producing very few bubbles or imperfections.   They are a triumph; I built them but could never have done so without your drawings.”   He smiled in welcome.   Jax returned his smile, he was tired but glad to be back home. “Your time at Ordens Forge was well spent?” 

 “Yes.” Said Jax quietly. 

“Then why did he not complete your initiation?”

“On balance, he said the things you have taught me outweigh the knowledge he was able to impart, so the honour should be yours.” He smiled again.

“The pompous old ass!” said Terrek with a grin.  'The boy has aged more than six weeks' he thought, his eyes have seen things that humans ought never to see.   He gazed up into the night sky, throwing his mind out into the void they both now knew existed out there.   This time, he didn’t feel so lonely.   This time he was conscious of a shared secret that would bring them closer together even when apart.   No matter how far Jax chose to roam, and roam he would, he had no choice!   “Come on in…” he stumbled over the inappropriateness of ‘boy’, “Jax, welcome home – partner.”  They hugged each other warmly.   A voice in Terrek’s mind said, ‘It’s good to be home and to find you well.   But, why did you not warn me?’ 

“It’s a family taboo!   If I had warned you Orden would have known, he would have been angry beyond words!    You wouldn’t want to experience the wrath of a Jellonan, even at this distance.   I understand you took the oath?”  Jax nodded.   “It’s not the kind you should break lightly!” he said with conviction.

“But, I was never really given a choice…” Jax began.

“You made your choice when you signed articles of apprenticeship!   Read the small print.   Remember, you can now commune with like-minded artisans throughout the universe.   You have access to hundreds of thousands of minds if the need should arise, if you have a question, they will provide a solution.   You took the oath!” he put his arm around Jax in the way of a comrade.   “I have been alone too long, we are so far beyond normal smiths, more so than a fresh apprentice is from a Grande Master Craftsman, with a lifetime of achievement to his name.”   He looked up to the sky and waved his arm in comic presentation, “they are all out there on other worlds, with different chemistries, some so far above us that they are like gods, but they are not!”

“Orden?” 

“He is a conduit, he is the one who binds our minds together he enables us to join with them.   If you wish, you could spend the rest of your life communing with them, exchanging views and ideas.” 

“But I hear and I see nothing…” 

“Because you have not yet been finished.   Orden gave you something for me?” 

“He did” said Jax and he drew the golden stiletto spike from its sheath.   Terrek took it from him and stabbed it deep into Jax’s heart.   Jax stared back in disbelief, at the only man he would trust to act in his best interest and down at the hilt of the blade now protruding from his chest.   He looked into the smiling face of Terrek, his vision blurred as he felt the icy cold fingers of death taking a hold on him.  "Why?" he asked with a hurt and betrayed look in his eyes…

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.

THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.

By Bob French

          The two young boys sat frozen to their chairs, mesmerised by the old pirate who sat opposite them in his crinkled old oil-skin coat.  His rugged sunburnt face made darker by the shaggy white beard that partially hid a large scar that ran down the side of his face.  Everything about him smelt of the sea, but what frightened the boys the most were his eyes; they were a deep bluey-green; the colour of the sea. 

          The windows of the old tavern rattled as the wind howled past the coast of East Tilbury and rushed on down the estuary towards the City of London.  The old alehouse ‘The Ship’, was a frequent drinking hole for those who made their living from the sea, and during the summer months, the place was always packed with fisherman, customs men, and of course pirates.  What drew them to this desolate place on the coast was the ale and the huge fireplace that when lit, created strange shapes on the walls and fired sparks out onto the stone cobbled floor with a sharp crack.

          An old grandfather clocked chimed somewhere in the shadows of the alehouse as the old pirate looked down at the two boys.  He never smiled or joked.  To him, life was a serious matter, not to be fooled with. Then he began; his voice was gruff and harsh.

          “I recalls,” the old pirate leant forward as though about to whisper the location of a hidden treasure.  “That it were a cold and windy night as we pulled out into the estuary.  It were right choppy and the harder we pulled on them oars the more the sea fought us.” He suddenly leant back, gripped his leather tankard and drained it then slammed it down on the table, making the two young boys jump. After he had dragged his sleeve across his mouth he leant forward again and in a hushed raspy voice started talking.

          “The Master’s Mate was an ‘ard man, but fair mind you.  His name was Richard Parker and ‘e didn’t like landlubbers; that’s the name we gives to those poor fella’s that were nabbed by the Press Gang.  Un each time we got a new batch a’board, he’d treat ‘em ‘ard, so they understood what wus expected of ‘em.”

          “Now on this ship was an officer, by the name of Jethro Wilkinson, who didn’t like Parker on account of him coming from a common background un ‘im bein’ an officer thought he acted ‘bove his station.  So one night he goes and tells the cap’m that Parker has stolen a watch belongin’ to one of the gentlemen landlubbers. The cap’m ‘as his birth searched and finds the stolen watch.  Parker should ‘ave been flogged, but the Cap’m respected ‘im so he court martials him instead, then discharged ‘im from the Navy.  Broke ‘is heart it did.” 

          The old pirate looked up and smiled at the young girl as she leant across the table and placed another tankard of ale down in front of him.  When she left, his face turned serious again as he stared at the young boys.

          “Now Parker knew who had set him up and just as he was leaving the ship he approaches Lieutenant Wilkinson and stared him right in the face and says:”

          ‘I curse you and your family, un those who come after you, un I condemn all those of your kin that takes to the sea to everlasting shame.’

          As the old pirate looked up, an ice-cold gust of wind suddenly rushed around the alehouse as someone came in from the cold.  The two young boys jumped at the unwelcome intrusion and quickly held hands for courage.

          ”Of course Richard Parker was a professional sailor and it weren’t long before he joined up again. But things had changed since he was a sailor; the wages were now very poor and the food not much better, so Richard Parker starts a protest and after a month he’s got several ships crews protesting.  Now the Admirals weren’t havin’ nothing to do with him and after about three weeks they catches him, and on the 30^th of June 1797, they hangs him from the yardarm just out there in the estuary.”  The old pirate took another swig from his tankard. 

“The story goes that Lieutenant Wilkinson died on the way to India, on the very same day, of scurvy.”  No one spoke for a minute, then the old pirate cleared his throat and looked sternly at the boys.

          “Like all sailors, they burries Parker at sea, right where that wreck is.”  The old pirate turns and points out of the window towards the estuary.  The two young boys rush to the window and stare at the two masts that protrude from the churning sea.  As the boys concentrate on the grey waters swirling around the sunken masts they hear the old pirate start to talk again and quickly return to their seats.  As they sit, he quickly glances around behind him, then leans forward.

          “Some say that them shadows that dances on these walls are those of Richard Parker’s ghost.” The two boys quickly look at the strange moving shadows and move a little closer to each other.

          “In 1944, during the last war, a cargo ship, the SS Richard Montgomery, was carrying thousands and thousands of tonnes of explosives.  Un on the afternoon of the 30^th June it anchored out there in the estuary.  The Officer of the watch, so they says, was a Lieutenant Jonathan Wilkinson and, for some strange reason, the ship dragged its anchor and drifted right onto the Great Nore Sand Bank and sticks fast.  No one could understand why it had happened, but Lieutenant Wilkinson was court martialled and sent back to America in disgrace.” 

          “Now the people who were in charge had a big problem on their hands.”  The old pirate nodded in the direction of the sea.  “They ‘ad a sunken ship rottin’ away with thousands of tonnes of high explosives on board. After several months of talking it were decided to unload her; so a plan was made to unload her; but the sea was ‘avin’ none of it.  Some say it were the curse, but half way through the operation she splits in two, so they ‘ave to leave the rest of the high explosives on board.”

          “To this day the curse of Richard Parker still hangs over us all, particular the Wilkinson family.”  The old pirate lifts his tankard and takes another long swig of his ale, then belches, much to the amusement of the two young boys.

          “It don’t end there.  A few years back a Mr Malcolm Wilkinson, a big shot in American airport construction started to invest millions and millions of dollars in the new Thames Airport Project.  Everything was going swell, according to his press release, until someone told him about the sunken ammunition ship, the SS Richard Montgomery.  After lots of tests, the experts finally told ‘im that if the Montgomery were moved in any way she’ll blow and the damage to the coastline and several hundred miles inland would be catastrophic.”  The old pirate’s eyes twinkled as he laughed to himself.       “According to the papers, Old man Wilkinson lost the lot and scurried back to America penniless.”

          Just then an unwelcome gust of ice-cold wind scurried around the room, sending the shadows dancing across the wall again.  The two boys jumped at the figures that dances on the wall, then stood up and rushed towards the young woman who had just come in.

          “Mum, Granddad has been telling us the story about the ghost of Richard Parker and the old ship in the estuary that is going to blow up.”  She smiled and leant across and kissed her father on the forehead.

          “Thanks for looking after the boys Dad, I hope you haven’t been filling their heads with nonsense?”

 

Copyright Bob French

  

A haibun from Rob

Tunnel Vision

By Robert KIngston

Fred was a ferret that in my view belonged in the wild. That’s not to say he wasn’t, six days a week he resided in a hutch in the garden.

One Saturday, having plucked up the courage to tag along for a workday, I watched as, upon release, he weaved through the undergrowth to a nearby warren.

Asked to watch the entry hole whilst my sibling tracked to one beyond a mound, I stood ready to grab whatever surfaced.

 

last touch ...

a moon-shaped scar

on my thumb

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

 Aunt Mabels Easter Surprise 1

By Sis Unsworth

Aunt Mabel called at Easter, we couldn’t believe our eyes.

Just to see her standing there, was a great surprise.

Grandad nearly tumbled, and had to hold the gate,

Grandma, wanted smelling salts, she feared that she would faint.

Mum and Dad stood staring, their mouths were open wide

Our tom cat he arched his back, and scurried back inside.

Aunt Mabel she was standing there, a smile from ear to ear,

“Aren’t you going to ask me in, don’t keep me standing here!”

She made a real grand entrance, looking rather smug,

she laughed and said, “don’t I look good?” and gave our Dad a hug.

“Do you think I look much younger?” she then began to gloat

and smiled as she removed, her classy faux fur coat.

“Look I’ve lost five stone in weight; I’m always at the gym,

It’s years since you last saw me, so admit I do look slim.

I’ve bought a whole new wardrobe; this is a size ten frock,

I expect you are all speechless, because you’ve had a shock.”

Grandad was the first to speak, and slowly shook his head.

“The reason that we’re all surprised, we all thought you were dead!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

A NEW BEGINNING (Part 3 & Last)

A NEW BEGINNING  (Part 3 & Last)

by Richard Banks 

He knows you are here and would like to meet you. Would you like to meet him, Tom?”       

         While it would be impolite to refuse, I’m sensing that once we meet Lancelot’s chum there may be no leaving this place. Tom evidently has no such fears and cheerfully accepts the invitation on behalf of us all. We are escorted further along the High Street to a red brick building that was once the administrative hub of the Parish Council. A policeman stands guard at the door and salutes us as we go in. Lancelot leads us up two flights of stairs before pausing at a door bearing the letters ‘Ai-Ai-Ouch’ and a smiling emoji. Lancelot also smiles in a way that is intended to reassure. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says, “there is nothing to fear, he really is a dear, dear friend.” He turns back to the door and administers two careful raps that are immediately acknowledged by a voice bidding us to enter. We do and Lancelot who is now behind us quickly shuts the door and puts himself firmly against it.

         The creature that bids us welcome contorts its long, beak-like face into an expression that is evidently intended to put us at our ease. I’m not sure whether he reminds me of a bird or a reptile, there are bits of both, but my capacity for expressing fear or revulsion is curiously muted.

         “Call me Ouch,” he says, “everyone else does.” The creature reaches out a long, black arm at the end of which a large pincher-like hand grasps our own, raising and lowering each one several times before allowing them to fall limply back to our sides. Having awkwardly observed a ritual with which he seems less than familiar he relaxes his face into an impenetrable blankness. The eyes that sparkled are now becalmed. He bids us sit down on the four chairs that have been set-out for us.

         Ouch has a deep voice that is almost a growl. He could roar if he wanted to but for now he talks quietly, taking care to do so clearly and precisely. In this he may be assisted by a metal disc on his desk that pulsates with the sound of every word. Ouch enquires solicitously about our health which we assure him has been unaffected by the mist. “Yes,” he says, “it is a tragedy, so many dead. It is the plague that can’t be cured, the emerald cloud in space that lays waste to everything in its path. It comes, consumes and continues on. Nothing can stop or divert it. All that can be done is to limit the damage it causes and render assistance to surviving lifeforms. That’s why we are here. Our mission is to help, and as you can see we already have made a small but promising start. But who         are we, you must be thinking; strange creatures indeed if they all look like me.” He gives out what he intends to be a chuckle of amusement. Tom reciprocates with a nervous guffaw. “Well, what can I tell you; we are Carn-a-tuns from the planet Carn-a-tus in a corner of the Universe we call the Golden Spiral. Until recently we were as unaware of yourselves as you were of us but as the mist neared this planet we observed much about it that we could not bear to see destroyed. I only wish we could have done more. Regretfully this village is only one of fifty sites on Earth that we have been able to preserve. But as your proverb says, from little acorns mighty oaks do grow and, with our support, there may soon be many sturdy saplings. As for yourselves I am happy to say that your troubles are at an end. There are 248 good people here, three less than when we arrived. Therefore, there are three vacancies which Lancelot has recommended should be filled by yourselves.”

         “But, what about the others?” I say, in a voice that sounds less than grateful. Ouch seems disconcerted by my intervention. The look of benevolence that has returned to his face momentarily falters but is rescued by the turning-on of his smile; this time it is a wistful, apologetic smile. “They can not be admitted,” he says, “regretfully they would overburden the limited resources of the village. But they will, I assure you, receive all the assistance we can offer. They have already been given the liquid they need and will soon be relocated to a place of safety. They send you their best wishes. I assure you their troubles are very much at an end. Now, as for yourselves I suggest you return to the Green Dragon, have another glass of the landlord’s excellent ale and meet the people with whom you will be billeted.”

         So, that’s what we do, and our fears and uncertainties vanish as we drink the liquid refreshment that is offered us. By the time we are taken to our new homes we are feeling more satisfied with life than anyone has a right to. Am I drunk? I don’t think so. In the morning it may be different, but when I wake up I still have this strange new feeling of carefree contentment. The man whose house I now share seems equally happy with life and when, in the afternoon, he proposes marriage I have no hesitation in accepting - well, it would have been rude to refuse. Tom and Clem have also settled into village life. Tom is the Town Clerk while Clem works for a farmer who has two daughters who constantly compete for his attention. Even by the standards of the village he is a happy man.

         So, it has all ended well, although, of course, nothing has truly ended. Life continues and new things happen that require us to adapt and change. Not that this makes us any less happy. The new things may be good, bad or indifferent but none of them have the power to change the way we feel. We observe and accept everything that comes our way. Lancelot tells us we should be grateful to our benefactors and we are. As long as we have the landlord’s special ale how can we be anything but grateful.

         The Carn-it-tuns are now a common sight in the village. It seems that Ouch and his fellow decision makers have decided that our regeneration should go hand in hand with the village becoming a heritage and visitor centre. Our Carn-it-tun visitors wander about the village observing us at work and play which we endeavour to make as entertaining as possible. Cheese making and straw plaiting is what I do, while others milk cows, plough fields or chase foxes. There is skittles in the Dragon, and Morris dancing in the street outside. Our visitors seem genuinely interested in everything we do and, unable to distinguish between public and private places, often find their way into our homes. They seem most interested in the babies, of which I now have two, and our WCs which are a constant source of puzzlement to them. When they ask, through their translation discs, what they are for I flush away several sheets of tissue and they depart even more puzzled than before. Sometimes they forget to turn-off their discs and we discover that they are journeying on to other visitor attractions: to Factory Land, Marine Town or Coal Valley. Sometimes we hear things we are not meant to know, about the man hunts in the Wilderness Zones and the human zoo on their own planet. Even worse, we now know that far from saving us from the green mist the Carn-it-tuns used it against us to kill and enslave.

         I should be feeling all sorts of strong emotion but nothing can disturb the warm glow of happy indifference that shields me from everything that should trouble me. It is the same for everyone else. For the first time in our lives we have been freed from the tyranny of sadness and anxiety. We lack for nothing. Our situation steadily improves. Children are born in increasing numbers and the land which was dead is now almost back to normal. We have been allocated two new fields while the rest of the land outside the village is tended by huge machines that Ouch assures us will produce new crops, the like of which we have never seen before. There will be some for us, he says, a special treat to mark the fifth anniversary of their coming. We murmur our thanks and raise our glasses to him. Happy, happy, happy! Has life ever been this good?

 

                                              [The End]      

 

                         Copyright Richard Banks                                                      

Personal Wellbeing ~ 21

 
Help!

The Barefoot Medic (needs your help)

I’ve stayed silent too long.  I’ve got false teeth. 

 

I need to use tooth glue (Polygrip) to keep my top plate in place.

 

So, the glue tends to make my mouth dry.  I have type 2 diabetes, so prefer not to suck sweets to bring moisture to my mouth.

 

In the past two years, I tried chewing gum, but it sticks to my top plate and can’t easily be removed. 

 

Then, “Salvation” I found that Wrigleys Spearmint Gum didn’t stick to my upper plate; problem solve!?  Not quite! 

 

Because I’ve increasingly found it hard to source WSG ~ even on the internet?!

 

Does anybody know why I can’t source Wrigleys spearmint gum, or have any idea why it isn’t available? 

 

HELP!

 

Attach answers or send them to Len (Many thanks)

Tylywoch ~ 15

 Tylywoch ~ 15 Ordens Forge

By Len Morgan

He made a decision.   At the end of yet another day, he retired to his quarters, but on opening the door he immediately became conscious of the citrus aroma.   He wedged open the door and retraced his steps to the entrance of the corridor, and walked downstairs to the next level, then the next, and the next…   Twenty levels down he found that all the corridors were identical and empty.   He continued on down after a brief glimpse down each corridor.    He was well into the sixties when he noticed the air becoming humid and foul smelling.   He found himself choking and decided there was nothing to be gained by exploring further.   He felt guilty and a little sad at invading Orden’s private space.   He retraced his steps until the symbols on the wall matched those of his own floor at which point he decided to continue up to the surface.   He realised that Orden was alone, his face was streaked with tears, that whole vast complex was empty, they were alone.   He gazed out at the dampened forge, it now seemed a ghostly place, he wiped his eyes and went slowly down two floors to ‘SUB-2’ returning to his own room, overcome with melancholy.   He lay on the bed and slipped into a natural slumber.   For the first time since his arrival, he slept and did not dream. 

Next morning Orden woke him with a question. 

“I gather you took a nocturnal stroll last evening?”

“That is so,” he replied.   “I discovered that there are no others, we are alone.   I’m sorry Orden I didn’t know.   Will you tell me what happened to your people?   So many empty rooms, it must have been something disastrous…” 

Orden laughed aloud.  “Don’t pity me human!” he said, “this is not my world, my people do not live here, I'm just one in a long line of custodians.   We were sent here in a time of need, to gather and preserve the remnants of a promising race whose technology outstripped their ability to control it.  When we arrived this was a dying world.   We built this place as an ark, to house the remains of that race, and as many as possible of the other endangered species, that would not otherwise have survived in that changing environment.   We kept them in stasis, in these halls, for hundreds of thousands of years until conditions became more life sustaining.” Orden paused finding it difficult to frame his words.

“Then you let them out?” Jax asked encouragingly.

“No!” he said sadly, in the period they had been in stasis, other life forms had populated the world.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”   Jax asked patiently

 “They are all still in there, at the lower levels, waiting to be released.”

“They may not live very long, the air down there is so foul and badly polluted, I couldn’t get any lower than the 60^th level…”

“It's gone down that far?   A year ago the pollution was in the 50’s.   There is a sensor attached to an automatic unlocking mechanism, on the lower levels.   When the air reaches level 500 the creatures down there will be released lower level forms first the intelligent species are house in the levels below 100.   The upper levels have always been left empty for use by my people, the Jellonans.   If what you say is true, we have less than 400 years to formulate a plan.”

“What would happen if they were not released.   How long could they remain in stasis?”

“In theory they could remain there Indefinitely.” Orden replied.   “But this place has to be kept provisioned and in a state of repair.   It could go on without my input for hundreds of years but if something went wrong…”

“Then I suggest you start working on a way to ensure the pollution levels remain high enough to avoid triggering the release, or you will be responsible for a disaster far worse than that you were originally protecting them from, a clash of epic proportions.   When they emerge, they will expect to reclaim their world, which is what I’m sure you promised them when they were incarcerated here.   With their superior technology they will surely be capable of destroying us.   They would treat us as vermin and do their best to destroy our civilisation.   We could release them a few at a time, transport them to a distant part of this world?” he reasoned.   “How long would they stay there…”

Orden nodded “Two hundred years ago I fixed the sensors to open only on a methane atmosphere, one that could never exist on this world, and would kill all life on the planet.   A crime for which I was censured and sentenced to a further 1000 years as custodian on your world.”

“Congratulations!   For an intelligent being you do the most stupid things.  Why did you have to tell the HM?”

“But, if they are allowed out the Karaxen will destroy your race and the world as you know it.” Orden reasoned.

“Maybe their minds could be altered, to erase the memories of their technology, you could release a few at a time into our communities, we could integrate them,” Jax said. 

Orden shook his head vigorously, his despair evident.  “They are not human, if you saw them you would call them monsters.”

“Transfer them to another planet!”

“Beyond our resources, if it had been possible it would have been our first option.   All planets capable of sustaining carboxy life forms are currently occupied.   This is a problem that must be resolved here on Abbalar.”

“It isn’t that simple Orden, it's a problem of Jellonan making!   You should have left nature to find its own course, hard as that may seem.” He snapped angrily, “now, you will have to bring us up to their level…” suddenly his eye registered understanding.  “You should walk away from the problem now, as you should have done then, but your race is not made that way.” He smiled and slapped the stocky Jellonan on the shoulder, instantly regretting his action, it was like punching a rock face. 

.-…-. 

During his stay with Orden, he mastered many scientific methods besides metallurgy;  Fluidics, Chemistry, Physics, pure and applied Mathematics to name a few.   Frequently on encountering a seemingly insurmountable problem, he’d sleep on it.   The mild sedative in his room, inducing a deep meditative state, in which he was able to commune with the Hive Matrix a vast network of sensitives through the universe; enabling him to seek out answers to his questions.   As the days and weeks passed, he became more adept at this form of communication and his problem solving abilities improved by leaps and bounds.   Atomic theory and pure mathematics Quantum mechanics were no longer the confusing brick walls they had appeared when he'd first arrived.   Towards the end of his stay, he was able to grasp and solve abstract theoretical problems as easily as the practical ones.   He completed his final tasks swiftly and with the ease that comes only to the young.   On the eve of his departure, Orden presented him with a plain wooden box lined with a plush quilting, on which lay a thin spike like blade with a hollow crystal hilt filled with an opaque golden fluid.

“You must not loose this or any of the fluid within.   Present it to Terrek on your return to Hartwell, he will know what to do with it.” 

That night, his dreams were particularly vivid, it seemed that through the Hive Matrix (HM) the whole universe was there to witness him taking a solemn oath to all…

.-…-. 

He broke fast, the following morning and bid Orden a sad farewell, making his way back to Hartwell and Terrek.   He was conscious of all he had learned, an enormous amount, but the final act of ‘being made’ was still to come, and would take place back in Terrek’s forge; two and a half years had passed in his mind since he left;  just six weeks had elapsed in real time.   He was now sixteen, and had at last come of age.  

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

NEW BEGINNING (Part 2 of 3)

Richard Banks

 More than ever I want to survive, the only thing that matters right now is me.

        We continue on across open country, single file behind Conner who is navigating by the stars. We can barely see the ground beneath our feet as we struggle to keep up with him but no one falls behind. When the bikers find out what has happened they may well come after us but for now there is no sign of them. At daybreak, we take cover in a wood and bed down for what Conner calls a re-coop, two hours at most. There should be bird song and there is – the unanswered cooing of a single pigeon. The insects have fared better and although the ground is covered with their dead there are many still living.  How long they may do so now that the ground is almost devoid of living vegetation only time will tell. Who or what is responsible for the green mist we know not. If it be man, a calculated act of aggression, a normal life may, somewhere, be continuing but if the cause be something beyond man the insects may well see us off the Planet. ‘Survival of the fittest’ said Darwin, and for now, they seem in better shape than ourselves.

        More than ever our dreams are the stuff of nightmares and no one is sorry when Conner says it’s time to move on. But first, we make a fire and heat up some food from the tins we carry. Conner insists that everyone tips something into the one cooking utensil that we have and stir it all together. It’s a total mess but it’s food, it’s warm and we gulp it down like the hungry people we are.

        We are on the march for only minutes when Laura looks up at the sky and excitedly tells us that there’s a patch of blue sky above. The green mist continues to disperse. Our spirits rise. We are less than fifty miles from Halmouth where something like normal life might still be found. If so there may be ships and boats that will enable us to reach countries less damaged than our own. Are there such places? The world’s a big place we reason, surely there must be somewhere better than here.

        Immersed in our thoughts we are not as vigilant as we should be. As we reach the ridge of what was once a field of barley we come across another larger group in the dip below. There are at least thirty of them and one of the men fires a shotgun into the air. It is a warning, come no closer, and we don’t. If they are running short of food they may well try and steal ours. Conner tells us to back off. If they come at us we are to run back the way we came. We have the downward slope behind us. By the time they get up to where we are now we may be too far off for them to continue after us.            

        In the stand-off that follows we take stock of each other. They look much the same as us, ordinary people in their dirty, tattered clothes that once they wore for the doing of ordinary things. One of them takes a few step towards us. He spreads out his hands to show he is unarmed and motions for one of us to meet him halfway up the slope. There is something familiar about him that I can’t quite place, then I do. Behind the dirt and the beard that wasn’t there before its Hoskins, district counsellor and owner of the County Gazette. “It’s OK,” I say, but Conner is already on his way down. They talk for nearly fifteen minutes and shake hands before returning to their followers.

        Conner tells us that they too are headed for the coast, in their case to a private mooring where Hoskins has an ocean-going yacht. Only he has the security codes that will allow it to function. There’s room for two more. However, he doesn’t want just anyone. They’re looking for people with the practical skills they don’t already have, people good with their hands who can make and repair. If normal exists anywhere in the world they will find it, or so says Hoskins. Bearing in mind that the boat will be largely dependent on the winds that blow this may take some considerable time but compared to the chaos that probably awaits us it’s the dream ticket. What’s depressingly obvious is that none of us are the sort of useful people that Hoskins needs, that is all but one, but he’s back with us. We watch Hoskins and the others depart and refocus our thoughts on getting to Halmouth. We should, says Robbie, be there in less than two days. He points to where we are on the map which he notates with the compass reference that will get us there. From now on, he says, it’s a straight line.

        We continue on until dusk, have supper, and bed down for the night. Having been up all the previous night we sleep well, too well, and it’s 7am before anyone wakes up. Normally Conner is our alarm clock, organising us for the day ahead, but this day he’s nowhere to be seen. On the ground where he was lying is the compass and a stone under which is the map. There should also be a note explaining why he has abandoned us but that’s only too obvious. While we hate him for the choice he has made, loyalty and altruism are the indulgences of a bygone age.

        We need a new leader and when Tom says he once did map reading in the boy scouts he’s elected. If when we get to Halmouth some vestige of the old order remains his City links could well prove useful. Maybe, I’m thinking, Conner’s defection was the best thing to happen at the best possible time. This is no more than wishful thinking but I say it to the others with all the conviction I can muster. Anyway, I add, we’re too near Halmouth to give up now. What we find there will be more important than losing Conner. On this, we are all agreed.

        Tom’s first decision as leader is that we should have a huddle like the rugby team he supports. While we’re hoping his subsequent decisions will be of some practical benefit we do as he says: eleven smelly, bedraggled people clinging to each other as the morning dew begins to evaporate into steam. There’s an unaccustomed warmth on our heads and when hug over, we look up at the sky we find it more blue than green and the sun almost bright enough to dazzle. “It’s over,” says Laura, and although nothing could be further from the truth the world seems a kinder, better place. Within half an hour we are ready to go and Tom takes his place at the front of the line.

        The morning continues to improve and in the warm glow of a rising sun our change of leader no longer feels like the disaster we first thought it to be. Tom’s boyhood ability to read a map and compass seems unimpaired, and when he says we will be in Halmouth by the evening of the following day his confidence that he has got it right rubs off on us all.

        All goes well until the afternoon when Ellie declares she is almost out of water. In the unexpected warmth of a near summer’s day we have all been drinking more than usual. Bill and Judy are also running short, and no one has more than half a bottle left. Tom shakes his head in annoyance and says they should have told him earlier. Then he checks his own supply and finds himself running short. It’s almost funny, except that it’s not. Would Conner have let this happen? I can’t be the only one thinking this but everyone keeps their thoughts to themselves. Fortunately, a solution is not too far away. In the valley below, three miles to our left and slightly back is a village where bottled drinks can surely be found. There and back will cost us the rest of the afternoon, but with only open country in front of us we have no other choice.

        We cover the distance in an hour but any hope of a quick in and out is ended by the sight of two overturned cars blocking the road through the main street. We drop down behind a hedge and observe. On the level ground at the base of the valley, between cars and a village, a man with a shotgun is talking to another man in army combats. Behind them, an elderly woman exits one of the shops and unhurriedly crosses the road to a Tesco’s convenience store. Apart from the barricade, everything looks like a normal, sleepy Sunday in a rural backwater. Is it Sunday? We don’t know, we have long lost track of days and dates and, since Robby departed, we’re not even sure of the time. Here in the village, the clock in the church tower is showing five minutes to four, and judging by the arc of the sun it’s as right as makes no difference. At the top of the tower, a Union Jack flutters in a freshening breeze and in the fields behind the church the same breeze ripples gently through a field of ripening corn. At four the clock chimes and three children leave the church and are lost to sight in the deep shade of a yew tree.

        This is what normal used to be before the mist. Below our feet and in front of us the grass is green while that behind us, like everywhere else, is either dead or dying. On the other side of the village, we observe the same sharp division between green and brown. That which lies in between shouldn’t exist, but it does, eleven pairs of eyes can’t be wrong. Tom justifies his election by coming up with a plan. He, Clem, and myself will go down to the village and request the bottles we need. If they refuse he will say that he has fifty armed followers who are prepared to take them by force and shoot anyone who tries to stop us. Even if they don’t believe him they are unlikely to risk it happening? If we each take an empty backpack we can load up with enough bottles to keep us going for three more days. We stay hidden for as long as we can before coming out onto the road within plain sight of the men on the barricade. A startled shout signals we have been seen and we stop while Tom does his ‘we come in peace’ bit by waving his handkerchief above his head. We resume walking and although the man with the shotgun puts it to his shoulder he also points it down at the road. He is joined by several other men who come running up from the village. We get within twenty feet of them before they order us to stop. If Tom ever needed to win friends and influence people this is the time. What he says in the next few minutes may well decide whether we live or die. But things are definitely on the up. Tom recognises one of the men who just arrived. Not only do they know each other but they are in the same Lodge. Once they are through making odd signs at each other we are escorted into the main street like honoured guests. The thirty bottles we request is the least they can do for us and while someone is sent off to fetch them we are taken into the Green Dragon for a pint of the landlord’s special brew. Our host, whose name is Lancelot, continues to live up the best traditions of chivalry by insisting that we shower in the guest rooms over the bar.

        We reassemble downstairs feeling like Royalty if that still exists. Then Tom asks the ‘how’ question and Lancelot’s self-assured bonhomie becomes altogether more thoughtful. He repeats Tom’s question back at him as though he’s playing for time in which to construct an answer. “How is everything normal here when the rest of the country is anything but? A good question,” he says, “although we’re not the only place like this. You see we have been fortunate, so very, very fortunate, we have a special friend, a benefactor who is also our protector, our guiding light. Everything we have we owe to him. He knows you are here and would like to meet you. Would you like to meet him, Tom?”

[To be continued]

 Copyright Richard Banks       

Breakdown 

By Sis Unsworth

I often think back through the years, my memory stretches far,

When petrol was much cheaper, but so few owned a car.

So understand in those days, a car ride was a treat,

Neighbours were quite envious, if you drove out of our street.

One sunny Sunday afternoon, a knock came at our door,

we rushed to open it at once, and uncle Jim we saw.

An old blue van with windows, he pointed out with glee,

“I am the new proud owner, that van belongs to me.”

Uncle Jim said with a smile, “I’ll take you for a ride,”

so Mum, Dad, Nan and me, we all just climbed inside.

Then Nan sat with uncle Jim, next to the driver’s seat,

he’d have to pick up, Lil and George, who he’d arranged to meet.

I felt so proud as we drove off, I hoped our neighbours saw,

I waved to Mrs Jones, who was standing by her door.

Then we picked up Lil and George, who lived just down our way,

I did feel quite excited, it was a special day.

Uncle Jim said with a smile “I’ll drive down to Thorpe Bay,

and pick up Auntie Alice too, her house is on the way.”

We knocked at Auntie Alice’s, she went back for her hat,

that was when Jim noticed, one tyre had gone flat.

You'll all have to jump out, so I can change the wheel.

The thought that we had broken down made me feel quite ill.

But Uncle Jim soon fixed the tyre, and we started off again,

then when we got to old Thorpe Bay, we had some heavy rain.

We’ll wait here till the rain stops, Uncle Jim did say.

But then the dark clouds emphasised, that it might rain all day.

“Or maybe we should head for home,” he said with heavy heart.

But when he tried to drive us home, the engine wouldn’t start.

Uncle Jim then tried again, then added with a frown,

“I don’t think this will get us home, it seems we’ve broken down.”

Uncle George said, let me try, but he didn’t have a clue,

so Auntie Alice jumped out then and headed for the loo.

Uncle George looked inside, he frowned and scratched his head,

I think that me and Lil will go, into that pub instead.

Nan, Dad, Mum and me, were still inside the van,

A very sad faced uncle Jim said, “I’ve done all I can.”

Auntie Alice then came back, from her visit to the loo,

heard Lil and George were in the pub, so she went in there too.

Still the rain was pouring down, and Nan began to moan,

”I wish I hadn’t come now, I should have stayed at home.”

Uncle Jim got angry, he said “I’ve done my best.”

He’d tried to get it started; now he’d like to have a rest.

Aunt Alice came back from the pub, to say she’d lost her hat.

George and Lil both came back, George tripped and fell down flat

Lil tried to help him up again, with help from uncle Jim,

They got him to the old blue van, and we pushed him in.

Then we tried to get some sleep, as we had to stay the night

We heard someone knocking on the door, it gave us all a fright.

So uncle Jim peered outside, then gave a second look,

It was a policeman standing there, opening his notebook.

“Are you the owner of this van?” He said both loud and clear,

“you cannot park here overnight, so move it out of here.”

Uncle Jim then explained, “the van it just won’t go.

The policeman said "I’ll take a look or else I’ll get a tow,"

popping the hood he checked it through, said with a cheerful grin,

“If you want to drive this van back home, then put some petrol in!!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth