A walk in the woods

By Janet Baldey

I am happy, I suppose, or perhaps ‘content’ is the better word.  I have a comfortable home and enough money to meet my needs, but something is missing, and I know very well what it is.  I have no sense of belonging. I float through life without touching or being touched, so that, although it is Marcus who died, sometimes I feel I am the ghost. But, unlike Marcus, I exist and as I do not believe in the afterlife, my outlook is barren.

         All the above was the truth as I saw it yesterday, but today, something has happened that I can’t explain.  Nor do I want to, for that would destroy the kindling of hope that has fanned a spark of life in me.

This morning, I took my dog Casper for a walk in the woods.  Our routine doesn’t vary, a fact that Caspar doesn’t seem to mind.  Morning and evening, we walk down the road leading to the copse other people call a wood.   It is late autumn and for the last few weeks the weather has been foul, raining incessantly day after day, sometimes so heavily a grey sheet covers the windowpane.  Today was no exception and when I reached the wood rain was streaming off my waterproof.  Splashing through the mud, Casper bounded ahead while I followed more slowly, for fear of slipping.  The weather had silenced the birds and all I heard was the drip of raindrops falling from sodden leaves and the squelch of saturated earth.   The usual dog walkers weren’t around which didn’t surprise me.  Given the choice, I would be at home, warm and dry while the elements did their worst, but I don’t have a garden, so I had no choice.  Except one, I could cut the walk short.  This, I decided to do and called for Casper who had disappeared.  I called again but no dog.  I think I must explain at this point, that Caspar is an obedient animal, or rather he realises that a reward follows obedience, so I was surprised, but not alarmed.  He’d probably caught the smell of fox which always wipes his mind, so I continued my usual route, all the while looking out for him.   As I did, I noticed the absence of colour, the hawthorn berries, normally bright, were dulled by a film of mildew as were the hips of the wild rose while the lazy fronds of Queen Anne’s Lace had collapsed and were lying bedraggled in the mud.  All this affected my spirits, so much so that when I reached the wood’s boundary and entered an area of parkland, I was glad to be free of its oppressive atmosphere.

At almost the same time as I emerged, another figure appeared from a track on the opposite side of the park.   It seemed another walker had braved the rain.  I looked for the dog for it would be odd, not to say ominous, for anyone to be out without a pet in these conditions.  Sure enough, I saw the tip of a tail whisking thigh high just above the grass, and I relaxed.  But not for long.   They drew nearer and as my eyesight focussed, I stopped abruptly, shocked.  The tail was Casper’s.  Then following on, as sudden as a lightning strike, came another shock.  The walker was Marcus.  I was immediately sure of it.  I recognised his odd, shuffling gait, the stigmata of his disease.  I recognised his ancient green anorak that he insisted on wearing although it was both tattered and torn.  I recognised so many things that had been burned into my psyche through the years.  Yet, it couldn’t be!  I must be dreaming.  I pushed back my hood, lifted my head and felt the icy rain freeze my face.  I pulled at my hair and ground my nails into my hands and felt the pain of consciousness.  Then I looked again, and nothing had changed.  Marcus was stumbling towards me with a delighted Casper frisking about his heels.  As I stared he looked up and a thrill ran through me.  His eyes, which towards the end had been dull and listless, were bright and alive.  The eyes of a young man in an old man’s face.  His eyes as they had been when we’d first met.  He smiled, then turned and disappeared into the wood.  My heart hammering, I ran to where I’d last seen him.  As I pushed my way through the bushes, I came across a cottage.  A cottage, with roses round the door.  Our cottage!  The one we’d made our home.  As I stared, Marcus appeared at a window and beckoned for me to join him.  But, for some unknown reason, I hesitated, and immediately a look of abject disappointment clouded his face and his image started to fade, together with that of our cottage.  Immediately, I changed my mind, but it was too late and I was left behind, again.

I lick my lips, they feel cold and dry and taste of winter.   I regret many things in my life, but none more than that moment of hesitation.  Except, now I am left with a feeling of hope that won’t leave me.   For this reason, tomorrow, and the next day and the next, I will return and who knows, I might find him again.

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 2

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 2 Corvalen

By Len Morgan

   Eldoriel, was a rare bloom; young, beautiful, and uninhibited.  She lived her formative years in the Northern Reaches of Bellorne: where closeness is allied to warmth and generosity; the kind that could simply be a means of conserving heat, or mayhap something more.   If, as a consequence of closeness, two people should find mutual attraction in each others company none could object; for to do so would be to go against the established Bellornian rules of etiquette.

   Her fair waist length hair was always meticulously groomed; she lavished countless hours on it.   Her slender dextrous fingers plaiting, in practised patterns, so fast they became a blur and on occasion seemed to disappear altogether.   She smiled as she gazed, into the mirror, at her own naked form.   The face unashamedly returning her gaze was delicate, but somewhat broader than those she saw from day to day.   A sharp contrast to the slim almond faces of the local Corvalen women who are universally svelte, dark-skinned, having long noses, and petite breasts.  They are shy, almost without exception, and sport lustrous straight black, shoulder-length, hair; styled to frame their wide intelligent, jewel-bright, umber eyes.

Hers were, in stark contrast, a piercing ice blue, they were staring back at her, unblinking, critical, and appraising.   However, her mind was not on the image before her.   Although, she did wish she had their smooth honey complexion instead of her own pale colouring.   She also admired the way they painted the nails, on their fingers and toes; so she began to emulate them, soon after arriving in Corvalen, with her husband, six months earlier.   The smile died on her lips as she thought of him, she became sad and melancholy, as her thoughts returned inevitably to her homeland of Bellorne.

.-…-. 

 He had been so charming, so attentive and considerate, when first they met.   He was instantly captivated by her, and wooed her persistently, refusing to take ‘No’ for an answer.   For months she resisted his advances, struggling to keep their relationship at a basic level, but he was so determined and single-minded.  At the time, she believed, she did feel genuine affection for him finding his persistence flattering, amusing even.  But, she was little more than a child and easily impressed.

"Dear Grym, why so persistent," she asked "why can we not simply enjoy the bounty the gods have bestowed upon us?   Just accept and be grateful for their generosity.   Whilst we are young and beautiful we are desired by all.   We should celebrate our good fortune by dispensing joy to all; it is the way of my people." She explained.

"But, I love you.   I love you without limits.   I can think of nothing else, awake or sleeping, you are the centre of my world.   I don't want--, cannot bear to think of you with somebody else, nor will I share; you must be mine alone.   When I see you with another I become enraged, I fear what I might do to that person, I could so easily kill or injure them because of my love for you!"   He spoke with such intensity it frightened her and she responded with a nervous laugh.

His face coloured-up, ‘with embarrassment’ she thought, but actually, it was something else.

She attempted to reason with him, genuine concern in her voice, “My love I do not understand your attitude, it makes no sense, why buy a goat when all you want is a glass of milk?"

But, he continued his relentless pursuit until finally she said "yes" simply to gain respite.   She thought his constant pressure would ease, but if anything, it increased.   He wanted to be with her all the time; he wanted to control who she saw and what she did.   He lavished expensive gifts on her, and her family, until she could not break off the relationship without alienating those closest to her.   Thus she was pressured to be more amenable and finally, she acceded to his persistent advances.   The commitment bands were publicly declared and their betrothal became official.

   From the moment they took their final joining vows, almost overnight, he changed.   Within weeks he had decided they would be moving south.   At first, she declined demurely, but her parents remonstrated with her, pointing out that it was her duty to accompany her husband wherever he went.   Finally, she acceded to the combined demands and become resigned to her fate.   Initially, she rode a'horse beside him but, as they travelled south, the weather warmed, and she began to shed her furs.  The accompanying troop of men quickly began to notice her womanly attributes, and she encouraged them by flirting outrageously, just ribald banter, to pass the time but Grym smouldered with anger and resentment.   At the next town, they visited he purchased a closed carriage and insisted she remain inside away from their prying, lascivious eyes.   He became obsessive, treating her as though she were simply one of his possessions.   He insisted she remain in their rooms, at the various Inns they visited.   She was also obliged to eat alone, in their rooms, whilst he remained below drinking and gambling into the small hours.   When finally he returned he was, like as not, inebriated and unable to exercise his joining rites.   Becoming angry he blamed her for his shortcomings in the bed-chamber.  

    She had reached her lowest ebb when a young man, delivering her evening meal, favoured her with a smile and spoke kindly to her.   She smiled back being lonely and starved of discourse.   He tarried, just to keep her company, talking of his friends and family, his hopes and dreams for the future.    Then suddenly she found herself feeling alive once more.   Whilst Grym-Baal remained below, engaged in his own pursuits, she talked eagerly with the young man; finding excuses for him to stay.   But, his prolonged absence from the eating house brought angry curses from the Inn-keep.    This did not go unnoticed by Skaa-Bae, the captain of Grym's guard, who questioned the Inn-keep.   He was a very persuasive man.   He entered their rooms without knocking; they hadn’t even locked the door, one look and a triumphant grin distorted his features.   He read the situation at a glance and made his own assumptions.  A young man and woman alone in a bed-chamber?   

"Well my little northern kitten, you have finally reverted to type."   He bellowed, glaring angrily at them both.  The young man jumped to his feet guiltily.

“Nothing happened,” he wailed.

 In contrast she reclined, defiantly on the bed, hiding nothing.

"My duty should be to inform the master of this lapse." He announced, gazing at her with intense unblinking reptilian eyes.   "Get out!" he yelled at her companion, his eyes never straying from her.   "Breath a word of this and you're dead," he whispered sibilantly, in the boy’s ear, knowing the threat would be taken as deadly serious.

The young man scurried from the room casting a furtive glance over his shoulder at the sinister bear-like Skaa.   Averting his gaze guiltily, as his eyes made fleeting contact with hers.   They filled with tears, he knew he was deserting her but, his awe of Skaa so completely overwhelmed him that he felt impotent to act.   She would however unwittingly exact a telling retribution, for after knowing her, he would inevitably compare all others and find them wanting.

  Skaa licked his lips slowly, as his robes tumbled to the floor.   His eyes did not leave her as he carefully locked the door behind him, shutting out the world.  

“Is it a Bellornian custom to ask a boy to do a man’s job?” He asked, with a boyish grin.

.-…-. 

   As her mirror came back into focus, she brushed a tear from her cheek, and her thoughts returned to the present.   She cupped her firm full breasts critically, ‘they had definitely grown in the time she had been in Corvalen.’    Since her arrival she had experienced ought of the city but the view from her carriage, on arrival, and the panorama viewed from her window.   Grym had kept her locked in these rooms, a virtual prisoner, with just a maid for company.  It was the maid’s night off.   Her heart warmed at the thought of her clandestine visitor whose imminent arrival she anticipated, with repressed excitement.   Her mood lightened appreciably.  She recalled their first meeting, on the day of her arrival.   He had come to speak with Grym, concerning irregularities in the paperwork for a cargo from Bellorne.   As he entered the room she was smitten, with desire, having eyes for him alone.   She knew, from experience, the attraction was mutual.   She smiled pulling a wrap around her shoulders, moving silently to the window to keep vigil.   He had visited her three times a week since that first meet.   There would be no small talk, they would scarcely speak at all, they shared an intense all-consuming hunger.   She didn't know or care who he might be, a minor official she’d supposed, it mattered nought, so long as they were able to quench the twin fires raging within them.

   At first, she had been angry with Grym-Baal, disappearing for days, on business trips, and leaving her locked within the walls of these rooms she now regarded as her prison.   Eventually, she looked upon his frequent absences as a blessing.   She knew he did not love her and regarded her as nothing more than property.   She caught her breath, her face flushed with excitement and trepidation, not long now, she thought.   Her eyes turned to the variegated violet canopy of the sky, fearfully, ‘mayhap he wouldn’t come?’  She thought.

There was a rattle of keys at the door to her chamber, the lock mechanism turned, and the door creaked open…

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

Abbalar Tales ~ 1

 

Abbalar Tales~ 1 House of Corvalen

by Len Morgan 

 The moons of Abbalar rule the night, Vexen and Veinen, one red and one blue.  Astrologers warn they are badly aspected when neither is dominant; boding ill for those who venture forth beneath their pale violet light.

Ahlendore, Prince of the ruling house of Corvalen, gazed up at the sky.   He was not concerned.  He had plans for a night in the arms of a young woman, an adherent to the loose morals of her Northern homeland, Bellorne.   He smiled, his vitality stirring at the expectation of her firm generous form, willing compliance, and her affinity with the intimate act.   Eldoriel was the wife of Grym-Baal, a Huren merchant with wide pecuniary interests.   His influence at the court of Corvalen was growing, thanks largely to the patronage of Prince Fazeil; Ahlendore’s eldest brother.  Ahlendore would not allow his plans to be influenced by that.

But, first, he had a meet at the ‘Bag-o-Bones’.

 .-…-. 

"More ale Anja!"

"More wine over here girl!"

"Where's my mutton stew?"

"Anja?  You're wanted!"

 

She sighed and took a final gaze through the haze of blue tabacc smoke at the four young men deep in conversation in a nearby booth.

"His name is prince Ahlendore,” said Marra the other serving girl, following Anja's gaze, “he's only the Caliphs 13th son.  If you want to keep your job I'd suggest you forget him and start serving the customers at your tables!" 

"Mmm," Anja sighed.

"What's going on here," the inkeep demanded.  "Get out there

and make my customers happy.  Now!"  He slapped Anja playfully on the rump.

Anja lifted a tray full of drinks and disappeared into the bustle and chaos of the public bar. She'd been working at the Bag-o-Bones for just over two months, in that time she'd learned to keep her ears and eyes open, and her mouth shut.  Any gossip would be shared with the others at closing time.

"Your wasting your time with him," said Marra in a slack moment, "He'll probably be killed off in the Kull.  Anja looked blank. "When the old Caliph dies, don't you know?  They say he won't live the week out.  Then his sons will fight over the succession.  One will become the new Caliph within the year following his death, it will probably be Fazeil.  The others will either swear allegiance to him or be killed off in the struggle.  Factions are gathering, I imagine that's what those four are plotting," she nodded towards Ahlendore and his companions.

The Inn door opened and a tall slim dark-skinned man in long flowing desert garb entered.  He pulled back his hood, planted his six-foot staff firmly, looking around for an empty place. 

Marra gave him a pleasant smile.  "Can I get you something?"

"A little watered wine please, and some of that tempting stew," he said twitching his nostrils.   

"I'm surprised you can smell it over the smoke and tallow," she said, “all the wine is watered,” she confided.

His face widened in a cherubic smile, "It has been a long day and I have travelled far, do you have rooms?" 

"We do sir, do you have luggage?"

He raised a worn sack from his shoulders and took a seat.  He looked around as if searching for someone.  His dark brown eyes alighted on Ahlendore; he took a seat and sipped at his wine.

"Your room is ready sir, this way?"

He nodded, and followed her.  He returned, to find fresh bread and stew waiting at his table, he ate hurriedly but drank sparingly.  He watched as Ahlendore left the Bag-o-Bones alone, and followed discreetly.

.-…-. 

“Well met little rich boy,” said a voice from the shadows.  

A sixth sense had warned Ahlendore he was being followed but he’d chosen to ignore it.

“If you lay your purse down before you now, and leave the way you came, like a good lad, then you will live to greet the dawn,” the voice promised.

Without moving he cast about, with all his senses, but could detect no others.   It must be an opportunist he thought drawing his blade.

“Oh dear, it seems we will have to kill him after all,” said the voice.

He waited with his back to the wall.   Mayhap it was a bluff, but the voice sounded pretty confident.   Were there two, or three, could he handle four of them?   Corvalen streets were narrow, and unevenly cobbled, if he stood his ground they might get in each other's way but were they ahead of him, behind, or both?

“Help, footpads call the Watch!”   He yelled.   Flushing his lungs and promoting the flow of adrenaline, whilst hopefully, sowing the seeds of doubt and uncertainty in the minds of his would-be attackers.  

The voice responded with a mirthless laugh that echoed from a nearby alley; hitherto hidden in shadows.   They did not reveal themselves by sound or action.   They had done this before, they were professionals.   Hardened assassins, waiting for him to break and run, but he would not react.

“Come on boy, don’t waste our time, we have business to attend to elsewhere.”

He remained silent, concealed in shadow resisting the urge to move.  Minutes passed, and the quality of light changed subtly, or mayhap his eyes had become accustomed to the conditions, he fancied he could see men crouching in the shadows opposite.   But could they see him?   Carefully, he moved his head to left and right confirming there were four of them plus their leader in the alley.   Slowly, he eased out his dagger, hardly moving at all.   Still, nobody moved.   He continued to wait them out.   Then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and his heart jumped with elation.   More than one person he decided, even steps, it could be the Watch on their nightly rounds of the City streets?   At last, a little luck he thought, something to force their hand.

“Help, Footpads, call the Watch!” he yelled again.

The men on either side moved in swiftly to silence him but, he was no longer there, he was in the alley where he knew their leader would be waiting; the fifth attacker.   He heard curses behind him, a yell of pain, as the two men unwittingly attacked each other.   There before him, a shadow separated from the darkness.

“Ahlendore” said a familiar voice.   He racked his brain to place it as he dropped to one knee, hugging the shadows trying not to present a regular shape.   He would have only seconds before the others entered the alley, then he would be trapped.   He heard running feet behind him and got a sinking feeling in his stomach.   A fleeting backward glance revealed, momentarily, two figures silhouetted against the approaching lantern light.   He stabbed out at the first, who stumbled and fell heavily, the second stumbled over the body presenting Ahlendore with an opportunity to hit him with the pommel of his sword; he slumped over his comrade and went limp.   Ahlendore heard fleeing footsteps and turned to see their leader hightailing it down the alley, away from the conflict.  He wiped his blade on the shirt of the unconscious man and heard a groan from the one he had skewered.

He heard a member of the Watch called out.

“These two are Prince Fazeil’s men.”

Ahlendore realised then this had been no chance meeting.   He had become a creature of habit, predictable, and therefore an easy mark, an elementary mistake born of overconfidence.  He cursed under his breath and turned to head in the same direction as his erstwhile assailant.  After all, the evening was promised to a young woman and he did not intend to disappoint her or, give his brother Fazeil the satisfaction of setting his plans awry.   

“A moment if you please, young man, you look to be in a hurry but, for fetching the watch and rescuing you from your predicament, might I have the satisfaction of a few words face to face?”   The voice had a Northern lilt with its quaint phrasing.   The silhouette was tall and slim; he carried a stave and exuded an aura of calmness.

“Pardon my manners,” Ahlendore replied, approaching him with outstretched hand.

“You will pardon my surprise?   I had intended to request a formal meet with you on the morrow.  You are, I believe, Prince Ahlendore,” He said.

“You have the advantage of me.”

“I am Wizomi, the storyteller.  I hope that we might speak of matters that will ultimately transpire to our mutual advantage.   May I call upon you?”

“Of course, but I am late for an assignation, I must run,” they shook hands in haste.

“Just tell me one thing,” Wizomi asked, “were you aware that I was following you?”

 “Ah, so it was you.   I knew somebody was there.”

“And yet at no time was I visible to you,” said Wizomi, “does that tell you anything?”

“That I should take more heed of my sixth sense?” He said.

“Quite so,” Wizomi replied.”   He smiled fixedly following Ahlendore’s receding figure with remarkably childlike blue eyes.  

“Young men, always in a hurry,” he shook his head and smiled wistfully remembering, another such young man, many decades past. 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

LEAVE THE GREEN!

by Rosemary Clarke

Trees are beautiful to see
A rare delight for you and me.
They breathe the air, take out what's bad
To have them we should all be glad.
They shield us from the rains and storms
And bring a golden peace and calm.
With building land so towns will grow
The trees are always first to go.
Inexpert tools on trees and hedges
Turn them into shapeless wedges.
And concrete blocks on land are shown
Where once it was that trees were grown.
Some stupid people, on a whim
Smash the trees, break off their limbs.
Nature must take it's time to grow
And we will miss the greenery show.
So for us all, I ask you, please
Leave the lovely, gentle trees.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

            A question often asked of writers is: “Where do you get your ideas from?” When inspiration is running thin the answer could be to use a plot finder grid. An example is below.

            It works like this. Take the last digit of your telephone number, landline or mobile, and select the horizontal line beginning with that number, eg someone whose number ends with a 2 has to write a story (or poem) that prominently features: a dentist, Southend Pier, a diary and the motive ‘power’. Why not give it a try. The end result can be surprisingly good.

            A golden clever clogs reward will be awarded to the first member to have one published on the blog.                                                          

 

      A PLOT FINDER

 

           A CHARACTER           A LOCATION                AN OBJECT                   A MOTIVE

 

0          SAILOR                        A PRISON                      BOTTLE                        LOVE

1          CRIMINAL                   A RUINED BLDG         RAT                                MONEY

2          DENTIST                      SOUTHEND PIER         DIARY                           POWER

3          SOLDIER                      THE HEREAFTER        BUS                                SURVIVAL

4          BIGAMIST                    A CHURCH                    MOBILE PHONE          REVENGE

5          POLICEMAN                RAYLEIGH MOUNT     MAP                               GLORY

6          FIREMAN                     AN AIRPORT                  BOOK                            INTEGRITY

7          PHOTOGRAPHER       A CAVE                           TWO FINGERS             HATE

8          ARTIST                         TOWER BRIDGE            LION                              REDEMPTION

9         DOCTOR                       SUPERMARKET             MEDAL                    DESTRUCTION 

           

 From Richard Banks

 

Knowing Calm & Peace

by Rosemary Clarke

Kittens prancing 'round the floor
While on my lap cats gently snore
My day begins calmly like this
No more fights from mum or sis
No more bullying yells and fuss
Here it's now just all of us
Cats and human animal here
Living through the months and years
Knowing calm and knowing peace
Hoping this will never cease
But knowing if it ever ends
I've got my Nat, Anka and friends.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

 

THE BLOG 

By Peter Woodgate 

Since lockdown

it has been a lifeline,

the RLWG,,

a lantern in the darkness,

a visit you can make from home,

tangible, within our minds,

it’s there for all to see.

 

Stories full of guts and gore

of romance, humour, and much more.

Muses too have filled our minds,

with thoughtful verse of many kinds,

I swear that I have loved the chat

with comments made to this and that.

It’s wonderful and kept me sane,

stopped me from going quite insane.

Of course, this blog, is not by chance,

a sudden sight, just worth a glance,

it has been crafted, without pen,

by Mr Morgan, our mate Len.

This tribute then I give to him

and raise a glass (that’s full of gin)

to say a thank you from us all,

reminding Len with this roll-call.

 

There’s two Bobs and a Robert too

who likes to write a nice Haiku,

Richard of the many words

and Phil who uses guns not swords.

Shelley, Dawn and Sis use verse

to capture emotions without curse.

Janet is a story teller

bends your mind like Yuri Geller.

Not to forget Sujata Narang,

who calls for girls to join her gang.

I’ll mention Bob, French that is,

a novel from him would be bliss,

and Jane, whose stories are never dull,

no despair, a glass half full.

Rosemary too will right this world,

with her verse that’s been unfurled.

Some names missing, it would seem

who’s works, as yet, we haven’t seen,

however, this may be for reasons

as varied as our yearly seasons.

Encouragement is what we need

to observe the final bloom from seed

and so, I offer up this rhyme,

acknowledging lots of their time

that Len and others have all made

to haul us out from lockdown’s shade

and finally, to lift the gloom,

Chris will show us all, with ZOOM.

             

Copyright Peter Woodgate