The Power of the Internet.

For those asking where I get my idea's from: 

The internet contains more information than any of us could ever want to access & it’s still growing.

1. My first illustration:

http://www.worldometers.info/world-population/

What you see when you first enter this site is mind-blowing but, go down, & down…   The data just goes on and on.  Populations, Religions, people per Km2, etc.

2. My next illustration is:

www.ptable.com

Is the Periodic table, listing all the elements, where they are found, all their compounds, electrons, isotopes. 

Their states ~ Gas~Liquid~Solid.

It is linked to other sites, providing further detailed information, when and how they were discovered & by whom. 

3. Another site is:

Wikipedia

www.wikipedia.com

Wikipedia is a free online encyclopedia, created and edited by volunteers around the world and hosted by the Wikimedia Foundation.  Type anything and you will receive a detailed answer.

4. You have at your fingertips, access to libraries worldwide:

https://catalog.library.cornell.edu

http://www.worldcat.org

https://app.knovel.com/web/index.v?jsp=main

http://cdl.library.cornell.edu/

www.uncyclopedia.org/

5. Other useful sites: 

http://marinetraffic.com

https://www.bartleby.com/107/5.html

https://www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/

https://www.youtube.com/

http://www.rhymezone.com/

http://www.critiquecircle.com

https://gb.kompass.com/

https://dictionary.cambridge.org/

https://www.thesaurus.com/

So!  Please don’t keep asking me where I get my ideas from, just click on some of the above…

If you have suggestions for other sites that would be useful for authors, please send them to:

rlwg2020@gmail.com

 

Thank you, now have fun!

Len

 

 

 SELF HARM

by Rosemary Clarke

Self harm who does it help, you?
No way
Your body's slashed and torn, worn wish you weren't born
Don't let them play with your life
Thrive, survive take 5
You're not the one to blame you came
To a time and space where you lost face, disgrace all over the place
Your friends try to mend,
Tend send bleeding hearts,
Falling apart. Because they love.
If you die they'll cry, try
By and by to hide it.
All fall then crawl
To their own place, lose face and then, it's all again..
PAIN.
Be brave
Others see another she, he
So be the one they see
That's the key
Then you'll be true
To being you.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

Abalar tales ~ 5b

 

Abalar tales ~ 5b Mandrell

By Len Morgan

In all he told six stories that first evening and the proprietor offered him the fee he would normally have paid to Wizomi, apologising because it was not more.   The following evening, the Inn was packed moments after opening, it seemed the whole town wanted to hear stories told by Aldor from Pylodor, the new storyteller from the north.  By the end of the week, there was standing room only at the Inn, and even then places had to be booked in advance.   Genna, shrewd businesswoman that she was, negotiated a fee half as much again as what Wizomi received, plus a share of any profit in excess of that earned on their first night.   She insisted he be afforded a half-hour break between stories, to allow the audience to spend their money, and maximise profit.   When Wizomi returned, he was not put out by the boy from the north, he listened and he learned, as any good storyteller must, adding Aldor's stories and dramatic acting to his own repertoire.   When Aldor was not telling stories he, in turn, would watch, listen, and learn, from Wizomi.   Genna seized the opportunity and appointed herself manager for both artists.

“That is so typical,” said Wizomi, “I go all the way to Corvalen to talk with you and you run away from me.   Did I do something to cause offence mayhap?”

Aldor grinned.   “You still wish to talk with me.   Even after I killed a young girl and ran from my brother’s justice?”

“You would never commit such a foul act,” said Wizomi.

 

.-…-.

 

   They stayed in the town for eight weeks, establishing themselves and becoming financially sound in the process.   But, Wizomi never mentioned the reason for his appointment in all that time.

 

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 Saddie the lady of the night (sequel)

By Sis Unsworth.

Saddies back in lockdown, but this time she is okay,

as Boris gave her furlough, and he paid her out today.

Now Saddies gone out shopping, she thinks it is her right,

to have a rest from working as a lady of the night.

No more darkened pavements, as the evenings draw in,

But her clients are unhappy; they think it is a sin.

“Why can’t you keep on working?  I won’t tell on you,”

A client was complaining, he had nothing else to do!

”I’m sticking strictly to the rules, Saddie then did say,

so with a sigh and a quick “goodbye”, The man went on his way.

So Saddie now is happy, with a few more weeks to go,

untill she’s back out on the streets, she’s entitled to Furlough.

But now they have a vaccine, to her clients shear delight,

It will put their Saddie, back in work, as their lady of the night.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Abbalar Tales ~ 5a

 

 Abbalar Tales ~ 5a Mandrell

By Len Morgan

  They slept most of the time, snug in their sand-covered igloo, despite neither being able to move a limb.   Within hours the air became stuffy, stale, and hard to breathe discouraging talk.   But, in the late afternoon, the sounds of the storm abated and, after preliminary checks, they burst forth from their nest none the worse for wear.   They were then able to eat, drink, and continue on their way with the fear of imminent pursuit lifted from their minds.

 On the morning of the third day, they finally hit upon the main road to Mandrell, the road surface appeared little different from the raw desert except it was hard packed, rather than soft, and the going became easier at a stroke.

"What is your name," she asked without preamble.

"Ahlendore" he replied.

"No, no, no!"   She rounded on him angrily, "Only if you want to leave a trail for Faziel’s dog soldiers to follow.   You need to pass unnoticed, so think of a nondescript name like Haydore, Lenda, Garochic, Dorael, Aldor.   Aldor - has a ring to it, a similar sound to Ahlendore, so if you inadvertently answered to it you could claim to have misheard!   So, where are you from Aldor?"

He scrutinised his recent memories, his mother was from Pylodor a state to the nor-east of Corvalen.   She had been a treaty settlement, cementing good relations between the two states.   He'd frequently visited her family when he was younger, and the plan had always been for him to return there when his father died.   But, on his last visit six months earlier he had become involved with a young woman and been forced to leave under threat from her family, they told him if he ever returned…  

"Pylodor," he said.

"So!  Aldor from Pylodor, how do you earn your living?"   She asked looking into his eyes.

"Well, my friends say I'm a pretty good singer."

"So, let me hear you sing."

"As we travel these go-o-ld-en by-ways in the dawns…"

The smile on her face shrivelled like a dried apple.   "Quiet, qui-et!" she yelled.    "Some friends you have! You’re no singer, not at all, take my word on it, that’s for sure."   She shook her head vigorously a pained expression on her face.

"Mayhap if I had a lute…?" he suggested.

"No, no, no, no!" she yelled.

He thought a moment, "I could be a warrior," he raised the stave taking up the 'en garde' stance.

"Not without a sword," she said pushing the stave aside.   "Besides you’re far too young to be accepted for training in the martial arts unless of course, you are a prince.   Best avoid princely pursuits like plague," she said after a moment’s contemplation.

They walked on, trying to discover a talent he possessed that would enable him to earn an honest, and plausible living; they failed.   As they neared Mandrell, they were still no closer to discovering his calling.

"You could be a writer, a scribe, a student, book-keep, or priest" in desperation, she blurted out every conceivable profession that came into her mind… 

They took lodging at the 'Travellers Rest' it being the cheaper of the town’s two Inns.   They stowed their meagre possessions and bathed.  

"Here's half our money," she said handing him what he would until recently have considered a paltry sum.   She then took him out into the market and proceeded to select various conservative but suitable articles of clothing.   "You need to look scholarly but not too pretentious."   Finally, she picked up a belt and sheath, testing the balance and inspecting the steel blade of the knife critically, shaking her head.   She discarded several others selecting a plain but serviceable dagger that obviously passed her critical inspection.   She handed the items to him, "there!" she said with satisfaction.   She haggled unmercifully, then finally he settled the recconing and they returned to the Travellers rest.

They slept in their room for the remainder of the day, rising in the evening in response to the call of nature and an irresistible aroma of food, their stomachs had received nothing but dried ration for days other than the pasties they'd purchased from a street vendor in the market place that morning.   They feasted on the house stew, tender goat’s meat, dumplings, a variety of vegetables and beans, fresh-baked bread with good sweet ale to wash it all down.   They stuffed until they could eat no more, and then sat in the easy room belching and laughing contentedly.   For Aldor it had been a symbolic meal, one he had never expected to eat four days earlier but, he had survived and it tasted good!

"I trust the food was to your liking?" the inn-keep enquired.   They nodded their appreciation as he simultaneously removed the plates and refilled their tankards.  

"I hope you have not travelled a'far to hear our celebrated storyteller?   His father has recently returned to the wheel, so he had to travel home to Chinake to pay his respects and see to the disposal of remains.   He will be but a week, and in that time I will probably be ruined by the loss of revenue.   All I can hope is that some of our homegrown stories, told by local amateurs - and guests - will suffice to prevent all my customers migrating to the 'Potters Wheel', the alternative hostelry near the centre of town, their food is inferior and their ale is watered but their entertainment is excellent.   Without the silky tongue of our celebrated resident, I fear, we will not retain the custom we currently enjoy.    May I enquire if you know any stories madam, sir?" he asked hopefully.

Genna shook her head.

"Yes, I know a few…"

"Sir, if you would oblige us, you and your lady would, of course, dine as guests of the house this evening."

"Thank you," Aldor replied.

The Inn-keep departed with their empty platters considerably more cheerfully than when he’d arrived.

"May I remind you that we are trying to remain anonymous?   That was our sole reason for coming here.   Why are you taking this unnecessary risk by volunteering to perform in public?   Are you trying to avoid paying me what you owe?" she said.

"I'm sorry, I cannot explain it, save to say it feels right.   It's something I can do."

"Do?   I don't understand," she shook her head in disbelief.

"This is how I could earn a living."

"Yes?" she looked doubtful.

"I am a good teller of tales, it is what I can do well.   Is it likely a prince would become a storyteller?"

"Well…  Did your friends say you were good?" she tapped her foot in exasperation, lost for words.  She breathed out sharply, shaking her head, “I hope your stories are better than your singing,” she was clearly still agitated.  Then fixing an exaggerated grin on her face she breathed in slowly and deeply 'It's going to be a long night' she thought.

"Don't worry," he said hoping to placate her.

"It's your life, but I just wish you'd paid me what you owe before taking the risk."

He laughed.  She did not. 

.-…-. 

When the Inn-keep announced that Wizomi the storyteller would not be performing, his announcement received derisive, jeers, and abuse.

"Gentlemen, ladies, please.   We still have a number of good tellers, and tales for you."

The first two, amateurs as he called them, told stories know to all and received polite if subdued applause.   Then the audience became restless, some prepared to leave.

"Please be patient friends," the Inn-keep pleaded. "We still have a very accomplished young storyteller from Pylodor.   He is celebrated in his homeland and has come south seeking new stories, and to regale us with some amazing tales of his own, tales from his homeland.   Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Aldor from Pylodor." 

There were a few half-hearted claps but, to the Inn-keep's relief, no further customers left the establishment.

Aldor sat a short while, composing himself, his audience went quiet in expectation, then when all were conscious, of the stillness of the moment, and becoming aware of their own aspirations, he began:

 

 He sprang to his feet, throwing his arms wide in a dramatic all-encompassing gesture.

"Picture the world - as it was before men built towns and cities.  A time when this world was young.   A world very different from the here and now.   A  world of contrast - a fearful place, two worlds in one.   One of perpetual night, the other one of day.    A world - where night was filled with total darkness, no moon or stars to light the sky.  It was a black so complete - it seemed to take on a life of its own.   Solid and palpable - filled with potency and evil!" he yelled dramatically, painting pictures with words.   As he spoke, the lamps were trimmed increasing the intimacy of the moment, filling the Inn with a magical atmosphere.   All eyes were on him as his voice became a slow seductive whisper, they leaned closer, conspiratorially.   "This was of course long before the gift of fire.   Sinister sounds shook the stillness, so terrible, mortal blood turned to ice!"  The silence was complete, he paused, “Aaargh!" his audience started from their seats in shock, surprise and fear, two at least fainted clean away, and they were paid no heed.   "Creatures of the day huddled together, shivering and trembling with terror, waiting for an end that was close at hand. His voice rose to a crescendo.   "They whimpered and pleaded to their god for deliverance from the hidden denizens; creatures that hunted them devouring their flesh taking their souls as a tasty relish, silent and unseen.  Only brief pitiful cries marking the passing of lives, magnifying the terror of those that remained a hundredfold.   The hunters moved amongst the hunted, selecting a morsel here, a mouth full there.   There was no escape from the horrors of the underworld, not until the break of dawn, when the miserable survivors would look around and mourn those they had loved and lost.   Of their tormentors, there was no sign.    Of those who had passed, there were no remains, not even a droplet of blood on a single blade of grass."   He paused and looked around him, an anguished look on his face, 'he knew he had them in his spell.'   With the coming of dawn, the priests broke into a litany of prayers, beseeching the great sun god Phaedra, who lit the days and kept them safe.  But, there was no answer.  

Their high priest called out to the heavens, "oh, beloved Phaedra ruler of the day, each night you abandon us to the creatures of darkness.   They grow stronger and multiply they grow fat on the flesh and the souls of the faithful!    Soon there will be none left to give thanks for the light of day, and to offer worship."  

Phaedra saw their plight and took pity.   “I cannot destroy the creatures of the night, for they worship my sister Lyandra.   But, if none remain to worship me I will cease to exist."   He thought long and hard, then he gave them his answer.   "There is a way to save the multitude of the faithful, but it will require the willing sacrifice of two, a man and a woman, who love each other truly and without compromise.   Love is the greatest power in the universe and therefore the greatest sacrifice."   But, of the hundreds that remained none came forward, that night, the creatures returned.   In the morning, their numbers had dwindled even further, so the high priest beseeched them in a loud voice "is there no loving couple, no two people who are prepared to give their lives to save their family and friends?"   His plea was answered with silence.   As evening drew nigh and darkness gathered he cried aloud to the heavens, "if only I were young and my wife had been spared…" tears covered his cheeks for the love of his people.  

A young woman stepped forward, hugging him to her breast, she had been moved by his sincerity "father, deny you love me truly and without compromise, and I will leave never to return - for that perfectly describes my love for thee."

The priest took his daughter, his only love, into his arms and the heavens were sundered by bright blue ribbons of flame bathing and caressing them with ethereal light so bright none could gaze upon it.   When the light of their love, for that is what it was, faded from the earth, it was reflected still, in the sky.   The priest and his daughter Vexen and Veinen, and the love of the faithful, whose lives ended prematurely before they could profess their love, shone brightly in the night sky as the two moons and the myriad stars.   Their love for the people of this world was so strong so powerful and true, it shines still, and never since has the night been truly dark.   The denizens of the underworld are held at bay, unable to return to this world.   Now whenever a truly good and loving person returns to the wheel of life, you should look to the sky, for it is said a new star will appear in the firmament at the moment of their passing and it will shine until the end of time.

 

He stopped speaking and there was total silence that extended far beyond the moment.   He gazed into Genna's tearstained eyes, "they didn't like it?"   She said, her face filled with incredulity.  

He smiled back at her; he knew otherwise.    She kissed him, and the spell was broken, the crowd went wild cheering and whistling their approval.   She hugged him tightly.   In moments his elated audience would be baying for more.

 

(to Be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

Abbalar Tales ~ 4

 

Abbalar Tales ~  4 Corvalen

By Len Morgan

Genna Valloo rested, thoughtfully on her stave, in the shade of a ramshackle construction that somebody, out here on the fringes of Corvalen, called home.   She oft stood there gazing across at a two-story brick and stucco building; it looked so out of place in these surroundings.    There it stood, just twenty feet away, across the busiest road into the city but it may just as well be twenty miles.   To own and run such an establishment, she thought, would require wealth and riches beyond her wildest dreams but, for as long as she could remember, to be Madame of the 'Pochette Platzi', had always been her dream.  It was the cities grandest and most notorious house of pleasure.  It had been intentionally situated at arms length from Corvalen’s polite society; it mattered not a jot, to her, that it was situated outside the protection of the city walls.   

But not today!   She shrugged off the muse, today exciting things were happening, momentous things.   News had come that the Caliph was dead.   The Kull had begun and there was fighting in the streets.   His sons would even now be locked in a life and death struggle from which only one would survive to become the Prince Regent.   Then, after twelve months, he would succeed his father the Caliph Endrochine.   A young woman had been decapitated in the foreign quarter of the city, and as Genna watched, a dozen Huren dog soldiers escorted a wagon out into the western desert.  They rode straight as a lance shaft, away from the main road, out into the land of the dead. 

'Why?   What was in that wagon?   What was of such interest to them out there?   Whatever it was, it would be worth investigation', she thought.  'Where there's an escorted wagon there’s invariably profit to be had.' 

Genna was an orphan, she had lived her whole life on the streets around the fringes of the city, all fifteen years of it.   She was a loner, who survived by turning happenstance to her advantage.   She possessed an innate curiosity, and a sense for knowing what was saleable and would turn a decent profit.   Goods, services, information, she had brokered them all.   She was a rangy girl, with a dusky complexion, darkened several shades by the suns incessant gaze, to a deep sienna.   She was quick of wit and limb, she displaying remarkable shrewdness, and judgement far beyond her years.   She was patience itself, except where her physical development was concerned, it was happening at its own pace but far too slowly for her liking; she felt like a woman trapped in a child's body.   She knew there was nothing she could do about that; Her puberty would happen without any help from her.   Now was the time for action, she who hesitates is lost, was a phrase written indelibly, in her mind, this she believed was an opportunity not to be missed!  

She made a brief stop off at the lean-to shelter, she shared with five others, to eat and fill her back-sack with supplies, and the money she had not yet invested with her mentor, and banker, Asba Dylon.   Asba was an important counsellor at the royal court, she smiled as she thought of him.  He had been as much a father to her as she would ever need, and one day mayhap…   Well, she could dream, but only once a day dreams do not provide food.   Her next stop would be the nearest well, to fill her water skins, and then she would be off in pursuit of that mysterious caravan.   She regretted not being able to let Asba know where she was going, he liked her to keep him informed of her movements.

 

.-…-.

 

   By mid morning of the third day she was thinking 'this was a mistake, these dogs intend riding all the way to the Sabre Toothed mountains.   Already I've used a third of my supplies.   They are a'horse whilst I am a'foot.’    She wracked her brain but could not recall any habitation closer than two days walk from her current position.   She stopped, finally resolved to cut her losses and return home.   For once her instinct had played her foul except, her innate curiosity rebelled and led her on for another hour, she still had to discover what they were about.   Her persistence was rewarded.

 

 "This will do!"

 

She skirted their position, carefully erasing her own tracks as she circled the wagon party.   A full lodestone point - anti clock - placed her on a small dune above them with the sun at her back.   She watched the young man being thrown unceremoniously from the wagon.   She winced in sympathy as events unfolded before her.

She lay prone, level with the lip of the dune, straining her ears and eyes to make sense of what was happening.  Watching as they first covered him with treacle then watered him before finally riding off, leaving him to the elements.

 

She thought long and hard on how she could turn this to profit.   'Who was he?   Why had they gone to so much trouble?   What had he done?'  

She watched him struggle and thresh; he had no intention of giving up.   'He's a game one,’ she thought.   Mayhap I could sell him to the slavers of Maal, just three or four day’s journey?   They were within range, but they would see she had a weak hand and probably take the both of em.

 

"Bastards!"    He yelled, “my father will hear of this!"

'Sounds like quality' she thought, 'Mayhap I should sit and wait a while, let him simmer a little, let the reality of his situation sink in.   An hour ought to do it…'

She pulled back, off the dune a little, ate some biscuit, cheese, and figs.   She drank sparingly, if she was to stretch it for two, she would need to be frugal.   Finally she rose; it was time to confront him.   She approached him from sun'ard.

 

.-…-.

 

He lay on his back, eyes closed, facing the sky for how long, he didn't know, it seemed like hours.   He had long since given up on the possibility of rescue.   The sun sank slowly down towards the horizon, when it dipped out of sight he knew it would start to grow cold.   In his mind he pictured the beautiful young girl from Bellorne, which was what she had been, a girl.   Eldoriel was even younger than he, with potentially a full life ahead, and yet she had been dead these four days.   She died because of the Kull, because of his…   That distant man, stranger to his own flesh, he remembered having to wear his best clothes to visit Papa in his study.   Yet Papa could only spare moments and never ever remembered his name…  

‘Why?’  He thought.   ‘Who cares anyway, if I die now, or live another sixty years?’

He had lived his whole life with the spectre of death, when his father finally returned to the wheel of life.   Ahlendore and his brothers had been schooled for leadership.  His fifteen years had been consumed with horsemanship, martial arts, weapon training, and tactics.   Survival was their primary aim, but there could be only one to rule.   Whoever sat on the Kaveel stone throne of Corvalen, on the anniversary of their father’s death, would be the undisputed ruler.   Any survivors would pay homage or be despatched unceremoniously as enemies of the state.   He was thirteenth in line of succession for the Caliphate of Corvalen.   He was a fine swordsman, and one of Caliph Endrochines more intelligent children and, an early developer in all respects.   He was arrogant and selfish, just like his father, but could not see himself surviving sixty eight years as Endrochine had done, following the death of his own father and all but seven of his own siblings.  

A shadow fell across his face, 'this is it' he thought, 'whatever happened to the ants?' he wondered.   He was drifting on the verges of consciousness, he could feel burning pains, in his wrists and ankles, and imagined he could taste water on his lips and trickling into his mouth.  He swallowed, easing his parched throat; he swallowed again and again a dream mayhap but a very good one.   He opened his slits of eye to see the silhouette of Eldoriel, that beautiful young woman, bending over him trickling water into his mouth from a skin bag.   Was he already dead, he wondered?   He reached up and kissed her, his hands were no longer tied.   She drew back from him, her hair now appeared shorter and black, her eyes brown instead of blue…

   "My name is Genna," she said "Don't try to speak, drink some more, but only a little," she paused as he swallowed.   "Good, now you must try to eat something."   She placed some cheese in his mouth and he began to chew, she gave him a little more water then, some chopped figs and when he had swallowed, another sip of water.   "You’re doing well" she said encouragingly.   "Can you sit up?   I tracked you from the city.   Your friends weren't very sociable so I didn't introduce myself."   She gave him a wry smile which she saw mirrored on his battered features.   She scraped away most of the hardening molasses with her fingers "I should tell you now, I live on the streets, where everything is done with a purpose in mind, usually profit or self survival.   So, tell me how I will profit from rescuing you?"  

His mind hardened, "you’re a bounty hunter."

"I need to earn a living,” she said.   “Most girls of my age who have no rich family or patron are prostitutes.   I am my own woman, beholding to no man, I pay my way and I'm treated with respect by some of the lowest throat slitters in Corvalen.   If you doubt me…" she challenged standing and drawing her blades with lightning speed.

"No, I'm not questioning your ability or your integrity; in truth I'm not very proud of myself at this time.   To date I have profited none but myself, for which I feel deep shame.   I might add you are most likely a better and nobler person than I, despite the accident of birth." He smiled weakly.  

She placed her ground cape about his shoulders, "If you can rise to your feet, we'd best be moving away from here."

"Is there something I should know?" he asked.

"Your father is dead."

"You know who I am?"

"No.  But, I suspect you are one of the princes who escaped the clutches of Regent Faziel, he will even now be searching for you."

He thought a while before speaking, "So my eldest brother is to succeed after all.   You could give me up to his hunters?" he suggested.

"They would probably kill me for the bounty, one or two I could handle but they tend to run in packs of four or more, whilst I work alone.   I would prefer to rely on you having a private stash within easy reach.   You could pay me say;" she paused to calculate "half the bounty on your head?"

"A third!" he answered at once.

"If I leave you here you're dead!   You'll never get out of this desert alive on your own.  You’re a soft farm bred rooster; you need corn feed and comfort.   I'm betting you wouldn't last three nights alone," she stood up, shouldering her sack and water skins.

He thought on it, "Half is fair and reasonable," he conceded wearily.   "So what do we do now," he asked coming painfully to his knees, then with her assistance, to his feet - on wobbly spring-willow legs.   

She laughed; it was like music on a breeze.   When she spoke her voice was husky, her words easy on the ear, she was direct and to the point, so refreshing to one bred on deceit and intrigue.   He sensed she could be a good friend or a deadly foe.   He would much prefer her friendship having taken to her from first meet.

"Lean on me," she said adjusting her back-sack, and evenly distributing the weight of the water skins across her shoulders.   She handed him her stave, and they started out, with the sinking sun at their backs, their shadows at right angles to the wagon tracks; leading back to Corvalen.   "We are heading for Mandrell - it's a two day trip - but we aren't moving that fast, so we will have to conserve our water."

"There is no rush is there, nobody knows where we are, do they?"

"The Huren know where they left you, and as soon as they get back to the city they will learn of your enhanced worth.   'Dead or alive' you will be well worth a second trip for those dog soldiers.   When they find you are gone, they will start to search."

"Shouldn't we try to cover our tracks?" he suggested.

"We will have to leave that to the wind.   It's a six day return trip to Corvalen, anything could happen in that time and probably will."  She replied.

 They walked through the night, planning to rest by day, but the morning was dull and cool, so they decided to keep walking until the sun appeared, instead it grew darker.

"There is going to be a storm within the hour," she said pointed to the north and clouds.

"At least it will cover our tracks."

"We will need to make as many miles a'foot as we can before it hits," She said matter of fact, as she took yet another lodestone needle bearing, "it could go on for days."

"I feel OK to continue," he answered her implied question.

After an hour, they stopped for food and water.   He appeared to have regained some of his strength.  They continued walking, making better time now.   In two hours the storm hit and they sheltered in the lee of a small dune, covering themselves with her ground cape.   She removed her sandals and fine cotton hose - handed him one.   "Pull it over your head and face, to protect you from the sand," she yelled above the howling wind.  They huddled together, both clinging on to the cape to hold it down until the sand began to settle on top of it.   They lay beneath it, creating an intimate air space as the sand rapidly covered them.   Genna held her stave vertical between her feet and knees, until it became a solid and immovable tent pole.

"This is bad" he said, "We could be buried alive and die here."

"This is good!" she countered, "they will never know that you escaped, they will assume you are somewhere back there" she pointed with her eyes, "buried under ten feet of sand."

"Instead of being buried under ten feet of sand here?"

"But, we are not staked out and helpless are we?" she asked pointedly.

He nodded slowly, 'we will see, come the calm' he thought “we shall see."

 

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

RESURRECTION

Peter Woodgate

Life is but a spark in the eternal furnace of the cosmos,

But sparks fly, like a swift, never seeming to tire.

They hop and jump, like an insect avoiding

The crushing step of a carefree infant.

They spit and hiss like a wild kitten

Afraid and unaware of intended kindness

And they burn;

Burn, like my desire for knowledge of the unknown,

Burn, like my mind, asking a thousand questions

That can never be answered,

Burn, like my passion for life

And the never-ending joys and sorrows this brings,

And they die;

For death is but an ember,

An ember of a once-great fire,

A fire that will again burn bright

Fuelled by tenderness, love and understanding.

 

This true wisdom,

Gained by the passing of time,

Will allow us to rise,

Rise like the wonderful Phoenix

From the ashes of near destruction

To the glory destined for mankind.

 

 

       Copyright  Peter Woodgate  Published 1984