Abbalar Tales ~ 6 Corvalen

By Len Morgan

Skaa-Bae knew something was wrong as soon as they entered the city.   An air of uncertainty, of nervous excitement, seemed rife.   He reigned in holding his hand up to halt the band of surly mercenaries, following him in close order.   He was thinking he would have preferred to apply a little torture to that spoilt brat, but his orders had been specific and delivered in front of his men.   He knew several of them wouldn't be averse to ratting on him if he'd deviated from those orders.   After all, Grym-Baal was their paymaster so they did things his way until it suited Skaa to do otherwise.   As things transpired, the boy had probably suffocated beneath ten feet of sand, which was faster than Grym would have liked.   It was a shame also that there were no ants or crustaceans out there, which would certainly have been the case back home, but Grym didn't know that, and neither had his men, or the boy for that matter, judging by the look of terror on his face.   Beside his imagination would have been likely to conjure them up anyway…  

"What in Lyandra's name is happening?" he yelled at a scruffy looking street trader.

"The Caliph is dead, and there is one mother of a battle going on in the centre of the city, factions are fighting for control, many of the sons have fled to safer havens.  Don't you just love it when the rich turn on themselves, butchering their own kin, for a change?"   He ducked as one of Skaa's men cracked a whip in his direction, "Aaahhh!"

"Too slow old man.   Huhaaa!" the rider laughed cruelly, "mayhap now you'll learn some respect for your betters."

Skaa led them on, into the foreign quarter, without further discourse.

.-…-. 

"There was a storm.   You should have gone back to make sure of him.   Did you?"

"No, but that can soon be remedied” Skaa began, “I could send back…"

"No!   Take six men and do it yourself but, don't return without a cadaver, or you can say farewell to your pay," Grym snarled.

Skaa didn't rush.   He enjoyed a bath, and a good meal, before despatching one of his men, to fetch a young doxy he’d had his eye on, with the promise of silver.   An hour in her company soon restored the fire in his belly; so he was ready for anything.   The girl went on to entertain the other riders, to make the visit financially worthwhile. 

 They rode out of the city at first light.  Unknown to Skaa, one of his dog soldiers had ridden out earlier, to dump a sack, at the fringes of the city, containing the decapitated body of the unfortunate young woman.   It was close to the Pochette Platzi, an area where life is cheap and no questions would be asked.   As the seven riders passed the place one of them noted the sack was gone.  Just minutes after he’d dumped it the broken body had been stripped of its clothing and left, naked in the gutter, at the mercy of a pack of half-starved feral curs.   Even before the killer returned to the inn they were sidling closer, sniffing and salivating, summoning the courage to attack.   Before the seven set out on their return trip, to the desert, all trace of her was gone.   The dogs, however, went hungry because somebody, fearful of an unquiet spirit, rescued her remains and interred them safely below ground.

.-…-. 

After two days of fruitless searching, it was evident they would not be able to produce the corpse.   They could stay and search for another week, widening the search area, and still find nothing.   Grym had as good as dismissed them; if they returned without a body so now they were unlikely to get paid.

Skaa’s expression was sour, his temper worse, and so they gave him a wide berth.   Then without preamble, he announced, "we leave at sun-up.  We are returning to the city, we only have supplies for one more week and we may need them whilst searching for a new paymaster."

"Can't we go into business for ourselves again," asked the youngest member of the band hopefully?   Though youngest he was far from the brightest but, he possessed an animal cunning, and was a demon with a blade in his hand.   When it came to fighting none, in the troop, were Frek's equal.   Even Skaa, a blades-man of excellence, would avoid direct confrontation with him.  

"We've worked the highways before, and we didn't do so badly," Frek reasoned.

"Do you remember why we gave it up," Skaa said patiently, "do you know the price on our heads back home?" he asked.

Frek went silent and gazed sullenly into the flames, "I jus thought…"

"No, you didn't!"   Skaa yelled cuffing the youngster about the ears, "but, that's what I like about you Frek, you shake me out of my moods and cause me to think beyond the moment!"   He placed a fatherly arm around the young man's shoulder - "you've given me an idea, there may be something else we can do," he sat down and went silent for an extended period, so long, in fact, the others became restless.   Just as several were preparing to breach the silence, he spoke.   "We are now bounty hunters!"   His statement was met with puzzled looks.   "What do you think we are doing at this moment?"   He said, - nobody spoke - "we are searching for a brat in return for payment."

"But, who would we be chasing," asked Frek.

"That’s easy, how many potential male heirs did the old Caliph leave?"   His question was met with silence.   "Thirty-six!   Of those, one is now the Regent and five others are housed safely in the cells beneath the palace, leaving thirty.    Thirty potentially fat bounties."

"So, we just turn up at the palace with one of his brothers and he pays us?" asked a voice in the group.

‘A sceptical little bugger’ Skaa thought but chose to ignore him.

“First we must find a body, desiccated beyond recognition by the desert.   There is a village nearby, where the tradition is to bury their dead in the sand until they are mummified.    When they hold celebrations they invite their ancestors, to the jig, by digging them up and display them in their dwellings, in places of honour, so they can bear witness to what is happening in this world, inform those in the next.   Then seek their approval.   We will buy or steal a body then we return to Grym and collect what he owes us.   Then we offer our services at the palace.   Once we are accepted Fazeil will provide us with a complete list of our quarry, their ages, personal details, and descriptions, together with the possible bolt holes they might have headed for."

"Then we go get em!" said Frek licking dribbles of saliva from his lips.

.-…-. 

It took Skaa three days to contrive an audience with one of Fazeil's advisors and to obtain an official warrant to seize arrest and detain all persons named therein.   Eventually, they would be returned to the palace as potential enemies of the state.   They would be detained indefinitely at the pleasure of the Regent, soon to be Caliph of Corvalen.

During the next three weeks, they took two of Fazeil’s brothers and in so doing pocketed more money than they had earned, in two years, working for Grym-Baal.  

Skaa enlisted the services of the other six members of his band and set off to successively visit all the outlying towns and villages, intent on ferreting out others.   He had also enlisted the services of one of Endrochine's favourite courtesans, one who knew the members of his family intimately, and who had no qualms about hunting them down; Jazim had no love for those who had looked down their noses at a mere courtesan.   There was one only she remembered fondly, as a true friend.   With the help of Jazim, they were very quickly able to track down two more and at this point, they were all looking forward to a rosy future.   Then they encountered a mature adversary, a brother with a dozen private bodyguards of his own.   They lost four of their number before dispatching him and escaping with his head in a basket.   The next town on their visit list was Mandrell.

(To Be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

NEW BEGINNINGS

By Peter Woodgate

 I have a new beginning which I want to tell you about, but before I do, let me tell you, briefly, about the old one.

There I was, 21 years of age, down the local dance hall, dolled up in my mohair suit with a packet of Du-Maurier cigarettes tucked neatly in my inside pocket. It’s not that I liked Du-Maurier for their flavour, in fact, I didn’t smoke but they came in a flat packet and didn’t create a bulge in the figure-hugging cut of the jacket. They looked cool too should you be asked to “flash the ash” by your mates or when offering to a young lady you just happened to be chatting up.

    Anyway, there I was, with my brother, playing the “see who could pull the prettiest girl” game, when, we both clapped our eyes on this young blond girl who was dancing with her mate. She kept looking over to us, smiling, and we noticed that she had a “lazy eye”. I don’t know the clinical term for it but anyway we decided that we couldn’t tell who she was smiling at so we moved from our usual spot making our way to the other side of the stage.

    After a fair bit of pushing and shoving, we arrived at the spot we were aiming for just as I bumped into this beautiful creature. She literally took my breath away, “I’m sorry,” I blurted out, as I recovered from an elbow in the chest. 

“That’s ok,” she replied giving me the most gorgeous smile I have ever witnessed.

    Well, one thing led to another, and, after making sure I had the last dance (traditionally the Drifters number) I asked if I could walk her home. Imagine my disappointment when she looked at me, seriously, and said “no,”

    It wasn’t until she explained that it was too far to walk and that she had come by bus, that I cheered up. I remember well that bus ride to hers on the top deck and despite costing me extra bus fares, and two Du-Mauriers it was worth it.

    Enough of that though, as 3 children, 6 dogs and an empty wallet later, I got divorced. My new beginnings, well, do you remember that blond girl I told you about? You know the one with the wonky eye, it turned out that she had moved to the same block of flats where I had gone to live with my mum and dad. I saw her regularly, smiling at her whenever our paths crossed but without thinking anything of it. On reading the local paper one day, I noticed an advert announcing a reunion for pupils of Kilburn Park High leaving in the years 57 and 58. I gave it little thought however, until my brother rang telling me that we should go and meet up with some of our old football team.

    I’d quite looked forward to going but ten minutes after arriving I felt extremely embarrassed as the only person I recognized was my brother, (20 years can do strange things to your memory) I thought.

    I think I was on my 15th “sorry but who are you,” routine when I, at last, recognized a familiar face. Well, it wasn’t actually the face, as such, as the cast in her eye and, after greeting me with her infectious smile, we got talking.

    Susan, as I now found out her name to be, was in the class of 58, I was in the class of 57. She had been married, briefly, but after her husband had run off with her best friend, she had remained single. She confessed too that it was she who had sent me valentine cards in the past and that she had always liked me, goodness knows why. She told me that after her divorce she had thrown herself into her work as a bereavement counsellor, she had all the time in the world, it seemed, for others, without expecting anything in return.

    We have met several times since, and on each occasion, I found myself learning   new things, things that make me want to spend more and more time with her.

    I popped the question the other week and Susan said yes!! As we walk down the aisle on that day some people will notice her eye.

I shall see only a beautiful woman.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Picture Poem

by Len Morgan

Is this a Haiku?

 NO BRIDGE TOO FAR

by Richard Banks                           

Mother often said that she had crossed many bridges. For someone not much travelled this was a surprising if not fraudulent claim until one understood that it was merely a figure of speech, a metaphor for the many problems she had encountered and overcome. If there were bridges too difficult for her to cross mother never spoke of them. To her logical but inventive mind, the obstacles in her way were not the bridges across rivers too deep to ford but the difficulties placed in our way by those determined to keep us poor and beholding to them. Despite their uncaring neglect mother would always find a way that paid the rent and kept us children clothed and fed.

         There were three of us, myself John Caleb, and my sisters Beth and Agnes. Our playmates in the village were ragamuffins like ourselves except that they had both mother and father, our father lay in the churchyard below a wooden cross. Without his wages, we should have been in the poor house or on outdoor relief but because of her, we not only survived but sometimes thrived.

         That mother worked hard was evident for anyone to see. In the mornings and until three o’clock in the afternoon she was housekeeper to a gentleman farmer bringing home his washing and that of other households, in addition to which she spun thread for Harris the weaver and plaited straw dollies for selling to travellers stopping at the Fox and Hounds on the turnpike road. It seemed that she never stopped, being at her wheel each evening until we fell fast asleep. Although sometimes abandoned to our own devices mother always found time for us and those she deemed less fortunate than ourselves.

         In the context of our village this consisted of only one person, an old woman racked with rheumatism who lived like a hermit in the woods that lay beyond the corn and meadow. Discovered by boys who daily tormented her with hard words and the throwing of stones mother stopped their mischief and henceforth became a regular visitor to her home reporting her needs to the churchwarden and making sure she received every penny of relief that was due. In the village, she was known as Old Meg and those still not free of superstition whispered that she was a witch who had once been seen on a broomstick flying circles around the moon. But mother knew better, telling us that no such thing happened and that Meg was a wise woman who made potions for the healing of the sick. These we drank and although the taste was not to our liking we seldom had a day unwell.

         When I was eight and the girls ten and eleven mother gathered us to her and told us of the plans she had made for our future. She had watched us grow, taken stock of our talents, such as they were, and decided the different routes by which we would become valued members not only of the hundred but of the whole shire.

         Beth, the firstborn, was the blithe child, fair of face whose sparkly blue eyes and ready smile warmed, if not melted, the hearts of all those setting eyes on her. For three years now she had sold mother’s dollies outside the Fox receiving more pennies for them than the landlord took for mild ale. Her face was her fortune and mother was determined that it should win her a grand match and by that means raise her far beyond her present station in life.

         Agnes, although far from plain, would have to settle for less. Her marriage, when it came, would be to a tradesman of the better sort who would be needing not just a wife but someone able and willing to assist him in the running of his business. The world was changing and the prosperity of merchants was beginning to rival the landed interest of ancient families. A daughter in both camps, said mother, would ensure our fortunes and those of generations to come. Who knows what time might bring.

         As for myself, mother marked me out as the scholar of the family who through dint of effort might gain preferment in the established church. That none of us had attended church in over a year was no impediment to mother who affected a religious conversion that some thought more striking than the one turning Saul into Paul on the road to Damascus. Fortunately, the road to the parish church was a short one and having said our prayers and listened to the Vicar’s sermon on a Sunday we were soon back home and playing our rough and tumble games with the other children. But slowly the demands of our new allegiance began to eat more deeply into our free time. The Curate started a Sunday school that mother insisted we attend and when it was discovered that I had a good singing voice I was made a member of the choir. But mother was not content with that. My book learning at Mrs Price’s penny a day school was extended to three days a week, while Agnes and Beth were taken out of school, mother saying that they had schooling enough and that from now on she would teach them all that they needed.

         Agnes became mother’s apprentice in the running of our household, learning the practical skills that for so long had kept us fed and clothed. From Meg she learned the herbal remedies that kept us healthy, and for two days a week worked as an unpaid assistant to Mr Reeve, the butcher, who, in lieu of wages, taught her the commercial and practical skills of his trade, including the keeping of accounts.

         Beth was also set to work. In accordance with mother’s plan, she was found a scivvying job at the country home of Viscount Berkley. There she washed dishes and swept rooms at a wage that undercut those demanded by the parents of other girls. But, for once, earning money was not mother’s objective. Beth’s role was to observe the several young ladies of the house, to learn, without their knowing, their way of behaving and speaking. It was a task to which she was well suited; from early childhood, she had exhibited a talent for mimicry and acting that, in time, might have made her a living on the London stage. Soon the only discernable difference between Beth and the daughters of the house was the finery of their clothes and the fashioning of their hair.

         Her insight into their lives deepened when she became maid to Amelia, the eldest daughter,  accompanying her to dances at the Assembly Room in Chelmsford and the taking of waters at Hockley and other spas. She learned the etiquette of such places, observing the polite formality of noble persons that for Amelia often included chaperoned conversations with young gentlemen, and others somewhat older. If Beth imagined that courtship was a kiss on the lips and a tumble in the hay she now came to understand that for her social betters marriage was principally about the joining of estates and fortunes. In this Amelia was no better than an item for sale on viewing day of an auction, observed, assessed and sometimes admired but on bidding day receiving offers only from those seeking a quantifiable benefit.

         When Amelia was twenty-one and Beth seventeen William, the son of Earl Stafford came visiting and, having found Amelia’s charms insufficient to compensate for the additional allowance of another potential wife, came across Beth dressed in one of her mistresses old gowns. Mistaking her for a daughter of the house he asked her name and when told in the sweetest of voices and with the most captivating of smiles that it was Elizabeth departed for home with the news that his search for a wife was at an end. His mother perplexed that the Earl had a daughter of whom she knew nothing, immediately made enquiries that soon discovered the object of her son’s ardour to be a domestic servant. That Master William was momentarily heartbroken by this revelation can not be denied but being a practical young man, who had already seduced two of the maidservants in his father’s house, his plans for Beth were modified to provide himself with a gratifying diversion until she became of child.

         It was, therefore, no coincidence that one evening he came across Beth returning on foot to the village and, being the polite young gentleman he sometimes was, conveyed her to our home in his carriage, observing on his arrival its mean condition that confirmed, if confirmation was needed, the absurdity of a legal union. A day or two later at their next meeting he suggested that they break their journey at a country inn and on finding Beth easily persuaded conveyed her to the Golden Lion where there were upstairs rooms for the hiring. For now, their dalliance was conducted in the saloon bar of the house where William introduced Beth to the drinking of fine wine. If he calculated that she would soon succumb to a pleasant, light headed intoxication that would enable him to transfer proceedings to the floor above he was much mistaken. While Beth seemed unaffected by the several wines pressed upon her, William found his mind reeling with the strange but undeniable conviction that he was in love and that his love was of a purity that could only be satisfied within the sacred institution of marriage. Having conveyed Beth back to our home and briefly, but courteously introduced himself to mother, he continued back to his own home where in raptures of joy he informed his parents for a second time that he wished to marry Beth. That William’s joy was not reciprocated by his father came as no surprise to everyone but the young man who was told in no uncertain language that at eighteen he needed his father’s permission to marry and that under no circumstances would this be given until he found a bride within the first three ranks of the peerage. Distraught beyond reason he sought Beth’s agreement to a slitting of their wrists in the hope that their souls be united forevermore in Heaven, to which, she suggested, it was better to elope.

         And so it was that two days later at the midnight hour William’s coach arrived at our door and mother dispatched her daughter with a chest of necessary things that included another of Meg’s potions in case, as mother said, the first one be not enough.

         If, on their return from Gretna Green, William expected his father to relent and give his blessing to their legal union he now found himself berated and cast adrift. As the younger son of only two children, William’s share of his father’s estate now passed to his brother who in any case was to inherit the main part. The four hundred pounds that had been set aside for William was now replaced by a shilling piece.

         If mother was perturbed by this overthrowing of her plan she showed no outward sign. Indeed her optimism that all would be well was undiminished. But how could it be, I reasoned. The connection to the nobility she thought so much to our advantage was now an empty glass. But before the year was out mother was proved right, as she always was, and the glass quickly filled back to the brim. As often happens one person’s gain is another’s misfortune. William’s father suffered a fatal convulsion while out riding with the hunt to be succeeded by his elder son who a month later, to the consternation of the shire, but mainly to himself, fell off Beachy Head and having survived the descent was swept out to sea and drowned. Being dead, intestate and childless his father’s lands and estates now passed to William who immediately abandoned his lodgings and creditors in Colchester to claim his inheritance.

         While it cannot be claimed that William was particularly generous to his wife’s family he was at least anxious to relieve our poverty in case it became an embarrassment to his noble dignity. He, therefore, brought us a fine brick house on the outskirts of the village and granted mother a comfortable annuity on the understanding that we live there quietly, out of sight and out of mind. However, the news of our noble connection was common knowledge to the village folk who often saw Beth’s carriage at our door. From being the least of the least our social standing rose almost to that of the Squire.

         We were now people worth knowing and Agnes had suitors aplenty from whom mother chose Joe, the miller’s son, whose family also owned a bakery. Here was a business that through hard work and ambition could be made large and ever more prosperous. They married in the parish church by special licence which, they were told, was the fashionable way to wed, and by so doing signalled their intent to rise high above their present situation.

         So what of me, the boy put to his lessons at Mrs Price’s school? Could she teach me what I needed to become a Minister of the faith? The answer was no and although she taught me well in reading and writing she knew nothing of the Latin and Greek that I needed for holy orders. If mother’s plan for me was to work, another teacher would be needed, and on my fifteenth birthday, he duly arrived. In fact, as Rector of the parish he had been in clear sight for many years and during that time had often observed me singing in the choir and at prayer which mother urged me to do as conspicuously as possible. Knowing of our new-found status within the village he visited us one afternoon and partook of refreshments that included a cup of Meg’s herbal tea. If the Rector intended to pass the time in polite conversation and a parting prayer he was soon knocked off course by mother who acquainted him with her son’s passionate desire to enter the church and his thirst for that knowledge that would enable him to be a true servant of God. It was, I judge, at this moment that the Rector looked upon me with new eyes and seeing the son he never had was suddenly infused with an ambition to be my teacher and benefactor. Through him, I acquired the classical education that qualified me for an Oxford college and from Beth and William the money that paid for my upkeep during the three years of my study. I returned to the village as the Rector’s new Curate and within a month was saying prayers over the body of old Meg.

         There were no potions now but no need for them. Our lives were set fair on a steady course that like a stately galleon was sailing serenely down waters far broader than the meandering streams of our village. Beth became one of the most admired women of her generation, a favourite of King George and mother to six children one of whom was to become a Duke. Her sister if envious never showed it and devoted herself to her husband, their business and four strong sons that have since become partners in a business that is now the largest of its kind in the eastern shires.

         As for myself, I administer to the flock as Dean of York Minster. There are those who say I will rise higher still but only I know that for sure. Mother also knew, for everything that has happened was according to her plan. That Meg helped her we never doubted until we discovered in a box beneath mother’s bed the devices of a witch. It was she, not Meg, who enchanted William and the Rector and, sadly, it was she who struck down all those who stood in our way.

          As the son of a witch now dead I have become a warlock. In this,

the only choice I had was to use or not use the powers that are as natural to my being as speech and sight. Believe me when I say that everything I have done has been for the benefit of the church and its people. If I have sinned it has only been to raise myself level with those having the advantage of noble birth.

         But enough of me. Let’s talk of the future, of those yet to come, the great leaders of religion, state and business that will shape the destinies of nations and bring them together as one; a world united, one government, one religion and an untroubled, compliant people freed from want, living well like the gentry of my own time. No more war, no need for revolution, a world forged by sorcery for the especial benefit of our kin to come, who knowing their part in mother’s plan will take it forward through the centuries to come. Only at the end of time will they be gone. 

 

Copyright Richard Banks            

POLLUTION

 POLLUTION (Vitiation)

Peter Woodgate 

It was 18:30 on Wednesday 15^th May 2050 and Ben was on his way to the banquet.

As chief of the Enforcer Brigade he had been invited to the prestigious County Dinner to celebrate, yet another year, when “the masses” had been effectively controlled.

The world had been in decline for centuries and England, who’s governments had thought they were the bastions of fair play, had succumbed to the divide of Elite and Masses. The Masses, although, in principle, governed by the Elite, were largely left to fend for themselves.

Those lucky enough to have jobs, did so mainly, to benefit the Elite. With taxes high and rewards low they could hardly afford to feed themselves, let alone all those out of work. There were periods of strikes and demonstrations but, the Masses soon discovered that they were the ones to suffer. The Elite simply got what they needed from elsewhere in the world and there was plenty to choose from; it was a case of work or starve.

 

The Elite, about 2% of the global population, owned 95% of everything and they had calculated that the population of the Masses, currently at an all-time high, would be reduced by 70% within the next 10 years. This would be caused by mass starvation and disease. The Elite had forecast these figures as part of their governing strategy and would need this to be accurate if they were to fulfil their plans to drastically cut the Enforcement Brigade staff. “Natural wastage” was the term they used.

 

As Ben sat in the heli-taxi on his way to the banquet he recalled what Horatio, the president of the county’s Elite had told him;

“remember the Masses are expendable, few have any real use in today’s society. Some are useful for experiments and others to sort out our squabbles but should you have to exterminate any that become tiresome, you will be doing mankind a service”

Ben thought back to the previous week and the dozen or so that he had ordered to be shot and smiled. ”No doubt the president would be impressed,” he thought.

 

The heli-taxi flew over the 20 feet high x 15 feet thick wall that surrounded the Elite compound and set down in the main square. It was teeming with taxis ferrying important people to the banquet and, as Ben stepped out, he was greeted by an Asian-looking young lady wearing an extremely short skirt. She immediately asked for his name before checking it against the list contained in the small computer which hung round her neck. “Follow me please sir,” she almost sang the request before turning around heading, it appeared, towards a large building with a clocktower. Flags fluttered from each side of the entrance some, of which, Ben recognized immediately. They represented different counties, which showed Ben, that some of the guests, had travelled much further than he had.

 

Ben glanced at the clock before entering the building, it showed 18:54. He quickly tapped the face of his watch, it showed 18:55. “Blast” he muttered, “must get this watch checked.” He had only purchased it a couple of months before and was aware it was gaining a second every day. This was most annoying as it was guaranteed to be accurate within one second per year.

The banquet was scheduled to begin at 19:30 which gave Ben plenty of time to freshen up and take note of all the seating arrangements. He asked the young lady for directions to the cloakroom and dining hall taking note of her name that was shown on her collar.

“Thank you Mimi,” Ben said quietly, pressing a 50 Uni note into her hand before heading off to the bathroom.

As Ben swung open the door he was met by what must have been 100 guests; obviously, it appeared, everyone had the same idea. He decided he wouldn’t bother and then headed off joining the queue that moved slowly toward the dining hall.

He hadn’t been in this particular building before and noted how spacious every area seemed to be. Ben’s invitation number was 407 and he had been informed that over 600 guests had been invited.

“No wonder everything appeared roomy,” he thought.

Before he arrived at the banquet hall Ben had entered his name into one of the screens that lined the corridor, it showed that he was located on table 66, seat 6.

Finding his table and seat he noted that he was positioned between two old gentlemen whom he had met at the previous banquet.

“Just my luck,” he thought, “bet they are as boring as last year.”

He remembered that they were both very wealthy landowners, much, of which, had been gained when public parks and conservation areas had been sold off in 2021.

Of course, the land was never improved for public use, as was advertised, but merely blocked off from the Masses and used for shooting and hunting. Ben recollected the time he had to attend where 6 poachers had been shot by the landowner’s security guards. This was allowed within the new laws.

Ben then eyed up the rest of the guests on the table. There were 11 so far with one chair, as yet, remaining empty. Exactly opposite sat a Chief Enforcer from another county and either side of him sat a gorgeous girl. This made Ben angry, why did he not have lovely young ladies sitting next to him?

Ben looked at them with lust in his eyes, envious of the other Enforcer. In fact, nobody seemed to acknowledge Ben at all, this made him even angrier. Ben was a proud man and loved to show off his uniform. He liked nothing more than to strike fear into people’s hearts with his authority, however, here he was just a guest and had to bow down to the Elite.

He was about to strike up a conversation with a lady 3 seats away, when the gong sounded for the feast to begin. Ben studied the menu and noted it contained 7 courses and, being a greedy pig, he was delighted. He looked over at one of the gorgeous girls and noticed that, sat next to her, was a huge bald gentleman; he had taken up the empty seat whilst Ben had been studying the menu. “Bet he is a glutton,” Ben thought as he smiled to himself.

There was plenty of wine on the table and Ben had consumed 3 large glasses before realizing that the first course had not yet arrived. “They’re very sloth this evening,” he muttered to the old gentleman seated to his left,” lazy sods, need whipping if you ask me.”

The old gentleman mumbled something in reply but Ben was already feeling somewhat tipsy so couldn’t make sense of it.

Shortly after, the first course was served, and the 600 or so guests munched their way through the menu unaware that the poor kitchen staff were having terrible troubles with the ovens. It appeared they were overheating and creating toxic fumes. Although an extraction system was in operation it had started to deteriorate through lack of maintenance.

The kitchen manager decided that drastic action needed to be taken and gave the go-ahead for the toxic fumes to be funnelled directly out of the compound and into an area occupied by the Masses. The normal extraction system would have deconstructed anything toxic but it was an emergency, and besides, it was probably no more harmful than what the Masses were used to. 

Problem solved, staff carried on serving the gluttonous guests, the final course, the old favourite, apple pie. After dinner, speeches followed, then entertainment.

This was not for the squeamish as prisoners, due to be shot, were made to fight to the death with the winner having the dubious prize of being sent to a camp to live out his/her remaining years in hard labour.

                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was 10 years later and Ben was on his way, yet again, to the annual banquet.

The Enforcer Brigade had been reduced, as forecast; in fact, their workload was minimal. Starvation had reduced the Masses by 40% but it was the terrible diseases that now raged across the planet that reduced it by a further 30%.

Masks and breathing apparatus were now part of the Enforcer uniform and had to be worn at all times.

Ben gazed out of the heli-taxi and looked at the mass of bodies lying unburied.

Funerals had long since been abolished and it was left to the fire service to travel around incinerating all corpses.

Being short-staffed, the fire brigade worked only in the town areas, those in outlying districts were simply piled up in designated areas where it was hoped, natural decomposition would eventually dispose of them.

 

The heli-taxi was passing over one such heap when something caught Ben’s eye. The mound appeared to be moving.

“Wait,” Ben called to the pilot, “put her down over there I need to check something.

“Well, I ain't getting out,” the pilot stuttered nervously.

“You don’t have to, I just want a quick look,” Ben replied.

 

The taxi touched down 50 yards from the heap of flesh and Ben got out making sure his breathing gear was airtight.

He walked over to the horrifying mass of bodies and suddenly recoiled.

A huge beast emerged from the sea of melting flesh. It had 7 heads and 10 horns, saliva dripping from each of the 7 mouths.

Ben gasped and suddenly thought back to when his parents had given him a book for his birthday. He recalled too, how they had often read to him from the book. It had a black cover and embossed on the front was a crucifix. He shivered as he remembered how it frightened him when his father had read the final book of The New Testament, The Book of Revelations.

Ben was still shaking as he stared at the beast, looked into the multitude of eyes and saw Evil

The creature lifted it’s head, slowly, looked up at the sky and smiled;

The time, of the second Beast, had come.

Copyright Peter Woodgate 2013

 

Kazakhstan

Is vinete yani polmeyo po Ruski

(I’m sorry I don’t speak Russian)

By Janet Baldey 

‘You’re going where?’

         It was the standard response, accompanied by a puzzled look. Ever since we decided to forgo the fleshpots and have a real adventure in the wilds of Kazakhstan, we had become increasingly enthusiastic. The trouble was, nobody seemed to have heard of the place (this was before Borat came on the scene).   When we explained that we were bored with beach holidays and wanted to experience life in the raw, their looks turned from puzzlement to incredulity.

        

         Both interested in natural history, my daughter, who has a degree in zoology and I, decided to go on a wildlife watching trip.  We sent away for various brochures but were particularly taken with Greentours Natural History Hollidays, run by Ian Green and his partner, Fiona Dunbar. It seemed a friendly, family-run outfit, small enough to take a personal interest in their clients.  It was purely a matter of chance that we chose Kazakhstan - the time of the 16 day trip happened to fit in with Melissa’s exam schedule.

        

         The months leading up to the trip were spent poring over maps and previous trip reports.  Soon the streets of Watford were worn smooth as we searched for lightweight clothing to accommodate a variety of weathers and a seemingly endless list of medical necessities.  We would, after all, be travelling into the interior of a huge country, where few tourists venture, hundreds of miles away from medical advice.  We were going where the far eastern tip of Kazakhstan meets the borders of Mongolia, China and Russian Siberia.  In the middle of the Golden Mountains, it is known as The Altai.   It is a true wilderness, with high mountains and vast forests, steppes and deserts and is almost devoid of people.  We were told to expect amazingly beautiful mountain flowers, flocks of exotic birds such Siberian Rubythroats, Great Rosefinches, Black Larks, White-tailed Eagles, and masses of butterflies.   The list of previous trip sightings was impressive.  We couldn’t wait.

        

         Inevitably, there were setbacks and one loomed large.   To run the tour the minimum group size needed was five.  A month before we were due to leave, Greentours phoned; we were the only people booked onto the trip.  We were sure it would be cancelled.   But, even though there were no more bookings, the trip went ahead and we had the sole services of a driver, cook and tour guide.  Super-rich excluded, we were privileged.  

        

         Then we were told that a river, swollen by winter rain, had washed away a vital bridge and we would probably have to make a detour of 100 miles and miss some of the trip.   Again our hearts sank, but again we were saved, this time by the resourcefulness of our driver who braved the turbulent water and made it to the other side while his passengers scrambled over the remains of the bridge.

        

         Our leader was Vladimir, of Russian descent, born and raised in Kazakhstan.  A zoologist he divides his time between working as a research scientist and acting as tour guide.  His knowledge of the wildlife of the area is formidable.   Not only that but he is an all-round nice guy who went to extraordinary lengths to make sure we enjoyed ourselves. He is a big fan of early seventies rock and roll and seemed to be on a mission to drink the country dry of vodka. Then there was Andrei, who did most of the driving.   Andrei runs his own tour guide company in the area and is a big motorcycle fan. His dream is to visit Mongoly (his name for Mongolia) on motorcycle.  He was also the only one of our party whom the mosquitoes refused to bite.  Our cook was Oksana, an 18 year old university student.  My daughter is a vegan and when I am with her, so am I.  Kazakhstan is not big on vegan cookery and I am sure Oksana’s heart must have dropped but she rose to the occasion magnificently.  Her cooking was superb, and performed under the most primitive of conditions.  

 

The tour started and finished in Almaty, the principal city in Kazakhstan, formerly its capital but which has now been replaced by Astana, largely because Astana is less prone to earthquakes.  It didn’t help our peace of mind to be told

that Almaty lay on a fault line and an earthquake devastated the city in 1927, the only building left standing being the cathedral.   Almaty is pleasant and tree-lined and the view from the plane as it descends into Almaty airport is breathtaking, with the snow-topped mountains of the Cimbaluk range rearing above us as we circled the city.

        

         The city of Almaty, in common with the rest of Kazakhstan, comprises a mixture of nationalities, mainly Kazakhs and Russians, with a smattering of Ukrainians, Germans, Uzbeks, Byelorussians and Azerbaijani’s who all seemed to live together quite happily under the apparently benign dictatorship of their president, Nursultan Nazarbayev.  It was here that we were due to make contact with Vladimir.   But first, we had to survive what my daughter has dubbed ‘Immigration Hell’.

        

         All in all, we had been traveling for 10 hours when we began the descent into Almaty Airport. The plane landed smoothly and we rose and stretched.  There was a brief announcement in Russian and everybody, except we who were  blissfully ignorant of the language, groaned and sat down again.  After a while, there was another announcement, this time, surprisingly, in English.

        

         ‘The ordered wheelchair is now ready for collection at Terminal 1’.

        

         This had to have been some sort of code, because immediately all the other passengers stood and filed out of the aircraft with us tagging along behind.  

 

         The arrivals lounge was chaotic. There were long, static queues from the end of which we could just see the check-in booths, all unmanned. We waited, and waited, and waited but the queue didn’t move.  From time to time, an official would stroll up to a booth, look at it incuriously and go away again.  Meanwhile more people from another flight joined our queue. It was strangely surreal.  In England people would grow restive, there would be muttering and discontented faces and eventual near mutiny but not here. People stood impassively, not speaking, not shuffling;  we began to think it was against the law.  As time passed, Melissa and I worried.  What if Vladimir gave up and went away and we were stranded in a strange country. The long hours of traveling caught up with us and we felt like crying.  I looked around for someone with a friendly face but in vain. In response to our tentative smiles not a muscle in any face moved.   Later when I mentioned this to Vladimir, he wasn’t surprised.

        

         ‘Why should they smile at you?  They didn’t know you’.

 

With painful slowness, the queues eventually began to move.  At last, we were processed and to our relief, made contact with Vladimir who, wearing a Greentours shirt for identification purposes, was patiently waiting for us. Not many people would describe Vladimir as beautiful but, to us at that moment, he was.

         The first three days were to be spent by the shores of the beautiful Zaissan Lake in the midst of the desert.   But first we had to endure another flight, this time courtesy of Air Astana, to Ust-Kamenogorsk, a city about the size of Watford, where we were met by Andrei, Oksana and a Landrover.   We soon realised why the vehicle was so sturdy and why it needed every one of its four wheels, most of the roads in Kazakhstan are truly terrible.  The lake was as lovely as the brochure boasted but, apart from that, the landscape was bare. As the tents were unloaded and set up, I plucked up my courage and shyly enquired about the ‘facilities’.

        

         ‘I wondered when you would ask’ said Vladimir.   Pointing to the left of two clumps of trees, he said ‘that is for the ladies’.  I suppose we were lucky that there were two clumps of trees.  

        

         If this sounds bad, it gets worse.   We had to share the trees with  zillions of mosquitoes sheltering from the daytime heat.  Every time we went near, they rose up in great billowing clouds. The second of my new experiences in the wild was bathing and washing my hair in the lake whilst being nibbled by tiny fish. It was a surprisingly pleasant experience.

 

One of the most magical memory I have of the time spent by the lake was hunting for jerboas at night.  We found that they froze in the lights of the truck and were easily picked up. I was happily crooning over them as they nestled in my hands, until Melissa pointed out they were covered in fleas. Gently, and as fast as I could, they were released back into the wild. We were also taken to the Klin Kerish canyon where erosion had revealed layers of brilliant red, yellow and silvery-grey clays – a wonderfully photogenic place. 

 

Night comes swiftly in the desert and so do the mosquitoes. Most evenings found us taking supper while swaddled in towels and blankets to keep them at bay. Once Andrei shone his torch up into the sky and revealed a seething mass hovering like a giant umbrella above us. ‘We are lucky, they are not biting,’ he said.   

After leaving Lake Zaissan we headed for a nature reserve in the Siberian village of Markakol. The road to the village ran by the side of the Chinese border and we were able to take photographs of the vast sandy dunes of the Akkum Desert that stretches as far as the eye can see into China. After a whole day of travelling we eventually crested a pass and saw Markakol down below, glinting in the evening sunlight.   Markakol is set on the edge of a lake surrounded by mountains and Taiga forest.  It resembles a mini-Switzerland but is completely unspoiled.  Walking through the village was like stepping into the middle ages.   Old ladies sat on three legged stools to milk their cows and did their laundry in the lake. Young boys carried yokes on their shoulders while others herded sheep along the street. Everywhere, horses cropped the grass, cows wandered,  chickens pecked and goats investigated. Most blessed of all, there was not a Westerner to be seen (except for us, of course). 

 

The cottage we stayed in was typical of the local Siberian style, with very thick walls and enormous radiators, essential as the village is snowbound for six months of the year. Every house in the village had its own sauna and I got the impression that’s where the locals spent the winter. In September every year, the cattle that graze in the mountains, sense the onset of winter and make their way back into  Markakol, the herd filling the empty street – it’s called ‘rush hour’ in Markakol.   It is a magical place, we spent five days exploring the area and never wanted to leave.

 

To reach our next destination we drove along what was jokingly called the Austrian ‘Road’. This alleged ‘road’ was built by Austrian prisoners of war and it was obvious their hearts had not been in it.  As our Landrover lurched along deeply rutted tracks embedded with huge rocks and traversed gullies over logs of rotting wood, it was never far from my mind that we were many miles away from medical treatment.

 

Mosquitoes like me. We had travelled endless miles to reach an idyllic spot in the woods near the hot springs at Rachmanovskie Klyuchi but unfortunately the mosquitoes had got there first. They turned my back into a map of the moon. In spite of Valery, our stand-in-driver, producing delicious wild strawberries from his own garden, the mozzies made my evening a misery and the next morning I insisted (I’m Queen!) in pressing on to our next destination.

  

 Maymir is a working farm and hunting lodge where we slept in traditional Kazakh yourtas, large felt tents that smelled suspiciously of goat. The area around Maymir is green and lush with many streams. It is typical ‘tick’ country. Ticks are tiny spider-like insects whose bite can cause encephalitis or Lyme disease. They drop from the surrounding vegetation and like to burrow into the soft, most intimate areas of one’s body. They were the cause of many episodes of tick paranoia in my daughter.

 

Maymir was our last destination and it was here that we performed our last ‘check list’.  This was a solemn ceremony, carried out every evening without fail, when we recorded all the birds, mammals, flowers and butterflies we had seen during the day.

I have so many memories of that holiday. Evenings spent drinking vodka and eating red caviar;  climbing a mountain in a thunderstorm and reaching the top just as the sun came out;  playing snowballs on a glacier; the evening when Vladimir decided to show us how to have a proper sauna (better than sex!).    One day, I mentioned I would like to try some fermented mares milk, Kazakhstan’s national drink.  Andrei disappeared for hours, apparently he had to scour the area for miles before locating some – what a star!  For those interested, it has a refreshing lemony taste, ideal for the hot weather.  

 

It is not a holiday for everyone, the only running water was in the rivers, the terrain was rugged, and the sanitary arrangements non-existent, but if you love wild places, the creatures that inhabit them and want to glimpse a way of life that will soon be gone, don’t hesitate.  You will never forget it.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 A Picture Haiku

by Robert Kingston

Copyright Rob Kingston