AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

by Richard Banks

When you go to a provincial gallery you do so more in hope than expectation. If the curator is a person of discernment the procurement of art from living artists will have been astute and well presented, the beginning of a collection that may, in time, acquire a national reputation. If not, you are largely left with the daubings of pre-war and Victorian artists who, the accompanying texts assure us, were well known, if not renown, within their locality.

         For those, like me, who yearn to connect with something more inspired there is little to delay our departure through the gift shop and into the cafe beyond. Indeed on a rain-swept morning the cafe at the Holksmere Town Arts Centre was probably the best place to be. It did, I was told, an excellent pot roast and with that in mind I made my way to the gallery at half eleven intending to while away an hour at most before sampling the culinary arts of a Chef who was about to move on to more remunerative employment in a High Street restaurant.

         The collection proved to be as depressing as the weather and I was soon through to the Victorians when I paused before a painting that seemed to have a little more merit than the rest. Evidently, the gallery thought so too for it had recently been revarnished returning its colours to something like their original hues. The scene it depicted also had topographical interest, showing the west front of the parish church before its restoration in the 1890s. Outside, in the churchyard, is gathered a wedding party of some forty well-heeled members of the local gentry, along with a few others of more splendid appearance. It’s a summer’s day, bright sunshine, short black shadows indicating that it’s only an hour or two into the afternoon. Behind the guests, between them and the church, a horse-drawn carriage waits to take the bride and groom to the reception that has, no doubt, been organised and paid for by the bride’s parents.

         “Good grief, what a performance that was!”

         The voice came from behind me. Without my knowing, someone had entered the room and was only a yard behind me. There was a chill in the air that was almost a mist. I half turned and he came up level with me, a strange little man in a paint bespattered smock that came down to his knees.

         “Thank goodness for photography. Never thought I would say that, but on that day how else would I have coped. An oil painting of themselves and all their guests was what they wanted, accurate in every detail, everyone to be just as they were, standing exactly where they had put themselves. How was I to manage that when they were come and gone in fifteen minutes?”

         The question was apparently rhetorical for the man continued swiftly on.

         “I had no choice but to make a deal with the devil, well, as good as. Paid Timpson, the photographer, to take four plates and work as slowly as he could, while I busied myself sketching everything that caught my eye. Never worked so quickly in my life. In the three weeks that followed I returned to the churchyard on no less than seven occasions to make sure I had the colours and background detail exactly as they were. It was a labour of love, I can tell you. Mark, you there was more than love involved. Had the painting not been to Browning’s liking he would probably have refused to pay me.

         See that man there, the one with the medals, that’s the Earl of Dramgordon. He wasn’t even there, taken ill the day before, but Browning insisted that because he had been invited he must therefore be included. It would, he said, be a breach of etiquette to leave him out. Nonsense! Browning was a social climber who wanted the painting so he could show it off in his dining room.  Leave out the Earl, his guest of honour, no way was he going to do that. Mind you he needn’t have worried, several of his younger guests also distinguished themselves in the years to come. Charley Wainwright won the VC at Mafeking and later became a Government Minister, while the Jones boy became a West End playwright. Then there was Millie Bracknell, who shall we say, achieved a certain popularity in Princely circles. Browning would not have been slow in pointing them out to his dinner guests. He paid me thirty guineas for the picture and got the bargain of his life. Think about it, he had that picture for twenty-five years, twenty-five years of using it so he could brag and show-off. How can you put a price on that? Well, if you could it would be a darn sight more than thirty guineas. However, I shouldn’t complain, the picture was good publicity for me and I received some useful commissions as a consequence of his dinner parties.”

         “And now it’s here,” I said. The words passed slowly from my lips and seemed to struggle through the air.

         “Yes,” he said, “although more by good fortune than design. When Browning died, predeceased by his wife, all his property passed to his only child, the bride in my picture. But what was she to do with my picture? Her husband had left her for an American heiress and applied for a Decree Absolute. The last thing she wanted on her walls was a picture of them both on their wedding day. So she gave it to the daughter of the aforementioned Jones who lived in Scotland, a country Browning’s daughter had never visited and had no thought of doing so. Out of sight and out of mind she reasoned, and so it proved, the picture taking pride of place in another far off dining room. Thirty years on its spinster owner passed away and her house and furnishings were sold at auction. I’m ashamed to say that the reverend gentleman who purchased my picture paid only £3. And why did he buy it? Because he liked the look of the church in the background! Ten years later he was host to an English clergyman who recognised the church and told him where it could be found.

         Although the picture was undisputedly the property of the Scottish Minister the thought that it properly belonged to the parish church rather than himself began to trouble him rather more than his conscience should have allowed. The following year, while availing himself of the reciprocal hospitality of his English counterpart, he visited the church and soon after bestowed the picture upon its board of trustees. It was that body who in 1981 gifted it to the Gallery on condition that the local council undertake certain necessary repairs that the church was unable or possibly unwilling to finance. Its formal unveiling was marked by a gathering of local dignitaries to which I was not invited. Well, of course, I was long gone, dead and buried in the graveyard of the church I once painted. But at least I was not forgotten. Even now there are still a few people who know my name. I wager you won’t be forgetting me in a hurry.”

         I tried to answer but this time the words refused to come. Another voice boomed out from behind me causing me to spin round in alarm. A large, middle-aged man had entered the room in the company of one somewhat younger and of more modest proportions. Our eyes met and he stopped in mid-sentence. Disconcerted and lost for something to say I turned back towards the artist but he was no more to be seen.

         The spell broken and myself in need of a chair to sit upon I hastily made my way to the cafe where I held tightly to the self-service bar until I managed to order and pay for the pot roast. The lady at the till asked if I was alright and when I said I was she bid me take a seat; my meal, when ready, would be brought over to me. I needed no second bidding and sat down at the nearest table. It was my first meeting with a ghost and although he had obviously meant me no harm the encounter left me both bewildered and shaken.

         The lady on the till briefly abandoned her post to bring me my lunch. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

         My querulous expression was changing for the worse. The ghostly encounter was not yet done. The faint but unmistakable sound of his voice was growing louder, drawing ever closer, a  goodbye said, then silence as the artist entered the cafe. The till lady acknowledged his presence with a wave of her hand.

         “Can you see him too?” I spluttered.

         “What, Mr Pettegrew?” she asked, looking at me with renewed concern. “Yes, he’s an actor pretending to be one of the artists in the exhibition. Surprised you didn’t meet him on your way through. He’s proving quite an attraction, especially with the kiddies. At least, that’s what most people think. Now, if you’re sure you’re OK I better get back to the till. The sticky pudding’s very tasty if you fancy a dessert.”

         I did not have dessert. Having by now attracted the unwanted attention of the cafe’s patrons I was only too ready to make my escape. Needless to say, I departed the gallery in a very different mood to the one in which I arrived. How I was taken in by a theatrical performance when no one else had been, I am at a loss to explain. On reflection, the embarrassment I felt was no more than I deserved. No critic is more worthy than the poor artist he despises. I have since done my penance, making a thorough study of the county’s lesser-known talents. They are an interesting bunch, much deserving of the book I am planning to write. If any have become ghosts I look forward to meeting them.                 

 

Copyright Richard Banks 

Abbalar Tales ~ 14

 Abbalar Tales ~ 14 Jellonan 

By Len Morgan

“I think you realise by now that I am not a native of Abbalar?   My people have only ever lived here in our capacity as caretakers.   We were sent here as guardians to ensure the wellbeing of the inhabitants of Abbalar.   I am a Jellonan, my people have travelled throughout the Universe for aeons, trading with any civilisation that has developed beyond a certain level.   We buy and sell technology and help to bring about environmental changes and improvements on the worlds we visit.   We claim empty worlds on occasions and turn them into habitable worlds, using 'Wash & Wipe techniques' known to some as 'terra-forming'.   We came to Abbalar at a time when the universe was booming.   But, it was a time of need for the remnants of a once-proud race, the Karaxen.   They were engaged in a losing battle to restore the ecological balance of this world.   Their technology had outstripped their ability to control the environment.  When we arrived they had ravaged Abbalar, the effects were sadly beyond our ability to reverse in the short term.   They could not live with the consequences of their actions in the long term and had to face hard facts, the world was dying.   Since our initial visit they had been obsessed with emulating us, by leaving their planet, we were you see, by virtue of contact, responsible for their demise.  Despite the high price they had paid, they had not been able to develop the technology that would allow them to journey into space.   We, therefore, felt morally obliged to come to their aid.   The Universal Council commissioned us to build this place, the Ark, to house the remnants of their once-proud race, together with as many other endangered native species as we were able to house.   None would otherwise have survived in that poisoned environment.   We could in fact, have left them to their own devices and returned in fifty thousand years to terra-form a newly dead world, but the Council would not allow us to do that.   Instead, we offered the Karaxen the benefit of our expertise.   We planned to keep them here for two hundred thousand years, the length of time we estimated it would take for the ecosystem to recover.   We housed them in stasis, in the halls of this ark, where they would sleep - frozen in time - barely ageing while the conditions outside slowly improved, becoming capable of sustain life once more.”  Orden paused, considering how best to frame his words.   It wasn't the first time he'd told the tale but it didn't become any easier with repetition or the passage of time.

Aldor took advantage of the pause to put a question.   “How long have you personally been here on Abbalar?”

"Roughly six thousand years, give or take a decade."

"Six!   How long then do you intend to live?"

"On Jellona I would be considered a juvenile.   I could live twenty-five, thirty?   Here on Abbalar, where the conditions are not ideal, a mere fifteen or twenty; mayhap a little more."

Aldor was silent, numbed by the sheer size of the numbers.

Assuming Aldor was waiting for him to continue, Orden went on.   "We would normally visit this sector of the galaxy every fifty thousand years.   We set up this secure place, this Ark, with a complement of five Jellonan’s to ensure that its systems would not fail.  We Jellonan’s take our commitments very seriously.   The custodians were to encourage the steady recovery of the ecosystem tweaking it here, suppressing it there, ensuring everything ran smoothly until our next scheduled visit when the progress would be reviewed.   It was necessary for only one Jellonan to be awake at any given time, the others slept in stasis, not ageing appreciably, the watches would be shared equally, each awake for just ten thousand years.   But, the first guardian met with a freak accident, he was killed in a rock slide.    Even so, there was an alarm that should have awakened the others in an emergency but, it too was disabled by the rock slide.   So with nothing to awaken them the other four just slept on.   It was a real tribute to the builders of the Ark that nothing serious happened."

"So, they slept the whole time." Aldor asked.

"Yes."

"Fifty thousand years and nothing went wrong?"

"Nothing, leastwise not on Abbalar," said Orden.

"What does that mean?"

"There was a terrible Galactic war, out amongst the stars, whole worlds and civilisations were destroyed, wiped from existence in an instant.   All our resources were diverted to protecting our homeworlds.   The drain on our resources was phenomenal; we ourselves were almost wiped out."

"So you didn't return for how long?"

"There were so many things to be taken care of and so few resources."

"How long," Aldor repeated.

"Almost a million years passed."

Aldor was silent, totally dumbfounded.

Orden took his silence as leave to continue.

“In the long period the Karaxen were in stasis, other life forms developed and populated Abbalar, species so unlike them, well they would have been totally incompatible.”

“So when you returned, you wiped out the new life forms and released us?   So why is this not part of our history, why do we not know who we are, and what happened to our technology?”   He asked question after question in rapid succession.

“Aldor, you are not the Karaxen!   They are all still in here, at the lower levels of the Ark, waiting to be released.   You are the new life…” 

“If what you say is true they may not live very much longer.   If they are far below level 120, for there is prodigious pollution at that level.   The air is so foul I was forced to return to the higher levels or succumb to that vile noxious soup."

“It is down that far?" said Orden, a look of dismay on his face, "seventy years ago the pollution was at level 50.   There are sensors attached to an automatic unlocking mechanism, which will be triggered when conditions at the lower levels of the Ark become acceptable.   When normal air reaches level 500 the creatures down there will start to revive and will be released automatically.   The simpler life forms nearer the surface will be released first, then when they have had time to become established, the intelligent species housed in the lower levels between four and five hundred will be released.   The upper twenty levels have always been left empty, for use by off-worlders, and helpers."

Aldor considered carefully before answering.

"Then why were they not released earlier?   You have been here six thousand years if the pollution levels had not changed in almost a million years, what happened recently to accelerate the process?"

"As far as we could ascertain, there was a volcanic eruption, sometime in the past.   It sealed the Ark from the surface, probably early on; it may even have caused the death of the original guardian.   The blockage was only cleared on our return."

"If what you say is true, we may have less than 500 years to formulate a plan of action.   What would happen if they were not released?   How long could they remain in stasis?” Aldor asked.

“In theory, they could remain there indefinitely,” said Orden.   “But this place has to be kept provisioned and in a reasonable condition, it was in serious disrepair, on our return, though most of it has subsequently been restored.   It could now, in theory, continue without further assistance, for several hundred thousand years or until some major event takes place…”

“Then I would suggest you start working on a way to reseal it or at least ensure the pollution levels remain high enough to prevent their release.   Or you will be responsible for a disaster far worse than you were originally protecting them from, a disaster of epic proportions, for Humans and Karaxen alike.   Humanity will not yield one inch." 

"You have read the situation well sprout.   When they emerge, they will expect to reclaim their world, which is what they were promised when they were incarcerated.   With their relatively advanced technology, they would surely be capable of overwhelming mankind.   They may even consider you are vermin and exterminate your civilisation out of hand," said Orden.

"We could perhaps release them a few at a time, transport them to a distant part of Abbalar?” Aldor voiced his thoughts aloud.   “But, how long would they stay there…”

Orden nodded “Myself, I could not in truth envisage this world being big enough to support two intelligent species and so, seventy years ago, I fixed the sensors to open only on a methane atmosphere, a state that could never exist on Abbalar, it would kill all existing life including the Karaxen.   The Galactic Hive Matrix found out about it and I have been sentenced to imprisonment, here on your world.   For the rest of my natural life, I must live as its custodian.   I was also ordered to realign the sensors, so the threat is still immediate.”

"Then your fate is closely bound with ours.   How did they learn of your action?"

 

"When the war ended, all the surviving races were absorbed into the Galactic Alliance.   We embraced and became one with 'The Galactic Hive', our minds and thoughts becoming part of the Hive Matrix.   Now, as we sleep all our knowledge and experience is passed on, in both directions, what I know becomes common knowledge to all other members of the HM."

"I'm sorry," said Aldor, "It must be terrible to have no privacy…"

"Ha ha!   Tad's Breath sprout, it’s exhilarating!   To be able to close your eyes, and sally forth into the heart of the universe, through the HM, to retrieve anything: information, knowledge, the experiences of others, of long-dead races, whatever you require is there for the asking.   It would have been far worse had my punishment been ex-communication.   It must be terrifying being alone with just your own thoughts.   I cannot imagine what it must be like for your, short-lived, race with no means of sharing.   It's a miracle you ever developed intelligence let alone sentience, or feelings."

"Does that have anything to do with my inability to stay awake in the room you have allotted me?" Aldor asked.

"There is a mild sedative in the atmosphere which is conducive to sleep and aids you in your training.   I teach you what I can whilst you are awake then, as you sleep, the groundwork for future lessons is being laid down subliminally," seeing the look of alarm on Aldor’s face he added, "of course the contact is non-invasive, they are able only to access surface thoughts and certainly not against your will, the process is passive, not active.    When you join with 'the HM', you contribute of your own free will, there is no possibility of invasive techniques and this is absolutely necessary to the success of your training.    You gain years of experience, and knowledge, in a dream state which lasts but an instant.  Each night you may have hundreds, maybe thousands, of similar encounters…"

“Mayhap their minds could be altered, to erase all memory of their technology," Aldor suggested, changing the subject.   "We could release them, a few of at a time, into our communities, and integrate them?”

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

“Transfer them to another planet?”

“Beyond our existing resources, if it had been possible it would have been our first option, but physical travel in space is so prohibitively expensive.   Anyway, all planets capable of sustaining carboxy life forms are currently occupied.   Carboxy life is the most common throughout the Universe and in this Galaxy specifically.    This is a problem that must be resolved here on their homeworld, Abbalar.”

“No Orden, it is not that simple, it is a problem of Jellonan making!   You should have left nature to find its own course, hard as that may seem.   Now, you will have to raise us up to their level…”   He stopped his tirade, the light of understanding registering in his eyes.   “You really should walk away from the problem now, as you should have done then, but, it is obvious your race is not capable of such action.”   He smiled and slapped the stocky Jellonan on the back, an action he instantly regretted, it felt like he’d hit a granite wall.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

THE CURSED FOREST OF TRANSYLVANIA

By Peter Woodgate 

A shortcut through the forest

Would get them there on time

The bride-to-be and groom stepped in

The coach that looked so fine.

 

The groom was anxious as he spoke,

“We are late for our wedding rite,

Don’t spare the horses, we must arrive

Before this coming night.”

 

The rhythm of the horse’s hooves

Drummed out a lullaby,

The couple soon, were fast asleep,

As trees were flashing by.

 

The coach driver stared straight ahead

A concerned look upon his face,

He glanced at the sun as it fell from the sky

And feared they would lose this race.

 

Sunlight faded and birdsong ceased,

The breeze became a gale,

The horses pulled up with a stamp and a snort

And the coach wheels slid on the shale.

 

The crack of the coach driver’s whip fell across

The backs of the sweating team,

They pawed at the ground and lifted their heads

As the mist swirled about them like steam.

 

The couple inside the ill-fated coach,

Awoke at the sudden jolt,

The groom pulled the window down to the latch

And looked out to determine the halt.

 

 

His gaze fell upon the coach driver’s face

Who now lay prone on the ground,

He felt a black shadow envelope his soul

Then collapsed with never a sound.

 

The bride-to be was pale with fright

No scream could she compose,

The stranger from Hell looked into her eyes,

She gazed back and instantly froze.

 

She awoke and lay in a four-poster bed

Upon sheets of the finest silk,

She was dressed in a cotton negligee

And felt passion, yet fearful of guilt.

 

She leapt out of bed and ran to the door

Alas; she was locked in that room,

A shiver ran through her yet sweat dripped from brow

And inside her a feeling of doom.

 

A shadow slid under the door that was locked

And approached as she cowered on the bed,

A figure emerged from the shadow that was

Her eyes, wide with fear, filled with dread.

 

The hypnotic eyes, those blood-red eyes,

Brushed all sanity aside,

She half-turned as fangs drove deep into flesh

And she relished the moment she died.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

 

 

                           

 A WARM EMBRACE

by Rosemary Clarke

Once they were strong
now they are weak.
Once they had voices
now they can't speak.
People who care for them,
but do they care?
When they are needed,
they're never there.
Thank God for the carers
who do their job well,
who bring back the Heaven,
When folks live in Hell.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

The Wolf Within

By Janet Baldey

Teresa stood staring out of the kitchen window at the dog.  It lay on the grass, its nose resting on its paws as the death throes of the setting sun flooded the lawn with crimson and set fire to its fur. 

‘If only’, unbidden, the bitter thought flashed into her mind.  Immediately, she felt guilty.  It was wrong to be jealous of an innocent animal. But Teresa couldn’t rid herself of the idea that the dog was anything but innocent. She could have sworn there were times when she’d caught it regarding her with a calculating expression. On those occasions, the look in its soft brown eyes was quite different from when it gazed at her husband.  

She jumped, startled by the brassy ring of the doorbell. She shot a glance at the clock; Charlie must have forgotten his keys again.

`       As she walked down the hallway she could hear the clicking of the dog’s claws as it skidded along the parquet flooring.  As usual, it beat her to the door, skilfully insinuating its body in front of her just before it opened.  Its tail waving like a flag, it reared and rested its paws on Charlie’s chest, almost knocking him over.   A grin smeared itself over his face.

‘That’s my girl’,

Gently replacing the dog’s front legs on the floor, Charlie bent to its level and ruffled its ears.

‘That’s a lovely welcome, Have you missed me?’

He rose and aimed a kiss somewhere in the direction of Teresa’s cheek.

‘Hi love. What are we eating tonight?’

The muscles of her face tightened.  He thinks more of that dog than he does of me, she thought.  As the dog trotted off behind its master, it shot her a sly glance.

         All through supper, it sat by Charlie’s chair ogling him with chocolate brown devotion.  At last, Charlie put down his fork, rose and pushed back his chair.   Looking down, he uttered the magic word.

         ‘Walkies.’

         Teresa watched them as they walked down the path and out onto the lane, the dog circling its tail and weaving figures of eight around Charlie’s legs. She bit her lip.   Not once, ever since they’d been married two years ago, had Charlie ever suggested that she should join them on their evening walks. Just as he never suggested that she sit next to him on the sofa as they watched TV.  That place was reserved for the dog.   Charlie would sit gawking at the screen, one arm thrown over the animal, his fingers thrust deep into its fur, while the dog lay inert, a look of glazed ecstasy in its half-open eyes.

That night, Teresa awoke from out the fog of an uneasy dream and lay, its shreds disintegrating around her.  Behind the sound of Charlie’s regular breathing, she could hear the creak of the garden gate keeping time with the wail of the wind.  She realised that was what had woken her. Charlie must have forgotten to close it and now she’d get no sleep. With an irritated sigh, she dragged her body from underneath the duvet.   As she padded round the end of the bed towards the door, she had a vague sense that something was wrong but her mind felt muzzy and she couldn’t think properly. Then, it came to her.  She always slept nearest the door, so why was she walking around the bed from the other side. That was where the dog slept.

‘It’s a wonder I didn’t step on the damned thing,’ she thought.

 

A sudden noise shocked her into stillness.   She craned forward and listened.   There was the whisper of voices and the sound of stealthy movements.  A frozen hand gripped her bowels and squeezed.  There were strangers in the house.  Instinctively, she dropped onto all fours.  She tried to cry out but her throat seemed clogged.  Desperately, she tried to clear it.  

‘Go away’.  The words came out as a rasping growl.

She crouched, her body hugging the carpet.  Then, she heard the slam of a car’s door and the voices receded.  With a feeling of relief so complete she almost swooned, she realised the sounds had been coming from the house adjacent.

She took a deep breath and tried to get up but her limbs seemed anchored to the floor. Looking down, at first she was merely surprised to notice that her arms were covered in long, red hair.  Then, horror followed surprise as she realised it wasn’t just her arms, her whole body was covered with a glossy, chestnut pelt.  A rolling wave of panic washed over her

‘Help me’ she cried. It came out as a low whine.

 Her head felt heavy as she swung it towards the bed. She blinked, her feeling of disorientation deepening.  There were two figures lying there, cuddled intimately together. Despite her plight, she realised that she and Charlie had not slept like that for a long time.

‘But, it’s mine’ she thought helplessly. ‘That’s my body in the bed’.

The smaller figure’s eyes snapped open and Teresa knew the full meaning of terror for the first time. The eyes, staring triumphantly at her, were brown. Hers were blue.

‘No’ she screamed.  It came out as a howl.

‘Shaddup girl,’ Charlie said, and turned over in bed.

 

All night, Teresa tried to tell Charlie something was wrong but her words came out as yips and yelps and in the end he got annoyed and dragged her out of the room by the scruff of her neck.

‘If you can’t behave yourself, you must sleep in your basket.’  He closed the door in her face.

The next week was a nightmare.  Charlie wouldn’t listen to her and not being able to face the endless bowls of Chappie, Teresa grew weak and emaciated.  Her fur started falling out.  She couldn’t sleep and had no energy. She simply lay in her basket as hope faded from her life.

In spite of her misery, she couldn’t help noticing what was going on. One of the  first things the dog,  - or ‘Terri’ as Charlie now called her - had done, was to throw out all Teresa’s clothes.  She bought a completely new wardrobe, miniskirts mostly and tops with plunging necklines. Teresa had to admit she looked well in them. They showed off her curves and long, slim legs. It had to be admitted, her figure was better than Teresa’s, obviously due to all the long walks she had been taken on. Charlie was now walking around with a foolish little smile playing around his mouth and he no longer stayed up late watching television.

Then, one day she heard something that made her prick up her ears.

‘There’s something wrong with that dog.’ Terri said.  Charlie looked worried; he came over and started stroking her.   Teresa desperately wanted to tell him something was very wrong but she knew she’d only start whining again, so she didn’t make a sound. She simply gazed at him imploringly,willing him to notice the change of eye colour, but Charlie had never been the observant sort.

‘It doesn’t look happy does it?’  Her rival said.

Teresa felt her lip begin to curl and Charlie got up so quickly he almost fell.

‘We’ll wait and see how she goes.’  He said.

A few days later, just before Charlie got home, Terri poured pools of water all over the kitchen floor. Puzzled, Teresa peered at her from over the top of her basket.

As soon as Charlie was inside the front door, she heard Terri talking to him in the hall and a terrible realisation dawned.

The kitchen door opened and Terri gestured dramatically.  

‘Look’ she said. ‘It’s pee’d all over the floor. I think the poor thing’s senile.   It is quite old, isn’t it?’

Charlie looked miserable and Terri slipped an arm around his waist and pressed her body against his. 

‘I know…’ she muttered huskily. ‘You’ve had it a long time but don’t worry, I’ll do what’s necessary and it won’t suffer.’  She offered up her face for a kiss.   ‘Now, shall we just pop upstairs for a shower?’  She raised herself on tiptoe and licked his ear with her long, red tongue.

The next day Teresa was awakened by the clinking of a chain. She opened her eyes and saw Terri bending over her.  All her poise and superficial glamour had disappeared, her teeth were bared, her incisors dripped saliva and her eyes gleamed.  Terrified, Teresa saw the wolf within.  

‘Come on you brute,’ she snarled.  ‘ You’re off to the vet. I’m taking you for your last walk.’

The chain looped around her neck, Teresa’s paws skittered helplessly as she was dragged towards the door.

‘Noooo’ she howled, raising her muzzle to the ceiling.   ‘Noooo, you can’t.  Its murder!

                                                                      Copyright Janet Baldey 

Abbalar Tales ~ 13

Abbalar Tales ~ 13 Jellonan

By Len Morgan

"Follow me sprout, let me show you to your quarters."  

Aldor followed him, aware of a faint fluorescence from the vaulted ceiling of the cave high above.   After further scrutiny, it appeared to be covered with large flat plates of a pale opal glass-like material.  As they approached it glowed with a blue-white light.   As they passed beneath its glow increased, to rival the sun, then as they progressed beyond its influence each plate reverted to its former state.  They were now moving towards a red glow, as they drew nearer Aldor experienced the intense heat emanating from its source, the intensity increased until he was unable to proceed further.

“Here, you will need this,” said Orden handing him a suit of stiff white material, matching gloves, and a helm that completely engulfed his head.   The eye slits were glazed with a dark brown smoky crystal.   “I had forgotten how fragile your human forms are.  We are tapping magma, from the molten core of Abbalar.”

Everything was clean and uncluttered, meticulously tidy, and completely free of dust.

 

Orden continued as if reading his mind. “Any possibility of contamination has been removed.   Even one extraneous dust mote might be enough to convert a valuable and complicated compound into useless waste.   Nothing must be left to chance, in chemistry and metallurgy, if we are to obtained consistent results.   But, they are my speciality, not yours.”

 

In his mind, Aldor mentally contrasted the inside of the cave with its arboreal exterior.   The overgrown mountain slopes were covered with strange unfamiliar plants, growing wild but in profusion, beside more familiar plants, trees, and shrubs.  

"Humans have always avoided this place.   It is reputed to be haunted and inhabited by a dark demon sorcerer.   Nobody would dare enter the Enchanters Wood uninvited, yet here in this cave is a level of technology men could not hope to achieve, unaided, within the next millennium."  

“Yet, you have no towns, no fields for crops, and no apparent commerce with anyone beyond these mountains?”

“This mountain existed long before life began on Abbalar.   It was and still is an active volcano.   We channel its forces, its destructive energies, for our own ends.   There are natural pipes, shafts, and channels, leading from the molten source to the hearth of our forge as you will observe during your stay.

“We live below, follow me.  A private space has been provided for you within.  Somewhere you can be alone and at peace with yourself.”

Aldor followed him through winding twisting tunnels cut into the solid rock.   Without his guide, he knew he would very soon have been lost.   Eventually, they came to a staircase leading down.   One floor down, Orden indicated a number depicting the floor they were on, the symbols were unfamiliar, but at 17th level, they entered a corridor with opposing doors at regular intervals.   “You will be in room 53, eighth on the right,” said Orden presenting him with a bronze key.

“Thank you,” said Aldor viewing the symbols on the eighth door.   "Fifty three," he said under his breath.

"The language is galactic standard, you will need to learn it in order to take full advantage of your stay here."

The key turned smoothly and silently in the lock.   He identified a faint smell of orange Blossom as he opened the door.   The room was dimly lit but as he entered the intensity of light gradually increased.   He deposited his belongings, including the heat resistant suit, inside and looked around.   The walls were of a smooth hard white material that felt warm to the touch.   There were several simple unadorned chairs and a cot bed, covered in white linen sheets.   There was a second door, but suddenly he felt heavy-legged and too tired to explore.   Instead, he simply undressed and reclined on the bed.  He felt exhausted.   As his head touched the pillow, his eyes closed and he slept. 

.-…-. 

He awoke to the familiar and seductive aroma of food.   Bacon, eggs, new bread, and sausage, he smiled, another dream he thought.   He opened his eyes, in darkness.   But, the action of sitting up was enough to activate the ceiling panels, he found himself bathed in cool diffused blue light.   He could hear activity, on the other side of the door, he'd had not yet explored.   He went through and there was Orden with a welcoming grin on his face.  

"Sit down and break your fast sprout," he said, pulling a seat out for him at the table and placing a plate before him piled high with food, “It's about time you woke up, eat heartily it’s going to be a long day.”

He needed no second askance, he tucked in.   The food was as good as its aroma implied.   Having eaten his fill, he returned to his sleeping quarters and found his pack resting against the external wall. 

“There’s an assortment of linen and clothing in the wall compartments” Orden explained, pushing a small blue dot on the wall.   A panel opened revealing a wide choice of clean casual clothing within. 

.-…-. 

The days sped by, a constant round of exciting new discoveries and ideas.   Each filled with new concepts, challenges and revelations.   Nothing was for free, he had to tease, coax, and guess before Orden would divulge anything.   He soon learned that he needed to be dogged, determined, single-minded, and above all to take nothing for granted.   Days became weeks, of constant learning, of mystique and magic giving power to ideas and creations.   His hours were filled with theory, research, and practical experience.   But, in all that time he never once met another living creature.   Orden was vitally alive and responsive, full of energy and enthusiasm.  He kept Aldor occupied from the rising to the setting of the sun.   He collected him from his quarters each morning, and returned him there in the evening, too tired to do anything but sleep.   At mid-day, they would stop briefly to eat lunch, belch and drink ale, before returning to the soul-cleansing roles of student and teacher.   It was in many ways an idyllic situation except he was ever conscious that time was passing, and he had an overwhelming desire to return to Genna as quickly as possible.   Here he felt strangely unsatisfied, he wanted something more, he felt there was something lacking in his existence.

Late one afternoon, Orden had gone to his forge to work on a personal project, Aldor knew better than to question him on such matters Orden would divulge nothing until the appointed time.   So, in Ordens absence, Aldor was expected to continue working on his current projects.   Instead, he went to the stairs.   Descending to his own level (17), then continued on down into the bowels of the earth.   Every ten levels, he explored, but found only the same white corridors and locked doors.   He tried opening these with his own key but, without success.   Beyond the hundredth level, the atmosphere became distinctly hot and stuffy.   A further ten floors down it became foul, and he found it difficult to breathe, he considered turning back but decided instead to check some of these deeper corridors.   They looked equally white pristine and virginal, just like all the others above, but he decided on impulse to try his key in each of the door locks anyway; as before none would open.   Then inspired, he went to the eighth door on the right, the one corresponding with his own, ninety-odd floors above, to his surprise and delight the key turned.  He opened the door gingerly and was immediately assailed by a sickly scent of decaying vegetation.   He screwed his face up, nausea churning in the pit of his stomach.   On impulse he wedged the door open before entering, trying hard to retain his stomach contents.   The room was humid, much hotter than he had ever previously experienced and shrouded in mist, Lit only by a dim red glow from above.   As he moved into the room he stumbled over something warm soft and yielding.   He heard a snort and a heavy blow knocked him from his feet.   The air was clammy and heavy with moisture, breathing was difficult in that heavy vapour filled atmosphere.   He backed slowly towards the door, he had no idea what was in here, he realised his life could be in danger.   As he reached the door, a high pitched bellow, unlike anything he had heard before shook both the air and the floor, deafening him momentarily.   He turned the handle, his mind filled with primordial terror, which he was only able to control after slamming the door firmly shut behind him.   For some time he stood, breathless and trembling, his clothes soaked through; his shirt front covered in green slime, smelling of partially digested vegetation.   For some time the occupant of the room vented its fury against the walls of its quarters, bellowing and pounding on the door.   The noise subsided eventually, and surprisingly there were no answering calls from the adjoining rooms.   He retraced his steps to the stairs and made his way painfully back to his own quarters.   He changed his clothing and cleaned up before returning to the surface.   Where he found Orden was still busy at the forge and seemed unaware of his exploratory trip.

.-...-.

Next morning, he awoke to the aroma of cooking as before and went through to the kitchen and sat at the table.  

Orden set a plate before him, "You have questions to ask me," he said without preamble.

"How many levels are there below us?"

"500" he answered at once.

"I travelled down more than a hundred yesterday.   What was that thing," he asked.

"It seems time for me to tell you my story," said Orden after a long pause.   He laughed nervously, "you’re the storyteller so you will let me know if my delivery is off?"

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 Baddow hall fruit farm

Robert Kingston 

Very few knew what lie behind

this hill land farm where wheels would whine

Where horses roamed through day through night

as travellers weary would alight...

lanterns born burning bright

would tease the fish across a span of water, silty, drifting right.
.

And at daybreak, waking bleary eyed

Wolds of green and whittled gold

A new spring rain, an early sun

So bold it burned the songs

that nestled in the shades of plum...

lined orchards slowly flaking

back to whence life began.

 

Copyright Robert Kingston