TIMEWALK (Part 1 of 5)

 

TIMEWALK ~ Part 1

By Richard Banks     

                                                                                                                  

Time travel is not for the faint-hearted. There's no end of scrapes you can get into and the repercussions can be enormous. Just think of the consequences, heaven forbid if you were responsible for the death of a single Viking or Anglo-Saxon. Okay, you might get lucky and nothing much happens but supposing your actions prevent the birth of just one child. One child who might have gone on to have children and grandchildren. I've not done the maths but by the time we get to the here and now we’re talking big numbers. And these are people who should be living now, except that they aren't because you ended the life of their dark-age ancestor.

         Then there's the future. That's another kettle of fish. Does it exist? I mean, can we go forward into a future that hasn't happened yet. There's a lot to find out and more than a few risks along the way, but to President Hurst and his cronies, even the smallest risk isn't worth taking. That's why there's an embargo on forward trips and a root and branch review of the Time Back project.

        The rumour currently doing the rounds is that Time Back is to close, with the loss of two hundred jobs, including my own. If this happens it will be spun as a necessary deployment of resources to the present day. The real reason will more likely be the unreported disappearance of two research workers into the seventeenth century. One month later there has been no impact on history or the present time. It's 2105, and it’s the same old world. Nothing's happened, nothing is going to happen. We're safe. Why doesn't Hurst understand that, that we need to go back in time just like we need to go forward? If we have neither then we have only the present and that's one big mess we can do without.

         Yes, I know I'm angry. I'm not the only one. When you're living five to a room in one of the world's most crowded cities how can you not be angry? Where do you go when you need peace and quiet? There used to be such places in London: parks, open spaces where you could throw out your arms and touch only the air around you, a circle of nothingness unfilled by another human being. What remains of these places are in the outer zone, where those with the necessary papers are permitted to go on the airbus. There are, we are told, large forests in the Welshland. Virtual tours of these can be viewed on what is left of the Web in public information rooms, but no-one believes they still exist.

         It's time I was getting back. Greta will be cooking dinner in steaming saucepans that make the walls and window glisten with condensation. It is the time of day I like best. A time to drink vodka and chill – maybe life isn't that bad.

         I return on pedestrian highway 22, in the fast lane, with the serious runners returning home from the financial sector. Many of them would like to race but since the Oxford Street disaster, this is forbidden and punishable by a loss of privileges. The traffic police, in their hover drones, pass slowly over us, issuing the usual warnings. Above them, the transits of senior officials make more rapid progress. This evening they are out in unusual numbers, fuelling rumours that important talks are taking place in the Executive Council. What these are about we may never be told. Those who care, who think there is some point in knowing, turn on their TV screens at 19.30 for the news but nothing worth the hearing is ever broadcast at this time. The important stuff is transmitted on ‘Street Talk’ through an ever-increasing network of on-street loudspeakers.

         I am in good form today, keeping up with those around me for over five miles. As we approach Patriots Way I ease back into the middle lane and immediately decelerate to avoid clipping the heels of the young woman in front of me. She is dressed in the rough weave overalls of a grade three factory worker. The green highlight in her hair sends out the message that she is different. A little difference is tolerated, but not encouraged. In an age when conformity is considered necessary for the maintenance of public order a small spark of rebellion remains in us all.  I carry mine in my head, no doubt she does too, but our thoughts are best kept to ourselves, the loudspeakers also listen.

         The walkers stop at a traffic light and I move over into the inside lane. I rejoin the pavement on the opposite corner and walk the remaining fifty metres to the high rise where I live. The air is cold and already the heat I have generated by my exertions is beginning to dissipate. I look forward to the warmth and aromas of Greta's cooking. If only she was alone, but as I push open the door I know the others will be there too.

         Egor sits in front of the window, reading the sports page of the People's Gazette. By doing so he deprives our single room of much of its light. He is a large, bad-tempered lout, addicted to alcohol and unlicensed stimulants. Despite his unpredictable mood swings he somehow manages to hold down a job in highway maintenance. He speaks little, mainly to claim what he refers to as his rights: the largest share of the food ration, an extra blanket, a larger sleeping space. These things, he says, he must have on account of his greater bulk. Why should a woman or an undersized runt – he refers to myself – have as much as him? As he can easily take what he wants we reluctantly concede to his demands. If he takes too much we will have to find some way of disposing of him. Many people fall to their deaths through open windows, but whether the rest of us have the collective strength to make this happen is uncertain. For the moment we scrape by as best we can.

         At least we have the mitigating influence of Mia, a nervous young woman who gives him her vodka measure in exchange for his protection from those who would part her from the little she has. Were she physically attractive his price would be higher, but her skin is covered in purple splotches. She has no memory of her parents but thinks it likely they were killed in the chemical wars of the 80s. She is one of nearly four million survivors now living in London.

         I fill my glass with vodka and sit down beside Eli who is reading the official newsletter. I say what splendid news it is that the Government has again reduced unemployment and homelessness. The newsletter makes the claim that homelessness will be eliminated within five years. This is rubbish but I pretend to believe it. In all probability, Eli is a government spy who denounces all those with dissident opinions. His presence, however, is an opportunity as well as a danger. If my positive opinions are mentioned in his regular, and no doubt detailed reports, this can only be to my advantage. My recent posting to the Timewalk Unit may well be a consequence of what he has written. To ensure that I am heard by others who also listen I voice my support for the Government to anyone within range of a loudspeaker. Today, while in Concord Square, I loudly rebuked a woman for complaining about the clothing ration.

         “The reductions are necessary,” I say. “Why should you have two coats when others have none?”

         I relate this story to Eli, who nods his head approvingly. He asks if I took her name and number. I say, “No. Was not a reprimand sufficient?” He again nods his head, but his face is thoughtful, as though he is weighing my every word. I change tack. “Thank goodness, we have Greta; she is worth a hundred of those complaining bitches.”

         And indeed she is. As our designated 'house mother' her main task is to manage the food allowance for five people and prepare meals that adequately feed us. While others go hungry we feast. How she does it is a mystery that sometimes seems like a miracle.

         “So what hotchpotch have you got for us today?” I call out, with the exaggerated good humour of a man playing to the gallery. “Surely it cannot taste as good as it smells.” She laughs. She often laughs. Of all the people I know, she is the happiest, the most fulfilled. Immersed in the magic of her cooking, the grim imperfections of the world are an unimportant irrelevance.

         Greta says we are too quiet and that if we want to eat we must sing her a song. The troubles of the day are fading, we are warm and a little foolish from the vodka. We sing the old song about Waterloo. Someone says it is about a battle but it has a lively tune and by the time Greta fills our plates we are as happy and content with life as we will ever be. When we have finished we look at Greta like ever-hopeful children. “There is nothing else,” she says. She appears surprised that we have asked, but we can smell jam cooking. Inside the oven there are raspberry tarts. There is one for each of us and although Egor snatches the largest those left are enough to fill our stomachs.

         Mia and I take the dishes down to the utility room and load them into one of the washers that roar into life at 21.00 hours. On our return we find Egor and Greta arguing about the TV. This evening only two of the permitted channels are still broadcasting. We have the choice of a new soap or a drama purporting to be the life story of the martyr Spelthorpe. When Eli tries to mediate by suggesting a house vote be taken Egor loses his temper and resolves the issue by knocking Eli to the floor. This is another opportunity for me to ingratiate myself with Eli.

         I help him to his feet and when he goes to the washroom to staunch the blood flowing from his nose I follow on with a clean cloth. If Eli is a spy he has the power to make Egor disappear –  this is an opportunity not to be missed. I find him spitting blood and venom into a washbasin.

         “Are you okay comrade friend?” For the first time, I use the form of address for a party member. He looks surprised but makes no response. “It is a disgrace,” I say, “the oaf should be punished. We must make a complaint.”

         Eli dismisses the idea with a contemptuous snort. His supercilious expression returns. “Be careful who you complain about applicant member. They may have friends, big fish that will snap up a minnow like you. Not everything is what it seems.”

         We return to the flat and everyone lays out their bedding on the floor, in preparation for lights out. The atmosphere is tense and no one is sorry when our room is plunged into darkness. The night that follows is punctuated by Egor's snores and the sirens of emergency vehicles. These are distractions I have long become accustomed to. My conversation with Eli however is new and unexpected. I lay awake trying to make sense of it. His warning raises more questions than answers. Why should anyone lodging a complaint about Egor be at risk? The man is an unskilled labourer, a drunken idiot; why should anyone care about him? Yet apparently someone does. Clearly, Eli knows more than he is telling, but the fact that he is telling me anything shows that my months of toadying up to him are paying off. Friend, I called him. Let's hope so, a friend like him can only be to my advantage. 

         In the morning I awake to find that Eli has already departed for his work. When I set-off for mine I discover the free lunch ticket he has left in my jacket pocket.

 

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

Collaborative Poem

 

 Shisan – Cobblestone Path

 

Included is the collaborative poem discussed on Wednesday’s zoom.

I thought it could be of interest to the group to see yet another strand of poetry.

It would be helpful if all of this email could be put on the blog, as people can better understand the format etc.

 

I have sought permissions from the other writers for it to be published and all are happy to be included.

The poem has recently been published in “Presence”, Britain’s top haiku genre related journal.

 

I look forward to seeing the outcome.

Best wishes

Rob

Cobblestone Path (12 verse Shisan)

cobblestone path

a view of blossoms

with every step                                   mv

 

children play leapfrog

in the new grass                                 ms

 

winding down

with smooth jazz

and a bubble bath                               po

 

the last nut in place

on the cloudbusting machine              rk

 

she tells me

she’s a dominatrix

over ice cream sundaes                      mv

 

since the mastectomy

they’ve slept in separate rooms          po

 

plate boundaries

shifting along the fault lines

of the East-African Rift                       ms

 

the mutant crickets’ 

soundless wings                                 rk

 

moonlight 

has silvered

all the daytime colors                        ms

 

graffiti artists

share a cigarette                               mv

 

the Pope again

asks Michelangelo

when it will end                                 rk

 

a wedge of swans

above a withered field                      po

 

 

mv - Maureen Virchau (USA), ms - Mary Stevens (USA),  po - Polona Oblak (sabaki - Leader) (Slovenia), rk- Robert Kingston (uk)

 renku is a collaborative poem generally taken on when a group of poets meet. Formally named rengay, it as been around in Japan and China for hundreds of years.

Each poets can either take turns or the sabaki (leader) chooses from supplied verses.

Dependant on length of poem, they range between 12 and 36 generally, but can be upwards of a thousand verses. Each verse, be it three or two lines follows a table of events and must link to the previous verse, whilst shifting away from the previous. The events generally include at least one blossom or flower verse,  a moon verse, two love verses , with the rest being non seasonal verses. The opening verse is from where haiku originated. Separated out by Basho.

The poem is divided into 4 sections, with each section traditionally being written on one folded side of a piece of paper.

 

Shisan a significant occasion Kaoru Kubota - 1970's
The Shisan - 12 verses - A Description
The Shisan is a twelve verse sequence consisting of four movements of three verses each. The movements are treated as preface, development part one, development part two, and rapid close. To the extent that the four part division is taken to reflect that of the kasen, the shisan also lays claim to the topical and tonal characteristics of the jo-ha-kyu pacing paradigm. As with all formal renku the shisan starts with the season in which composition takes place. Unusually the seasons then appear in calendar order with one season featuring per movement. Typically spring and autumn will take a grouped pair of verses, whereas summer and winter are represented by a single verse apiece. However, for sequences begun in summer or winter, the wakiku would also be expected to take that season as the shisan invites a relatively conventional treatment. The majority of moon and blossom verses will be set against autumn and spring respectively - the order in which they appear, and the characteristics of the relevant movement, being dependent on the demands of the calendar. In more experimental sequences the blossom position may be treated as the more generic flower. In all cases, a pair of love verses will appear in one of the central movements, normally the one that does not feature moon or blossom.  The word shisan may be read in several ways. Primarily shi means four, and san means three. When written in kanji shi may read as tamawari - something bestowed - and san as bansankai - a formal meal. The suggestion is that participants are invited to a significant occasion - reflecting the expectation that all will respect the finer points of style.
side 1
	autumn		autumn	spring		spring		summer		winter
hokku	au mn		au	sp bl		sp [mn]		su		wi
wakiku	au		au	sp		sp [mn]		su/ns		wi/ns
daisan	ns		ns	ns		ns		ns		ns
side 2
4 short		ns/wi	wi/ns [mn]		ns/su lv	ns/su		ns		ns
5 long		wi/ns	ns/wi [mn]		su/ns lv	su/ns		au mn		sp bl
6 short		ns	ns		ns	ns		au		sp
side 3
7 long		ns/sp [bl]	ns/sp lv	ns/au [mn]			ns/au		ns	ns lv
8 short		sp	sp lv	au			au lv		wi/ns lv	su/ns lv
9 long		sp/ns [bl]	sp/ns	au/ns [mn]			au/ns lv		ns/wi lv	ns/su
side 4
10 short	ns lv		ns	ns		ns			ns	ns
11 long	su/ns lv		su/ns [fl]	wi/ns		wi/ns [fl]			sp bl	au mn
ageku	ns/su		ns/su [fl]	ns/wi		ns/wi [fl]			sp	au
Not s	su/ns - (wakiku only) - where the hokku is summer, wakiku may be non-season wi/ns - (wakiku only) - winter likewise sn/ns or ns/sn - (elsewhere) - whichever is selected first its counterpart is selected after ns - non-season (miscellaneous) position bl - blossom position [bl] - alternate blossom position (when season selected) - the choice is either/or [fl] - alternate flower position (when season selected) - the choice is either/or mn - moon position [mn] - alternate moon position (when season selected) - the choice is either/or lv - love position, indicative - love verses move as group

 From Robert Kingston

Hanging Tinsel

by Rosemary Clarke.

It's hard to hang up tinsel
it's hard to decorate
When you miss all
the goodies on your plate.
The way that she cooked dinner
when you were just a kid
The toys that used to spin and
the little things she did.
Like warming up your PJ’s
And stoking up the fire
The way that everything was good
When you were in the mire.
The way that she'd make Christmas time
the best there ever was
and everything else she did
and all of it because
she cared and she loved you
in every single way
it's hard to hang up tinsel
It's hard on Christmas Day.

For all those missing others this Christmas; bless you all.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Abbalar Tales ~ 20

 Abbalar Tales ~ 20 Corvalen

By Len Morgan 

They gathered some sacking from the upper shelf, as darkness, descended, seating themselves either side of the door.

"What did we discover?" Wizomi spoke his thoughts aloud.   "Five bottles of wine and one of vinegar, assorted sacking, and wooden shelves bolted to the walls.  A long narrow grill running beneath the shelving on the long side wall, which could just provide us with a means of escape, if we can remove it."

"Escape to what," Genna asked?

'Well friend WIZ, it's a pretty situation you find yourself in, and without any help from me, I might add.'

'Orden?   Are you aware of our situation?   Can you make any suggestions?'

'It would help if we knew whether the grill is painted and what it is made of.   Get me that information and I will assess your chances of removing it,'  Orden answered in Wizomi's mind.

'Try scraping it with a fingernail to see if it will peel is the metal soft or hard?.   If it is soft, try soaking bare metal with the vinegar and tell me what you observe.   It could possibly weaken the metal bond'   A new voice interposed.

'Aldor?   You made it!'

'Hello Wiz, I'm on my way, I should be with you in days…'

'I would advise against seeking us out, I suspect they are using us as bait to capture you,' Wizomi warned.

'I doubt anybody would recognise him anyway' said Orden.

Wizomi clambered under the lower shelf and began to scrape the metal until it was bare.

"Pass me the Vinegar," he said.   He poured the liquid onto the metal, 'its fizzing!'  He noted silently.

"Somebody is coming," Genna hissed.

From outside the cell, they heard a group of people approaching.

"Replace the sacks where they came from, quickly!" said Wiz, urgency in his voice.

They were barely seated, either side of the door, before the visitors, stopped outside.

"I don't care how thoroughly you searched them, I saw a light shining under that door.  I want the whole place searched again, thoroughly!" 

Further talk went unheard over the rattling of keys turning the rusty workings of the lock.   The door opened easily on well-oiled hinges and two overlarge figures stood silhouetted against the lanterns held by a third man who remained stationed outside.  

 "When I close the door, I want them thoroughly searched that means the cell also," he said, hanging one of the lanterns on a hook immediately inside.   The stockier, and younger of the two men carried a short but heavy cudgel, the other carried leg irons, with which he shackled them together whilst his partner began a systematic search of the cell.  

"They're kind of young, little more than kids.   About the same age as your twins, maybe a bit more," 'leg-irons' observed, inspecting them critically, whilst carrying out a thorough and efficient search.

"Anything?"   Lantern man called from the other side of the door.

"Nothing!" said leg-irons.

"What are you being held for?" asked Cudgel.

"I came here in search of the young lady here, why she was brung, only the bringer knows," Wizomi replied, "Mayhap you could find out for us?" He added hopefully.

"Don't hold your breath for an answer," leg-irons chuckled.

"Where are we?"   Genna asked, speaking for the first time since their arrival.

"We are here to get answers not to provide them," yelled lantern man more to warn his comrades, against giving something away, than to chide her.   "Have you found anything Harby?" he added.

"Not so far" Cudgel man answered, "open your mouth boy," he said to Wizomi, holding the lantern above and close to his face, "and you," he said to Genna bringing the lamp closer to her. "Hey she's a looker and no mistake," said leg-irons.  

"Eyes off Bodley, she's not fer the likes o you," Harby warned him.   He completed the search by running his fingers through their hair, "They're clean," he said, evidently satisfied, picking up the five bottles of wine he smiled.   "You won't mind if I take these will you," He said heading for the door, as Bodley unfastened the irons.

Harebelly kicked hard on the door and yelled, "OUT!"   He returned in moments to place two bowls of stew, on the floor, just inside the door together with half a loaf of black bread each.

 .-...-.

Aldor’s Return 

As he drew nearer, he felt excited, he was almost eager to set eyes on Corvalen once more.   After his strange meeting, he felt at peace - he had forgiven himself - and was now able to ride in and embrace his destiny having jettisoned all the emotional baggage he had accumulated, over many years.   He entered the fringes of the city, passing close to the 'Pochette Platzi'.   Recalling Genna's obsession with the place, remembering how her eyes lit up when she spoke of it.   To Aldor, it looked a little shabby, he smiled anyway.   But, who was holding them and where he thought.   He closed his eyes, 'Wiz?   Where are you?'   He asked.  

.-…-. 

As they slammed the cell door shut and turned the key, Wizomi cursed under his breath.   "Damn, Damn, I should have obtained some form of implement from one or other of them, but I was too slow," he chided himself.

"Something like this?" Genna asked, holding up a small folding knife.  "I liberated it from Harby's pocket while he was searching me.  That will teach him to keep his mind on the job," she said smugly.

They ate the stew and bread quickly, not knowing where their next meal might come from.    Then Wizomi clambered under the bottom shelf, and succeeded in bashing his head on its underside, dislodging it in the process; the shelf flew over his head and shoulders landing with a clatter at Genna's feet.   They laughed, spontaneously.

"It wasn't attached." She laughed, tugging hard at the second shelf, "sorry the others are firmly fixed."

Wizomi was soon ensconced, beneath the second shelf, busy scraping away the paint around the edges of the brickwork.   "That should do it," he said with satisfaction after half an hours work.  The paint proved to be more resilient than the mortar surrounding the grill.   Ten minutes later, he announced, "we need two cords eighteen or so inches in length.  We can use them to pull out the grill and hold it in place after we have gone.”

Genna took one of the sacks and proceeded to rip it along its warp. "Pass me that knife," she said.   Five minutes later she had plaited two basic but serviceable lengths of rope.  

Wizomi cursed a second time, "My fingers are too thick to lace the cords through the grill."

"Let me try," she said.   "Yes," she said on her third attempt "Done it!"

"Good.   All we have to do now is hold one end each and pull…"   Seconds later, he peered warily out, through the hole, into a long deserted corridor.

"It hasn't been that long since they fed us, I'd guess we could have five or six hours before they return."

"Do you want to wait to feed your face again, or shall we go wand-a-bout?" he asked.

In the corridor, he carefully replaced the grill so it would pass cursory inspection.   He stepped out the length of their cell, and found another identical grill and, others at regular intervals running in either direction.   Carefully he marked their cell before they headed off down the corridor.

"We need to discover where we are," Wizomi said.

"What difference will that make" she asked.

"Oh!   Believe me, it will make a difference,” he assured her.

As they travelled down the tunnel, they were struck by its repetitive nature, completely uniform, so that you could trick your mind into thinking you hadn't moved at all.  

"There has to be some difference," he said under his breath, trying hard to convince himself.

The corridor had a very slight but constant curve to the right, from Genna's point of view; she offered the observation for comment.

"It could be a coincidence, or it may prove to be a circular corridor but, just think how large a circle that would be," he said aloud.    "Genna, Walk ahead, and count your steps until I say stop." 

She began to walk "1, 2, 3, …… 826,  27,  28…"

"STOP!   She barely heard his distant yell.

She turned, but he was out of sight.   She walked towards the opposite wall.  On her second pace, he came into view, walking rapidly towards her.

"Incredible," he said, drawing a circle in the thin layer of dust on the floor, quartering and segmenting it. "Say that's 828 yards, I'd guess there would be 12 segments which would make it between 4 and 5 miles round…   The outer walls of the city would be roughly six miles round.  This could be a single tunnel inside the walls of Corvalen.   But it was not built recently, nobody could keep such a large construction project secret for long; this tunnel is close to twenty feet wide.   How could they dispose of such enormous quantities of soil, or indeed import the amount of rock and building materials required to build this?"   

"Have you seen the ceiling plates, thousands, it’s like daylight in here, and I know some pretty wonderful people, but none could even guess how to create such objects," she said.  

He shook his head falling to his knees.

"Wiz, I think we'd best move on, do you hear that sound…?"

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 Haiga

by Robert Kingston