Abbalar Tales ~ 23

Abbalar Tales ~ 23 Off-worlders 

By Len Morgan

 A garish green florescence emanated from a small attic window, partially obscured, in the upper levels of the house of Baal.   It had been chosen purposely, for its situation, it would easily escape the notice of all but the attentive observer.

From the swirling incense laden smoke, within the room, a presence materialised; something alien.

'You have done well my bride; you have built up the basis of a small but fervent following within the centre of this heathen culture.   However, I am here to give warning.  There is one you are holding in the cells below who will cause problems if he is not neutralised…'

"Skaa will either be killed or assimilated very soon lord Bedelacq you have my word on it." she answered with confidence.

'Do not speak aloud,' he admonished.   'You maybe overheard, and you know well that I prefer to read your thoughts on such matters.'

'I-I'm sorry my Lord.' her thoughts filled with penitence, and something else.  Fear…

'The Huren is not the one to whom I refer.   It is the man who came seeking the girl who accompanied the missing prince.   Wizomi is his name, he is of the weirdly way yet, I sense something more in him, he may be an agent of the Jellonan.   He is a dangerous unknown force and must be dealt with sooner rather than later.   It is essential that you either turn him - and make him our creature - or, kill him.   I sense he is allied with prince Ahlendore in some way, and will not be susceptible to your more subtle forms of mind control.   I will leave you to do what is necessary.' 

The manifestation and the fluorescence faded as quickly as it had come.   Jazim shuddered involuntarily and relaxed.   Bedelacq always had that affect on her when he visited.  

It was interesting, that he was perturbed by the storyteller.   She recalled detecting tiny ripples of manipulation in Wizomi's handling of Skaa.   When they met in Mandrell, she had been sceptical about what had actually transpired but, since his suggestion suited her purpose, she had seen no reason to take issue with it.   Even so, she found the man was intriguing, purely because of the subtlety of his action.   The actions of most men of the weirdly way were as subtle as a hammer blow, whilst he wielded magic with the precision and delicacy of a surgeon healer, very refreshing, she would relish pitting wits with him and mayhap even enlisting him in the name of Bedelacq, if she failed he would still provide an acceptable sacrifice to 'the god of vengeance'.

.-…-. 

Aldor picked up Wizomi's trail with remarkable ease.   Whilst people do not consciously record the passage of one of the weirdly way their subconscious mind is remarkably sensitive and registers all, other than routine, contacts.   Moreover, the subconscious has fewer tendencies to distort, misrepresent, or manipulate the truth for its own ends.   Just a fleeting glance, a smile or eye contact would yield all the information he required and more.   A simple visual picture revealed to ten minds in as many seconds, was so effective he couldn't help wondering why it was not more commonly practised.

He began his enquiries in the main reception hall of the palace; where to his growing surprise nobody showed any sign of recognising him.   Even those who professed to know him very well showed not the slightest reaction to his presence.   He could not resist a childish peek, a foible but, he was disappointed to discover their feelings toward him ranged from mild liking to mild dislike, there were no wild extremes.   All this he was able to glean in passing.   The big test would be Jazim's sons; both were older than he and knew him intimately.   He sought them out observing them from a distance.   He was gratified to discover, they held a genuine warmth towards him, verging on affection but, he was even more surprised to learn they were not Jazim's natural children, neither were they in any true sense her stepsons.   He became conscious and alert to the fact, they were aware he, or somebody, was inside their minds, they seemed to be familiar with the experience accepting it as normal.   They registered his presence as he delved in their surface memories, and as he dug deeper made no attempt to hide anything, and that was when he made a startling discovery.   They were all natives of Bluttland, including their mistress, it seemed, they served Jazim as either servants or slaves.   They were all fanatical followers of the god of vengeance Bedelacq.   Neither man showed any sign of recognition as he passed close by.   He smiled and made eye contact but they simply ignored him and moved on.   He maintained contact with Bodley, the younger, and was surprised to discover they were not even brothers.   He learned they had been summoned to carry out a task on behalf of their mistress, at the house of Baal!?   He did not dwell on these new revelations, but assimilated them and followed at a safe distance; the contact was well worth investigating, especially in the absence of a viable alternative.

   He had mixed feelings, as they approached the house of Baal, some good, mostly sadness at the senseless death of Eldoriel.   He could still picture her in his mind, warm and smiling, waiting in that locked room.  He felt a reaction stir in the mind of Bodley and realised he must have unconsciously projected her picture into his mind.   He explored the memories now surfacing, learning in the process that Eldoriel had been marked for blood sacrifice.   At that time her husband had been a new recruit and had pledged her to Bedelacq as part of his initiation, then, she had been slaughtered, out of hand, before the appointed time.   Because he had been responsible for her wellbeing prior to the conjunction, Bodley was blamed; his punishment was swift and painful.   There were others now in the cellars below the house, who would prove suitable substitutes during the conjunction - when Vexen occluded Veinen and the light turned blood red - Bodley smiled the time was close at hand now.    Aldor was stricken with horror, as crude caricatures of Wizomi and Genna appeared in Bodley's mind.   All three men gazed up at the attic window bathed in sickly green.

Aldor closed his eyes and cast around for Wizomi but, he was not answering.   He thought of Jazim and cast his mind up to that distant room.   It seemed he was able to enter her mind, but then he felt dizzy and had to retreat back into his own mind.   In that brief oblique contact, he learned she was at least his equal at mind dwelling.   She had warning systems, steel shutters, and traps, set for just such an eventuality.   Her mind was a maze that would overwhelm and destroy the unwary mind, or capture it forever like a fly in amber.    He only escaped because she expected an assault to involve direct force but instead, he sidled up, rather than rushing in, whilst she was distracted by the presence of Bedelacq.   He lay passively in Bodley's mind when she invited them up.   She took hold on Bodley's mind as though he were an unruly dog on a leash.    Constantly questioning and demanding, until she was satisfied all was well.   She massaged their minds affectionately treating them as her pets.   Lingering absently, pushing and coaxing, he was unable to stir without giving himself away.   When they headed for the rear entrance he followed, out of sight, knowing exactly where they were heading, whilst part of his mind remained bonded to Bodley.

.-…-. 

'It is time for us to get properly acquainted Jazim,’ Aldor thought.

‘It cannot be avoided forever,’ Orden affirmed.

'I know a concubine is able to get into places a mere wife would not be privy to, but inside the mind of a man like Bodley is not the place I would choose, likeable as he is…'

Her nose quivered, 'I thought I sensed a foreign taint, which is why I waited to make your acquaintance,' Jazim replied.   'You've changed a lot since last we met, but, seeking me out here was not the act of a sane man, I am intimate with every dark crevice and wrinkle of this battleground.   I trust your body is well hidden,   For even as we speak Harby is seeking it out.   'Alls I need do is hold you're presence here until he throttles the life out of your physical form, then as you fade, I will know you have been eliminated.   I'm sorry it has to happen this way, you would make a truly wonderful blood sacrifice, but you are far too dangerous to be allowed to live…'

He remained still as Harby approached, and focused his mind through the jewel.  As he entered Harby's mind, all the doors opened and he knew every evil deed the man had committed.   He saw, he judged and watched without mercy as the shades of his misdeeds did their work.   At that moment, back in the mind of Bodley, he realised she did not have the power to affect him; even as he walked unopposed to the attic room where she lay in her light trance state.  

'Harby is no more,' he said simply.  

She took a sharp intake of breath, sitting up with a startled jerky movement the effects of vertigo showing on her face.  He knew immediately, she no longer inhabited Bodley’s mind.  

"What have you done to him!" she choked, through her rough-dry throat, assaulting him with all manner of mental missiles that would have killed a normal man, but simply bounced harmlessly off the shield his mind threw about him.

"I have done no more than press a switch you created and primed, many years past when first you met him."

She bounded to her feet, eyes blazing with anger and hatred, as she threw herself at him with all the strength she could muster.   Aldor felt the impact.   She smiled, her eyes filled with triumph, as she took a backward step glancing down at her handiwork, inviting him to look down at the dagger sunk deep in his chest.   He smiled and drew it out slowly, throwing it disdainfully at the door frame, it quivered and stopped.

"You really should know better than that he chided,"

"You fool!" she said contemptuously.   "You don't think I would rely on an untreated blade do you?   It was coated with a slow-acting poison called blacquero!   There is no antidote,” she added triumphantly, and lay down, effectively blanking him from her mind, in favour of going to the aid of Harby her faithful servant.

He approached her prone form, placing his forehead against hers, the jewel began to glow.  

She was confused; Harby was asleep and unharmed.   Aldore’s words had implied that he was dead - Harby is no more - she recalled his words…

'He is also no less,' Aldor spoke in Harby's mind.   He looked straight into the eyes of her ethereal form, 'How came you this way?'    His voice was filled with concerned.   She was silent a moment, then tears formed as she started to recall.  

   'I was taken as a child, I became this way when I was made a bride of Bedelacq - the god of vengeance.   I had a choice' she said, 'I chose to live.   We were all conditioned and made over in his image, by our Lord himself!'   She cried out in anguish, her voice rising to a crescendo as the strange green florescence infused the space within Harby's mind.   Flee for your life, he is coming!'    She yelled, her terror evident, ‘best make it fast,’ she warned.

'You would really help me?'    He said in surprise.

'Your mother was always a good friend to me.   She risked her standing and received personal abuse because of me, and on more than one occasion.   She is a caring and very compassionate woman.   Until today, I assumed you were your father's son, but you spared Harby, then I realised you have a lot of your mother in you.   Go now, if your life is of value, for inside this mind you are his.   Outside there are rules, ask the one who made you!   Ask…'

He did not wait to hear more, he knew she spoke true, he returned to his own body to find himself frozen and unable to move.  

'So, you are Ordens latest and shortest-lived disciple.' said the shade of Bedelacq.

He closed his eyes, ‘Orden,’ he yelled.

'Please do not deafen me sprout.   I see you have met the other side.

The HM is attuned to us, so I wouldn't even have to cry 'violation', the moment you strike at him I will retaliate and you know you would not stand a Karaxen's chance with a second strike against me Bedelacq, - Jellonan v Tzandoean?   I know all your secrets and there could be only one outcome.'

Bedelacq looked daggers in Jazim's direction.

'Leave her, at this time she is human, and out of your jurisdiction.'

'There will be another time Jellonan, when your pets will not be so prominent in Universal affairs.'   He said pointedly.

Ordens eyes blazed with anger 'Let us hope so,’ he said.

'Wait until they discover how fleeting your support actually is Jellonan' the shade smiled and burst into mocking laughter.

'You go too far…' Orden yelled, but the fluorescence was already fading and with it the god of vengeance.

'What did he mean by prominent in Universal affairs?' Aldor asked.

'He, heh, there are certain things it would be best, for the moment, I keep from you.'

'I think you had better explain?'  Aldor pressed him.

  Well, it is true you are currently quite high profile at council.'

'Would it hurt you to clarify that statement, what precisely do you mean?'    Aldor worried him like a dog with a bone.

Orden was distinctly uncomfortable.   'It huh, is not important at this time…’ he floundered.

'The truth may be the easiest way to extricate oneself from a hole when one has burrowed too deep,’ he suggested expectantly.

'Mmn oh, very well!' said Orden grudgingly.   'Bedelacq is the ambassador of a race known as the Tzandoean.   They were our main adversaries in the recent disastrous wars.   Though hostilities have long been over between us, and we are now equal partners, jointly administering the Federation, we frequently take opposing viewpoints on issues.   They control one faction of the ruling council, known as the outer alliance, whilst we Jellonan's are leading members of the opposing faction, known as the inner alliance.   There are many satellite factions, pressure groups, driven by a common interest.   Individually they are too small to influence events, however, because the Federation is currently so finely balanced they are able to wield and influence power way out of proportion to their actual size.   These satellite groups currently view you as the underdogs and are casting their decisive votes in your favour.   But, if it suits their purpose to do so, they could just as easily go the other way.    In your language I believe, the word is fickle.'

'So what in your opinion are our chances of keeping the floating voters on our side at this time?'  Aldor enquired.

Orden remained silent as Jazim began to stir…  

She smiled and stirred, recalling again how young prince Fazeil’s eyes always followed her hungrily every moment she was in his presence.   She was his father’s concubine.   Caliph Endrochine had long been totally under her influence but he was ageing fast whilst she remained forever young.   He had however for a considerable time, provided her with the perfect cover, enabling her to develop and nurture a wide power base for her cause.   As a concubine, she enjoyed free run of the palace of Corvalen, and was able to travel freely where his innumerable wives could not.   They remained virtual prisoners, restricted to their private quarters in the harem complex.

Fazeil was attracted to her like a bee to honey, and she did everything in her power to encourage him.   As a young man, he was suggestible, and eagerly involved himself, in the many dubious schemes she set up to draw him in.   She smiled again, a contented little sigh escaped her lips, she had trained him well.   She had relied on the family inclination, towards promiscuity, to ensnare him.   She knew she could provide what no other could and he was willing and eager to pay the price, whatever she asked of him.   Under the circumstances, a little religious commitment seemed a small price to pay.   He quickly grew to crave the hunt, the excitement of the kill, for which he grudgingly endured the letting of blood.   Initially, he rebelled against her, refusing to join in with her, in the practice of blood rites on human victims.   Her answer was swift, stingingly, and immediate; she withdrew her favours, severing all contact with him.   He predictably caved in, as she knew he would, after only a few days becoming just another of her many tame creatures.   Within ten years, the prince was a devout worshiper.   Soon after the death of his father, Faziel began the conversion of his people.  Those closest to him, his supporters, and their families, none dared refuse.   Soon, she thought, the god of vengeance will reign supreme to the nor-west, right down to the slopes of the Sabre Tooth Mountains.   One day the whole of Abbalar would be under his divine power.   Her smile changed to a frown, doubt shaded her dream, she was no longer sure that would be a good thing but, her future was inextricably linked with the master, and failure would mean death.   But, would that be such a bad thing?   She was tired…

 

 (To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

 

 

 TIMEWALK   (part four of five)

 by Richard Banks   

            “It's Cheshire and Adam,” whispers Cheshire.

            The door widens to let us in, then closes, plunging the house into total darkness. A voice tells us to stay where we are; he will put on a light. The muted sound of footsteps is reinforced by the creak of a wooden floorboard. An internal door is shut, curtains drawn and when the door is opened again a light shines out like a beacon. We follow the light into a room, where our host is already seated behind a desk. For a man who's been unexpectedly woken in the early hours of the morning, he seems remarkably composed, and if he's surprised by our mired appearance he makes no show of it. At first, I don't recognise him, a familiar face but in an unfamiliar place, the white overalls of the laboratory replaced by a blue quilted dressing gown.

            “Good God, sir, it's you!”

            Sir, the senior technician at Timewalk, stares back at me with an expression that suggests I have been more than normally incompetent.

            “Of course it's me, Adam. Who on earth were you expecting?”

            When I can't think of an answer Cheshire comes to my aid by saying I'm still woozy from a dodgy cigarette that she now thinks was a truth drug. Unsurprisingly this does not reassure 'sir' who is otherwise known as Professor Renshaw. Cheshire then launches into a blow by blow account of how she rescued me from a government hitman and that if the police are on to me they must surely know about everyone else in the cell.

            Renshaw considers this with the same expression he wears when calculating time shift coordinates. “Then why aren't they here, knocking down the door? No, it's only Adam they know about.” He fixes me with a look that suggests I am being held responsible for more than the footprints on his carpet. “Why you, Adam?”

            For the moment I am tempted to tell him the whole story; Eli, Egor, the whole thing, but I don't. If they find out I'm the old Adam rather than the new revolutionary Adam I become a threat to them all. I shrug my shoulders and when that response appears insufficient to reassure Renshaw I say that I'm not sure, it's all a blur, I was drugged. 

            “But that raises the same question. Why you? Why just you?”

            To make sure that it is just me, Renshaw phones someone called Mason on what he assures us is a secure line. Mason confirms he is okay, although he clearly doesn't relish having to acknowledge this at 1.30 in the morning. More calls follow and the recipients confirm that they too are okay.

            “Are you sure you weren't followed?”

            Renshaw's question is directed at Cheshire, who assures him that we were not. He takes a deep breath but is reassured. “It would seem, Adam, that whatever you may have told Lew has gone no further than him. Lucky for you, lucky for us all. I hope this isn't going to happen again.” There is an unpleasant edge to his voice. This is a man who will have no mercy on anyone who endangers the cause he espouses. I have a second chance; there won't be a third.

            Cheshire asks if the 'op' is still on. Renshaw confirms that it is. The only change is that he now wants me to detonate the explosives. Henderson, he says,  has been reallocated to other duties. My apprenticeship is over. It's time for me to step up to the plate and be fully involved. He knows I'm up to it; that's why he recruited me to Timewalk. I am to attend the final briefing at 20.15, after which the operation will commence.

            Cheshire asks what we are to do until then. Once Lew's body is found there can be no going back to the flat or our jobs. Renshaw agrees.

            “You will have to stay here,” he says.

            “And afterwards?” I ask. “After the op, what then?”

            He looks at me like a schoolmaster about to admonish an insolent child. “Leave that to me, Adam. Today we change history. Think about that.”

            This is not the reply I was hoping for and I'm beginning to think that my contribution to the revolutionary cause is unlikely to be missed if I am blown up. Renshaw delivers us into the care of a man called Hobson who takes us upstairs to a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. We shower and while our clothes are being washed and dried we retreat into the unaccustomed luxury of a proper bed with mattress and sheets. This might be the equivalent of the condemned man's hearty breakfast, but as revolutionary activities go this is definitely the best so far.

            Hobson informs us that the briefing will take place in Renshaw's study and that until then we are to remain where we are with the curtains shut tight. He says that lunch will be served at 13.00 hours and offers us a choice of dishes that includes salmon and beef. Cheshire says that after the revolution we will all be eating beef. I pretend to agree but in an overpopulated world, this is never going to happen. As always the beef eaters will be the rich and powerful. The revolution, if it happens, will be about who they are. That's the way it has always been and always will. Why should it be different this time? But Renshaw is already eating beef. Why risk that?

            We dress, have lunch, watch TV. Cheshire says the operation is straight forward, low risk but she's too tense for that to be true. The minutes pass with unbearable slowness. I want them gone;  the sooner this is over the better.

            At last Hobson appears to tell us that the briefing is about to take place. He escorts us downstairs to where Renshaw and three other men are seated around his desk. A ring on the doorbell announces the arrival of a young woman called Jodi, who, without speaking, takes her place on the only unoccupied chair.

            Renshaw begins. He is brisk, matter of fact. He explains that I will be taking Henderson's place, but that all other details remain the same. Our target is Nicolas Steppler, a junior Minister at the Directorate of Internal Affairs. The plan is straightforward, apparently well researched. If everyone plays their part it should work. Steppler will be leaving his office in Victory Square at 21.30 in order to attend a reception for Regional Commanders. As he is only a junior Minister the security arrangements for his protection will be minimal, a single bodyguard at most. He will leave by a side entrance in one of a pool of cars provided by the Directorate of Common Services. The official car will be intercepted and delayed, while I make the pick-up in an identical car that has ten kilos of explosives in the boot. On arrival I am to take manual control of the car and drive Steppler for several minutes before stopping and activating two controls; one locking the passenger doors and the second triggering a timer device that will detonate the explosives. I have five seconds to make my escape. If I am not followed I am to report to a safe house near the Timewalk building. If I mess up I'm on my own.

            “Any questions?” asks Renshaw. When there are none he wishes us well and is on the point of ending the meeting when he decides to say something that has evidently been omitted from earlier briefings.

            “You will, I am sure, be wondering why we are targeting a little known Minister with only a subordinate role in Government. Let no one be in any doubt about the importance of what we are to do. It is no exaggeration to say that the future of the human race depends on the successful outcome of this mission. As you are aware, the Government has delayed the start of the Time Forward Programme pending the resolution of unresolved technical problems. It may surprise you to know that no such problems exist and that, unknown to our political masters, I have overseen a number of missions with a view to gathering information useful to our cause. I regret to inform you that twelve years from now the world will be devastated by nuclear conflict. How this happens – I mean the precise sequence of events – is unclear, but what I can tell you is that the war will happen as a direct consequence of the reckless militarism of our then leader. That man is our target, Nicolas Steppler. He must be stopped, stopped now. We dare not fail.”

            There is silence, broken only by the shuffling of chairs as everyone gets to their feet. Hands are shaken, backs patted, a brief hug or two, then we are away, walking quietly, unobtrusively, to our designated positions. At the second intersection Cheshire turns right and I continue straight ahead. I glance back at her. It's twenty-four hours since I met her. Twenty four hours of death, near death, affluence and revolution. It's been a whirlwind romance. Do I want to see her again? I think I do.

            I arrive at the garage where the car I am to drive is ready, its sculpted body spotlessly clean, a functional work of art. To destroy it seems a greater crime than the taking of life but this I must do; how can I not. I change into the uniform of a Journey Attendant and listen to the last minute instructions of the mechanic. He informs the car of its destination and we are away.

            The car navigates its way onto the main vehicular route into Westminster, which, thirty-five minutes from curfew, is beginning to empty. We are on schedule, completing each section of the journey exactly on time. If the man responsible for delaying the official car has, for whatever reason, failed to do so, it will be within fifty metres, but there is no sign of it. The car pulls into Victory Square then left into a side turning, where it stops outside a porticoed entrance. I override auto drive and sound the horn to signal our arrival. The doors open and Steppler exits the building, briefcase in hand. I stride out onto the pavement and hold open the passenger door. He is about to get in when a voice from within the building calls his name.

            “Nicky, any chance of a lift?”

            Nicky asks where he wants to go and on being told the Savoy invites him to, “jump in.” Steppler shifts across the back seat as the other man emerges into the bright glow of the doorway. It's Eli, the new Eli that I saw on TV. He has the self-satisfied swagger of a man revelling in his own success. If he recognises me I'm done for, the mission over. But then this is the new Eli and I'm the old Adam. Did we ever meet? The thought seems absurd but the hope it gives me steadies my nerves. I stand motionless, hand on the door, while he buttons up his overcoat. Whatever I do I must not make eye contact. He steps down onto the pavement and I salute him with a sweep of my hand that covers my face. To him, I am a person of no importance, worth no more than a cursory glance. He joins Steppler in the back of the car. I shut the door and take up my position in the driver's seat.

            Within seconds we are away. Steppler opens the window in the partition between us and issues a peremptory instruction. I am to go to the reception and then take Eli to the Savoy. I respond with a dutiful, “yes sir.” Fate has delivered into my hands the man who in all probability ordered my murder. His death is unimportant compared to that of Steppler but it's difficult to know which will give me more satisfaction.

            I have only to stop, push two buttons and make my escape. I calculate that if I open my door before I push the second button my chances of escaping uninjured will be marginally, but significantly, enhanced. The thought distracts me and I am late in noticing the brake lights of the car in front of me. I press down on the brake and a collision is narrowly averted; my passengers, deep in conversation, appear not to notice.

            I turn into the inside lane, pass a row of shops and stop outside the unlit façade of the World Bank. Steppler opens the window and asks why I have stopped. He waits for me to say something,  but there's no need. I open my door and press the button that locks the passenger doors. I hear the bolts click into place and, to my horror, see the bolts in my door project out into empty space. This wasn't in the plan and I'm guessing there won't be a five-second delay when I press the second button, but I press it anyway and launch myself into the middle of the road. The explosives detonate, along with the petrol tank, and what's left of the car bursts into flames. There's a shower of burning debris and pain in one or both of my legs but I get up and stagger towards the side road that's on my escape route. There are fifteen minutes to curfew. With luck, I will get to the safe house without attracting attention. Then I come to my senses; I've been set up. I was no more meant to survive the bomb than Steppler. My new comrades are as toxic to me as the Government. I take refuge in the doorway of a shop and try to work out what to do. It's looking grim, but if I can get to the safe house I will have at least one ally in Cheshire. I also have a gun and Renshaw won't be expecting me. What happens after that I don't know. As plans go it doesn't add up to much, but it's better than being homeless and on a Government hit list.

(to be continued)

           Copyright Richard Banks

 

Shopping 2021

by Rosemary Clarke

My mask is on, my gloves are too
I'm all ready how about you?
I board the bus my mask on face
I'm going to a different place.
I'm going shopping in Southend
And Covid rules I will not bend!
When I get off mask stays in place
To keep all safe it's on my face.
I reach the store where I will shop
On footprints orange, I will stop.
I pay by card I leave and then
I take the bus back home again.
Open the door, spray my boot's soles
Efficient cleaning is my goal.
Take off outerwear, bish, bash bosh
And throw the lot into the wash.
I dress in old clothes then I spray
The shopping, and put it away.
I spray the trolley, especially wheels
I love how clean everything feels.
I feed the cats then brew some tea
I'll have a good rest now you see.
Then up I get to find some wood
To mend the doorstep, looking good!
Watch TV and when cats are fed
I yawn and stretch and go to bed.

Copyright Rosemary Clark

 

Early

By Phil Miller

There may be a time when she wants to

Open the door to solitude

And close it quietly behind her

So that only she can hear her heart beating.

She will want to feel the comfort of a hug

From a familiar armchair as she wriggles

Childlike into its well-worn woollen

Structure, like slipping into the arms of her

Fathers oversized cardigan.

And facing the frosty wall of glass that

knows the January storm will keep its

Promise, she will want to be still.

And there she will wait with saint-like

Patience, listening intently for the

Euphonious calls of her beloved birds,

Whose flights she will never see.

Copyright Phil Miller.

 

THE MESSENGER

By Jane Scoggins

     When, in November 1916, Mrs Wilson suggested that Jack be a messenger for the Army, some of her friends and neighbours thought it a bit strange.

     ''Why', they asked, would a woman who had lost both her husband and her son to the war, want to give up her closest companion and comfort to a war that may not see his return? But Mrs Wilson had thought long and hard about this, and was sure it was the right thing to do. Not just for King and Country, but in memory of her husband, John, and son, Billy. Jack had no say in the matter, no say at all, but he would have done anything for Mrs Wilson; laid down his life for her if need be, which is probably what he would have to do if sent to the Western Front and enemy lines.

   The war was now in its second year and losses of life just across the English Channel were more horrendous than anyone could have ever imagined. The women at home in Britain were terrified on a daily basis that news would arrive at their doors about the death or maiming of one of their menfolk fighting in France. A few old men, sick younger men and boys of fifteen or under were all that was left in the towns and villages.

    The womenfolk held things together in tightly knit communities. Their sons, husbands, brothers and uncles, acquainted or related to one another, and closely linked through work, church, hobbies, streets and towns. The custom of drawing the curtains when news that a soldier had been killed at war had become the traditional sign to the surrounding neighbours that mourning for a dead family member was taking place. Sometimes several houses in a single street had curtains drawn at any one time, and the silence was very noticeable. Children temporarily stayed out of sight, despite cramped conditions indoors, and dogs sat dolefully beside their front steps, aware that something was very wrong, and that this was no time for play or barking.

   Jack, being of a sensitive nature, had been very aware of the sadness surrounding the Wilson household when first, the big, solid Mr Wilson, and then the cheerful son, Billy had not returned home. Mrs Wilson had wept and remained intermittently morose for some time. Mrs Wilson was, however, very comforted by Jack’s close proximity. She appreciated his gentle attentiveness and his empathy in the sharing of her sorrow.

    When Sergeant Clegg came to visit Mrs Wilson, he wiped his big army boots on her front doormat and respectfully removed his green serge army cap before stepping over the threshold of her terraced house. He waited to be offered a seat when she showed him into her tiny front parlour. When Mrs Wilson called his name, Jack came straight away from where he had been waiting in the kitchen. After introductions, Jack sat attentively beside Mrs Wilson.

    Sergeant Clegg explained the work of dogs as messengers in the Army, and their specific role on the Front Line. Sergeant Clegg was himself a dog handler and trainer. Mrs Wilson had told him about Jack’s abilities and temperament, and from his own observations of the dog’s intelligence and breed he was prompt in telling her that he thought it very possible that Jack would be accepted to join his regiment. A period of training would ensue before a commitment would be given. If Jack did not show aptitude he would be returned to her

    Sergeant Clegg, a kindly man, was keen to tell Mrs Wilson that messenger dogs were highly trained, highly respected, well cared for, and well-fed. Although sad at the thought of being without Jack, she felt comforted by Sergeant Clegg’s assurances.

    Jack had been Billy's dog, and she knew in her heart that her son would be proud to know that his mother was putting him forward for important military service, work that could save the lives of many men serving in the Army,

     When Sergeant Clegg had left the house, Mrs Wilson told Jack that he was a good boy and would do very well in the Army. She did not say more as she found herself reaching in her cardigan pocket for her handkerchief, and shedding a few tears.

    A week later Sergeant Clegg came back to collect Jack, and for Mrs Wilson to sign the paperwork. People from the street came out to wish Jack farewell, and to stand with Edna Wilson as she watched Sergeant Clegg’s van disappear around the corner, carrying the canine conscript. Aileen Thompson invited Edna back to her house for a cup of tea. It was a gesture in recognition of her sadness and courage and intended to soften the blow of separation. Another neighbour, Rosa Croft, commented that she thought Edna a heroine for giving up her beloved dog for such a good cause and that Jack would no doubt prove to be a real hero.

    Sergeant Clegg was as good as his word. He sent Mrs Wilson regular updates, in his own strong, clear handwriting on army stationery, telling of Jack’s progress in training for the Front. He reported that he had proved to be a quick learner, a fast runner and a determined achiever in the tasks set at training school. Sergeant Clegg also remarked on Jack’s intelligence and affection. Mrs Wilson had a slight pang of jealousy at the thought of Jack transferring his affections from herself to Sergeant Clegg but understood that this was absolutely necessary to enable Jack to take instruction willingly. It also indicated to her that by being willing, Jack was being well treated. She remembered how Jack had pined when Billy had gone off to war. For many weeks he looked out for him coming down the street and cocked his head if he heard a boy whistling like Billy. But as time passed he transferred his affection to Mrs Wilson and she had been grateful for this. It somehow made her feel closer to Billy. Sometimes she raised her eyes to the scullery ceiling when she was washing up in the chipped enamel bowl, and spoke out loud to her deceased son. It comforted her to speak out loud to him. It was a one-sided conversation of course, but she felt in her heart that he understood why she had taken the decision to offer Jack to the military. Although she communicated less so with her dead husband, John, in this way, she somehow felt that he would not have minded. He had been a good husband but not exactly the kind of man she could talk over her feelings with. Billy, on the other hand, had been a mother’s boy, a sensitive lad, whom she had nursed through measles and scarlet fever as a little boy of six. Through her fear of losing him during the epidemic, when so many children died, she had done her best to keep him well and safe as he grew up. By his teens he was a strong, wiry lad, He had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the army when the call-up had come. Although only just sixteen his parents had agreed they could not hold him back. The fact was, of course, that there was not much choice in the matter. The Government, under Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, had more or less ordered that all able-bodied men over the age of sixteen sign up.

   There had been a fever of bravado that had fuelled the call to arms, instigated by the well-known poster of an admired soldier, Kitchener, whose imposing moustached face and pointing finger reached out with the words Your Country Needs You. Young men rose to the challenge that spoke to their manliness and self-esteem. At last, they could escape their dreary lives and take the path to certain adventure and heroism.

    News of Jack spread about the local streets and provided a welcome distraction. Mrs Wilson was happy to share the updates from Sergeant Clegg. She was sometimes stopped by complete strangers asking after Jack.

    Reports about Jack, once he had been dispatched to the Front, were less frequent and quite terrifying at times to Mrs Wilson. She had had less news from her son and husband, who wrote little about the terrors of the war, the agonies of the men and the hellish conditions.

    From the letters about Jack, Edna learned more than she had ever done from the carefully worded letters from her spouse and child. The horror of war became real to Mrs Wilson through the scenes described of mud and chaos, and the horrors of the men’s injuries. She loved her husband and son even more for their bravery when she realised the terrible conditions and fear that they had lived with day by day, night after night, without respite. The only way out was by death, the only way home was by serious injury.

    In November 1917 an injured soldier from Sergeant Clegg's East Anglia Division came to visit Mrs Wilson. She welcomed him into her house and did not flinch at the sight of his badly disfigured face. He had returned home from Passchendale, after being shot, and losing the sight in his right eye. He had volunteered to visit Mrs Wilson and give her news of Jack. Jack, he said was still very much part of the regiment and all the men regarded him as a hero. He had saved many lives, including his own, and had often sat stoically beside injured infantrymen, giving them comfort as they lay dying in no-mans land. Corporal Green explained how Jack had lain across his bleeding and unconscious body until a fellow soldier had spotted him and hauled him back into the trenches as soon as it was safe enough to reach him. He was able to give Edna the sort of information that she had been longing to hear, but which was too secret to write about in letters from so close to enemy lines. She was told that Jack, and two other dogs, were used to carry messages in canisters around their necks to and from officers along the lengths of the trenches, across stretches of deeply rutted, wet, muddy terrain that a man would have struggled to cross quickly and safely enough due to his weight, and would have been an easy upright target. The dogs were light, fast, focused and ran close to the ground, often unseen and mainly out of target. When lines of communication were down the success of the dogs carrying messages to and from, was crucial to maintaining essential contact. The dogs had sometimes been caught in the crossfire and injured, but somehow always managed to get back to base, even if it took a whole day. Mrs Wilson cooked tea for Corporal Green before she sent him on his way. At the door, she was tempted to reach up and kiss his young ravaged cheek. But instead, she shook his hand, and as an afterthought lifted it to her face and lightly kissed the back of his hand.

    Edna Wilson felt humbled and yet sustained by that single afternoon visit from the injured corporal, and often thought about him and about Jack. Occasional short letters were received over the next few months, but they held little information, except to say that Jack had survived another gunshot wound, and damage to a paw from barbed wire.

     When, at last, the war with Germany ended in November 1918, the surviving troops began to straggle home, Mrs Wilson was at first swept up with the relief and elation and joined in celebrating with the whole country. Whilst the feeling of relief that the war over remained, Mrs Wilson felt sad with the renewed realisation that neither her husband nor her son would be returning home to her. It was a bitter pill. What sweetened it to some extent, was the news that Jack had survived and was coming home. It was Corporal Green who brought Jack home. Thinner and now limping from his wounds, Jack was none the less delighted to be home. Recognising Mrs Wilson he went to her with his tail wagging and as fast as his limp would allow. The whole street came out to make a fuss of him and admire the home-made serge jacket he was wearing, with badges of commendations for bravery pinned on.

     After a month convalescing at home, Jack was much improved. Life settled down for Jack and Mrs Wilson. Thanks to Jack , Mrs Wilson began to socialise more and it wasn’t long before she met Bert, a widower who made her laugh again. He had a little Yorkshire Terrier who got on well with Jack and they would all go for walks together.

     When a letter came from the Prime Minister's office, commending Jack for his work during the war, Mrs Wilson was touched and proud and had it framed. A few weeks later she received another letter from an organisation who trained guide dogs for the blind. It explained that as a result of their war injuries many servicemen had lost their sight and were struggling with rehabilitation and work prospects. The organisation was recruiting suitable dogs to act as guides and companions to these men and women. Jacks name had been put forward to them and they wondered if Mrs Wilson would consider allowing him to join the training programme.

    Edna and Bert talked it over and agreed that Jack would be ideal although they would miss him very much.

    The following year saw Edna and Bert married. Although they had a new puppy they never forgot Jack. For the rest of his working life, they visited him regularly. When Jack was ready for retirement he came home, to be loved and cherished for the hero that he was.

 

Copyright Jane Skoggins

 

 

Haiku

 

By Peter Woodgate 

 

Small but exquisite

Beautiful nature indoors

My lovely Bonzai

My Lovely Bonsai

 

OLD SOLDIERS NEVER DIE

By Bob French

It was a cold evening as Private John Hacker, an east-ender who had joined the army in 1915 and fought right to the end, stood in the forward observation trench just east of Mons in Belgium.  He had been on sentry duty since just after five in the afternoon.  Frank, the man he shared the duty with had left the trench some time ago to try and blagg some food and drink, and to be honest John didn’t expect him back much after early Christmas morning. As he stared out into the darkening wilderness a tall figure appeared out of the shadows and stood next to him.  It was a Sergeant and John nodded to him. 

After a while, John turned to the man. “Private John Hacker Sarge, Essex Regiment.  The tall sergeant nodded.

“Alex Coventry, Fourth Middlesex.  They stood silently looking out over the land that stretched out into the darkness.  It was ten o’clock on Christmas Eve, 1918 and the war to end all wars had finally come to a close.  All that was left was to mop up the dregs of the German Army as they made their way home and help the civilian population where ever they could.

“’Ear Sarge.  How long you been at war then, an’ what’s it like when it ends?”

“Depends.  Civies celebrate by dancing in the streets singing God save the King, others quietly mourn their loss. I can tell you that when you do gets ‘ome, you’ll notice it.”  He paused for a while. “To be honest, you don’t feel much whilst you out in these bloody trenches with your mates.  I can remember getting ‘ome on leave last year.  Me, the missus and the kids took a while getting used to each other, but it’s the men who suffer from the trauma of the war ya feel sorry for. Sometimes it takes them a long time to adjust; some never do.  It’s different for each man and his family.”

“You mean they have terrible memories of the days and months, sitting in a slime ridden trench just waiting for a shell to blast them to pieces?”

The sergeant nodded. “Ay. You can be the best bloody infantryman in the battalion.  If a shell hits your trench then is curtains.  Jerrie's shell recognizes no one.  It just indiscriminate slaughters.”  He paused again as he stared out into the darkness.  “It’s the waiting that does it to the mind.”

“I hear tell that during the retreat back from Mons in 14, we….”

Sergeant Coventry turned suddenly, interrupting John. “Listen, Lad, the British Army never retreats got it.  They withdraw until they finds a better position so they can take the fight back to the bloody Hun.”

John Hacker nodded silently “Sorry sarge, all I was goin’ ta ask was were those stories about our lads seeing them angles and British bowmen during the battle of Mons.   Were they true?”

Sergeant Coventry stared silently out over the dark landscape. Frost had already settled on the land, blanketing the torn and destroyed features that nature had taken hundreds of years to create, in a white coat as though making a statement to all who looked out over the land, that peace had arrived. 

“Yeh, I heard about them.  When I was having my arm bandaged at the dressing station some time back, I ‘eard a Medical Officer explaining to one of the colonels.  He said that the men had been on their chi-strap.”  Private Hacker frown at the expression until Sergeant Coventry paused to explain. “When some men who have had to force march for a couple of days to get into position, then before they could get a chance to eat or sleep, theys asked to force march again for a couple more days in blistering sunshine with little or no water, they tend to have hallucination.  That’s what he was saying the men had suffered from.”

They both stood quietly staring out into the dark for about half an hour, when Alex Hacker suddenly looked up.

“What is it?”

“I thought I saw something move out there.”

“What direction and how far out Lad?”

“Dunnow Sarge.  But I definitely saw something move.”

“Probably the ghosts of Christmas Past.”

Alex Hacker stared at the sergeant for a few seconds too long until the sergeant spoke in a quiet voice.

“After every war, those whose bodies don’t find their way home, wander the battle fields on Christmas Eve.  They meet up as comrades, regardless of whose side they fought on.  Each year there are a few who find peace as their bodies are found and repatriated, and those who continually walk the battlefields waiting to be found.”

John Hacker felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle and he shivered a little, but not from the cold, but from the unknown.

“Are they out there now Sarge?”

The sergeant didn’t answer straight away.  “Depends. You have to listen real hard to the wind on the barbed wire round about eleven forty-five on Christmas Eve.  If you’re lucky enough, you may hear them singing Silent Night.”

“How long do they sing for Sarge?”

“Until midnight, then they fades away.

“John Hacker, with wide eyes, stared at the sergeant, then turned to face the dark expanse and listened.  He must have been there for about ten minutes when softly at first, then a little louder he heard on the cold wind that rushed at him from the east the words of the Christmas Carol of Silent Night.

“Sarge, I heard it……  Sarge.”

Private John Hacker turned to explain, but he was alone.  He had not heard the sergeant leave, just as he remembered that he never heard the sergeant arrive.

In a huge hollow created by an artillery shell a few hundred yards from the forward observation trenches of the British Expeditionary Force, just outside Mons two British soldiers sat waiting.

“How you been Alfred?”

“Can’t grumble mate.”

“Where’s Harry then?”

Alfred and his friend Harry, had been killed in the first few hours of the war and just before last Christmas, Harry’s body had been found and had received a proper military funeral, and as such, had found peace.

“Harry didn’t make it last Christmas, so I am thinking he found peace, lucky blighter.” Just then another person slid down the wall of the hollow.

“Well if it ain’t my old friend Manfred. How you been mate.”  Before the German sergeant could reply, a young French officer slipped down beside him.

“Philippe my old son.  Good to see ya. Thought for a minute you weren’t going to make it.”

The French officer smiled and realised that some of his old friends were no longer present. “Have we lost some of our comrades my friend?”

Manfred nodded.  “Yes, but that is good, no?”

They talked for a while about their families and what they would be doing this Christmas, then they began to sing Silent Night.  As they did, a man slipped over the edge of the hollow and slid down to join his comrades.

The French officer reached out and shook hands.

“It is good to see you, Alex Coventry. I wish you peace at this Christmas time mon ami.”

They sang quietly until the night sky grew very dark and still.  It was Christmas day.

As if by magic, it started to snow and as the men sat in the hollow singing Silent Night, like the snowflakes that floated on the gentle wind, they slowly faded away.

Christmas story 4 of 4.

 Copyright Bob French