Abbalar Tales ~ 26

 Abbalar Tales ~ 26 The Palace 1

By Len Morgan

“Mistress, they have escaped from the cellars.”

“Fools, how did you let it happen; Harby…”

“There is a low ventilation grill in each of the cells, on the outside there is an expanse of underground tunnels…”

‘Fazeil, what know you of tunnels beneath the city?’ she asked using mind speak.

‘There are extensive tunnels circling the inside walls of the city, they have remained unused and empty, ever since they were discovered some five-six hundred years ago.   There is access from the palace but no other known way in or out.’ He replied.

‘Harby has discovered a number of exits, through the cellars of the outer rim houses.’

‘I caution you that they should not become common knowledge lest our own designs be compromised.   Those access routes must be disguised.   The security of the city is at stake, only the Caliph and a few of his closest advisers, currently, have access.’

‘Four of the intended offerings have got loose and fled into those tunnels.’ She warned.

.-…-. 

He stepped through the portal, surrounded by mist, the missive to Asba Dylon still in his hand.   As the mist cleared he carefully consigned it to his pouch.   He found himself standing at the hub of a lightning-struck tree whose shards spread out, parallel with the ground, like the spokes of a giant wheel.   He sprang from the stump, bending his knees for what he judged to be a hop of several feet only to find, to his dismay, that he'd completely misjudged the distance.   It was in fact nearer six feet and he had to roll ungracefully to avoid a bad landing.   He stood up and turned to memorise the location of the portal for when he needed to return.   He only had four days and may need to find it in a hurry, before their dreams turned to dark terror and consumed them both as surely as they would had they been reality.   He turned slowly through a complete circle mapping his surroundings and committing them to memory.   He experienced a rush of excitement as he realised where he was.   These woods were the private hunting reserves of the first family of Corvalen.   He had spent many happy hours here as a child, hunting small game rabbits, pigeon, grouse, deer and other game.

"Hey, you!   What are you doing here?" a familiar voice demanded.  

He turned with a broad grin on his face expecting to see Elroed, the master woodsman, who managed these woodlands.   Thirty yards separated them; he noted Elroed held a partially flexed bow pointing menacingly in his direction.   No smile or look of recognition showed on the man’s face.  

"Good day master woodsman, I was passing and thought to see for myself the fabled Northern Reserve of Corvalen," He said.    "You are Elroed?" he questioned squinting into the morning sun.   "I have been very interested in the reports I have heard about your crop rotation theories, your coppicing practices, and methods of animal husbandry.   I decided long ago that if ever I found myself in this area I would look you up and see them for myself.   I am very impressed."  As he spoke he skimmed the surface of Elroed's mind.   He was surprised to find a deep sadness underlying his thoughts.   His father had disappeared just prior to the last conjunction.   He sensed tenderness, deeply underpinned by strength and a burning sense of commitment to the work and to destiny.   He was potentially far greater than his father.   He had chosen to plough a lone furrow, and Aldor felt a great affinity with the man.  

"My father is gone; he was a pioneer, his methods inspired, and years before their time."  It was no boast, just a simple statement of fact.  "I will continue in his stead as best I can, and seek to emulate him, it will be a labour of love."

"Forgive me but, you are so like the description I was given of him," in truth he had seen them both a scant seven month earlier.   The son a tall spindly youth, his father the same height but as broad again, rangy with a face filled with strength and purpose.   Each head topped off with a mop of wild unruly copper locks.   On closer inspection his youth became obvious, but at a distance, they could have been twins.   It was only fitting he should be appointed to continue his father's forestry programs and bring them to fruition.

"You are trespassing.   Who be you stranger," he asked in an easy drawl with portents of menace, "your words infer awareness of our ways so you must know these woodlands are private, now I must ask you to leave sir…"

"They call me Aldor, I am here to seek out a member of your court, an Asba Dylon by name, do you know of him?"

"Asba is a good friend; he lives on the fringes just outside the walls.   He is a true character.   When chided about his humble home he will explain it allows him to keep in touch with common people and therefore with public opinion.   In reality, he uses the generous stipend he is paid, as leader of the High Council of Corvalen, to educate and support most of the talented waifs and strays that abound in this city.   They would otherwise all wind up in prison.   He has them indentured and bound to local craftsmen tradesmen and businessmen.   If you are a friend of Asba's you will find plenty who will sing his praises with you.   I myself have two bright young prentices, keen and willing to learn woodcraft, animal husbandry, and good farming techniques.  There are a number of farms eager to take young men with their skills.   There are others indented to blacksmiths, sword-smiths, jewellers, and the local tannery.   I hear he has even pressed a number of young strays into service at the palace under the master armourer; others are working as pages, scullions and cooks.   Many are supporting adopted families, Asba is not a wealthy man but his heart is filled with riches and, he is rich in the hearts of the local communities all around the outskirts of the city.   Walk with me and I will guide you to his home."

They entered a dimly lit house, in no way reflecting the status of its owner.   "This is the house of Asba Dylon," Elroen said, "I must leave now, I have pressing business."    He tapped a seemingly random pattern on the roughly painted blue door and was gone.

The door opened silently, revealing an overweight man in his mid-forties, his hair black but thinning, his lower face covered by a greying beard encircling his broad lips.   He scrutinised Aldor inquisitively through his bright intelligent green eyes.   His serious visage broke into a warm welcoming smile.  

"Well met young prince," he said, "come on inside."

"You know of me?" Aldor asked, unable to hide his surprise.

"The brat who thought I would let him win at Kingdoms?" Asba asked.

"Damnation, the world continues to shrink."   He said recognition shining in his eyes.

"But, how did you recognise me?"

"Well you see, there is a computer under this city." Asba winked.   "It was a test," he said, a knowing grin on his face. 'You didn't fare too well from that one as I remember.   Potential revisionists are not exactly common, one in a thousand we are, it takes a rare talent to commune with control.'

'You are mind speaking.' Aldor said in amazement.

"Relax, you’re with friends. And the HM has been tuned out of your mind." Asba said.

"But you serve Fazeil…"

"I serve the Regent or Caliph, whoever that may be, I serve the ideal of what might come to pass, I serve the people" said Asba Dylon.

'My Brother…'

"Fazeil?   He is Jazim's creature."

"You mean…"

Asba nodded sadness in his eyes.

"I do not know if I could perpetuate the carnage that has gone on in the past" Aldor began.

"Spoken like a true patriot.    None would believe your genealogy now anyway," he grinned and made a sweeping gesture stepping back to fully take in his guest.  "You have changed too much and too fast for 'standards' to credit your claims."  

"Then it should be one of the others" Aldor replied at once.

"That is for you to decide, you will need to make the best selection.   It will take all your newly acquired skills and then something extra.   You are of course familiar with the palace and its intrigues.   You should know those who must be ruled out immediately, so we have confidence you will make the right choice.   You have less than half a year to shatter old traditions that have stood for thousands of years" Asba summed up his predicament far too succinctly for his liking.

'I will never become Caliph' he thought sadly, slowly coming to terms with the reality.

'Of course not, you are destined for much greater things.   The net you cast must be wider by far than Corvalen' said Asba.    "But, where are my manners, sit you down Aldor.   Yasmin!   Please bring tea and cakes for our young guest.   He is to be my right hand at court; from this moment he will be my scribe."

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 BETRAYAL 

By Peter Woodgate

 

They say the act of burglary is carried out at night

and that robbery is carried out by day,

 

You stole my heart that evening and robbed me of my youth

then left me in the morning in dismay.

 

Are you then a robber or a burglar?

For both described the way you treated me,

 

I was susceptible and weak, guided by your charms,

And so, your true intent I could not see.

 

So, how do I address you? What names befit your style?

With comments like “fantastic whilst it lasted.”

 

Do I call you Mister Mean? Or something more obscene.

Like, “bloody selfish chauvinistic bastard!”

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 BUFF ENVELOPES

By Janet Baldey

Not another one!   Her legs turning to water, Rifat bent to pick up the envelope.  As if it was red hot, she dropped into onto the table and stood staring at it.  At last, she wiped her damp hands down her skirt, reached out and, with the very tip of her finger, turned it so the address faced her. 

TO THE PRESENT OCCUPIER

The bold black type accused and fine lines tracked over her normally smooth brow.  She didn’t understand. Should she open these envelopes that kept drifting through her letterbox like unwelcome snowflakes or were they meant for Mr Askari?   True, she’d been living in the flat for months but, without papers, it was a ghostlike existence.  It was Mr Askari who paid the rent and it was his property that furnished the place.  She sat on his stained sofa, walked over his threadbare carpet and slept in his sagging bed.  Shuddering, she looked around the dingy beige living room with its bare walls and limp curtains.  Even her poverty stricken home in Slovenia was a palace compared to this.  Her eyes welled as she remembered its bright cushions and wall hangings lovingly stitched by her family.  Her tears overflowed and slid down her cheeks as she thought of her Mother and little Magda.   It was months since she had managed to send them any money.  Almost all she earned was taken by the cold eyed thug who appeared at her door every Friday evening.  As squat and ugly as a peasant’s privy, he never smiled and never spoke but simply held out his hand.   She hadn’t seen Mr Askari for months and sometimes wondered why, but she would never dare ask this man.

         With an apathetic shrug, she dropped the envelope onto the pile of similar ones.  She would try to pretend they weren’t worth worrying about. It was just that everything in this cold, dark country was so strange.  Days would pass before the sun made a token appearance, whereas in Slovenia it smiled most of the time.  Its meadows were lush and fragrant with the scent of bell flowers, orchids and the pale lemon butterwort and its countryside sprawled extravagantly, not like this tightlipped city whose regimented parks seem to have been cut out and pasted onto sour overused earth.   She clutched at her hair in despair.  If only she hadn’t listened to those glib men with predatory eyes and shark-like smiles.

        ‘It is good in England. There you will earn much money.  You will have a house, a washing machine, a car even. And very soon you will be reunited with your daughter.  Be brave Rifat.’

         She closed her fists and ground her nails into her hands as she cursed those men.  She cursed their ancestors, she cursed their progeny but most of all, she cursed their souls. Her body shuddered with venom until she felt limp and exhausted and stood with her head bowed.   After a while she roused herself and looked at the plastic kitchen clock with the crack across its dial.  It was time to go.  She slipped on her shoes with the punishing heels and re-applied her make-up.  As she stepped outside, she saw her neighbor leaving his flat.   She froze. He was a spy, she was certain of it. She had often caught him staring at her.  He had a thin, triangular, feral face and she didn’t trust him one bit.  She lowered her head and wished for a hibab to cover her face.

        So swiftly she was caught unawares, another figure materialized before she had chance to close the door. His appearance was forbidding and she started to tremble.  The man looked at the half open door and then at her.

        ‘Am I speaking to the present occupier?’, he barked and waved a buff coloured envelope, which she recognized at once.  She felt her mouth drop open.  She stared at him and saw his eyes were the washed-out blue of Arctic ice, his lips were thin and somehow she knew that, if kissed, they would taste of vinegar.

         Panicked and against her will, she flashed a desperate glance at her neighbour who stepped forward immediately.

         ‘No.  She’s just the cleaner….she speaks very little English.   I believe this flat belongs to Enzo Askari.’

        The man scowled and looked at Rifat as if she had soiled his shoes. ‘So, where is this Mr Askari, we have been trying to contact him for months.’

         Her saviour hesitated, ‘He is away.’  He stepped forward and whispered something in the man’s ear.  Rifat saw the man’s scowl deepen.  

         ‘We will check this, of course. In the meantime, if you see Mr Askari, please ask him to complete the form in the envelope and return it immediately.’

       They both watched as he spun round and stalked towards the stairs. 

        Rifat took another look at her neighbour.  She suddenly realized he didn’t look sly at all.   Instead, he looked wise and kind and his eyes shone like burnished copper, reminding her of the foxes she used to watch in the woods around her village.

       ‘Thank you so much’, she whispered.

        He half bowed.  ‘I am glad to help.   What is your name?  I am called Sergei.’  

        ‘My name is  Rifat.’

      ‘It is nice to meet you Rifat.  But now, I must warn you.   Never, but never, ignore buff coloured envelopes. They are from bureaucrats and must be answered. If they don’t get a reply they send their dogs out.’

        ‘Was that man a dog?’

        His lip curled.   ‘Of the very worst kind – even the lowliest cur would be ashamed to associate with his sort.   But, remember – fill in their forms – put anything you like, it doesn’t matter.  As long as you tick their boxes they are happy.  If you don’t, you will betray yourself.’

      She nodded, then started as she remembered. 

      ‘I must go now.’

      ‘Goodbye Rifat.   I hope we will see each other again soon.’

      Neither of them spoke but in that long moment of silence, Rifat could have sworn she heard both of their hearts beating as one.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Some  Flash Stories:

By Len Morgan 

1. She is lying face down on the damp earth.  Her baby is crying.  “Shhh… little one, they are searching for us!”

Half a mile away two staccato cracks from an automatic echo across the sultry, war-torn rice paddies of South Vietnam.  A burst of automatic fire.

“Oh please be quiet little one…” She places her hand firmly over his nose & mouth.  He struggles but goes silent.  Finally, they have passed and she removes her hand.  Lying face down, her dead baby cries no more.  She cries silently.

 

2.  She wasn’t aware that I was looking at her.  So intent was she on the letter in her hand.  The look of pleasure on her face as she recognized the writing on the envelope increased as she tore it open.  Then she started to read and her smile lessened, then froze on her face.  After a while, she blinked and rivulets of tears tracked down her cheeks.  Slowly at first, then she blinked hard several times, shaking her head, balled up the letter and envelope and threw them in the rubbish bin, shaking her head again, her silent tears became audible, increasing in volume…

 

 3. He picked up a suitable stone and washed it in the stream.  The blue-green soil slewed away, the water dripped off as if it were oil, and the stone was dry.  He looked closer, it was crystalline, smooth and round, milky blue-white; it barely weighed an ounce.  He had intended to skip it down the stream, it was the perfect shape, but instead, he put it in his pocket and picked up another.  Two – three – four times it scudded across the surface.  Later Kimberley security stopped & searched him and took him into custody.  It’s just a stone, he protested…

 

4.  He smiled as he discovered a leaf pressed between the pages of her ‘Concise Oxford English Dictionary 4^th Edn.  Plucked by his daughter on her 7^th birthday.  She gave it to me as one of her most treasured acquisitions; in her 37^th year.  One of her more lucid days.  “Happy Fathers Day Dad!”  She had embroidered a linen Swatch, “With all my Love on this Special Day!” and affixed the leaf.

She is sadly no longer with us but the memories always return on ‘fathers day’; a leaf from time…

 A NEW YEAR’S WISH (Part 2 & Last)    

by Richard Banks

         Sensing that I had learnt all I was likely to from Betty, I release her from the beam and watch her crawl on hands and knees to the door and let in a large man with a suitcase who, although similar in dress and appearance to the first man is an entirely separate person. Having tossed Betty the customary wad of banknotes he lets himself into the freezer and shuts the door behind him. Betty stands up, presses a red button on the control panel and - apparently oblivious to the noisy quivering of the freezer - begins the wiping of dishes on her draining board.

         I leave her to it and while my first inclination is to zoom back up and report on the unexpected windfall for the masses, second thoughts tell me that a conversation with one of the men will almost certainly, be more interesting than the celestial seminar I am otherwise obliged to attend. Therefore, being in no hurry to return, I do a brief reconnoitre of the surrounding area before placing myself outside Betty’s kitchen door in wait for the next man. He is not long in coming, this time from the inside out.

         If he is surprised to join me within the celestial beam he hides it well behind an expression on the frosty side of inscrutable. I am, I tell him, conducting a six-monthly review on behalf of the Almighty One. This is, of course, no more than the truth although I suspect his understanding as to whom I am referring to is somewhat different to my own certain knowledge. Fortunately, he is from a part of the world where the questioning of authority is not encouraged; if he has any doubts about me he is sufficiently impressed by the beam to keep them to himself.

         I assume an air of jovial camaraderie which I hope will put him at his ease. “Not bad, hey, latest model, driver-operated and with warp-speed delivery to any co-ordinate in the world. There’re a few years off from becoming standard issue but when they do they will be well worth the wait. Until then your present transits will, I’m sure, be more than adequate. Tell me, how are they shaping up? Any problems?”

         For someone who should now be at his ease he seems anything but.

         “Comrade Commissary, I report no problems. Please, no, it is a lie! Everything good. Indeed, everything better than good. With the Supreme Leader to guide us how could it be otherwise?”

         What he means, of course, is that those who voice unpopular opinions are likely to find themselves ex-comrades, if not ex-people. I assure him that it is his patriotic duty to report problems. Problems, I explain, are the stepping stones to solutions. “How is our glorious country to make progress if we don’t know what’s wrong?”

         He seems reassured and begins a somewhat gruesome account of comrades he knows who have lost fingers and other parts of themselves while travelling between the Control Centre and, what he calls catch and dispatch devices. “It is,” he says, “a small price to pay for the technological breakthrough which every loyal Korean knows to be the esteemed gift of the Dear Leader.”

         “And the devices?” I say, drawing him back to my question. “Apart from the minor inconveniences you describe, what is your overall assessment of them?”

         He says that he prefers the ones disguised as Portaloos. They are easier to access and do not require the collaboration of capitalist lackeys who, he suspects, are keeping more of the money than they should. He understands that a new device is under construction in the form of retro telephone boxes; these will be exported abroad and sold as ornamental features by garden centres unaware of their primary purpose.   

         So, there we have it, North Korea has developed a particle teleportation system – the first country in the world to do so - and are using it to covertly send their nationals into other countries not informed of their uninvited guests. But what are the Koreans up to?    

         “Your mission,” I say. “Define its operational objectives and assess your effectiveness in achieving them on a scale of one to five.”

         He again looks nervous and perspiration begins to gather on his forehead. I smile and tell him that five is the highest mark on the scale and that his assessment of his own performance will be the only one entered in my report. This cheers him up no end and without any further encouragement launches into a long-winded account of his part in what he describes as the ‘Great Slippythrough.’ It turns out that his mission is to buy high-value consumer goods from Harrods and Harvey Nichols and take them back to the Control Centre from whence they are taken by the lorry load to the Supreme Leader’s palace. As to what he does with it all my interviewee is unable or unwilling to say. However, as the clothing items relate only to sizes likely to fit the Supreme Leader and his wife we might reasonably assume that most of the purchased items go no further than the palace.

         “But where does the glorious fatherland find the foreign exchange to pay for all these things?”

         His looks at me with surprise, reasoning to himself that an informed insider like myself should know where.

         I bluff along. “I mean what is your part in procuring the necessary finance?”

         He says that once a week he collects it from the factory where it is printed and puts it in a large truck that he drives to the Control Centre. “There is always plenty of money,” he says. “There is no reason for anyone to be poor when you can just make it.”

         He asks if he might be excused now as he has a bus to catch. If he misses the bus he will have to hire a cab which his supervisor would regard as a bourgeois extravagance. I thank him for his invaluable assistance and release him into the outside world where he instantly loses all recollection of me. He departs towards the main road where the cross-London bus will arrive and leave in less than five minutes. It seems almost an insult to his earnest endeavour that by the time he either catches or misses the bus I will be back in the celestial realm savouring a large glass of the sacred nectar. It is moments like this that makes the Hereafter the paradise it truly is. The questionnaire I will leave until morning by which time life on Earth will have moved on almost a hundred years.

                                           *****

         For those of you expecting some resolution to the events, I have described reconcile yourself to the reality that life on Earth is a long saga that can only be properly evaluated in its broad sweep, i.e. the progress, or otherwise, that is discernable over the course of a millennium. There are, however, some oft-repeated themes that can be relied on to show us the inevitable drift of events. Chief of these is man’s pursuit of wealth which with monotonous regularity goes mainly to those who already have it. With money, of course, goes power and the big guys will always use it to dominate the rest; with men so it is with nations. Apply these principles to my narrative and you have its inevitable resolution. Even in the slow lane of time, the outrageous good fortune of minnows like Betty and North Korea will never last for long.

         As for me the end of this pointless exercise in celestial bureaucracy will come when I complete the all-important questionnaire, a simple enough task bearing in mind that none of the questions have any relevance to the events I have witnessed. I will put my ticks in the boxes I know to be favoured by the Focus Group and write a few upbeat lines in the comments section that should be equally pleasing to them. That done I will be free to amuse myself for a few hours before doing some ‘meeting and greeting’ on the celestial stairway. Rumour has it that Samuel Pepys is on his way up from Purgatory, his infidelities not only observed from above but recorded in his diary for all posterity to read. His wife has been waiting for almost one hundred years; he will have much to explain. Oh to be a fly on the wall when they meet. To spare their blushes it will happen in a soundproof chat room. It will be his final purging, after that he will glow in righteousness like the rest of us, or spend further time below. 

         As for those of you still on Earth don’t expect to get here anytime soon. Until that day we will only meet when wishes are required. If that happens, surprise me, prove an old cynic wrong. I challenge you, do some good with your wishes, in fact, do better than good. Spread peace and joy, reform the world, your kind intent will serve you well.

[Ends] 

Copyright Richard Banks 

 BAD HAIR DAY 

byPeter Woodgate 

When Old Homer first put pen to papers

And thrilled us all with those exciting capers.

Who gave him inspiration for those creatures

The Odyssey and other stories teach us?

And when young Perseus slew the evil being

Using his shield as a weapon and for seeing

Holding the ugly head  in safety at arms length

Not looking at the eyes lest he should lose his strength,

 

Did he use the power of the matted writhing hair

To defeat his enemies by foul means or by fair?

And when they quaked in fear what was it that they saw?

What could turn men to stone, was it the Mother-in-Law?

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 The Health of The Nation

By Jane Scoggins

Concentrate orange and cod liver oil

From the teaspoon specially kept.

I hated the taste, I would always recoil.

But every winter's day before we left

The house to walk the mile to school

I would  hold my nose to grin and bare

The horrid dose that was my  Mother's rule.

Copyright Jane Scoggins