Abbalar tales ~ 30

 Abbalar tales ~ 30 Confrontation

By Len Morgan

'So little brother what have you been doing since our father returned to the wheel,' Paveil asked.

'Nothing of any moment' said Aldor.

'Do you mind if I look for myself,' he asked?

 'You're in my mind, so feel free...'

Paveil watched the climb to Eldoriel’s chambers, watched Genna rescue him, then his storytelling period in Mandrell, the chase to Ordens pillars, his fight with Skaa, and finally his return to Corvalen.

'Something is missing,' he accused.

'How I was changed?   I swore not to reveal that to a living soul, honour forbids me to speak of it or open my mind to the subject,' he said answering his own question.

'I must respect your oath, but that does not prevent me from speculating,' said Paveil, I'll warrant it has something to do with that strange mountain configuration, Orden's Pillars?   It's an area of volcanic activity don’t you know?  Yet, I've never met a single person who has been up there until now; doesn't that strike you as odd?   I think for that reason alone it will warrant further investigation at a later date.  One day, mayhap when time allows' he smiled.

'Does that mean you are going to become Regent?'

'I am by your leave, but first I need to establish contact with some people who can arrange matters and spread the good word.   I, we still have to make good our escape from this place.'

'Most of the guard, the sergeant and the captain included, are disquieted by Faziel's erratic and irrational behaviour of late.   But, they are loyal Corvalens and would not question the undisputed Regent.   If however, he should cease to be the only credible contender for the Caliphate, they would not be slow to re-appraise their allegiance.   Give me the names of those you would contact and I will ensure they are gathered for my execution.' 

.-…-. 

Asba Dylon and other revisionists within his cell worked tirelessly.   Each made contact with another cell not known to his or her fellows, and so the news spread like wildfire throughout the long day.   As the sun edged imperceptibly towards the horizon, the crowd gathered expectantly and the street vendors did brisk trade.  

The sergeant led out his hand-picked guard flanking the tall condemned man, dressed in the traditional black cape and cowl.   The silent crowd gathering in the square outside the palace was many times larger than would normally be expected for the death of a common felon.   The pageant would unfold in the open area immediately before the Porticoed palace, which separated the crowd from the dignitaries.  A flight of overlarge stone steps further distanced the crowd.   Even after countless centuries of use, incredibly, the steps still showed little sign of wear.   Close to the edge of the steps, and in full view of all, stood a large unadorned wooden block.

The Regents personal guard marched into view, from between the fluted columns, led by the Regents champion Kaffeit.   The square had been packed, far beyond its capacity, for an hour prior to the arrival of Fazeil, his retainers, wives and children.   On their right flank stood Jazim and her retinue.   Finally, Kattex, the axe of Corvalen was trooped out and ceremonially unsheathed, to the hushing murmurs of the crowd.   The mirror bright blade captured the oblique rays of the setting sun, spontaneously bursting into flame, burning with an inner fire.   A great collective cry escaped from the crowd, they would have blood.

The 'Supreme Arbiter' of Corvalen stepped forth.   He stood resplendent in his ceremonial robes topped off with the black skull cap and his staff of office.   He tapped the base of his six foot steel-tipped staff on a certain hollow stone, the only one showing any signs of wear and the sound reverberated around the square.  

"Silence!" he yelled.  

The crowd settled into a charged expectant hush.

"We are gathered, to carry out sentence duly passed on the felon know as Aldor – duly tried and convicted of murder - by a jury of Freemen residents of the city of Corvalen..."

The expectant crowd murmured.  As they quietened a voice from amongst them cried, "By whom?"

"Tried & convicted…" the arbiter continued, ignored the interruption and, attempted to continue.

"Name the Freemen who sat on the jury and the counsellor who acted in his defence!"  The voice in the crowd demanded.

"Tried & Con…" the supreme arbiter attempted a third time.

"I have the names and sworn testimony of twenty eyewitnesses, to the incident, all stating the soldier's death was an unfortunate and tragic accident."

"Who are you?   Step forth and be recognised, and if you be acceptable, present your statements."

Asba Dylon stepped out from the crowd, a thick bundle of papers and a heavy tome of law clutched to his chest.  

"These," he said, waving the thick bundle of papers at the crowd, "are all statements from Freemen, duly witnessed and notarised.   They all maintain the man Aldor is innocent of any crime."

“Shame, shame, shame…” a chant rose from the crowd.

"Silence!" the arbiter heeled his staff into the same worn spot four, five, six… times.   The sullen voice of the crowd lowered once more to a background hum.

"The young man was assisting me in my capacity as a counsellor of Corvalen, when a drunken oaf of a soldier launched an unprovoked attack on my person.   Aldor acted, as any responsible employee would, he came to my assistance.   When he arrived I was aground and taking a fearful beating; as my wounds will attest.  I honestly believe, had he not intervened, the lout would have killed me.   I do not for one minute believe the soldier was acting, in an official capacity, under the Regents instruction.   How could he justify beating to death the first counsellor of Corvalen?" Asba asked.   "Now as I understand it Aldor issued a challenge. It was accepted by the soldier, and according to the rules of chivalry should have been answered at dawn today, by the man himself, but for his fatal accident, so, as custom dictates he challenge should be answered by his superior.   Apparently his commander, a capt Vascelli has already been transferred to the Bycroft front.  A sudden transfer order was issued yestereve.   So according to law the challenge then passes up the chain to his commander who, because of the transfer, assumes the responsibility of answering the redress.   Do you know who that person would be sir?"

The supreme arbiter consulted briefly with his assistant.

"It seems the next in line would be the Regents’ champion, Kaffeit.   But I am given to understand this Aldor is not a native of Corvalen," he said, reading from a note handed to him by another assistant.   "Only native-born Corvalens are eligible to issue a challenge of this kind, therefore the challenge was invalid.    "It appears therefore that your man has had a lucky escape.   It seems there were indeed irregularities in his conviction, the Regent has made further enquiries and ordered that it be quashed.   He is free to go!"

"No sir!"  Said Aldor.   "I am a free-born man of Corvalen and I will not forego the challenge, or allow Kaffeit to wriggle out from under, let him present himself."

"What he says is true," Asba confirmed, would you like his credentials to be checked?"

"I was told he is from the north, an alien recent arrived.   But, if the first counsellor will confirm it, you surely do not intend this to go ahead,” the arbiter pleaded, "it would be suicide."

Neither Aldor nor Asba replied they continued to gaze at him stony-faced.

"You do realise that if you were to vanquish Kaffeit, the Regents office would be yours to proffer, so long as you nominate a brother, and not more than nine months have elapsed since the demise of their father the illustrious Caliph Endrochine. May he rest easy." He added.

"If you challenge my position as Regent, you must reveal the name of the man you champion," Fazeil said breaking his silence.

"I can name a brother, and then subsequently change my mind?" Aldor enquired.

"That is so," said the arbiter.   Asba nodded in confirmation.

"Then I name Ahlendore of Corvalen," he replied.   Even as he spoke the words he saw close advisers surreptitiously leaving the assembly, to seek out the nominee and put him to death.   They would seek in vain, but they would be out of the way for days mayhap weeks.   Which would suit Paveil’s cause?   He also liked the thought that for a few brief moments he would be the Regent designate that would be accomplishment enough.

"You fool!" Fazeil yelled triumphantly.   You do realise that if he is not already dead, you have signed his death warrant, and of course your own.   Kaffeit was able to best Ghorik, my father’s champion of some twenty years standing, with ease.   No scribbling clerk will best him.   Let the challenge stand arbiter, the scribe will die for nothing!"   He smirked in triumph.  

"I will schedule the duel for dawn tomorrow," the arbiter began...

"No sir!"  Aldor replied.   The crowd held its collective breath.   "The challenge was issued yestereve.   By the rules of combat, it must be settled before the sun sets today.   We have ten minutes of the day remaining."

"It is not possible; there are preparations to be made…"

"Do it!" Fazeil said angrily.

The crowd gasped.   The arbiter nodded silently, deprived of choice.

"Aldor pulled back his hood and, discarding the cape he, turned to face Kaffeit.   Two pairs of hard flint eyes locked in a battle of wills neither would look away until Kaffeit shook his head and drew his sword.

 

"Take your time Kaffeit's voice rasped, "ten minutes is an eternity when it's all the time you have left.   Hahaha!"

 "Make your peace with the devil, you'll soon be joining him!" Aldor answered.

"You will need this," Jazim called out to him.   Harby ran forward with Aldor’s blade.

"Kaffeit did not wait, "I don't need ten seconds to kill you, son of a whore." He yelled and came in swinging while Aldor was distracted.

"Aldor ducked easily under the flailing weapon and, for the second time in his life, he tapped his opponents most sensitive parts.

"Remember me?"  He taunted with a smile on his face and contempt in his voice, "Killer of old men and children.  Coward!" he yelled.   He would not use any enhanced powers in this battle, he knew they would not be necessary.

Kaffeit, humiliated, cried out in anger to mask his pain, his face already a prophetic rictus of death, as Aldor walked calmly over to take up his sword.   He blocked a powerful overhead cut nonchalantly producing a deep ringing knell and a shower of sparks.   Any other blade would have shattered; his instead illuminated the face of Fazeil's champion with the last dying rays of the sun.  Disengaging elegantly, he disembowelled the dazzled Kaffeit.   As the curtain of darkness descended he turned in silence and walked away.   The corpse he left kneeling on the top step, clutched its innards protectively, even in death.  

The crowd became silent, it was over...

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

Everyone, Cheers!

 Everyone, Cheers! (‘Super Saturday’ approaching during Covid 19 )

By Carole Blackburn 

We cannot raise a glass or two,

I fear amidst our old friends, as I knew.

It is not granted my love, for fear,

The sprawl of this unseen,

stench less, hushed, viral killer.

As hosts it transforms us, it is no thriller.  

Ailing.

Descending.

Shifting us to stay away, until Friday.

 

In the past, oh, but the brave, dare to trudge,

One hour a day, it was, for our amusement.

This prolonged monotony was becoming translucent.

For a drought-like, brunch?

Through recreational park gates, 

For sure, with all our best mates!

To sit, to stare, to wait, for tavern times, to reinstate.

 

We all pray and yell, “This might be Heaven”

 In thought, please God finish, belay this, Hell.

Striding out, unlike week 7.

The gentle relaxing,

 of our enforced stay,

 we must try, and obey.

 

With no permission now, to ask,

to wander freely, about

is our task.

As this weekend, we are all let out!

To ‘App’ and sip and sway.

At a pub, just walk this way!

 

Now, happier hours are here.

We all need, again, in unison to hear,

“Cheers, my dear!”

 

But those others, we toast,

we wonder, are becoming, more hosts?

But bid, this killer.

Good riddance! For today,

as in the glowing brilliance,

of the taverns.

Intoxicated by our mid-year beers,

don’t approach me! For still in fear.

We guzzle, gulp and swig.

Boisterous proclamations, as we jig.

Pealing, chiming in our ears,

Cheers, everyone, Cheers!

 16^th July 2020

Copyright Carole Blackburn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 TIME ON HIS HANDS

by Richard Banks

     

Danny looked at his watch but it had stopped and no amount of prodding and shaking was going to make it work again. Other boys would have just ditched it and got their parents to buy them another one, a solar-powered one with extra functions, like a compass and thermometer. But he wasn’t like other boys, never had been, never would be, of that he was certain.

      He flipped a stone off the jetty and watched the ripples spread across the lake towards a band of shiny water that reflected the moon and the security light of the boathouse. Soon it would be day, the main road would roar with the sound of commuting traffic and the boat keeper arrive to bring in the boats from the island where they were moored. The boat keeper didn’t like feral boys who tried to break into the boathouse. He was a big man, belligerent, not a fellow to tangle with. Best to be gone before he arrived, to lay low in the wood where Shoeless, Irish and Old Jack lit fires at night and drank super strength cider. Like him, they were outcasts, no- hopers, good for nothing. Maybe that’s why he kept the watch, a reminder of better times when everything was normal, sometimes good, like things should be like it was for other boys - even then the bad times were never far away.

      He remembered that Friday, in the school holidays, when he was late back from football. Dad was angry but Mum said it wasn’t his fault, the boy didn’t have a watch, how was he to know what time it was? The routine of another row was brewing; Dad trying to lay down the law, Mum talking back, defiant, hands on hips, raising her voice as he raised his, Dad shouting, inarticulate with rage, losing the plot and Mum screaming as he lashed out.

      Danny abandoned the opening hostilities and retreated to his room where he lay on the bed reading a comic. Next door the emotional tumult of voices reached their inevitable conclusion and doors slammed, signalling that Mum had taken refuge in the flat’s other bedroom. A few minutes later the living room door opened and Dad was on his way to see if she was okay, he hadn’t meant it, he wouldn’t do it again - of course, Danny could have a watch.   

      The next day Dad took him down to the jewellers in the High Street and asked the man to show him the watch in the window, the bright blue one with a picture of      Thomas the Tank Engine on the dial. “But that’s for kids in infant school,” Danny protested, “the other boys would laugh.” He needed something more grown up, with a window in it to show the day of the month. Dad was getting angry again but the man said he had just the watch, the New Trekker,  and although it was more expensive than the one in the sale it was stronger, better quality, and came with a five year guarantee. When Dad hesitated, the man, sensing that he was about to lose a sale, said he would take half the money now and the rest at the end of the month. The deal was struck and Dad paid with a crumpled ten pound note and a fistful of coins.

      On the journey home, they stopped off at the park and Dad strapped the watch to Danny’s wrist and showed him how to change the time and date. They examined the instructions together and discovered that the watch also had a light that lit up the dial and an alarm which they set for 7.30 in the morning. They hurried home to show Mum, to explain how it worked, and Mum said it was the best watch she had ever seen and that they should fill out the guarantee and send it off before something happened to it. Then Mum read the instructions and found that the watch also had a stopwatch and she set it for fifteen minutes to remind her to take the dinner out of the oven. The sun shone warmly and no one wanted the day to end.

      Two weeks later Danny was back at school and Dad was in and out of another job. There had been an argument, punches thrown and the police called to escort him from the factory. Life was back to normal; three people struggling to coexist in the unwanted togetherness of four small rooms. Mum threatening to leave but with nowhere to go. Dad affecting indifference, inwardly seething, a time bomb ticking. Danny with the golden memory of a perfect day, that made the spring days that followed seem dull and deficient. He consoled himself with the thought that he now owned a New Trekker, not a hand-me-down from the cousins or something from a charity shop; a new watch that was the envy of his school friends. Not even Barrett, who lived in the big house next to the church, had anything that good.

      Ever the pragmatist, he knew it couldn’t last. In time, maybe before the end of term, other boys would get new watches, better watches, and his unexpected rise in their esteem would be at an end. But until then he was someone, the indispensable someone who was needed to time their races and football matches, the boy who told them the minutes past the hour, the free meals boy who was now ‘one of them’. Although revelling in the novelty of his newfound popularity, he was, none-the-less, troubled by uneasy feelings that linked the outstanding balance on his watch to his father’s unemployment. What if Dad couldn’t pay? What would happen then? The answer came on the penultimate day of the month.

      He arrived home to find Dad sorting out the household bills into the usual columns: those that were the subject of a final demand requiring at least partial payment, those only one or two months overdue and others that could be safely ignored because the amounts were insufficient to warrant recovery action beyond an angry demand for payment. If the jeweller’s invoice was in the third column all was well, instead, it occupied a separate space on the dining room table, a puzzling anomaly in Dad’s system. Mum asked if he would clear the table for tea and Dad, unusually compliant, returned the bills to his box. There was an uneasy silence and Mum said that Dad had something to say. His words came slowly, in short, clumsy sentences. The watch had to go back. He had spoken to Mr Drewett, the jeweller, who was going to refund the money already paid. It was needed for other things. 

     Dad couldn’t bring himself to say sorry, it wasn’t his way. Neither was he a man to explain his decisions. He was a man of action, not words and Danny saw that he had failed in both. This headstrong man, full of bluster and defiance, was going to surrender his watch for the paltry sum of £12.50. It wasn’t fair, it mustn’t happen. Rage surged through his body. As his father reached out a palm to take possession of the watch Danny brought up his hand in a tight fist that struck the tip of his father’s bristly jaw. There was a look of disbelief on both their faces. For a moment they were too stunned to react, then Dad tried to catch him by the arm. Danny stepped back several paces, anger giving way to fear, aggression to flight. Another backward step took him almost to the front door. In a few panic stricken moments, he was through it and running hard towards the woodland at the end of the road. Dad was shouting at him, and Mum was shouting at Dad, but as their voices decreased in volume Danny realised that neither was in pursuit.

      He reached the trees and stopped to catch his breath; to decide what to do next. They would soon be looking for him, he had to get further away. On the far side of the wood, there was a boating lake with benches and an ice cream parlour that stayed open late on summer evenings. There would be people there. People that might save him from a beating if Dad appeared, belt in hand. By the time he reached the lake, the sun was low in the sky and the boat keeper was no longer hiring out boats. Two of Danny’s classmates were there. They talked, played football with a tennis ball and threw stones into the lake. It was nearly dark, the last rowers were returning to shore and family parties drifting off towards the car park. “Is it 9 o’clock?” said one of the boys. Danny confirmed that it was and they sauntered off to their homes on the other side of the main road. The boatman took several boats in tow and moored them on the island. He returned in a dinghy and dragged it up the gravel bank into the boathouse. The ice cream man served his last customer and put down the shutters. “Fancy a pint?” he asked. “Why not,” said the boatman. They locked up and departed together, unaware of the boy sitting cross-legged on the jetty.

      In the darkness on the other side of the lake, an invisible figure observed the boy he had first noticed an hour before. He knew the boy and where he lived. There was no time to lose. If the boy moved away from the security light, he too would become invisible. He moved around the side of the lake where there were trees and bushes close to the waterline, finally arriving at the boathouse end where the boy still sat.

     The man knew not why he did the things he did, only that he must, his mind was too full of nightmare, paranoia and White Ace. He had once been a boy, an abandoned boy; there had been pain, suffering. He tried hard to forget, he drank to forget, but the memories wouldn’t go away, he hid them in dark places, but no place was deep enough and memories, fragments of memory, would break free and burst into the light, and the light became nightmare.

       He was closing in, nearly there, only a cricket pitch between them, his bare feet silent on the stony ground. The man was once a soldier, won medals, twice promoted, he had strong hands, he was used to death. The stones no longer hurt his feet, he was on the jetty now, four more steps, maybe five and he would be there. He reached out his hands and rushed forward.

                                                *****

      Danny tossed another stone into the lake. It had been a long night, frosty cold, the trees leafless, dark skeletons against the dawn sky. Was it seven or eight am? He wasn’t sure. If the watch still worked he would have known the time, known precisely when to leave. What good, he thought, was a watch with a broken glass and hands stuck on ten o clock? The breaking of it he did not remember. His only memories were of the thick fingers that gripped his neck, that forced his head and shoulders into the lake and the bitter taste of the water that flooded his lungs. He struggled, splashed the water with his arms, made one gargling cry for help, but no one was there, only the man, and he was too strong.

      The sun was rising, it was time to go back to the wood, to the shallow grave in which his body lay. One day someone would find him and Mum and Dad would scrape together enough money to take him to church in a big limousine, just like they did for Granddad Jones. Things would be different then, better, maybe good. For now, he felt only sadness.

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

Jungle Blues

By Janet Baldey

Peril stalks the jungle, but not on four legs.  

It comes walking in upright as sharp-eyed natives hack their way through tangled lianas. With stealthy grace they raise venom-tipped blowpipes and marmosets, tamarinds and spider moneys fall prey to the pet trade. 

It comes in Land Rovers with frozen hearted poachers at the wheel. Forging tracks where there were none before, they seek larger game. A second of gentle pressure on the trigger and another tiger, rhino or shy jungle elephant, is blown into a bloody heap; crucified on the altar to the Oriental penis.

 It comes rumbling in by logging truck.  Huge forest harvesters, shaking the ground and polluting the air, bringing lumberjacks with chainsaws  that cut deep into the trunks of soaring teaks, sending them crashing to the ground, leaving only jagged stumps festering in acres of mire.

It comes insidiously with villages nibbling away at its margins as the human population explodes as does their hunger for land.

A tide of destruction surges through the forest and death follows in its wake.   It is momentous, it is unstoppable and sooner or later, everything that pads, slithers or wings its way through the jungle will face extinction as barren swamps replace majestic forests.

         The Universal Eye peers through the emerald canopy and sees all. Small, limp bodies tumble from trees, their luminous eyes shuttered by closed lids.   Gaudy, orange and black pelts are tossed into open trucks and lie limp and tattered like wind-starved flags while deep craters, full of nothing but mud and slime surround acres of logging camps.

 The sounds of the forest are muted as the jungle mourns and The Eye brims, shedding teardrops that do nothing but add to the swamp and flood the river causing the natives to wail. “Never before have the rains come so early in the season. It is an omen”.

         Driven by disaster, the Eye sends and coiled deep underneath the earth’s crust, the Great Serpent receives.  Angry at being disturbed, the tip of its tail twitches.   Seas boil and great fountains of blue-green water erupt only to collapse again, causing surges that swallow many small islands.

         ‘Aieeee!’   The voice of the people rends the air.

         Now fully awake, the Serpent sees through the Eye and fury replaces anger.  It rears and volcanoes burst into life sending gouts of scarlet fire thousands of feet into the coral sky. Underneath the sea, the earth quivers and breaks, and tsunamis race towards serene palm fringed shores.

         ‘Aieee’, the people scream.

         At last, the Serpent puts aside its wrath and speaks.    

         ‘Bring me my brothers.’  

         Immediately, the elements obey the order.  A light zephyr shuffles the grasses and the message is passed from stem to stem.   Coral snakes, fer de lance, cobra, black mamba, vipers, python, all heed the call and slither, glide and squirm towards the crest of a certain rise.   The site of the first spawn.  Their ancestral home.   The birthplace of the Great Serpent.    It is night before all arrive and driven by instinct, they form a circle and dance, their bodies swaying and their tongues flickering.

          At last, the phantasm of a huge and sinuous shape appears weaving and undulating, outlined in pitch against the moon washed sky.

         ‘Brothers, sisters….a great calamity is upon us….’   Its voice reverberates inside their skulls and mesmerised, the reptiles cease all movement and listen

‘The greed of man surpasses itself.   Now, the most secret places of the earth are violated.   Even our jungle fortress is breached and unless we act quickly, we are doomed.’

The Serpent’s massive head swivels as its gaze encompasses the reptilian multitude now coiled and still, only the glitter of their eyes betraying their presence.  It speaks again.         

         ‘The self proclaimed kings of the jungle - the tiger, the leopard, the rhino, and the elephant - all are useless.’  There is a white flash of fang as the Serpent betrays its contempt.  

‘Too large and cumbersome they have no protection against the sticks that spurt fire and Man laughs at their plight.    The human pestilence thinks it is invincible but it is mistaken.   Their heads too high in the clouds, they fail to see what is at their feet.   And this, my brothers, is our strength.  Small and insignificant, we can hide inside crevices and strike when least expected; swarm out of the blue when the enemy’s back is turned’. 

Interrupted by a sudden clatter, its head swings towards a group of rattlesnakes starting to preen; its jaws open with an explosive hiss and the snakes freeze.

 ‘But even we cannot do it alone’.   With one last stern look at the rattlers, the Serpent again turns to face its audience.   

‘We must call upon all that is most loathsome to Man: scorpions, the arachnids, hornets, and the fearsome giant centipede – scolopendra gigantea.   Every ant, bug and biting insect that makes its home in the undergrowth must join us.   Together, we will drive out the beast that walks on two legs.  Now, go my brothers and spread my word.’

         Only the Eye sees the first murders.   Seduced by the chattering of langurs, a group of natives worm their way through thick vines.   Blinded by sweat streaming down their faces, they blunder into a thick mesh of silk thread woven between the trees.  Busily brushing off the sticky filaments, they fail to see the spiders, each with a glossy black abdomen marked with a scarlet hourglass.   At the time, their bites are hardly felt and it is only later that the first native dies, gripped by convulsions that distort his body and throw him, twitching, to the ground.   The toxin in a Black Widow’s bite storms through the body’s nervous system and although a single bite is rarely fatal, these spiders were on the warpath and many had set that trap.

         Other assassinations follow:  a group of loggers are set upon by thousands of giant hornets, each as big as a small bird.  The rising crescendo of the insects’ furious hum drowns their agonised screams as each thrust of a swollen abdomen drives home a red hot nail.  Each sting produces pheromones, acting like magnets and attracting ever more hornets, until their victims lay still, buried deep inside a living cocoon of yellow and black.

         Mosquitoes descend in their millions, a thrumming, pulsating umbrella they blot out the sun and each one is ravenous for human blood.   Their faces red and swollen, their hands clawing away countless winged vermin, maddened by the incessant high pitched whine that drills deep into the meat of their brain, the poachers leap from their vehicle and run to the nearest waterhole.  It is only after they have thrown themselves in that they discover it is foaming with hundreds of deadly Taipan.   For everywhere, there are snakes; they form a living carpet on the ground and the rivers heave with them.

         In the jungle, no one hears you scream and it takes a while for people to realise something is wrong.  Eventually, the rumours start.   It seems that no-one who enters the jungle is ever seen again.    At first, a few foolish people, mainly white skinned, scoff and disregard the talk.  Money calls, a siren they can’t resist, but once inside the forest, they vanish like a dream greeting the morning.   Search parties are mounted but even one step inside the jungle causes its floor to blacken and ripple with swarms of huge ants whose bites cause excruciating pain; for they are called bullet ants for a reason. 

The rumours are compounded.

‘Black magic,’ the people moan.   They keep their distance and soon the jungle becomes a forbidden place ringed by an invisible barrier of fear.    

         Slowly, life in the forest returns to normal.   Spiders, naturally solitary beasts, scuttle back to their burrows.  The snake hordes disperse and once more, mosquitoes infest only certain swampy areas.   The giant hornets spread their wings and return to the cities where food is abundant.   Leopards and tigers start to prowl the leafy glades again and, once more, the antelope grows wary.    All becomes as it ever was, every species linked together in an interdependent chain which is broken at the planet’s peril.

         At last, The Great Serpent again opens its jaws but this time in a yawn.  It is satisfied and as befits its age, resumes its slumber beneath the earth’s crust where it lies coiled in a mountainous heap, warmed by the molten rock.    

Only the jungle’s guardian, the Universal Eye, does not sleep.   Instead, it keeps watch, by day and by night as, ever vigilant, it waits.

        

Copyright Janet Baldey

        

 

        

        

 

 

        

 

 

 THE SMILE

By Jane Scoggins

It had been a long night on the maternity ward. Not only were the new Mums tired, but the midwives and doctors too. Eleven babies had been born. All were sleeping in their clear perspex cots beside their mother's beds. All except one. Baby Brown. Male. Full term.53.34cm. 3.47kilos it read on the little wristband. He was fast asleep and wrapped in a blue blanket in his tiny cot, but in the nursery, not beside his Mum. The labour had been quite long, but not difficult. Sally had not needed anything stronger than gas and air for pain, and her husband had been beside her all the way encouraging, and soothing her. A healthy baby boy with all his fingers and toes. But there were problems and it was the midwife and the doctor that had to tell the parents what they were. Baby Brown had been born with a cleft lip and palate, and when placed in the outstretched arms of his mother, she had screamed out in fear and panic. Despite all efforts from the maternity staff, Sally was inconsolable, and had handed him back to the nurse and turned her face into the pillow. Jeff, the baby's father had no idea what to say or do, so he said and did nothing for the first couple of hours. He sat by Sally's bed and stroked her hair and although outwardly calm, was crying inside.

        On day two following the birth, when Sally was up and about on the ward, the nurses tried again to encourage her to hold the baby, and give him a name. But although Sally peeped briefly into the cot to see the sleeping infant muffled to the ears in a blanket, she could not bring herself to touch him or pick him up.

        On day three she agreed to see the ward doctor with her husband so he could explain the condition to them. They sat holding hands as the young doctor explained that the cleft palate and lip could be operated on in a few months time. Several operations would be necessary over the next few years. He quoted the high success rate and showed them before and after pictures. Sally and Jeff tried to take it all in but struggled to assimilate the information. All they knew was that their precious first child had a huge gaping hole in his face where his mouth and part of his nose should be.

        On day four Sally sat beside her sleeping baby and after a while reached in and touched his curled up fingers and stroked his downy head. She then went back to her room and cried herself to sleep.

        A plastic surgeon visited the ward and examined the child. After a discussion with the ward doctor and nurses, he sat down with the parents in the doctor's office and explained in great detail what he could do for their son to make him better. Sally and Jeff could hardly believe what he explained about the procedure he had in mind. It seemed like some sort of miracle. They both wept when the surgeon asked if they had any questions as they felt hopelessly inadequate as parents and had no idea what questions to ask. They were numb. The hot sweet tea that the nurse had brought was untouched and went cold in the cups.

        Although Jeff went to see his unnamed son in the nursery every day, Sally found it difficult to bring herself to do more than glance at him and had withdrawn from touching him. The nurses did all they could to encourage her to watch, as they bathed and fed him. Watching the nurses spoon tiny amounts of Sally's expressed milk into the pink gaping cavern unnerved Sally. However skilful the nurses were there was no escaping the fact that some of the milk ran down his chin and even worse, out of his nose. It was a time consuming laborious task feeding baby Brown six times a day. Sometimes he became distressed by the sheer difficulty of feeding and when Sally saw this happen she would walk away.

        At the request of the ward staff, the ward Social Worker was asked to see the parents and consider what she could do to help support them through their distress, and so far, lack of attachment.

 Christine, one of the hospital Social Workers who was experienced in childcare, bonding and attachment issues met with the parents in a comfortable private room with easy chairs, away from the ward. She engaged them in conversation about their preparations for this first baby and the expectations they had. She listened to them as they told her of the hopes and dreams that had been shattered by having a baby with such a deformed face. She did not flinch when their initial tearfulness turned to anger at why this had happened to them. She did not waver when Sally admitted that she didn’t think she could love him. After this revelation, and a short silence.  Sally almost whispered ''I expect you will want to put him into Care if I can't love him. I won't be a very good mother if I can't even face picking him up. I’m not sure I feel anything for him, He is not what I wanted.''

       ''What about you Mr Brown?'' asked the Social Worker. ''How do you feel?''

       ''I don’t know. I feel numb, I can't bear to see his little face like that, it is horrible, but to take him into Care! That would be shirking our responsibilities. We created him, we must somehow cope. But how? I don't know how.''

      ''I have only just become a mother and I am already a terrible one'' sobbed Sally.

       ''Not at all, you have had a shock and you are understandably distressed and completely unnerved. You are not a bad mother, I assure you.''

      ''But how can I love him when I feel like this?''

      ''Little steps at a time '' answered Christine gently, handing them the box of tissues.

       ''We are a team here in this hospital, and we will help you. What you feel is not unusual. There are lots of mother's who do not initially bond with their newborn baby, lots of mother's who do not feel that initial surge of love that everyone expects will happen automatically. It is not always because there is something physically wrong with the child. You have told me about the love you had for your unborn child and how you had so much looked forward to his birth. I know you are very upset but don’t be alarmed at what you feel right now. Give yourself time and let us support you in getting to know your baby, there is so much to learn about him. His physical appearance will change dramatically after his first operation and the surgeons here are very experienced in this procedure. How about you meet me in the nursery after lunch?''

      ''Have you seen his face?'' asked Sally.

      ''I have'' replied Christine.

      ''Have you seen anything like it before?''

       ''I have.''

       ''And what do you think?''

       ''I think he is a lovely contented baby, a good weight, with perfect little fingers and toes, soft downy blond hair, and when he is awake, a pair of the most beautiful eyes.''

        ''But his mouth and nose!''

        ''With an operation, he will be transformed, I have seen it several times since I have worked in this hospital.''

        When Sally and Jeff arrived at the baby nursery after lunch, they could see Christine sitting in an easy chair holding a baby in a blanket. She smiled when she saw them and when they walked over to her they could see from the top of the baby's downy blond head that it was their baby.

 ''I hope you don’t mind. He was a bit grumpy waiting for his feed so I asked the nurse if I could hold him whilst I waited for you.''

   ''No not at all'' answered Sally.

    ''He is quiet now so I will put him back, but he is clinging to my finger so I may need some help'' laughed Christine. Jeff reached down to gently uncurl the tiny fingers, As he did, baby Brown opened his eyes and looked quizzically at his father.

    ''Look Sal, he is looking straight at me, look at those blue blue eyes!''

 Sally peeped cautiously at the baby, and her movement caused the baby to turn his head in her direction and transfer his gaze to his mother. Whilst he gazed, and she gazed back, he gave an enormous hiccup that surprised him into giving a little wail. This surprised not only the baby but Sally and Jeff, causing them to laugh, and automatically reach out to touch him. Sally touched his hand and Jeff stroked a tiny foot that had suddenly stuck out from under the blanket.

       ''Would you like to hold him, if I sit with you for a while?'' asked Christine to both parents.

        ''OK'' replied Sally hesitantly. She sat down in the easy chair next to Christine and slowly held out her arms. Jeff gently reached down and picked up the blanketed baby and slowly and carefully transferred him into Sally's arms. He then sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm around her.

They didn’t stay for long, but it was a start. The following day they arrived after the baby's morning feed and held him again. Little by little their distress lessened and their confidence grew. The nurses and Christine spent time with them putting them at their ease and answered questions about his care, his feeding and the operation to come. Within a week they were helping the nurses to bath and feed the baby and had announced that they had named him James. They continued to be upset about his appearance and were worried that he had very little facial expression to encourage them in developing their feelings of love and attachment.

        And then came a turning point when a nurse overheard Sally exclaim to her husband.

    ''Look Jeff he is smiling!''

     And for Jeff to say ''How is that possible then?''

     ''Look Jeff, look at his eyes...he is smiling with his eyes.''

     ''Oh yes, so he is, he is smiling at me too now Sal. Our little boy is smiling. I think he knows who we are. Just look at his beautiful big blue eyes and long eyelashes.''

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 A welcomed guest

By Carol Blackburn

When staring at daybreak it did emerge,

A welcomed guest, I did observe,

to come, and stay briefly, for tea.

I glimpsed him, in my hour of need.

 

The backdrop of daffodils adorned.

That fluttered as to greet him, as well as me.

I knew he would agree, to stay

and meet me for a cup of tea.

My confused mind, I pondered still,

please linger for a cup of tea,

until a closer peek.

Should I dare to step outside,

a chance, filled with fragrant air?

His brothers and sisters are here, too.

For my eyes to swell, to view.

 

He sits proud, prancing, galloping like a horse,

with carefree kinsfolk, on course.

For my eyes to be seized, with his blinding steed.

To count his entourage, too many, indeed.

Who rapidly, mingle in the dawn breeze?

Should I chance, happiness, at last, for me?

 

A stab of danger, his fragrance from his damaging prance.

The overpowering feeling to embrace,

but will I still be alone, if I decide, in haste?

The temptation is high, my resistance is low.

I try to discern; my eyes start to fill and glow.

The predicament of this blinding felon,

If I venture out and join him and his family, will not be heaven.

 

I resist his abundance of kindness, this my unwelcomed guest.

As I sit in the dawn light, behind my windowpane, never to be sad, at all.

They gaze back at me, as it’s my blessed, hay fever.

That came to visit me!

 

 Copyright Carole Blackburn          2020

 

 

 

Personal Well-being: 07

 

Personal Well-being: 07 Body Types

By Barefoot Medic

It pains me that so many people are obsessed with how they look.  Yes, you can improve your physique within the limits of your body type.

Body types do not in any way relate to good/bad health or personal well-being.

Understand, there are three distinct body types:

Ectomorph  (Slim).

Endomorph (Bodybuilder).

Mesomorph (Rotund).

I'm a mesomorph, as are the other members of my family to a greater or lesser extent.  One thing I know is that we will never be able to display a six-pack; that's a fact of life but bears no reference to our fitness level.

In my lifestyle, I believe we should do everything in moderation.  Excessive eating, drinking or exercise, are not conducive to good health. 

Put simply, common sense and moderation will always work in your favour.

Neither the ectomorph nor mesomorph will ever achieve the physique of an endomorph, so stop trying and be yourself.  

Just enjoy life in all its variety!