Cheilin Saga ~ 04

 Cheilin Saga ~ 04 The Controllers' work begins… 

 By Len Morgan

 The days passed swiftly, following the same set routine.   Aldor diligently followed their example, proving to be a quick learner.   As best he could, he adopted their methods of mind control, how they regulated their body functions - breathing - temperature - and more advanced techniques slowing their respiration until to the uninitiated they might appear to be dead.   They could also speed the flow of blood to increase the quantity of oxygen reaching their lungs, enabling them to produce incredible bursts of speed, for both action and reaction, over short periods of time.  He knew that he might come to emulate them in time, but it was early days.  Orden was silent, aware that his presence might be detected by Lomax. 

  Nearing the end of the second week they came down, from the mountains, onto a broad open plain covered in wide swathes of waist-high grassland that stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see.  Only the foothills stubbornly resisted their spread; that and the patchwork of hard-won land farmed by the local inhabitants.  For most of that first day, they followed the path of the sun, until they came upon a well-used farm track.   Contrary to previous practice, they turned onto it.

"We will be visiting several local farms to collect winter supplies, "Meillo explained.

They had been on the road for a quarter-hour when they heard the sound of approaching horses.   They melted into the grasslands on either side of the track.   A dozen armed horsemen passed at a gallop also traveling toward the sun.   When they had passed, the Carnivores turned in the opposite direction, with the sun at their backs.

"Are we not following them, to give aid to your friends if it proves necessary?" Aldor asked in amazement.

"It is not our concern," Lomax replied.

"That is ridiculous!" Aldor exploded, "the Tylywoch are small in numbers, so you will need all the friends you can muster.   Who are the people you are most likely to attract as friends?   The people who inhabit these plains," he said no more but ran towards the sun, in pursuit. 

The Bears looked askance of Lomax, he was their charge, if anything happened to him…   Lomax gave a curt nod and the Bears were off in pursuit.   By the time Aldor approached the farm, Lomax and the Carnivores were right there beside him.   Three farm workers were steadfastly defending themselves with farm implements.   Two had already been struck down.   Women and children were being herded from the farmhouse and buildings, and lined up against the plain side of the lapboard barn.

"Aaargh!" Aldor yelled as he ran into the fray to distract the attackers.   The farmworkers, he could see, stood little chance against swordsmen.   Even as they turned to assess the threat, Aldor cut one down, cutting another almost in two.   Three men ran at him, swords raised.   As he engaged them he heard the clash of steel over to his right, 'that would be Lomax' he thought.   A quick glance showed him Lomax forcing two men onto the back foot.   Then arrows flew past him like angry insects and two of his three opponents fell.   Looking around, he realized the fight was almost over.   He clubbed his remaining opponent over the head with the flat of his sword, and all the others were dead or dying.   The farmhands ran to the women and children, creating a protective cordon around them.   Aldor and Lomax sheathed their swords and the others relaxed.

"We are here to collect a wagon of grain and beans," said Lomax fixing the farmer with a smile.  "Hopefully our associates will have left a wagon with you when they paid for the goods, possibly two or three days ago," he extended the smile and his hand towards the farmer.   Seeing the man glance nervously towards the corpses, he added "Wolves tidy up this mess."   They borrowed several hand carts and began loading bodies.

"No no, that one was my son in law," the farmer said.   A young woman roused from her shock by her father's words ran to the body of her husband, and they carried him into the house.

"This one is not dead;" Aldor said “I think we might interrogate him or, follow him back to his lair."

"Ah, I thought you had become a little squeamish," said Lomax.   "Leave him with the bodies, and we will do just that.   Follow him home Wolves let us know where and how many."

The farmer seemed to come alive at the suggestion that there might be others; suddenly his extended family became very anxious.   "They will return and kill us all when you are gone," he wailed.

"Had we not intervened, do you think they would have allowed you to live?" Aldor said.   "They would have killed the very young and the very old, yourself included, the women would have been abused and the survivors shackled and driven off like cattle to the slave markets of Kettar.   But, they will not do so if we kill them first!   This we will do if you swear allegiance to the 13^th Clan, and request its protection."

"We will do anything you ask, the clans have always refused us protection but, I have not heard of this 13^th Clan," said the farmer.

"What is your name," Aldor asked.

"Eldred sir," the farmer replied.

"Eldred, all those not of the twelve are invited to join the 13^th Clan.   In time, we will be the most powerful force in the Empire.   Take the weapons we have liberated today and hide them, they will be required to arm the Cheilin defence force."

"What will this defence force want from us in return," Eldred asked, ever mindful that nothing is free.

"You will release one man in five, from your workforce, to be trained and to fight with the force for two years, then when he returns you will send others in their place, and so on until all your men are trained," said Aldor.

"Is that all?" Eldred's surprise was evident.

"In addition, you will feed your candidate and provide a further 1/10^th share of food to pay for his training.   When your men return, they will be responsible for the defence of your lands and people.   They will be responsible for summoning the Force in case of emergency, and if needed, would be expected to rally at the muster point to defend the Empire against interlopers.   The Force will be responsible for the defence of an area of twenty-five miles in diameter, for as long as you abide by our agreement."

"It is almost time for supper, won't you join us?" a young woman asked.

"Tilla is my youngest daughter, an excellent cook," Eldred explained invitingly.

Lomax was on the point of declining.   It had always been Tylywoch policy not to fraternize with the common people.

"That is most gracious of you, we would be delighted" said Aldor, "Might we be allowed to contribute a little something from our supplies?"

Tilla looked at her father, then spoke out.  "We are very low on salt," she said hesitantly, a shy smile dimpling her cheeks.

Both Aldor and Lomax produced their small pouches of salt, pouring half their contents into a bowl that was hastily produced from nowhere.    The Tigers and the Bears followed suit.

"You are too generous," Eldred protested, "since these animals have been blocking the roads we have not been able to obtain supplies or send our produce to the Clan cities within the jurisdiction of the 10^th 11^th & 12^th Clans."

"There are marauding bands of a hundred or more preying on the local rural population.   They usually take our produce, but leave us sufficient to live on," said Tilla.

"They have never before threatened our women and children, or our lives," said Eldred, "but, recently they have become more angry and aggressive…"

"Do you know where they are from and the cause of their discontent?" Aldor asked. 

"I know they were evicted from the fringes of the 9^th and 10^th Clans for nonpayment of Tithes.   It has been a very hard year, very dry.   The rivers dried up early and their rice crops failed," Eldred explained.

"They were certainly not swordsmen," said Lomax "they must be getting desperate if they are attacking the farms that have been sustaining them."

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 THE PRICE

By Rosemary Clarke

Many of us want the FAME
There's no doubt about it
But the stuff that comes with it
You WON'T shout about it
We all think that they should lead
Can't WE lead US today?
Some on social media
Have to have their say.
So without ANY knowledge
Of famous people's lives
They SMEAR all of the internet
And on this point, they thrive
These people's rare existence
They liken to their own
Why don't they really just shut up
And leave their thoughts at home.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 Flying

By Jane Scoggins 

Colin had wanted to have flying lessons but his Dad had said

 ‘No, you are too young.'

 Colin had kept on asking until finally, his Dad said

 ‘OK, I will take you out with me on a fine day.’

Colin was overjoyed and could hardly wait. He instinctively knew he would love it and felt confident. He waited patiently watching the sky every day to see what was up there and what the weather looked like. At last, the day came when Dad said he would give him a flying lesson. His Dad, Ray, had been flying a long time. He was both competent and confident, but it had taken many hours of flying, sometimes the weather had taken an unexpected turn for the worse and he had had to make emergency landings. There had been other scary times and incidents, but he wasn't going to tell Colin about them. He felt that Colin was overconfident, cocky in fact, and he would have to learn that he must keep his wits about him in the air if he wasn't to come a cropper early on. That would never do and may knock his confidence badly. Ray didn't want that of course. He himself loved flying, it was his life, and he wanted his son to enjoy it the same as him. So it was a fine balance in teaching him the pros as well as the cons. To be aware of hazards, and manage the upward, as well as the downward currents, was important. Colin couldn't expect to be like Tom Cruise in Top Gun no, he had to be slow and steady till he got his wings and expected to go solo.

 The day of the first lesson was a bit chilly, but a clear day and blue enough sky. Vision would be good and hazards easily spotted. Ray took Colin up in the air, not too high, just high enough so the wind wouldn't buffet them, but high enough to get a clear view of the houses and gardens beneath them and be above the telephone wires. Colin was more nervous than he thought he would be at first, but he followed his Dad’s instructions and soon he became more confident and could start looking around, and then down.

 ‘Wow, the view is amazing up here Dad’ I knew it would be good, but it is better than I thought. Can we go a bit further? I can see blue over there that looks like water, what is it?’

 ‘That'll be the river son. We won't go that far today. We’ll save that for another time.'

 After flying around for a while Ray said it was enough for Colin’s first lesson and it was time to land and have lunch.

They came into land without any trouble and Colin was pleased as he knew landing could be as tricky as taking off. They had a choice of where to go to dine. Ray decided on one of the new places on the London Road. He had been to check them out last week and knew what was generally on the menu at each. At number 8 it would be bread and cake, at number 12 it would be mealy worms or sunflower seeds and at 14 it would most likely be a generous quantity of multigrain on their large bird table platform. It was big enough for both of them. The added advantage was that there was no cat or dog in the garden. So that was where they decided to go for lunch.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 THE UNIVERSE

Peter Woodgate

It’s strange,

this Universe we try to understand

with Galaxies, Nebulae

and solar Systems, all are grand.

However,

look at the human brain,

the different cells and electric currents,

nothing there is plain.

Parts of the Universe have died,

some parts, as yet, not born

likewise brain cells too will die

dementia lives are torn.

Black holes, in Galaxies, swallow up

whatever gets too near,

dead brain cells can absorb the light

but not release I fear.

So, what of the Universe,

could it be a giant brain?

God’s, perhaps,

or am I just insane?

I can’t help thinking,

And this is no joke,

this Universe will expand, then explode

and God will have a stroke.       

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Spaceman

 THE NIGHT CALLER                                                                 

by Richard Banks 

The knock at the door was polite but insistent and would have caused no uneasiness had it not occurred at a quarter to three in the morning. If asleep, or only half asleep, I might have missed it or taken it into whatever dream was in my head. But I was awake, most definitely awake. Had I not just visited the bathroom and on my return to bed checked the time on my alarm clock. Even so, I was inclined to think that it was nothing, or at least nothing of consequence. The night was windy, something had blown over, or maybe... The knock was followed by a second knock, a little louder this time but no less polite. There was no mistaking it this time. The knocker I sensed was a person of discernment, of sensibility, but nevertheless an unexpected caller at a time of day when the usual sort of callers were yet to venture out.

         A third knock, scarcely more insistent than the first two, had me reaching for my dressing gown. Halfway down the stairs, my mind was in panic mode. This could only be bad news, an emergency, someone we knew had died or been injured in an accident. It was the police, who else could it be? Pausing only to turn on the hall light I flung open the door to reveal something that was definitely not a policeman, or any other type of man.

         The large green face that looked up at me smiled ruefully, revealing several rows of red incisors. A long yellow tongue flickered in and out of its mouth as the creature spoke. What its first words were I do not recall; I only remember that they were expressed in a version of the English language last uttered by BBC newsreaders in the early days of television. I attempted to reply with the same immaculate enunciation only to find that I had totally failed to take in what it had said. The voice that spoke had done so in a middling baritone - 'it' was most definitely a 'he'. His upwards gaze took on a look of bemused anxiety as my mouth opened and closed several times without speaking. The creature tried again, possibly repeating his first words that now became the most famous second words in human history.

         “Sorry to intrude. Rank bad form and all that, but could I possibly bother you for a recharge.” He held up an object of similar size and dimensions to a portable radio. He again smiled but this time in a way that did not reveal his teeth. I wondered what the dinner jacketed newsreaders might have said and, while wondering, heard myself invite him in. Well, it would have been impolite not to, a curt refusal might have blighted interplanetary relations for decades to come, and all he wanted was a recharge.

         I ushered him into the sitting room. It was my best room and had recently been re-carpeted. Regretfully the new sofa I had ordered was yet to arrive.

         “Do you have a three pin adapter?” I asked, pointing at the socket in the wall.

         He assured me that he had a “universal” and that my socket would do very nicely. He plugged in his radio or whatever it was and in the awkward silence that followed I invited him to sit down on the more comfortable of my two armchairs.

         “Would you like a cup of tea while we wait?” Utilising my talent for charades I mimed the raising of a cup from saucer to mouth.

         “Tea?” he repeated. The pause that followed suggested that he was somehow consulting a search engine. “Oh yes, a refreshing plant leaf infusion. Why not indeed. Let’s have some tea.”

         He fidgeted nervously as I explained that I would have to leave him for a few minutes. “The tea,” I explained, “is made in the kitchen.” I pointed towards the serving hatch between the sitting room and kitchen.

         “Through there?” he said, as though expecting me to crawl through it.

         Deciding that any further words of explanation might well have the opposite effect I left the room via the door. On my return I found him communing with my lemon plant in a series of odd, little sighs which the plant was reciprocating with sighs of its own. The creature broke off in mid-conversation and accepted the cup and saucer I offered him with a dexterity that suggested he had been practising. Raising the cup in accordance with my mime he poured the contents into an orifice that I had hitherto supposed to be an ear. The expression on his face suggested that the experience had not been an altogether pleasurable one, but determined to be the model guest he effected what I think was meant to be a sign of approval.

         “Are you not giving Lini one?”

         “Lini,” I replied, wondering if he had brought in an invisible friend.

         “Yes, Lini, your companion plant. She has not drunk for three days. A tea, I think, would be very much to her liking.”

         I disappeared back into the kitchen and on my return emptied the teapot into Lini’s container. He smiled, evidently satisfied that Lini was now a happier plant.

         “By the way, I haven’t introduced myself, I do beg your pardon, my name is Kogiwinnalottadosh, second son of the third family order of Magnus Vaniturnum. Call me Kog, everybody does.”

         I informed him that I was Kev of Fairway Avenue.

         Introductions over he volunteered the further information that he had come from a planet with a very long name that might have started with a Z, and that he had gone travelling with his second best wife, who also had a very long name.

         “Oh, I said.” I hope she’s not waiting outside. She’s most welcome to come in.” By no means convinced that I did want another extra-terrestrial in my sitting room I was relieved when Kog declined my offer with civility that fully acknowledged my kind intentions. His wife, he explained, was busy in their spaceship where she was making much needed repairs to a device called a gurgoblaster. This, he hastened to tell me, was the most important part of the ship and the reason why she was on-board instead of his number one wife. No one could fix a gurgoblaster like she could. Indeed, give her any piece of mechanical equipment she would not only repair it but make it work better than before.

         “How many wives do you have, Kev?”

         I replied that I had one and that she was presently asleep on our bed upstairs.

         “Only one?” he said, evidently puzzled by my reply but holding back on the questions he was surely thinking.

         I replied that most Earth countries had a one wife at a time policy and that very few of the said wives could change a car wheel, never mind repair a gurgoblaster. There is, I added, in a spontaneous moment of interplanetary diplomacy, “much we might learn from you.”        

         “And we from you,” said Kog. Indeed, I wish to know where I can find George Formby?”

         “George Formby?”

         “Yes, George Formby. You know, the cheeky chappy with the ukulele.”

         It transpired that Kog’s planet had been receiving radio and TV signals from Earth that first began their journey through space in the 1920s. Of those relating to light entertainment, none were more popular than the songs and films of George Formby which had acquired a cult following only rivalled by the more recent arrival of ‘The Lone Ranger’.

         “Do you have a ukulele, Kev?”

         His disappointment at my reply was only too evident. I hastened to assure him that although I was not a practising musician I was fully aware and appreciative of Mr Formby’s undoubted musical talents. Indeed, I claimed his song about the Brighton Rock to be a personal favourite. This was, of course, far from the truth although in the circumstances pertaining it seemed impolite to say otherwise. I attempted to maintain this fiction by singing the only two lines of the song I could remember. He instantly joined in and, with both of us feigning the playing of a ukulele, we sang, or rather he sang and I hummed until it was over. Kog clearly elated by our performance attempted to slap me on the back but had to settle for somewhere lower.

         “So Kev, where is he? Not far I hope.”

         I imparted the sad news that the great George had, “passed over.”

         The untroubled expression on Kog’s face indicated that I had not made myself clear.

         “You mean, passed over in a flying machine, no doubt going to America or Europe or one of your other Earth places. No matter, Kev, just give me the coordinates of his present location and I will be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, or maybe even one. By the way, what is a lamb?”

         Ignoring his last question I abandoned genteel euphemisms and in plain language informed him that poor George was dead. The cry of anguish that erupted from Kog was notable not only for the shaking of the ceiling but also the waking of her upstairs who having been thrown from her bed was now standing at the top of the stairs bellowing her displeasure. As Kog’s grief subsided into sobs I moved swiftly into the hall determined to prevent, at all costs, an encounter that was unlikely to go well. Fortunately having advanced no further than the first step down she showed no inclination to venture further.

         “What the hell’s going on down there? Don’t you know I’m trying to sleep?”

         I explained that a bereaved friend had called and was understandably upset.

         “Upset! I’ll give him upset if he makes that noise again. Now get rid of him and don’t let me find the house smelling of weed in the morning.”

         “Weed?” I replied, with as much innocence as I could muster.

         “You know what I mean.”

         I returned to the sitting room to find Kog slumped forward on the armchair, his head buried in two scaly hands, emerald tears flowing down onto the carpet. Fearing that these might add a discordant colouring to the carpet I hastily offered him a box of tissues which in the confusion of his grief he ate.

         “Kev, Kev, how can this be? He was so young, sixty years at most, little more than a child.”

         I consoled him as best I could by saying that human lives were seldom longer than a hundred years and that although George’s life had been somewhat shorter he had achieved considerable fame and riches. His only regret, I ventured to suggest, was that he knew nothing of his many fans on Kog’s planet.

         Kog’s head slowly returned to its normal positioning and nodded its agreement. The expression on the face suggested that my last statement had been less than logical. To Kog’s credit, his next words were only to agree with me that George had many fans, “thirty million at least and that’s only the membership of his fan club. They will cry an ocean.”

         Unsure as to whether this was an actual ocean or a metaphorical one I decided to steer the conversation towards the more certain knowledge that a statue of the ‘great man’ had been erected on the Isle of Man. It is, I assured him, “an awfully good likeness.”

         “But does it sing and dance?”

         “No,” I counselled, “statues seldom do.”

         “Nevertheless I must go there to make sacrifice. Tell me, Kev, what animal should I choose?”

         I replied that on-street sacrifices were generally discouraged on Earth and that the Isle of Man no doubt had by-laws against them. “Why don’t you light a candle or, better still have a flyover. You could dip your wings or loop the loop.”

         Kog considered my proposal behind an expression that suggested that wings and loop looping were concepts he was struggling to grasp. I was about to speak again when he did so himself. “I know what, we will fire our guns and send ten fiery missiles exploding like thunder in the night sky before falling back to Earth like sparkling rain. What could be better! …Don’t look so worried, Kev, we will point the guns up high. There will be no danger, and hidden by our invisibility shield no one will even know we are there. Trust me, my friend, we come in peace. George makes us brothers does he not?”

         I agreed that he did, at least I hoped he did. I was about to make some tentative enquiries about the guns when a shrill ping announced the ending of the charging process. Detaching his devices from the plug he turned to me with a rueful smile that signalled his intention to depart.

         “It has been great meeting you, Kev, an historic meeting, yes? The first between our two peoples. I will mention you in the book I will be writing. Who knows you may become as famous as dear George. Well, almost. But now I must go. There is much work to do on the ship and we must be away before your star brings its light again.”

         We exchanged gifts, I gave him an A-Z gazetteer of Great Britain and he reciprocated with an aerosol that he assured me was very effective in sweetening the mood of those whose sweetness was less than conspicuous. He gave me a knowing look and glanced up at the ceiling.

         I saw him to the front door and watched as he disappeared into the darkness. Too wakeful to sleep I lit up another joint and contemplated the new reality of life in an ever changing universe. What conclusions I came to I am unable to recall. Sadly the new dawn I glimpsed at around 11.30 seemed much the same as any other morning; the spray, labelled ‘Urk’, produced a howl of rage from she who was its target; and the news from Manx was so unremarkable that it is only known to those who live there. For nearly a month the only proof of that extraordinary night was the otherwise inexplicable disappearance of my A-Z, a circumstance already troubling for it being overdue at the library. When proof did arrive, trouble took on a new dimension - an email from Econ informing me that my quarterly bill was for twenty thousand, two hundred and eighty nine pounds and a less significant number of pence.

         Some experiences are priceless, some plain expensive, others are both, and I am broke. Heed well my tale. Beware the night knock on the door, and if you do open up, at least get a selfie.  

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 A Group Message

By Sis Unsworth

I’m now counting down, till we all meet in June,

and speaking sincerely, it can’t come too soon.

It seems long ago, since we all last met,

so I’ll remind you again, so you won’t forget.

I will have bread pudding, here ready for you,

So make sure you turn up, whatever you do.

a big thanks to Len, who has kept us all going,

the Blog’s a success, and it keeps on growing.

But just as I’m feeling, so happy & bright,

I heard on the news, & it gave me a fright,

The Indian variant has entered our land,

and may change again, our well laid plan.

So the 24^th jaunt, may not be so near,

like a fading dream, we once held so dear

So, keep fingers crossed, it will all be Okay

I’m sure we will meet on our chosen day.*

There will be bread pudding, waiting for you,

So take care and keep safe whatever you do!

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

* Note:

Let’s see, the 24^th of July 202?

 Surfing in the park

By Robert Kingston

In the shadows of the ancient tower

Through the moulton now hardened gate

Wheels of thunder rumbling on

To shrills do skaters skate

 

Rising, falling, weaving,  stalling 

at pinnacles, whilst air they seek

Then over again they practice

For perfection they do seek

 

Starting atop a fulcrum point

Slipping forward a balanced drop

Down with speed, bearings burning

Hot up until the ground is lost

 

Dropping like a rock to ground 

Spinning wheels round and round

A downwards slope where wheels do rest

Carrying forth to depths

And back again to crest 

 

A tip of toe, a stamp of foot

The board it twists, it somersaults 

In hand it's trickery is caught.

A forward thwart 

A jump upon a rail it's caught,

As shrills skate atop

 

A balanced slide

 

A leap of faith sees 

a trick complete

 

A skateboarders face alive

 

Copyright Robert Kingston (2014)