FLAT PACK FURNITURE

By Peter Woodgate 

I must be a glutton for punishment, for each time my wife (Jo) shows me a glowing picture of a piece of furniture, she thinks we must have, I smile and say, “oh yes, that looks nice.”

Then, too late, I realize she is looking at the NEXT magazine and that invariably means, dare I mention the words, Flat Pack.

    So, the day arrives, according to the text received on her mobile, that, the said item, is due for delivery.

    Beads of sweat appear on my forehead as if by magic, and that is before I try to pick up the box that contains the reason for my torment. After struggling to drag the heavy box inside I open it carefully and extract the instructions. On page one, in large and bold lettering, are the words BEFORE YOU GET STARTED. So, I read on, with interest, and failing to see anything that, suggests I should lie down in a darkened room for twenty-four hours, I begin, gently extracting each piece.

    As I take out each piece I lay them down in numerical order, numbers six and nine can be a problem but they don’t catch me out as I have my trusted magnifying glass handy. Without this specialist equipment I would never see the minute dash, almost secretly marked and shown at the bottom of these numbers. This does, of course, avert the need to stand on my head.

    Catastrophe avoided I check all the cams and bolts and dowels and screws, then, happy that they have included a few extras, begin the construction.

    Whilst reading the BEFORE YOU GET STARTED, I noticed that:

 

(a)    Two persons are recommended for the construction of this piece

(b)   Assembly time thirty minutes

(c) Tools needed screwdriver (not supplied) 

 

 

Of course, now being an expert on flat packs, I decide that two people is a non-starter, we have nearly come to blows in the past.

The time suggested is ludicrous, it usually takes, at least, three times of that suggested.

As far as tools is concerned, I think I must have part ownership in the local B&Q store.

( My nickname is “tools is I).

However, despite being an expert (my words not Jo’s) I still get annoyed at the “exploded diagrams” (designed by some highly paid architect no doubt) that necessitate the careful counting of the black dots shown on each piece. The frustration is, however, that it does not name the fitting that is to be inserted into each of these holes. I can’t tell you how many times I have inserted a dowel into one meant for a bolt, and vice versa.

    I know what you are thinking, I ought to be able to recognize each piece by it’s size. Well, it seems, I am not very good at judging size (according to Jo) as I often think something is larger than it actually is.

    Anyway, I proudly struggle on, even though I am in need of another pair of arms, and find one of the dining room chairs is as able as Jo (and doesn’t moan at me when I make a mistake)

 

    Right, all is in place and the finishing touch is to tighten up the cams. I had noted the specific advice quoting, “don’t stop until two o-clock lock.”  Well, it’s bloody four o-clock now so don’t really know what they are on about. What I do know is, that when assembled, some of the cams cannot be reached using a normal length screwdriver. So, use a smaller one.

“muppet” you are thinking. Ok, so I try a smaller size but, and this is quite important when I try the smaller one the cross-head is smaller too and doesn’t tighten up the cam.

    What do I do now? Well, I told you I was an expert, and being a genius as well I hack-sawed one of my larger screwdrivers making it a short-handled large crosshead one. I should patent this, what do you think?

 

    Now it’s time for me to exhibit my masterpiece for inspection. “OK” I shout “come and have a look at the bookcase, I’ve finished”

 

    Jo enters the room and my smile turns to a puzzled frown as I hear her say, in a quiet but sarcastic tone, “I didn’t order a bloody bookcase, where the Hell are the draws?”

 

“Oh,” I reply, rather sheepishly, “I wondered what these things were for, thought they were part of the packing

 

Well, I did manage to salvage the construction and since then, when glancing at this superstructure I can’t suppress a smile.

    However, only yesterday, my curiosity got the better of me and suddenly had the urge to pull open the draws (which had been the reason for a limited silent period).

I opened up the first of the three draws and was shocked when looking at the contents, yes, you guessed, bloody books.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  

    

 FRAGILE LIVES

by Richard Banks

Despite her husband's disapproval Mrs Gipson opened the front door of their terraced house and placed her chair on its tiled doorstep. “It was wide enough,” she said, she wasn't stopping anybody getting in or out. “What can be the objection?” Mr Gipson said she knew perfectly well what the objection was. “People don't do that here. This is Eastbourne, not Wapping. In the old house, there were so many fleas in summer that nobody stayed indoors, but Eastbourne's not like that, it's better, that's why we moved here. We've got a back garden with grass and flowers. Why don't you sit out there?” Mrs Gipson replied that she preferred the front. The greengrocer's cart was coming and she didn't want to miss it.  Anyway, she could hear the guns more clearly in the front. She wanted to hear what Fred was hearing and if she looked down the road at Mr Cox’s newsagent’s shop she was also looking in the direction of France where the fighting was. She knew that because Mrs Pennyfather told her so; she had an atlas and compass that proved it.

         Mr Gipson suppressed a snort, drew sharply on his pipe and retreated indoors. Unlike his wife he was doing his best not to think about the war. Although a man of limited imagination he knew what was happening in France was no ordinary battle. A war in another country you could hear in England, it was unbelievable. A louder than usual bang rattled the front windows and sent him scurrying through the back door to check the glass in his cold frame. On finding it undamaged he began to double dig a flower bed that yesterday he had cut from turf. Its oblong shape reminded him of a grave; he wished he had dug it round.

                                                    

                                                         *   *   *   *   *   *

In France, a mile north of the Somme river, a soldier was also digging, his

 excavations widening a communications trench between the front line and a medical post. Like his father, he was trying not to think about the war. If he was to remain sane he had to fill his head with other things: thoughts of home, of football matches he had watched or played in; of the Kings Head on a Saturday night -  if only he could stay alive. For six days the allied guns had pounded the German trenches. When they stopped, the infantry would be ordered to advance into no man's land, a frontal assault at walking pace on the enemy line; if the barrage was not successful, if enough Huns survived to man their machine-gun posts, what then? These thoughts he kept to himself. For now, the men were cheerful, hopeful of a decisive breakthrough. There was talk of the war being over by Christmas, but then that had been said before.

         He had joined the West Ham Pals in 1914, at the start of the war, with four lads from the same football team eager to see action before it was all over. The Pals were mainly West Ham supporters. It was rumoured that the club's center forward, Syd Puddefoot, was also a Pal but they later learned he had opted to see out the war in a munitions factory. Nevertheless, there were several part-time pros in the battalion, as well as a hundred or more good amateurs from local leagues. In between the fighting, there would be some decent matches to be played. His best friend, Joey Pennyfather, from four doors down, had squeezed a football into his kitbag; beneath his tunic, he had taken to wearing his football shirt. It was his lucky shirt he said, and so far it hadn't let him down.

         Tomorrow they would be transferred up the line to another unit with five other men. An officer told him to write a letter to his missus before he left but what was the point of that? Four years into an unhappy marriage he and Connie were glad to be apart. He would write to Mum, but not now; he had work to do, a kit bag to pack.

 

                                           *  *  *  *  *  *

 

Mr Gipson reached across the bed and turned off the alarm clock. It was not until he was in the scullery, washing at the sink, that he realized that the only sound outside was the cooing of a pigeon. He returned to the bedroom where Mrs Gipson was putting on her dressing gown. “It's over,” he declared, “the guns have stopped, the battle must be over.” Mrs Gipson asked if they had won, and Mr Gipson replied, more sharply than he intended, that he didn’t know, how could he know. He would have to buy a newspaper like everyone else. He dressed hurriedly and brought a Daily Mail in Cox’s shop, but the news was little changed from yesterday. Something big was happening, but, as yet, there was nothing about it in the Mail. He wondered if the Mirror had more. Mr Gipson returned home, pushed the newspaper through the letterbox, and hurried off to his work. Old Bill, his foreman, read the Mirror, he would have a borrow of that.

       Mrs Gipson drew back the curtains from the front bay windows, and through

the translucent weave of her net curtains watched her husband walk briskly back up the street. She wondered why he hadn't come in and said something? Was it bad news? She snatched the newspaper from the mat and took it into the back room where there were no net curtains and the sun streamed in through french windows. She read the first two pages and wondered how so many words could tell her so little. She dressed and took up her position outside on the front doorstep. If there were casualties, and there must be casualties, telegrams would be sent. Her view towards the High Street included the Post Office. There two boys in tall hats and navy blue uniforms with shiny buttons waited for the messages they would deliver by bicycle. The double doors of the Post Office opened inwards as if by themselves and the first customers entered. The telegram boys wheeled out their cycles, placed them in the rack outside the sorting office window, and retreated indoors.

         At a quarter to ten Mrs Pennyfather stopped by on her way to the shops. She had received a letter from Joey that mentioned Fred. They were still together, still playing football. Indeed judging from Joey's letter there was more football going on than fighting.  Mrs Gipson smiled and then groaned as one of the telegram boys approached the cycle rack and fetched down his bike. Mrs Pennyfather hastened to reassure her. “Don't worry, Ethel, he's not going to the likes of us, only officers' families get telegrams. It's the brown envelope through the post that goes to us. The boys will soon be back, safe and sound, you mark my words. One big push and it will be all over by Christmas.” Mrs Gipson smiled again and pretended to be comforted. Why was it always Christmas? she thought.

                                                           *  *  *  *  *  *

 

Lieutenant Shaw finished another letter and reflected on the disaster of the

previous day. The Generals had promised it would be so easy, that the artillery bombardment would kill every last German, that the men had only to saunter across no man's land to take possession of the opposing trenches, but the Bosche were still there, waiting with their machine guns to decimate the infantry that walked towards them in lines as vulnerable as ninepins.  “Follow the flash,” he had shouted, meaning the flash on the back of his collar, “follow me,” and he had led them like lambs to the slaughter.                                                                                                                                  

         He wondered why he had survived when so many had not. He consoled himself with the thought that there would be many other opportunities to die. For now, his duty was to write to the families of the dead, expressing his condolences, assuring them that their sons and husbands had died bravely for their country. Most had. He wrote saying that they had not suffered, that death was instantaneous, a bullet through the heart. What else could he say – that they had died in agony while others had been blown to pieces?

         He made himself a mug of tea and begun another letter. This one was to the wife of a Pvt Frederick Gipson. He had not known Gipson, he was one of seven men reassigned to his Company on the final day of the bombardment. No one knew much about him. The few details he had gleaned would have to be used carefully, skilfully; mixed with the usual platitudes his letter must console, bear testimony to the how, where, and when of Gipson's death. What he would not say in his letter was that an artillery shell had landed near Gipson erasing one side of his face, detaching an arm and propelling it into the fetid sludge of a crater where it was later discovered with his helmet and identity disc. But this had not been the cause of death; Gipson's body bore witness to an earlier intervention.

         Death had been instantaneous Lieutenant Shaw would write for the tenth time that day, a bullet through the heart. For once he knew this to be true.                                                

                                             *  *  *  *  *  *

Two days had passed since the arrival of form B104-82B, a printed letter with handwritten insertions. It was addressed to Fred's wife but as she had now left the Gipson household for her parents' home in Enfield, Mrs Gipson had no hesitation in opening it. As far as she was concerned there was only one Mrs Gipson, the other one, 'the imposter', had deserted her post. The letter was

in a brown envelope as Mrs Pennyfather said it would be, and Mrs Gipson picked it up off the mat

 

with a hand so tremulous she could hardly open it. When she did, she had only to read the first few words to know that Fred was no more: 'It is my painful duty to inform you,' it began, 'a report has

 been received notifying the death of... ' Below in neat, upright lettering was written Fred's name, number, and rank, the name of his regiment, a date, and the words 'killed in action'. She forced herself to read on, two paragraphs of unbroken typescript about 'the disposal' of Fred's personal effects to next of kin. At first, this seemed insignificant, a bureaucratic footnote but in the horrid, dismal days that followed, Fred's possessions in France assumed the importance of religious relics. On his departure, she had given him a bible, a small shaving mirror, and a cigarette case. Fred's body she would never see might never know where he was buried but these few precious objects she was determined to have. Accordingly, she had written to the War Office stipulating that Fred's effects be sent to herself and Mr Gipson.                           

         On the day the letter was sent, another arrived in the Pennyfather household informing them that Joey was 'posted as missing'. But, as Mrs Pennyfather said, this did not mean that he was dead. “If he was dead the form would have said so, but it didn't. Anything might have happened: he might be wounded, captured, or separated from his Company. In the confusion of battle, mistakes were made, mistakes that had soldiers killed or missing only for them to return home safe and well.”  She knew this to be true, she had read it in the papers. Mrs Gipson listened patiently, not knowing whether to pity or envy her. The chances that Joey was alive were slim, but at least she still had hope, even a small sliver of hope was better than none.

 

                                          *  *  *  *  *  *

Having shared tea and sympathy with Mrs Pennyfather, Mrs Gipson returned to her house where the front room curtains were closed and a wreath hung limply from a nail hammered into the door. As she entered the darkened hallway, a rectangle of light from the open door illuminated a single envelope. She picked it up from the mat and took it into her back parlour where the curtains were open and normal life, as far as it existed, was allowed to take place. The letter was addressed to Connie. As before, Mrs Gipson opened the envelope with a perverse relish that suggested she was exacting a minor act of revenge. Inside she found Lieutenant Shaw's letter. For a few moments, she thought it might contain something unexpected, something wonderful, a miracle. Then her eyes took in the first line, 'it is with the deepest regret that I write concerning the death of your husband.' Her dejection mingled with the hope that had preceded it. Poor man, she thought, how many of these had he written? So hard it must be to write about fallen comrades, men he knew and commanded. But how well had he known Fred? The answer came in the next sentence: 'While your husband was with us for only a short time he was held in the highest regard by all who met him, his quiet, dedication to duty an example to us all.' Mrs Gipson briefly considered these words and angrily rejected them. Fred had never done anything quietly in his life and as for his dedication to the cause that had long been replaced by bitter disaffection. Clearly Lieutenant Shaw knew next to nothing about Fred, may never have spoken to him.

         Mrs Gipson crumbled the letter into a tight ball and sent it hurling across the room, but even as she did so she realized that she would have to read it to the end; Mr Gipson would want to read it; surely there would be something in Lieutenant Shaw's letter that was worth reading. She knelt down beside it and tried to smooth out the creases against the yellow linoleum that covered most of the floor. The words, 'shot through the heart' caught her eye. This she believed because she needed to, she thanked God he had not suffered. The letter concluded by saying that Fred had been buried in woodland behind the reserve trench, a hymn sung, prayers said.

         Mrs Gipson took the letter back to her chair. On reading it a second time she discovered a final paragraph that had previously escaped her attention. 'As you will be aware,' wrote Lieutenant Shaw, 'your husband was a member of the Eastbourne Falcons football team who, I am told, play their matches at Compton Place in the South East Sussex league. The officials and players of that team will, no doubt, wish to know that at the time of Private Gipson's unfortunate death he was wearing a Falcon's football shirt beneath his tunic. I hope it will be a consolation to yourself that he died in a battalion closely associated with our national game, among comrades who shared his passion for all things football.'

         Mrs Gipson stared incredulously across the room into a mirror that reflected Mr Gipson's garden. It was wrong, the letter was wrong and she had the proof! At least she thought she had the proof. It would be in Fred's wardrobe in the drawer at its base. At first, she could not find it, then, as if by magic, it was there, the red and white stripes of his football shirt. She hugged it to her black mourning dress as though the evidence of her eyes was not enough. She needed to feel it, smell it, check the label on which she had written his initials. This was Fred's shirt, not the one on the dead soldier. He was still alive, she told herself, but why hadn't the mistake been discovered and she informed? Was it too late to expect another letter? For now, all she could be certain of was that the dead soldier wasn't Fred, another Falcon to be sure, but not Fred. She tried to remember their names. There were four: Joey, Mrs Warner's two boys and another lad they called Birdy. One was already dead, one discharged with the shakes, another wounded. Was the wounded man back at the front? She thought not. That left Joey. The dead soldier was Joey. Poor, dear Joey - but not as dear as Fred. For now she would say nothing, do nothing. It would not be her who snuffed out Mrs Pennyfather's hope. Soon all might be clear: the effects of the dead soldier would arrive or further letters received. Until then they could both go on hoping.

         Mrs Gipson drew back her front room curtains and saw the sun creep out from behind a cotton wool cloud. Almost without thinking she was out through the front door and standing at the gate reveling in the mundane normality of a warm summer's day. The sunshine-filled her with optimism that Fred was still alive. He might soon be home, she thought. After the battle he would surely be given leave; even now he might be on his way home. At the station end of the road she could see a khaki uniform among the varied hews of civilian passengers.

         As yet the soldier was too far off, no wider than a match, but if he did not turn left into Park Road he must continue on towards her. Mrs Gipson reached into her pocket where her glasses were. She raised them to her eyes, but the soldier was gone.    

 Copyright Richard Banks

                                                                                                  

 Just Dialogue

By Len Morgan

"You're so gonna get it David!"
"Huh?"
"You know what I'm talking about..."
 "It never happened, don't know who it was, but it wasn't me!"
"You don't say."
"What proof is there woman?   Have you seen it?"
"Seen it, as on TV, on the news?   Was I standing next to you?   No, but you did it for sure."
"Then how do you know, where is your proof, you could never know unless..."
"Yes?"
"No, no, no, it's a lie."
"Why would she lie!"
"Why would she lie?   Shit.   It's my brain you’re messing with and I won't stand for it; not for another minute.   What did she say, what am I being accused of anyway?"
"You know very well David."
"I do not."
"Then you darn well should, for heaven's sake."
Whatever she said happened is a lie because it never happened.   I distinctly remember not doing anything anywhere at any time.   Listen to me woman I'm innocent!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!   If I'd done something I should be ashamed of, that I didn't want you to find out about, I would definitely know it.   So, if I say nothing happened I am the world’s authority."
"I don't believe you."
"Jesus woman, get it into your big beautiful head that I have nothing to explain or apologize for.   My conscience is clear and I refuse to discuss this any further!   But, I'll allow you to have the last word if you just tell me what I'm being accused of.   Put me out of my misery please?"
"Now think very carefully before answering this.   Would you bet your life on your innocence?"
"Of course I would sweetheart."
"Katie says you stole three of her jelly babies a red, a yellow, and a green one.   You bit off their heads and swallowed them whole!"
"Katie?   Our granddaughter Katie?   Ugh!"
"Guilty as charged!   Send him down..."

The challenge was to tell a story with dialogue only; no description or narrative tags.   Does it read true?

 

Cheilin Saga ~ 05

 Cheilin Saga ~ 05 Mobilization

By Len Morgan

"I think some of those refugees are trying to take over the farms in this region," said Aldor.   "How many farms are there, nearby, that could accommodate them in such numbers?"

"How many similar farming communities, villages, and towns are there within a days travel?" Lomax asked.

"Mmm," Eldred considered, "a hundred or so if you're talking about twelve miles in any direction.   There are five, no six Villages and two towns worthy of the name" he added.

 

"How many men would there be at each farm," Aldor asked.

"Between ten and fifteen" said Eldred.

"And in a Village?"

"Three to four hundred," Eldred answered after due consideration.

"What about the towns?"

"That could be quite a lot, could be thousands…"

"From my experience, it would be anything from five to ten thousand," Lomax said.

 

"So, two thousand on the farms, two thousand or more in the villages, and let us say sixteen thousand in the towns.   That would make over twenty thousand men in this area alone.   If one in five were to be conscripted for training as militiamen you could have two thousand under arms almost immediately.   This region could easily support that number without hardship.   Then every two years another unit could be trained" said Aldor.

"In ten years they would all be trained warriors" said Lomax.

"We could then protect ourselves from marauders such as these," said Eldred.

 

"A local defense militia would have routed them long before they reached here" Aldor assured him.  

"This would provide us with some real security, for the first time in living memory," Eldred replied.

"But, first we have to deal with the current problem," said Aldor.

 

They bedded down in the outbuildings for the night, and close to dawn, Aldor was given the news that one of the wolves had returned with a message.

"There are between forty and fifty men camped two miles up the road with as many women and children, not what you would call a war party" Said Lomax.

"Then it is time for me to confront them," said Aldor.    A second messenger arrived.

"There is a gang of twenty determined-looking men no more than two minutes behind me" he announced.

Aldor turned to Eldred, "see that your people remain out of sight until I indicate that your presence is required.   Leave any action to Lomax and his men, and I will talk with them alone."   He whispered briefly to Lomax and the Carnivores dispersed into the tall grass, at either side of the track, leaving Aldor to confront the group alone.   His weapon remained firmly in its holster, as he smiled disarmingly at the man who appeared to be their leader.

 

"Gentlemen, have you come to attack these poor defenseless people as your colleagues did, or do you come peaceably to discuss your situation calmly and sensibly?" he asked.

"We want the animals that killed a dozen of our number.   We want revenge and reparation!"

"You are?" asked Aldor.

"My name is Pellan, who asks?   I like to know who I am killing and why."

"Well Pellan, eleven were killed.   But, we allowed one to go free to bring you here."

"That you have accomplished, now you have seconds to live," he said stepping forward sword in hand.

"You continue to choose the way of the sword, knowing you are outnumbered a thousand to one?" said Aldor.

"You seem to have something wrong with your eyes, I count twenty to one" said Pellan taking another step towards Aldor who stood his ground, hands-on-hips, with just the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Looks can be deceptive; you discount the Cheilin defense force."

"The what?"

 

Aldor ignored the question.   "There is another way.   You do not need to behave in this fashion," he raised his voice so it would carry and all could hear.   "Most of you have families, what will happen to them when you die?   You are farmers, not soldiers.   You are dispossessing your own kind.   It is not their fault you have lost your homes, they have done you no harm.   Did you speak to them?   Did they refuse you food to your face?   They seem pretty charitable to me.   When I arrived there were a dozen armed men in the process of slaughtering the occupants of this farm.   They were intent on rape, murder, and pillage, like common brigands.   Is that what you are?" Aldor asked.

Pellan's face registered surprise, hurt, and confusion.   "That was not what they came here for.   Karrel, you were there, step forward and answer this man's accusation, tell him how it happened." 

Aldor recognized the shamefaced young man, struggling with his emotions.

 

"Tell him what you told us," Pellan demanded.

"I… Can't…" he stammered, shaking his head, "what he says is true!"

"One of the new men who brought us the weapons, Magell I think, told Quamaal the farmer had refused to help us.   'So', he said, 'I think we should do something about it,’ he said drawing his sword.   His two friends also drew their swords, 'come on then' they said to us and charged down towards the farm.  'Kill the bastards' they yelled, and we all followed them down.   Two of them went into the house and forced everybody out, mostly women and children, and lined them up against the house.   'Set fire to the buildings Magell commanded.'    This is not right I thought, three of the farm hands were on the ground the others defending themselves with pitchforks and rakes.   I heard a shout behind me, I turned and this man clubbed me with the flat of his sword..."

An angry wild-eyed man pushed himself forward, sword raised, towards Aldor.

 

"That cannot be so!   My brother Quamaal was a peace-loving man; he would not be a party to such an act.   He even refused to shoot crows, back home, he said 'they have as much right to live as we do' take back those deceitful words or I'll beat the truth out of you," he yelled at Karrel.

"What if he refuses, do you take his life?   Then you will be no better than the others" said Aldor.

"I want my brother, but he's dead and somebody must pay."   He aimed a blow at Aldor, who hardly seemed to move but the sword flew harmlessly past his head, Aldor stood his ground and slipped a second clumsy half-hearted blow.   The distraught man threw the weapon from him and crumpled into Aldor's arms overcome with grief.   Had Aldor killed the man, none would have taken issue with him.   Instead, he held the man until his tears subsided, and won the hearts of all but a few who were not farmers at all.

"Do you not see?" he said, "Hate breeds hate.   It's a kind of madness that eats us up and turns good men into monsters.   Who is to blame for our plight?   Let the guilty man step forward."

They looked around with unease, but nobody moved.

"If we talk, we can find a solution.   Avoid hate, like a plague, it is virulent and will destroy us all if it is not stopped at source."

During this exchange Eldred and his family came out of their house and stood timidly by, ready to run at the slightest hint of real trouble.   Aldor beckoned them to join the gathering.   Tilla knelt beside the grieving man to comfort him.

 

"We were ordered from our house and told we were going to be sold as slaves," she said, "I was dragged out by my hair, and when my husband Earik ran to my aid they cut him down like a dog."   She wiped away a tear, "the same man said my mother was too old and not worth the transporting, 'kill her' he said 'and the old man,’ my father Eldred.   I went crazy, attacking him with my nails and teeth.   He knocked me down, and as I scrambled to my feet, he fell dead beside me.   I turned on another nearby, but he was already mortally wounded."   Her lips trembled briefly, and she squeezed her eyes tight shut in an abortive attempt to stem a flood, but her narration continued unabated like spring melt, "the yard was suddenly filled with small warriors and this man," she pointed towards Aldor.  

"What manner of creatures do you bring down upon us?"  Pellan asked.

"None you should fear, whilst we are talking," said Aldor "I met them in the mountains and they guided me here…"

"Tylywoch!"   Pellan whispered his eyes everywhere, his fear evident.

 

"There is nothing to fear, my word on it," said Aldor.   "Let us sit and talk, and contrive a sensible solution to our problem.   Can we at least agree on this?”

Eldred and Pellan both nodded and sat on either side of the track.   Aldor looked at Pellan encouraging him to speak.

"We need food, somewhere to live, land, tools;" Pellan shook his head hopelessly, "the list is endless.   We don't want charity, we have a little money, but the season is very advanced for planting.   We don’t know this land or its seasons; one wrong choice could destroy us."

"Your list is not endless, neither is your situation hopeless.   Asking for help on your arrival would have been a good way to start.   This region is large, we farm only what we know we can manage," said Eldred.

"So how much land do you manage, and where are your boundaries?"

 

Eldred smiled, "you are on the fringes now, and there is more land than anybody could possibly farm.   There are no deeds, when a family dies out or moves on to a better location, which happens from time to time, their old property becomes available for any other enterprising family to take up.   Just so long as they are not affeard of hard graft and the occasional knock.   Sometimes a family moves on leaving a crop in the ground that they consider is not worth the trouble of harvesting.   Then there are wild foods to be gathered.   Roots, berries, nuts, as well as fish, fowl, and hares, we can show you where to look.   As to the rest of it we could loan you tools and well-seasoned lumber, for building, even provide you with some of our excess food & seed crop, we had expected to be able to sell it to the clans anyway.   You could repay us over two or three seasons.   Because of our location, close to the foothills, the summers are milder but longer.   If you had killed us now, it woulda took you a generation to painfully learn all we can teach you in a matter of hours."

 

"There are still a few newcomers with us who came with the three, responsible for all the deaths we have seen over the last few days," said Pellan.

"You could be right," Aldor said. "Those men are not seeking refuge, they are slavers.   Opportunists, seeking to profit by the misfortune of others.   If you are in contact with other groups in a similar situation to your own, I would suggest you, spread the word to be suspicious of well-armed strangers with foreign accents.   Tell them also what has transpired here.   Let all your deserving friends benefit from this mutual misfortune," he said.   "How you deal with those strangers is up to you.   Now I must leave you but I will return to pursue the matter we spoke on earlier, Eldred.   I suspect the wagon is already well on its way."

"Indeed," he confirmed.

"Would you stay and take tea and cakes with us?" Tilla asked shyly.

"Thank you, another time when I am passing this way, I have to catch my guides and they move swiftly even with wagons," Aldor said. 

.-…-. 

"You did well back there," said Lomax.

"That is why I came here," Aldor smiled, "I am a controller," and for the first time, he really understood what that meant, "I make things happen," he said.

"You know it is not Tylywoch policy to interfere or become involved in such matters, it was not our concern.   Only matters exclusively in the interests of the Emperor, or involving the wellbeing of the Tylywoch are our concern.   If you were Tylywoch, you would be put to death for your actions on this encounter.   As it is, my own life may well be forfeit just for supporting you.   You are not after all one of us."

 

"That is monstrous!   No, it could never happen" said Aldor, "surely your people would realize that the interests of the people of Cheilin are the interests of the Emperor, so the interests of the inhabitants of the fringes are also the interests of the Tylywoch!"

Lomax shrugged, "We shall see…"

 

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 JANE

By Rosemary Clarke

You opened up the garden
You opened up my life
Things that are oppressing me
Cut sharper than a knife.
I cannot take adversity
I've had so much you see
But you have helped me understand
There is a life for me.
You sorted out the doorstep
Which was making me so blue.
So, when you need some help the most
I'll be there for you.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

  A TRIBUTE

By Peter Woodgate 

This person I have never met

Nor ever will, he’s dead, and yet,

He leaves a legacy within my heart.

 

He painted pictures with his words,

Whilst reading them, they pierce like swords

To agitate the depths of my imagination.

 

Should I take heed of such advice?

It’s said he wasn’t very nice,

But who am I to judge a brilliant mind.

 

He sang of holy pebbled streams,

Of magic days within our dreams

And loss of innocence stolen by time.

 

He raged against the dying light,

Did not go gentle into that good night

Seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle.

 

Despite his anger at the world,

He left his works to be unfurled,

His troubled mind the reason he,

Would sing, in chains, just like the sea.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

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