Runestones 05/2

THE RUNES ~ Episode 2

by Richard Banks

Farming’s never been this good, or this easy, even if we just sit on the land and do nothing we’re still in the black. Then Parry calls and life’s not as good as we thought. He’s Penrose’s man.

          “Any problems?” he asks, “no awkward questions.?”

         “No,” we say, but he wants more than a no. He needs to have the names and addresses of everyone who has spoken to us about the excavation, what they said, what we said to them. We tell him as best we remember.

         “Has anyone mentioned the skeleton?”

         “No,” I say, “the only person to see it apart from the diggers was me.” 

         “And have the diggers been talking?”

         “Not to anyone around here.”

         “Are you sure?” he says, and of course I’m not.

         Parry gazes thoughtfully into the cup of tea I have given him. Like Penrose, he’s a smart dresser, pin-striped suit, collar and tie, but he’s no pen pushing Ministry man. If Penrose makes the rules Parry enforces them. He is civil but never friendly, he speaks only to ask questions or to say what must be done. When we speak he considers every word in long brooding silences, his grey eyes constantly looking into ours. This is a man who knows both the sound and look of a lie.

         For now, his only concern is that the information we are giving him is imprecise or insufficient, that we do not remember all the things he says we should remember. He will make it easy for us. There is a device he wants us to wear that records what people say. It’s the size of a cigarette packet and fits into a band we are to wear around our chests. We don’t even have to turn it on, it does that itself on hearing one of six keywords. All we have to do is turn it off at the end of every conversation and identify the person or persons we have been speaking to by the occasional use of their name. There is also a form to fill in, a sort of diary in which the time and place of each conversation is to be written.

         I tell him I won’t do it. “This is England not Russia. I’m not going to spy on my friends and neighbours,” but he says I must, it’s in the agreement we signed.

         “Did you not read the small print?” He looks angry and tells us there will be fines to pay, that we will be ruined and have to sell the farm. And when I continue to protest he allows his jacket to fall open so I can see the holster that’s strapped to his shoulder.

         Dad’s looking more scared than I have ever seen him and although I can’t see my face it’s probably much the same. Parry’s expression has also changed, the anger is gone, replaced by a look of cruel satisfaction; this is a man who is enjoying our fear and wants to prolong it. He’s playing us along like a cat with a mouse. “We have stumbled on a secret,” he says. “a secret that if it escapes will spread like a contagion. Things have been said that should not have been said. Now is the time for responsible authority to protect the people from themselves. The normal rules no longer apply, innocence can not be presumed, it must be proven. Without those prepared to listen and bear witness no one can be free.” Parry is not only dangerous to know, he’s giving every impression of being one step away from the asylum. This is not a man to get on the wrong side off; to make matters worse he has the Government on his side.

         We start our new work the next day. Dad gets all stressed and, remembering he must clearly identify who he is talking to, starts calling everyone by both their given and family names. On one occasion he gets out the form he has been given and starts filling it in in full sight of the person he’s been talking to. I take him home and come out by myself in the evening to the Bull. If anyone knows more than they should about the dig this is where I’m going to hear it. I pretend it’s my birthday and buy everyone a round of drinks and a whisky chaser; if that doesn’t loosen a few tongues nothing will. As I thought no one knows more than they have read in the papers. Only one person has spoken to the diggers and that was to give directions to the guy driving their mini-bus.

         I go out the next day and the day after that visiting most of the shops and talking to everyone I meet. It’s the same story no one knows a darn thing and, what’s more, it’s yesterday’s news, they couldn’t care less. Then I meet Jones. Normally we don’t have much to say to each other but today he’s more than ready to pass the time of day with me.

         Have I heard anything about the dig? He asks. This sounds like what I should be saying to him and when I say “no” and he won’t let the subject drop I know he’s on the same mission as myself. He’s even more nervous than I am which in its way is reassuring. For once we’re on the same side and I need all the friends I can get. He walks towards the park carrying a briefcase which, I’m guessing, contains his lunch. After a few minutes, I follow him in and sure enough, he’s sitting on a bench eating a sandwich. I stand on the grass in front of him and when he looks up and sees me I put a finger to my lips. He nods and watches me take the listener out of the band that’s around my chest. He does the same and puts it in his briefcase. He holds it open so I can add mine to his. When I do he snaps it shut. But will that be enough? I’m not too sure and neither is Jones; without any prompting from me, he takes the briefcase and pushes it into bushes a yard or two back from where I was standing. When he returns to the bench he is breathing heavily, and perspiring more than anyone should on a lukewarm September day.

         “I take it you have had a visit from friend Parry,” I say.

         He replies in a voice that’s little more than a whisper. “No friend of mine. The man’s a monster. He put a gun to Roy’s head.”

Copyright Richard Banks     

TO SEE OR NOT TO SEE

TO SEE OR NOT TO SEE

THAT IS THE QUESTION 

By Peter Woodgate

I woke up this morning in one of my “what the Hell am I doing here on this God forsaken Earth,” moods.

      I mention God but I am not really sure if He, Her, Gender-neutral being, actually exists.

I suppose that I am what’s known as an Agnostic (that’s rather a posh name for someone who can’t make up their mind). I mean, I could actually call myself a sales director as I try to sell all my rubbish at a boot fair. I could also claim to be a chief accountant when I break open my piggy bank, count the pennies and come to the conclusion that I am bankrupt.

      Yes, there are lots of ego-boosting titles in this world today with God being the supreme one.

This is where I get confused when I look at the Ten Commandments we have been given as our goal to perfection.

      Take jealousy, for instance, It’s known as a sin, but, these are His words not mine, “I am a jealous God and do not want you Worshipping any other idol, like Boris Johnson or Donald Trump.” Another is, “thou shalt not kill,” ever since our first ancestor took a chunk out of the fruit of knowledge, mankind was doomed to the Adamantine fate, in short, we all “pop our clogs.”

       So, God, made Eve, knowing that she would tempt poor Adam into doing something he didn’t ought. However, God also gave us a free mind knowing that a Man would always be tempted by The Fairer sex, well three out of four times so I have heard. Anyway, If I were a lawyer, I would say that this outcome would be known to God and therefore could be deemed as premeditated murder.

      I, have been told, that we have been made in his image, surely this means that God sins too.

A bit like Boris, “one rule for some and one for the rest of us.

    So, is it any wonder that I am unable to make up my mind, and it is at times like this that I am reminded of the last line of a poem by the famous Jewish poet Isaac Rosenberg.

      “Oh, this miasma of a rotting God”

      Confused, well so am I, especially when viewing the abundance of both beauty and horror that surrounds us each day.

      It is enough to drive us insane, well me, anyway.

                                                                                   Copyright Peter Woodgate  

 WHAT HAND DARE SEIZE THE FIRE

By Janet Baldey

A coughing roar echoed through the trees and the myriad sounds of the forest ceased as nocturnal animals froze in mid scuttle. The tigress stepped into the clearing and stood motionless as the moonlight turned her into an etching. She roared again but there was no answering call. Frustrated, she twitched her tail. For the third season in a row, she had not mated and there was an ache deep in her loins. She lapped at the brackish water of the waterhole, turned and padded back into the dark, pulsating heart of the jungle. 

***

         Ashera Khan, Goddess of all tigers, looked down as the serene, pot bellied moon floated over the inky vastness of the land. She had kept watch for countless eons but never with such a feeling of foreboding.  She had seen the persecution of her tribe and beheld their shrinking numbers. Now, there was a greater threat. Her glowing orbs expanded until they encompassed the whole world. She saw pillars of flame devouring great tracts of forest and countless industrial landscapes pumping out noxious smoke. Glaciers groaned as they toppled into seas, themselves choked by plastic. She heard the screaming of countless beasts and she mourned.  Anger consumed her. She hated Man, that ugly, stunted creature with its crafty brain and grasping hands. She knew it was only a matter of time before its greed annihilated her breed but now the whole of the natural world was threatened.  She sensed it was almost too late; the earth was tired and more fragile than Man realised. Her talons extended, gleaming like scimitars.  She rose and felt the stiffness in her bones. Another must bear the flame.  Sheba.  The wind took the name and whirled it towards the earth. As it sank through the trees, the tigress stilled catching the wind’s breath, then she turned, threading her way out of the forest.  

***

         As the limousine slid through the rain-swept streets, Cleeton sat, cushioned in leather, looking at the waterfall of paper spiralling from the towering buildings. A grin expanded his lips.

         “Holy shit, I’ve done it!”

         Cleeton Powell, was on his way to take the Oath of Allegiance to the most prestigious office in the world.  He glanced at his companion, seated as impassive as an oriental carving.

         Sheba felt his eyes upon her, sensed his excitement, and her heart quailed. She didn’t care for the exultant tone of his voice.

         She had singled him out from the score of Presidential hopefuls. Although not strictly handsome, his face was open and honest and when he smiled the sun broke through the clouds. Most telling, he had a voice both mellow and carrying.  When he spoke, people listened.

         Having made her choice, she stalked him and it wasn’t long before her sinuous figure and mane of hair caught his attention.  Soon, his eyes searched for her and she knew he was hers.

         Cleeton’s eyes lingered on Sheba’s face, marvelling at its perfection.  He’d never met a woman like her before. He remembered their first meeting.  He’d been caught up in the jostling throng of a cocktail party.  His face flushed with wine, he’d lifted his glass when suddenly he caught sight of a shining mass of ebony hair. The glass froze, tilted towards his mouth.

         “My God. It’s that woman again. I see her everywhere. Who is she?”

Ignoring his friend’s puzzlement, he’d weaved his way towards her and when he looked into her tawny eyes, he realised his life had changed.  

As they grew closer, she never failed to amaze him with her wisdom. With unerring insight, she guided him through the pitfalls of public life.  Her intuition was uncanny, she instinctively knew who to cultivate and who to avoid.

 “Arrange a meeting” or “No, he’ll be trouble.”  

Eventually, he’d just raise an eyebrow and she’d nod, or shake, her head.  In that way, he swiftly climbed the ladder.

The first night they slept together was after he’d been selected as the presidential nominee. Afterwards, as they lay staring into darkness punctuated by flashing neon, she started to talk.

“You realise Cleeton, the world must change.”

Surprised, he shifted his head to look at her.

“To survive, mankind must be prepared to make great sacrifices. Our planet’s resources are finite and can no longer sustain our demands.”

“Sure,” he said. “I know that. We’re all becoming uneasy about the increasing number of natural disasters. We can pull in our belts a little and live off our fat for a while.”

Sheba moved so fast she was a pale blur in the darkness. She twisted herself away from his side and straddled him, her body slick with sweat and love, and stared into his eyes with an intensity that startled him. The moonlight, washing through the window, reflected on her curves and turned her into an etching.

“Pulling in our belts a little is not enough!  For too long man has plundered the earth. This must stop. Draconian measures are needed.  People are selfish and greedy, cushioned by soft living; they close their eyes to the catastrophe ahead. Think, Cleeton. Two thirds of earth’s creatures will perish. No more tigers, no more elephants, no more bears. And Man won’t escape. Melting ice caps will swell the oceans, some countries will drown. Others will fry. There will be famine and billions will perish. This will be the future.  But you can break the cycle. You have the power if you dare to be unpopular. Cleeton, will you risk your career for the sake of the planet?” 

She lowered her body until he felt the hard points of her nipples pressing into his chest.  For the next hour, her breath brushed against his cheek as she whispered into his ear outlining her plans. As he held her throbbing body close to his, he knew that she was right; it was the only way.

 

After the inauguration, Cleeton was swept into a maelstrom. It seemed the entire world clamoured for his attention.  His days were crammed with meetings and in the evenings he mingled with the glitterati. The constant attention was suffocating but as the weeks passed, his old life faded. Soon, it seemed natural that whenever he lifted a hand, a pen was placed within it and he grew used to the fawning adulation of the grey suited young men who flitted about him. Soon it seemed natural.  He was adored but he’d worked hard for it. Sheba had helped a little but even without her, he would have made it,

Now, he was so busy he barely remembered her.  Whenever thoughts of her did creep into his mind, he locked away the promise he’d made and turned the key. His advisors would be appalled at her proposals. The populace would not countenance such radical policies. She’d obviously misread the situation and over-reacted. Pessimism had always been a barrier to progress. All too soon, he even forgot her name.

***

As she watched from her lofty pediment, Ashera Khan’s anger grew. She growled the sound echoing like a thousand thunderclaps and her breath sent a mass of clouds boiling across the skies.  She thrashed her tail and tornadoes swept the land. The fury in her eyes scorched towards the earth and the sea boiled, shooting sulphurous, yellow tipped waves high into the air. 

Although she well knew it was Man’s nature to be devious, this man would send countless creatures to their doom.  He must be punished.  Again, she spoke to the wind and again her words were swept across the land to where a lonely Sheba paced the floor of her city apartment. As the curtains billowed, Sheba paused and her eyes widened. Crossing over to the telephone, she picked up the receiver and dialled a special number.

“Cleeton’, she said.  ‘I’m coming.”

***

The mystery of the President’s death was never solved.  His drained corpse was found, with its throat torn out, lying on a blood-soaked tiger-skin rug, his lifeless eyes staring into those of the long dead animal.  The room was locked from the inside; there were no fingerprints and DNA samples showed only matches belonging to the President himself and those of a tiger, presumed by the experts to have come from the rug on which he lay.

On the day of the funeral, the sidewalks were lined four deep as the Presidential hearse rolled by.  Heads bowed, people stood in silence under a grey sky, matching the nations’ mood. 

Hiram had driven hundreds of miles to witness the spectacle. He turned towards his wife. 

“Makes you proud, don’t it?   Only the US can put on a show like this.”

His wife shivered as a thin wind funneled through the cold stone towers of the skyscrapers and thought of her house, throbbing with heat. She peered at her wristwatch wondering if they’d be home in time to watch some TV.  There was a new wildlife program starting. She always liked those.   

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

Cheilin Saga ~ 10

 Cheilin Saga ~ 10 The New Broom

By Len Morgan 

   Aldor accompanied by a dozen experienced Tylywoch, could have travelled swiftly, unobserved, but that was not their current mission.  They moved freely from one habitation to another, gathering intelligence in the guise of carnival entertainers.   Each having acquired a multitude of skills in order to survive. They pay their way, bringing aid to struggling communities when needed while creating a carnival atmosphere.   While passing on rumours and news gathered on their journey, to the community and freely dispersing their own propaganda.   Aldor always found eager audiences at local inns, thirsting for news and stories told in his own inimitable style.   His stories were both educative, informative, and gauged to win over the hearts and minds of the populace.

.-...-.

   The journey from Sanctuary to the Eternal City took a month, but speed was not of the essence.   So from a high vantage point, on the crest of the Parmenian hills his eyes traversed the central highway from his feet down to the gates of the famed city, still twenty miles distant.   He gazed at the three green mushrooms sprouting from the center of the city and pinpointing the Emerald Palace.   He smiled recalling a tale told by the Emperor himself, on a prior visit, explaining how those domes gained their unique colour.  

The most striking features from outside the city are the domes, situated at the four corners of the building and the largest one central directly above the throne room.   For the first few years they shone with metallic lustre in the sunlight, then the lacquer began to peel off and what was promised and paid for as gold was revealed to be brass when the weather began oxidising the metal.  

Everyone then knew we had been cheated, but the architect had long since vanished without trace together with our gold. The domes have never been cleaned, maybe to remind the powers-that-be of an old folly, which was fortunate because in a short time, the bright emerald green made the palace look even more impressive than the gold domes ever had and it became known ever after, with pride, as the emerald palace.   The colour was so striking it eclipsed its former gold countenance.   

  The highway was thirty yards wide constructed from blocks of fused granite magma. It ran as straight as a lance for a hundred and fifty miles.   It was, he knew, a thousand times older than the city itself.   Yet constant use by wagons, coaches, and carts, over eons had failed to leave a single mark on its crystalline surface which looked as if newly laid.   Starting at the gates of the Emerald Palace, it stretched onward to end in a lake of turgid black fluid six miles in diameter.   He had been told that torches dipped in the lake burned slowly giving off thick black smoke.   The road was a testament to its builders, their ancestors, who had travelled to the stars in the dim distant past.

   These thoughts were buried deep inside him hidden from, the probing minds of Orden and those beyond this world, known collectively as the Universal Network (UN).

  Aldor knew men were short-lived creatures whose inventiveness and vitality were a direct result of their short lifespan.  He knew also that there were machines and computers, located throughout Abbalar, all created by their ancestors, attesting to the levels men had achieved in the distant past.   It would seem all that knowledge was now lost to mankind but, Aldor knew otherwise.   There is a secret sect known as the 'Revisionists' who tend the machines, keeping them in good working order.   Not only do they understand the technology of the past but, are involved in a training program to raise man to higher levels of ability.   

The city itself was constructed of large basalt blocks raised one on top of another, with a thin external veneer of carved pink marble, built to a scale that dwarfed men.   It was almost certain that the Karaxen had built the city, and it was their imminent return that made the elevation of man necessary.  They were potentially superior to the Karaxen but, because the latter would awake from their long sleep with full knowledge of their own technology, man would need to be prepared to take the offensive.   It was Aldor's responsibility to ensure that the Abalon's would be equipped to deal with them when the time came. But, he was aware that time was running out.

   The Tylywoch would separate and enter the city in ones and twos.  Aldor would proceed alone afoot.   He would be seen as just one more hopeful traveller, coming to the big city to seek his fortune.  This was how he wanted to appear yet he never ceased to marvel at the symmetry of the place.   Entering by the Triumphal Arch at the Eastern Gate, he climbed steep stone steps to the walkway along the outer wall.   Then, he crossed the fifty-yard killing zone between the outer and inner walls, climbing to the walkway around the inner wall, considerably higher than the first.  He stood above the Arch and gazed along the central highway towards the distant hills.   He appreciated its perfection, which was taken for granted by those who used it, day in day out.   He turned his back on the hills and gazed along the same highway passing below him terminating at the hub of the city, the Emerald Palace.  

Only from here could he view the city as, an enormous, three-dimensional map.   The city was in effect an enormous wheel laid flat on the ground, Avenues forming its spokes, 20 Roads joining them in ever decreasing circles as they closed in on the hub.  The final circle formed the outer perimeter of the palace grounds.   He viewed the populace, going about their business, like ants far below, busy and purposeful, totally oblivious to his presence.   The palace so completely dominated the scene it was hard to believe it was created over aeons by two disparate races.   Half turning, he looked down between the inner and outer walls a hundred feet below.   Filled now with market stalls and street performers and at the corner of his eye the coloured disks used for starting foot, horse, and chariot races during the sporting season.   

   Fortunes were gambled, won and lost, on those balmy spring and summer days.   As the season progressed the whole populace would line the race route in order to be part of the spectacle, committing it to memory, ready to retell for the asking.  Thus, a series would never be forgotten, living endlessly through the minds and tales of those who bore witness.   The only rule being you had to be there to tell it.   As the storytellers grow older, the stories become embellished and coloured with sentiment until the protagonists became nine feet tall spitting fire and brimstone.   Tellers of some past classic and infamous races were renowned for their fanciful versions, and much sought after.   The season was over now, but the bars and taverns would be awash with storytellers all eager to make a name for themselves.   Aldor could always command an audience anywhere, and raise funds for charity, with his seemingly inexhaustible repertoire of tales.   During the ten years, he had lived in Cheilin, he had listened to assimilated and retold hundreds of stories told and enjoyed by the peoples of this land.   He had also told and retold others of his own and those gleaned from passing travellers.   

He'd told stories in all the major cities of the empire and every town and hamlet.   He observed the cities were all built on a similar design based on the wheel motif.   The Empire itself was unique.   Laid out in a circle, like a clock, the Eternal City at its center and all the clan cities surrounding it like the numbers on a clock dial the 1^st Clan at one o'clock, and the others in numerical sequence around the hub of the Emerald City.   

 His mind returned to reality with a rush.   He’d briefly glanced at a female in the crowd, espied her carriage, her mannerism, and bearing  All of which brought Jazim to mind.   If she is here he thought she will be up to no good.

‘You don’t know if it’s her, Sprout.  Bedelacq has others, many of them, she is not by any means unique’  Orden’s voice warned.   'Follow her… at a distance and discover where she is lodging.’ 

He identified the woman, dressed distinctively in green and gold, a full-length voluminous free-flowing garment with a wrap over her head that partially masked her face, in the desert fashion.   He cast his mind out and down to where she stood holding a globe before a street vendor.   But, there were too many people about and the wider he spread his mind net the more babble he picked out from shoppers and sellers in the market place.   He had to get closer to her.   He took the stairs, two at a time, whilst attempting to refine his reception.   When he eventually reached the stall, he realised the man was a herbalist selling herbs and potions, but she had already moved on.  

“Where did that young woman go?” he asked the herbalist. 

He was answered by a blank uncomprehending stare.  "Which woman?"

 Though he had made his mind up not to intrude on the privacy of other's mind unless, in dire circumstances, he judged the situation indeed to be dire.   He entered the man’s mind, intending to be in and out before his presence was noticed.   All he wanted to know, after all, was the direction she had taken.   He acted without subtlety, even so, he saw immediately it had not been Jazim but somebody bearing a passing resemblance.   He felt guilty and tried to leave the man’s mind immediately, but found himself unable to do so, he realised with surprise, and some annoyance, he was caught in a mental cage.   He had been told of such oddities by Orden but had never expected to encounter one.   He had entered freely without hesitation and now he was trapped.

He watched through the man’s eyes as his mindless shell of a body was led away by the same young woman and ironically, not for the first time, he was ushered into the back of a covered wagon.  

‘Interesting, he thought, what say you Orden?’   But for the first time in an age his friend and mentor was silent.   It was then he realised he was totally alone.   His connection with the man’s senses had slowly and systematically been severed; until all that was left to him was darkness.   How long he remained in that state he had no idea.   He had been deprived of the means of gauging the passage of time.   He had become a passenger in the mind of an elderly man, not in the best of health, who cared more for money than for his country.   Bydrex was his chosen name.   Aldor cast around; finding nothing then cast his mind back to a time when he had entered the mind of his friend Skaa in order to rescue him from himself.   Skaa had constructed an elaborate reality, in his own mind, the world of his youth; a world that no longer existed if indeed it ever had.   It was a world where he had once been happy and felt secure.   Aldor’s own childhood had been more restrictive and regimented.   Security had been the key issue.  His training had always been focused on survival.

 His happiest times had been around the short period he had spent in the company of his friends Genna and Wizomi.   Then, perhaps his time with Orden, whose cave dwelling in the mountains had provided so many opportunities to learn new skills and develop as a person.   But all too soon it had ended in his conversion.   Through it all, he retained his personality and the natural abilities he had been born with.   He was a natural and enthusiastic storyteller.   During his rest periods at Orden’s cave, he had escaped, in dreams, into the 'UN' where he was able to visit others enhancing and augmenting the lessons they and Orden taught him.   He thought now of the people he had met and the things he had done out there amongst the stars.   He revisited lessons he had learned and discussions he'd had, and discoveries he'd made.  He knew there was yet more to be learned from his current situation.   The knowledge that seemed unimportant in the past now seemed to have a whole new meaning.  Realising, there was nothing in life that was unimportant or truly lacking in value.  If he could not see this, it simply meant he had failed to grasp its worth at the time.   The most trivial and mundane activity could have been adding a new meaning to his life, yet much of it had passed him by, because of his obsession with the big picture.  Aldor began reviewing his life, reappraising...

So from memory, he selected a small insubstantial flower, the forget-me-not, which embodied all of life’s mysteries, condensing them into a simple philosophy ‘the will to survive’, he took it to heart.   The tiny plant lived and thrived, changing its appearance when necessary, through time.   Unnoticed yet always displaying beauty; in spite of everything the world could throw at it always staying true to form.  This thought brought him finally to view his enforced imprisonment dispassionately...

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 BEING ME 

By Rosemary Clarke

I want people to hug
I don't want them near me.
Want a room full of people
Want so much silence.
I want to live
Yet I think of death.
Want the sweetness of a grave
Yet bursting to break the surface.
Want to alter things
Yet can't move a muscle.
Want out of this Hell
Yet it's still with me.
Want the memories out of my head
But they won't go.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Runestones 05/1

 

THE RUNES ~ Episode 1

by Richard Banks

Of all the disasters that can befall a farmer drought is the worse, for with the drought come the men who dig for what used to be, the forgotten things that would stay that way but for the marks on the parched ground that give them away.

         The museum men are the worse, trespass means nothing to them that know the law and their so called rights. No telling them to keep to the footpath when they have their papers from the court. Best to be friendly, keep them sweet. “Anything of interest?” they say and we tell them about something we noticed that’s well clear of whatever it is we think them more likely to be interested in. Usually, it works and they go away and don’t come back for a year, two if we’re lucky, but there’s no hiding what used to be below water, and during the longest drought in over a hundred years, it slowly showed itself in what was once the millpond.

         Great-granddad Gedds was the last to see it when he was a boy and the mill was not yet the ruin it became. His stories concerning it were given little credence outside the family, and as he got older there can be no denying that they owed more to imagination than memory. Nevertheless from what he said both dad and grand-dad were convinced that the ‘fabled’ object not only existed but that it was a gravestone, and as the water receded it seemed they had been proved right. I mean it wasn’t like the sort of gravestone you see in a churchyard, no finely chiseled slab or cross of stone, but stone it was, a large oblong stump, three sides rough-hewed with the fourth smooth, the all of it green stained but strangely free of moss.

         Great-grandad had also spoken of writing and in this, he was also proved right for on the smooth side there were letters; strange symbols that no one knew or understood. Even after we took a brush to it we were none the wiser even though each symbol was now as clear as the day it was carved. Grandma said it was to do with the old religion while Dad, who knew a bit of history believed the stone went back in time to the East Saxons who gave Essex its name.

         It was a discovery that would be of much interest to the museum men, but were we to tell them? The harvest was only two weeks away, and although it mattered little to us what they did in the pond they would need a broad way through our fields for the cars and trucks that brought the equipment they’d be needing. “Best to keep quiet,” said Dad until the corn is in. Tell them after that if it stays dry, and if it doesn’t if the pond fills up with rain, then why say anything at all. It was a sound plan to which we all agreed, but secrets are hard to keep especially when you’re seven years old, and my youngest, Will, spilled the beans at school in the hearing of his teacher.

         Next afternoon Jones from the museum arrives, with a museum woman and a Professor Henderson from the Natural History Museum. No stopping them now and with rain forecast for the following week, they’re in no mood to let us first go to harvest. What the writing says no one knows but the Professor’s sure that they’re runes, the written language of the Danes who conquered these parts, and much else before King Alfred beat them back. Some of it he can read but most he can’t because these runes are the oddest he has ever seen. But of one thing he’s almost sure, the stone is a gravestone and beneath it a body, or what is left of one.

         The next morning we get a copy of the court order that gives them their right to dig, and a man from the council promises us we will get compensation although how much and when he doesn’t know. He’s no sooner away than the first trucks arrive bringing pumps to drain the pond of the remaining water. They come off the nearest road and cross both our fields. This is now their highway that gets steadily wider until councilmen bang in metal posts that make a boundary. To make matters worse we’re on national TV and hundreds of sightseers turn up, trespassing on our land in the hope of seeing the stone which to their disappointment, but not mine, is soon lifted and taken to lord knows where for lord knows what.

         What’s happening in the pond now is the slow picking away of mud to reveal what lies beneath. A policeman arrives, and the reporters and sightseers finding the diggers less than entertaining leave them to it. By the time it gets interesting again the only one there apart from the diggers is me. What comes into view is the biggest skeleton that anyone has ever seen or is likely to see. When someone takes a tape measure to it he counts seven feet and eight inches from head to foot, thick white bones glistening in the sunlight, as perfect in death as they had been in life.

         “Superman,” I hear someone say. “Man?” says another voice, “twenty-four toes and fingers, are you sure?” The truth is no one is. All they know is that this is something special, something they’ve never seen before,  possibly the most important archaeological discovery of all time. They have struck gold and the sooner they can get their treasure to a safe place the better. By evening all the bones are lifted and on their way to Henderson at the Museum. The diggers, however, remain, gently removing the soil determined not to miss anything of significance no matter how small, each thing found photographed, bagged, and labeled.

         “When can I harvest what’s left of the corn?” I ask Penrose. He’s a Ministry man from Whitehall who thanks me for keeping quiet about the skeleton. I tell him that of course, I kept quiet, there’s no way I want more people tramping across my farm.

         “Nevertheless,” he says, “we appreciate your discretion, at this stage the less said the better.” He hands me an envelope addressed to myself; inside there is a cheque, my compensation money, more than I was expecting. “There will, of course, be conditions, papers to sign but for now all you need to remember is that you never saw the skeleton, it doesn’t exist. If it does we will say so, you will not. Money given can also be taken back and more besides, but if that is to be avoided who knows you may get more.” His severe expression gives way to a smile and he asks if there are any decent restaurants nearby. I tell him The Plough is best and he goes off for his lunch. I’m off home, to Dad who knows what I saw and, like me, has told no one else.

         Next week the rain arrives, the pond starts filling up and the dig is abandoned until the Spring.  Penrose returns with a sheet of typescript listing all the things I’m not allowed to do or say. At this point, I come clean that Dad knows what I know, but like me has said nothing and will abide by whatever we agree. This is the last thing Penrose wants to hear, he’s clearly rattled although he tries not to show it. He says I could be sued for breach of faith, but I talk him round saying that although Dad’s eighty-two and retired he still owns the farm and that we co-sign all papers concerning it. Penrose asks to see him and, although he continues frosty for a while, agrees to include Dad in the agreement he has brought. He changes each ‘I’ to ‘we’ and reads it to us from top to bottom, which doesn’t take long, it being only four paragraphs long. We are, if asked, to deny all knowledge of the skeleton and in exchange for our co-operation, we will receive an annual payment matching what we have already received. “However,” he says, “be warned, break the agreement and there will be a fine, more than you can pay.” We sign, money for old rope.

         He leaves, all smiles, saying that a colleague will look in on us from time to time. Any problems we are to let him know. “Oh yes,” he says as he walks towards his car, “I nearly forgot, there’ll be no more digging, you can get back to work.”

         And so life returns to normal, better than normal, there’s more money in the bank than we have ever had after harvest, and there’s more to come. Farming’s never been this good, or this easy, even if we just sit on the land and do nothing we’re still in the black. Then Parry calls and life’s not as good as we thought.

[To be continued]

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 A Hobby for Life

By Rosemary Clarke

The only hobby I really enjoy is writing.  Even when I was at work I would be working on screenplays, stories, etc while munching on a sandwich in my lunch hour.  On trains and buses, I regularly write and look for characters, which on a long journey is a very interesting thing to do; imagine seeing the person opposite you not as an everyday traveler but a spy with their collar turned up and deep into a book, or someone with a pile of papers on their briefcase could be an embezzler out to bring down one of the banks and truthfully we don't know who anyone is.

     Sir Arthur Conan Doyle brought Holmes to life after being astounded by the methods of his tutor Dr. Bell who solved puzzles in medicine and taught his students to do the same.
    

 I read a lot as well to see how other writers phrase their work.  David Peace believes that crime should not be entertaining and so he concentrates mainly on the families and others who are left; what it feels like to go onto that police podium facing the press for both the family and the police. 

Michael Marshall Smith likes to lull people by soft words and ordinary places then...BAM!  then there's the mischief of Jasper Fforde who loves to play with the classics with Miss Haversham carrying an Uzi machine gun and loving fast cars, a detective called Thursday Next, and in one book bears using humans as drug mules for the illegal substance....porridge!

     But the one I shall always admire, I call him The Master, is Robert Bloch.  This unassuming American writer could take a place or a description of something and paint such amazing pictures with his words: read the REAL Psycho if you dare!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke