Cheilin Saga ~ 11

 Cheilin Saga ~ 11 The Abbey at Samishaan 1

By Len Morgan 

 In a small roof garden set atop of what appeared to be a crumbling ruin a young novice, clothed in the simple red tunic of his order, assumed his post as keeper of the orb.   Which, seemed, at first glance, to be a rather unimpressive globe of frosted glass; approximately two inches in diameter.   Closer inspection revealed an opalescence that seemed to draw the eyes into an intimate union, diffracting and diffusing the light into iridescent, languidly flowing clouds.   Slowly they cleared to reveal a still and silent naked male figure composed, and sitting cross-legged eyes closed, in a state of sublime meditation.

“He sleeps still brother, it will be several weeks before he begins to visualise; that is when his true nature will be revealed.”

Brother Ignatius did not look round as the reverend Father Abbot spoke.   He knew too well how the ancient man looked, dressed in the plain green-brown robes of an elder, his face burdened with the many responsibilities of the order of ‘The Chosen One’.   He absentmindedly stroked his salt and pepper whiskers, producing an abrasive sound, his ice-blue eyes, as always, would be bright and alert.   He was a man of contrasts, the Abbot of Samishaan.    He had spent more than half a century within those walls, he knew from personal experience how these things should unfold.   He rested his hands lightly on the young mans shoulders. 

 “We are duty-bound to monitor every new arrival, in case one of them is ‘The Chosen One’.   One day he will come,” said the Abbot with certain conviction, “sent to us by Geoffe the one true God, to arouse our awareness.  He will fire us with a sense of purpose, a beacon, to lead us on the great crusade.    It is said that he will be the physical manifestation of Geoffe himself, made flesh, in this mortal world.”   The Order of Samishaan was created in antiquity for the sole purpose of finding and elevating him to his rightful place of glory.”   Both raised their eyes reverently to a ten-foot marble figure set on a granite plinth six feet from the ground.

“You are right to be concerned with our vigilance Reverend father,” He replied.

“I had hoped that he would come in my lifetime” said the Abbot, “but I age fast now and become more certain, with each passing day, it is not to be.”

“Your faith is strong father; it may yet come to pass on your watch.”

The Abbot smiled wanly and patted the young man reassuringly on the head.

“Keep vigil brother Ignatius, make notes and learn.  In two weeks you will see him relive his life.   Revealing his guilty secrets, acting out his evil deeds, his whole sordid life history will unfurl before your eyes.   It is the nature of man to unburden himself and confess his sins.   All the many gifts and talents bestowed upon him by Geoffe will have been debased in the pursuit of his own selfish ends.   They always confess within the confines of the orb.   I certainly did, and so did you, and those who came before us.   Including those who reached absolution and returned to the world or travelled to a higher plane…”

“But, did any ever sit so?   Expectant as if knowing what is to come?   Look at him, look at his face; he is at peace almost as though he is in command of his fate.   He is different, he knows.”

The Abbot glanced down at the frosted globe and saw nothing.

“He cannot know; how could he?   Denied all contact with reality, deprived of his power to snoop in the minds of others, he languishes in a place of total darkness.   He experiences no sight, sound, or sense of touch; he is disembodied like smoke.   How could he know?”   The reverend father glanced down again and saw, for the first time, the face turned towards him and smiled, eyes bright and intelligent, returning his surprise with warmth and kindness.   He felt extreme discomfort excitement and fear.   From what he saw with his own eyes and from the reports he had received from the novice caring for his body, in the absence of spiritual presence, he hardly dared hope.   The image in the globe was a perfect though unflattering replica of the statue it was scarred but not unpleasantly so.    Unbeknown to Brother Ignatius, none had ever taken human form within the orb, usually, they simply remained insubstantial, a cloudy mist of swirling pastel smoke.

Whilst Brother Ignatius had been charged with the care, observation, and reporting of the insubstantial spirit part of the being, Sister Constance had been charged with looking after the empty vessel, keeping it fed, watered, exercised and healthy.   Administering to its every need was a demanding full-time job a great responsibility.

Father Abbot had chosen the two youngest of his charges to be the ‘witnesses’ precisely because neither had any prior experience of what to expect.   They were instructed to report everything, without exception, it would not occur to them that doing so might cast them in a bad light.

Initially, Sister Constance reported every triviality, every instance of incontinence, and her solution had been, to lead him to the latrine and enter his mind to set his functions in motion.   This worked fine for a while; then inevitably, one day, she became distracted, only to discover he'd evacuated his waste without her instruction.   On another occasion, she was forced to leave him when the time was near due.   On her return, she discovered he had not suffered a remission.   She experimented, by laying food and drink before him.   After several minutes, he proceeded to eat and drink unaided.   All this she duly reported assuming it to be normal.   He continued performing simple autonomic functions purely from instinct.  

She was unsure why she entered his mind, gazing at herself, through a man’s eyes, she assumed from simple curiosity, to gauge his reaction.  She saw her slim form jewel-bright green eyes a pleasant face, blond tresses peeking from beneath her snood.   She became deeply disturbed when she experienced, the male feelings of arousal; he desired her.   This she did not report for fear of rebuke and possible removal from her duties, as punishment for her sin.   She fled from his cell, guilty of encroaching; she was ashamed of herself and the way she had unwittingly manipulated him.   She had abused the trust of a helpless dependant creature.   She returned later, in control of her feelings, calmed sufficiently to carry out her duties, and time passed without incident.   But, on the point of leaving, she turned and appraised him for the first time as a woman does.   He was a handsome specimen, even the scars on his face were not off-putting.  She walked over to him, testing his musculature, feeling for excess fat and signs of overindulgence finding neither.   He was tall lean, and his body odour was both fresh and wholesome.   There must have been something in her eyes, a look?   He again became aroused by her closeness.   She looked up into his face.   His pupils were dilated and he exhibited other obvious signs of desire.   On impulse, she wrapped her arms around his near-naked form.   Exerting pressure on his shoulders with little persuasion his head came down to her level, and they kissed.

 (to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 LOST

By Rosemary Clarke

Lost in body, mind and soul
Lost, I haven't got a goal.
Others say 'it's that refrain'.
I'm just trying to stay sane.
I know purely how to give
Not how to take or how to live.
I must not give up this fight
Somehow, something must come right!
All the things I've had to bear
Feeling that there's no one there.
Now they're out it's really bad
Sleep forever make me glad
But I have to fight the fight
Knowing something must come right!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

A Waste of a Life.

 

Life Is For Living. 

By Jane Scoggins

   Maggie hated turning a corner and seeing someone sitting on a bit of cardboard huddled on the pavement with a paper cup in front of them waiting for passers-by to drop in a bit of change. She never knew what to do. Look for her purse somewhere in the bottom of her bag, or having being caught on the back foot, escape her own embarrassment and hurry past pretending she hadn’t noticed. Today that encounter unexpectantly happened on a nice street she often walked along near the town centre en route from the car park. Having never seen anyone there before it came as a big surprise to see a young man. Seconds later a man reached down and handed him a ‘burger. He had a dog, a small rough-haired terrier who looked hopefully when he smelled the meaty treat. Smiling his thanks to the benefactor the young man broke the burger and the bun in one slow careful tear making sure the soft stringy slice of cheese was also torn in half. He gave one half to the dog. Touched by this scene it replaced Maggie’s sense of discomfort. But then, emotion shifted again as a young woman looked his way as she passed by and gives a smirks. Such a contrast between them. Her, tripping confidently along in new white Converse trainers, and a baggy pale blue off the shoulder mohair sweater that looks expensive. He sees her smirk and a flicker of something like pain passes fleetingly across his pale features. Almost simultaneously he sees Maggie and averts his eyes. Seeing her standing there probably made him even more aware of his poor appearance as she is a smart middle aged woman. He wears a worn lightweight jacket with frayed cuffs over a grey sweatshirt. His tracky bottoms are stained. One of his black trainers has a rip down the side. He is probably about the same age and build as her son Billy, but does not look like him. Billy is blond, blue-eyed, and handsome like his father.  Maggie thinks of that young woman and her smirk. My daughter would never behave so unkindly she thinks to herself. Bev with her kind heart and common sense approach to life is a credit to her father and me. Always the child who brought home stray cats, and took a child with a grazed knee in the playground to the teacher for a plaster. Billy on the other had, with his carefree nature never seemed to notice what went on around him.  He just loved life, had lots of friends all the way through school and lived life to the full. Maggie felt blessed to have two children who had never given her or her husband any real worries. Billy had wanted to go to university but he wasn’t getting the grades he needed because he didn't study enough. His Dad and her had tried to talk to him and make him see sense but instead, he decided to get a job when he left the sixth form. He was happy earning his own money and being independent. And give him credit, he had worked hard, taken all the breaks offered and now worked in the city, in a well-paid job, and was almost there with a deposit for his own flat. Always smiling he coped with the hard work and pressure in order to get ahead.

   Looking again at that young man on the street she suddenly felt only intolerance towards him. Lazy good for nothing, probably on drugs or drink. In contrast to Billy she reflected on their different lives. She knew she should feel at least some compassion, but she couldn't.  She could only imagine that he had brought it on himself. A vague sense of recognition prompted her to look at him again. She was uncertain at first but then was sure it was Mark, a boy who had been at school with her Billy. She remembered him as a bright boy who sometimes came home with him after school and always stayed for tea. And what an appetite. The boys would play computer games in Billy’s room until she called them down. She liked to hear them laughing together. A clever boy he had definitely gone away to university. Look at him now. Thrown it all away. What a waste of an education, and a future. A fit of frustrated anger made her turn and hurry away. She sat in a cafe and drank a cappuccino to get over the shock of seeing him. She wondered if he and Billy had stayed in touch after school, and how long Mark had been on the streets. She would ask Billy when they next spoke.

Maggie finished her shopping and drove home still thinking of Mark and glad he hadn’t recognised her. She would not have known what to say. She thought of Billy and his good job, nice clothes, and expensive car, and was proud of his efforts to make his way in the world and be successful.

   When her phone rang one afternoon Maggie was in two minds as whether to answer it. It was an unidentified number and she had had an unsolicited call recently purporting to be from her bank telling her she was in danger of having her bank account hacked by thieves if she did not press 2 immediately and speak to the call handler who would be able to prevent the scam. So she ignored the call. A message left on her voicemail alerted her to a request to call a hospital staff nurse. Maggie returned the call. The Staff Nurse explained that Billy was in hospital and they had found her number under MUM on his mobile. She gave some details and Maggie confirmed she would contact her husband and they would drive the thirty miles to the London hospital straight away. John drove to London with Maggie by his side in the passenger seat, both feeling anxious. They were minutes too late. In the time it had taken to drive to the hospital Billy had died from an overdose of cocaine. Imprinted on Maggie's mind forever would be his pale face, remnants of a white crustiness around his lips, and the stains and smell of vomit on his expensive silk shirt.

   Six months later Maggie and John continued to feel the impact of Billy’s sudden and shocking death. They were horrified to discover that their beloved son had been a regular user of Cocaine, and had spent most of his savings to fuel his addiction and lifestyle. Maggie could not comprehend how a boy from a loving home and with a promising future could have turned to drugs and become an addict. This happened to other people’s sons and daughters. She thought of Mark and his situation on the street and again the memory of seeing him, and wondered if that was to be a waste of his life too. She wondered if his parents knew. She avoided the street she had last seen him. She could not face the burden of seeing more sadness or hopelessness. But one day she thought she saw him waiting at a bus stop in a different area of town. As she approached on the pavement he looked at her. Realising he recognised her and was about to greet her, she could not avoid him. This time however he was neat and tidy with decent clothes.

  ‘Hi Mrs Grant, remember me, Mark?  It's been a long time, although I did actually see you a few months ago and think you recognised me but just didn't want to speak to me because of the way I looked, and you know, on the street. I had all sorts of things happen when I was at Uni and dropped out.  I suffered from depression and ended up on the streets. But I am back on track now and have a job and somewhere to live. Life is good again. Glad I’ve seen you so you don't think I am some sort of wino or something like that. I used to love coming to your house after school and eating your amazing dinners. My mum was hopeless. I was always starving and you never minded me having seconds. Such good memories. Oh, here comes my bus. How is Billy and his city job? Would love to hear from him. Send him my best won’t you?’

  Before Maggie had time to respond, Mark had hopped onto the bus and was gone.

 

                                                                                                        Copyright Jane Scoggins 

 Two Haiku

By Robert Kingston

dusk

above the verge

a kestrel

 

fantasy space flight 

tooth fairies hover

in the forever zone

Copyright Robert Kingston

             Both first published on the Japan society web page 

 

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