Cheilin Saga ~ 13

Cheilin Saga ~ 13 The Abbey at Samishaan 3

By Len Morgan 

  The Abbot rose early, an hour before dawn, his dreams had been troubling so he knelt to pray for guidance.   He could not sleep on account of the man Aldor.   Should they?  How could they release him…  He was different as Ignatius and Constance had both observed.  He could well be the ‘Chosen One’; he was certainly virtuous enough but, if that were so, then shouldn't he be capable of releasing himself?  

Brother Ignatius burst into the Abbot's unadorned cell, panting hard from his exertions, fighting for breath.   “He is gone, reverend father.   He disappeared before my eyes.”

“Shhh.   Calm yourself brother, this place is for prayer and contemplation, not panic.  There will be a simple explanation.”

“B-But…” he stammered.

“Shhh!   Go to the orb, he will be there with Sister Constance.”

“H-How do…”

“Do you think he is the one?”

“I-I…”

“Is he the one?”

“Yes!”

“Then let us go and welcome him back to the world.”  

They stepped into the corridor, heard a crash, and the predawn was illuminated by a dazzling blue flash that lingered for long moments, forcing them to screw up their eyes.  They ran towards the roof garden as the glare slowly subsided.  When they reached the top of the stone steps they saw Aldor and Constance in silhouette, side by side, against the glow of dawn's first light. 

“He smashed the orb,” she cried. “He—just dashed it to the ground…   Now I-I can’t see – I’m blind!   She whimpered in shock.

She heard Aldor's voice in her mind…

‘Use your talent.  You do not need to use your eyes, the blindness is only temporary.’

‘If you wish you can use my eyes’ said the Abbot.

‘Or mine’ added brother Ignatius.

She realised immediately that they were right, and she wept with relief and joy. 

‘Why are you crying little one’ the Abbot asked, like the others he was not accustomed to using this new method of communication.

‘Why do you not look and see for yourself’ she asked, giving permission for them to enter her mind.  ‘We have been suppressing and denying our God-given gifts to no purpose. For it is abuse of, not the use of them this order objects too.’   “The orb is gone forever,” she said aloud as reality crowded into her mind.

“That does not matter as much as you might think.   We have hundreds more, stored in neat pigeonholes, down in the cellars; that have always been off bounds to all but the council of elders and of course myself.”

“Then why have we never used them?” asked father Ignatius with incredulity.

“Can you answer that Aldor, if you are as we suspect ‘The One’ you will know.  Look upon it as a test,” said the Abbot.

Aldor turned to face them. “This Abbey was originally built for a very different purpose.   Originally it was a Penal Institution; a place to house wrongdoers and malcontents.  They were housed in the rows of cells now used as accommodation by the Sisters and Brothers.   The doors were permanently closed, to deny them freedom, their lives stolen from them.   They would be housed thus for a few years or the whole of their lives as punishment for crimes they committed.   Then the emphasis changed, from punishment to re-education, at which time the orbs were fashioned by Geoffe to house the spiritual, nonmaterial person, whilst the body was re-issued to another who had reformed and was ready to be set free again.   This was a very long time ago, before the migration, but you would not have heard of that.   The ‘Standards’ used them to imprison any of the ‘Revisionists’ cult they were able to apprehend.   Then, when the Karaxen came…”

“Who?” the Abbot asked.

“It does not matter now but, it may do so in the future if I said millions of years ago?”   He could see the blank looks on their faces.   “Way back in the dim distant past, creatures, unlike us, arrived here to take Abbalar away from our ancestors.   They succeeded in driving those unable to communicate as we do, ‘the Standards’, underground.   They never found a use for the orbs, or discovered that many still contained the minds of, Revisionists.   We all know what four to six weeks of confinement is like; imagine the time it takes for an acorn to grow into a forest giant, then multiply that by thousands.   Many of those encapsulated, must have gone completely insane.   While others succeeded in extinguishing their own life force, so they might return to the wheel of life, they were the lucky ones.   There were yet others who discovered how to exist whilst retaining their sanity.”

 “The Karaxen made as big a mess of this world as our ancestors did; and they in turn disappeared from the surface, leaving it to us once more or, to be more precise, to the ‘Standards’.   There followed a dark time, when barbarism madness and plague abounded.  This place then became a monastery, hospital, and sanctuary, and finally a place of atonement for the religious order to which you now belong.   The monks strove to bring back a sense of sanity to the world by bringing back a little civilization.   They accomplished it by bringing back some of the elders, from the globes, as teachers.   They returned in the bodies of the dying and the insane, and later they used the bodies of volunteers…”

“My word, it certainly has had an eventful history” the Abbot affirmed.  

“The question is,” Aldor continued, “What should be done with the remaining orbs?”  

“Knowing how they can and have been misused, in the past, should they not be destroyed,” asked Brother Ignatius?

“But, there are still occupants in many of them” the Abbot protested.

“Then we should go down to the cellars and reassess the situation” Aldor said.

 Brother Ignatius shook his head, “This is a strange situation, why were we not told of this before Father, what is wrong?” 

The Abbot fell to the ground; his eyes flared momentarily, before glazing over.  Sister Constance knelt beside him, concern on her face as she checked his vital signs.  His face turned grey, so she hit his chest hard with the flat of her hand.   He coughed and spluttered fighting for breath.

“He was calling the others” Aldor explained, “he is not however too familiar with this new mode of communication.”

“Explain what is happening and why” Ignatius demanded.

“They have been bringing back their friends in place of their captives, they are body snatchers” Aldor said with distaste.

“No!   You’re wrong, it is not like that at all, you make it sound so cold and calculating” the Abbot protested.   “We have never indiscriminately replaced the spiritual essence of another.   Our intention has always been to educate and rehabilitate.   Only the darkest most evil minds are retained for more than a month.   Then occasionally a Spirit will expire, unable to continue, in the light of what they have done – you all know separation is a testing soul searching time.   Only in these circumstances would an ancient spirit be relocated, temporarily or permanently, and none has ever objected to relinquishing their borrowed form.”

“Then they return to their Orb?” Aldor asked.

“That is correct.”

“How many ancient spirits are here, currently occupying borrowed bodies,” Constance asked.

“Here at the Abbey there are ten, including myself and two others beyond these walls.” The Abbot replied.

“How many are there in total inhabiting this place,” Aldor enquired.

“We are thirty including the good father Abbot” said Ignatius.

A number of the Brothers appeared discretely at the head of the stairs.

“Come” said Aldor, helping the Abbot to his feet, “we go to the cellars.”

The brothers made way for them without comment, following them down to the lower levels.   The tunnels were dark and dank, and musty.   Smoke from tallow torches, in such a confined space, stung their eyes making them smart. 

Aldor rubbed his palms together producing a bright globe he lauched it towards the ceiling, it followed their progress, lighting their way. “You can now douse the torches.”   

They could hear dripping water up ahead.   A pale green florescence reflected from walls slick with moisture. Aldor rubbed two fingers along the wall scraping a channel half an inch deep in a soft chalk like paste, deeper it was firm, but the walls were two feet thick and had stood for countless ages.  

They entered a low domed atrium just large enough to house them all.

“There are decisions to be made that will affect us all,” the Abbot began, “the council of twelve are part of the reason for this.   We are therefore not the ones best suited to make a decision on this matter.”  

He then explain the situation in full to all. Point out the implications for the twelve and their peers.

“I do not even suggest that we are the ones who should survive in the event you decide to destroy the orbs.  It is indeed possible that some of our number would not wish to continue.   In such an eventuality, there are others we should consider as candidates for life, those who have not yet received a remission, and who would prove to be invaluable.   Many who are experienced with machines, a task that had laterly become moribund?   We do not even know if a disembodied spirit can progress to a higher state of existence, without leaving a body behind, we may well be damning them for all eternity; spirits forever destined to roam?”   The Abbots eyes tear’d up, he suddenly looked tired and frail.

 It was a swift unanimous vote, just a show of hands, which decided that the elders had not abused their privileges.   That they should continue for the natural life of their existing body.   And, the ratio should be capped at 1:2, one elder to two natural born.   The inhabited orbs would not be destroyed, and there was a majority vote that all but twelve of the empty orbs should remain here in the Abbey locked safely away, their destruction would be an act of vandalism.   Aldor went along with this, provided that only the present company were aware of their existence.   A venerable brother, not of the council, was charged with the assignment of guarding them.

“If you are truly ‘The One’,” said the Abbot, “our task is complete, for you are amongst us and there is no further need for such devices.”

“That may not be so.   Now the real work begins,” said Aldor.

“You have something in mind, a quest perhaps?”  The youngest council member asked.

“Your name is?”

“Brother Velorix,” he replied at once, eager to please.

“Being an elder, brother Velorix, you will be aware of the havoc the Karaxen could wreak on Abbalar.”   At the mention of the Karaxen, all eyes turned in his direction,” and silence came over the gathering.

 “They are currently housed in a vast underground complex, and are destined to awaken, in five to six hundred years, to reclaim Abbalar as their own.   We will need to raise our level of technology considerably, to stand any chance of surviving.   They are receiving assistance from Bluttland, from the brides of Bedelacq who are their sworn champions.   Your quest, no, your crusade will be to neutralise them or, if possible, re-educate them using the orbs.”

.-...-.

   Aldor was surprised that he was able to speak about the elders and their machines without encountering resistance from the block that had been placed in his mind.   But, he soon realised that Orden was unable to communicate with him and their fire could not penetrate the confines of the Abbey.   He had no idea how long he had been at the Abbey or how far they were from the Eternal city.   He did however know that these cellars were somehow protected from external probing.   He suspected there was a portal nearby, which meant they could travel to almost any location in Abbalar that possessed an active portal.   He looked back at an innocuous dark hand-shaped tile on a nearby wall.   His glance was not missed by the, ever watchful, Abbot. 

"The portal is operative, we use it on a regular basis, it is how you were brought here.   Of course, your mind was shielded from it by the orb; else we should have known much more about you.”

Aldor was silent for some time, carefully choosing his words.   “I will be honest with you.   I do not know if I am in fact you’re promised one.   I do know you could make an important contribution, to the future survival of mankind, by confronting the Brides of Bedelacq.   What do you say,” he threw the challenge out to them all.

“I think this matter needs to be discussed further and at length…” the Abbot began.

“I think we have talked enough,” said Brother Ignatius.   “I think it is time for us to act, to make a decision.   I also believe that Aldor is the one!”

“So do I,” said Sister Constance.

“Then we are of one mind,” said the Abbot looking to the others for any sign of dissent; there was none.   “Then what better way is there to show our commitment than to harvest the enemies of Abalar, re-educate and  assimilate them?”

Aldor smiled.   There was genuine and enthusiastic support for this view, not a dissenting mind amongst them.

“I must return to the Emerald City, there is still, work to be done.   There are, as you must know, many portals on Abalar that could be used to enter Bluttland unobserved, as yet they are not aware those portals exist.  It is possible they may be used against us if Bedelacq or his brides know of their existence, so be wary."

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 THE VISIT

Peter Woodgate 

The landing craft gave one last blast from its anti-gravitational propulsion before settling, softly, on the planet’s surface. The two crew members had been sent down to confirm that, despite all the pre-trip calculations, the planet appeared unfit for colonization.

They looked out of the small viewing area before adding a “superheat” guard to their already well equipped suits. They then approached the air lock which would allow them access to the outside world.

The trip had been sanctioned with the expert knowledge that this planet would almost certainly be suitable for colonization. It was within a system where the sun was of an ideal size supporting several planets and that this one was of an ideal distance from the centre.

Although several million light years away, due to the revolutionary “warp plus” invention, the crew would be awakened from their hibernated sleep after just one hundred years. When this happened the anticipation and excitement felt by the crew was crushed when realizing the actual status of this planet. It was calculated to be about 4.5 billion years old and should have been in an ideal period of stability. They were horrified then to find a barren, orange shaded landscape of peaks and valleys, stretching as far as the eye could see with uniform monotony.

The two crew members climbed out of the landing craft and viewed the scene.

The sun blasted down on the landscape with pitiless uniformity turning peaks into bright orange and valleys into a murky brown. It was terrifying yet beautiful and both felt immense loneliness.

    They took some samples from the lifeless rocks and sand and ran them through their analysing computer. The results were somewhat mystifying as they showed the present condition had happened with speed, Seventy to one hundred years was the estimation. It was a puzzle as to what could cause such a calamity and as they ignited the engine that would take them back to the mother ship they left Earth with heavy hearts.  

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate   

  THE RUNES 5^th and final part

 by Richard Banks

 He laughs, and I wonder if he has lost all reason.

         We have dinner at eight, after which we retire to the rooms we have been allocated. My window overlooks parkland, the dark shapes of trees shift gently in the breeze; a fox calls and I wonder if I too will become vermin to be hunted and made no more.

         I change into the pyjamas that have been provided and try to sleep, but my brain is buzzing with everything that has happened. Three o’clock comes and goes and I’m still awake, half past three it’s the same, but four I don’t remember and, without seeing the dawn, I wake up to find the sun shining through the curtains and making patterns on the wall. It’s eight thirty. I dress and descend the main stairs to the hall where I find Jones peering at a painting in a gilt frame. He seems to have slept better than I have and looks all the better for it.

         “Any news?” I say. He informs me that there’s none that matters. On TV the normal programmes are showing and the lead story in news bulletins concerns a Royal wedding.

         “The calm before the storm,” I say. Jones nods in a way that suggests he may know more than he is letting on.

         “Cheer up,” he says, while there’s life there’s hope. Let’s have breakfast.”

         Jones evidently believes that every man under sentence of death deserves a hearty meal and by the time we get round to dinner he’s onto his fourth. During the day the house has filled up with people. Jackson, the political activist, I recognise along with a few others but Jones tells me there are also twelve MPs, two former Ministers, and a High Court judge.

         At nine-thirty we pile into a fleet of dark windowed cars and make our way to the meeting place. Consistent with our status Jones and myself are in the last one and consequently the last to arrive. When we do we find everyone else out in the open, anxiously observing the sky above. There’s ten minutes to go; Jones runs back past the line of cars and vomits out his last meal, and probably the one before. A few others do the same, but the rest hold their ground, calmly waiting for whatever comes next.

         The Runes are nothing less than punctual and at 11pm exactly their craft appears on the horizon and within seconds is overhead, a hundred metres up. It is almost circular in shape but it glides not spins. There is a double row of amber-lit windows through which the movement of dark shapes can sometimes be seen. A hatch opens up in the belly of the craft and an object drops slowly to earth. It lands without appearing to fully make contact with the ground. Jackson strides out towards it at the head of a delegation that comprises himself and three other men. A door opens, they get in and are taken up into the ship which hovers above us. What looks like a mechanical eye peers down at us. We peer back. It blinks as though taking a photograph. There is a gasp of alarm but everyone stays where they are. Every minute seems like an hour.           

         Henderson appears and inserts himself between me and Jones. This is the first time we have seen him all day. 

         “So what’s happening?” I ask. It’s a silly question, a negotiation is taking place; if I think Henderson is going to give me chapter and verse I’m more stupid than the question, but Henderson, who should be saying nothing, replies with a single word, “danegeld.” He whispers the word softly so that only Jones and myself can hear. He’s like a small child with a secret he can’t keep to himself. He watches our reaction and ventures more words. “The biggest bribe in history, most of everything we have, gold, silver, diamonds, you name it, anything they want; no need for them to fight, no risk that we will lay waste to the planet; all they have to do is load up, fly off and leave us to ourselves.”

         “And will that work?”

         “Well now, did it work with the Danes?”

         The lesson from history is only too clear. Even worse, we don’t have the Government on our side. If the Runes do agree can we deliver what we offer?

         Henderson looks down at his watch. “Twenty minutes,” he says. That’s good, they’re doing well. Every minute now is a bonus.”

         None of this is making sense. We’re playing a poor hand with riches that are not ours to give, how can this be doing well? Henderson observes my confusion and seems to take satisfaction from it. “Let’s hope the Runes haven’t heard about HG,” he says.

         “HG,” I mutter and Jones looks similarly baffled. If Henderson is minded to say anything more he is saved the trouble by a chorus of voices announcing the return of the transit pod. Jackson and the others step from it and walk towards us without a backward glance at the alien ship which is leaving in the direction it came.

         “How goes it?” calls a voice from the crowd.

         “The worse bloody negotiation in history,” shouts Jackson, “a complete rickets. But I don’t care and neither should you. Let’s get back to the house; I’ll debrief you there, after that it’s drinks all round. It’s going to be OK, it’s all but over!”

                                                       *****

There were many like me who were at a loss to understand what Jackson was saying. Those who did, thought him too sure, too soon, and indeed he was. But who can blame him. He had entered the alien ship with every expectation he would die. Not only had he survived but been completely successful in what he set out to do.

         It was as the scientists predicted and in the following days the alien ships began to fall to ground. That this caused huge devastation with the loss of over five million lives can not be denied, or minimised, who would want to, but the rest of us, 7.9 billion at the last count, have survived, our lives unchanged but never more valued.

         Jackson was only one of many who contributed to their deliverance, but maybe no one was more important than the author, HG Wells who foretold that any ‘War of the Worlds’ would be decided in our favour by bacteria that our immune systems, over many centuries, had reduced to a minor irritant. Given the Runes technological superiority, it is unlikely that they would have been unaware of this danger to themselves in our atmosphere, a danger, however, not present in the airtight interior of their own craft. That’s when another literary device was remembered and made use of, the Trojan horse, which took the unusual guise of Jackson’s briefcase. Within it were germs culled from a hospital ward treating a minor outbreak of chickenpox, germs which when set free in the alien craft attached themselves to the Rune negotiators and travelled with them in the many red line transports between ships.

         The negotiation was, of course, a farce and our delegates soon exposed as impostors with an ill defined offer and no lawful authority to offer it. Having enraged the Runes, and been threatened with several life ending interventions likely to sully the décor, they were more than grateful to be shown the door. Indeed, had there been the alternative of an open window their return to earth might well have been more rapid than it was.

         Seven years later the story of the Runes has been told and retold many times, often by heads of Government claiming a major role in their defeat. According to North Korea’s ‘Dear Leader’ it was he alone who defeated them, while the Russians claim it never happened, that the devastation in Moscow was caused by the mid-air collision of two civilian airliners. To these fictions we must add the numerous inventions of conspiracy theorists.  But if you want to know what really happened read no more. I was there, and this is how it was.

                                                THE END      

Copyright Richard Banks                      

 The Easter Egg Hunt

By Sis Unsworth

As a young lad he’d known really hard times,

his family had been very poor.

They could never afford eggs at Easter,

sad memories he intensely bore.

He pictured himself as a young lad,

when poverty didn’t make sense,

How the family next door had an Easter egg hunt,

and he had to peer through the fence.

He heard the excitable laughter each time an egg was found,

At times he would see one retrieved from a tree,

or gingerly picked from the ground.

The hole in the fence showed a new world, a place

Excluding him, from their garden so fine,

Where the sun always seemed to shine,

while his side seemed cloudy and dim.

The scene that he gazed on obsessed him

how he’d wish he could be there, all that fun and the joy

he’d missed as a boy, who ever said life could be fair?

As he grew up, the memory faded,

like storm clouds in far distant sky,

but sometimes in bed, they crept over his head,

as he wiped a tear from his eye.

 

With the sunrise & sunset life changes,

for today he could be at the front.

As now he is married with children,

and planning an Easter egg hunt.

The day he’d devised was a roaring success,

now the children were all fast asleep

It allowed him at last to indulge in the past,

no more did his thoughts make him weep.

For what he had learned from those days long ago,

had stayed with him all his life through.

What we learned in the past may help us at last,

giving leverage to all that we do.

As life with its crossroads began to make sense,

you appreciate fun, on your day in the sun,

If you’ve first had to peer through the fence.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 The Second Time Around

By Janet Baldey

Multi-coloured balloons quivered delicately in the upward draught of warm air as I looked at the trestle table loaded with party food.   In prime position was a large cake iced in blue with the model of a narrowboat placed smack in the middle.  This time, the occasion was in honour of Helen and her husband leaving to cruise the canals all summer.    Last time, the cake had been pink and decorated with the national emblems of New Zealand where Glenys and her partner were headed.  I stifled a yawn, retirement fatigue had set in.   This was the third in as many weeks.  In people of my age, it was a natural trend.  The problem was, many were leaving but few were being recruited. 

Back in the office, my colleague and I contemplated the tsunami of work engulfing our desks.  “The trouble is” she said,  “we married the wrong men.” I nodded.  I knew she was divorced and if I had my way, I’d be a distant speck on the horizon but my late husband had left me with nothing but debts.   

         Once home, after massaging my sore feet and having a glass or two of wine to settle my nerves, I walked to the kitchen and set about yesterday’s dinner dishes.   I was depressed, surely there was more to life than this.  My little grey cells started to churn almost audibly and somewhere down a long, dark, corridor, a tiny flame flickered into life as an option occurred.    I looked at myself in the kitchen window.  The image was reassuring but the glass cast a dim reflection so couldn’t entirely be relied on.   Determined to confront the truth for good or ill, I abandoned the dishmop and went to the bathroom where the light was better.   I peered at myself in the mirror.   Hmm, skin clear, with only a few noticeable wrinkles, hair still thick and subtly coloured to hide any hint of grey; true, my waist had disappeared but my legs were good and I was by no means fat.    All in all, I wasn’t displeased.   Many women of my age, although comfortably married and affluent, looked a lot older.  There and then, I decided to cash in on my assets before it was too late – I was cutting it fine as it was.   Surely, there must be some lonely soul out there looking for a bit of TLC and an attractive companion to go travelling with.   All I had to do was find him.   Easier said than done.  Of course, there was always Match.com and E Harmony, a lot of couples I knew had met with the help of dating sites, but had I left it too late?   Consulting my oracle, AKA my Hewlett Packard, it seemed not.   There were dozens of dating agencies trolling for the desperate, some even catered for folk in their seventies.   I thought about it.   I thought about it for at least ten seconds – I had always been impetuous, which probably explains a lot - then I dived in.

         To say, I was flooded with replies would be an exaggeration but a few did trickle in.  My standards weren’t high, I wasn’t searching for love – I had given up on that a long time ago - but even so I wanted to look at my companion without wincing.   I was about to give up when I opened the last message.   My spirits rose.   This was more like it.   The photo staring back at me showed a man with a roguish grin, teeth so white and even they could have been false, ‘come hither’ eyes and a full head of springy blond hair.    Its owner claimed to be financially secure, with own house and car, retired and ready to explore pastures new.   Again, I barely hesitated before I hit the reply button.   I, too, was a home owner (I didn’t mention my crippling mortgage) partially retired and looking for someone to go travelling with.

         I’m not entirely stupid, so the first time we met I opted for a pub meal in the next town so as to avoid being seen by anyone I knew.  Especially if I had cause to abandon my meal and run if I suspected I was dating a wanna-be Ted Bundy   On the evening in question, I got there first and sat toying with my drink feeling as if everybody was looking at me.   When he eventually arrived, I was a little disappointed.  He looked a lot older than his photo.   His blond hair was thin and looked straw-like (I suspected bleach) and his face had more lines than Euston.   Nevertheless, his roguish grin hadn’t changed so I hedged my bets.

         As it happened, we got on famously.   Leslie was charming and funny so that, despite my reservations, I found myself becoming increasingly smitten.   We had arranged beforehand that the meal was to be the ‘Dutch’ variety so I was somewhat taken aback when he opted for the soup and nothing else.   “Bit of a  gyppy tummy,” he explained, patting his middle section.   However, during the meal I did notice the way he looked at my steak and when I offered him a chip, he accepted with alacrity.   “I can feel my appetite returning,” he said helping himself to another.   Of course, I refused to let him contribute a penny to the meal, after all he’d eaten barely anything.

         “The next time, everything will be different,” he vowed.  “We’ll have a slap-up dinner at ‘The Grove’ at my expense.  After all, I ate most of yours this evening.  And, don’t worry, I’ll pay for your taxi home.”  I was touched, he seemed a really nice guy.

         As it turned out, the evening was all that he’d promised.  The food was superb, the surroundings luxurious and the wine flowed freely.     It was when the waiter arrived with the bill that things started to go wrong.   Leslie stared at the slip of paper for a long time, a distracted look on his face, then he frowned and started slapping his pockets. one after another.   “Oh my Lord.”  I heard him mutter.

         “Is anything wrong?”

         He looked at me, his face as mournful as a spaniel’s refused a walk.   “Stupidly, I seem to have mislaid my wallet.  I think I must have left it at home.”  He looked so disconsolate, my heart melted.

         “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”  I said, refusing to think of my next month’s credit card bill.   His relief was visible.   “We’ll have dinner at my place, next time,” he said. 

         A few days later, my heart ‘a flutter,’ I hurried outside as soon as I heard the sound of his horn.  I stopped dead.  During our previous conversations, he’d mentioned he owned Jag.   “Top of the range” he’d said airily.   But, this car was no Jaguar.   This was an elderly, rusting Mondeo, and when I got near, the door swung open with a grating squeal.   

         “Sorry about the car,” he said, obviously seeing the look on my face.  “Some fool ran into the Jag.  Had to use the run-about.”

         Things looked up when we reached his house.   I stared, impressed.   A split-level bungalow it sprawled like a lazy cat.   Inside, my feet sank into emerald carpeting, shaded lamps shed a comforting glow over leather furniture and the windows were covered with velvet drapes echoing the decor.   It was sumptuous, if a trifle green.

         “Take a seat”, he said “I’ll get you some wine and start on supper.”

         When he’d gone I wandered about the room.  There was wall to wall book shelving on two sides.  I fished out my specs and peered at the titles.  They were all travel books and my heart lifted.  Paul Theroux, Bill Bryson, Jonathan Raban and more.  Food forgotten, I eyed then hungrily.  I had just made my choice and was reaching for it, when I heard slam of the front door.  Seconds later, the door to the living room swung open.   Surprised, I turned around as a stranger entered.   Head down, he didn’t immediately see me but when he did, he stopped dead and stared.

         “Who are you?” He said.

         My heart lurched.  He was drop-dead gorgeous.  Deeply tanned, with piercing blue eyes, he reminded me of a young David Attenborough.  

         Collecting myself, I had just opened my mouth to explain when Leslie came bounding out of the kitchen.  He was very pink, it must have been very hot and steamy in there.

         “This is Patsy,” he said.   “She’s come to supper.”  

         “I see. Leslie, a word please.” The stranger turned and left the room.

         Taken aback by his curt manner, I watched as Leslie followed.  Just before he went, Leslie turned and mouthed at me.  “My brother.”  His lips said.

          I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.  Brother or not, it just wasn’t done to burst into someone else’s home and take over, unless……   As I’ve said before, I’m no dummy and at last the penny dropped.  This probably wasn’t Leslie’s house at all.

         Unable to contain myself, I tiptoed over the door and listened.  I couldn’t hear much, just the low rumble of voices but two phrases rang loud and clear…..”did you go to that interview?" and “what about Angela?”

         I stepped back quickly as Leslie re-entered.

         “Sorry about this, but something’s come up at the factory and I have to sort it out.”   The factory!  He’d told me he’d retired.

         When we walked outside, I noticed there was a sleek Jaguar parked next to Leslie’s old banger.   “Aren’t we going to take your Jag?”  I said sweetly.   Leslie didn’t answer.

         The silence in the car was deafening as we drove to the nearest town.    Just as we entered, I noticed a middle-aged woman with a spray of dyed red hair, standing at the side of the road.   The car slowed imperceptibly and I saw the surprised look on the woman’s face as her eyes tracked our progress as we accelerated away.

         “Was that Angela?”  I said.   

         With a squeal of brakes, the car skidded to a halt.

         “Get out.”

         I stared at him.  His profile reminded me of Mount Rushmore and suddenly, I was furiously angry. “What do you mean ‘get out?’  How am I going to get home?  This is a Sunday.  There are no buses on a Sunday.”

         “Out”, he snarled.  I turned and looked around.   The red-haired woman was running towards us and I deliberately waited until she reached the car.

         “Good luck love.” I said.  “You’ll need it.”

         I watched as the car sped off.   I could see the woman’s mouth moving rapidly and smiled to myself, hoping she was giving him hell.    Mind you, I had no illusions.   He would talk himself out of it.   That sort always do.

         Once back home, I counted the cost of my experiment.    Two expensive meals and the price of a taxi, plus the new dresses I had bought to impress.   I had learned a hard lesson, one which I wasn’t going to repeat in a hurry.  Then, I thought of the brother.  How gorgeous was he!  I wondered if he was unattached.   I turned to my PC and plugged it in.  Perhaps I would be luckier the second time around.  

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 A DYING

By Rosemary Clarke

You feel like your soul's been dragged through the mire
You've no strength left you've lost that fire.

All you can think of is who has just died
From all the world's energy, you have to hide.

You've never felt so much alone
You're far from all and far from home

You shut down in a little cage

when friends want you to 'take the stage'.

They want to know just how you feel

when you just don't... it is unreal.

It's like you have nobody now,

when through the chores, you daily plow.

Will this be over, will it stop

 or will you work until you drop?

Time eases it, that I do know,

 and gradually you'll start to show

a kind of peace, you'll have the pain

 but it won't be so bad again. 

Your memories of them lift you so,

and help the many days blow

through until the time that you recall,

 you'll smile, and be glad of it all

you'll smile and look down at the ground,

 the place where their feet trod around.

The memories bring peace and then,

 they'll be right with you there again.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

LOOKING DOWN

Lynne Dellow

        Hello.  I have a story to tell so, if you're sitting comfortably, I’ll begin.

Bill, an elderly man, is sitting in his old armchair, smoking his pipe and gazing into a blazing log fire. It’s the anniversary of his late wife Mary's birthday and memories come flooding back of their long and happy marriage. He retired they moved to North Wales, where they’d spent many happy holidays, and bought an old stone cottage which they renovated.

Although situated in a remote spot, it was only several miles from a tiny village, which consisted of a General Store/cum Post Office, a few cottages and a very old Pub.  Bill joined the Chess Club, which took place once a week in the snug and had made friends with Ian the Vet, the landlord and a few locals.

He then began to think of Chris, their only son. Although a loving child, he’d got involved with a violent crowd at Senior School and his personality completely changed. They’d tried so hard to help, but eventually Chris ended up in prison and wouldn't allow them to visit. Then they moved to Wales Mary sent their new address to the Prison Governor and both were overcome when they received birthday and Christmas cards.

Tears came into Bill's eyes when he thought of his dear wife's passing and of seeing Chris standing at the back of the tiny Chapel, accompanied by a Police Officer. Chris shook as he embraced his dad and kept apologising for all the pain his actions had caused. He then added that at last he'd come to his senses.

"Dad I've been on a chef’s course and when I’m released they’re gonna try and find me a job and I promise I won’t let you down again.”

He gave Bill another hug and the Police Officer, who also looked upset, told Chris it was time to go. As they left, Bill waved until they were out of sight then, looking upwards, said a prayer of thanks to Mary.

    Chapter 2

Bill sat up with a jolt. Knowing a mist would soon be forming, he decided it was time to take his afternoon walk. He wrapped up warm, striding along the deserted lane. After a mile or so it began to get misty, so he thought it was time to return home.      As he was about to turn, something caught his eye.

Near a ditch, he noticed a bundle of old black rags.

"What lowlife's left their dirty old rubbish" he muttered, so decided to take a closer look. As he poked the rags with his stick, he saw something move. Thinking it could be a rat, he carefully lifted the top layer and, to his surprise, found a very frightened border collie staring back at him. Its body shook and its eyes had a look of terror.  Bill then noticed two rows of long misshapen teats and knew why she^’d been dumped. He gently lifted her, wrapping his overcoat around her, not knowing, or even caring, if she would nip him, then whispered

^“There, there, my lovely, you’re quite safe now.

No one's ever going to hurt you again."

All the way back to the cottage he spoke softly and, on entering, found an old duvet and he laid her on it, near the fire.  Bill warmed her some milk but seeing she was too weak to lap, put some on his fingers and watched her try to lick.

He thought for a few minutes then rang Ian who promised to come over straight away. He arrived about ten minutes later and, after checking her over angrily said

"Bastards: You know she’s off a Puppy Farm, after they breed from those poor bitches for a few years they’re dumped. That’s what I’d do to them.  Leave them somewhere to rot, with no food or clothes.”

 

Bill had never seen Ian so wound up but totally with all his comments.

Ian then said

"Healthwise she's not too bad. Just needs a feed, lots of love and tomorrow a good bath. If you like I can take her back with me, but she^’ll have to stay in one of my large housing until she recovers, then I’ll try and rehome her soon, but that won’t be easy as she must be at least five or maybe even six.”

Bill quickly interrupted

   “No need, No: She's been through so much already. She’s going to spend the rest of her days with me. I’d be grateful though Ian if you could get me some dog food and any medication she may need. Also please send me your bill.”

Ian chuckled

 “I knew you'd keep her, fee is zero. Just pay for any medication, dog food, etc.”

After they'd had a cup of tea, Bill thanked Ian for coming out on such an awful night and his friend left, promising to send a nurse over the following day to bath her and supply any medication needed.

Later that evening Bill warmed some milk and added some minced chicken and was pleased when she managed to eat and keep it digested. He then made up the fire, put on some music, threw a wrap around himself and settled in his old armchair. It was to be a long night.

Next morning the nurse arrived and, after checking her over, washed her down, asking Bill what he was going to call her. He thought for a moment then said

   “l think the name Misty suits her, when I think of how I found her.”

The nurse smiled

 “Well, she certainly loves you. She hasn't stopped following you around with her eyes all the time I’ve been here.”

And so a new companion entered Bill^’s life. Each day she became stronger and followed him everywhere, even to the bathroom. They went to Chess nights together, where they all made a big fuss of her. On other evenings they sat and lay by the fire, Bill smoking his pipe and playing classical music. He would tell her of his love for Mary and Chris and when he looked sad Misty would gently give him a lick.

 

Chapter 3

One afternoon, as they were sitting by the fire, Bill noticed Misty's ears shoot up. Then she barked and ran to the kitchen door. Imagine Bill s surprise when, looking through the window, he saw Chris with a lady standing alongside.      He told Misty who they were and invited them in.  After several hugs, he made them some coffee and Chris then introduced Jenny, his fiancé. Misty realised everything was okay and let them stroke her.  Bill insisted they stay for lunch, during which Chris explained why they were in Wales. Ted, the Police Officer, had a brother called Dave who owned a restaurant in Balla, a Market Town about ten miles away. After Mary’s funeral, they'd paid him a visit. Ted was full of praise for Chris and wondered if, when he was released from prison, his brother could take him on temporarily to give him some experience and a reference, Dave informed then that his chef was retiring in a couple of years time, so they'd give him a try. Then he did come out Chris started working for Dave and both he and his chef were so impressed he was offered a permanent job. That was a few months ago and the only reason he hadn^’t visited his dad was that he wanted to make sure of everything first.  He’d also met Jenny and they were looking for somewhere to live, close enough to be able to see his dad.

Bill wiped the tears from his eyes and hugged his son again. He insisted they stay with him until they found somewhere although, he added, if they could put up with ^‘one Man and his Dog^’ he’d love them to live permanently with him. That was about three years ago. Chris and Jenny got married and

bought a cottage in the village.

As at the beginning of this story, Bill is sitting by the fire, this time though with his faithful companion. He looks up at Mary's picture and thinks life would be perfect if she was here.

“Now you may wonder how I know so much about Bill. Well my name’s Mary, need I say more?”                                        

The End

Copyright Lynne Dellow