FREE CHOICE    (Part 1 of 2)

by Richard Banks

“To choose is to be free,” says Theo. After three Seattle Shakers, he is becoming philosophical, after four he will have great thoughts and after six there will be no remembering them. His headache the next day will be a reminder that no choice is free of unchosen consequences. But for now, everything is good, the drinks are free, his round yet to come, and he senses that his witty, insightful conversation is attracting the attention of Ella. She is, without doubt, the most attractive of the three girls in their group.

         No one, he thinks, has been gifted more free choice than her. Free in that she has never been known to buy a drink either for herself or anyone else but still the choice of every man seeking the enchantment of female company; that Theo is such a man is a secret he is trying to keep to himself. It is an impossible dream. She has an army of devoted followers from which to choose and when she does it is invariably a six foot plus Adonis, the star player or captain of one of the college teams. Clearly, Theo’s membership of the debating team is not enough, especially as they have lost their last three contests. At five foot six, he is scarcely taller than the lectern.

         Luke and Harry also suffer from the disadvantage of being ordinary, although somewhat taller. Accepting his fate Luke has taken up with Cynthia who he rates a six but with her make-up on will sometimes pass as a seven. They sit together, gradually merging into each other as one drink follows another. After four they are sometimes known to kiss.

         The sixth and final person at table 32 in the Stardust Club is Lorna, a friend of Cynthia who has been brought along in the hope that she might prove to be a suitable companion for Theo and distract him from drooling over Ella. So far they have spoken only once to exchange names, their mutual indifference only less obvious than Lorna’s scarcely concealed interest in Cynthia.

         “That’s crap,” says Harry. Harry is not a member of the debating team and tends to express himself in the on-field vernacular of the Sunday league football team for which he plays stopper, centre half. No fancy dan passing out of defence for him, he is old school and when he isn’t booting the ball fifty yards down the pitch he is usually questioning the parentage of the opposing team’s centre forward. For him, words are a blunt instrument, a cudgel not a rapier, and their purpose is to end debate not prolong it. The world is how it is, how he knows it to be, not how Theo thinks it should be.

         His membership of their Group is an alcohol shrouded mystery that no one remembers in quite the same way. Table 32 used to be his table, that’s where he sat, keeping it to himself and repelling all unwanted borders until this really fit bird asked him if anyone was sitting there. “No, be my guest,” he said. Then it turned out she had four friends who plonked themselves down before he could tell them to bugger off. Nevertheless, the fit bird sat next to him rather closer, he thought, than she needed. If she was pleased to meet him she was even more pleased when he brought her the most expensive cocktail on offer. He had read about girls like her, posh birds slumming it in bog-standard clubs, desperate for a bit of rough like him.

         On learning that her name was Ella and that she was a first-year student at the Uni, he had volunteered the information that he was a professional footballer with United. This never failed to impress the girls and was a fiction he was usually able to sustain until the following morning. In case this was not enough he raised the stakes by announcing he was also in England’s Under 23s. This she did not appear to understand but, having supplied the necessary clarification, he was able to achieve first base by placing his hand on her surprisingly cool knee. By the time his imagination had conjured up David Beckham and Victoria he was up to second base and contemplating his next move when she took hold of his little finger and hauled it and the rest of his hand onto the tabletop. In case he had not got the message she smoothed down the mini she was wearing so that it now covered most of second base. Other girls would have made a fuss, slapped his face, but she said nothing, her switched-on smile undisturbed, only a flinty look in her eyes signalling that what he wanted was not going to happen.

         To be repulsed with such style and subtlety seemed almost a distinction, and although he later felt anger it was never at her. Next day he took it out on the other team’s centre forward. Having rendered him unconscious with a head butt and threatened the referee he was sent off the pitch and fined £50 by the Association. To this dent in his wallet, he added the cost of the overpriced drink he had brought her, reflecting that some choices were anything but free, even for those that didn’t get past second base.

         A month later these are memories he has largely succeeded in pushing to the back of his mind. With Ella, it is as if nothing ever happened. There is no awkwardness between them. They have established a boundary and that is that nothing is said, nothing is needed to be said. It would be fine, water under the bridge if only Theo would stop going on about choice making people free. OK, it’s different to his own thoughts, he gets that, but nonetheless, it’s stirring up stuff he would rather forget. It’s crap, total crap, and he has stunned Theo into silence by telling him so, but not for long. Any moment now he will be drawn into a debate in which he will be expected to articulate a point of view that he can’t define beyond knowing that he is right and Theo a pretentious twat for thinking different. This is an argument that must be ended before it begins.

         “It’s crap man, it stands to reason and if you can’t see that I’m not going to waste my time putting you right. Now, it’s your round you tight bastard, so choose yourself a drink, and while you’re about it get me a pint.”

         There is an edge to his voice not usually present in his rough banter and Theo isn’t slow to pick up on it. “What is everyone having?” he asks, and on being told, makes his way to the bar with Luke. By the time they are back the conversation has moved on to Game of Thrones and Harry is back to being their streetwise older brother who is a good laugh and keeps them out of trouble.

         On a Saturday night, there will be at least one minor skirmish at Stardust and if the bouncers are quick in ejecting those responsible that might be the end of it. For now, they have only to man the doors while Steve, their boss, monitors the many screens in the control room. Presently the focus of his attention is table 32. No threat there, just a group of students who have formed an unlikely alliance with Harry Deeks. Harry is a good lad, knows the score, settles his disagreements in the alley outback. No harm in that unless you’re on the receiving end of Harry’s fists. Tonight there is a new face at their table, a girl he hasn’t seen before or has he? It’s her first time in Stardust, of that he is sure, but the frown that surfaces briefly on her unremarkable face seems familiar.  Just the frown, nothing more, but where. A flashing light over monitor eight diverts his attention to the Zodiac Bar where an argument is threatening to get out of hand. He dispatches two of his team to sort it out and watches them escort the culprit off the premises. The girl he does not remember until it is too late.

[To be continued.]

        

Copyright Richard Banks

Cheilin Saga ~ 20

 Cheilin Saga ~ 20 The Search

By Len Morgan

“This is where you lost them?”   Aldor asked gazing across the street from a second floor window.  Kalle nodded slowly.   “Do not feel you are in any way to blame, you could not know they were so well organised.   You have not been off duty in twenty hours” he observed “you should be resting; we may have need of your talents in the near future.   You did well to discover their back door; I doubt they even suspect it has been compromised.   Does it open from both sides I wonder?”

“The mechanism was unfamiliar but I suspect it does,” said Kalle.

They were in clear view of the alley on ‘Circle15’, in a safe house they had entered via ‘C14’.

“It is a good lead Kalle, the only one we have at this time, with luck it will provide us with the edge we need to preserve his life.”

Kalle knew that even now, at this late hour, all their agents would be looking out for Bordek and Hestor, and any of their known associates.   Once spotted, the news would spread like a heath fire on the wind.   All that could be done tonight had been done, so Kalle took Aldor’s advice and went home.

.-…-.

“You’re sure Hestor didn't return to the palace?” Sloan asked.

Aldor shook his head, “but as soon as ever he surfaces, I will know.   In the meantime all my people can do is search the rooftops and the gutters and keep their eyes and ears open hopefully a clue will come to light, sooner rather than later.”

Sloan nodded, “their descriptions have been circulated, I’m kinda taken with Dan, I’d hate anything to happen to him.   I like this job too but, how long would it last if he were gone I wonder?”

“Then ensure he stays right where he is.”

“Ah!   There you have it.   My mistake has always been in overcomplicating matters; well thank you for putting me straight” Sloan shook his head.

Aldor shrugged and left the small watch post, striding into the night, ‘the man is completely mad’.

.-…-.

“Why so angry Mawld?   It was never Bedelacq’s policy for us to befriend and make peace with our enemies, you know that,” said Mawgwrr.    “He just wants their blood spilled, and we have a mandate to do that.”

“But, what of our own people who die needlessly in the process?   Good loyal subjects with potentially long and productive lives ahead of them.” He said.

“We the elite are charged with the responsibility of ensuring that our lord receives his quota of blood at the appropriate times.   He doesn’t mind who provides it…”

“So it comes down to that!   We exist to feed him with blood?”

Mawgwrr did not reply to his taunt.   “I’m sorry we cannot count on your willing co-operation, and that makes you a dangerous man,” she added.   “You have more than a passing resemblance to a man we must discredit so, help us you will,” she said, mentally summoning another Bride.   “Sister Efelel will accompany you to the Cheilin Empire to ensure that you carry out your mission to our satisfaction,” she said, leaving them alone together.  

“Drink this!”   Efelel commanded.

He raised his arm to dash the beaker from her hand, but their eyes made contact.   It was as if he had been transfixed.

“I am now going to make you mine,” she stated in a quiet voice.   She entered his head, savouring the look on his face, like a trapped animal, his eyes revealing the terror.

“Drink!” she repeated.

He watched as his hand took the beaker. He felt the pale yellow liquid pass through his gullet; against his will.

Within seconds, itching began inside his skull, as though ants were building a nest there, burrowing and expanding with impunity, becoming familiar with their new abode.   He shivered in horror, his free will departed, and he submitted to his fate.   His brain was numb.  He began moaning involuntarily and slavering like a rabid dog.   Scratching frantically at his face and skull, crying and making pitiful mewling animal noises.  Finally, he gave voice to a primordial scream then lost consciousness.

“There, there my pet,” she cooed, snuggling him to her breast, enfolding him in her arms even as she spoke she was plumping his mind, making it feel more comfortable prior to taking up residence.  He would be the host; her pet.  She soothed his pain and calmed him until he was close to sleep, “Kiss me,” she whispered, he obeyed.

That kiss betrayed him; he was hers, and nothing he could do about that.   He was first domesticated, then indoctrinated, and fed full of propaganda.   He may have seen through it in his past existence but now he believed everything he was told.   She was curled up safely in his mind, for the most part just observing, directing his thoughts and actions when necessary.   Efelel was quietly pleased with the degree of success and control she now exerted over him.

Mawgwrr chuckled, “you see, the more wilful they are the more obedient they become.”

It seemed that he was in full control, as before, but at a moment's notice, she could take command and lead him every which way.  They enjoyed sex, he was good, it bound him ever closer to her In thought and deed, she provided him with purpose direction and motivation.   Though satisfied with their bonding, Mawgwrr continued to oversee their development.   Mawld & Efelel were given an intensive training program designed to test both to their limits and forging their bond even closer.   They were bound for the Cheilin Empire, to spy for Blutt.   They were taught how to deceive, threaten, persuade, and inveigle themselves into the hearts of others.   They learned many clandestine techniques including how to use the minds of others as weapons against them.   Dreams, desires, prejudice, jealousy, and greed were just a few of the tools at their disposal.   Their instructions were simply to lay the groundwork for the assimilation of the Cheilin Empire.

.-…-.

 It was close to dusk when they entered the Eternal City, through the Southern gate.   They had the code names and locations of key contacts in the Blutt advance mission, established in Cheilin a century earlier, to insinuate themselves into society.   They ran a spy network that had spread throughout the city and outlying countryside.

At the junction of ‘Circle18 & East3’, they found ‘the Porters Ease’ an Inn of renown.

‘Here it is’ she spoke by mind link.   They entered the establishment and sat, as instructed, in a corner booth marked as reserved.  

“Ale for two,” Mawld called out to a passing waitress, as they sank into large upholstered easy chairs.  “Are there rooms for hire?” he asked when their drinks were served.

“Just one double at the top,” the girl replied.

“We’ll take it,” he said, “Is food available?”

The waitress left, returning with a menu from which they both selected venison stew.   They ate two helpings before retiring.   At thirty minutes past noon the following day they were picking over the remains of two roast chickens when the curtains to their booth were parted to reveal a young woman in her early teens.

She looked critically from Mawld to Efelel and back again.  

“If you are newly arrived in the Eternal City, I would stop and ask for news of home.” 

“It would depend on where you call home,” Mawld answered, glancing at Efelel.

 

‘She is O’Keffe, our contact.   She has never seen Bluttland, never even left this city, she was born here.’ 

“O’Keffe what kept you?” he asked.

O’Keffe answered his question with a thought, ‘She is one of his Brides,’ she gazed in awe at Efelel.

Efelel did not give an answer, it was not required, ‘will you be taking us to our contact now’  she sent that thought, while probing gently for information, but her probe was met by a firm block.

“Best not,” said O’Keffe.   ‘I know three contacts, outside my own cell; they each know two others besides myself.   If any of us are compromised we cannot be forced to give up more than those three.’

‘You will know of us.’

‘Yes, but you will wipe that, as soon as I deliver you safe to your destination,’ was her matter-of-fact reply.   “Now if you have finished your food we can go.”

“Lead on,” said Mawld.

They left the Tavern, with O’Keffe some thirty paces behind.   They went East then South then West and finally North, with frequent forays into Taverns where they tarried a while before leaving.   All the while O’Keffe remained outside watching for signs of pursuit, passing instructions to Efelel through the mind link until eventually, they arrived at their destination.

.-…-. 

Over the months Mawld began to familiarise himself with the man he was to become.   As a test, he began to frequent places know to have been visited by Aldor.   He tried to be innocuous and to go unnoticed but responded in a friendly manner to any who thought they recognised him.   Then, when Aldor was recalled to Sanctuary at the time of Sanko’s demise he roamed abroad becoming Aldor in reality.   Unbeknown to him, he even fooled some of the Tylywoch agents who should have known better.   Luck was on his side, and he began the process of blackening General Aldor’s name prior to his return to the City.   He had planned to shadow Aldor, in another guise, and improve his technique but, Aldor returned and departed for the cloistered Abbey of Samishaan before that could happen.   So, he continued to sow unrest amongst the normal populace by continuing to act in a brutish and arrogant manner.   He never actually gave his name but most people he contacted found him to be aggressive & abrasive, with more than an undertone of danger around him.   Then he forced his first duel and killed a man, out of hand, acting as though it were a joke.   Even regular acquaintances whom he had courted, to higher his standing, became uncertain and nervous in his presence.

That was when his accomplices began spreading rumours about his exploits.   Only occasionally did he actually do anything but it was invariably high profile and in poor taste.   Of course, the Emperor and his officers knew it could not be Aldor, but proving it was quite another thing.   All members of the Tylywoch were briefed to apprehend the impostor on sight but, somehow he was able to evade them and frustrate their efforts.   He remained at large and in the public eye flaunting all their attempts to get him.   Mawld knew one thing the Tylywoch and the Red Guard did not.   Prior to each appearance, the minds of all those present were scanned thoroughly and if there were any doubts, about those present, Mawld did not appear. 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

Personal Well-being ~ 13

A Sweet Tooth

By the Barefoot Medic

Have you ever noticed that young people show a marked affinity for sweet things?  "Mmm".

As we grow older our tastes do change and become more discriminating, or more likely we just get set in our ways.  Or, do our tastes simply change in line with our needs? 

“Each according to his/her needs?” 

Indulge me a moment…  Do you occasionally have urges/cravings for things you would not normally eat or drink?

It’s a well know fact, (so I’m told), that expectant mothers experience wild cravings in the middle of the night, for things that would normally seem revolting to them! 

When the body is undergoing radical changes, new building materials may be required; do you suppose the body has an awareness in addition to that of the brain, a mind of its own?  Could it be that unaccountable urges, cravings and dreams are the outward manifestations of the body attempt to communicate its needs to the conscious mind?

“Hormones are defined as chemical messengers.” 

At ‘THAT’ time of the month, a woman may get ‘Cranky’!  It’s her hormones you may say - excusing her tantrums, mental/physical attacks on your person.  This is of course the upper extreme.  No two people are built the same though, I've known quite a few cranky men; take me for instance.

Is it possible that hormones have even more subtle effects on us than currently supposed?

Radical life changes may bring on similar effects.

For example a couch potato of 10 years standing, suddenly taking up physical exercise, could possibly bring on a craving for sweet things…

Conversely, if you suddenly start craving ‘Pilchards in tomato sauce’ & pickled onions/eggs, should you be seeking changes in your life?  Are you pregnant?

Family break-ups, retirement, bereavement, stress, a lottery win.

Would a change in diet help you deal with those?

How could we test such a theory?

Maybe seek out people undergoing unexpected life changes.

Get them to identify any activity changes resulting (if any).

Analyse the chemical content of the dietary changes resulting…

Could a pill be created to provide the missing components?  Then when other people are undergoing similar life changes we could administer that pill…  No this is getting silly… Or, is it?

Comments will be Welcome:

Sunset

 

The Rayleigh Scattering

By Carole Blackburn

Sitting in her fragrant garden with its decorative and concise edges, with Henri her devoted husband, they had continued to enjoy this pleasure in life, until one summer ago. Maggie had promised him she would watch the sunset with a glass of something and enjoy their garden, forever. The warm air caressed her aging bones and her thoughts drifting into a different world and time.

The wooden tatty desk in John Strutt’s study was covered with his paperwork: A clutter of his many thoughts on a fascinating theory. Outside in silence, the sun was setting, a huge canopy of fading warmth, in the evening sky.

His supper arrived, as regular as clockwork, carried in by Mrs Matterson. This last of her evening duties for Lord John, 3^rd Baron of Rayleigh. There was no conversation at this hour, apart from,

“Thank you, Matterson.”

Her curtsey and a gentle nod were her reply.

On leaving his study, her words were always the same,” Will that be all, my Lord?”

“Yes, Mrs Matterson, it will be.”

John sighed as he reclined back in the leatherbound chair, another day had gone. The gas lamp would soon be needed. He was driven to continue with his thoughts, after his supper of rye bread, cheese, and a glass of the deepest red wine.

The inner glow from his wine soothed his thoughts that had been screeching for his attention. His need for calming solitude came as he raised his eyes to the spectacular sight of the Sun melting behind the rooftops, above Maldon. The river Blackwater ebbed and flowed nearby in obeyance to the pull of the Moon. Forever, this relationship with our planet has shaped our world, our lives, as does the Sun. 

His gas lamp flickered with shapes that pranced around him. Illuminating his world, as the outside darkens. His supper concluded with crumbs that littered on top of his papers; he had nibbed in italics. Diagrams altered with an urgency to follow his train of thought. The glowing sight in the sky had become his main thought together with the reason for its occurrence, over the past few years.

Why can we witness the splendour of a sunset?

How does this seemingly natural display occur?

What makes sunsets possible?

Always, the sunset colours vary, reflecting through the clouds as the sinking sun ignites the horizon. He never tired of these safe visual pyrotechnics in his daily life. He was told the colours could vary from shades of blue and green. A learned colleague, Edward Routh had sent word of his ideas that very week from his own experiences from the University laboratory.

Edward days and nights flowed and melded into one. His slumber would often be broken as the night warden gently shook him as the next day dawned. No beginning, no ending for him.

John and Edward would pool their ideas as their individual gas lamps flickered while outside a globe of fire, with its intense heat lowered in the sky. Lord Rayleigh’s thoughts hinted at a possible transferring of its heat with the presence of substances in the atmosphere. A potion maybe, that was a presence in the sky. A catalyst of some sort. His thoughts were missing a vital thread, John pondered.

These two men with their insatiable curiosities of the techno-coloured skies fuelled their notes, debates, and presentation papers to the numerous faculties around Europe.

The night curtain fell on this spectacular sky show, once again. Now, the night stars were waking up. Their mother, the crescent moon glowed. The atmosphere was translucent between him and the free light display in the sky. For many these dusk displays were taken for granted. Unlike Lord John, the fascination of the skies kept him awake most nights.

John picked up his calculations with his current thinking. His scribbled ideas all over them as he read aloud,” A sunset has three stages; Civil, Nautical and Astronomical twilights and the last one I have calculated as being 12-18 degrees below the horizon. He continued as he turned the page, “Dusk occurs at the very edge of this stage. The night is defined when the sun reaches 18 degrees below the horizon and with the Sun no longer illuminating the skyline”. He concluded.

Rubbing his chin, he recalled not every evening sky was a picture to behold. Something was making a difference.

The night carried on as his thoughts drew the threads of his theory together. John sent word to Edward; he would have stirred by now.

A gentle tap on the study door behind him signaled that Mrs Matterson needed to carry in his breakfast tray. It had been Evelyn, his wife’s decision for this unusual eating arrangement. The time when they had shared mealtimes together had become a distant memory. She knew him too well to demand anything when his every grain of thought was required elsewhere. For John, he did not need the additional distraction to be present in the dining room and Evelyn would never contest her needs over his.

An enquiring mind brings sheer joy to its owner and for those around a profound sense of awe at hearing the words from such a person.

Such a brain as John’s which calculated and revisited the Cul de sacs of all the unfinished equations had led to a life for his wife Evelyn, few women would contemplate. It would have not been considered, at this time, a proper marriage, let alone continue with a marriage of such solitude. Looking in on their relationship, the outside world would have had eyes of envy. A lifestyle of the well to do and all their needs met. Although few words were spoken, Lord John was forever in Evelyn’s debt. Never taking her faithfulness for granted. This guarantee in their relationship was as solid as a rock, like granite. In this way they love and understanding for each other was immeasurable.

Now, John was determined to prove his thoughts to the World and he would not disappoint, this physicist needed closure. Eventually, John’s Sunset theory was tested and was finally accepted. John’s thinking had urged Edward to concur, that the removal of the shorter wavelengths of light due to the scattering by the air molecules which were much smaller than the wavelengths of visible light. These came to be known as “Rayleigh scattering”, named after him, the sunset hues with a spectrum ranging from the yellows and reds to greens and blues. That burned as the Sun lowered in the sky and appears like a wonderful act of nature, for most.

Back in her garden, Maggie blinkered as the last of the day’s sunset vanished below the horizon once again. Taking herself inside knowing that her distant relative, Mrs Matterson had witnessed an amazing theory unfold in the study, of Lord John, the 3^rd Baron of Rayleigh.

  

All of Lord John’s work concluded on his death on the 30^th June 1919 in Witham, Essex.

Copyright Carole Blackburn Aug 2021

 PADSTOW 

Peter Woodgate 

As masses weave their way

through narrow streets

what do they think?

as face to face with history they meet.

Is it just to walk the dogs

that brings them here?

or to appreciate the architecture?

No, nor any other pastime, I fear.

It appears before Rick Stein arrived

with fancy menus,

it was just a quiet place,

local residents,

living hand-to-mouth,

a little fishing boat

to catch the seafood that,

kept them afloat,

and, paid the rent.

Good old Rick,

he saved their lives,

his food, it’s said,

could raise the dead

and many shops then sprang to life,

selling, chalk and tiles and clay

and anything that came their way.

as customers flocked

across thresholds of excitement.

It’s progress, so they say,

the modern world, this is the way.

But I am sad, for Cornwall’s magic

fades rapidly within the queues

of traffic, as it quickly spews

it’s frustration through our heads

and on our brows, beads form

to trickle down to meet our chin,

anxiety it will begin

and all this takes away the bliss,

euphoria, a gentle kiss,

and other wonders that I miss.   

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate       

 Rhododendrons

Janet Baldey

Mornings are always the worst.   At the first shrill chirp, I awake and lie listening to the rising crescendo of birdsong.   From the way the sun slants through the curtains, I know it will be a fine day.  I know the branches of the tree outside my room will be hazy with new leaf and the creamy swell of the magnolia buds will be spearing a sky of the purest blue.   If I were outside, the cool air would feel like satin against my skin and the soft breeze would carry the scent of blossom at this time, it would be quiet and I probably wouldn’t meet another soul.   If I went out.   But I know I won’t.   I won’t, because I haven’t for so many years that I can’t remember the last time.

         Instead, I lie with my eyes closed.  My mind starts to drift but I control it.  There are places I won’t allow it to go.   Sometimes I lie in bed all day.  I don’t get up because there is nothing to get up for. I turn my face into my pillow and taste salt as tears run down my face.   Then, through my misery, I hear my dog whining softly and I know I have to make the effort, for her sake.

         In the bathroom, I glance into the mirror, expecting to see a young girl’s face, clear-eyed, with alabaster skin and cherry lips.  Instead, I see a woman whose puffy eyes and grey complexion testify to many years spent inside.   Mechanically, I run the tap and afterwards meticulously wipe away every silvery drop of water clinging to the basin’s surface.

         As I enter the kitchen, the old dog rises slowly and stumbles, stiff legged, towards me, the tip of her tail twitching.   She licks my hand, pathetically glad to see me.   I look at her and sorrow chokes me.   She is nearing the end of her life and suddenly I feel tentacles of panic begin to tighten. Who will I get up for when she is gone?

         My father always blamed my mother. Even though every muscle in my body screamed in agony, I sensed this as soon as I opened my eyes that morning, a generation ago.   She sat, foundering by my hospital bed, her face wrecked by weeping but my father was standing, not by her side but, ostentatiously, some way distant. He stood stiffly, a totem of disapproval, the skin of his face stretched tautly over the planes of his face.  It was obvious that he felt vindicated.  According to his doctrine, all through my childhood, my mother had been too soft with me. 

 ‘Children need discipline, the same way that dogs and horses do.   They must be trained to respond immediately in case they stand into danger’.

 All through my childhood, this message was directed at my mother in a vain attempt to wear her down and as I became a teenager, their conflict escalated in line with my growing independence.  

‘You must be mad to allow her to go out dressed like that!’ 

His rage was futile.

A day or so later, I waltzed into the kitchen, my face garish with a clown-like application of make-up, my mini-dress barely skimming my knickers.   As I waved goodbye, I saw him glance at my mother and his mouth open, but I was out of the door and away before he could speak.

         What did he feel as he stood at my bedside?  Did he feel vindicated, or was he, too, frozen with sorrow as he looked at the bruised and battered body of his little girl forced to grow old before her time?

       Dad left us a few months later. I think Mum was glad that he went. There had been too many recriminations. Night after night, the thin walls of my bedroom echoed with the hammer of raised voices.  Now that he was gone, she was free to assuage her guilt in the only way that she knew. I became her baby again and as the days slipped by, we would sit in front of the telly watching the soaps and gorging on cream cakes and lemonade until my belly began to swell. In my innocence, I thought I was merely getting fat.

         Then, as now, I spent a lot of time in the safety and comfort of my bed.   But I am not always safe, sometimes I dream. They are happy dreams at first. I am a child again, a young girl of thirteen, watching my feet, in my new pair of scarlet, patent leather shoes, flashback and forth as I hurry down the street.   My tote bag is crammed with make up and magazines.  My friend Lucy’s parents are out for the evening and we’ve got the house to ourselves.  We can do whatever we want.   Experiment with make up, try on clothes, read trashy magazines, giggle about boys and gossip.  Then, the dream speeds up into a kaleidoscope of blurred images merging into each other with lightning speed.   Lucy’s hair, my face, scarlet lips, panda eyes, narrow hips gyrating in time to Abba, being played full blast on the record player.  Insidiously, there is a change of mood and a growing sense of foreboding.   I am on my own and the street is dark. Full of terror, I try to turn back but cannot and wade through treacle towards my destiny.   My mouth opens as I scream and when I awake my soaked sheets are knotted around me.   I lie there and feel a tide of depression overwhelm me as I realize it wasn’t a dream at all.  Mercifully, my mind has obliterated most of that night but I do remember his guttural voice and the rotten-egg stink of his breath.

             Lucy used to come and visit me after I got out of hospital. Sometimes it was almost as if things were back to normal.   She used to chat about school and bring me get-well cards the other girls had made.   But gradually the times between her visits lengthened as her life moved on.   I never hear from her now.

         The worn brass doorknob fits perfectly into my hand, it feels smooth and cool as I twist it and tug the door open. The old dog slips out and I stand there waiting. There isn’t much of a view; I can just see the bricks of next door’s house.  I remember the garden when my dad lived here.   It was his pride and joy.  In the Summer he used to be out there night after night, not coming inside until it was too dark to see.   The lawn was his special pride, like a living carpet it stretched away from the house all the way to where the rhododendron bushes lurked. Flowers flanked the lawn. Like jewels, they exploded with colour.   Pinks, scarlet peonies, marigolds, ox-eye daisies and banks of purple anemones.   It isn’t like that now. The grass is knee high and the flowers have long ago been strangled by the weeds.   The rhododendrons are the only ones that have thrived; they have seized their chance and have spread almost to the kitchen window.

         Leaving the door open, just a crack, I retreat further into the kitchen.  I feel safer there.   Maybe one day I will follow the old dog out into the garden.   Maybe one day, but not today.   The police did their best but he was never caught and there are too many dark places where he could still be hiding.   The rhododendron bushes, the dark alleyways, hidden corners in forgotten places.   And I will always remember his fingers, like iron on my arm, and the tone of his voice.

         ‘If you tell, you will be dead’.

Patiently, she waited for me to recover, but I never did.   Not in her lifetime anyway.  Maybe it would have been better if they had let me keep the baby…

                 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

      [There could be more, what will happen next?  It is for you to decide...]

     

Cheilin Saga ~ 19

 Cheilin Saga ~ 19 History Teaches 2

By Len Morgan

   Daidan awoke feeling remarkably refreshed.   But for the sword at his side he would have viewed his encounter in the night as no more than a vivid dream.   He reviewed the words, and touched the blade with assurance, it felt warm to his touch and seemed to have a comforting effect on him.   He bathed dressed and ate a light snack, sipping water between mouthfuls.   He chose to don light armour before making his way to the Arena, which was situated within the Palace grounds.   At sunrise, he was accompanied by his first counsellor, led and flanked by a troop of imperial house guards.   They made their way down an alley of torches; he had never expected to be the main attraction on his first visit to the Arena.   Daidan looked into the eyes of his counsellor, who glanced away nervously telling him all he needed to know.   As they entered the Arena he could see his nimbly agile adversary exercising his limbs, shadow fighting, in preparation for the combat to come.   It was dry, and there was a cold nip to the air, which he found bracing.   He took a slow deep breath, expanding his lungs to their full extent, holding the breath for a few moments before exhaling noisily.  

He took a second breath, gazed at his opponent, and smiled.   “It’s a glorious day to die,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Yvdrx

“If I were planning to die I also would choose such a day as this,” said Daidan.   He drew the sword from its scabbard swinging it effortlessly with speed, power, and panache.   Switching hands he continued to perform with ease executing a complicated set of intricate maneuvers tracing patterns in the air the blade close to invisible.   A low murmur went up from the small crowd of invited witnesses.   “Mayhap I should fight with my left, and give you a sporting chance,” he said in an easy friendly manner.  

Suddenly, Yvdrx looked less confident.

“Of course I have nothing to gain from this contest, If I kill you I will inevitably alienate your Clan and offend your widows and denying your children the love and support of their father.   You are I know a good father, yet you are prepared to give up everything in the mistaken belief that the new Clan chiefs will happily retire after just a month?”   If you force it upon them your son will not even survive the first cut, and you will cease to be Oybun of the 5^th Clan, what profit is there in that?”   A few more easy passes with the left hand, then the blade was transferred to his right, weaving pathways so swiftly no eye could follow.   Then it was sheathed so fast it seemed to disappear in mid-air.

Yvdrx made a few more passes with his sword, attempting to speed up his movements to match Daidan display.   His forced cuts and parries lacked their earlier fluidity, now looking clumsy in comparison.

“I will speak plain,” said Daidan, “I have no wish to kill you, it is never a pleasant thing to do, and regardless of promises there will always be resentment, both political and personal following your demise.   I desire only to unite the Empire, in the way I know best, which is to foster good relationships between the Clans.   I would make a poor start, towards that dream, by killing my closest rival.   It would be acceptable if the Emperor actually wielded the power implied by his office but, I know this not to be so. Instead, I find that I am simply used as a figurehead, a dragon without fire, every action directed by strangers.   Do this, don’t do that, I am in reality a prisoner in a house of shadows.   Not only am I denied the company of friends and family because it breaches the ‘no fraternisation’ rule, I am also forbidden to ride abroad or even to take to the fields and hunt like other normal men; as do you.   The worst thing of all is that I am not even here by choice, my name was submitted for selection without my knowledge.   In truth had you been elected I would have been the happier man.”    I only went through with the charade because I was convinced that you would win and honour would prevail.  I have no objection to becoming Oybun of the 7^th Clan; that is true power.   He smiled wryly and looked at Yvdrx in an appealing manner, “I need friends, can we not dispense with this ‘to the death’ business and put on a fine exhibition of swordsmanship that will strike fear into the hearts of enemies of the Empire?”

Yvdrx thought a while, “I never really wanted the job either,” he confided.    “It was foisted on me by others who decided it was in the best interest of the 5^th Clan.”

“Since being chosen, I have researched the antecedence of the post, and it is fascinating.   Did you know that the 5^th Clan has produced the matriarch of more Emperors than any other Clan; on no less than nine occasions?   The next most frequent was the 12^th Clan with only four.   From this research I also discovered that the 7^th Clan has never yet produced the mother of an Emperor who inherited the post,” said Daidan.

“Enough talk man,” yelled Yvdrx, “let the action begin.”

“So we fight the exhibition?”

“If that is your wish, in truth I no longer have stomach for this venture, now I can see how I have been manipulated by those I had thought were my friends.”

“When we are done you will be able to wreak vengeance on them all eh?”

“Indeed!” said Yvdrx with a smile as he came to the engarde stance, mirrored by his opponent.

“Good man!”

They fought a brave and clinical contest.   The witnesses were enthralled, for thirty minutes they witnessed toe to toe nonstop action.   At the end of which, Yvdrx was obviously flagging, but did not give way to panic or desperation; quite the contrary he modified his style to minimise his energy expenditure.   Of course, he knew that it was not ‘to the death’ but the crowd didn’t, and Daidan would never tell.   Not after running his opponent through three times in quick succession to ensure he would not survive to tell of their pact.   He wiped his blade on Yvdrx’s shirt turned and walked to the changing area without a backward glance.   There would be no further leadership disputes during the reign of Emperor Daidan I.  That same evening the sword mysteriously disappeared…

.-…-.

Dan smiled; his grandfather had once asked him if he considered his actions to have been wrong.  

“No” he answered out of loyalty.   But, he'd not really been convinced of that.

Just two years earlier he had repeated the story to Aldor, the only time it was ever retold, and asked Aldor's honest opinion of his forebear’s action.

“Yes & No” was Aldor’s considered reply. “He may have been guilty of overstepping his bounds by cheating.   Even though Yvdrx had been ridiculously gullible, suggesting he was not fit to be leader of the Cheilin Empire anyway.   As Emperor, he acted correctly, in the best interests of his subjects.   He could not afford to act like a man for that would demean the office.   If an Emperor permitted open descent in a subject it would rarely end there; the offender must be put down in a manner that would serve as a lesson to all.   To do otherwise would court anarchy.   If one death would ensure the stability of a nation and assure the continuance of a dynasty, the cost was justified.   Your grandfather gave up his right to act like a man when he accepted the honorific ‘Light of the World’.”

“Ah, quite so!   A man of perception,” Dan smiled.   He knew Aldor to be his staunchest ally; one who would also prove a fearsome adversary in other circumstances.   He held no reservations about Aldor’s loyalty or his commitment to his office.   If Aldor asked him to walk on fire, he would do so in the full knowledge, it was in his own best interest.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan