Ancestry

By Janet Baldey

None of us can escape our ancestry, it follows us every step we take on our way towards the end.  But, sometimes, we cannot even evade the ancestry of others.  This is what I have learned.

Right from the start, I sensed she was different.  Special – as they say today.  But that hardly mattered; from the moment she opened her eyes and stared at me out of eyes so dark blue they were almost black, I was caught and wanted her with all my heart.  

The orphanage was quite open about her. 

         “She’s a difficult baby, you will have to be patient.” The matron leaned over the cot and laid the back of her hand against the baby’s cheek; her workworn skin starkly emphasising the flawless porcelain of the child’s.

         “Sleeps all day and screams all night.  Almost impossible to feed.  Seems to hate the taste of milk and vomits most of it back up.  But we have managed to keep her alive and she does have the knack of drawing one in.  We all love her deeply.”

         She sat back down and stared at us over the width of her solid oak desk.  My heart was thudding in my chest as I returned her gaze.  What was she thinking as she looked at us? A late middle-aged couple, too old to deal with a new born - we’d already been turned away by half a dozen other orphanages.  I fought against my body’s urge to cringe and lowered my lids to hide the need in my eyes.  I struggled to douse my smouldering resentment; what did this woman know of the grief of six still-born babies or the silence of an empty house that was slowly suffocating the love my husband and I once had? I must have this baby.  It was our last chance.  

The outcome of that interview was pure joy but ‘be careful what you wish for’ is a wise saw that never entered our heads as we drove away with our precious newly acquired daughter asleep in the fastness of her carrycot.

 Difficult is an inadequate word to describe the trial of raising Meriel.   The orphanage hadn’t lied, she did indeed scream all night and sleep all day, which did nothing to improve my husband’s mood.  She clamped her rosebud lips against the nipple of every bottle of milk and a geyser erupted, drenching both of us, if she was forced to swallow even the smallest drop.  In the end, going against all advice, I improvised.  Like Meriel, I grew used to sleeping all day and staying awake all night.  I also found that she would tolerate a clear beef broth and this way, managed to rear her until she grew teeth and could eat meat. 

But I don’t want you to think this was a chore.  Once we had established our routine, she was a delight and we grew very close.  From early on it was clear that she was highly intelligent.  She learned in a flash and by the age of three was reading and writing fluently.  She had many talents but dance was her speciality and every evening I watched, filled with pride, as she flitted around her room with an airy grace, her silhouette mimicking every move.

By this time, there was just the two of us.  Albert hadn’t been able to get used to the idea that she had special needs and his love for me wasn’t strong enough.

“Children must fit in with their parents, not the other way round.” This became his  mantra, and one that I constantly ignored.   At last, during yet another row and infuriated by my adamance, a blood red tide suffused his face. “She’s an aberration” he roared.  Afterwards, he apologised but it was too late. The word was out and hung between us like a dagger of ice.  He left a few weeks later.  I think he thought I would grovel for him to return but he was wrong.  I had my daughter now and she was enough.             

              Meriel knew that she’d been adopted.  I remember the evening I told her. I was sitting in my armchair listening to the music of the fire as it sang in the grate and Meriel was sitting in her usual spot, behind the sofa.  Her head was bent and she was crayoning furiously. I chose my moment. The dark had already stolen the light from the sky and I knew she would be in a good mood, this was her favourite time.

I patted the seat beside me.  “Come and sit next to me sweetness, I have something to tell you.”

She looked up but she didn’t move.  Then she looked towards the fire and I knew what was wrong.  She wasn’t afraid of much but she hated the orange sparks of flame that spat from the coals with a crack as loud as a pistol shot.

So, I went to her and crouched down to her level.  I looked at what she was drawing, a black and crenelated castle straining against a purple sky. I marvelled at the detail and wondered where she had seen such a sight.  Then, with an effort, I returned to my task.

“Although I couldn’t love you more, Meriel, I have to tell you that I am not your birth mother.”

“I know.” She didn’t look up from her drawing.

How could she possibly know?  But I didn’t challenge her, perhaps this was the way she channelled information.

So, I told her about the orphanage and my lips formed the old adage that she was a “chosen” child and that I loved her and had never regretted my “choice”.  On her part, she asked just one question.

“Where did I come from?”

“I don’t know darling.  I wasn’t told and I wanted you so much, it didn’t seem necessary to ask.”

This seemed to satisfy her and we never spoke of it again.

I knew that there were difficulties ahead.  Soon I would be forced to send her to school and she would detest that. Although she was now used to normal ‘office’ hours, she still hated the sun and refused to leave the house if it was shining.  Even on dull days she insisted on long sleeves and kept a nervous eye on the sky.  Also, on the rare occasions we visited the playground, she avoided other children and this worried me. I wanted her to socialise and not be ‘the odd one out.’ 

When the time came, surprisingly, we had very few problems.  I had already primed her class teacher that she suffered from a skin complaint, aggravated by the sun, and arranged that she should not go out at playtimes.  I also said that she had food allergies and should only eat the packed meal I would prepare for her.  I didn’t mention that her sandwiches were filled with raw liver, because I knew that would be found strange.  

Her other classmates seemed to accept that she was different and largely left my little girl, sitting swaddled in dark clothing at the back of the class, to her own devices.  Meriel was quite happy with this.  She was entranced by the school’s library and was rarely seen without a book.  Due to her superior intellect, she’d hoovered up the children’s section in no time and was now working her way through the junior adults.

Her class teacher, Miss Read, although slightly baffled by her odd pupil, was quite amenable.  She did, however, voice her concern about Meriel’s social skills.

“It’s not that she’s unpopular, it’s just that the other children avoid her. And, she in turn, avoids them. Would a birthday party help, do you think?”

Meriel would soon be turning six, so this seemed a good idea but when I suggested it, her eyebrows drew together and she shook her head so violently her hair rose up and swarmed around her head.

“No. No party. No one would come. They hate me.”

“Why do they hate you Meriel?”

“Once a girl gave me a sweet and I was sick all over her.  And they say my sandwiches stink.”

“Why did you eat the sweet? You know they disagree with you.”

She looked at me and I shall never forget that look.  Her eyes were so full of sorrow and anguish that I knew that I would protect her forever, with my life if necessary.

“I think they are afraid of me. And, I ate the sweet because I wanted to be like them.”

It was in secondary school that things came to a head.  I knew that puberty would be difficult and I had already sensed a difference in Meriel.  Restlessness, evasion, an inability to meet my eyes, these were just some of the changes I noticed.  In the mornings I would find her bed hardly slept in and she grew picky with her food, although I made sure I gave her all her favourites, raw beefsteak and entrails so fresh they were almost steaming.

One morning, the telephone rang and I rushed to answer it.  It rang so rarely I knew it was important and my thoughts flew to Meriel.   Sure enough, it was the headmistress.  They wanted me to come immediately.  Meriel had attacked a fellow pupil.

I followed the sound of sobbing as I hurried down the corridor. Through the open door of an office, I caught sight of a tumble of glossy curls and the slim column of a young girl’s neck, as white as alabaster - except for the blood. 

We were lucky. The parents didn’t want to take further action; the girl had a history of bullying and had been in trouble before.  The biter bit, I couldn’t help thinking as I sat in the headmistresses’ study.  The school were also more than happy with my suggestion that Meriel be home-schooled.  I chose the tutor. A squat, middle aged individual, whose jowls seemed to fit squarely between his shoulders. There would be no temptation there.

Above me, I can hear the faint shuffle of feet whispering across the floor.  Meriel is dancing, as she does every evening and her appetite will be good. I worry that soon I won’t be enough for her.  I know that old Dr Sanders is concerned about my iron levels and has prescribed Vitamin B Tablets.  He says that it’s just a matter of age but I know better and am taking double the dose.  I take off the scarf that I habitually wear and start to cream my neck which is both wrinkled and deeply scarred. Nevertheless, every evening I religiously apply emollients and afterwards dust it with the finest of powders.  I lower the lamp and in the half-light my neck looks almost normal. Satisfied for now, I dare not think about the future, I sit and wait for my daughter to come to me.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 Finding the Perfect Pet

Sis Unsworth

I often thought I’d like a pet, but not sure what to choose

to give something a loving home, that has to be good news.

At first I thought about a dog, but then found a few flaws

we do go out an awful lot, and he’ll have to stay indoors

but then I thought about, a friendly homely cat.

But my family visit with their dogs, so it puts an end to that.

What about a hamster, that may be just right

However they’re nocturnal, and we’d only meet at night

I thought about a budgie, now I’ve reached a certain age

But I never liked to see a bird, trapped inside a cage.

At last I’ve found my perfect pet, In fact he just found me

he’s environmentally Friendly, I’m sure that you’ll agree.

He stays at home when we go out, and doesn’t mind at all

We don’t even have to feed him, or like a dog play ball

He doesn’t pollute the atmosphere, and helps with climate change

and also cant get cat flue, and never get the mange

He really is the ideal pet, but now I’m filled with gloom

I think he may be leaving me, as winter coming soon

Some may find him scary, while others may just laugh

We call him ‘Sid the Spider’, & he lives above our bath.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 The Three Tuns

By Jane Scoggins

It had been a long time since I had set foot in the Three Tuns. Years in fact, and what a transformation. A lot of the old features had been kept but it was now one of those trendy gastropubs. All pale greys, chrome, and discreet well placed lighting. I had to admit it did look good, but a bit of me thought it a bit of a shame that the old pub with its stained walls, dusty beams, and murky corners was lost in time together with my memories. I went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic and a ham sandwich, and went to sit in the dimmest corner I could find and take it all in while waiting for my sandwich. The old open fireplace was still there but spruced up and with a log burner installed. The wonky floorboards had been replaced and the old tapestry style fabric on the chairs, benches and corner couches refurbished with a royal blue velvety fabric. I ran my hand over the seat and had to admit it did all look rather smart. I was on my way to visit my Mum’s sister Auntie May. She lived in the village. I had told her I would not need lunch and would arrive early afternoon. She was over eighty now and I didn't want her to be bothered with preparing a meal, so thought I would pop into the pub that had been my haunt back in the day. The pub had been closed for a few years and with no buyers offering to take it on it had taken a shrewd brewery eventually to buy it when they saw that two small housing estates on the other side of the village were being built. Auntie May had come to live in the village after her divorce when I was about seventeen. I was very fond of her. She was a lot of fun, in a way that my Mum was not. She was an art teacher and much more happy-go-lucky than my rather more straight-laced mother who worked in something corporate that I never really understood. I did love her and she loved me, but not in the cuddly carefree sort of way that Auntie May did.  So from my late teens, I visited her quite regularly at weekends. As I finished my gin and tonic I mused on the memory of my first alcoholic drink in a pub at aged 18. It had been right here at the Three Tuns with May. The bartender brought over my sandwich. As I tucked into it my eyes roved around the room and reminded me of all sorts of memories and encounters within these walls whenever I had visited. Auntie May would often come with me and I would meet some of her friends. Sometimes I would go by myself and chat to whoever was there. It was a very friendly pub and the same locals went there year after year. Surrounded by the blue velvet chair coverings prompted a memory of a girl I had once met there in the pub one evening when I was much younger. I remember it as I was visiting May on that occasion to tell her all about my new job. I was sitting in the corner, in fact, the same corner I was sitting in now and hadn't noticed in the gloom that a girl was sitting nearby. I smiled at her in surprise and she smiled back, and then we got talking. It was that sort of friendly pub where it was easy to start chatting to people around you. I told her I was visiting my Auntie May and introduced myself. She introduced herself as Amy.  She said her father had once been the landlord here. The reason I was prompted by the blue velvet to think of her was because over her maxi skirt she wore a long blue velvet coat very similar to the colour of the new seat cover, with pretty buttons down the front and at the cuffs. It was really beautiful. She had long wavy light brown hair that swung across her face from time to time. Every so often her hand would go up to push it aside and there would be a tinkle from the collection of thin Indian bracelets on her wrist as they jangled against each other. She was probably in her early twenties and her boho look reminded me of myself years earlier when I dressed like her and bought my clothes in Carnaby St and Camden market. I was quite taken by her.  During our conversation, I told her I had traveled quite a lot before settling down to a proper job. She said she had hoped to travel too but her situation had changed and she had not managed to get away, after all, she seemed sad so I didn't want to ask her any more about the circumstances in case it was something awful like her mother had died. I didn't feel I knew her well enough to ask, and selfishly I didn't want to dampen the enjoyable mood of the evening. She asked me about the places I had visited and the adventures I had had had traveling. I was happy to oblige and there had been quite a few to recount. Amy listened intently and said she wished she could do the same. She said that her father had refused to let her go and insisted he needed her to help out at the pub.  He got stressed about her leaving and sometimes drank too much. She said he had hidden her passport at one point. She had tried rebelling but it had ended badly.  I asked about her Mum. She said she had left her Dad when he began drinking too much. She had met someone else and moved out knowing that Amy was also planning to leave too and travel abroad. Of course, I tried to convince her to try again reminding her that she was of an age when she could make her own decisions and do as she pleased even if it meant going against her father. She did not reply and looked upset so I changed the subject. I was going home the next day but on the next couple of visits, I looked out for Amy but didn’t see her again. I hoped she had managed to get away on her travels. Time passed, I got married. I smiled to myself as I took one last look at the blue velvet upholstery and remembered the old-style pub of my younger days. When I got to Mays cottage I asked her if she had been to the new-look Three Tuns.

‘Occasionally, but not often, bit posh now isn't it, she said.

 And then she told me the story of the refurbishment and how it had taken so long because of the damp in the cellar and dry rot in the timbers. The cellar had been enormous and taken a while to clear, still had some of the old wooden casks, hence the name The Three Tuns. Apparently, in the very old days, they had brewed their own ale and spirits down there. Due to the damp conditions the water company had had to dig deep to renew pipes and in doing so had dug up bones. It had been in all the local papers as the bones were human. It took some time to identify the bones as that of Amy Parsons whose father had run the pub over 40 years ago He had been known to be a drinker and eventually he had been dismissed by the brewery and died a few years later. He left the pub in a poor condition and was closed as business had been poor. As far as everyone knew the daughter had gone off traveling or gone to live with her Mum. Apparently not though. She had been murdered and had lain there, maybe for 40 years, Beside the body were some little Indian bracelets and the remains of what could have been a passport. This would all have happened before May came to the village. Amy’s bones had since been buried in the churchyard. That afternoon I walked to the churchyard and looked for the little stone plaque set in the grass at the side of the church. It read Here lies Amy Parsons. May she rest In Peace now and forever.

There was no one about so I said aloud.

 ‘It was good to meet you Amy, even though you were a ghost. I am glad you were found and put here to rest in the churchyard. I'm sorry you never got to travel’

 Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

A Picture Haiku ~ Tanka 1 

By Robert Kingston

 

Cheilin Saga ~25

 Cheilin Saga ~25 The net is Closing

By Len Morgan

Aldor strode purposefully down familiar corridors, his mind seeking far ahead.   He located his target and entered her mind without subtlety, it was immediately open and receptive, he was seeking the manner and bearing of her handler.   He realised immediately the handler would be a Bride of Bedelacq and that she was in the city.   He would have to act quickly if his plan was to succeed.   Zophira’s mind was open to him.   He could view her past and identify her prime motivators.  He could trigger the right synapses and turn her around, but he had to be decisive and act now!  

.-…-. 

   Sloan rubbed his eyes, they felt tired and itchy, and the day had barely begun.   He had already issued orders to a dozen teams of Militiamen, working the streets in pairs, looking out for potential troublemakers and malcontents.   In less than an hour, the procession would be heading down the Central Highway, it was time to take up positions which for him meant being out on the route.   He felt it unlikely an attack would be launched whilst everyone was fresh and alert, but nothing could be left to chance.

He freely admitted he had occasionally been wrong in the past, and thought it likely he could be wrong again, so his men would not be complaisant.

“Yes?”   He acknowledged the knock on his office door.

“”We have Bordek,” said corporal Dragor.

“Send him in corporal.”

“I ain't done athin Sloan, I bin straight as an arrer, since you was corprel, Tads faith.”

“You are wanted in connection with the disappearance of an official, from the palace, name of Hestor,” said Sloan.

Bordek returned his gaze with a look of puzzlement.  “Don’t know what yer at, I’ve never eard the name.”

“I won’t trade semantics with you maggot.   You were seen in the Black Gryphon in the company of this man.   You led him down an alley on C16…”

“Aw-rite, Aw-rite!   Yes, I met a cove and led him to a meeting place as a faver to a quaintnce.   Nothin L’egal bout that is there?   Try to offer a helping hand an I’m in trouble fer it...”

“Your always trouble” said Sloan quietly.

“An yer alus trouble!   If I see ya a-comin I run the other way.   Yer pafetic!   Ya don have a life, outside this place, yer institushonlised!” Bordek yelled.   Then he stopped shouting, realising where he was, and with whom; the silence stretched interminably.

“Ha Ha Ha!”   Dragor burst into hysterical laughter.

“What’s so damned funny,” Sloan had to yell to be heard.

“He has got a point there, even you must concede, don’t you think?” said Dragor.

Outside the office, curious bystanders were treated to a sound as rare as dragon’s blood, first two then three voices burst into uncontrollable laughter.   Infectious laughter everybody remaining in the watch room was roaring with laughter and most of them didn’t have an inkling why, yet they were unable to stop.

“So tell us what was said and where you took him.   If it was harmless as you say, your friend will have a reasonable explanation, and we can all attend to more pressing business.   I may even stand you a few mugs of ale by way of recompense,” said Sloan.

“Don’t, I’ve laughed enough for one day” pleaded Dragor.

Bordek thought a while.

“A’right I’ll tell it as it happened,” he said.   “I met a man who I owed, Peyker’s is name.   He said as he wuz buzzy, would I meet a cove fer-im.  Depends I said.    S’legal he said an since it was o some import, to a client he wuz cortin, he would pay me fer it.  What is it, I aksed.   Meet the man and take him to my place at C18 off E8 (No.36).   He wuz most particolor that we wasn’t follered; Peyker has a deal o enemies so ter speak.   I aksed him what’s in it fer me and he says I’ll wipe yer slate.   That wuz good enough fer me I says.    So he proceeds ter describe the cove in detail an tells me when and where.   So I waits at the Black Gryphon, an he arrives.  He took jus one small sip o the ale I’d lined up as agreed an paid fer by Pyker.   I’ll do whatever you asks, he says jus don’t arm the boy.   Don’t know nuthin about anything I says, I’m jus here ter guide yer to an appointment, so sup up yer ale and let’s be goin.   All the while he’s on about this lad Gavein, as he don’t in any circumstance want im in no comprermizin perzishiun…”

“When was this,” Sloan asked his urgency showing in his voice.

“Why yester evnin as I rekerlect.”

“Ok Bordek, you can go.”

“I – I can?”   he said looking incredulous.

“You told me the truth?”

“Why yes sir,” said Bordek.

“Then you are free to go, and thank you for your help.”

“If I’d known what comes of elpin true, ida done it years past,” he smiled.

“Here’s something for the ale I promised you,” said Sloan, tossing a handful of coins in Bordek’s direction.

Bordek grabbed and ran.

“I want half a dozen men outside ready to go in two minutes,” he said to Dragor.   “We are going to pay a visit on that address, there are still questions to be answered, and send a messenger to fetch Aldor.   Jump to it, corporal.”

“Sir!”   Dragor dashed from the office and was ready with six men when Sloan emerged.

“You will have to walk the route for me Dragor,” he said, “I must get to their lair.   They will not be there of course but we need to get as much information from the scene as possible and that is my forte.   Be careful corporal, they are a dangerous breed,” said Sloan; “Remember our first priority is to maintain law and order, let the Reds and Aldors lot worry about the emperor's safety.   If they are required to act, it means we have failed to do our job.” 

 

They shook hands and took off in opposite directions.   “Come on lads, double up, there are killers abroad this morning.”

Within ten minutes they were outside the house.   Three men went to cover the rear of the building; the others took the front with Sloan.   They tried the door first, it was locked.    They knocked, three times in quick succession without reply.   They listened at the key latch; there was no sound of movement, though one of the men at the rear thought he heard a cry.  

Sloan knocked again and listened intently.   “Ha Aah!” there it was louder and more insistent.   “Right!   I want this door opened, if necessary break it down,” he said.  

His men responded with coordinated shoulder charges, but the lintels absorbed the power and the door did not budge, “keep at it lads,” said Sloan, crossing the road to the local tavern.   He returned in moments with a heavy oak trestle bench and two hefty barmen.

“They are not the most popular occupants of the street,” the barkeep volunteered, “there have been a lot of strange comings and goings at all hours and none of them ever use our hostelry.”

“Put your backs into it lads!” Sloan yelled encouragement.   After multiple attempts with the improvised battering ram, the door hung off its hinges.   Sloan was first in and followed the muffled cries, they were louder now.

“Search the place from top to bottom, I want to know everything you find,” he went through to open the rear access door.

“Nobody came out this way sergeant.”

“Sergeant this way sir!”   Sloan followed the voice down into a dank bare cellar.

“This is how I found him sir” Sloan nodded, staring down at an elderly man, manacled to the wall by wrist and ankle restraints, he was completely naked.   One look at the man, his skin pallor, confirmed he was in a serious condition.

“Call the nearest physician, it’s urgent and he must come immediately.   When Aldor arrives I want him brought straight here. 

.-…-. 

Aldor plunged deeper into her mind; there was no time for niceties.   He went straight to her formative years, as a child when other children made fun of her because of the odd beliefs her parents held; they were worshipers of Bedelacq.

‘Do they make you drink blood?   Do then kill and eat babies,’ one boy chided.   ‘You’re a bloodsucker, a leech, leech, leech,’ the other children took up the chant and she ran off in tears.

 

“I don’t want to go back there, they are evil children.   Please mother don’t make me go back to that school” she pleaded.

“You must go back child your father has worked extremely hard, to ensure you get a good education, would you tell him he’s wasted his efforts and his money?   If you do not return they will think it is acceptable to treat any child from Bluttland in the same manner.   You must be strong and face them down my child.” 

   She was hassled and bullied for two years, but she learned to fight back, and by so doing gained the grudging respect of some of her tormentors.   Others who found themselves to be victims went to her for support and she showed them how to resist and fight their tormentor in so doing she was able to convert a small group to ‘the way of blood’.   She had been indoctrinated by her parents and by the priests, almost from birth and where peer pressure might have led her away from it, the attacks and bullying had the exact opposite effect.   She was pushed back into her faith, drawing it around her like a protective cloak, wielding it like an avenging sword.   In reality, she did not hate or despise intolerant people, they were just people, who were afraid of what they did not understand.

   The big difference, being raised in Cheilin, was that she was cushioned from the realities of ‘the way of blood’.   Yes, they sacrificed a few animals and birds; it was done reverently and respectfully, and afterwards, they feasted on the flesh.

That all changed however when his Bride, Efelel, arrived.   Suddenly there were human sacrifices.   They were not willing offerings, they were brought to the feast bound and gagged, and she knew that here in the eternal city it was against the law to take a life.   Rather than feeling uplifted after the conjunction she had felt ashamed.   Some people who were braver than she, spoke out against the acts, and became victims themselves at the next conjunction.   She resolved to keep silent about her distaste.

It was therefore not difficult for Aldor to tweak and modify a thought here a memory there, just enough to moderate her memories and paint over the years of indoctrination and turn her away from the path laid down by Efelel.   When he finally arrived in her chamber she was crying. 

“Uh!”  She gazed at him with a mixture of shock and horror…   “You!   What are you doing here?”    Unable to disguise her feelings, she retreated from him.

“I am not who you think,” he began, looking deeply into her eyes.

“No, I will not do harm Gavein, I – I love him…” she said.

“I am not here to hurt anybody,” Aldor said.

“Then why do you risk coming to the palace, today of all days, Why?”

He looked into the dark pointing her mind where her fear and prejudice lurked; it was interesting that she feared Efelel but not his double, and It was obvious she really had fallen for Gavein, the heir apparent, without regard for his office; not very professional of her.

“He doesn’t want to be Emperor you know,” she said as if reading Aldor's mind.   “He would kill himself, rather than do harm to his father or to the empire.   Even though she has made him hers, he will not strike the blow for Bluttland.   He is first and foremost a servant of the Cheilin Empire.”   Her voice was strong and defiant.

“You think not,” he asked, testing her.  

“I have warned him of her power, of how I betrayed him by leading him into her trap.   He knows she could command him to do anything, and so is prepared to take his own life if necessary.”

“You think she would allow that?” 

 “Don’t you think I know?  I have tried to break away from her...” 

“She is too strong?” he said still testing her.

“He made me swear that if he looked like striking the blow, I would kill him!”

“Then what would become of you killer of the Emperor elect?”

“I would not care,” she said, “I would kill myself, do you think I would want to live on; without him I am nothing?”

“Then what is to prevent me from killing you before it is time,” said Aldor.

“You’re him aren’t you, the other one?” she said.

“I am Aldor, if that is what you mean, how did you know?”

“Your eyes are pale blue and full of life.   You sound less demanding, but the activity in my mind is far more than I ever experienced from my contacts with Efelel, yet you are gentler and somehow more respectful.    When she leaves me I feel bruised and misused.   When you moved through my mind it felt as if a healing hand had passed over me.   It felt as though things, which had been long hidden from me, were suddenly revealed.   Please, don’t let her win!”  

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 THE BLACK NIGHT SKY

By Peter Woodgate

I lie on the grass

And look up at the sky

The black night sky

And recall you and I.

The times when we voiced

Our wishes out loud,

There was no one to hear us

Away from the crowd.

We filled that great void

With a love for each other,

A love that we thought

Would be lasting forever.

We dreamed of the day

When we would be one

And departing the night sky

Walk with the sun.

But a dark cloud descended

The sun turned to rain,

The joy and the ecstasy

Gone, leaving pain.

Why did it happen?

Where did we go wrong?

We both sang the lyrics

But not the same song

So, I lie here alone

Looking up at the sky

The black night sky…

And a tear fills my eye.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 NIGHT DREAMS (2^nd and Last)                                             

by Richard Banks   

      

     Theo wants to see the harbour, so that's where we go. We find a fishing boat at its mooring and two old-timers mending their nets. They're taking the boat out in the evening. They're not expecting to catch much but, as one of them says, it's better than doing nothing. Their faces are as desolate as the abandoned cranes. Theo asks if they know of a decent restaurant where we can have dinner. They recommend Franco's Trattoria, a few hundred yards along the promenade.   

     If Theo thinks he's getting away with a cheap meal in a no star cafe he's got another think coming, but when we get there it looks okay. There's a sign saying it opens at six.

     “Look at that,” says Theo. Under the name on the shop front are the words, 'established in 1983'. “Maybe someone here will remember you and your folks.”

     We go for a walk and return at half six. The restaurant's run by three generations of the same family, the Anselmos. Theo tells the waiter that his grandfather was born in Milan and attempts to order in the smattering of Italian he was once taught. Judging by the look on the waiter's face he's making no sense at all, but it breaks the ice and we find ourselves being introduced to everyone in the family, from Franco to the youngest member of the fourth generation who's still in nappies.

     Giuseppe, the waiter, tells us that the family is from Potenza in the south of Italy. They have another restaurant in Broadstairs and plan to open one in Ramsgate. If they do they will close this one. “The town is not what it used to be,” he sighs. Theo agrees and explains that I used to live in the old house before it became Panchos. Maybe he remembers my family? I tell him that my name is Anna, Anna Franklin, that my parents were George and Greta and that we lived there in the eighties, early nineties.

     Giuseppe says he was only a boy then but will ask his aunt who's working in the kitchen. He takes our order for desserts. They are brought to our table by a woman in her fifties, who introduces herself as Marella.

     “You must be little Anna?” she says. I stand up to greet her and she kisses me on both cheeks. She laughs, looks pleased to see me, tells me I look like my mother. “And how is your mother?”

     I tell her about the car accident and her expression registers genuine regret. Theo invites her to sit down with us.

     “I knew your mother well,” she says, “a lovely woman. How old were you when she died?”

       I answer, “five.”

     “Do you remember her?”

     “Yes, but not well.”

     “And you would like me to tell you something about her?”

     I nod. This isn't what I was expecting; it's emotional and I hang on every word. She tells me that my mother was born in Finland and came to this country when she was twenty, that she worked as a hotel maid and met my father soon after he moved to the town. He was a courteous man but very reserved, not easy to know. Estranged from his wider family in Yorkshire, he had few friends and seemed to resent my mother making friends of her own. “A shame,” says Marella, “without family they needed friends. At least your mother had me.” 

       “So when they died there were no relatives for me to go to?”

     “Well, none I know of. I only wish I had known about your parents' deaths, I would gladly have taken you in.”

     “I'm sorry you didn't,” I say. “I would have liked it here.” I feel the tears coming but manage to hold them back. “Was I a happy little girl?”

     “You were mischievous, quite wilful at times, but yes, you were happy. You liked your ice cream I remember. Your face always lit up for that. You lacked for nothing and neither did your brother.”

     “But I don't have a brother,” I say. “There were just three of us; Mum, Dad and me.”

     Maria looks perplexed, then bewildered. For a few moments, she seems uncertain what to say.

       “No, Anna, you are wrong, you had a brother.”

     “Had?” I say.

     “Yes, had. He died one month after you moved to London. He stepped out of an upstairs window. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was dead. Your mother wrote me this in a letter.”

     “Was it suicide?”

       “No, nothing like that. The boy was only twelve; a little slow in his thoughts. In your old house, there was a balcony outside his bedroom on which he sometimes played. We think that maybe he was forgetting where he was. It was nighttime, maybe he was sleepwalking. It was a terrible accident.”

     She falls silent and I don't know what to say. Theo suggests we exchange addresses. He says we must have much to catch up on after all this time. Marella agrees. She thinks she may have some photographs of Mum and myself. If she does she will send them to me. Theo replenishes our glasses. “So, what about you?” asks Marella, “what have you been doing all these years?”  There is much to tell.                                                                  

                                                   **********

      We return to the hotel around 11:30. There's a party going on in one of the downstairs rooms, but as we mount the stairs to our room the music stops and the party moves on to a  club. I'm putting the sheets on the bed when Theo has one of his eureka moments. Usually, these happen when he's reading his encyclopedia and discovers something really, really interesting that he can't keep to himself. This one happens when he's staring out of the window.

     “Come and take a look at this,” he yells.

     I do and see two red lights on either side of the entrance to the harbour.

     “There's your monster eyes,” he announces triumphantly, “and if the bed was nearer the door you would be seeing them bang in the middle of the window,” … which means, if he's right, that this was once my bedroom.

     We sit up for an hour or more discussing possible explanations for the other things in my dream but nothing rings true. Theo goes to draw the curtains but realises, for the first time, that there are none. We undress in the dark and slip under the covers. He gives me a hug and we slowly drift off to sleep.

     At 3am the inevitable happens and I sit up in bed screaming. There are images in my head that weren't there before, but worse of all is the gorgon. I'm awake now and it should be gone, but it's not. It's standing at the foot of the bed. I scream again. Theo tries to calm me, then he sees the gorgon and he's as freaked out as I am. The gorgon should be coming towards me with that black stuff, but it's beating a rapid retreat towards the window which is wide open. Theo gives chase onto the balcony. He returns a few seconds later breathing heavily.

     “It's okay,” he says, “it's that guy in the end room. The chancer was probably after my tablet. He's got nothing.”

     Theo wants to call the police on his mobile but I say sod the guy, forget him. I've got something important to say and I need to say it now while it's fresh in my head. He sits down on the bed and I tell him how the bars in my nightmare were really the railings on my cot and that it wasn't the gorgon doing the shrieking, it was seagulls. “But how can that be,” I ask, “birds sleep at night.”

     “Not if the harbour lights were on and fish were being unloaded,” says Theo. “Don't you see, it makes perfect sense. Your gorgon opens the window to let himself in and the outdoor noises get louder, just like someone turning up the volume on a TV. And what about the blackness that was pressing down on you?”

     “A cloth, probably a blanket. The gorgon was trying to suffocate me.”

     “And who is the gorgon?” Theo speaks quickly, abruptly, as though he's trying to jolt the information from my sub-conscious.

     “Pass,” I say. “But it wasn't the guy in the end room.” I mean this to be humorous but Theo doesn't get it. He shuts the window and finds the catch that locks it. “Do you want the light on?” he asks.

     I say that man with no clothes on should leave lights off, otherwise, he might get arrested. Better he gets back into bed and be arrested there. That's a joke he does understand but he knows that what I really want to do is talk some more. By the time it's light we have most of the nightmare figured out: someone or something – no let's stick with the rational – someone comes along the balcony and through the window of my room while I'm asleep, except that I'm not asleep, maybe I wake up when I hear that person clambering in.  The lights are off so all I can see is a dark outline and the harbour lights. I want to run away but can't get past the bars on my cot. The man, surely it must be a man, presses something down on my face, shutting out whatever light there is in the room, making it impossible for me to breathe. I try to cry out but can't, lose consciousness, I think I'm dead.

     “And you still don't know who the gorgon is?” Theo asks.

     I say, “No. Maybe I never did.”

     Theo says, “Let's think about it logically. The gorgon is unlikely to be an intruder. The balcony is on the second floor. There's no way anyone could climb onto it from the street. So it must be someone already in the house. Did you have live-in servants, a nurse perhaps?”

     “I don't think so,” I whisper.

     Theo speaks softly, telling me what I do not want to hear. “In that case the gorgon is one of three people no longer alive.”

     “But that's horrible,” I say.“You're telling me that someone in my family tried to kill me.”

     Theo clicks his tongue in that irritating way he has when he's annoyed with himself. He's about to start back-pedaling; we've been there before. “Not necessarily,” he says, “dreams are not always what they seem. You remembered monster eyes when they were harbour lights. Maybe the gorgon wasn't trying to smother you. Who knows what it was intending to do.” He clicks his tongue again. “I wish this was ending better but we are where we are. I hope it's been of some help.”

     I say that it has, but already I'm thinking it's worse than before. I'm tired. I want to sleep, and sleep I do. 

                                                             **********

            We awake at 9:00 and are out of the hotel by 10:00. All I want to do is go home and have a shower. We are making our way back to the car when we see Marella coming back from the shops with a bag of groceries. She waves and crosses the road to speak to us.

     “There's one thing I forgot to tell you,” she says. “Your brother; his name was George, after your father. That's what he was christened but the priest was the only one calling him that. Even as a baby he was always known by his second name, Gordon.”

     For a moment I can't take it in, then I do. “The Gorgon!” The words spill out before I can stop them. I sound like I feel; in shock.

     Marella seems not to notice. Her own voice is thoughtful, matter of fact. “No,” she says. “It was Gordon, as in the gin. Here is a picture of him. I was going to send it in a letter but I give it you now. As you see he was a handsome boy, the same fair hair as yourself. Your mother loved him but he was always in trouble; a difficult child but not a bad one. He was, how can I say it, a boy not clear in his understanding. A pity.” 

                                                           **********

      So, that's it, the last piece in the jigsaw: the gorgon was a boy called Gordon, my brother. Did he try to kill me? I doubt it, although he gave me one hell of a fright. More likely it was just a silly prank by a mischievous boy 'not clear in his understanding'. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Theo favours the happy option. “Today,” he says, “is the first day of the rest of your life. We should celebrate.”

     I say, “Yes, let's do something we've never done before.”

     “Like what?” he says.

     “Like going to bed and not waking up until morning.”

     Theo says that’s a really odd reason for going to bed, but he's prepared to give it a try.

     “Me too,” I say. “We could even make a habit of it. The first fifty years will probably be the worse, but then again it might even be fun. What do you think? Shall we give it a go?”

     He asks if the last 'it' has the same meaning as the two before?

     “It's a commitment sort of it,” I say.

     Theo pretends to be distracted by a pigeon walking across the road. The twat! Then he gives me his answer.

     I'm not going to repeat his rubbish line about the first day of my life, I have one of my own. It goes like this: it’s a special day and there’s no word special enough to describe it. So crap, so true.  

(The End)   

Copyright Richard Banks