Cheilin Saga ~ 28

 Cheilin Saga ~ 28 Dan the Charmed

By Len Morgan

Efelel sat in Mawld’s mind and witnessed the struggle on the rooftops.   She intervened to gain him an advantage.   She was shocked by the speed and the violence of her expulsion from Aldor’s mind.  Confused, and in a daze, she lost contact with Mawld. 

.-…-. 

Daidan stood up in the carriage and waved, to the crowds en route, encouraged by the warm reception he was receiving.

“I don’t think you should be doing that, light of the world,” said the young woman sitting beside him.   He could not imagine why Aldor wanted her there so close to him.   She seemed such an intensely serious young woman it didn’t even occur to him to ask why she thought she could give orders to the Emperor of Cheilin.

“You worry too much” he chuckled, ‘can’t see what Aldor sees in you’  he thought.   “What is your name?”

“Emmiline,” she replied.

“I’m told you are one of Aldor’s friends from Samishaan?”

“That is where I met him,” she said sighing with relief as he returned to his seat.

“There is nobody out there trying to kill me, listen to them, they love me.”   He shook his head, “It’s all scaremongering, to justify Aldor’s’ position.”

“I certainly hope you are right but…”

“Yes?   Don’t hesitate, my dear, you were about to say something pertinent?”

“Did you know there have already been five thwarted attempts on your life this morning?”

Dan giggled, “We're almost there,” he said but stayed firmly in his seat from then on.

“So which particular threat are you here to protect me from?” he asked.

“I am just a contingency,” she said smiling sweetly.

Forgive me for saying this but you don’t look much like a contingency.”

“How then do I look?” she asked.

“More like somebody my sons would like to know.”

She glanced towards his sons, one with eyes for Zophira only; the two younger boys averted their gaze, furtively, as her eyes fell upon them.   She smiled inwardly.

“Don’t need to be a mind reader to know what’s on their minds” he said.

She blushed, ‘touché’ he thought triumphantly; at last a human response from her.

“They will get over it” she said.

He looked again, disappointed; mayhap he had imagined the blush?

She smiled inwardly and spoke aloud, “touché light of the world!”

“I like you,” he chuckled, “call me Dan.”

.-…-. 

   The confusing scaffold structure, of the reviewing stand, loomed ahead.   It seemed different with hundreds of people milling around.   Major Meredin looked up with true appreciation of the effort and skill that had gone into its erection.    The gaffer had informed him that several men would be posted aloft in case final adjustments were required.   Halfway up he spotted two sun browned men sitting patiently in the basket like construction.   They sat perfectly still, so as not to draw attention to themselves.   But, a movement deeper within the structure drew his attention; a pale skinned figure eased forward from the rear.

Sergeant, take a look at those riggers,” he said.

“Sir” he took a folding glass from his belt and planted it against his left eye.

“Does anything strike you as odd?” Meredin asked.

“They seem very still, one even has his eyes closed, he heh!    That’ll cost him, he just dropped his hammer.”

Meredin turned and grabbed the spyglass, “they’re dead,” he said quietly.   “They have been carefully posed.”   As he looked he saw further movement, the pale figure had moved in closer, behind the two riggers.   “There’s somebody up there, waiting, we need a Bowman, It’s too long a shot for one of those,” he said pointing at the bo’stad on the sergeant’s arm.

The sergeant’s face wrinkled in a pained expression.   “In close quarter situations like this it’s a waste of time attempting to use a bow, so we didn’t bring a single one,” he said.  

“Somebody has to get up there, try to slow the parade down and pass the word, I’ll see what I can do” he said heading towards the structure.

Emmiline spotted the commotion and scanned the sergeant’s mind as he raced back towards the entourage.

.-…-. 

   Aldor witnessed the look of amazement on Mawlds face as he clasped at the quarrel projecting from his chest.

“Why did you play it out so long?   You knew me right off,” he said accusingly.

“I thought perhaps he might give away some useful information?”   Sloan was already looking to his friend Dragor.   “I did not want to kill the man in cold blood; that would have made me no better than him.   I had to cool down and act as an instrument of the law, not as an out of control maniac.   If I allowed myself to act thus I would be no better than those I have condemned and hunted down over the years.”

Aldor had stood over the dying man and scanned his mind which had been left open, almost as an act of confession, revealing all his past misdeeds.   In moments he had discovered a man not so different from himself, but for the accident of birth they could have been brothers.   He learned the details of his childhood, his rise to the heights, his downfall and ultimate enslavement.   He realised Mawld had been driven and acted as directed by Bedelacq, not as the man he had been.   He felt anger and humiliation at the manner in which the creature was misusing mankind.

“Why do you shed tears, for that?” Sloan had been watching Aldor as he knelt over the dead assassin.

“He was a man, and he was gravely misused, but I will avenge him and all like him.”   ‘Bedelacq will not win!’ Aldor vowed.

“That’s conjecture, you don’t know that for sure, you are just guessing” said Sloan his voice cold and empty, but his eyes revealed the truth, without entering his mind Aldor realised that he had guessed something of the truth.

“We need a longbow,” said Aldor dismissing it, and becoming suddenly animated, all he could find were short range weapons discarded by the assassins.   He looked up at the stand, in frustration as he saw movement.

“Why” asked Sloan.

“There are two dead riggers up there and an assassin lying in wait” said Aldor with certainty.

“Then we need to get closer,” Sloan grabbed the nearest bo’stad and a quiver.   They headed along the rooftops towards the stand.   “Do you have anybody closer?   I don’t think were going to get there in time.”

“There should be a man at the top” said Aldor, scanning for the distinctive mind.   A man came to the edge Sloan waved, to attract his attention, and pointed down.

Aldor knew immediately he was not Tylywoch and that the person below was; possibly their only chance.

“He’s not one of ours,” Aldor said, too late to stop Sloan.

 

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

Return to Southend 2

 Return to Southend

By Janet Baldey

It was after I got back from the hospital that I decided the time was right. Strange that when the grim reaper is breathing down your neck, your thoughts return to the place you were born. Maybe in some, it’s just an urge to reminisce but I have another reason and if I don’t go now, I never will and that would be like denying the past, akin to spitting on my parents’ graves.  From deep inside the dark recesses of my mind a thought occurs, a tired old cliché now but still powerful - a murderer always returns to the scene of his crime.

So next day, I bought a return ticket and walking back home, I thought about my parents. They weren’t bad people, they did their best, they were just the product of their age. Hardworking, repressed and terrified of what the neighbours would say.  It must have been hard on them having a son like me.

Sandridge was a tiny village, not more than a smudge on the map and I never really understood its purpose. It had a village shop, a post office and a slaughterhouse all lining a narrow road that ran from St Albans to Harpenden.  After that nothing much, the houses were mostly council, apart from a few small cottages, there was a tiny village school and an overgrown recreation park, known as ‘The Rec” and that was about all really.  Strange, that whenever I think about Sandridge it seems to be raining, but then it was in the dim and dreary fifties.  

 I know I never thought much of the village when I was young but I only really remember my teenage years and teenagers are well known for being anti.  I expect the place has been gentrified now.  Ex-council houses are worth a gold mine and I do remember ours had plenty of space, not like the boxes they call ‘new-builds’ these days.  Now, I’ve got the bit between my teeth now and my mind is ranging further, memories are crawling out of the shadows and pictures are forming. Suddenly, it’s there! So real, I feel I can touch it.  The church - St Leonards. I’d honestly forgotten it, almost as if I’d blocked it from my mind. The place where my childhood ended and trust trampled into the dust.  I flick a switch and think of happier things, my cat and bread pudding.  I’ll have some of that tonight, I feel the need for comfort food.

A few days later, as I sit in the train slicing its way towards London, the underground and all points beyond, I’m nervous and the old saying ‘never go back’ is tolling deep inside me.  But I know I have to. Having opened the box, I have to expiate my sin, although it wasn’t really my fault. Even as I think these words, I know I’m deluding myself. I could have done more.

Trains go so fast these days; outside its windows the flat Essex countryside is a blur and in no time, we are pulling into Fenchurch Street.  Even so, we’re edging towards Christmas and it’ll be dark before I reach St Albans. I’ll spend the night there and catch the bus to Sandridge the next morning.  The green, round-shouldered 321 it used to be and I wonder if it still runs.  If not, I’ll get a taxi. I’ve got plenty of money now and little time to spend it.

I was right about the gentrification, St Albans is posh now although it never used to be.  But I don’t care. I’m tired and can think only of food and a comfortable bed.  Not wanting to walk anymore I plump for a hotel slap bang in the middle of the city, within sight of the Cathedral. The White Hart, an old coaching inn, is full of ghosts and even as I’m led up a creaking and narrow staircase, I pass through a room with a minstrel’s gallery peopled by skeletons.

Ghosts or not, I sleep well and breakfast even better and in no time at all I’m at the ‘bus stop.  I remember it well and apart from the bus no longer being green and round-shouldered, but angular and flashy with chrome, nothing else seems to have changed. It’s when I get off the bus and start to walk through the village that I feel my spirits drop and I’m a scared kid again who can’t stop washing his hands.  Even though, there’s no-one around, I feel the need to look over my shoulder and almost scurry down the road to the lane where I used to live. Except that it isn’t a lane any more, but a four-lane highway with a roundabout where the village shop used to be.

 As I thought, the council houses are now privately owned with an abundance of acne-like extensions.  Their front gardens have been expensively paved over and are littered with cars.  Freshly waxed and polished the sun bounces off them until I fear a migraine.

 When I reach my old house it’s almost unrecognisable.  I locate the room that used to be mine and stand staring.  Beyond those blank windows, a frightened boy once thought of suicide. I still have the scars to remind me but only a few have seen them, underneath my trousers, high up on my thighs raised tissue writhes like bleached tree roots. 

I tried to tell my parents but they didn’t listen.  “What nonsense, of course you must go.  It’s very kind of the Reverend to spare you the time, and what he says is right. If you have talent, it shouldn’t be wasted.”

I’d stood and stared at my mother.  How could I tell her that it was nothing to do with talent and that I hated the way the he sat too close, the way his breath smelled of onions and most of all, the touch of his hands as he guided my fingers.  My mouth opened but it was impossible. I just couldn’t find the words.

So, on that fateful evening I’d dragged my feet along the lane to where two huge oaks guarded the entrance to the gloomy tunnel leading to the rectory. Now, how I wish I’d had the guts to say “No, I won’t go to that place. Something isn’t right but I don’t know what.” But I was twelve years old and, in those days, children did as they were told.

In the end I did find some courage but too late.  “Shove up boy,” he’d cried, his face merry, as my fingers faltered over the keys. “Let me show you how it’s done.” Pulling up an extra stool he sat down beside me and soon his thigh was pressing against mine. I tried my best to ignore it but at last something snapped. “No” I yelled and pulling away, I jumped up and rushed towards the door. He cried out something but blood was clogging my ears as I fled into the night where more treachery was waiting.  My feet skidded on a patch of ice and caught off balance, I fell flat on my back. He caught up with me but I pushed him away.  I shall always remember the sickening sound as his head struck the concrete step. I stared at his crumpled shape and saw his face, lit by moonlight and so pale, apart from the black trickle of blood curling over his forehead.  I thought my heart would burst out of my chest. I’d killed Reverend Apthorpe.  I was a murderer.

I don’t remember much after that, I remember the nightmares, they have stayed with me to this very day, and I remember the cutting.  I know, at some point, I was admitted to the local looney bin, as we used to call Hill End Hospital but details of that I can’t recall.  By the time I was discharged, my parents had moved to St Albans. “To be nearer to Gran” my mother said but I suspect she was escaping the stigma of a son with mental problems.  I never went back to Sandridge and none of us ever mentioned Reverend Apthorpe again.  Long afterwards, I wondered how much my parents had learned as I lay raving but at the time, I said nothing. I didn’t want to go to prison.

But go to prison I did ‘cos I couldn’t escape my guilt.  It weighed me down at every step, draining my confidence so that I never achieved my potential. I also never managed to find a partner, because It’s true what they say, if you can’t love yourself how can you expect anyone else to?

Without realising it, I have found my way to the church and am standing in its porch.  In for a penny, in for a pound I think to myself as I push open the door.  The air is thick with memories as I enter and I hesitate, knowing I have no business here. With a stealthy movement of my head, I glance around and that’s when I see it.  An illustrated list of incumbents, dating back centuries.  Out of habit, because I can remember doing the same when I was young, my eyes follow the names starting at the top from when records first began.  I realise that unconsciously, I’m seeking out his name and sure enough, there it is The Reverend Theodore Apthorpe 1945 to… I stop, blink, rub my eyes and start again. I’m tired, I must have skipped a line. Three times I read it and three times I see the same dates 1945 – 1975.  That can’t be right, I was twelve when the unthinkable happened and that would be in 1952.  My legs begin to shake so hard; I almost fall to the ground as I process this information.  Slowly, I realise how guilty consciences can corkscrew facts when one is young.  I’d been so certain but I’d been wrong.

On my return to Southend, I can’t work out whether I’m relieved that I’m not a murderer or whether I’m sorry he dodged the bullet.  Our species are so complicated that I guess, I’m not yet old enough to work that out.  All I know is that that a boulder has been lifted from my shoulders and the feral stink of the grim reaper has become a mere whiff.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiga 3

 Another Picture Haiku

By Robert Kingston

 The Day before Christmas Eve

By Sis Unsworth

I always eat too much that day, I do the same each year,

far too much roast turkey, washed down with pints of beer.

I try to save the planet, I really don’t like waste,

But when it comes to whisky, I drink it for the taste.

“Have you ate all that pudding?” my old girl softly sighs,

When she turns and leaves the room, I start on the mince pies.

The shortbread never stands a chance, I just can’t call a halt,

You’ll never guess what I do then, I wash it down with port!

I always eat and drink so much, I have to work the next day

as no one else will do it, That’s all that I can say.

When I wake up next morning, I always feel so listless

I don’t think it would be so bad, if I wasn’t Father Christmas!!! 

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Using

 Using ~ (05/03/2001) 

By Len Morgan 

Twenty Years ago, a misdirected finger pressed the wrong button and found me listening to radio 2 instead of 4.

A track from the Eurythmics was playing.  I stayed my correcting finger before it could change the station.  The sound was crystal clear and for the first time I could listen to the lyrics (plagiarism?):

 

Some people want to use you

Some people want to be used by you

Some people want to abuse you

Some people want to be abused by you…

 

I was at first surprised by the lyrics, initially being drawn towards the S&M connotation; a very shallow interpretation.  But, that would be selling the song short.  Because people use people, it’s as simple as that.

Gregarious people have a greater need for interaction with others.

A hermit/unsociable person would be less inclined to take advantage or even associate with people.

If I’m honest everybody gets used at times, sometimes even abused or taken for granted. 

But, who can put 'hand on heart' and say they have never taken advantage of another person. 

Never been guilty of Bullying…  Oh, you can dress the ‘B’ word up how you like, but ‘at the end of the day’ it means the same…

I guess ~ as the proverbial undertaker would say ~ That’s Life!

 

 

 

FORGET

 FORGET (Following the poem Remember by Christina Rossetti) 

By Peter Woodgate

Better by far you should forget and smile

Then that you should remember and be sad

For I have been a bastard, that’s the honest truth,

Now that you are rid of me, you should be glad.

But let me say, in my defense,

I loved you once, it’s true,

We laughed, as one, and sang in tune

Together, me and you.

I don’t know where it all went wrong,

When we fell out of love,

But we both know it’s over

When push becomes a shove.

Go find yourself another flame,

Forget that I exist,

Enjoy life whilst you still have time

Be held, be touched, be kissed.

And as for me, I won’t bemoan

The parting of our lives,

I won’t regret the absence,

The excuses and the lies.

Don’t listen to the gossip,

Don’t believe what you have heard,

I’m not depressed, in deep despair

Cos I’m with a younger bird.   

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Personal Well-Being ~ 17

Personal Well-Being ~ 17 Reiki Healing (Visualization)

By Barefoot Medic

Today my wife took an ITEC exam in Massage and came home with a classic tale of visualization.

In the past, I have told how I warmed my feet on cold nights in front of an imaginary coal fire and banished insomnia by visualizing a party down the street.

I know it works because I’ve employed it since my early teens. 

Fred, a Reiki Grand Master was also taking the exam.  When it was over, a fellow student complained of aching & creaky joints. 

Fred told her to close her eyes & visualize him with an imaginary oil can.

He gently manipulated each joint in her hands then said, ”I’m starting to pour oil into this joint, & this, & this…  He oiled both her hands then she opened her eyes and to her amazement, her pain was gone.

So, my wife told him about her tennis elbow and pointed to the spot.

“Here!” he said, and she felt a sharp pain radiating up and down her arm.  “Close your eyes and imagine I’m giving you an injection that will anesthetize it.  Now feel the needle prick.  It’s going in now, feel your elbow going numb?  I’m now slowly withdrawing the needle!  How does that feel?”

Amazingly all the pain had gone.

“The injection will last for up to 24 hours then you will have to give yourself a second injection.”

“Ten hours later she was still pain-free!”

Two up for visualization…