Cheilin Saga ~ 29

 Cheilin Saga ~ 29  Bector to the rescue

By Len Morgan 

As the door slammed, and the key turned in the lock, Bector wretched violently; bringing up most of the potion he’d been forced to swallow.   He still felt dizzy and sick but at least he was still conscious.   The world seemed like a reflection in a lake and his head wobbled as he attempted to walk.   Several times he found himself on the ground, attempting to walk up the wall; he made a lot of noise which alerted his guard.   Seeing the state he was in the man thought to help him back to his cot as an act of kindness.   As he regained his feet he push the guard away from the door, dived out, slamming it shut behind him.   He saw the key in the door and locked it, there was a purse on the table with bread and cheese; he snatched them up.   In moments he was out of the building and running towards the Central Way, the purse hanging from his belt, as he stuffed food into his mouth.   He realised he could not have been compromised and could therefore be of use in the current situation.   He entered a tavern and purchased several mugs of ale, to flush his stomach.   Outside he wretched, to the disgust of passers by, and evacuated his bowels at the first convenient spot.   By the time he reached the reviewing stand, he was feeling more his old self; all doubt gone.   Bector knew, from what they had attempted to imbed in his mind, at least part of their plan to kill the Emperor.   He remembered!   Efelel had ordered him to climb the scaffolding and fire down on the royal party killing the Emperor, and as many others as he could, but not the Prince Regent Gavein.    Failing to indoctrinate him, or control his mind, she had instead attempted to wipe it completely but succeeded only in causing temporary amnesia.   She had allowed him to escape, to act unwittingly as a smokescreen, to spread doubt and uncertainty among her enemies. 

His memory had now completely returned and he knew exactly what he should do.   He knew she had tried to take over his mind, and failed, or was he fooling himself?   He saw the guards below and a-top the thirty-foot stand.   He realised he would have to follow the plan; he worked his way onto the structure and started to climb.   No voices demanded to know what he was doing.   Above him were three figures, two very still, the third was using them as a shield.   He continued to climb, closing on the assassin, his presence masked by the noise of the crowd.   But his luck didn’t hold a figure at the top pointed towards Bector.   He heard the shout from above, and so did the assassin, the man turned to face him, leaving his bow and quiver with the two corpses he swung from the structure, like a monkey, to get a favourable position above the newcomer.   He grinned as his free hand drew a throwing knife from a bandoleer across his chest.   Six, Bector mentally counted the blades, but the man could only throw one at a time.

 ‘It’s as well he doesn’t know I’m unarmed’ thought Bector backing away to minimise the target he presented.   The man was bronzed and obviously operating in his own element, Bector was, by contrast, a fish out of water.   He did however have one advantage, over the rogue rigger, he was Tylywoch.   He was a survivor.   He focused on the projectile and centered his mind.   The arm went back slowly then shot forward and the blade arced towards him, as if in slow motion, and he was able to react by moving his body to one side.   The blade clashed harmlessly with a pole and fell unnoticed to the street below.   Already the rigger was hefting a second; Bector centered and faced him again.   The rugged face broke into an evil snarl as he flicked the second blade.

.-…-. 

   Aldor watched the cat and mouse game being played out twenty-five feet above the street.   He had moved closer but there were too many people milling around for him to intervene, with any hope of accuracy.   But, he knew that Bector was resourceful, it was in his hands, all Aldor could do was watch and hope.

.-…-. 

A third blade cluttered harmlessly past Bector’s shoulder, this was not good, and the man was closing in.

“Come to me,” said Bector gesturing with a confident grin on his features.

The man held his distance and drew a fourth blade.   Bector leaned back resting his shoulders on the planking behind him.   ‘Yes,’ he thought.   The arm drew back and the blade began its flight, tumbling end over end, closing the distance one, two, three and a half turns, he rolled aside.   Tonk!   It struck the boards point first and bit deep.   He grasped the hilt pulling it free and, in one fluid movement, returned it to its owner.   A look of surprise froze on the rigger’s face as he slowly draped over a horizontal poll, at waist height, and hung there suspended twix heaven and earth.   Bector moved towards him.   It seemed as though he heard a warning shouted above the noise of the crowd.   He ducked back and to the side, and a quarrel split the planks an inch to the right of his head where he had stood an instant before.    Bector moved swiftly, towards his recent protagonist, using him as cover.   From its angle, the shot had come from above.   He raised the dead man onto his shoulders, as a shield, and made his way towards the bo’stad and quarrel then waited patiently for the new attacker to reveal himself. 

.-…-. 

Aldor watched as the second man drew a bead ‘Take care, shooter at right eye quarter’ it seemed that his silent warning was heard and heeded.   The shooter drew back from the rail to reload and Bector took up station beneath it.   As the man came back to fire again he seemed to freeze and slowly tip over the rail tumbling down past Bector to the ground below.   There were screams from the crowd and people rushed to the impact site.   Others pointed up to where the four motionless figures stood.   Bector was about to clamber up when Aldor spotted a third man approaching the rail.

‘There’s another!’   His urgent warning was enough.   As the man took aim Bector fired.

It seemed as though somebody was inside his mind, at first he feared it was Efelel, but he didn’t doubt the warning.   He reloaded and covered the rail waiting for the second bo’yer to appear.   When he had a target he took his time and aimed carefully, the trajectory is different when aiming up or down.   The bo’yer fired quickly, but allowed for the standard trajectory, and missed.  Bector loosed his shaft a hair's breadth later, but it flew straight and true.   He saw it take the man in the throat, no body armour there, his eyes glazed over just before he fell.

   Moments later a platoon of the Red Guard appeared at the top of the structure he looked down and signalled that all was clear.   A second man took a longer look and counted the bodies 1, 2, 3, no four.  

 “Four bodies sergeant!   Ho, he heh,” he laughed quietly under his breath. 

“What is it Welek!” the sergeant yelled; then he heard it - loud and unequivocal.   He leaned over the side and there was Bector, fast asleep, snoring like a tiger.   

“Now that’s what I call being cool under fire,” Welek grinned.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

Personal Well-being ~ 18

 

  Personal Well-being ~ 18 Age, the new black?

By Barefoot Medic

A deep throbbing bone ache drags me from sleep.   I squeeze my hands alternately, massaging the sensitive muscle tissue. Smoothing out the tender flesh.   Dad would say I’ve got the screws.    In my youth, such pain would have made me cry out, and send me scurrying to the nearest doctor for surcease.   Now, it merely confirms that I’m still alive; I can go on for another day smiling and bearing up as if nothing is wrong.   But, nothing is wrong, it’s just old age.   In fact, it’s been my age for thirty-five years, more than half of my life.   I smile, recalling one of Dad’s old jokes: 

“Doctor, Doctor, I keep getting stabbing pains in my left arm.”

“It’s your age,” says the Doctor.

“But, my right arm is the same age and it’s never felt better!”

I don’t consult a Doctor anymore, no point, they never do anything to help.   You’ve got a Headache?   Take two Paracetamol/Avril.    Broken leg?    Take two paracetamol.   Broken heart…   I just cut out the middleman now and take the pills.

I’ve just collected my repeat prescription for blood pressure tablets, (one advantage of being over sixty in the UK is getting free medication each month), we just take a tablet and get on with living and complaining.    Irbesartan, what kind of a name is that for medication?   The names ought to reflect their use with a number and or letter to depict their family, and the release number, ‘Blood Pressure D175’, might be more appropriate.   Manic Depressive N06666, Cancer OMG099!   No, maybe I've got it wrong, maybe we shouldn’t know such things. 

 

They did it on food packaging, the boxes doubled in size, and so do the prices, or the price stay the same and the contents shrink from 500g to 425g:

Ingredients: Potato Starch, Maltodextrin, Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil, Salt, Colour (E150c), Flavourings (contains Celery, Soya, Wheat), Wheatflour, Flavour Enhancers (E621, E635), Emulsifier (E322) (Soya), Spice & Herb Extract.

   In case you’re wondering, on the other side of the drum it just say’s ‘Beef Gravy Granules’ (in 24 point text), with no mention of beef or chicken extract.  

Maybe the name should suffice, it did in the past.  In the British Army circa 1964 I remember eating tins of stewed beef with  WD>1945 stamped on them, I pointed it out to the cook.   “Yea we got a job lot at a special rate,” he said.  I wonder if they’ve run out yet? a friend tells me his grandson was eating out of the same WD>1945 cans in the first Iraq conflict.  I think the army is in more danger from field rations than from bullets.

The government has set up a watchdog committee, costing the taxpayer two million pounds a year ($4 million US, and shrinking), to check that we are not being poisoned.   I rely on the old tried and tested method, suck-it-an-see.   If it tastes alright, eat it.  

Have I become a cynic?   When everything you see and hear in the news leads you in that direction, it’s hard to refute; 2+2=4 yes?. 

 Have fun!

 HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

By Peter Woodgate 

Janice sat on the park bench and looked around. It was Autumn and the trees were looking decidedly bare, in fact, her whole life seemed bare.

She glanced at her watch, it showed 1245.

“Where is she?” Janice thought nervously, “she was supposed to meet me at half-past, she better not let me down.”

    Her friend Jo arrived, out of breath and apologetic, “sorry” she said as she gave Janice a hug, “now what’s this all about?”

    Janice hesitated before bursting into tears, “come on, spit it out,” Jo gave Janice another hug then sat her down on the bench.

    “It’s Jim,” Janice wiped the tears from her face, “I just don’t seem to be able to get through to him these days, whatever I say or do makes no difference, it’s like everything is normal but it’s not.

    “What do you mean exactly?” Jo asked inquisitively,

“Well for a start,” Janice blurted out, “we haven’t made love for six months, he just doesn’t seem interested, it’s not as if I don’t make an effort, you know, Ann Summers and all that, he’d rather watch football,

There’s no fun in our lives anymore.

    “Oh come on girl,” Jo put her arm around Janice’s shoulder, “you know what men are like, I’m sure it’s just a phase you are both going through. Arrange a nice romantic evening where you can both talk, I’m sure that will do the trick, after all,” Jo added,” Jim’s a good bloke, you don’t want to lose him.”

    Janice looked at Jo and hesitated for a moment before blurting out her fears. “I think he has someone else,” Janice had a lump in her throat and fought back the tears.

    “Don’t be silly,” Jo replied, “Jim’s not like that, I mean, he’s just a bloke and blokes are, well just not sensitive to our needs, it doesn’t mean he is cheating on you.”

    Janice thought for a moment, “perhaps you’re right,” she replied.

“look I must rush or I will be late back from lunch, I will try what you have suggested though, thanks for listening to me. They hugged once more before going their separate ways.

    Janice didn’t get much work done that afternoon, she was too busy thinking about how she could arrange this heart to heart and whether it could save their marriage. At present, she felt totally depressed, was suspicious of everyone and felt almost alone. “Thank goodness for Jo,” she thought.

    Calling in at the local deli on the way home she purchased ingredients for an Italian dish, “nothing like a romantic Italian,” she thought,

“and the foods not bad either,” Janice chuckled to herself, the first time in days she had managed to smile, “keep it up girl,” she whispered, “keep it up.

    Janice had prepared most of the food and had laid the table by the time Jim got home. “Hello Darling,” he called out as he flung his coat over the banisters, this was one hell of an annoying habit that really bugged Janice. “Have you hung your coat up?” Janice replied, knowing that he hadn’t. “I’ll do it in a minute,” Jim retorted, “there’s football on the telly in five minutes, it’s an early kick-off and I want to change into something casual.”

    “Why do I bother? Janice thought as she walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Look,” she shouted up,  “I’ve cooked a nice Italian meal for us and it will be ready in ten minutes, we really do need to have a chat. Jim mumbled something inaudible and after a couple of minutes came down the stairs two at a time. His coat was still draped over the banister and he nearly tripped over it before deciding that maybe he ought to hang it up after all.

    He walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the delicious aroma of savoury pasta and noticed the table had been laid with a cloth and candlestick. “Bit posh,” Jim remarked as he walked over and switched the TV on. “Jim,” Janice raised her voice, “I thought we could have a nice meal and a chat for a change, there are more important things than football you know.”

    “Not to me there isn’t, we could go top of the league tonight.”

Janice gave Jim a glare, “OK,” he held his hands up in submission, “I’ll turn the sound down.” Jim walked back over to the television and turned it down to a minimum.

Janice poured the wine and Jim sat down making sure he had an unobstructed view of the match. “Smells lovely,” he said casually

his attention taken up completely by the match as Rooney fluffed yet another chance. “Sod it,” Jim thumped his fist on the table spilling his wine. Janice was straining the spaghetti and hadn’t noticed so Jim wiped it up quickly using his serviette, “hope it doesn’t stain,” he thought, glad that they were drinking white and not red.

    Janice served the Bolognese and sat down opposite Jim, he was about to tell her how lovely it looked but realized Janice had obscured his view

Completely. He decided he would move his chair a few degrees to the left but Janice was wise to this and moved her own the same distance to the right. “Look Jim I’m serious about this we need to talk.” Jim decided he would “get it over with”, after all, if he agreed to everything he could get to watch the second half in peace.

“Ok, what is so important that we have to have this talk, right in the middle of an important match too?” Jim had put on his angelic voice,

very submissive, and if Janice hadn’t known him better, sounded almost as if he was interested.

    Janice began explaining her concerns, they were just not close anymore and they didn’t do things together (she didn’t actually mention the sex word but by way of metaphors made it quite obvious). Jim responded by dropping his fork on the floor which enabled him to peek at the screen as he bent down to pick it up.

    Janice sighed in despair and found herself staring past Jim to look out of the window. She was staring but did not see the rain that was now lashing down. A sudden gust of wind sprayed the rain onto the window which broke Janice’s trance, she looked at Jim, he was oblivious to all except the match on the TV. She started to plead with him to listen but Jim was now upset, mainly because United had gone one nil down, and shouted back at Janice.

“Look, I don’t know what all the fuss is about, all I want is to watch a football match in peace, is that too much to ask?”

    Jim got up and stormed out of the room to watch the match in the lounge. Janice felt completely deflated and got up to start clearing the table. As she did so she heard a bleep from Jim’s mobile which he had left by the side of his half-eaten spaghetti Bolognese. She was about to take it into Jim when curiosity got the better of her and she slid the phone open nervously and pressed the view button. It was a message from Jo and Janice gasped as she read the message. It was short but had the impact of a “Gone With The Wind” saga, it read;

Saw Janice today

She is suspicious

I think we should tell her

XXX

Janice stood mortified, staring at the message but was brought back to her senses by an almighty whoop from the lounge (United had obviously equalized) and she became aware of her predicament.

“I must get rid of the message,” she thought, “otherwise Jim will know that I have read it.” She quickly deleted the message replacing the phone back on the table. She finished the clearing up on auto-pilot; her mind fixed on one thing only;

“Where did I go wrong?” The question rolled over and over in her mind and the fact that her one and only friend was involved just compounded the misery. She thought about Jo and felt nauseous, “bloody Judas” Janice mumbled under her breath.

    The match finished and Jim breezed into the kitchen, “oh” he exclaimed, “I was just about to help you with the clearing up but see you have finished, tell you what” Jim was now in high spirits, United had won with a last-minute penalty, “why don’t we go down to the local for a few drinks? You said we needed to do things together, let’s start with that.

Janice was taken aback, this was not something Jim normally suggested, drinking was very much a “boys” thing. Was it possible that he had been listening and really cared? Janice wanted to say “no” she wanted to confront Jim about the text, she wanted to smash something over his head but found herself saying “ok.”

As she changed into something more suitable Janice kept thinking about the text, her best friend, and whether her marriage was over.

    They arrived at the pub to discover it was a quiz night. Janice didn’t care much for quizzes but knew that Jim loved them. She had been hoping for a nice cosy drink and a chance to chat but once again her attempt at a serious talk had been blown out of the water.

    It had been decided that teams should consist of up to six persons and Jim had already collared his workmate together with his partner and he now looked around for another couple when, who should walk in but Jo, Janice’s best friend (well ex best friend) and her boyfriend. Jim immediately pounced on them and dragged them over to their table. “Look who’s here,” he smiled at Janice, “we have a winning team now girl.” Janice found herself recoiling as Jo gave her a hug and just about forced a smile.

“You know Dan don’t you,” Jo gestured towards him as he gave her a smile and held out his hand. Janice knew Dan alright, in fact, most people knew Dan, he was a right boozer and Janice couldn’t understand how Jo had ended up with him. Although none of her business Janice had felt Jo could have done so much better, right now though she felt they deserved each other.

    Throughout the quiz, Janice noticed that Jim and Jo were getting very “familiar.” They whispered to each other and laughed without sharing the jokes. This made Janice feel very uncomfortable and she began to simmer.

Dan either didn’t notice or didn’t care as he poured pint after pint down hi neck.

The quartet, in fact, came up with very few correct answers and, had it not been for the other couple on their team they would almost certainly have finished last. As it happened they fished third from bottom and, disaster averted, Jim thought they should celebrate. “Anyone for another drink,”

Jim was already sozzled, same again Darling vodka and tonic?”

    Janice declined, saying she had a splitting headache and wanted to go home. She could see that Jim was annoyed but he begrudgingly agreed to join her. They said goodbye to the others, Janice taking particular note of the kiss Jim gave Jo, and then left for home.

    It was a short walk, the footpath running through a small wooded area before crossing the canal and joining the road that formed part of their estate. As they crossed the bridge Janice peered down at the cold dark water that flowed underneath and for a moment, an all-encompassing fleeting moment wished for an end to the torment she now endured.

    They arrived home and Jim immediately went to the lounge to pour himself a drink determined, it seemed, to make up for what he had missed out on at the pub. “Would you like one Darling?” Jim called out from the lounge, “OK,” replied Janice, thinking it an ideal opportunity to get the matter out in the open.

    She walked into the lounge and, as Jim handed her the drink, she asked bluntly, “are you having an affair with Jo?”

Jim nearly choked on his whisky and stared at her disbelievingly, “what did you say? Jim replied, giving himself a few extra seconds of thinking time. “I said are you having an affair with Jo?” Janice found herself shaking as she asked the question again. Jim hesitated for a moment longer before replying,

“Have you gone mad, what makes you think that?” Janice noted that Jim didn’t actually deny it before shouting, “I saw a text on your mobile it was from Jo, how do you explain that?”

Jim looked at her enquiringly, “What text,” Janice then explained how she had read the text repeating it word for word then found herself screaming,

“How do you bloody explain that then?”

Jim stared at her blankly before replying in an unemotional tone,

“Look, I don’t know what all this is about, perhaps she sent it by mistake, maybe it was for someone else, why don’t you ask her?”

Jim then switched the TV on before settling down to watch the highlights of the rest of the evening’s matches.

    To Janice, Jim’s reaction was an admittance of guilt and she left the room climbing the stairs with tears in her eyes.

    Janice was dreaming and the vision of Jim and Jo making love made her scream waking her up with sweat pouring down her face. Jim was snoring next to her as she glanced at the clock, the harsh red glare showed 2.30am. Janice slid out of bed and collecting her clothes, crept silently downstairs.

    She propped the envelope upon the mantlepiece before leaving the house closing the front door quietly behind her.

    The ducks had built a sleeping platform in the rushes under the bridge

That spanned the canal and they flapped nervously as a loud splash sent a wave that temporarily flooded it. After a few quacks and rustling of feathers, they settled down again, heads neatly tucked under their wings, oblivious to the release of a tormented soul.

    Jim woke up and reached over to touch Janice, his arm fell on an empty pillow. “Strange,” he thought, as he glanced at the clock. The red glare showed at 6.15am. Jim got out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and made his way downstairs.

    “Your up early,” he called out as he entered the kitchen, then, realizing it was empty, approached the lounge with a puzzled look on his face. He caught sight of the envelope as he entered and walked over to open it immediately. His jaw dropped as he read the message;

“I would have stayed up with you all night had I known

how to save a life. I am sorry but at least

you can get on with yours.”

“She’s gone and left me, stupid cow” Jim thought angrily and I’d gone to all that trouble to keep her special birthday treat a secret, Jo did say we ought to tell her but I thought it would be a great surprise.

Jim was seething as he looked up and saw the police car pull up outside the house.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

 

September Memories

By Carol Blackburn

 I have tiptoed across the harvest fields,

A track is cut, by so many that heeled,

Their way was direct, to shorten the trips

It may be because of, dodgy hips.

But out and about in pastures, once green.

A delight of scent and all that’s seen.

Freedom moments, that are stolen

catapulting into motion.

Now.

Memories of our devotion

Of another Indian Summer.

Not diluting its feel

In Autumn, is such a thrill!

As the dusk descends across our backs

And takes heed of all who went and tracked.

Across the harvest fields, I would tiptoe

For the scent and sight of the green,

Now mown.

 

Copyright  Carole Blackburn ~  September 2021

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