The Pocketwatch

 The Pocketwatch

Janet Baldey

One might be forgiven for assuming that the gangly teenager slouching down the road, doesn’t have a care in the world.  After all, he has youth on his side, it’s Spring, on the cusp of melting into Summer and the evening is balmy, with a soft breeze blowing perfumed kisses into the air. In fact, it’s reminiscent of other evenings, just like this, when one was young and life was just a sketch waiting to be coloured in.

         However, appearances can be deceptive, because the lad is called Jake and he has a huge problem.  In fact, he has two.  The first is weighing down his trouser pocket and bumping against his thigh with every step he takes, reminding him of what he’s done and making him feel increasingly shitty.

Jake loves his Grandad, he really does.  They spent a lot of time together when Jake was little and both his parents were working.  Grandad often used to take him fishing and they spent many sun-filled days bobbing about in a tiny rowboat, in the middle of a lake.  It was Grandad who taught him the names of fish they caught, and how to remove the hooks from their mouths without hurting them.  Sometimes, they’d mooch to the shops where Grandad bought ice cream and they’d sit eating it under the shade of the old oak on the village green. When the season changed and the windows streamed with rain, they retreated into Grandad’s mancave,  AKA the garage, where Grandad tinkered with nuts and bolts and bits of wood and Jake pawed through Grandad’s box of treasures.  It was on one of those days that Grandad first showed him the pocket watch.

“Family heirloom,” he said, “been passed down from father to son for as long as I can remember. Soon, it’ll be your father’s and then yours.   A Hunter. Pure gold. Priceless.” His workworn hands had caressed its mellow surface and Jake had done the same.   As he did, it seemed to glow like the sun and Jake wondered how many other hands stroked it.

“Will it really be mine?” he said and his Grandad had laughed.

“Play your cards, right.  Now let’s put it back in its box.”

But Grandad isn’t the same.  A couple of years ago he started to forget things, he’d go to the shops to buy bread and come back with sausages.  He became frail and his body withered until he seemed just a paper cut out of the man he used to be. He spent most of his days dozing and when he woke, he’d stare at Jake out of hazy blue eyes that seemed to look straight through him.  Jake’s parents worried. They arranged for him to have help around the house and his mother took over the shopping and cooking, although most of his meals congealed by his side.  Jake still visits, although his visits have grown increasingly short; there doesn’t seem any point in talking to someone who doesn’t answer.

One day something happened that chilled Jake.  His grandfather was awake when he arrived and seemingly alert, as he sometimes is. They hugged, and then his Grandad beckoned to him with a stealthy movement of his hands, that now reminded Jake of talons.  Jake bent his head and smelled sour breath as his grandad muttered into his ear.  “Tell me boy, who is that lady who walks around the cottage?”  For a moment, Jake’s breath stilled as horror almost overwhelmed him.  Then, he managed to find his voice.  “That’s Mum, Grandad.”  His grandfather peered at him. He didn’t say anything but Jake realised he didn’t believe him. Jake will always remember that day.  It was the first time he truly understood that his Grandad would never be the same again.  But the love is still there, and very occasionally Grandad emerges from his trance and becomes almost normal again.  Jake treasures those moments.

Apart from Grandad, Jake has another problem. This problem is called Steve. Steve is the leader of a group of bullies at his school.  They terrorise the other kids, especially the weaker ones and Jake knows he is a prime target.  He is lanky and geeky with a tendency to stammer.  Worst of all, he’s hopeless at sport.  When the ball comes towards him, his arms and legs go in different directions and he either falls over or drops it.  Strangely, up until now, he’s managed to stay out of Steve’s radar which was nothing but good. He’s seen what the gang do to other kids and he desperately doesn’t want to be beaten up, made to drink toilet water, or have his lunch trampled in the mud.  But the other day, something very odd happened.  Steve swaggered over and casually draped an arm around his shoulders.  Jake’s mouth had dropped open as he felt his body stiffen. Poker still, he’d stared at the ground.

“Hi’yer Jakey buddy.  How you doin?”  Steve had asked, giving Jake’s shoulders a gentle squeeze.  “Any good with computers?”  Jake nodded, trying not to tremble, everyone knew he was the ‘go to’ boy when it came to computer glitches.

“That’s good. ‘Cause I’ve got a job for you.  How would you like to join my gang?”  Jake knew this wasn’t a request. This was an order - if he wanted his body to remain intact that was.  He’d nodded weakly.

“That’s great.  Meet us at the back of the rec. at seven on Friday.  You know the rule, o’course?”

Jake did.  The rule was every wanna-be gang member had to present Steve with a gift, but the thing was, it had to be something they’d personally nicked, stolen pilfered or thieved.  The riskier the deed and the greater the value of what was lifted, the higher up in the hierarchy you got.  The thought kept Jake awake at night.  He dreaded going into one of the shops on the estate and stealing something.  He’d muff it, he knew he would. He was so clumsy; he’d knock something over or be seen stuffing the loot in his bag.  The very thought of it gave him stomach cramps.

Desperately, his mind worked overtime, then suddenly, he had an idea.  Grandad’s pocket watch.  The idea festered until Jake managed to convince himself that Grandad wouldn’t miss it. He never asked for his box of treasures these days and after all, he had said it would be Jake’s one day. He thought about his dad, but he had plenty of watches, modern ones with lots of dials.  Jake was sure he wouldn’t want anything so old fashioned.  All the same, he felt bad and knew what he was planning was wrong. If it was discovered, it would hurt his Grandad and enrage his father.  But Jake was scared of being bullied and surely stealing from a senile old man who didn’t know one day from the next, didn’t really count.  So, the next time he went to see Grandad, he sneaked into the garage, found the box of treasure and took the watch.

Now it’s Friday and Jake’s on his way to his dreaded assignation with the watch burning a hole in his pocket, completely oblivious to the beauty of the evening.  On his way, he has to pass by Grandad’s cottage and as he does, his footsteps slow.  Afterwards he realised that something outside of himself must have guided him towards the front door and planted the thought in his mind that he needed to see his Grandad.

As his hand lifts the latch, he realises the door to the garage is open and that’s odd.  “Grandad”, he calls, “where are you?”

“Here….” His Grandad’s voice is shaky and is coming from the garage.  Jake turns away from the door and goes to the garage. He switches on the light and as the beam pierces the gloom, he sees his Grandad slumped on the floor with the contents of his box of treasures scattered around him.  “I’ve lost it.” He wails, his yellow-grey hands fluttering over the box like terrified pigeons.  “It’s gone.  My pocket watch has gone.”

Jake stares. He’s never seen his Grandad so upset.  Tear tracks have cut runnels in the grime of his face, he’s obviously been sobbing and Jake has never seen a man cry before.  It makes Jake feel so bad. Rotten, in fact.  What has he done?  This is the man who’d cared for him when he was a boy, a man who’d loved him like a son.  He swallows and his mind suddenly clears.  “Bugger Steve”, he thinks, “bugger the gang, bugger everything”. 

He thrusts his hand into his pocket, locates the festering lump, and draws it out. Immediately he feels so much better.

“Don’t worry Grandad, I’ve found it.  It must have rolled under the table.”

The lump in his throat feels like Mount Everest as he watches his Grandad’s face light up and when he hears him say, quite clearly, “Thank you, my boy,” Jake thinks his heart will shatter.

Lurking in the depths of his brain is the knowledge that he’ll get a thumping from Steve but now he doesn’t care. Probably, he’ll also have to get used to drinking toilet water.  The main thing, and the thing that shines brightest in his mind, is the knowledge that he still has a brilliant Grandad and Steve can never take that away from him.

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

Cheilin Saga ~ 31

Cheilin Saga ~ 31 Unfinished Business

By Len Morgan

“You see Aldor!” said Dan triumphantly, “you worry too much.   All your fears of assassination were totally unfounded.   My people love me and everything went off without a hitch.   My double received all the honours and adulation and had the fun of presenting the victors with their spoils whilst I stood behind him looking vigilant and bored.  Don’t think I will easily forget that you ruined the games for me.   But, I suppose you have to justify your existence somehow.   Let me tell you, it isn’t necessary; it’s enough that you are my friend, I ask no more of you!”

Aldor nodded and smiled “As ever you are right, ‘light of the world’,” he said.  

Dan winced, “what then of the Bluttland invasion?”

“My Agents inform me that their forces are disbursing, now that the conjunction has passed, I suspect the crippling cost of that standing army has caused them real pain to no end.   They could never have maintained that level of readiness for more than a few months.” Said Aldor.

“So the crisis is past?”

“It is” said Aldor.

“Good!   That means you can return your attention to some real work, the good of the Empire, for instance, I should like to know what this episode has cost us.   What of Bector dropping bodies on the populace like dead flies, causing alarm amongst my people, and what of Gavein and Zophira…” said Dan.

Aldor smiled, “they will all cope just fine now that Effelel’s influence has been removed.   Bector is to receive a promotion; he is to join your personal guard.”

“He won’t like it,” said Dan.

“But he will perform superbly of that you can be sure.   Both he and we will survive,” said Aldor. 

.-…-. 

   Sloan had been observing Aldor patiently, unmoving, in the shadows, he had been there, in the lower levels of a house on C20, for some time.   He watched as Aldor finally went up to the tiled wall and placed his palm on a tile that was fractionally darker than the others.   For an instant the patch darkened as if a door had opened, when it returned to normal, Aldor was gone.   Sloan looked both ways, sniffed noisily, and listened intently for sounds of movement before leaving the niche he’d hidden in for too long.   He shook and manipulated his knotted muscles as he moved toward the wall.   He placed his palm on the tile, as Aldor had done, but nothing happened.   He modified the placement of his feet, and the pressure of his hand, without success.   Finally, he accepted the inevitable, nothing would happen at least not for him.   He returned, a while later, with one of his men. 

“I want to know everything that happens here.   Everything you see and who passes this way.   I do not want you to leave out the slightest detail when you report, is that clear?” Said Sloan.  

“Yes sir” the young man nodded, looking bemused.   He had been awaiting the arrival of a mouth-watering hot steak pie when the sergeant tracked him down.   Now he would be cold and hungry, for a further two hours, whilst somebody else ate his pie.   But, he knew and respected Sloan.   To question his orders was…   Out of the question.

"Here," said Sloan handing him his heavy cloak and a sack containing salt beef rolls and a flask of ale. "You will need sustenance to keep your mind on the job." 

"Thank you, sergeant," he said.

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 Time, taken

By Carole Blackburn

Lying awake

In the darkness, she cries alone.

The clutter of her yesterdays, amongst am I, is known.

 My smooth touch, to her is all but remote and cold.

Sounding out I am, aware and being as I can, bold.

The night comes and crowds

Her thoughts

Her future imagined

should, she dare.

 

Her days lingering, longing, for his return.

How time stands still in distant shores, she knows,

She yearned.

In all ways, her touch with him, through me.

Forever, a reminder of the time shared, should be?

A precise, punctual friend, remains to have and hold.

Brown paper wrapped, tied with string that day.

Bloodstained, but now, so old.

I am wounded, repaired, she is told.

Though his time

Silence deep in the ground, he has gone.

Her memories, they continue to go on.

 

In and out as the night hours,

hounds and swallows time away.

As the Dawn, lifts her for another day to

toil with her emotions, in depth.

Days on days, gone by, she wept.

For in his pocket, sat I.

My one desire, displaying, doing.

My job remains always,

Time to keep.

Glanced in moments,

For reassurance of when

he would hope, again her to meet.

Had the War machine won the day?

Battled by their marching feet.

With cries of woe and pain, as

 they were in the real defeat.

But my chimes, quietly charmed

While in her palm.

Though, no rest she will have in sleep.

As the path, he trod, with them

Eternally, human beings, too Deep.

 

Copyright Carole Blackburn            

November 2021

 

 

 

 

 

  THE RE-ENACTMENT

 by Richard Banks

It seemed an odd thing to be celebrating. I mean, no one would be celebrating if it happened now. Think about it, you’ve just turned in for the night when there’s an almighty commotion and all these hairy Vikings break down your front door and make off with everything that’s not nailed down. And that’s not the worse of it, the village men who don’t run away fast enough are stabbed all over and their womenfolk taken away in stripey sailed rowing boats and sold to the highest bidder in a Byzantium slave market. Well, who knows, it might have ended up quite well for some of them, the younger gad about girls who wanted to travel and see the world. A long sea voyage might have been just the ticket for them, especially if they were snapped up by a Sheik who looked like Omar Sheriff.  But it wouldn’t have been very nice for the rest of them. Oh yes, I know it all happened hundreds of years ago and I shouldn’t be fretting about it now but neither should anyone be making a song and dance about it. But then, why do I bother? I’ve said all this before.

         According to the organising committee, it’s going to be a commemoration of the most significant event in the village’s long and lackluster history. It will put Whitmouth on the map and bring visitors to the village who will spend money in the Chequers and the local shops, and maybe come back at other times. “Why would they?” I say. We’re a one church, one pub village with a beach and harbour that reeks of fish and seaweed. Who in their right mind would want to come back here? Once bitten, twice shy is what I say, but I might just as well be speaking to myself.

         We now have a date when it will happen – Saturday, 10 August. That’s one week before the tennis at Eastdeen and one after the Pembersey Regatta, so we won’t be in competition with them and other events; so if you’re desperate for something to do it’s us or nothing. There’s going to be a craft fayre in the High Street, skittles in the pub, and country dancing on the village green. And if that’s not enough - and it certainly isn’t - we’re all expected to dress up like the olden folk who were here all those centuries ago. 

         At first, it’s only us ladies in the WI and Church League that want to get involved but then the men in the Rotary Club smell a nice little earner, and hey presto they’re all but taking over; that’s when the Committee is formed, and what’s more, they’ve got Lord Spentmore to chair it. If the truth be told he’s a bit of a pain in the beam end but anyone’s better than the Vicar; if you’re ever heard one of his sermons you’ll know what I mean. Still, it’s good to have an honest man as Treasurer so he’s duly elected and we get the use of the church hall for free.

         So, it’s all speed ahead except that one of the men thinks we don’t have enough things organised. That’s what I think, I say, not that you’ll find it in the minutes. He says, if we want to draw the crowds we’ll need something special, and that’s when the idea of having a re-enactment of the actual landing becomes the main event in the program. “It’s genius,” says the same man, “why didn’t I think of it before, and the young fellas in the rugby club can be the Vikings.” Then someone else says, “who’s going to be the Saxons, there must have been a battle, even though it’s not written down, it stands to reason there must have been a battle.” The Vicar thinks not and for once I agree with him, it was nighttime, all the Saxons were in their beds, you can’t do too much fighting when you’re tucked up there.

         But why let logic get in the way of a money-spinning idea, so the rugby club are invited and, when it's decided there’s not enough of them for a battle, the cricket club and Young Farmers also get the call. This is just the sort of rough and tumble they’re used to on a Saturday night after closing time, and their girlfriends are more than willing to play the part of Saxon maidens or Viking camp followers. Never have the young people been so enthusiastic about a village event and it’s not long before the rugby boys are sprucing up an old launch to look like a Viking longboat. This means the cricketers have to be the Saxons which they’re not too pleased about because they’re on the losing side, battle or no battle. However, they gain a vital concession when they argue that the Vikings didn’t have any camp followers so all the girls will have to be Saxon maidens which means if there’s any hanky panky while they’re waiting for the Vikings to arrive the Saxons will be one-nil up before a blow is struck. However, when the cricketers and farmers have a meeting in the upstairs room of the Chequers it soon becomes apparent that things are being planned that never happened in any history book. The next thing we know is that the local bikers have been recruited by the Saxons and the rugby club are buying baseball bats from Sports Direct and threatening to use them if anything should happen to their reassigned camp followers. In the end, Constable Lewis has to read them all the riot act and the Committee decided to dispense with the battle and just have the Vikings land unopposed, set fire to the Saxon hovels that have been put up next to the scouts’ hut, and retreat back to their boat with bags of swag and any of the rugby club girls who are up to being part of the booty. An uneasy peace having been restored the rest of us get on with preparing the other events. 

         Come the day we’re ready and raring to go, the village is decked out with bunting and almost everyone has made some attempt at dressing up. The weather could not be better and by 2pm, when the craft fayre begins, the village is heaving with people most of whom have already paid good money for parking on the school field. All the craft stalls do good business and the village green has never been so full of people. And what a show we give them, we quite surprise ourselves - country dancing, sheep shearing and corralling, a display by the bird sanctuary, all kinds of music and races for the kiddies. 

         The day is more successful than we dared hope and we haven’t yet got to the main event that is to take place in the evening as the sun is setting over the sea. There must be four hundred people at least on the Quay when the boat is sighted in the gathering gloom. By then we have flaming torches down both sides of the harbour and the bell ringers in the church are sounding a death knell for dramatic effect. Even better is the sight of the boat as it runs aground on the shingle beach. The Rugby boys have done us all proud, the boat is just like the ones in the history books we had as kiddies, there’s a red and white stripey sail, a dragon head on the pointy bit at the front and a crew of bewhiskered warriors who have done a fine job of the rowing are now racing up the beach brandishing their battle axes and swords. 

         On cue, the Saxon hovels are set on fire and the girls in the scout hut scream so loud you would have thought they were doing it through loud hailers. Fifteen minutes later the Vikings are back on the beach with their bags of swag and the girls, in shifts that are far too short, are being carried off on Viking shoulders. And then, as quickly as they came, they are off and we watch them row away into the dark. 

         What a round of applause we give them. It is a triumph, a fitting climax to a wonderful day. The crowd begins to disperse, some going to the car park and others to the Chequers. I’m on my way home when I come across Archie Moss, the Secretary of the Committee, who is talking into his mobile phone. The expression on his face I will remember for the rest of my life, a look that changes from surprise to utter bewilderment and then to horror. One of the crew has phoned him to apologise for not making it to Whitmouth. They have, he says, been blown off course and are now a mile down the coast lucky to have got back to land.

         “He’s having you on,” I say. “They’re all be down the bar at the Rugby Club having a fine old time.” So he phones him back, all angry now, saying that if anything has happened to his daughter and the other girls in the boat he will hold him personally responsible. This time it’s the rugby guy who sounds surprised. “No,” I hear him say, “we don’t have the girls, how can we, we never arrived!” Then Archie flies into a rage, uses language I never heard him say before, and threatens to call the police. The rugby guy gets halfway through shouting something back when Archie ends the call and starts phoning the police. 

         “No, no,” I say, “phone your daughter on her mobile. You know what these young folk are like she’s bound to have it with her.” So he does just that and we hear a phone ringing in the Scouts’ hut. It’s hers. This time Archie does phone the police and a few minutes later when we see Constable Lewis we tell him too and he gets in his car and hares off to where the rugby boys say they are. He finds them still on the beach waiting for one of the Dads to pick them up in his van. The girls are not with them and no one knows where they are. At least that’s what they say, and when the van arrives Constable Lewis makes sure they go straight to the police station. And that’s where they stay until the following evening when they’re taken to the prison. By then the first body has been washed ashore, and all but one of the others follow the next day. Each one cut and bruised by the rocks and stones against which the sea has tossed them.

         The village is in shock, people struggling to make sense of what has happened, desperately hoping it is a nightmare from which they will awake. Then good news for the parents of Lindsey Medhurst, she alone of the girls has survived and is found wandering aimlessly on a private beach two miles away, deeply traumatised and unable to speak. The families of her supposed abductors brace themselves, waiting for her to say something that will either condemn or absolve their young men from blame.  

         The rugby boys continue to protest their innocence. Forensic tests provide no evidence against them and they are released from prison all charges dropped for lack of evidence. Their claim not to have landed in the harbour is corroborated by the crew of a herring boat who saw them off-course and in difficulties, half a mile from land only minutes before the Vikings landed. How could they be in two places at once protest the families, and indeed they can’t. Nevertheless, the police interview everyone who saw the re-enactment; there are over one hundred witness statements, only three of which claim to have seen someone among the Vikings whom they recognised, in one case a man with no connection to the rugby club who was one hundred miles away in London.      

                                                     ***

When Lindsey speaks we will know the truth but who knows when that will be. Some say that what has happened has robbed her of her reason as well as her voice. She can sometimes be seen at one of the windows of a large, grey brick building that used to be the workhouse.

         “And do you see her from the inside or the outside of the window,” asks the Chairman of the Committee.

         “Both,” I say.

         “From which side now?”

         “From the inside, of course. I’m here on a visit. That’s what I do, what you’re doing, and also poor Archie whose daughter drowned.”

         “Is he here too?”

         “Yes, of course, that’s him watching TV with Constable Lewis.”

         He scribbles something down on a notepad. “And all these people are in your story?” he says. 

         “Yes, your Lordship, but it’s no story, every word is true.”

         “And what is the name of your character? Surely the person relating this narrative should have a name.”

         I disagree, but he says that names are important, that they tell us who we are and who we are not. “If we lose our names what else do we have?”

         I make no reply.

         He smiles. He could tell me my name if he had a mind to but he wants me to say it. Until then he will continue to call me what he usually calls me: his friend the author he says, the unreliable narrator. 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

                    

Jamie ~ 4

 Jamie ~ 4 Leaving Home 

By Len Morgan

Next morning Waldo introduced Jamie to his partner Triss, she too would be going with them on the adventure.  There were tearful goodbyes at the rear of the house as they filed out, one by one, into the long grass.  For most, this was their first foray into the big wide world. Others knew the track alongside the trellis well.  They travelled under cover of currant bushes and elder, heavy with unpicked fruit.  They made a game of shaking the canes and showering each other with ripe red and black globes of fruit that in the days to come would supplement their diet.  They couldn’t see the coughing & gasping, cartoon mice painted on the side of the black van or read the words ‘for EXTERMINATION SPECIALISTS call Hertz & Walsh'…

But, they did witness the large bell-like canvas being hauled over the roof of the house; and they knew at once what it meant.

“We have to warn them!” Barnabus wailed.

“Even our swiftest scouts couldn’t get back in time.” Said Waldo shaking his tail.

“But, they heard Barnies story and so must know what is happening.  By morning they will catch up with us you’ll see.” Said Jamie.  

By morning three who’d lingered outside the house arrived with a dreadful tale.  Many of their kin had indeed escaped, but only to run into electrified netting that had been erected around the house, it burned those who touched it to a crisp, and many who avoided the fence were sprayed by strange creatures with glass heads and silver bodies that looked vaguely human.  They all died. 

A pall of gloom hung over the camp that night, none more anguished than Jamie, who felt he should have done more to persuade the others to leave…

Later in the evening, two more survivors arrived bringing their numbers to 28.  The morning of the second day the terrible truth was evident in all 24 had been killed. 

“I should have prevented it; I should have been more forceful and ordered them to leave!” Jamie moaned.

“You can stop that stupid noise,” said Waldo “It might make you feel better but it does nothing to improve our situation.  You’re our leader.  Organise parties to search for food and clean water.  If it hadn’t been for you we would all have died.  Now, what has happened to those field mice?”

“You’re right Waldo, I know you are but, I just can’t shake off the guilt…” 

“It’s the humans who are to blame, not you!  What have we done to them to deserve this?  If only we were their size.” Waldo was angry and there were tears in his eyes, “my sister and parents are dead, murdered by that evil race.” 

“ They act as if everything is theirs by right, they refuse to coexist!  If only there was a way…” 

“Aaaah!” a piercing scream brought his tirade to an abrupt end.  “The fieldmice are all dead!” Triss cried.  “Outside,” they followed her horror stricken gaze.  Others were gathered outside gazing at a dozen part mummified corpses tied by their tails in bunches of six hanging from nails.

“Eat nothing you find on the ground.” Jamie yelled, “this looks like poisoning!” 

“Cut them down,” Triss cried in revulsion.  “Humans!”

(To be continued) 

Copyright Len Morgan

A political Haibun

 A Political Saga it is. 

 

By Robert Kingston

 

This morning I woke with a headache. No not the sort where your head bangs from having overindulged. No, this sort is the type that festers at the back of the mind until the trigger is pulled. That trigger this time came in the form of my yearly dose of Scrooge. Not though the Charles Dickens version, but a version established by watching from beginning to the end “The Medici” series. A Netflix offering; Set in, circa 1400’s. This coupled with a recent press release mentioning that a large portion of the current UK government, including the PM, have their foundations established in the classics.

 

 It is said that very little is invented.

 

vintage bicycle 

hard to remove patches

on the spokes

 

 

Robert Kingston ~ 12.12.21

 

Cheilin Saga ~ 30

 Cheilin Saga ~ 30  Efelel’s Failure

By Len Morgan

  Efelel watched from the crowd. She cursed under her breath, she knew he was coming she knew the signs, nausea, itching, and numbness she had to get back to the room or he would punish her.   She ran to their base which was close by.   She slammed the door and sat trembling in the corner of the darkened room; he was coming.   Slowly, the fluorescence began to grow, the feeling of nausea grew with the green light.   His figure was indistinct, at first, growing rapidly more tangible with each passing moment.

‘What news.’  He demanded, even before he had fully materialised. 

Before she could formulate her reply he was inside her mind, railing with anger.

‘You failed me and squandered valuable resources in the process.   What others can you count on.’    He demanded.

‘The girl the prince and, of course, myself are all that remains.’

‘You have not excelled in this den of unbelievers if you cannot accomplish this simple task.   I am disappointed.   When this is over you will yet feel the measure of my dissatisfaction.   But, your purpose here still has to be accomplished.’

‘The prince is closest,’ she began, ‘it would be a simple matter for me to…’

‘No-No!   He will be our very last resort, he must be above reproach, you understand?   Only after you and the girl have failed’ he said.

‘Then it must be the girl I will take her over, and accomplish the task, right in front of the accursed Tylywoch’ she said.

‘Now you're thinking. Your mission was to discredit them and cast confusion into the minds of our enemies.’

.-…-. 

Zophira was distinctly agitated, she knew instinctively that something was about to happen.   Constance being a sensitive picked up on it, immediately, moving closer to Zophira to lend her support.  

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” she said.   Zophira did as she was asked; it had an immediate calming effect on her, and she began to relax.   Several minutes passed and she began to think she had allowed her imagination to take over.

“Uh!”   she gasped, experiencing a full gamut of emotions, her features twisted and contorted as she turned to face Daidan III.   “No oh no,” she cried.

Constance removed a small clear glass globe from beneath her robe and touched it to Zophira’s forehead.   There was a brief crackle of red sparks then Zophira slumped into Gavein’s arms.

“What have you done to her,” he demanded.

“Don’t worry, she will recover in a moment,” Constance replied.   One look at her face and he knew she wouldn’t lie. 

   As the procession moved on, the eyes of the crowd followed its passage.   The crowd had thinned out and moved on towards C20.   As they went Gavein took Zophira’s hand and she slowly recovered. “She tried to force me to act but I lost consciousness, did I do him harm?”

“you are both still living, I believe Constance saw your change and acted accordingly.  I wonder if I might be next on Efelel’s list…”

(to be Continued)

 

By Len Morgan