Cheilin Saga ~ 32

 Cheilin Saga ~ 32 Abbey at Samishaam 2

By Len Morgan

“How fare you,” asked the father Abbot.

Aldor sighed, “Another Conjunction has come and gone and Bedelacq’s brood still remain on the eastern shore of the Stalbech.”

“It is good to hear that.”

“What of his Brides, the ones we are holding?” Aldor asked.

The Abbot’s face wrinkled in a frown, “it will take time,” he replied.   “The main problem is, their bodies are not of this time.   When he withdraws his power from them their physical body ages rapidly they shrivel and die.   The first four are already gone only, these five remain, Efelel amongst them.”

“Are any yet ready for return to this world?” Aldor asked.   Two could be rehabilitated but of course, their bodies are gone,” said the Abbot.

“Show me,” said Aldor.

He was led to the roof garden, where five globes rested in cups atop their individual posts set in the middle of a pleasantly aromatic herb garden.   Aldor sniffed appreciatively.

“It aids concentration” the Abbot explained.

Aldor smiled.   A brother, clothed in the red habit of their order, sat cross-legged before each globe meditating intently.   Which is Efelel? He gazed over the shoulder of her observer, at swirling deep black clouds.  

“That one, Efelel, I’m afraid is beyond redemption, she rages against the universe.   It’s been more than a month and the clouds are darker than ever.   We really should be considering releasing her to return to the wheel…”

Aldor gazed intently into the globe; his face became fixed.   The clouds slowed visibly in their race, then gradually, they began to clear.   He plunged down and down, down into the darkness plumbing their depths.   Just as he began to doubt his senses, he heard an embryonic scream.   It reached down into his depths churning his innards, causing retching nausea, his head spun and he began to freefall.   The scream repeated, much closer this time, momentarily he thought to flee, but this was not the physical world, where could he go?   Then without warning the beast attacked, with fiery breath, tooth, and claw.   The pain was very real.

“Aaaah!   He cried out in anger recalling his own incarceration.   The beast retreated.   He saw a feint green glow, to one side, and moved towards it.   As he drew nearer he saw a young female child, within the glow, and a menacing green dragon towering over her.   Its tail curled around her many times, marking her as its possession.

 

“Approach at your peril,” the dragon warned, belching flame and acrid smoke in his direction.   The child’s wide blue eyes beseeched him soundlessly, but her words popped into his mind.

“Please release me from his clutches,” she begged.

Aldor looked at the dragon he was conjured from her own mind so he thought to deal with it without too much trouble but, when he felt its breath he beat a hasty retreat.   Fortunately, it showed no inclination to chase after him, contenting itself to stay close to its charge.   He cursed his arrogance; he hadn’t even taken the trouble to discover her birth name, before entering the globe.   Now he discovered there was no mind for him to read, least none he could enter in his present state.

“What is your name” he called out.

Her answer was drowned by the volcanic roar that issued from the beast.   He returned towards the green glow under cover of the black smoke and in its centre was the girl, still encircled by the dragon; she looked to be twelve or thirteen.   She had straw coloured hair and bright blue eyes sparkling with intelligence.   She was slim and waife like, giving the impression of being resigned to her fate, he detected an overriding melancholy.   She looked at him and as their eyes met waves of sadness and loss flowed from her to him.

“Help me,” she implored.   The beast's grip tightened around her waist forcing a gasp from her lips.

He realised as he had never done before that it was Bedelacq’s creature and not of her creation.   His forehead began to throb, he rubbed at the distraction, and it seemed as though he had rubbed a scaling from his third eye; the jewel.

“You have no weapons that can harm me,” the beast mocked.

In answer he visualised his sword; his alter ego.   As it materialised the beast blew a stream of green flame in his direction.   The flow increased steadily but Aldor pierced the stream with his sword and the heat was dissipated.  

“Then you will not be afeared to leave the child in order to deal with me?” he said.

The creature detached itself from its charge and swept rapidly towards him.   Aldors forehead opened fully to reveal the imbedded jewel.   The beast roared and attacked.

The flames became more intense a glaring white lance.   Aldor stood calmly, ignoring it.   The beast stopped and stood in disbelief.   The jewel turned a deep violet and returned the flames it had ignored; beam after beam of blinding blue light the beast stood against it briefly and then it was gone.

Aldor rubbed his forehead and turned, away from the globe, breaking contact.

“It’s clearing, there’s a young girl inside, she is smiling, and speaking,” said the priest.

 ‘She was a child of thirteen, all memory of her association with Bedelacq had been wiped away, all they lacked was a body of the appropriate age.

He heard her thanks repeated in his mind, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ ’but, he was already gazing into the next globe.

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 LOSS

By Jane Scoggins 

It’s upsetting when you lose something you value, isn’t it? And it’s not always about monetary value. Oh no, it can be of sentimental value or for its usefulness. I know, because I lost something recently that was important to me. I've hunted high and low, but to no avail. I tell myself to put it behind me. It’s not as if it is a diamond down the plughole or granny’s wedding ring. No, I tell myself, stop fretting about it. It's gone and that’s the end of it. But I really do miss it. 

I am usually a pretty sanguine sort of person. You know, nothing much gets me down and I don’t sweat the small stuff, and in the light of things these days, this is small stuff. But I guess that like so many people in these strange times I have been affected in unexpected ways. And the last eighteen months or so have been strange haven’t they? Of course, I am talking about the Covid 19 virus that we were hit by back in January2020. It spread across the country and in fact the world in a way never known before. It made people very ill indeed, the hospitals were full to bursting and many thousands of people died. Not just people who were vulnerable or with existing medical conditions. Not just the frail elderly, but younger apparently fit people too. The government called upon the best scientists to develop a vaccine at double quick time. But even with the vaccine jab rollout, we were not at all safe and the numbers of cases escalated weekly like wildfire. We were all instructed to keep two metres apart from others, wash hands all the time, use antibacterial hand gel, wear face masks, avoid meeting with groups of friends and even family outside our immediate household. The mantra became Hands, Face, Space. Things got worse. Next came PM Boris Johnson’s difficult decision to announce a lockdown.  No gatherings, pubs and restaurants closed, weddings and holidays postponed, churches closed and funerals attended with only a handful of people. Babies born without Grans and Nan’s.  Uncles and aunts did not see them for months afterward. Huge restrictions of the flow of people coming into the UK and leaving from airports. Quarantine and Covid testing increased With these stringent rules in place and the increase of vaccine rollout a bit of progress was made, and some restrictions were gradually lifted. But with the lifting, another wave of Covid and then the identification of a new strain, Delta, we were back to semi lockdown. It has been a horrible roller-coaster for the whole nation, the whole world, and with another new more transmissible strain Omicron, recently we are all on our guard. Because even if you get this virus and are unwell but not needing hospital care, you may still be affected for months on end by what has been called Long Covid with ongoing illness, fatigue and lack of taste and smell. We have all had our lives, work and activities cut back to the bone and this has been a struggle. I feel for those who have not coped at all well with the restrictions, isolation, and separations.  So, after all that outpouring, what has that got to do with what I have lost?

According to the famous designer and artist, William Morris, all our possessions should be either useful or beautiful. Well, my lost possession was both beautiful and useful and greatly valued in the last year. It was a face mask made of beautiful silk fabric, with three layers to fully protect me from viral germs. It had the most comfortable elastic to go behind my ears. Believe me, I have tried a variety of face masks and this one was the best of the best. Useful and beautiful, I could have worn it all day if needed. Isn’t that so silly of me? Please don't laugh.  Strange times have made most of us re-evaluate what is important. And that has to be about keeping safe from Covid and treasuring and protecting our own health and wellbeing and that of our family and friends. For we have been harshly reminded that life is precious, and we don't know how long we will have each other. That face mask had become a symbol of safety. I am on the hunt now for another one that will have all the same qualities. Keep well, keep safe my friends; the danger is not at all over.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 The Real Santa

By Rosemary Clarke 

Hi, there fellow readers & writers,

 Did you know that there really is a Santa Claus and he lives in the North Pole Alaska!  He used to be a police chief and became a child advocate for abused children who called him Santa.  The people of Alaska have once again voted for him as Mayor.

Jamie ~ 6

 Jamie ~ 6  Hero’s Return

By Len Morgan 

The Young ones looked on in horror and disbelief.  They were tearful, how would they break the news to the others…  To Kibbie…  Turning their backs on the scene, in the flap Kibbie’s ears had turned white, she gazed out into the tall grass.  Her ears turned pink once more because there, just ten feet away, stood Jamie a broad grin on his face.  He gestured for them to be silent as he walked slowly towards them, leaving FW frantically seeking through the long grass wasting his time in a fruitless search.

“Always change direction as soon as you are out of his sight, or hide motionless.  Always give FW the respect he is due, never make the mistake of thinking you can outsmart him, he’s bigger and cleverer than you think.  Forget it and you will become his lunch.”

Kibbie smiled and kissed him brazenly, “run along now,” she said ignoring the fact that she was only a few months older than them.

The following morning, he took it upon himself to brief the scavenging parties before setting out in search of food. “Finally, on no account nibble!  If you do, there will be a trap, poison. Or the cat waiting for you on your next visit, maybe all three.  Take crumbs, lumps, or whole pieces of food, and your presence will go undetected then you will be able to return again and again.  If you are unsuccessful others will return with enough for all.  Never be lazy and pick scraps from the floor, they don’t get there by accident.  If you ignore this rule, it may cost you your life and the lives of those you share with.  The only exception to this rule is the food in FW’s bowl, but be sure somebody is on the lookout for him at all times.  Okay!  Off with you…”

.-…-. 

Kibbie & Jamie quickly produced a litter, and then another.  Several groups moved on at the appropriate times, and all was well at 17 Cedarwood Terrace.  Sadly Barnabus passed peacefully sometime between his fifth and sixth year, and Jamie became the oldest surviving mouse.  Yet Frizzy Whiskers was old even when Barnabus was young as he never stopped telling them.  It was true that FW had been in residence forever, but of late, Jamie had noted a marked slowing down and a tendency to sleep longer, Ever since the fence was removed and the smell of gas cleared from the air, the younger foraging groups began treating FW with disdain, passing unnecessarily close.  Jamie cringed, FW hadn’t slowed that much.

Then, without warning half a dozen mice disappeared in a single night.  Life wasn’t so easy anymore, mice all stayed below ground the following day.  Late in the afternoon, Jamie took a cautious peek.  Seeing nothing untoward he slipped into the kitchen to discover two bowls of cat food…

 

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 A BLESSING FOR US ALL.

 

By Rosemary Clarke

I've got your 6 buddy

 

     I'm going to say something very controversial now; being a family, and families themselves don't really matter.

    

  The word 'family' has been blown out of all proportion by happy tales of perfect people, but none of us is like that and it's as stupid to believe in the perfect family as it is to believe in the perfect figure.

    It's about time we all started to grow up and realise that NOTHING is perfect; we are all great imperfections and we have to live with that.  It doesn't matter if Johnny has the best marks in school or Sue has a really good job and makes lots of money, what matters is if the people who look after them hug them, play games with them, are not too busy to listen when things for them are good or bad and show, not just tell them how wonderful life is now that they are here.

    Too many children grow up playing with 'pretty toys' that, when councillor's open their doors to their minds, turn out to be like knives or razors, things that have physically and mentally hurt them without them even knowing.

     People give their whole lives for the good of ' family' instead of being shown that being themselves is the best thing that they can be.

    Family, real family, can be any colour and any race, it can be a father and a son but it can also be a group of friends who have stood with each other through everything that life can throw at them. I have heard a lovely phrase lately from many teenagers and I think that the world should take it up also....I've got your back...  Let's all remember that for everyone and make EVERYONE family this Christmas and forever.

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

 

Jamie ~ 5

 Jamie ~ 5  The Extended Vacation

By Len Morgan 

The House mice were unable

to return to 17 Cedarwood Terrace for six days.

The fence remained ready to fry any creature foolish enough to touch it; the smell was most unpleasant to sensitive young nostrils.

They continued eating wild seeds, roots, and berries, all in plentiful supply in the fields and nearby gardens.  The juveniles developed a taste for a certain water beetle larva that attached itself to the undersides of watercress, water lilies, and other broad leaved plants growing at the margins of the river.  Each day they visited the spot and ate their fill.  But, as the days went by the larvae became harder to find, so they ventured farther out onto the Lily pads.  They clung to long reeds and vaulted from pad to pad until they found themselves close to the fast-flowing river.  That was when most decided enough was enough and headed back to the safety of the bank.  All that is except for Kibbie a particularly brave, or foolhardy, female juvenile who decided she would not miss out on her daily feast. 

She swung out over the inviting lily pads on a marsh reed stalk at the extremity of the reed bed.  She lifted the closest leaf to eat the larvae.  They were even larger than those nearer the bank.  She struggled to bring a prize specimen onto her leaf but both she and it toppled into the fast running stream.  Her friends on the bank witnessed her predicament and cried out for help. 

Jamie had taken to walking down the path beside the stream following his midday meal.  He enjoyed the quiet seclusion, away from the others with their constant questions and bickering.  It seemed he was now firmly established as the group leader even though he was not the oldest.  His methods of ensuring their survival appealed to the juveniles.  He had led them away from certain death, where those who ridiculed him now lay stiff and desiccated.

He was deep in thought, considering how best to ensure that their numbers remained low enough not to lure the gas and wire fence back in six years; or beyond living memory…

“Help! Hel-glug-p, hell…p!”.

He looked upstream and saw a bedraggled young member of his band clinging to a rock just short of mid-stream.  His eyes scanned through 180 degrees. He saw the willow tree, its long whippy branches almost touching the water.  Seeing nothing even faintly suitable he called out to her, “Hold tight and don’t move, I’ll be back.”

“Hurry!  I’m getting v-very c-c-cold!”

Jamie scurried up the tree and selected the longest branch he could find and chewed through the bitter-tasting bark and sapwood.  He watched it fall to the ground with satisfaction.  He ran to the bank dragging the branch behind him.  He wedged the gnawed end between two forked branches.  He saw that it reached far beyond midstream.  “Let go now and grab the branch,” he yelled.  She took some persuading and coaxing from the others before she got up the nerve to act.  When she grabbed the branch it bent with the force of the wind and current.  She glided in an arc to the bank where her friends dragged her to safety.

He hung back as Kibbie’s friends gathered around her.  But, she evaded them and ran to him.

“Thank you for saving me Jamie,” she said throwing her fore limbs around his neck.

“We’ve lost enough over the past week, It would be a shame to lose one so beautiful,” he replied.  He smiled at her, and she looked directly into his eyes.  He felt his breath quicken and his heart flutter.  His pupils dilated and he felt so strange when their whiskers entwined as she nuzzled him close.  Her scent excited him and his ears turned red.  He’d not felt like this since Natasha…  He vaguely heard her friends make knowing squeaks.  That evening they shared his private area of the barn.  From then on, Kibbie would be his constant companion and supporter.

One morning soon after, they awoke to find the fence had been removed.  Frizzy Whiskers was back patrolling the garden, so they knew they could return home at last.

They waited patiently until he curled up in his favourite spot in the garden. Warmed by the midday sun, he was soon purring contentedly.

 Jamie led them silently to the back door and ushered them inside, through the cat flap.  He kept a nervous eye on Frizzy Whiskers, just in time he spied two juveniles stalking him.  It was a foolish game that he’d played in his youth, but F.W. was fast.

“In now!” He yelled in alarm.  The young ones heeded his call and scampered towards the flap.  Two yellow orbs followed them and the cat gave chase, his speed hadn’t diminished and he was swiftly gaining on them.  In an instant, Jamie knew the juveniles wouldn't make it.  So, he darted out across their path to distract F.W.   A flash of recognition showed in F.W.’s eyes, and with incredible speed, he chased his old nemesis.  Jamie entered the high grass as F.W. leaped to the very same spot. 

The young ones gulped...  

Jamie was gone, and it was all their fault…

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

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