THE IMPORTANCE OF THE WATCH

by Richard Banks 

When Glen was asked which of his grandfather’s possessions he would like as a memento of a long and well lived life he choose his pocket watch. Even in those final, bed bound days Granddad and his watch were seldom seen apart and Glen’s first childhood memory was of sunlight reflecting on its glass face. Determined to continue its working life Glen invested in a made to measure suit that included a waistcoat with a pocket deep and broad enough to accommodate the watch. This he wore at his grandfather’s funeral, and the following day departed to his work in the same suit resplendent with watch and chain. His mother told him that he looked ridiculous, that no one ‘in this day and age’ wore pocket watches but this he was prepared to risk. Indeed the reaction of his fellow clerks was remarkably positive and the watch much admired by old Penrose, a senior partner, who still wore his. It was he who found the catch that opened up the back of the watch to reveal its mechanical workings and an inscription on the inside of the casing.

         “What’s GOPOC?” he had asked and Glen previously unaware of the inscription could only plead ignorance. Whatever the answer to Penrice’s question it was they who had presented the watch to grandfather ‘in recognition of his distinguished service over many years’. The discovery had not only opened an intriguing window into granddad’s life but also attracted the attention of a person well placed to advance Glen’s career. How better to keep that person’s interest than by finding out all he could about GOPOC, but in the days before home computers and the Internet this proved less than straightforward. Indeed after trawling methodically through the reference books in his local library and other libraries recommended to him Glen was none the wiser. It was his Uncle George, a long time member of the Honourable Company of Water Hogs, who suggested that GO probably stood for Grand Order and that the ‘P’ might refer to the printing trade in which grandfather had been a typesetter.

         “Why don’t you advertise for information in The Times,” he suggested. “that way it will be seen by the paper’s well informed readership and the men who print it. Someone’s bound to know.” 

        

                                               *****

         A few days after the placing of the ad three letters were received but they were wrong in everything they said and Glen was in a place that definitely wasn’t England.

 

                                               *****

         How he had got there he had no inkling apart from an open coffin at the base of a shuttered window through which thin shafts of sunlight had come to rest on the wall above him. As his head began to clear he took stock of his surroundings: the narrow bed on which he lay, the half lit room between bed and window and the dark shapes of furniture within it. Outside in the sunlight the sound of many voices could be heard. Were they English voices? He wasn’t sure. An oppressive heat reminded him of Morocco which he had visited on an 18–30 holiday.

         He sat up and attempted to stand but finding his legs unresponsive to the demands of his brain fell backwards with a loud crash onto the bed. On the other side of a plasterboard wall someone else stirred and a few seconds later the turning of key in lock told Glen that he was about to receive a visit from someone who could only be his jailer.

         He struggled to his feet determined at this first meeting not to put himself at the disadvantage of looking up at the person about to appear. That was for those who knelt, lackeys his grandfather called them, men who touched their forelocks and did homage. Granddad had been a lay preacher in a church of equal, Godly men. There was no room for Lords and Masters in his life and in this moment of peril and uncertainty every word he had said resonated with the power of revelation. This was the moment for angels and heralds, for burning bushes, trumpets and heavenly light. The world was about to change, then the door opened and the world went on much as before.

 

                                             *****

         Nevertheless, there were certain logistical matters that required explanation and although the man entering the room would rather this was not part of his job description the young man in his care would almost certainly be wanting to know why he was here and not in the place from which he had been collected. Indeed, as he would have no recollection of being collected this too would have to be explained, as well as the reason he should feel pleased and honoured to be here. And all this might have to be undertaken while their ‘guest’ was still woozy from the effects of an injection that had rendered him cataplectic across several continents. Fortunately the young man was scarcely able to stand and his fight or flight responses were as impeded as his present ability to take in the geo-political complexities that would also have to be explained to him. For now the best course of action was to assure him that he was safe and among friends.

         The man switched on his smile and explained that he was the Gatekeeper. There was another man who was also the Gatekeeper but he worked only on Sundays and every second Thursday, otherwise it was him. “Call me Gus,” he said, “everyone else does.” The young man’s lips opened and shut but were unable to establish the necessary connection with his vocal cords. The look on his face, however, suggested that an angry confrontation was unlikely to occur.

         “I expect you’re wondering what has happened to you. Of course you do, and all will be explained I assure you, but not before you have eaten. You must be hungry, and thirsty too. What say you to some roast beef, Sunday dinner with all the trimmings?”

         The words lodged in Glen’s brain and assumed an importance that almost dwarfed the mystery that he hoped would soon be unravelling. He was hungry, more hungry than he could ever remember and this hunger was apparently about to end. All he had to do was to signify his agreement with a single word.

         “Yes.” The word pushed roughly through a sandpaper throat. The sound it made was not the sound that Glen was expecting but nonetheless it was definitely a yes. The man was pleased, progress was being made. It was time to take his charge into meeting room A, sit him down at the head of its long table and get him to lubricate his throat with a cordial recommended for convalescents. The liquid enabled further words to be said, although still not yet enough to facilitate the conversation that was forming in Glen’s head.

         The man left the room for the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a large plate of food and a gravy boat. He had, he said, also spoken to the Director who was looking forward to seeing him. If Glen felt up to it they could meet after dinner. There was much to tell him, much that would be to his advantage. After that Glen could, if he wished, take a stroll around the town. There wasn’t much to see now the market had ended but the exercise would no doubt blow away the cobwebs. It was evening now, the most pleasant part of the day. The man hesitated for the want of further things to say but there was no need, Glen was busy eating, for now the talking could wait.

         “Coffee?” said the man as Glen cleared the plate of everything but a thin veneer of gravy.  Normally he also ate a dessert but for once the quantity of food he had consumed was more than enough. A walk would definitely be needed, so would coffee. The man departed the room for a second time and returned bearing a tray on which was a large coffee pot with six cups and saucers. “The Director’s on his way,” he murmured as if this was news not to be mentioned too loudly. He glanced back at the door through which he had just passed. Beyond it the sound of an approaching delegation could be heard. There was a brief pause as they arrived on the other side, a possible reordering of bodies and then the door was pushed open by a middle aged man in a well tailored suit. In his wake followed three other men, the last of whom was dressed casually in a zip-up jacket and jeans. The first man in introduced himself as the Director and those about him as his associates. As of now, he was unable to reveal their names. They could, he explained, have used false names, but this would have been incompatible with the free and friendly conversation they now wished to have. He sat himself down and signalled his entourage to do the same. The last man in occupied a chair away from the table and observed proceedings with a detachment that suggested that as of now his importance consisted only in him being there.

         The Director seemed in no hurry to proceed onto the business that was his reason for being there. First he had to build up a rapport with the young man, gain his trust, ensure he was clear in both his understanding and his choice of words. Finding him both lucid and apparently not ill-disposed to his abductors the Director abandoned small talk for the serious business in hand. Glen, he said, required answers and he was going to get them. His advertisement had asked what GOPOC stood for. Few people knew and those who did were required to keep this information to themselves but Glen was the son and grandson of former members. He had a right to know. 

         The Director reminded himself that this was not a public meeting and that although he expected to do most of the talking it was essential that Glen should also speak. “So, Glen, GOPOC

stands for Grand Order for the Protection of Commerce. Does that mean anything to you?”

         Glen shook his head. “No, Grandad never mentioned it.”

         “Or your father?”

         “No.”

         “Good. That’s the way it should be. Only those within its ranks should know of its existence and the mission it fulfils.”

         “And what is that?”

         “A good question. In short to oppose the Moscow Collective. But what’s that you are thinking. You want to know about GOPOC and I am telling you about another organisation, but with good reason, for without the Collective there would be no GOPOC. What, Glen, do you know about the Bolchevik revolution?”

         “The usual stuff, 1917, Lenin, Stalin, the end of Czars and the beginning of Communism.”

         “Well said, a succinct summary to which you can add world revolution, the destruction of the old order in Europe and its replacement by satellite states subservient to mother Russia. In this were significant opportunities for personal profit, opportunities very apparent to the small and middling entrepreneurs who in 1917 renounced capitalism and belatedly joined the ranks of party bureaucrats and commissars. But how were they to benefit from the opportunities about to unfold? Their past was against them. At the back of every queue they were also the most likely to be purged. The Secret Service was where they wanted to be, stirring up trouble in countries ripe for change, destabilising their economies and taking their cut from the chaos that ensued. But when they failed to get the preferments their talents deserved they decided to form their own secret service, an organisation known only to themselves that would mop up the commercial opportunities insufficiently exploited by the politicos primarily concerned with regime change.”

         The Director took a sip of his coffee. “All clear?”

         Having signalled his response with a nod Glen decided to interpose a few words of his own. “And did they ‘mop up’?”

         “Oh yes, and with great success, extending their operations into more and more countries. In 1952 both their existence and the extent of their operations were discovered by a commercial analyst working for the London Chamber of Commerce. The UK Government was duly informed but on the advice of our NATO allies choose to believe that the only credible threat to our political and economic well-being came from the Soviet State. A few months later the murder of an eminent London banker convinced the City Fathers that if the Government were blind to the dangers they faced there was no alternative but to defend themselves. That’s when the Grand Order was formed, a covert watch and response force that would, when necessary, provide an armed deterrent ready and able to go head to head with the Collective. Recruited from the City institutions its membership passed down families from father to son. If you decide to join you will be the third generation of your House to do so.”

         The Director poured himself another coffee observing as he did the affect of his words on the young man. “Any questions?”

         “Yes. I take it from what you have said that my father and grandfather were not permitted to tell me this.”

         “Absolutely not. In the normal way you would have been recruited on your twenty-first birthday and your membership confirmed in a ceremony attended by senior officials and those members of your family within its ranks. Unfortunately the death of your father ten years ago and the more recent passing of your grandfather means that you will be the sole representative of your family; that is, of course, if you decide to join. The Grand Order is not without its dangers – your father’s death may not have been the accident it was assumed to be – but nonetheless you may consider that the benefits of membership are worth the risk. Firstly in serving your country you will be continuing a family tradition; your father and grandfather would have been proud of you. Secondly no member of the Grand Order has ever been unsuccessful in business. Your grandfather took great care in securing for you a position at Penrose Morgan. It was his ambition that in time you would become a partner. We can, of course, make that happen. So, as you can see, there are opportunities as well as danger. The choice is yours. What say you?”

         “But I’m not twenty-one yet.”

         “Two months shy but when you placed that advertisement in The Times you identified yourself to the Collective as a potential threat that must be eliminated. So, early or not, you need to make your decision now. Are you with us or not?”

         Glen pondered briefly on the choice he had been asked to make and decided that there was no choice at all. If Dad and Granddad had been members then so must he.

         “Count me in.”

 

                                             *****

         The Director allowed himself a few moments reflection. It had been a cruel deception, but a necessary one. Once recruited into the Grand Order who knows what harm the young man might have done, but sometimes a family link was not continued despite the benefits of membership; for some a quiet life was better than the uncertainties of one more eventful. He could have expressed doubts, said no, but by his assent had declared war against the comrades that he, the Director of Operations, was duty bound to protect. All that remained was for him to pass sentence in the name of the Collective and watch as the man in the zip-up jacket took aim and sent their enemy tumbling lifeless to the floor.

         The Director placed his cup and saucer back on the tray and retreated without comment to his office. He had a report to write. By the time it was done the coffin would be in use once more and on its way to the crematorium. Everything had been done by the book. The story of Glen was at an end.

 

Copyright Richard Banks             

A bottle of Prosecco 02

 A bottle of Prosecco

By Janet Baldey

It was after seven and the moon was riding high by the time Alicia’s boss had finished with her.

“Damn him to hell!” Grabbing her coat, she burst into the outside world and started to run, but in her six-inch heels this wasn’t easy.  As she lurched along, she seethed. “The bastard…tonight, of all nights, to make me work late.  I hope he dies, screaming in agony. And soon too!”

Blood flooded her cheeks and her eyes glittered.  An innocent dog walker, who happened to be in her path, caught sight of the wild-eyed figure and hastily pressed herself against the wall, tightening the dog’s lead and dragging her pet to safety as Alicia rushed by.

Alicia was not someone to be trifled with and such fits of uncontrollable anger were not unusual, she’d consigned many to a fiery demise, and tonight it was a case of touch the blue paper and stand well clear.  She had plans and her pox-ridden boss had meddled with them.  He would not be forgiven easily and if he’d been aware of the crime he’d committed, he’d be quaking in his brothel creepers.  She started to pant, the party started at eight and she needed to be on time if her ploy stood any chance of succeeding.

“Oh God, I need to take some plonk…”  Skidding to a halt she dived into the nearest off licence and grabbed a bottle of Prosecco, cheap stuff but it was only a token.  Zooming up the aisle she threw a tenner at the till and zoomed out again.

At last, she reached the end of her road, almost there, still time for a quick shower before she donned her finery.  That’s if…..well, they’d just better not, that’s all.   Just because she was their only daughter, it didn’t mean they owned her soul.  It was bad enough having to live with a couple of ancient relics without having to be at their beck and call 24/7. So, they were in their, nineties, so what?  Was it her fault they had her late in life?  Anyway, a lot of folk that age were perfectly hale and hearty - they didn’t need anyone to nanny them.  She flew through the front door and pounded up the stairs.

“Alicia.  Is that you?”  Not stopping, she took no notice of her mother’s shaky voice.

Anyway!  Who did she think it was?  Boris Johnson?  Come to think of it, perhaps he’d be at the party.

“Alicia?”

“Yes”, she yelled.  “What do you want?  I’m in a rush.”

“A cup of tea, would be nice dear.  We’re both parched.”

“I’m late.  You know where the kitchen is surely?”

Her mother sighed and patted her husband’s hand wondering where they’d gone wrong.  Alicia had always been headstrong, but lately she’d become worse. Her sister had a word for it, or was it two words?   Oh well, she struggled to her feet and reached for her cane.  “I can manage”, she thought, “as long as I’m careful with the boiling water, that kettle is very heavy”. 

Freshly showered, Alicia sat in front of the mirror carefully painting on her party-face. As she did, she thought about the coming evening, and in particular, a certain guy called Jeremy.  She would never have imagined that plain as a well-used flannel, Jenny, had snared such a catch.  Not only was he toned as a surfer guy, but he reeked of money.  After their last meeting, she had done her research found out his surname was Coollaire, as in “Coullaire Electricity, Oil and Gas Heating Co. Ltd and they were loaded.  His father, was now Sir William and the family had their sticky fingers in lots of pies.  Just fancy being married to the only son of that family. She looked around her room noticing, not for the first time, how dingy it was; she’d do anything to get out of this dump. Her lip curled like a cat being sick as she saw strands of cobwebs decorating the walls.  Why, on earth, didn’t her mother do something about them?

Her thoughts reverted to Jeremy.  He fancied her, she knew he did, a girl always knows. At their first meeting his eyes almost fell out of their sockets but he didn’t stand a chance, poor love, with that Jenny guarding him like a tigress.  And she needed to.  Whatever had possessed her to wear that unfortunate dress?  Made her look like a clown. 

Alicia sat back and studied her reflection, pouting her full lips she fluttered her eyelashes.  “Looking good, girl! Jenny doesn’t stand a chance”.  As she slipped into a skin-tight dress she imagined slinking towards Jeremy, her lips curved into a seductive smile. 

Suddenly she caught sight of the clock and sprang into action.  She needed to get a move on if she was going to snap him up before some other bitch did.   At last, sliding her feet into a pair of strappy party shoes, she was good to go. 

It wasn’t far to the venue; it was just that she found it so difficult to walk in her shoes which she was beginning to have serious doubts about; maybe she should have got a size larger but Alicia was sensitive about the size of her feet.  Gritting her teeth she tottered along, trying to ignore the pain.  At last, she came to a fork in the road where there was a choice to be made.  If she turned left, she would continue following the road that curved and would take longer but if she continued straight on, she could cross the field which was more direct.  It was a dry night with no cloud, she looked up to make sure and as she did, she saw an oblong shape hovering in the sky.  Strange, she thought it looked like some sort of doorway, iridescent pink and fuzzy, pretty really.  Vaguely, she wondered what it was, maybe some sort of drone?  Although she wasn’t normally imaginative, the word portal flashed into her mind.  She pushed the thought away as she looked up, the night was calm and clear, it obviously wasn’t going to rain, so she’d chance the field.  With that in mind, unknowingly she took her first step into another life.

***

Professor Zoort studied his latest specimen.  He was searching for a prime example of the species homo sapiens, at present inhabiting the planet known as Earth.  So far, he’d been unsuccessful.  His criteria was strict – to be of any use to him they needed a flawless skeletal system, flawless intestinal system and flawless nervous system.   It was obviously asking too much.  There was an awful lot of disease in the creatures he had studied so far.  Heart disease, lung disease, crooked backs, deformities of all kinds, he had almost given up.  They were obviously a thoroughly inbred and unhealthy race; either their brain was let down by their bodies or vice versa.   His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth with exasperation.  No wonder their planet was on the brink.  However, there was always hope.  With a soft hiss, he picked up his ossiculator.  As he began to work, his skin lightened as his mood improved.  The body in front of him looked promising.  Although he still couldn’t get used to his feeling of revulsion at the creatures’ physiology, the lack of a third eye for instance, so far, his instrument had picked up no anomalies. It seemed to be a perfect example of an, admittedly primitive, life form and both his hearts started to beat faster.  However, when he reached the creature’s brain, the red warning light at the tip of the ossiculator began to flash and disappointed, his skin darkened to emerald.  There was always something, even this superb specimen was marred and useless for his research. His ossiculator began to buzz as well as flash, and if the professor had any eyebrows, he would have raised them.  There was obviously something seriously wrong inside this specimen’s cranium.  Now, Professor Zoort was an Eriscean of some note and top of his field.  As such, he sometimes felt he lacked challenges. To put it bluntly, he was bored, the intricacies of space time continuums had that effect on him.  Slowly, he flexed his digits, and, feeling magnanimous, decided to sort out this creature’s problems.  Picking up a blade of metal as thin as a strand of silk, he opened up Alicia’s skull and peered inside.   At first the tangled mass of neurons appalled him but he tutted and carried on and the scientist within him soon took over as he delicately untangled her neurons and tidied up the havoc inside Alicia’s head, all the time making a strange hooting noise which was as near to humming as he could manage. Even so the sun had risen and gone down again before he’d finished and all was tickety-boo. 

***

Alicia’s mother sat before a roaring fire inside a room that gleamed with polished wood.  A fresh cup of tea steamed by her side and she could smell the delicious odour of roasting vegetables coming from the kitchen where her daughter was bustling about.  She should have been content but she wasn’t.  Ever since Alicia had been found unconscious in a field, an unopened bottle of Prosecco still clasped in her hands, she felt she was living inside a surreal dream from which, one day, she would be abruptly shaken awake.  For things were not normal. Ever since Alicia had regained consciousness and, much to her mother’s astonishment, had clasped her in her arms before showering her with kisses, the old lady had waited in dread for the old Alicia to return.  She took a sip of her tea but it didn’t calm her.  Alicia had started to make that strange hooting noise again.  She had worked out that it meant that Alicia was happy but then again, it wasn’t normal.   There were other things as well, the slight greenish tinge to her skin that she wondered if other people had noticed and, of course, the vegetables.  Formerly an avid carnivore, Alicia now declared that eating meat was murder and instead concocted strange vegan dishes which, although delicious, were yet another sign that things were not as they had been.  On edge the whole time, the old lady waited, in dread, for the norm to revert.  Truly, there is no pleasing some people.

However, unknown to anyone on Planet Earth, in the process of restoring order to Alicia’s cerebellum, a particle of Professor Zoort’s DNA had infiltrated that of the young woman and this accounted for the changes her mother had noted.   It seems that Professor Zoort was not as clever as he thought he was.  Or was he? As to that, only time will tell.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Tylywoch ~ 02

 Tylywoch ~ 02 Early Years I

By Len Morgan

 In primitive societies, female children were considered of little value.   The poor in particular, regard them as a means by which the Gods display their displeasure.   Many newborn girls were abandoned to the elements and allowed to die.   In some circles, this was considered a kindness considering the life that awaited them.   So, a foundling girl child would be left to her fate as a matter of course, this being the common view of most people.  General Aldor was not most people.  His view was, that Weilla’s family had valued her highly enough to hide her from the Huren, so he in good conscience should accord her at least an equal respect. 

 So, He and his wife Meillo took her into their home and loved her as their own.  They were childless, and had long ago given up any hope of having a child by natural means.   His wife had not conceived after two years of marriage, in most societies at that time, this would be sufficient grounds for divorce or having her put to death.   Not so in this mountain village, where men and women were considered equals.   Aldor knew that the fault was his own, and had offered Meillo the opportunity to have a child by another man, but this she had refused.   She was not a bought concubine; they had married for love, such a rare and somewhat strange phenomenon in those times.  She’d refused to conceive by deception, denying herself the comfort of a child when Aldor was away administering the provinces.  Many of the Tylywoch envied their love match, but lacked the vision to emulate it; that was their loss. 

At three, Weilla was fully integrated into the ways of the 13^th clan.   She was treated the same as any native born child. As soon as she could walk and talk, her training for life began.  At this early age, children have no fear, prejudice, or precognitions.  The Young Tylywoch were taught contrary to other societies.   Girls and boys were regarded as equals in every respect.   They were taught to fight, kill, and survive for long periods without food and water.   They were taught where to procure many things they could drink or eat in times of attrition, and where to find them.   They ate foods that would not normally be considered edible by conventional Cheilin society.  Outsiders; would often die of hunger and thirst in the midst of plenty.   They were simply not aware that Insects, grubs, plants, carrion, tree sap, lizards, toads, snakes, and many other exotic life forms were freely available and quite edible. 

The young are trained progressively, to control and live in harmony with their environment.   They are taught to harness the power of their mind.   To control their body functions, enabling them to enhance their physical and mental capabilities.   The best students are able to slow their heartbeat and control the flow of blood to any part of their body or to increase the speed of their heart beat.   Enabling them to cope with sudden heavy physical demands, resulting in increased strength, in short bursts, moving at speeds beyond anything thought possible by outsiders.   In extreme situations they could emulate animals, by entering a state of near hibernation.  They could control bowel and bladder movements, suspending them for days, or evacuate at an instants notice.   They are taught always to be mindful of bad character traits that could get them killed in combat or covert operations:  Traits such as Laziness, Anger, Fear, Sympathy, and Vanity, all are the common enemies and are severely punished when identified.   Lives depend on unquestioning loyalty instant obedience, and the ability to act in the best interest of the community as a whole without thought of self.  Their skills ideals and abilities are tested daily, in life and death situations, where weakness or a wandering inattentive mind could cost lives.   All the basic human virtues, faults, and failings are tested for on a regular basis.  The physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional attributes of each student are known to their trainers.   By the time they reach the age of five (some do not), they are highly trained and valued members of Tylywoch society, as formidable as any adult from outside their mountain stronghold.   By the age of ten, they have been tested to their limits many times.   The numbers that do survive are a testament to the dedication and skill of their trainers.   At this age, they are expected to begin specialised training, according to their talents, personal skills, physique, and natural ability.

.-…-. 

   Weilla and nine others in her group of five-year-olds were to be tested.   A hole had been cut in the ice, and one by one they were lowered down into the swift flowing but ice cold river.   They were suspended there completely immersed for three minutes, then hauled out and revived.  To survive, they had to slow their whole metabolism, selectively shutting down body systems to conserve air, body heat, and energy.   Effectively suspending all body functions.   Weilla happened to be the last one waiting to be tested.  She knelt on her cloak, beside the frozen bank, concentrating her mind in order to enter the necessary mental trance state required to survive the ordeal.   Her Preparation was distracted by a state of agitation in the people around her.  A tendril of her mind took a peek and discovered somebody frantically attempting to cut another hole in the ice, a hundred yards further downstream.   Others insisted it was a waste of time, the boy would already have been swept past the hole.  The water was flowing much stronger than expected in the open channels, so the search would be more fruitful further downstream.  She gleaned from their urgent discussions that Ferrice; the boy tested immediately before her; had been lowered into the water and his line had snapped, he had been swept away downstream.  Weilla roused instantly on realising the danger to a friend and dove down into the murky waters.  Without the benefit of a trance state, the shock of the cold instantly drew all the strength and heat from her body.  She allowed herself to be carried by the strongest flow; in the direction, Ferrice would have been taken.  Though vulnerable outside the trance state, she did at least have her wits about her.  She intended grabbing her friend and signaling to those above, to rescue them. 

She rose to the surface briefly, to signal to the searchers.  That was when she realised, she was on her own.   She had already been carried way beyond the second hole.   Mind destroying fingers of fear sprang from nowhere determined to undermine her, but her determination was stronger, and she banished fear from her mind contemptuously.  If… WHEN I find Ferrice, she thought.  I will have to haul him to a hole, or to the bank and smash the surface ice.  If I can stand, I can accomplish it, then find us shelter where we will be discovered by the searchers.  Her lungs were now bursting for air.  Forcing her face up close to the ice, she found the free air space she’d been taught would be there; not for a second had she doubted.  Taking three deep breaths then a shallow one, She dove down again, deep into the swiftest flowing part of the stream.  Her body was now completely numb but, it was not necessary to feel it to use it!  Not for an instant would she indulge in self-pity.  She would locate Ferrice and they would survive.  Failure was not an option for the Tylywoch.  Something hard banged against her head and she grabbed for it instinctively, realising immediately that it was a leg.  She had him!  Now all she needed to do was get him to air, then get him to the bank, then get him to shelter.  It was simple, one step at a time, and they would survive. 

.-…-. 

Aldor and others had been called by horn to aid in the rescue.  At that very moment, the rescue party was being briefed.

“They’ve been down for nearly six minutes?” Aldor repeated looking for confirmation, with a sinking feeling in his stomach.  The invigilator nodded in affirmation his distress, plainly evident.

“Then Ferrice is nearly out of oxygen, and Weilla who is not in trance will have been breathing from the ice-water Gap.”  Grabbing a heavy metal bar, he ran along the bank at breakneck speed for about a mile, until he felt he’d outdistanced them.  Then he started urgently cutting holes in the ice.  Holes large enough for a five-year-old to scramble through. 

As Aldor dug furiously he was aware of others running past him at speed, each with an ice breaking implement in their hands. When he’d dug holes for the fastest and most obvious channels he ran on, leapfrogging the others in the rescue relay.  Half a mile further on, he dug more holes, then he ran on and started again…  He kept relentlessly on until he heard the recall horn signifying the search was being called off.  He knew as well as any, that nobody could survive for more than half an hour in water at close to freezing.  Sick at heart, he returned slowly to the assembly point, his wife Meillo waited stony faced, wearing her stoic mask, showing bravery to the world.  Inside, Aldor knew she would be dying slowly by degrees.  He knew that Weilla, their belated gift from the gods would never again jump eagerly into his arms to be hugged, or simply to be near him.  At that moment, he knew that he was more likely to break down than Meillo.  The trainers spoke with admiration of Weilla’s bravery and the selfless way she went to the aid of a fellow student fearlessly putting her own life at risk…  Aldor heard the words but could take no comfort from them.  It was a freak accident they said.  The rope had severed on a sharp shard of ice, and two valued young people had died. 

At their lowest ebb, a trapper arrived hauling a sled behind him.  “Found two strange looking critters huddled together in my canoe, under my new pelts, anybody want to claim them?” he asked, unaware of the drama being played out before him.  Incredibly, he was referring to Weilla and Ferrice, both in a deep trance state, their life signs barely discernible, but they were alive and stable.  They were rushed to the nearest hut where they were revived gradually, over a period of twenty-four hours.  Both had passed the test, though Ferrice remembered nothing and Weilla recalled too much!

 

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 THE WAITING

By Rosemary Clarke

Shaking, quaking now it's time

Can't pretend that I feel fine.

Needle's coming, tension grows

Can I dodge it, I don't know.

Painful though it is to me

Others all go through it, see?

I have to really do my piece

To keep Nat working, that's my niece.

For she's a Carer, they care for all

Tall or short or big or small

whatever creed, whatever race;

they care for all, they find the space.

All it takes is one quick prick

help stop them all from being sick.

And so I wait here in the Mill line ... 

 not feeling good or even fine.

I'm doing this to help and save

many Carers being brave.

I do not aid the sick and dying

I feel inside like I am crying.

I want so much to run away

but, come on girl, you've got to stay!

They lead me round into a chair

I wish I wish I wasn't there!

I must sit down and turn my head;

I'm trembling with certain dread...

What's this?  She says that it's all done!

I can't believe it, I am stunned!

One jab in upper arm is it

Oh now I feel a proper twit!

I don't mind that!  I feel ok!

I'll go home now, begin my day.

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

The Bottle of Prosecco 01

 The Bottle of Prosecco

By Sis Unsworth

Megan so loved prosecco, she drank it most of the time,

well, in between the gin and tonic, or the odd glass of wine.

But prosecco she enjoyed the most, it was her poor man's champagne,

it made life a special occasion, so she drank it again and again.

But then along came lockdown, just one bottle remained on the shelf,

should she save it till things got better, or drink it now by herself?

Megan studied the bottle intensely; it did look a sheer delight,

So not to spoil its appearance, she wouldn't disturb it that night.

Each day she looked at the bottle, it was a great pleasure to see,

and dreamt of the day she would drink it, as she sipped her hot cup of tea,

When the lockdown eventually ended, she took down the bottle to drink,

It had been her only companion, and then she started to think.

She realised she had been lonely, but the bottle had given her hope,

That life would soon get better, that image had helped her to cope.

In fact it didn’t get better, for on the late news she then saw.

The cost of gas and electric, would now soon begin to soar.

The cost of living was going up, while interest rates may soon rise,

more people were now using food banks, it all brought tears to her eyes.

Why sit and wait for better times, take the good times with the bad,

so now she made a decision, and that instantly made her feel glad.

She forgot about the bad things, and took the bottle from its shelf,

and poured it into a real posh glass, she was ready to drink it by herself

All that time she had been saving it, she was ready to drink it right now

but life can be quite complex, best laid plans do go wrong somehow.

just as she had her first taste of it, and went to pour some more

Megan dropped the precious bottle, watched it smash upon the floor! 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

Tylywoch ~ 01

 Tylywoch ~ 01  The Travellers

By Len Morgan

   Aldor awoke.   He knew it would rain.    He could feel it, taste it, hear it spattering in the dust.   He could smell the quick damp earth, for sure, it would rain!   Except the day was dry and arid; like hundreds that had gone before!

‘But, It was a good day to be alive,’ he thought.   Then, his nostrils twitched and dilated, it was imminent.

The world was on hold; waiting.   Ancients foretold of a turning tide changing everything irrevocably; whether for good or ill depending, as always, on your perspective.  

   He was aware of his companions, waiting expectantly beside their tents, with jugs, bowls, hats, and water skins, to hand.   They knew not, how he did it, but they had faith.

His childlike face was animated, as he peered tentatively beyond the tent flaps, his eyes widening in expectation.    “Now!” he whispered. 

 Taking it as a sign, the heavens darkened, clouds banked, and life sustaining rain oozed from a grudging sky.   Slowly, little more than a mist to begin with, then the droplets grew in size and quantity.   Aldor listened appreciatively licking dust-laden moisture from his lips. 

Turning his face to the sky, he whispered, “thank you!”

What they collected would last until they reached their next destination, in a day or so, a small border village known simply as Weilla.

.-…-. 

Fifteen miles suth-ard a priest prayed with fervour, to Asgath, for rain to save the crops and livestock of his flock.   He prayed in vain; his perspective was wrong! 

.-…-. 

The alarm was raised by a seven-year-old perched in a tree.  They came from the nor-west, he should have been looking nor-east, but as boys do he became bored.   His eyes and his mind wandered.   Even so, there was barely time for the villagers to hide their food children and valuables, below ground before the visitors arrived. 

Every year at harvest-in, local bandits would sweep down from the hills, carrying off food, valuables, and livestock.   Each autumn the villagers left enough to satisfy their visitors, whilst hiding sufficient to see them through the winter, replace livestock, and buy seed for planting next season.

 This year, however, the bandits would not be coming.  Their bloated and blackened corpses were providing a late, and unexpected, banquet for the carrion-eating population of the province.  They had been wiped out, together with a number of the towns and villages to the nor-west.

Instead - hordes of mounted warriors - the Huren; rumoured to spend their whole lives in the saddle; had descended upon them.  Like locusts, they destroyed plundered and ravaged everything in their path.  Sleepy rural towns and villages had never known their like, and would never do so again.  They killed the old, the young, and any who attempted to defend themselves, enslaving those who did not.  They tortured survivors to reveal where their food and valuables were hidden.  They took everything, poisoning the wells, and water holes behind them, firing buildings, and any crops still remaining in the fields.  The Huren were ruthlessly efficient, none of their victims escaped to give warning to others.   They might evade the horses but they could not outdistance the foot soldiers; who relentlessly ran them down.

.-…-. 

Two days passed, before the band of itinerant players arrived, to set up a carnival in the village.  Their sense of unease grew as they drew nearer; the smell of death was in the air.   They would have skirted the village but, they urgently required fresh water again for themselves and for their livestock.   Then, on viewing the carnage, they knew the wells would be poisoned.   Fortunately at least one of them was a healer, skilled with medicines poisons and panaceas.  Well able to identify the agent used and provide an antidote.   All members of this band were expected to learn and practice arts, crafts, and skills that would provide extra income, and improve their chances of survival. 

General Aldor, was saddened by the passing of friends.  The inhabitants of Weilla had always been supportive and generous patrons; other villages were less so and moved them on.  Even in bad times, Weilla had provided them with support.   In gratitude and recognition of that past generosity, Aldor ordered their dead to be buried.   It was a melancholy but necessary task.   Only when the bodies were beneath the ground would the gods accept their souls into the after-world.  Souls of the unburied were destined to wander the earth as disembodied spirits until their remains were eventually interred.   The sad task took most of the day, but they were rewarded by unearthing several caches of food, and valuables.   They also uncovered a newborn child, barely alive but strong of spirit, with a single-minded will to live.  She suckled hungrily at the breast of a woman who had recently weaned a child, whose milk had not yet dried up.  She agreed to wet nurse the child in return for an extra portion of the food and coin discovered with her.

The child was named in memory of her people, henceforth she would be known as Weilla. 

The band drew and purified water sufficient for their needs, and moved swiftly on, thus avoiding the attentions of evil spirits commonly drawn to such sites of violence and carnage.

When next they passed, it would be as though the village had never existed:   Its perspective had changed forever. 

.-…-. 

   The small band acted with military precision, moving swiftly on to their next venue, only to find it too had been pillaged and raised to the ground.  They picked up their pace, moving with increased urgency, fearing the whole country might be laid to waste by the Barbarians.   Despite their haste, it took them five days to run the Huren down.  Then, barely a mile distant, they could see a village in flames.   Dark black smoke rose high into the air, its acrid taint mingling with the smell of blood, sweat, and horses.   Even at this distance, they could plainly hear the sounds of slaughter.   Aldor sent runners, to skirt the carnage, and warn any unsuspecting villages, hamlets, and towns in the immediate path of the Huren.   The message was to flee for their lives with everything they could carry that wouldn’t slow them down, to bury what they couldn’t take, and to spread the word.   Aldor also sent messengers to the two nearest Imperial Garrison Forts, using his official seal.   He sent with each, a profile of the attacking Huren force, numbers, weapons, tactics, speed & direction of travel.   With details of the action his band, the Tylywoch, would take to harry and slow them down.   In addition, he noted likely places to spring an ambush and other known defensible positions of which he had knowledge.   Local commanders were likely to know the area more intimately anyway.   So the most important part of his communication was probably the credence given by his seal of office.   The late Emperor, Daidan III, had bestowed upon him the office of General of Internal Security.  The seal would guarantee an instant response from any Cheilin officer receiving it.  Just a simple device, known throughout the periphery of the Empire - the letter ‘A’, partially eclipsed by a supine Tylywoch feather.

Daidan III had returned unexpectedly to the wheel of life, months earlier.  He went peacefully in his sleep, naming his successor in a script to the ‘Knod’ weeks before.  His appointee would be the first Empress in living memory.

Aldor and his small band of travelling performers, just 36 in number, were far more than they seemed.   They were an elite intelligence gathering, and counter insurgence unit, members of the unofficial 13^th Clan of the Cheilin Empire.  They were pathfinders, bringing order and justice, to the border provinces and disputed outlying territories.   They carry out covert operations to aid and win the trust of the local inhabitants; usually by example.  Though not above the law, they were the only law in existence for hundreds of miles. 

    Whenever there was trouble, they would appear, though none would ever suspect their connection to the travelling carnivals.   

Aldor had learned from his scouts that the invading force comprised of 2000 warriors.   Mainly light cavalry, without armour, ideal for hit and run operations.   Half would assault a position, leaving one in ten of their number behind to protect supplies and the slaves taken in their previous actions.  The remainder, some 1000 warriors would encircle the target town or village, on foot, prior to the attack.   Only closing in when the attack was pressed home.   They were easily able to capture and punish any who attempted to flee.   At the conclusion of a conflict, sixty or so would carry their spoils back, ten to fifteen miles, to their supply train. 

Aldor and the Tylywoch, now heavily camouflaged, travelled parallel to the returning group picking off stragglers with blowpipes, arrows, poisoned shuriken, and knives.   They kept to the shadows, whittling down the larger force until only a handful remained, then they struck.   Survivors were interrogated with ruthless efficiency and killed quickly if they co-operated.   The raiders were confirmed as being Huren from the nor-west, they’d made their way through the Sabre Tooth mountains, during the long arid summer and drifted down into the outlying districts looking for easy pickings.   Their leader was a renegade known as Shapp, an evil and ruthless butcher, whose nose had been bloodied in a similar but unsuccessful raid two years earlier.   Aldor had crossed swords with his kin, probably his grandfather, in his far distant past.   However, this was most certainly their furthest incursion into Cheilin territory; without retaliation.  

Aldor knew they came for easy pickings and, was determined they would never live to tell.

 The liberated villagers were sent to seek the protection of the nearest friendly garrison.  They met up with an exploratory Garrison force within a day, and passed on further despatches from Aldor to their unit commander.  Aldor was confident that his orders would be carried out to the letter. 

.-…-. 

They skirted the camp, noting the disposition of their guards.   As night fell they moved in closer.  When the guard was changed they eliminated the old guard before they could return to their blankets and disturb those still sleeping.   Then they disposed of the new guard before they made the mental transition from off duty to on.    There was then nothing to prevent them moving silently from tent to tent methodically despatching the occupants in their sleep.  By morning, it was over.   The prisoners were roused, fed, watered, and sent in the direction of the nearest garrison.  Aldor released pigeons to carry word of the incursion back to the Eternal City, the Capital of the Cheilin Empire, and to his home base - a small mountain village far from the established trade routes - which served as a refuge, training camp, and home, for the Tylywoch.  The old, the sick, and the young remained there and farmed, in order to ensure there would be food and winter shelter for the travelling bands.  In addition, they defended and trained the young Tylywoch, who would continue their work.  

There were children barely able to walk, as ruthlessly efficient as fully trained warriors; Tylywoch in body, mind, and spirit.

  At mid-day 6 Huren scouts returned to find out why the supply train had not yet caught up with them.   They were eliminated quickly and efficiently.   The bodies were stripped, searched, and relieved of anything useful weaponry, valuables, and clothing.   The horses were sent on to the garrison, loaded with spoils.   One was returned, riderless to the still smouldering ruins of the village below, which had the desired effect.  An hour later several hundred Huren came charging up the hill.   After consultation, the main group followed the obvious trail, whilst three were sent back to report.   The three were killed and their horses herded back down the hill.  Aldor and two thirds of his force followed the main body of Huren down the now well beaten path, fully aware that a more substantial force would soon be in pursuit.   An hour later, they saw the tell-tale dust clouds rising behind them.

Three miles on, the track narrowed affording room for only two horses to ride abreast. Here they took to the slopes on either side.  The narrow pass was about thirty yards long; even so, two thousand of Shapp’s picked cavalry rode through it without reducing speed. 

Aldor was ecstatic; Shapp had split his force a classic misjudgement!   The Tylywoch now hid above the narrow defile, watching the brash cock-sure Huren negotiate the bottleneck.

Shapp’s orders to the force commander had been, “Go after them, and bring them back!”  Whoever the commander was, he had little finesse and precious little respect for the local forces; this would soon be remedied.   They rode on for a further two miles, where a well trained and rested Garrison of Imperial troops waited in ambush.   Those at the rear were being whittled down, by the Tylywoch on either side of the track, long before they entered the box canyon and headed for the second bottleneck, where four good men could hold off an army.   There were considerably more than four men waiting for them.   Others waited at the top of the steep scree slopes on either side, raining arrows down upon them, decimating them without redress.  Several determined attacks on the bottleneck failed to punch a way through.

Having already lost a third of his force under withering fire, their leader decided to retreat.  Back, to the narrow section, where the Tylywoch were waiting to deny them any means of escape.   More withering fire built a barricade of Huren bodies to further frustrate their attempts to break out.  They abandoned that tactic and tried to scale the slopes, but were unable to establish a foothold.   They weren’t even aware of the Garrison troops moving up behind them until they attacked.   For the first time in their campaign, the Huren were sensing the bitter taste of defeat.

The Garrison troops attacking from the rear threw them into disarray.   Though they fought like cornered rats, asking and giving no quarter, in less than twenty minutes it was all over.   The Garrison lost less than two hundred men, the Tylywoch only two, with six serious but non fatal injuries.   Of the raiders, a force of almost 800, not one would greet the dawn.   Women & children searched the killing fields, slitting the throats of the wounded, and the purse strings of the dead; it was done as an act of charity. 

The remainder of Shapp’s Northern Raiders briefly occupied the ruins of the sacked town.  This afforded them little comfort, since they had burned all the buildings, and had only the food and supplies remaining on their persons, supplemented by what they had scavenged from the ruins.  Their mounts had no fodder, because they had indiscriminately fired the fields.   They were surrounded by the combined strength of two Garrisons, 2000 well trained battle hardened troops.   Their half hearted attempts to break out were ruthlessly punished.   The Imperial troops played the waiting game intent on starving them out.   In a week they would be eating the raw flesh from their own horses. 

By that time the small band of itinerant performers would already have played to packed audiences at two, maybe three additional venues.   There would be time to visit seven or eight more before the frosts sharpen the morning air, and it became necessary to return to their mountain sanctuary where they would wait out the winter in comfort amongst friends.  Aldor looked forward to seeing his wife Meillo once more, it had been a long absence.  But she well understood the responsibilities that fell on his shoulders.

(To be Continued) 

Copyright Len Morgan

RAYLEIGH LIBRARY WRITERS GROUP

RAYLEIGH LIBRARY WRITERS GROUP

Minutes of meeting held on Thursday, 27 January 2022.

Those present: Janet Baldey, Jane Scoggins, Sis Unsworth, Len Morgan and Richard Banks. (The presence of Mr Woodgate was sensed when we all held hands but he was no nearer than Crewe where the spirits were in full flow.)

Subs: £5.

Cake excellent;   (Espesh Bread Pudding)

Next two meetings: 2.30pm,Thursday, 10 Feb at Rayleigh Lodge;

                                7.00pm, Thursday, 24 Feb at Sis's. 

Homework: 'Everything Must Go'.  (But what is everything and what happens when it goes?)

End of minutes.