EVERYTHING MUST GO 1 of 2

 EVERYTHING MUST GO   (Part 1) 

by Richard Banks

     When the Angel came and told Ernie that he was to give away all his worldly wealth he was less than keen. He had worked hard during his forty years of employment, he deserved what he had, and after all, it wasn’t so much. OK, he had a detached house but so did lots of other people; that didn’t mean he was rich. If he was rich he would be living in the tropics somewhere, enjoying a life of luxury. Instead, he was working his butt end off in Hackney selling plastic grass to those too lazy or busy to be cutting the real stuff. 

         “Why should I?” He asked and the Angel gave him the kind of look that threatened retribution in the form of an earthquake or lightning strike. When it didn’t happen Ernie decided to stick to his guns. After all the Angel wasn’t so impressive, he hardly glowed. Was he an executive Angel? He wasn’t dressed like he was anyone important. “Have you ID?” he asked. The Angel gave him an ‘as if’ expression that, convincing as it was, seemed more at home on the face of a teenage girl. It was an expression not to be trusted and the angel realising his mistake decided to reassert the authority of his office by quoting from the bedrock of faith. “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”

         “But I’m not rich,” protested Ernie. “Honest, I’m not. If you want rich, go and find yourself a billionaire. I’ll give you a list, they’re the ones you should be talking to.”

         The Angel also wished he was speaking to a billionaire but his client list was restricted to those with assets under three mil; not that this was any business of the man. His divine mission was to deliver a message, not to discuss it beyond the uttering of threats should the man seem likely to defy him. Heaven was not yet a democracy and, while the old guard was in charge, never would be. There was less than fifteen minutes until his next appointment. It was time to cut to the chase. “The choice is yours. Donate it all to charity and go to heaven or continue on as you are and burn in hell.”

         “It’s not much of a choice,” said Ernie.

         “None at all,” agreed the Angel. “So get on with it, you have just seven days to sort things out.”

         “Only seven?” said Ernie. “Is that all the life I have left?”

         The Angel confirmed that it was.

         “Can’t I have a bit longer?”

         “No, next Saturday, between two and four in the afternoon. That’s when it will be. Get used to it.”

         “So, what happens when I come up,” asked Ernie. “Should I bring a toothbrush and a change of clothes, or will I have to wear a frock like the one you’ve got on.”

         “This is my celestial robe,” retorted the Angel smoothing it down so that it covered his knees. “And less of the ‘when’; you aren’t up there yet. Remember, everything must go. Now shut your eyes, it’s time I was off, there will be flashing images you won’t want to see.”

         The man did as he was told reinforcing his eyelids with the palms of both hands. On the count of ten, he peeped out and was relieved to find himself alone in his front garden, lawn mower plugged-in and ready to go as it was when the Angel appeared. There was no time to be lost, and abandoning the transitory delights of gardening for the more serious business of everlasting life he immediately set off to the nearest solicitor for the purpose of making a Will.

         “So, who is to be the beneficiary?” asked Mr Hand, the second Hand in the practice of Hand, Hand and Armstrong.

         “A charity,” replied Ernie, wondering which he should choose. Did Heaven have a favourite charity? If it did it would surely be a church one, but which church would that be – RC, C of E or one of the others? They all claimed to be the true church and maybe one was, but who knew for sure this side of the pearly gates. If he was on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ he would be able to dial a friend who was also a theologian but he wasn’t, and anyway he didn’t know any theologians. He had only Mr Hand to guide him and although he had evidently not sought a vocation in the church he might still be the conduit through which heaven would make its wishes known. While Mr Hand would have made no such claim for himself he did have a list of the UK’s most prominent charities.       

         “Perhaps,” he said, “one of these will catch your eye,” but none did and Ernie was left squirming with indecision. For the first time in his life, he sent up a prayer for divine guidance and after peering hopefully at the ceiling returned his gaze to the list to find his thumb resting on number seventeen, the ‘Christian League for the Relief of World Poverty’.

         “An excellent choice,” said Mr Hand freed from the complexities of making a Will without a beneficiary. “And what do you wish to leave?”

         “Everything,” said Ernie, “house, furniture, cash at bank, the whole caboodle.” 

         “And nothing to anyone else, no close relatives who might consider themselves to have a claim on your estate?” Mr Hand had never written a Will cutting off a wife or son with a shilling piece. The thought of doing so, even in new pence, had an appeal that was almost intoxicating. Given such an opportunity he might easily have been persuaded to waive his fee. Sadly this was not to be; Ernie it turned out was both an orphan and a bachelor. The news raised a fresh concern that might in the years ahead reflect unfavourably on his professional reputation; “but supposing you were to marry.”

         “No time for that,” said Ernie, “I’m dying on Saturday.”

         “Are you ailing?” enquired Mr Hand, “you look fit enough to me.”

         “Never fitter,” agreed Ernie, “but when your time is up what choice do you have? At least I’m going to a good place, to tell you the truth it’s a bit of a promotion.” 

         Mr Hand attempted to look pleased but was troubled by a deep sense of puzzlement followed by concern that his client might decease before the encashment of his cheque. “The Will will be ready by Tuesday,” he said, “can you pay by card?”

         Their business concluded for the day Ernie returned home to finish his gardening and consider what else he should be doing in his final days. “Everything must go,” the Angel had said and everything would to the Christian League but could they be relied on to make use of all his bits and pieces - his books, DVDs, Star Wars figurines, clothes, bed linen, garden tools, and kitchen stuff. What if the League abandoned these to the tip? What good would that do, and in his last few days on Earth he definitely needed to be doing good. As the Angel had said, he wasn’t there yet and what he did next might well decide his abode for centuries to come.

         He determined that nothing must be wasted, that every last thing should be found a new owner who would value or find it useful. Consequently, on the following Monday, he hired a handcart and for the rest of the week used it to convey his many things to the local street market where he gave them away to anyone who declared themselves willing and able to give them a good home. On Saturday he bid farewell to his house and set off with the final cartload to his pitch and the crowd that was waiting for him. As usual business was brisk and by 2pm he was almost out of stock when the ranks of his customers were augmented by the Angel.

         “Is it time?” asked Ernie.

(To be continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

         

Tomorrow 01

 Tomorrow

Janet Baldey

When you were small, before the Great Terror when metal fell from the skies and your mother screamed, you remember hearing people say, ‘tomorrow never comes’. “That’s silly,” you’d say, watching your beloved Mama brush her hair into a golden cloud, “of course it does.  When I go to bed, I’ll wake up in the morning and it will be tomorrow!”  You weren’t a stupid child and the split second the words popped out of your mouth, even before Mama started to laugh, you realised your mistake.  You still remember the slow burn of blood flooding your face.  You hated to be wrong and Mama said afterwards that she could almost hear the cogs in your head whirring as you fought to turn your words around.  At last, you spoke. “Anyway, the world is a big place and I’m sure today is somebody’s tomorrow.”

         But they were right, you think as you look into the mirror trying to see past your grizzled exterior to the child you once were, because the old man staring back at you will never have a tomorrow.  His face is so lined by grief it’s as if someone has taken a knife to it although the pain hasn’t started yet.  When it does, you’ll stuff your mouth full of rags and lock yourself in a cupboard, because no one must hear your agony.  But now, it is time for reflection and you must grasp it because soon torment will drown all thought.  You think briefly of him and hope he’s enjoying his meal.

         You had a happy childhood, all seven years of it.  You had Mama, Baba and Tato.  No brothers or sisters but then you didn’t want to share your Mama who had spun-silk hair and eyes the colour of summer.  Baba was tiny, so dark and shrivelled she looked like a seed potato.  You once asked Mama why Baba was so small and she said it was because she was starved when she was little.  She was lucky to be alive, Mama said because millions of people died when a man called Stalin took all their food.  That was why Baba screeched when you wouldn’t eat your dinner, because she could remember what it was like to be hungry.  'She thinks you’ll die”, Mama said, “like all her brothers and sisters”.  She asked you not to think badly of Baba, and sorrow misted her clear blue gaze.  So, for her sake, from then on you always made a special effort to eat all your food, even the cabbage rolls that tasted like pig dung.

         Your memories drift from dwarf to giant.  Tato was as tall as a house and so strong he could lift a donkey.  You wanted so much to be just like your father but you were small and had pale eyes, not like Tato’s whose were so dark, they twinkled like jet when he laughed.  Sometimes he showed you his muscles and when you felt them it was like prodding iron.  You felt safe then, knowing that he’d never let anyone hurt you.  But Tato wasn’t there when the tanks came, there was only Mama and Baba and no matter how loudly they screamed they couldn’t stop the soldiers when their boots marched into what was left of your house and snatched you away.  The soldiers laughed when you cried.  They were being kind, they said, because you’d never have survived if they’d left you.  How could they not understand that you’d rather die with your family than live without them?  You never heard from your parents again but even now, in the dead hours of the night, you sometimes hear them wailing. 

The truck you were driven away in bounced over the ruts of the ruined earth so violently that soon every muscle in your body hurt as you were thrown from side to side. You grew sure that at any moment you’d fly up, meet its canvas top and only a hole would be left to show you’d ever existed. You actually wished for this, because then your torment would be over.  You’ve learned since that life is never that simple and you close your eyes fighting against mental pain so intense it’s as if acid is dissolving your bones.

Your mind skips over the journey, mercifully shrouded by time, and tiredness, after all, you were only seven.  At last, the soldiers relinquished you, “Untouched,” they joked.  “We are not that sort of beast.”  There were many other children at the place you were taken to, and which they called an orphanage.  You remember raging at the word.  You were not an orphan, you had a family, then the tears would fall and you’d be locked into a little room to control yourself. 

Whilst there, you and the other children, were guarded by stone-faced women who dressed all in black with a headscarf covering their hair and shoulders. They were ancient and strict but you were never abused - if you overlook the fact that lack of love is a form of abuse.  You were fed, so that you didn’t starve.  You remember staring at a dish of thin gruel with dark rye bread and wishing with all your heart you were eating cabbage rolls again.

When you grew big enough you were set to work in the fields, digging up potatoes from the frozen earth or picking fruit. For this, you were paid with an extra bowl of greasy soup with lumps of mutton floating on the top.  It looked foul and no doubt tasted the same but you were so ravenous you gobbled it up without noticing.  One day, instead of working in the fields you and the other boys were set to scrubbing walls and smearing them with paint.  Words were whispered from corners of mouths that special visitors were expected and sure enough next day a small convoy, accompanied by puffs of dust, drew into the courtyard.  Your heart started to beat so hard you were scared people would hear but the men who got out of the trucks were not soldiers.  Tall men in drab raincoats slammed their doors and leaned against them, smoking and chatting.  The nuns made all the older boys line up and you felt the pit of your stomach curdle as the men walked towards you stripping you naked with their eyes.  They stopped right in front of you, and gritting your teeth and, remembering your family, you refused to show fear.  Instead, you stared straight ahead without flinching, ignoring the drum roll in your chest.

“Unusual” said one. “Not normal colouring for a Kulak brat.”

“He will like this one,” said another, “it will be like looking into a mirror.”

“Maybe, it’s one of his by-blows,” yet another said with a snigger that was immediately stifled as he saw his companions’ mouths tighten into trap doors.

So, you and some others were taken away once again.  The journey was smoother this time, Russian roads are straight and not rutted by bombs and cannon shells.  After what seemed like many ages, you were eventually shaken awake and when you stumbled out of the truck you thought you were still dreaming.  Surrounded by forested hills and standing alone under a star-studded sky, was a huge castle whose many walls glimmered in the moon shine.  At the time, you thought you’d never seen anything so beautiful, but then you hadn’t yet seen inside.  That wouldn’t happen for many years and when it did, it was quite by chance.

Although the castle was huge and could hold many people, it was almost always empty except for the paid staff and people like yourself.  You liked it that way.  Your job was to tend the gardens and along the way, you found a sort of happiness.   You loved being   alone and at peace, surrounded by beauty, with the twinkle of the blue sea in the distance.  You loved grovelling in the dirt, planting, weeding, nurturing the earth until it rewarded you with flowers.  One summer day you were far away when suddenly a shadow fell across the grass. You hadn’t heard any footsteps, maybe it was because he walked like a cat. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled and you jumped up, turned around and saw someone you didn’t know but instantly recognised.  A small, neat man with shiny black shoes, with tiny suns reflected in each polished toe.  It’s strange but you always remember those shoes.  Your throat dried as you looked into his pale, flat eyes but frozen into a statue, you showed no emotion and eventually he turned and walked away as soundlessly as he’d arrived.  That was a tale to tell, you simply thought but his mind is a mystery, even to those who purport to know him well, and for some reason, he decided to bring you indoors.  You often wondered why because your duties were minimal.  Your first was to sit outside his door all night.  You were shown a bell to push should anyone pass by, even those he called his friends.  It was a boring job and you grew sleepy but you knew very well, not to close your eyes.  His anger was a fearsome thing, and if you failed you’d pay the price and no-one would ever see you again.  That was the first thing you learned.  As time went by, you learned other things.  For instance, his idol was Stalin.  He admired that monster and remembering Baba, your hatred grew. 

It seems that in the flirt of a bird’s wing, you grew old and your bones began to ache. You were given lighter duties, and one of them was to serve alcohol to his guests after dinner.  It was then you discovered the breath-taking extent of the President’s ambition.  Evening after evening, their voices slurred by vodka, his accomplices egged him on, lauding his goal to emulate his idol and spread the red stain of Russia over all of eastern Europe.  As you poured drinks you listened, you were invisible, you were trusted and after all what harm could an old peasant do?

You learned he was creating a great army with money amassed from the West whose credulous leaders he scorned.  It was said the outrunners of this wall of armed men had already reached the outskirts of your home country and their tanks were a silent column, waiting like cats watching mice.

Your hand shook so much you splashed vodka on a table, was called an ‘old fool’ and dismissed from the room.  As you climbed the stairs to your room, you remembered your family and groaned at your impotence.

The President trusted no one and sometimes you wondered what it was like to be a man who must have known he was hated and feared by the whole world.  What must it be like to have no friends, only people who used you and, given the chance, would turn on you?  But this was not your problem and your problem had just been solved, again just by chance.   The President’s official food taster fell sick with Covid, the disease the West had created specifically to kill Russians, according to official sources.  Immediately, you offered your services and was accepted without question.  So now you had the tool but what good was it without ammunition?  Then you remembered, the weapon of choice for those with no money and only a peasant’s guile.  You’d seen it used once, long ago at the orphanage against a hated priest with a liking for young boys, and it was something could never be entirely forgotten. 

You had to search long and hard before you found it, nestled at the base of one of the Turkish pines that surrounded his mansion where it lay glimmering like a piece of the moon fallen to earth.  Amanita Phalloides.  You looked closer and saw there were two, nestled together in a sinister conspiracy.  To be quite sure, you picked them both and as you did, the faint odour of rose-petals filled the air.  

You had to wait a few days but the cook was a creature of habit and Putin had his favourites, of which mushroom Stroganov was one.  You remember staring at the steaming plateful before demolishing half.  “Fine cooking. He will enjoy this.” You said and made your escape to the safety of your room where you wait.

A few hours after consumption, vomiting and diarrhoea wracks the body but then you seem to recover.  This is an allusion, for toxins are already destroying your liver.  There is no cure and eventually you will welcome Death as a saviour.  So it is that although you will never be rewarded by the news of his demise, you have no regrets.  Your only hope is that you will endure your agony bravely for perhaps this was what you were born for.

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

WHY?

 WHY? ~ (A POEM FOR MOTHER'S DAY)

By Rosemary Clarke 

Why did you leave me 

When I wanted you?

Why did you leave me

When I needed you?

Fifteen and a half

Is not old, they say

So why was it then

That you took your love away?

You loved and protected me

All the years through

But it was just when

I really needed you

You turned your face

To the empty wall

Did you ever care at all?

Was it with hope 

That you let him in?

Let him commit

The final sin.

Letting your daughter's life

Know such pain

Would you really 

Do you that again?

I know you're dead

I know you're gone

But pain and fear

They linger on

They've made me 

What I am today

Between life and death

I'll always sway.

I wake up each

And every morn

Wishing I was

Never born

But time has ways

Of making amends

It's given me

Such lovely friends.

And also, a light so dear

My lovely Nat

Is ever near.

By having friends

I'm given health

In helping you

I help myself.

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

                             

Everything Must Go 

By Jane Scoggins

Born in Blyth but made in the Royal Navy. Not alone anymore, and teaching me what I didn't learn, or the teachers couldn't teach in school. Better is out there. Time to cut the rope. Be part of a crew. That sounds good to me. Get away from this small boring little town in Northumberland, not far from Blyth, and see the world.

So I put in the work at the gym and got super fit. I ran along the seafront I don't know how many times. In wind and rain, sun and on more than one occasion, sleet. I scraped through on the GCSE requirements and biometric testing and waited for the start date. My God the training was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I thought all that shouting by the sergeant major was only the stuff you saw in films. But no it actually happens. Not as brutal as in the films but still pretty aggressive at times, or so it seemed to me anyhow. Man up, I told myself, but sometimes I found it hard. I didn't think I would miss home quite as much as I did. More than once wondered if I had made the right decision to join up. But as time passed and I settled to the routine and the rigours of training, I developed an inner strength and a determination to see it through. Like the chap on Mastermind would say ‘I’ve started so I'll finish’. I made a few friends and that helped me find my feet. My training was mainly at HMS Raleigh in Cornwall, at the opposite end of the country to my home. Everything about it was different. The weather, the accents, the scenery. The furthest I had ever been from home had been Scarborough. Our summer holidays had usually been spent on the sands at Whitley Bay, about 10 miles away. Time passed and news from home was that Mum had met a nice man she was going out with. I was pleased for her. She had been by herself since Dad passed nearly five years ago. I still don't like to dwell on that time. She was so brave. As a teenager, I didn't cope well with his loss. I wasn't much use to her. Fortunately Mum’s sister Jackie was great and helped us out. I finished my training and went home on a week’s leave to see Mum and meet her man Dave. We were both a bit nervous. But he turned out to be a lovely bloke and very keen on Mum. She was happy, radiant I think the word is, and so I was pleased for her and told her so with a hug. I went back to start my six month deployment in Africa knowing that Mum and Dave would look after each other. My deployment was not a particularly happy time for various reasons and I again started to have doubts about my life ahead in the Navy. Emails from Mum each week with photos of her and Dave enjoying life and each other made me happy and sad at the same time, and I wished I had someone of my own. But I didn’t. When Mum emailed to say that she and Dave had applied for a shared job in Cornwall on a static mobile home and caravan site I assumed it was for the summer season and they would be returning to Northumberland. But no, they got offered the job and it was a permanent post with nice accommodation. Dave was giving up his lorry driving job to take on the management of the campsite. He had a good knowledge of vehicle maintenance and a licence to move and transport large vehicles. Mum had a wealth of knowledge on cleaning over the years. You name it she had had a job cleaning it; offices, schools, old ladies cottages and big posh houses.  Our house was always spotless. She was our Mrs Hinch.  She had worked at the local One-Stop Shop in recent years too, so was a dab hand stacking shelves, checking invoices and manning the post office counter. So her role on the campsite was to be the site housekeeper and supervisor. They were over the moon. I requested leave to go home to see them before they left. Unfortunately with other people requesting leave and then on top of that Covid restrictions, my leave was delayed. It was a long journey home and when I eventually arrived home I discovered that I had just missed Mum and Dave’s departure. I was really disappointed.  They had had to give up the house tenancy on a certain day and their start date had been brought forward. Mum messaged me to say she was sorry and suggested I go and visit anytime I wanted.  Auntie Jackie put me up on her sofa. She opened up her garage and showed me the stuff that Mum had set aside for Jackie to sell for her. She was going to put things online locally to sell and was also going to have a garage sale.

 

She said that Mum had told her to let me look through the stuff to see if there was anything I wanted to keep. I decided to wait until morning when the light was better as there was no electric light in the garage. We had a Chinese takeaway that evening and I phoned Mum. They had arrived and she was full of excitement about the accommodation and the beautiful surroundings.

‘Lovely spacious mobile home son, it's static with a little bit of garden around it. I can see Lavender and Hebe plants. You know how I love my gardening, there’s bird feeders too, and the most beautiful views towards the coast’.

 She paused to take a breath, and I loved to hear the excitement in her Northumberland brogue. She asked me to visit. I could overhear Dave behind her saying

‘Yes man, do come and see us’.

 In the morning I let myself into the garage and surveyed the array of bits and bobs, small bits of furniture and a collection of supermarket cardboard boxes. The furniture didn’t interest me; neither did the boxes full of pots and pans, cutlery, mugs and plates, although I did rescue my old Superman mug. One of the last boxes held a jumble of stuff that had belonged to me. Some bits so old they must have been in the loft. An exercise book from primary school full of my childish spidery writing as I practised the cursive style of joined-up writing. A little poem about a Robin, and a sentence saying ‘When I grow up I want to be a spaceman and fly to the moon with my Dad’.

In the box were a few Corgi and Dinky cars. I picked them out and lined them up on the top of a long box that had once held bananas from a far off country and was now assigned to holding a collection of china birds, dogs and cats wrapped in tissue paper and bubble wrap.

I held each of the cars, the fire engine and the police car individually and allowed childhood memories to flood into my head and swirl around. I remember them so well, and when I had got them. The fire engine had been a present from Dad when the lady down the road had had a fire in her garden shed, and I had been afraid when I had seen the leaping flames and heard the shouts of fear from neighbours. The firemen had soon put the fire out. I had kept worrying about it so Dad had bought me the little fire engine with all the details on it in miniature, and with two firemen sitting in the cab with their yellow helmets.

Dad had said, ‘We will all be safe now son, now we have a fire engine in the

house’ and at 4 years old I had believed him of course. Every one of those little toy vehicles held a happy and significant memory for me. Whilst I was deep in thought and reflecting on the past, auntie Jackie appeared and said.

‘Have you seen anything you fancy keeping then?’

Now that I had discovered the Dinky cars I realised I wanted to do a bit more searching to see if the old Dandy and Beano and football annuals had been kept, or the world globe or the little wooden box I had made and carved in woodwork lessons.

Before I could gather myself to reply auntie Jackie held up a sign she had hand painted in big letters in bright blue paint:

 

EVERYTHING MUST GO

 

‘This is for the garage sale. What do you think?’

I smiled at her in recognition of her efforts, and because she had a little smear of blue paint on the end of her nose.

After taking a last look around the things in the boxes, and then closing them up, I put the little fire engine in my pocket.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

 MY POO

By June Druce

I have written about all kinds of things

Even about a snail and his house

I have written about a frog on his lily-pad

I have put pen to paper about a mouse.

And now I am going to write about my poo, no less

A special poo, to be exact

It must be special because the doctors have saved it

And sent it to a lab to get data and fact.

They think it is clostridium difficuli

What a name to give a poo

I bet he never thought when he appeared

He would be named, what a posh name too.

I feel sorry for all the other poos

They just get washed away

My clostridium difficuli poo

Will be remembered to this very day.

So, to all the poos, that go down the pan

Your brief entrance was for a short while

But my one will go down in history

I am so proud, it makes me smile.

 

June Druce 16 March 2022

Tylywoch ~ 09

 Tylywoch ~ 09 Coming of Age III 

By Len Morgan

“Weilla, you have been assigned to the personal bodyguard of the Divine Light, Empress of Cheilin. for the next two years, you will protect her from harm, and if necessary lay down your life to ensure her survival.   You are no doubt aware that the very existence of the 13^th Clan is dependent upon her continued wellbeing.   If the ruler of the Empire dies from other than natural causes, events will be set in motion that will end only when the last of the Tylywoch is dead.  We will be hunted down and destroyed, with every Clan's hand, set against us.” 

“Why have I been chosen to carry such a burden?” she asked.

“Our other available generalist is Galyx, who is to take over the duties of Aldor  until such time he returns from his current mission…”

“But, Aldor is dead!”

“Not so…”

“Meillo my mother died believing…”

“She died of an incurable disease.   She knew he lived, but was not able to keep the sickness at bay any longer, she took both secrets to her grave.” The counselor looked deeply into her eyes. 

“You, Galyx, and the members of this council are the only ones who know that he lives.   His life is in your hands, do not repeat it outside these walls.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” said Weilla.

“It is not shared for your sensibilities,” said Galyx, “we need to know this to fulfill our function.”

“I know that, but thank you anyway,” she said.

“You will leave together at noon, speak to no one, take with you only what is necessary for the journey, and to enable you to accomplish your mission in the Eternal city.   The journey will take you two weeks.    On the journey, Galyx will teach you the necessary protocols and court etiquette, that will enable you to fit in.   Any questions?”

They looked at each other and shook their heads.

“May chance never be a factor,” said the supreme counselor ritually.  They bowed formally and left the council chamber. 

.-...-.

Their journey to the Eternal City was unhurried, but not without incident.   At noon on the fifth day, they stopped to eat and train.   As they sat discussing the finer points of her new position, two travellers stopped nearby.   They watched as the men carefully unloaded their horses, one took a bucket to the stream for water as the other fed and groomed each beast in turn.   Weilla noted that one horse was sweating heavily and seemed distressed with colic.   When the second man returned, and the horses were watered, she expected them to eat.   Instead, they knelt, facing in an east-ard direction in a prayer posture.   Finally, they unpacked their food and ate.  

The elder of the two men smiled in their direction.

"Can we offer you anything?" he asked.

"Thank you no, we have eaten sufficient for our needs," Galyx replied politely.   "Is there anything we can do for you?"

"Thank you no.   Unless you happen to be in possession of a simple emetic, our pack horse is suffering possibly from something he has eaten."

"I have some small skill with healing," said Galyx, "If you would allow me to view the beast at close quarters?"  

The old man beckoned him to join them.

Galyx took some of its sweat on his fingertips and sniffed.   He touched it on his tongue.   "Her stomach is heavily distended, it's hard and bloated, an emetic would not work fast enough in this instance," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud, as he did when teaching.   He felt around her girth as he did so until he found the spot he was seeking.   He drew back his arm and hit it with a blow of some force, and the animal toppled over onto its side.   The young man ran in pushing Galyx away and taking the horse's jaws in his hands.

"You've killed her you oaf!" he exclaimed angrily.

"Do not stand there," Galyx warned, as a rumbling sound came from deep in her bowels.   All at one the animal jumped to its feet regurgitating most of the contents of its first stomach straight into the concerned young man's face.   This was accompanied by a sharp whip-like crack, and the vilest soup exuded from its other end.   Galyx and the older man beat a hasty retreat, the young man was not so lucky, the foul stench took his breath and left him reaching like the unfortunate beast.   Weilla smiled as she watched him hurry in the direction of the stream.

"My thanks traveller, I think you just saved its life," said the elder man offering his hand, "We are Maliq and son.   It was indeed fortunate for us that we stopped here.

"It is always good to practice one's skills, without use they atrophy," Galyx explained.

They continued their journey just as Maliq the younger returned from his prolonged bath.   The horse was back on its feet and breathing easier.   Maliq the elder offered food to his son and returned their wave as they left.

Invariably, they camped beneath the stars, rather than be recognised in some local inn.   They preferred to remain nameless and anonymous, the last thing they wanted was to arouse the curiosity of local authorities.   So, they were in the habit of stopping early and moving well away from the side of the road so that Galyx could coach her on court etiquette, and the best ways of dealing with the local populace.   In addition, they needed to maintain their physical and mental edge for combat situations and to centre themselves spiritually.

They engaged in an hour of hand-to-hand combat, in a rotation of set situations, individually and as a pair.   When their routine was completed, they made their way to the stream and bathed.   As they returned to the road, they heard voices and moved closer… 

"Their pack horse is heavy ladened see how it's sweating up?   There are only two of em, I'd say the three horses alone would be worth a few bruises, ok lads, let's take em!"

There were eight rough-looking men, four with swords, two cudgels, and two bowmen.

 "Let's do it the easiest way possible, you two shoot the riders, we'll finish them off and grab the horses."   The bowmen moved towards the road, Galyx and Weilla moved in parallel with them, closing the gap as quickly as possible without being seen.   As they flexed their bows, Weilla realised they may still not be close enough to make an effective intervention.   On impulse, she pulled out her signal mirror.   A switch flipped inside her brain and increased the flow of blood through her arteries, she began moving at super speed along the tree line at the side of the road.   As she closed on her targets, she flashed a beam of light into the eyes of the lead horse.   The beast reared up and bolted, the other two followed suit.   The bowmen had lost their clear targets and hesitated.   In that instant, the horses had passed by.   Weilla and Galyx plucked the shafts from the taunt bows, delivering vicious kicks to delicate parts of their anatomy before their presence could be detected.   Efficient percussive strikes to the forehead silenced them permanently.  The whole action lasted less than six seconds.   The bowmen were only vaguely aware of them, their victims and the other six members of the band knew nothing.   As things turned out, it looked as though the horse shying had kicked the bowmen prior to running off.

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 COURAGE IN UKRAINE

 

By Rosemary Clarke

We hear you, Amelia

From your bomb shelter cold

By the looks of the footage

You're not very old.

But with all your bravery

Lift up your voice

Keep showing the people

That they have a choice!

The Ukrainian people

In shelters are cowed

But you will not find

One head that is bowed

They play and they dance

They write and they sing

And give hope that we help them

New life we must bring!

While governments flounder

With red tape and rules

Ukrainian children 

Can't even have schools!

The UK must step up

And so must the rest!

We're supposed to be powerful

We in the West!

Instead we ignore it

Or do little more

While the likes of Amelia

Are freezing and poor

We should be ashamed

Of ourselves and our ways

For peace in the West

Will see former days!

If we do not help

We leave it in vain

For peace for the world 

Will be smashed once again!

You glance at this poem

Get on with your time

Forgetting this message

Is really a crime!

Ukraine is not really

So far away

But, get on with your life

And ..'have a nice day'.

Copyright  Rosemary Clarke