Tylywoch ~ 11

 Tylywoch ~ 11 Divine Light I 

By Len Morgan 

   They were less than a day away from the Eternal City, when they heard the circulating rumours.   The Emerald Palace was or had been under attack.   The stories varied, but it seemed that the raiders, who most thought were Tylywoch, attacked from within. They overpowered the household guards and the Empress’s bodyguard, taking her captive.   Some seemed certain that she was already dead, others that she and her retinue were, barricaded in the throne room complex refusing to allow anyone in or out. 

As they approached the city, the trickle of refugees became a flood.   Foreign workers and merchants put as much distance between themselves and a site of potential carnage as possible.   People who were not native to the city had a habit of being blamed for things and often ended up as the first casualties.

Weilla was concerned, “What is happening, could it really be Tylywoch?   No! that would be ridiculous…”  she voiced aloud her disbelief.

Galyx sucked on a back tooth choosing his words with care, “That really depends.   If the Divine light were truly in danger and it was the only way to protect her they would.  I certainly would!   It would be their duty to do so,” he said with dreadful certainty. 

They entered the city just before dusk.   A city, familiar to Galyx, that Weilla viewed for the very first time with awe, she could scarce hide her surprise and wonder at its beauty and size.

“We will be staying with a local merchant and his family, they are Tylywoch and will be in a position to brief us on the situation with facts rather than idle speculation.”   He made no attempt to hide his contempt for hearsay.    They are an important intelligence group, and have been living in this city under constant threat for more than five years …”  Galyx halted and pulled her into the shadows.   They watched as a troop of militia marched by, stopping a group of new arrivals.   Their papers and persons were searched.

“Are we in danger?” she whispered.

“Best to be safe, the Captain of militia is an old adversary and some of his men may also know me.” As he explained, he led her down a side street away from the military presence. 

Fifteen minutes later, they stopped and knocked on a heavy wooden door – 3 short, pause, 1 long, 2 short.   They waited thirty seconds, then Galyx rapped twice more and waited.   Within moments, they heard a heavy bolt being drawn back.   The door opened, and they were ushered in.   The lights were off and the curtains drawn, they stood in total darkness for several moments until a voice said “welcome friend.”

“May chance never be a factor.” Answered Galyx, as the door was barred once more.

From a curtained side room a young woman appeared with a lamp, closely followed by an older woman.   Galyx embraced the short fat merchant, his wife and his daughter.   “This is Galt, his wife Amree, they were members of my first Quad.   This is their daughter Schell, she is about your age Weilla and was trained in my home village.”   The young women exchanged greetings.

Amree and Schell produced pastries and wine. They sat and consumed their simple but filling meal.   When the remains of their meal were removed from the table Galt cleared his throat, and began his briefing.

“There was no warning given, we were all caught by surprise.   Three days ago the Surbatt attacked.   We called our team together and went abroad to gather information.   It seems they were gathering to celebrate the conjunction of the moons in the manner of the Bluttlanders.   The 9^th Clan had apparently been infiltrating the city for some weeks, arriving in small groups and keeping well out of sight.   Then without warning, they converged on the Emerald Palace in their thousands and were let in by insiders from their own clan.   They knew what they were doing.  They struck at key strategic points, taking over strategic positions with the element of surprise and superior numbers.   By all accounts, they should have snuffed out the Divine Light and taken power in a relatively bloodless coupe.   But, they underestimated the Tylywoch, who even now defend her in the central chamber of the palace…” 

“The throne room,” said Galyx in amusement.

“Correct!” said Galt.

“The Surbatt have spread rumours that the Divine Light is being held hostage by Tylywoch.   They cannot now allow her to live, or the truth would come out.   Our clansmen are defending against overwhelming odds.   While most loyal troops from other clans seem either to have swallowed the story or have been sent out searching for Tylywoch or any suspicious characters that may be aiding them. Others, more savy, have been arrested and now reside in the accommodation beneath the palace; against their will.  That includes most of the Red Guard.”

“I cannot believe they surrendered,” Galyx said.

“She ordered them to put down their arms” Galt explained.

“They may well be our only chance, I’ve got to get in there and free them.   Is there an easy way?” Galyx said thinking aloud.  

“The only sure way in is to get arrested and handed over to the Surbatt for interrogation.   You would need a damn good plan of escape though, the other members of our current quad are down there with countless others called to aid our clansmen, there are dozens still unaccounted for,” said Galt.

“Have pigeons been sent?” Weilla asked.

“All our birds were released when they started the house to house searches.   The cages were used for firewood.   In answer to your question, there should be a number of Tylywoch bands heading in our direction at this moment, but we don’t know how far away they are or how much time we have…”

Galyx stood up, coming to a decision, “I’m going in!” he said with finality.   “If the situation worsens or if I fail to return in twenty-four hours, assume the worst.   Weilla as our only other Generalist, I would expect you to take command and give the necessary orders, no matter how painful.  At all costs, you must ensure the safety of the Empress.”

“Schell, observe.” Said Galt.   She went up into the roof space and watched Galyx stumble drunkenly into the street, and straight into the hands of his old adversary and drinking partner. 

“Captain Vadeem!   What is happening?   I’ve been back in the city for less than a day and it seems as if there’s an emergency in progress.   Why are you and your men not ensconced in some cozy tavern enjoying the fruits of your just and righteous labours.   Come, let me pay the first reckoning…” He stumbled clumsily towards a nearby tavern.

“One moment sir,” said the captain, “papers if you please.”

“Oh come on Vadeem, it’s me Galyx, why be you so officious…”

“Papers!” the captain demanded more forcefully, a hard edge creeping into his voice, a determined jut to his jaw.   Galyx saw also, the number of unsheathed swords now pointing in his direction.   He chose not to acknowledge them, brushing them aside as he took several steps towards the captain.

“Of course old man,” he answered brusquely fumbling inside his tunic.   “Orders are orders, believe me, I know.”   He handed over his wallet and the captain took his time studying his papers.  

When he spoke, his voice was cold and formal.   “Captain Galyx, you are under arrest as a possible enemy of the empire.   You will accompany us to a place where you can be detained and properly questioned, until such time as your involvement in the kidnapping of our illustrious Empress can be established.” He turned to his patrol, “Take him to the guard post.”

“Arrest?   Kidnapping?   Enemy of the empire?   Are you delirious?   I’ve just arrived back in the city after six years absence fighting border skirmishes in the back of beyond.   My remit is to protect the Divine Light with the last drop of my blood if necessary, that makes me an enemy?   You’ve been listening to reactionaries from the 9^th!   I’d have thought you’d know better,” he said noting the force of his words hitting home in the mind and the eyes of captain Vadeem, a good and valiant warrior from the 5^th Clan.   He was about to pursue it further when the truth dawned.   The patrol was an eclectic group comprising elements from various clans, most significantly a third of them were from the 9^th Clan.   He fell silent.  

His arms were seized from behind, he deftly feigned a stumble and shook them off.  

“No need of help gentlemen.   I’ve now quite recovered my composure.”  He unsheathed his sword and presented it hilt first to the captain so fast, that none had time to react.   Without another word, he started to walk in the direction of the nearest guard post in that sector of the city.  

“I think sir, he should be taken to the palace for interrogation,” said a crusty sergeant from the 9^th.

“Sergeants outrank officers in the 9^th?” asked Galyx.   Without further comment, he changed direction heading towards the Palace.

(to be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

TOMORROW

TOMORROW 

By Sis Unsworth 

John did so hope for tomorrow, or the day after that may still do,

but how to live through the present, he really didn’t have a clue.

He’d gone and caught Covid last Monday, standing at the local bar.

Now he was in full isolation, just for enjoying a jar.

All day he stared through the window, hoping to catch someone’s eye,

his house was so far from the pavement, he felt he wanted to cry.

He didn’t mind being alone there, he quite liked his own company,

He had his old tom-cat there with him, he stroked him on his knee.

It wasn’t isolation that got to him, the one thing he really did fear,

He must be okay by tomorrow; he was down to his last can beer.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

EVERYTHING MUST GO   (2nd & Last)

by Richard Banks

  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.

         The Angel thought not. He motioned at the few things left on the stall but even when they were gone the Angel seemed disinclined to do anything but observe. 

         “What now?” protested Ernie, impatient to get the dying over with and his new life begun.

         “Everything must go,” replied the Angel, staring at Ernie and the remaining obstacles to his passing.

         “What, not my….?”

         “Everything!” thundered the Angel. He continued to watch as Ernie unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it onto the cart where it was snatched up by a rough sleeper who also laid claim to his shoes and socks. Another man of bedraggled appearance grabbed Ernie’s trousers. He looked thoughtfully, but without enthusiasm, at Ernie’s boxer shorts before deciding that they were best left where they were.

         “Can we get on with it now?” pleaded Ernie clinging defensively to the waist band. “No one’s going to want these.”

          For once the Angel raised no objection and on the peremptory instruction of “follow me” set off between the market stalls, turning left into Railway Parade and second right into a narrow lane of dismal appearance that had somehow acquired the name Paradise Road. He stopped outside a large Victorian building and rang the doorbell. “Tell them who you are and that you have an appointment with the Archangel at 2.45.” Without further comment, the Angel began to walk away.

         “Aren’t you going to stay?” said Ernie.

         “No,” replied the Angel, “things to do and people to see. It’s down to you now.”

         A panel opened in the door and a face peered through it. The voice belonging to the face said, “blimey, what do you want?”

         “Ernie Smallpeace to see Gabriel please, I’m his 2.45. I’ve just died, at least I think I have, to tell you the truth I’m not too sure.”

          “You look alive enough to me,” said the face. “Is this how you usually show up for meetings?”

         “Ernie assured him that the Angel had left him no choice. “Everything must go, he said, so it all has, everything except what you see. Have I not done enough!”

         The entity on the other side of the door expressed the opinion that he had done more than enough to gain admittance. The panel slid shut and the sound of bolts being drawn was followed by the opening of the door. The figure that now came into view was deceptively humanoid, his heavenly attire consisting of a white, knee length coat over a polo necked T-shirt and denim jeans. Reassuringly the initials IHS appeared on his coat pocket.

         “So, you want to see Gabriel?”

         “Yes, that’s right, Gabriel the Archangel.”

         “Oh, that Gabriel. Then you had better come in. My colleague here will show you the way. You follow on and I’ll bring up the rear as they say. Don’t want you getting lost before you see Gabriel.”

         “No,” replied Ernie; this was not how he thought it would be. Slightly reassured by the ascent of two flights of stairs he was shown into a small, windowless room with upholstered walls. His two attendants hastily withdrew to the corridor outside and shut the door. By the light of a single light bulb shining down from a protective grill in the ceiling he surveyed the empty space around him and the dark grey, walls that in several places bore the initials IHS. Yes, he told himself he was in the right place. This was no more than a reception area for the necessary processing of new entrants. Once done all would be well and he would be up and on his way, hopefully, kitted out with something to wear. Perhaps, he thought, it might ease things along if he sent up a prayer. He was about to kneel down and cup his hands when the rattle of key in lock heralded the arrival of a visitor. To his relief, the door opened to reveal the Angel and a tall, bearded man who announced that he was James.

         “What, James the Apostle?” said Ernie, wondering if this was a step up or down on Gabriel.

         “No, I’m James from Ilford Health Services. I gather that you know this man and are seeking entry into the Kingdom of Heaven?”

         Although the answer to both questions was yes the accompanying statements of fact did not auger well for his onward journey. “You mean you’re not the apostle and this isn’t heaven.”

         “No,” said James, and whatever my friend may have told you he isn’t an Angel. This is the Paradise Road Psychiatric Unit where I work and this man, when we can stop him from escaping, resides here. If you would also like to stay I can arrange a psychiatric assessment, if not, you had better leave.”

         The Angel frowned and said that this should not be allowed to happen. Although Ernie was a gullible fool he was also a good man who deserved to go to heaven. He had been prepared to sacrifice everything that he owned for the uncertainty and poverty of another world that he sensed and valued but barely understood. He had faith and those with faith should always have their reward.”

         “But why bring him here?” said James, “this is Paradise in name only. Surely you know that?”

         “I do, but no one, even in this grim place, should be without hope.”

         “And what hope have you brought who daily adds to my troubles? Don’t say you are about to leave?”

         “Indeed I am,” said the Angel. I take this man to heaven and would gladly take you. All you need is faith. In faith, there is also hope.”

         “Oh, that again,” said James. “Do you never give up? I only wish you were an Angel but you are just a man.”

         “But I am an Angel,” insisted the Angel, “and if you are not coming we must be off.”

         James wondered what might be said that hadn’t been said before, but he was too late, the conversation had ended and he was alone.

 

The End

Copyright Richard Banks  

LESSON HERE

 LESSON HERE  (Thoughts of a twelve-year old)

By Peter Woodgate 

Countries form part of it

Ground structure is the art of it

Geography,

I hate that stuff.

 

Punctuation, my heads just full of it

Reading, I’ve had my fill of it

English,

I hate that stuff.

 

Algebra, can’t make sense of it

This equation, I’m rather tense with it

Mathematics,

I hate that stuff.

 

This program, can’t get my head around it

A gigabyte, don’t liken the sound of it

Computer studies,

I hate that stuff.

 

The world and individual greed in it

How we behave creates a need for it

Sociology,

I hate that stuff.

 

My chisel’s always blunt when I use it

Please Sir, it’s such a mess, will you excuse it?

Woodwork,

I hate that stuff.

 

It’s green and I have fun on it

Sometimes I see the rabbits run on it

Grass,

I smoke that stuff.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Tylywoch ~ 10

 Tylywoch ~ 10  Swordsmith II 

By Len Morgan

   “Bianne Cantro” he spoke it aloud for the hundredth time.   Such a wonderful name, so full of dignity and authority he mused, recounting his afternoon’s adventure dreaming of passion….

“So what did her father the good colonel say?”  Terrek interrupted his daydream.

“You have just saved my most precious possession sir, I am forever in your debt…” Jax quoted verbatim.  

“ABOUT THE SWORDS, you idiot!   Was he happy with them?   Ought to be, they’re the best he will ever own,” Terrek said.

“He tried both, and was very appreciative of the fine balance and craftsmanship, he particularly liked the gilded chasing, said he will be more than happy to settle the account on the next quarter-day.” 

“Good!   Now perhaps we can get back to more mundane matters.   The city militia’s order for two dozen bulk standard blades, will keep us employed for the next two weeks.”   He looked Jax straight in the eyes placing a hand on his shoulder, “I think you’ve earned and deserve the chance to forge your first solo blade.”

Jaxs’ face flushed with joy.   “One of the two dozen?”  He asked, scarcely able to contain his excitement.

Terrek smiled again not wishing to dampen the lads' enthusiasm “We’ll see, no promises mind, I had the dubious honour of turning my first effort into plough shears” he shook his head and walked away, the look of amusement still on his face.

Jax’s first attempt was indeed clumsy but, with the masters' direction, it turned out to be a reasonable blade – from Terrek’s forge that meant a superior quality plain unadorned blade.   He went on to produce a second, third, and fourth each better than the last, while matching Terrek hammer blow for hammer blow.  When they viewed the finished blades Terrek was unable to distinguish one from another. 

"Boy, you've done good work!"

"Thank you Master," it was praise indeed.

 Without another word, Terrek produced a small block of fine steel  [1" x 2” x3”]. 

“Make me the finest blade I have ever seen and I will make you a journeyman with papers to prove it!” he said.   This as good as told Jax that it would be his prentice piece.  If successful he would become a fully-fledged Swordsmith.   Without another word, Terrek walked out of the forge and into the city.   His plan was simple, to celebrate by getting drunk in the company of friends, allowing his young apprentice to prove his worth. 

(To be Continued)

 

By Len Morgan

 Hand Washing

 

By Shelley Miller

I often wondered if I might be a little too keen on handwashing... my husband would say I am. Since the untimely visit to our shores ( right on top of Brexit) of Coronavirus, my hand washing has hit a new all time high.

The Morrisons shop assistant meets me in the carpark now before I've even put the hand brake on to present me with my weekly fix of simple soap and Zaflora.

It's fair to say that my husband has become long-suffering since C19. When he arrives home from work I greet him at the front door not with a welcoming kiss but orders to "DROP EVERYTHING!!!" and "STAY RIGHT THERE!!!" Lest he contaminates our home. I'm nothing if not polite and good-humoured about it so I'm rewarded with compliance. He wasn't smiling the other day when I insisted he scrubs his hands with a bit more TCP, especially around the cuticles. "Are you about to lose your patience?" I asked him apologetically. He fixed me with his 'for Goodness sake' look, but his lips were too tightly pursed for words to escape. "I'll listen to a lecture about the perils of going over board" I went on,” but not before you've washed your hands!"

After all the faffing about we sit in the front room to have dinner with another episode of Corona Virus aka BBC news.
I love the predictability of routine, there's something very reassuring about it.

Copyright SCMiller. 

 

I post this anecdote with my most humble apologies to Shelley!  It’s been sitting in my Archived box since 16^th April 2020; I have no idea how it got there.  But it’s still relevant today (two years later).  

Len 

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