Breakdown

By Janet Baldey

A soft, but insistent, whine gradually brought Nora back.  With an effort, she opened her eyes and realised she was still sitting on her bed, not even dressed.  A wet nose nudged her tightly locked hands and she looked down to see her dog staring up at her, its brown eyes anxious.  Oh God, it had happened again.  She could remember waking up but then nothing.  She’d had episodes like this before and dreaded the spreading darkness that threatened.

She licked her lips, her mouth felt thick and sour as if she’d been eating dry cement. It was the sleeping tablets.  She should stop taking them but then she’d either not sleep or be plunged into terrifying nightmares that sent her body flying upright into the night. They were bad but perhaps the happy dreams were worse.  They’d be together again. She’d awake, cocooned in a drowsy stupor and turn, expecting to see his familiar shape next to her, but his side would be empty, and then she’d remember.

         The dog’s nose thrust deeper into her hand.  He was hungry she realised and forced herself to stand. On unsteady legs she walked into the kitchen, seeing that the sun was up and streaming through the windows, decorating the flagstones with lemon-coloured oblongs of light.  She ladled food into the dog’s dish. He needed a walk.  For that matter so did she.  “They” whoever they were, said that exercise was ‘good for the mind’, it chased away depression and put things into perspective.  She hoped they were right. After all, that was what she and Ian had come here for. Perspective. At first sight, they’d both fallen in love with the old stone cottage set high above the cliffs with the moors an endless mauve haze on one side and the sea on the other.  It was their dream home.  Resolutely, she squeezed her eyes shut damming the tears.

         Outside, she lifted her face to the sky where mares’ tails stretched towards the horizon and after a few seconds, she started to run. Paddy bounded along, leading the way and with a river of wind streaming through her hair, she began to feel better.  Blood thrummed through her veins and the fresh air cooled her cheeks as she followed the dog down the track towards the blue glimmer of the sea.  In better days she’d often followed this route, it led close to the edge of the cliff where it veered right and ran down to the cove.  She blanked her mind and concentrated solely on the track as she ran, a turned ankle would be the last straw.  Suddenly, she heard a high-pitched bark and looked up to see Paddy’s rear end disappearing from sight.  He’d obviously sighted a rabbit, something he couldn’t resist.

         Her heart ratcheted up a notch as she realised they were very near the cliff edge, so near she could hear the booming of the waves as they thrashed the cliffs face.

         “Paddy, no,” she yelled.  “Bad dog, come back.” Realising her mistake she hastily changed tone. “Good dog, come back, Biccy,” she wheedled. Neither had any result and her stress levels soared.  She couldn’t lose him as well, not after everything else.

         Not running now but sprinting, she reached the turn of the path and saw that her fear was very close to fruition.  Paddy was charging full pelt towards the edge of the cliff, chasing something she couldn’t see.  At the last moment,
he realised and tried to skid to a halt but his momentum carried him forward and to her horror she saw him disappear over the edge. 

         “Paddyeee”, she screamed his name but only the wind answered. She’d always been terrified of heights but ran as close to the edge as she dared before dropping to her knees and crawling nearer, her fingers using the turf as an anchor as she peered over the cliff.  Wind flooded her eyes with salt and desperately she blinked the tears away.  She had been hoping that a stray bush had broken his fall but the cliff face was sheer, dropping hundreds of feet towards the grave that all sailors feared.  Suddenly her mouth opened and she gasped as a tiny plume of white foam appeared in the middle of a vast blue stretch of ocean. Seconds later she saw a dark speck appear, battling in and out of the waves.  She shivered as she watched.  Paddy was a muscular springer spaniel and loved the water but even he couldn’t be expected to conquer that amount of sea. Time and again she saw him rise to the surface only to disappear before he rose again.  She also realised he was swimming in the wrong direction, not towards the beach but away from it and her throat ached as she screamed her frustration.

         Desperately she scrabbled in her pocket for her mobile.  The coastguards, they were the only people who might help, but did they turn out for dogs?  She could only hope and she had to do something.  She would beg and plead If that’s what it took.  To her relief, someone answered on the first ring and immediately some of her tension fell away.  The voice was rich, deep and plummy reminding her of long-ago Christmases.  She took a deep breath and tried to marshal her thoughts but her words exploded like a scattergun discharging its contents.

         “Take a deep breath, Miss, and start again.” The man sounded patient, as if he had all the time in the world.

         “My dog….fallen off the cliff.  He’s in the water and swimming out to sea.  Please help him.”

         “And whereabouts are you, Miss?”

         For one terrifying moment, her mind went blank and her nails dug deep into her palms.  Then she remembered.  “St Anne’s Cove.”

         “I’ve got you.  Don’t worry my love.  He’s probably swimming out to the sandbank, that’s just off the shore. He’ll get a bit if respite there and we’ll send a boat round, right away.” Then he was gone.

         For a moment she crouched on the cliff’s top, breathing heavily and drenched with sweat.  Bracing herself, she peered over the edge again, dreading what she’d see. But what she did see was a miracle. A thin brown line had appeared in front of Paddy and as she watched, he clambered onto it.  It seemed that all the breath in her body left in one gush of relief.  It must be the sandbank. She prayed to God it would last until the lifeboat arrived.

         She had to get to the beach.  There was a rough path spiralling down to the cove and in happier days she’d used it often.   Whenever Ian was due back from one of his fishing trips, she’d keep watch and as soon as she saw the white sails of his yacht see-sawing amid the waves she’d stop whatever she was doing and run-on sunshine down to the cove. But today, instead of her heart beating with happiness, it was fluttering with anxiety.  She knew the sea, knew how unpredictable it was and Paddy was at its mercy.

         She ran past blurring masses of Rosemary, Cornflowers and Sea kale until she felt shingle crunching underneath her feet.  At the water’s edge she stood, shading her eyes as she stared seaward.  The bar seemed smaller as if the sea was taking great bites out of it and her pulse hammered.  Her eyes switched to the horizon and to her great relief she saw the lifeboat rounding the headland, a trail of white foam marking its progress as it sped towards the narrow ridge of sand.  It dropped anchor a little way off and her vision blurred as tears of relief welled.  Rubbing them clear, the next thing she saw was a rib leaving the sandbank and heading towards her. 

         He looked god-like as he leaped out of the dinghy and strode through the waves towards her.  His hair was a burnished helmet clinging to his head and as he drew nearer she saw that his eyes were the clearest blue she’d ever seen.  A soaking wet Paddy was cradled in his arms and he was carrying the dog as if it were a feather. 

         “Here we are,” he said, handing Paddy over and she could have warmed her hands on the radiance of his smile.

 She staggered under her dog’s weight and soon Paddy’s tongue was licking away her tears and she buried her face in his salt-caked fur. At last, she raised her head to thank the man and as she did, something wondrous happened.  She looked into his eyes and all her worries disappeared.  While waiting for the tide to lift, they talked and the words came easily.  He wanted to know if she was a local and she told him how they had come to live here. Then, without meaning to, she found herself telling him things that she’d never before discussed with a living soul. She told him about Ian and what it had been like when their love ended.  She told him of how she’d found him clutching his chest and heaving for air, his face deep purple and how she had been holding his hand when he passed and that his last words had been “ I’m dying. I love you.”

He put an arm around her and all at once she felt at peace.  She hadn’t mentioned her guilt but he seemed to know. “Nora.” He said gently, “You were always great comfort to him and never more so than at that time.   All he wants now is for you to be happy. He knows that you feel you failed him but you didn’t.  You did everything you could.  It was simply his time.”

She wouldn’t have accepted this from anybody else.  What did anyone know about what happened and how she felt.  How she would trade the whole world to turn the clock back.  Bitter words rose to her lips but then she looked into his eyes and believed.  Immediately it felt as though the tight wires that had been binding the shell of her body together fell away, freeing her from all mental pain.

As she watched him start to wade towards his boat, she couldn’t find the words to thank him but instinctively felt she didn’t need to.   She would see him again, she was sure of it.  Suddenly, he turned.

“The lads are having an open day in aid of the Lifeboat Association tomorrow.  If you’re free why don’t you come along?  They serve excellent tea and biscuits.  My name’s Gabe by the way.”

The way back to the cottage was steep and rocky but she felt as light as a balloon being towed by a piece of string as climbed up the cliff path.  Happiness, a sense she thought she’d never feel again, folded her in a warm cuddle.  The colours of the day seemed almost overwhelming. The petals of the yellow, mauve and pink wildflowers, muted on the way down, were so vivid as to be almost luminous, and she could clearly see tiny black insects clambering around amongst them. 

Energy pulsed through her.  She would go tomorrow, she promised herself and she’d make some cookies to take with her.  She couldn’t wait to see Gabe again and realised this was the first time in three years that she’d go to bed looking forward to the next day.

 

***

She opened her eyes and for a minute lay still, hearing the tiny birds flirting in the ivy clinging to the cottage.  Her eyes shifted to where a tangle of hair decorated the pillow next to her, and she listened to his soft snores.  As she had so many times before, she remembered what happened and thought that if she lived for a hundred more years she would never get over the strangeness of it.

Armed with a tin of biscuits and as big a donation as she could afford, she’d gone to the Lifeboat’s Open Day.  She and Paddy had been given a warm welcome and Paddy had become quite foolish over all the attention he received. 

“So this is the famous disappearing dog.”  An athletic looking girl bent down to pet him.  “You gave us a real run-around didn’t you, lad.”

At the time, Nora had thought that remark odd but within a few seconds it had become lost in the general turmoil as the crew took notice and turned around. Introducing themselves, one by one.  There was a Harry, a Tom, a Judy, a Pat but no Gabe, she noticed.

“I’m so sorry he caused you all so much trouble,” Nora said, “But I shall never stop being grateful to you and especially to Gabe.”

“Well, we didn’t do much but don’t you worry, my love.  We’re used to false alarms and we don’t mind a bit.  A happy outcome is all we ask.”

False alarm? Nora frowned, there must be wires crossed somewhere.  She looked around the room for Gabe, he would sort things out. 

“Where is  Gabe?” she asked.

“Skiving off, if I don’t miss my guess.  He’s not a fan of crowds. Gabe!” Nora jumped as the man known as Harry, hollered and she saw a slim, dark man detach himself from another group and head towards them. Nora watched him, shaking her head. This was not Gabe.

“Friend of yours, asking for you Mate.  I’ll leave you to it then.” Harry turned away with a knowing smile, leaving the two of them blinking at each other.  “I’m sorry,” Nora said. “Wrong Gabe I’m afraid.  I meant the blond one.”

“We haven’t got another one Miss.  I’m the only Gabe here stupid enough to get involved with this lot.”  The man laughed, then stopped as he noticed her expression. He lowered his voice.

“Come on, let’s have a cup of tea and I’ll try and sort things out.  Something’s troubling you, isn’t it, and you know what they say about troubles.”

But even with the help of tea, he only corroborated what the others later confirmed. 

“I was on duty yesterday and we did go out to help a dog that had got itself marooned on a sandbank.  But when we got there, we couldn’t find it, so we assumed it had got itself off.  They sometimes do that, you know.”

As she listened, Nora felt waves of faintness wash over her, feeling as if she had got trapped in a parallel universe.  Although there was no reason for anyone to lie, she knew, without a shadow of doubt, what had happened yesterday.  Paddy had been saved by a tall, blond man called Gabe and they’d had a long conversation of which she could remember every word.  What on earth was going on?  Suddenly, she just wanted to go home.

She put her cup down and turned, then staggered as the room whirled around her.  

“Hey, hold on.  You’re in no fit state to walk about.  Do you need a lift?  My car’s outside.”  The dark man’s voice sounded anxious and she nodded.

As they drew up outside her cottage, he looked at it and then back at her.  “Nice place, but it’s a bit isolated.  Do you live here alone?”

She nodded again.

“In that case, I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.  Just to make sure you’re all right.”

As she gave him her mobile number, she thought how kind he was.  And good looking too.

She smiled at the memory.  Dark Gabe had called the next morning, and the next and before very long, Nora had found herself in a relationship.  And now - she stretched out a hand, admiring the glittering gold band – married just yesterday and she had rarely felt so happy.

At first, she’d had a hard time convincing him she wasn’t just a crazy lady and in the end they’d agreed on a logical solution. It must have been some passing stranger who had rescued Paddy and that it was just coincidence they had had the same name.   

Dark Gabe was entirely persuaded, and couldn’t wait to find his name-sake.

“After all, I owe the bloke a drink, if it hadn’t been for him I’d never have met you.”

 Nora had smiled, but although she went along with the idea, she was never convinced.  Deep Inside, she knew better.  Although he was not a figment of her imagination, they would never find her mystery man and maybe, that was the way it was meant to be.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

  

THE JUBILEE

By Margaret Potter

The Jubilee parade was looming.

The Queen was taking part.

Her fancy hat was waiting.

It was a piece of art.

 

She’d piled it high with cherries

red and round and bright.

She’d piled it high with plums

It looked a splendid sight.

 

If only she had a banana

to complete the fruity look.

She sent the King a message.

Please help.  Please go and look.

 

The Banana shop was empty.

The manager quite dismayed.

He sent the King to the factory

where fruit was stored that day.

 

The building was enormous.

The King felt quite in awe.

But beneath the giant structure

was a table laid up for four.

 

A dormouse held a teapot

it looked rather large in his hands.

Sitting patiently waiting

was a monkey dressed so grand.

 

The King sat at the table.

His crown falling over one eye.

He told the present company

the Queen’s request and why.

 

The monkey stood to attention.

He swept off his splendid hat.

There on his head was a banana

yellow, carved and fat.

 

The King handed him a medal.

The dormouse served the tea.

The monkey presented the banana

and the King clapped his hands with glee.

 

The Queen was on the balcony

she really was distraught.

Below the band was playing.

The parade about to start.

 

Suddenly the King appeared

banana held up high.

He plonked it on the Queen’s hat

as the parade was passing by.

 

Hurrah, the subjects shouted.

Hurrah for our stylish Queen.

She waved and smiled from the balcony

a spectacle to be seen.

 

Copyright Margaret Potter

Tylywoch ~ 17

 Tylywoch ~ 17 Galyx Captive I 

By Len Morgan

   Weilla harboured bad feelings from the moment she watched Galyx head towards the Palace.   But, he was obviously in control of the situation, because the guards were following him, not leading him.   He could of course have slipped away from them at any time and they could never have caught him, but that was not his plan…   She came to a decision. 

“How many Tylywoch are there in the city?” she asked. 

“Three Quads, not including ourselves,” Galt replied.   He was interrupted by a knock at the door [3 fast, 2 slow, Pause, 1 slow, 2fast,]; they dowsed the lights and waited the required 30 seconds...

.-…-.

Galyx was escorted into the small guard room by Captain Vadeem and, four members of his patrol.

“So Vadeem, perhaps now you can tell me what is happening here?” he said hopefully, but received no reply.   There were small holding cells beyond the guardroom, he was searched thoroughly and the contents of his pockets were confiscated.   One cell door was opened, he was bundled in and the door locked behind him.

“Come on now Vadeem, talk this through with me…”   The lights were extinguished and the outer door slammed shut with finality.   After a few minutes, he realised they were not returning and he was alone.   He felt irritated by his inability to provoke Vadeem.  “Curse you Vadeem!” he yelled and kicked the door, but he didn’t feel any better.   Vadeem was annoyingly incorruptible, which was why Galyx had chosen him in the first place, but he’d been unable to learn anything of value despite stage managing his own arrest and spending long hours of inactivity in this cell.   

Vadeem knew Galyx of old, they were rivals and opposites but there was respect on both sides.   At least Galyx had the presence of mind to use his old papers, identifying him as a captain in the imperial guard.   He explored the cell cursorily; using a strip of wire from his belt he satisfied himself that he could pick the lock.   Then rested for a number of hours. 

He flipped.  Reduced his metabolic rate to subsistence level, and became one with the dark. Laying against the wall out of the direct line of sight, so he could see but not be seen and ensuring his night vision would not be compromised.   Using his heightened senses as long range warning devices he was able to monitor any movement outside the guard room.

His mind measured time like a metronome, he knew they had left him alone without food water, or any form of stimulation for more than six hours.   His training sustained him.  He knew that after such treatment, the normal untrained mind would be begging for activity and would soak up any offered form of stimulation, like a sponge.   This knowledge would be used to manipulate a captive, but he knew something about his adversary and would use it to his advantage.

He smiled, as footfalls halted at the outer door, and after a few moments, a key turned in the lock.   Galyx screwed up his eyes so that light would not impinge on his retina, whilst flattening himself against the wall his feet fitted into rings he’d discovered six feet above the ground, that were intended to hold chains.   Three men entered, there was a momentary pause then he heard the familiar voice of the Surbatt sergeant.  

“Is this your idea of a joke?   The door is unlocked.”   He gave it a shove with his boot, “He’s not here!   Where have you taken him?   He’s needed for interrogation by chancellor Wilden…” 

“Huh, the Blutt émigré?   What authority has he got to interrogate a Cheilin citizen!” Vadeem demanded. 

“By order of Emperor Taleen.   The Emperor decides these things, and his decisions are beyond the questioning of mere mortals like us.   I want him and I want him NOW!” 

“Can you see him in the cell?   This is where we left him to cool his heels, you and me both!   If you can’t see him he isn’t here and therefore you cannot have him.   I’ve a good mind to incarcerate you for twenty-four hours, to teach you proper respect for my rank.   If you ever demand anything of me again, I will cut you down where you stand and no man will hold me to account.”

 

“Very well Captain, I apologise for my unwarranted disrespect, my orders are direct from the Emperor himself.   You have until morning to produce him, then I… The Emperor will declare you an enemy of the state and you will be dealt with accordingly.”   He turned stiffly on his heels and slammed the outer door testily.

 

“He’s a worm captain, but he’s right.   Galyx means trouble for us both, we could hand him over and honour would be served…” sergeant Lakei counselled.

 

“Honour?   Handing over a brother officer, a valued drinking and sparring partner, to those murderous vermin.   You do know they have likely killed the Empress we are sworn to protect and serve?”

“But the Tylywoch…” 

“TYLYWOCH SHIT!!!”  he ranted.   “The man talked as though Taleen had already been elected Emperor, and I let it pass without comment?   Lakei, we’ve been through a lot of hard times together, what possible reason would the Tylywoch have for such an action?   What would they gain from it!”  He shook his head in exasperation.   “They more than any have a vested interest in preserving continuity, by ensuring the well being of the Empress.   Their very existence is at stake…” 

“You really think it's a conspiracy?” 

“Quite so Lakei…” the tirade was cut short by a slow hand clapping from within the cell.   

“You can come out now Galyx, we have bread sausage cheese, and wine.   Let us eat like civilised men, and I will tell you what I’ve learned since last we met.”  

Sweeping the detritus of previous meals from the table Vadeem replaced it with a red table cloth, untying it he revealed the makings of a promising breakfast, to which sergeant Lakei added two bottles of fine red wine that he’d been keeping at the correct temperature in his blouse front.   With a flourish he produced three beakers from the overlarge patch pockets of his coat. 

“Lock the door please Lakei.” said Vadeem sitting at the table.   The three men ate heartily in silence washing down the food with wine.   Lakei poked the final sliver of sausage into his mouth, drained the dregs of the last bottle, and tossed it over his shoulder with utter disregard, into the growing heap on the floor. 

Galyx smiled, “Glad I’m not the housekeeper,” they laughed. 

“I’ve learned from our brother officers who are not of the 9^th clan, that they are disturbed and unsure how to proceed…  These Barracks are only ever used for over-spill, usually during festivals,” Vadeem explained “so you shouldn’t be troubled by too many visiting guards.   I’ll meet with our fellow officers tomorrow and pass on the message that the divine light still shines.” 

“Best not let it go beyond us just yet, if the Surbatt get wind of it they will redouble their efforts before help can arrive from outside,” Galyx explained.

“Of course your right, each clan is represented by an honour contingency, whilst the 9^th has an army outside the gates.” 

“Be sure to tell only those you trust implicitly, and only if it’s absolutely necessary.  They should know, tell them to await our call before taking action."

They continued the discussion for about an hour, then without imparting any new knowledge Vadeem and Lakei returned to their own quarters leaving the door unlocked.  They also left Galyx an ample supply of food and water, in case their return was delayed.   They shook hands, not knowing if they would meet again, then he was alone. 

 He left the cell to search the guard room. He found clothing in various chests, he chose something in his size then ate well before reconnoitring.   Outside he found a corridor with identical cells in either direction.   Some were locked, some open, but all were empty.   Returning to the cell he’d chosen as his base, he explored in the opposite direction with similar results.   He called softly at locked doors, getting no reply.  

Then he heard a troop of soldiers approaching, he decided to make himself scarce, ducking into a convenient unlocked cell. 

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

A Rengay

 A Rengay

By Robert Kingston

This piece is a collaboration between myself and an American poet based in Kentucky.

It is called a rengay. A six verse poem where each poet responds to the other’s verse. This one was recently published in Drifting sands, a haibun journal based in the U.S that encourages a worldwide contributory audience. The theme (prompt) focuses on the state of our planet and the human species.

copyright Geoff Pope & Robert Kingston

AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE 2

AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE 

 Richard Banks

       Aunt Mabel was an elderly lady of ample proportions who no matter the occasion was always to be seen in what my father described as her widow's weeds. Having once come to our house with a bunch of daffodils for my mother I assumed that these must be the weeds to which my father referred but when the expression continued to be used, flowers or no flowers, I eventually tumbled to the fact that he was referring to the unrelenting blackness of her attire. To me she resembled a black cloud and as her visits to us twice coincided with heavy downpours of rain I became convinced that Aunt Mabel and rainy days were never far apart.

         My aunt being a widow was easier to understand. She had been married briefly to a man named Bert who was killed in WW1 forty-one years to the day before I was born. My birthdays were therefore a reminder to her of a tragedy from which she never really recovered. It is said that at my christening she shed enough tears to fill the font. 

         She was, of course, my Great Aunt who was usually invited to family gatherings that also included her brother, my paternal grandfather, but after he died her visits became less frequent due, partly, to her moving into residential care. Although she was still reasonably mobile and clear in her thoughts and conversation my father’s acquisition of his first car, a Hillman Minx, made it more convenient for us to visit her rather than the other way around. This we did with great regularity, four times a year, our visits seldom lasting more than an hour although to me, deprived of my playthings, they seemed a good deal longer. Nevertheless my presence did on occasions provide her with a certain melancholy pleasure for she had begun to perceive in my appearance a resemblance to her late husband. Indeed I so raised her spirits that her usual expression of sad resignation sometimes gave way to a smile that also brought an unexpected gleam to her dark brown eyes.

         It was in the early Spring of 1968 that my father declared that our first visit of the year to Aunt Mabel was to take place on Easter Sunday but that it was not to include me. I was still recovering from the measles and although no longer infectious was not, due to my remaining spots, allowed out beyond our back garden. I was, therefore, left in the care of my fourteen year old sister who, once my parents were gone, disappeared into her bedroom to play records. This was fine by me and I set-out my soldiers on the living room floor confident that the ensuing battle would not be disrupted by the intrusion of unwanted feet.

         I was nearing the conclusion of the Battle of Little Big Horn when I became aware of an interested spectator in the form of Aunt Mabel. As she had not rung the front door bell she must, I thought, have gained entry to the house through the side door which in those days was closed but never locked until evening. She regarded me with a smile that by the standard of her past sad glimmerings was almost radiant.

         “Have the soldiers won?” she asked.

         I explained that this was Custer’s last stand and that he and the seventh cavalry were soon to be wiped out by the Cheyenne and other tribes.

         Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Then, Harry, it’s just as well I came when I did. I tell you what, let them have a truce for awhile, I have something to tell you. Come on now, sit down next to me on the settee. It won’t take long and as it involves the giving of a present I’m sure you’ll find it time well spent. And if Mr Custer has his wits about him he might very well slip away unnoticed.”

         I was about to explain that the battle actually happened and that there was nothing I could do to save Custer and his men when I noticed that she was reaching into her handbag presumably for the gift she had mentioned. A moment later the battle was all but forgotten by the sight of a yellow tin bearing the words, ‘Colman’s Mustard’. My face must have registered both surprise and puzzlement although as I was behind it only Aunt Mabel would have known this for sure.

         Don’t worry,” she whispered, “there may be something different inside. Shall we see?”

         I nodded vigorously and through unblinking eyes watched as she lifted the lid to reveal some crepe paper within.

         “Oh dear,” exclaimed Aunt Mabel, “I hope there’s more than paper in there.”

         For the first time, I realised I was being teased and that Aunt Mabel had a sense of humour that was as mischievous as it was unexpected.

         “Go on reach inside, see what you can find, but be gentle it’s very precious.”

         I inserted the fingers of both hands and almost immediately felt the smooth, cool object within. I raised it up and having discarded the paper still clinging to it saw an enamel egg. I should have been disappointed - after all what use was an enamel egg to a boy who spent most of his spare time playing soldiers or football - but I wasn’t, far from it, and Aunt Mabel observed my reaction with evident satisfaction. She had judged me well. I had a soul that, despite my childhood obsessions, could be touched by the alluring appeal of fine art, and that egg was, without doubt, the most beautiful object I had ever seen.

         “Let me tell you about it,” she said. “Have you heard of Peter Carl Faberge?”

         I shook my head.

         “Well, he was a very gifted craftsman, a jeweller and goldsmith, who made all sorts of lovely things for the Czar of Russia and other royal people. In addition to everything else he did for the Czar, each Easter he would make him an egg, like this one, which he decorated with gold, silver and precious stones. They are wonderful works of art that if sold today would cost the buyer many, many thousands of pounds. Yes, you may well open your mouth in disbelief. However, I mustn’t raise your hopes too high, this is not a Faberge, but it’s the next best thing. This was made by one of his pupils, who in 1912 set up his own studio in Antwerp, Belgium. He soon became successful in his own right attracting many well to do clients, including a Duke and several Earls. So, you see you have something very precious that today can only be found in museums and private collections. That is all but this one, and for that, we have to thank your great uncle Bert.”

         “Is that the Uncle Bert who was killed in the war?”

         “Yes dear, he was my husband, although not for very long. We married in 1916 just before he left this country to fight the Germans on the western front. We should have waited until the end of the war which was only two years later but we weren’t to know that at the time. We were young and in love and in far too much of a hurry to wait. We honeymooned in Yarmouth for three days, which was all we could afford, and a week later I saw him leave this country on a big ship from Portsmouth harbour. I thought I would never see him again but three months later I did. He arrived, unannounced, at my parents’ house, where I was still living, on the day before my twenty-fifth birthday. It was the best present I ever had, the only one I truly wanted but he was determined that I should have something really special to commemorate an event which was as important to him as it was to me.”

         “And that’s when he gave you this egg,” I said, anticipating her next line. “It must have cost him an awful lot of money.”

         “Well, not quite, but it did cost him his tobacco allowance for two weeks and for someone who loved his pipe as much as he did that was a high price to pay. You’re looking puzzled, dear boy. Let me explain. Your great uncle was allowed a quantity of tobacco each day which he gave to another soldier in exchange for the egg. How the soldier came to be in possession of it is a mystery we will probably never have the answer to, but in war, many things are lost and found, or more likely looted from damaged houses.”

         “The thought that I might be in possession of stolen property, at last, became too much for me and, several years after the ending of the war, I took the egg to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London and tearfully confessed all, although I had little to feel guilty about. That’s when I found out who the maker was and that, as I suspected, it was worth a good deal of money. I thought they were going to take it away from me, and for a while they did, but after a month it was returned to me by the Director of the Fine Arts Department, no less, who said that a bill of sale existed for the egg but that the purchaser could not be identified from the records of that time. Therefore unless someone came forward who could prove their ownership my assertion that it had been purchased legally, if somewhat irregularly, was sufficient title in law to make me the owner.”

         “I should have been happy, sold it at auction and used the money to buy myself an annuity that would have provided me with an income for life, but I didn’t. A pity, especially as Bert would no doubt have wanted me to do so. Instead, I kept it on my dressing room table as if it was a religious relic. You see, I couldn’t bear to be parted from it. Indeed in my depressed state of mind, it would have seemed like a betrayal of Bert if I had. It was, of course, a huge mistake. Miserable as I was I should have come out of mourning after a year and made the most of my life, but I never did. Life became a terrible burden, and only now it is over am I able to feel the way I once did. Your parents think I’m a dreadful old hindrance; they have done their duty by me but derived little pleasure from my company. I hope, Harry, you will think better of me. At least you now have the egg, so take good care of it. And if anyone tells you it’s not yours tell them that’s it’s written in my will. Any questions? No? Then I had better be getting along. I could be leaving by the side door but if you close your eyes and don’t peep I can be on my way a little more quickly. I have an important engagement in two minutes time and I don’t want to be late, not after fifty-one years.”

         “You mean you’re off to see Uncle Bert?”

         “I think so, dear, I certainly hope so. Shut your eyes and wish me luck.”

         I did. On opening them again I realised I had not thanked her for her gift, but by then she was gone.

         An hour later my parents returned from the care home with the news that Aunt Mabel was, in my mother’s words, ‘passed over’. By then I had finished the Battle of the Little Big Horn and placed the egg at the back of my games drawer. My father seemed very gloomy about his aunt and was not at all pleased when I was not.

         I said nothing about Aunt Mabel doing some of her ‘passing’ by way of our house - they would never have believed me. As for the egg I kept quiet about that too until the reading of her will when I said that she had already given it to me during one of our visits to the care home. As the will said nothing about its likely value and I was equally reticent on that subject my parents assumed that it was an inexpensive bauble which, after a brief inspection by themselves, was soon forgotten.        

         Twenty years later I sold the egg to the V&A for a good deal less than it was worth and invested most of the cash I received in a new Hillman for my father and a house for myself and the girl I was about to marry. If I had any regrets about the sale they were few in number because by then I was an Assistant Curator at the Museum and therefore able to see the egg on any day of the week that I wanted. More importantly it could also be seen by the many thousands of visitors that every year passed through our doors. It was, I thought, both the right and sensible thing to do, and as I have yet to be struck by lightning I can only assume that Aunt Mabel thinks so too.

                                                                             Copyright Richard Banks 

Tylywoch ~ 16

 Tylywoch ~ 16 Return to Hartwell

 by Len Morgan

When Jax returned to Hartwell, he entered the forge and quietly watched as Terrek put the final touches to a fine ivory-handled stiletto blade. 

Terrek broke the silence, “I read your notes while you were gone, didn’t have much else to do, business was slack and there was nothing pending...”

“So stop crabbing around, get to the point!   You didn’t like them?” 

“On the contrary, your ideas for mechanisation show insight and imagination.   The work was harder without you so I built a few of your devices.   Your use of gears,” he turned to a large mechanical hammer, raised by foot power, and the new double sided ladle running on tracks and able to be poured with one hand, “It pours smoothly without any splashes or spills producing very few bubbles or imperfections.   They are a triumph; I built them but could never have done so without your drawings.”   He smiled in welcome.   Jax returned his smile, he was tired but glad to be back home. “Your time at Ordens Forge was well spent?” 

 “Yes.” Said Jax quietly. 

“Then why did he not complete your initiation?”

“On balance, he said the things you have taught me outweigh the knowledge he was able to impart, so the honour should be yours.” He smiled again.

“The pompous old ass!” said Terrek with a grin.  'The boy has aged more than six weeks' he thought, his eyes have seen things that humans ought never to see.   He gazed up into the night sky, throwing his mind out into the void they both now knew existed out there.   This time, he didn’t feel so lonely.   This time he was conscious of a shared secret that would bring them closer together even when apart.   No matter how far Jax chose to roam, and roam he would, he had no choice!   “Come on in…” he stumbled over the inappropriateness of ‘boy’, “Jax, welcome home – partner.”  They hugged each other warmly.   A voice in Terrek’s mind said, ‘It’s good to be home and to find you well.   But, why did you not warn me?’ 

“It’s a family taboo!   If I had warned you Orden would have known, he would have been angry beyond words!    You wouldn’t want to experience the wrath of a Jellonan, even at this distance.   I understand you took the oath?”  Jax nodded.   “It’s not the kind you should break lightly!” he said with conviction.

“But, I was never really given a choice…” Jax began.

“You made your choice when you signed articles of apprenticeship!   Read the small print.   Remember, you can now commune with like-minded artisans throughout the universe.   You have access to hundreds of thousands of minds if the need should arise, if you have a question, they will provide a solution.   You took the oath!” he put his arm around Jax in the way of a comrade.   “I have been alone too long, we are so far beyond normal smiths, more so than a fresh apprentice is from a Grande Master Craftsman, with a lifetime of achievement to his name.”   He looked up to the sky and waved his arm in comic presentation, “they are all out there on other worlds, with different chemistries, some so far above us that they are like gods, but they are not!”

“Orden?” 

“He is a conduit, he is the one who binds our minds together he enables us to join with them.   If you wish, you could spend the rest of your life communing with them, exchanging views and ideas.” 

“But I hear and I see nothing…” 

“Because you have not yet been finished.   Orden gave you something for me?” 

“He did” said Jax and he drew the golden stiletto spike from its sheath.   Terrek took it from him and stabbed it deep into Jax’s heart.   Jax stared back in disbelief, at the only man he would trust to act in his best interest and down at the hilt of the blade now protruding from his chest.   He looked into the smiling face of Terrek, his vision blurred as he felt the icy cold fingers of death taking a hold on him.  "Why?" he asked with a hurt and betrayed look in his eyes…

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.

THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.

By Bob French

          The two young boys sat frozen to their chairs, mesmerised by the old pirate who sat opposite them in his crinkled old oil-skin coat.  His rugged sunburnt face made darker by the shaggy white beard that partially hid a large scar that ran down the side of his face.  Everything about him smelt of the sea, but what frightened the boys the most were his eyes; they were a deep bluey-green; the colour of the sea. 

          The windows of the old tavern rattled as the wind howled past the coast of East Tilbury and rushed on down the estuary towards the City of London.  The old alehouse ‘The Ship’, was a frequent drinking hole for those who made their living from the sea, and during the summer months, the place was always packed with fisherman, customs men, and of course pirates.  What drew them to this desolate place on the coast was the ale and the huge fireplace that when lit, created strange shapes on the walls and fired sparks out onto the stone cobbled floor with a sharp crack.

          An old grandfather clocked chimed somewhere in the shadows of the alehouse as the old pirate looked down at the two boys.  He never smiled or joked.  To him, life was a serious matter, not to be fooled with. Then he began; his voice was gruff and harsh.

          “I recalls,” the old pirate leant forward as though about to whisper the location of a hidden treasure.  “That it were a cold and windy night as we pulled out into the estuary.  It were right choppy and the harder we pulled on them oars the more the sea fought us.” He suddenly leant back, gripped his leather tankard and drained it then slammed it down on the table, making the two young boys jump. After he had dragged his sleeve across his mouth he leant forward again and in a hushed raspy voice started talking.

          “The Master’s Mate was an ‘ard man, but fair mind you.  His name was Richard Parker and ‘e didn’t like landlubbers; that’s the name we gives to those poor fella’s that were nabbed by the Press Gang.  Un each time we got a new batch a’board, he’d treat ‘em ‘ard, so they understood what wus expected of ‘em.”

          “Now on this ship was an officer, by the name of Jethro Wilkinson, who didn’t like Parker on account of him coming from a common background un ‘im bein’ an officer thought he acted ‘bove his station.  So one night he goes and tells the cap’m that Parker has stolen a watch belongin’ to one of the gentlemen landlubbers. The cap’m ‘as his birth searched and finds the stolen watch.  Parker should ‘ave been flogged, but the Cap’m respected ‘im so he court martials him instead, then discharged ‘im from the Navy.  Broke ‘is heart it did.” 

          The old pirate looked up and smiled at the young girl as she leant across the table and placed another tankard of ale down in front of him.  When she left, his face turned serious again as he stared at the young boys.

          “Now Parker knew who had set him up and just as he was leaving the ship he approaches Lieutenant Wilkinson and stared him right in the face and says:”

          ‘I curse you and your family, un those who come after you, un I condemn all those of your kin that takes to the sea to everlasting shame.’

          As the old pirate looked up, an ice-cold gust of wind suddenly rushed around the alehouse as someone came in from the cold.  The two young boys jumped at the unwelcome intrusion and quickly held hands for courage.

          ”Of course Richard Parker was a professional sailor and it weren’t long before he joined up again. But things had changed since he was a sailor; the wages were now very poor and the food not much better, so Richard Parker starts a protest and after a month he’s got several ships crews protesting.  Now the Admirals weren’t havin’ nothing to do with him and after about three weeks they catches him, and on the 30^th of June 1797, they hangs him from the yardarm just out there in the estuary.”  The old pirate took another swig from his tankard. 

“The story goes that Lieutenant Wilkinson died on the way to India, on the very same day, of scurvy.”  No one spoke for a minute, then the old pirate cleared his throat and looked sternly at the boys.

          “Like all sailors, they burries Parker at sea, right where that wreck is.”  The old pirate turns and points out of the window towards the estuary.  The two young boys rush to the window and stare at the two masts that protrude from the churning sea.  As the boys concentrate on the grey waters swirling around the sunken masts they hear the old pirate start to talk again and quickly return to their seats.  As they sit, he quickly glances around behind him, then leans forward.

          “Some say that them shadows that dances on these walls are those of Richard Parker’s ghost.” The two boys quickly look at the strange moving shadows and move a little closer to each other.

          “In 1944, during the last war, a cargo ship, the SS Richard Montgomery, was carrying thousands and thousands of tonnes of explosives.  Un on the afternoon of the 30^th June it anchored out there in the estuary.  The Officer of the watch, so they says, was a Lieutenant Jonathan Wilkinson and, for some strange reason, the ship dragged its anchor and drifted right onto the Great Nore Sand Bank and sticks fast.  No one could understand why it had happened, but Lieutenant Wilkinson was court martialled and sent back to America in disgrace.” 

          “Now the people who were in charge had a big problem on their hands.”  The old pirate nodded in the direction of the sea.  “They ‘ad a sunken ship rottin’ away with thousands of tonnes of high explosives on board. After several months of talking it were decided to unload her; so a plan was made to unload her; but the sea was ‘avin’ none of it.  Some say it were the curse, but half way through the operation she splits in two, so they ‘ave to leave the rest of the high explosives on board.”

          “To this day the curse of Richard Parker still hangs over us all, particular the Wilkinson family.”  The old pirate lifts his tankard and takes another long swig of his ale, then belches, much to the amusement of the two young boys.

          “It don’t end there.  A few years back a Mr Malcolm Wilkinson, a big shot in American airport construction started to invest millions and millions of dollars in the new Thames Airport Project.  Everything was going swell, according to his press release, until someone told him about the sunken ammunition ship, the SS Richard Montgomery.  After lots of tests, the experts finally told ‘im that if the Montgomery were moved in any way she’ll blow and the damage to the coastline and several hundred miles inland would be catastrophic.”  The old pirate’s eyes twinkled as he laughed to himself.       “According to the papers, Old man Wilkinson lost the lot and scurried back to America penniless.”

          Just then an unwelcome gust of ice-cold wind scurried around the room, sending the shadows dancing across the wall again.  The two boys jumped at the figures that dances on the wall, then stood up and rushed towards the young woman who had just come in.

          “Mum, Granddad has been telling us the story about the ghost of Richard Parker and the old ship in the estuary that is going to blow up.”  She smiled and leant across and kissed her father on the forehead.

          “Thanks for looking after the boys Dad, I hope you haven’t been filling their heads with nonsense?”

 

Copyright Bob French