This was my effort to capture the moment. Feel free to share.

A Personal Farewell 

By Rob Kingston

 

Today I’ve lost a special friend, 

not one I’ve met, nor seen up close,

 

though a dear friend she was.

 

She was my guidance, our holy light,

 

she had no fear through fire and flight 

She remains my light till due days slight

 

a monarch 

so colourful till the end

reaching for the stars

 

RIP My queen

 

Tylywoch ~ 25

 Tylywoch ~ 25  Jax Seeking Bianne

By Len Morgan

   Jax felt genuine sadness at leaving Hartwell, for almost a third of his life it had been his home.   He knew and loved its inhabitants.   It's uniquely eclectic population gathered from all over Abbalar, all drawn into a melting pot of religions, traditions, languages, and cuisine.  There are communities and enclaves within the city representing every nation in existence; it was indeed, Abbalar in microcosm. 

He left, intent on crossing the Sabre Tooth Mountains into Cheilin, and heading for the Eternal City, where he expected to locate Bianne.   He had it all worked out in his mind.   He would profess his love and they would move to a place where they could settle in peace to work on and develop a new centre for scientific learning that would prove so important in overcoming the Karaxen menace.   He would set up his own forge and take on apprentices then maybe some talented students, men of learning, would help him to build an academia through which he could pass on the knowledge.   There had to be some like minded people out there eager to learn and build for the future.   As for himself and Bianne, their life would be idyllic to the end of their days.   They would have children…?   Grow old together…?   No!   That was a fantasy they could do neither he knew, his desires were so simple yet unattainable, they would be denied.

On that first night in the Meyam foothills, he roasted a brace of hares he'd snared earlier in the day.   He seasoned them with a little of the salt Terrek had so thoughtfully packed for him together with tea, sugar, rich fruit cake, bread flour, nuts, tinder, and flint.   The food turned regularly on its spit smelt appetising, the aroma carried far beyond his simple campfire.  

"Hello the camp!" a voice called as he sat in quiet contemplation.   "We are three tired travellers with bread bacon and beans to share, can we approach?"

"Come forth and be recognised," Jax replied.

Three brothers entered the circle of the fire's glow.   The eldest opened his pack and set out cooking utensils.   The other two added their contributions; one had a wineskin and beakers.   The smell of bacon filled the glade, and soon they were eating, drinking, swapping stories, and news.   The brothers told him of the assassination of the Cheilin Empress and rumours of incursions by the people of Bluttland in the West.   He'd always thought them to be insular people who kept themselves to themselves, but their behaviour in Hartwell was obviously not characteristic of their race.    One of the brothers produced a flute and began to play.   The evening finished with singing and wild cavorting around the dying embers.   Finally with warm friendly feelings inside him, thanks to the generous helpings of good red wine, he finally pulled up his blanket and instantly fell into a dreamless sleep. 

The brothers were up at daybreak despite their previous night's drinking.   They broke their fast with the remains of the previous evening’s meal and when it was gone they bid him farewell and good fortune, sentiments he returned with vigorous handshakes and smiles.   They headed towards Hartwell, and he in the opposite direction towards the mountains, despite the dire warnings of trouble ahead.  

 An hour later, he heard the baying of wolves on the scent of prey.   Several hours later and a thousand feet higher he heard them again, closer this time, suddenly he felt disorientated and the disconcerting feeling of being watched.   As he climbed still higher the landscape changed becoming more desolate and open he could see for miles in any direction, and there was little fear of being observed closely without seeing the watcher, yet the feeling persisted.   He travelled on until midday when he stopped to eat.   The feeling was still with him a source of irritation.   He searched carefully in all directions but saw nothing, the baying was repeated it could have been closer but the wind plays tricks with sounds on these bare mountain slopes.   Suddenly his hackles rose, he dropped and rolled by instinct as a shadow fell on him.   He felt foolish when he looked up to see a dark cloud, scudding across the sun, above him.  

.-…-. 

Herra the Shewolf, tasted the air, pinpointing the proximity of a potential meal.   The brood watched hungrily, all faces attentive, their appellant eyes fixed on her.   Two short yelps and a howl came from below she conveyed an answer, in Shevix speak, providing information on the speed and direction of the quarry, to the hunters.   She held the high ground, with the two-legged creature in clear view.   He was a good size, grey pelt pink skinned with a brown coat.   She noted he was carrying a spiky stabber at his side, They could be fatal, he would be a tricky one to overcome.   She cautioned them to be wary of the stabber; it would not know Shevix speak she thought.   The hunt leader acknowledged her intelligence.   She gazed back at her three expectant cubs, asking them to be patient.   She heard the Alpha calling for further directions.   They had lost the prey, she looked and tasted the air but there was no sight or scent of it, that one quick glance had cost them, dear.   She searched for some time but could not relocate it.  

Jax lowered his gaze, and spied a small cave. He decided to rest there and observe for a while without being seen.   He slid in and settled down to wait, disturbing a hare as he did so, had he been a little faster it would have made a fine evening meal.    He heard the wolves, call and answer, again.  He watched but, fifteen minutes later, all he had observed was the wind rustling the heads of dry grasses and swift scudding rain clouds.  

Herra found the scent of a lone stag and hoped it was not in peak condition, they urgently needed a kill.   She gave cry as she spotted the beast, a wiley old one with wide branching antlers, she knew he would probably be too swift for them. 

 Jax closed his eyes and instantly felt the sensation of being hunted.   He felt exhilarated and triumphant.    Experiencing the breeze rushing past his face and through his pelt as he ran at high speed, effortlessly covering the ground.   He glanced back to see the squat shapes of his pursuers, their eyes like glowing coals, getting ever closer.   He had intentionally slowed to encourage them to redouble their efforts and use up their energy reserves.   As they closed in he simply sped up again leaving them in his wake.   He was aware that even if the seven had caught him, he would probably still have triumphed; hoof and horn are formidable weapons.   Only extreme hunger would drive wolves to chase a healthy stag.   Fortunate were they, not to catch him. 

An hour later while Jax slept in his refuge, Herra sat watching her cubs tear strips of flesh from the carcass of the hare that by its misfortune chanced across her path while she was searching for the two-legged creature.   She had grabbed it by its scruff and deftly threw it into the air breaking its neck.   She knew from experience it was dead before it landed, but the cubs pounced on it acting out a mock kill, copying the actions of the pack.   She waited patiently for them to eat their fill so that she also could eat.   Thanks to brother Hare they would survive to hunt another day.

(To be continued)

 

By Len Morgan

The Joy of being 80

 By Sis Unsworth

  I’ve reached my 80^th Birthday, so now I’m officially old,

  wisdom comes with age they say, that’s what I’m frequently   told.

  I’m not sure it’s true in my case, but I nod and say I agree,

  80 does have its advantages, well it did seem that way to me.

  I don’t have to go out to work now, I can stay in bed if I  

   choose,

  and 80 is now the new 60, I heard it one day on the news.

  I’ve lived 3 score years and 20, it seems a long time to some,

  I have lived through some bad times, thankfully I have also had fun.

  But times are getting hard now, with inflation running so high

  and fuel bills through the winter, they say may go through the sky.

  The Government may try to help me, now that I’m 80 years old,

  more money since my birthday, so I won’t go hungry or cold.

  They gave me a rise in my pension, which doesn’t seem to make sense.

  The extra I get now I’m 80, is a whole 25 pence! 

  Copyright Sis Unsworth

MOON STRUCK

 THE MOON 

 by Richard Banks

No one can quite explain why the moon is so important to Simon, why it fascinates and troubles him in equal measure. His mother will tell you that it started on a stiflingly hot summer’s evening in the early years of the First Republic when he was put to bed in a Moses Basket on the verandah of grandfather’s Highgate villa. The sun had set and, in the gathering darkness, a west wind gently stirred the Florida palms at the bottom of the garden. While this was greeted with weary sighs of relief from the fifteen adults and children there gathered, the most recent addition to the family Caine was still too hot to be consoled. Bent on tearful protest the child had no intention of stopping until he saw a rising moon, larger and brighter than any moon had a right to be. And, while no one knew why this should be, there was no doubting the evidence of many eyes. 

         What Simon saw and thought that evening we may never know; at fourteen months he was unable to say. Many years later he thinks he remembers but having been told the story of the big moon so many times he can not be sure whether his memories belong to himself or the story tellers. His subsequent recollections, however, are definitely his. There are many, too many to count. They are the consequence, indeed the reward of over forty years of moon gazing. 

         Each image he carries in his head. Every feature of every image is as precise as the moment he saw it. He could download them into a Mindstore but there is an intimacy about his seeing which he feels should go no further than himself. There are mysteries in its light, secrets that one day will be known only to himself. He must look and learn, look and learn, but unexpectedly his learning came in the listening. 

         In the silence of a long winter’s night, he received the revelation that gave voice to what he had previously only seen. At first, he was unsure whether he had heard anything at all, the sound was faint, scarcely audible, fading into silence before returning for a few moments more. Instinctively he knew that the moon was speaking, this was what he wanted to believe but that the scientist within him could only accept if there was proof. There must, he reasoned, be a correlation between the shimmering variations in the moon’s radiance and the sounds he was hearing. Would one give clarity to the other or would their interaction only give rise to an additional level of complexity? He wasn’t sure. Who could be? He only knew that his own memory bank was unequal to the task ahead. He needed the help of technology to survey sound and vision, to process the data passing through it and find the correlations, if not the meanings, of what was being said. The machines, however, would only take him so far, only he possessed the empathy that could transform knowledge into understanding. For now that empathy told him only that something was wrong, that the message he was receiving was a desperate cry for help. Was the Moon in danger, about to tumble from the sky?  

         There were men on the moon, mainly miners drilling deeper and deeper into its cratered surface. Were they also to perish? If so, they had only themselves to blame. What right had they to be there, to defile and exploit what should be honoured and revered! 

         The first men on the moon gave hope of better things. They came in awe as if to hallowed ground. Had they, on landing, found a collection box they would gladly have paid for the few bags of rock and soil they departed with. They came to learn, not exploit. The miners, however, had no altruism, no souls to fill, no motive for being there but to dig deeper and deeper for the minerals that made them wealthy and their employers more powerful than any nation state. Free from the tiresome regulation of life on earth they dug ever closer to the beating heart of the moon, suspecting nothing, knowing nothing, hearing only the relentless progress of their drills. 

         But Simon did hear the Moon and, one day, would understand everything it said. For now, the machines he had purchased were processing the data that flowed through them every moment of the day. Far from being an endlessly repeated SOS the message being transmitted was complex and structured in a way that suggested its purpose was to inform and direct.

         Was he the only recipient? If so he dare not fail.

         The first word was deciphered in less than a month, ten more in the following week, simple words, a few less so, then the first sentence, short and cryptic referring to an action hidden in a complexity of bewildering detail. This was no ‘message in a bottle’ cry for help to be answered by whoever intercepted it, this was one side of a long conversation between Moon and planet Earth. While the Earth’s transmissions could neither be heard or seen they could sometimes be inferred from the Moon’s own signals. Otherwise the Earth’s contribution to the great matter being discussed was received and understood solely by the entity to which it had been sent. Only the miners might have heard the Earth, but, as the Earth well knew, they were too busy drilling. 

         The unexpected discovery that the Moon was not seeking the help of himself or any other member of the human race undermined every good intention with which Simon had armed himself. It transformed him from a potential saviour to an eavesdropper afraid of what he might hear. The Moon and Earth had secrets to share, secrets that neither party had sought to make known to mankind. If Simon continued to listen what would be his function? If this was a game of sides could he be loyal to both? Paralysed by indecision he allowed the machines to continue their work, slowly but steadily deciphering the Moon’s transmissions, revealing frequent references to air and earth and the changing of both. Was this the solution to global warming? In time everything would be clear and he would know what to do. Until then he must keep a watching brief. He must look and learn, look and learn.                                                                 

                                            *****

The Moon, tired, and irritated at the incessant drilling of the miners, puts aside its primary task to examine an oscillation in its signal that is traced to a listening device on a part of the planet’s surface much settled by the dominant species. The knowledge that mankind is listening and might already be aware of the intentions of Moon and Earth raises serious concerns that would be more serious had the detection of other receivers indicated the involvement of national Governments. As of now only one, or a few human beings, have been listening, and not for long. Even so, this is a situation that can not be allowed to continue. Mankind is dangerous and surprisingly able. None of them must know of what is to come.

         The Moon considers its options and selects one painful to itself. Tearing from its body a boulder the size of a space truck it is tossed clear of the Moon’s atmosphere and aimed at Earth where, on impact, it destroys not only the receiving station but most of London. The rest of the world will be left untouched until the designated day when the co-ordinated onslaught of fire, earthquake and volcano will render the planet devoid of life for many millions of years. 

         This will be the fourth epoch of living beings to perish. It has lasted longer than the others, too long. It will be followed by a closed down world, a time for Moon and Earth to rest in fallow sleep before waking to nurture the beginning of new life. 

         Will the age that follows be better than those preceding it? The Moon thinks not, but knows that it will be different, fascinatingly different, unpredictable and imperfect like those before. In time it too will promise much, achieve much, before becoming unfit for any good purpose. When hope has vanished and there is only despair it too will be destroyed so that the Planet can live. 

         But that is yet to come. For now, it is the living things presently on Earth that must be swept away, along with the few thousand men on the Moon who without supplies from Earth will perish within months. There can be no sympathy for man, for what he has become. Touched by genius each one is tainted by demons that burrow deep within.     

         The Moon looks down, sees all, knows all, and says a sad goodbye to those who gently moon gaze. They, at least, deserve a better fate.

 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

Tylywoch ~ 24

 Tylywoch ~ 24  Captive II

 by Len Morgan

   They had to break down the door to Vadeem's rooms, both he and Lakei were trussed like turkeys, both would have preferred continued bondage to the company of Glamhorten, beautiful as her eighteen-year-old body was, but their choices were limited.

"Look at me!" she commanded and Vadeem knew just how limited his choices were.   His eyes were drawn to hers like lodestone to iron.   He felt his free will leeching away and realised, that her age was an illusion, but her eyes could not lie.   He tried to avert his gaze but she had him like a candle flame holds a moth.   He realised his chances of survival were slim, her eyes seemed to grasp him physically, he was hers and she knew it.   She smiled without emotion.   He felt an itch inside his skull, it seemed to slither around inside his skull cold and slimy, but it moved as though it were alive.   He shivered involuntarily.   He scratched at his head and face sweat breaking out on his brow, he began to drool, exhibit terror, while making pitiful animal noises and cries.   He felt ice water trickle down his spine, as a primordial scream filled his being, shattering his mind, his thoughts, memories, and values;   sundering them in all directions like shards of ice.   She snuggled contentedly into his mind like a new born kitten, it was warm and embryonic.   He shivered and cried, shaking spasmodically, as she reassembled the shards of his memory in the order of her choosing.   She licked her lips.  "Kiss me!" she commanded inside his mind.   He could taste and feel her soft moist lips, smell her sweet breath, and yearned to please her in any way she commanded.   His life would be unfulfilled until she asked…   He cried like a new-born child, which is what he had become, her child.

Lakei saw what she had done with Vadeem in just a few moments, and determined it would not happen to him.   He hurled himself at her with an angry snarl but after three steps felt an irresistible force pushing him to the ground.   He came to his knees, but never felt the force of the cold steel that cleaved through his left shoulder, cutting to the waist.   He was dead before the cut was completed.   Vadeem smiled with contentment as he wiped his bloody sword on Lakei's tunic before sheathing it.   "How else can I be of service mistress?" He asked with a pleading look, all free will gone from his eyes.   She completely lost interest in men when that happened, it seemed such a shame to have to dominate them in that way but it was the only way to be sure of their loyalty.

"Go find Galyx and bring him to me, take the guards with you." She commanded.

Vadeem snapped to attention "yes mistress he said bowing.   "You three with me!" he yelled as he turned away from her.

"The girl?" she said aloud…

Wilden jumped to attention and signaled to a sergeant at the door "you and your men, with me now!"  As he left she was scolding the remaining guards.

"What are you waiting for?   Get that carrion out of here!" she kicked Lakei's corpse. 

She returned to her bed-chamber and the mind of Taleen.  She continued speaking to him directly; mind to mind. 'It may be taxing dear heart but, you must keep it together!   The future of the religion is dependent upon your actions over the next few weeks.   If you take the Cheilin Empire we will have a springboard from which to launch our assault on the rest of Abbalar.   Our future will then be assured.   Our army of occupation is even now, decamping on the other side of the river Stalbech at Tain Point.   They will cross by sailing craft at the appointed time and with stealth will take and hold the forts at Ricc, Sticol, and Teel.   

Then, with luck they should also be able to take Stokk, Bago, and Foldic,' dots lit on the map in her mind, 

Then Bedelaq appeared, in a green haze.   'We will then control the whole of the eastern region, and be ready to march on the lands occupied by the 1st & 2nd Clans who will not be expecting an attack from without.   We then move on to take the 11^th and engulf the 12^th and 10^th from either side and from within for they will surely capitulate against superior numbers.   We then cut off Northern access from the 3^rd & 8^th who will sue for terms.   We then assimilate the 4^th 5^th 6^th & 7^th in succession over the next few years, whilst continuing to pour in reinforcements from Bluttland.   We then spread out from the centre mopping up the forts in isolation as we go, striking North at the Huren, Kurdik States, and the Meyam, then beyond.   There is no limit but it all hinges on you!"   She felt Bedelacq's presence leave her as the sickly haze dispersed she visibly relaxed.   But, she did wonder, at his ultimate goal the whole of Abbalar?  Then What... 

(To be Continued)

By Len Morgan

 Haiga from Rob

By Rob Kingston 

A few haiga from my IG page.

Enjoy!

 

The third one was a paint-off between myself and an eleven year old nephew.

 

The second is a bruise/scar from an op before my main one.

 

The first is self explanatory.

 

 Little Women

Janet Baldey

Mary knew it always snowed at Christmas.  Even now, her fingertips tingled as she remembered scratching away at the ice crusting the inside of her window until there was a hole just big enough to peer through.  Pressing her face against its frostbitten surface, she’d stare up at the sky until she saw the first tiny flakes break away and float towards her.  Once they reached the ground, the delicate crystals seemed to disappear but Mary knew they were just in waiting, icy arms outstretched until their sisters joined them.  As soon they would, a multitude, swirling to earth, falling one upon the other until they smoothed the hard angles of the houses with a chilly blanket.

         For hours she’d crouch watching, her thin arms shielding her body against the draughts knifing through the rotting frames.  At last, stiff with cold and dazzled by the dancing snowflakes, she’d slip to the floor and lie, arms and legs outstretched, waiting for her sisters to join her.

         As soon they did.  Chattering and scolding, they flocked into her room and pulled her to her feet.

         “Foolish child.  ‘Tis mid-winter and you are wearing but a cotton shift.  When will you ever learn, you goose.”

         Beth rubbed her frozen limbs while Meg stripped off her tattered petticoat, her delicate fingers recoiling from the grimy rags.

         “Oh, my word.  How did you get to be so dirty.  And just look at your bruises.  I do declare, I have never known such a clumsy child.  Quickly, get the Arnica please, Amy.”

         The girls then turned their attention to the dismal room.  Jo put a match to the fire and slowly, the temperature rose as the flames chased ribbons of smoke up the chimney.  With much clattering and banging they hauled a tin bath to the front of the fire and soon silky water was floating away Mary’s grime and soothing her bruises.  Ignoring the hard rim of the bath, she lay back and closed her eyes.  As she relaxed, the chatter of her sisters faded.  She had lain like this before.  As now, water had lapped around her but then the warmth of the sun had been heavy on her eyelids and there had been the cry of seabirds circling above.  With a sudden swish, a curtain was drawn and the memory disappeared.  She was in the bath and the cries she heard were the sound of her sisters’ voices.

         “How thin Mary is.  I can count every one of her ribs.”

         “Marmee must make her some of her special broth.”

         Mary thought of her beloved Marmee.  She visualised her face with its curving smile and soft blue eyes wreathed in a network of laughter lines.  She was so lucky to have a mother like her.

         Because, some mothers weren’t like that.  Some mothers had faces that were scored by slashing lines and had eyes that glared; the eyes of wild beasts loosed from the jungle.

         Mary whimpered.  She took a deep breath and thought about Marmee again.  She remembered how soft Marmee’s hands felt as she brushed her hair, coaxing the golden curls into ringlets and drawing them back with a scarlet ribbon.

         But some mothers’ hands weren’t soft.  Some mothers had hands that were hard and when they were swung at you, they felt like wood.  These mothers hands didn’t smooth your hair, they grabbed it and pulled it in hanks from your head and your blood felt warm and sticky as it trickled down your forehead. 

         Mary jerked back her head and whimpered again, louder this time.  She opened her eyes to see her sisters crowding around her, concern plain upon their faces.

         “Don’t be sad Mary.  See, we have a pretty dress for you to wear.”

         Meg drew her forefinger across Mary’s cheeks, wiping away the tears and patting her face with a towel.

         “You realise it’s Christmas Eve, don’t you?  We’re going to have a feast and Jo has written a special story to read to us over dinner.”

         “But, best of all my dears…..”

         Marmee stood in the doorway, her faced was flushed and wisps of tawny hair escaped from beneath her bonnet.  She waved a slip of yellow paper like and mediaeval pennant and smiled at the group of girls.

         “……your father’s got leave.  He’s coming home for Christmas.”

         Her sisters shouted with delight and clapped their hands.  Mary stood up, water streaming down her body, her heart bursting with joy.  Father was coming home.  She saw him standing in front of her, his legs planted slightly apart as sturdy as oak trees, his teeth gleaming as he smiled.  She would dart towards him and bury her nose in his greatcoat, smelling his special aroma, a mix of tobacco and wood-smoke.  How safe she felt in the shelter of his arms.  How lucky she was to have a father like him.

         Because, some fathers didn’t smell of tobacco and wood-smoke.  Instead, they stank of beer, sweat and old dirt and they didn’t make you feel safe.  Instead, you listened with dread to the sound of wood creaking as they climbed the stairs. 

         This time, Mary didn’t whimper, she screamed.

***

         The scream erupted out of her mouth, causing heads to swivel in her direction.

         “Who’s that?”

         Betty jumped, almost dropping the syringe.  She let out her breath; the new Matron had crept up so quietly that the hairs on her neck prickled.

         “It’s Mary in bed five.  Poor soul, she’s having one of her turns again.  This’ll quieten her down.”

         Matron’s eyes narrowed.

         “Is she written up for that?”

         “No. Mary’s special.”

         “Nurse, you know the rules.  There are no exceptions.”

         Betty shook her head.  “She’ll not settle….”

         Another wail, jangled their nerves.  Matron turned and stalked down the ward.

         A grey straggle of Mary’s hair clung to the pillows as she whipped her head from side to side.  Her mouth opened and closed and with each lament she drew a ragged object closer to her.

         “This bed’s a mess.” Matron rapped, eyeing both it and the occupant with distaste. “And what’s that?”

         “It’s her book.”

         “Her book!  It’s disgusting.  And what’s she doing with a book?  I doubt if she can even read!”

         Betty’s face flamed but angry words clogged her throat as she watched Matron wrench the book out of Mary’s grasp.  Mary howled even louder and her arms rose as she clawed at the air.  The sound swept around the high-ceilinged room and echoed along the corridor until it reached a thick oak door.  The man on the other side raised his head, then threw down his pen.  Rising, he crossed over to a window and stared at the thick, yellow clouds oiling their way across the sky.  His lips pursed; it wasn’t snowing yet but it would be.  Mary was never wrong.  He wondered who was on duty.  He hoped it was Betty.  The gargling cries continued, dying, then rising in jagged spikes.  Dr. Palmer left his office, his footsteps quickening, as he strode down the corridor and entered the ward.

         “Is everything under control, Nurse?”

         At the sound of his voice Betty turned, relief varnishing her face.

         “Matron’s taken Mary’s book, doctor.  She says it’s unhygienic.”

         “Matron’s quite right, Nurse.  Excuse me, matron. One moment….”

         Gently, he retrieved the book.  Catching hold of one of Mary’s flailing arms, he pressed it into her hand.

         “Chlorpromazine please, nurse.  I’ll write it up myself, later.”

         Matron stood motionless; a grim stalagmite dressed in blue.  Dr Palmer looked at her.

         “Matron, we’ve not met before.  Let’s have coffee.”

         He turned and led the way to his office. 

         As the percolator bubbled, Dr Palmer cast covert glances at the woman.  He noticed how she sat, bolt upright as if wired to the chair.  He sighed, she looked tough; for Mary’s sake, he hoped she had a heart.  With a cup in each hand, he turned and with an effort, softened his expression.

         “I know exactly what you’re thinking Matron.  Bloody consultants.  They don’t have to carry the can for rising infection rates.  Yes, I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but you’re new here and there are things you can’t be expected to know.”

         He walked to a cabinet and drew out a bulging set of case notes, almost as tattered at Mary’s book.

         “If you could just look through these notes, I’d be grateful.  They’ll explain a lot.”

         Reluctantly, the woman started to flick through the pages with impatient fingers but as the seconds stretched into minutes, the rustle of paper slowed and her expression changed.  At last, she spoke.

         “These go back fifty years.”

         “That’s when I first met Mary.  I was a very new houseman.  It was a snowy Christmas Eve when they brought her in, very much as it is today.”

         They sat listening to the icy spatter of sleet against the windows.  Matron forced her attention back to the notes.  With growing unease, she realised they were bringing back memories she’d tried hard to forget.

         “It sounds as if she was in a bad way.”

         “Little more than skin stretched over bone and what flesh she had was black and blue.  X-rays taken later showed numerous healed and healing fractures.  She was barely alive and we didn’t hold out much hope but she clung on.”

         “What had happened.”

         “We never found out.  New tenants heard scratching noises coming from a seemingly deserted house next door.  They broke in to deal with what they thought were rats.  Instead, they found a pathetic mite between six and ten years old.  She was lying in a filthy room without heating or food.  The only thing she had was the book you saw tonight.  Did you notice its title?”

         Matron nodded; when she was a child it had been one of her favourites.

         “When she was well enough, we asked about her family.  Her answers threw us right off track.  She said her name was Mary March and she lived with her mother and four sisters but neither the police nor social services could find any trace of them.  It was a while before the penny dropped – Mary had retreated into fantasy; it was her way of coping.  In her mind, she was a member of that idyllic family depicted in the only book she owned.”

         Trying to ignore the ice settling around her heart, Matron looked at the notes again. 

         “There’s a gap here, of about six years….”

         “Yes.  As soon as she was well enough, she was discharged to a foster home.  She went to live with a couple who lived on the coast.  They grew very fond of her and she loved living near the sea.  Everything seemed to be turning out fine.”  He swallowed.  “When she was fourteen, she was struck down by a massive stroke.  A blood clot, the legacy of too many beatings we guessed, had broken away and found its way to her brain.  She’s been here ever since and will be, until she dies.”

         Matron glanced up and saw the look on his face.  She felt herself shrivel as she read his mind.  He thought she was unfeeling, but he was wrong.  The truth was, she and Mary had more in common than he would ever know.  Her mouth opened but then closed, knowing there was a barrier between them that nothing could breach.  She got up but just before she left the room, she turned and looked directly at him.

         “There is no reason for you to worry doctor.”  Without another word, she left the room.

***

         That night, just before she went off duty, she visited Mary again.  The skies had cleared and the bed was bathed in moonlight.  As she looked at the sleeping woman, her stomach churned as she remembered the silent, empty days of her own childhood.  There had been no violence, but she bore witness that beating was not the only way to destroy a child.

         On an impulse, she bent and kissed Mary’s withered cheek and whispered.

         “Give my love to your family, my dear.”

         Mary stirred and smiled in her sleep.  Tomorrow they would go skating on the lake with Laurie and in the evening she and her dear sisters would decorate the tree.

Copyright Janet Baldey