The wrath of the gods

As I write this page, it is six days since I saw the sun. Over us there hangs a pall of black cloud, lightning-crowned, and there is an evil stench in the air. Strange things fall from the sky. It is plain that we have incurred the anger of the gods. Perhaps I should have fled, as others did, but now it is too late: only thieves and murderers walk the streets. 
   I have locked and bolted my doors. I have sufficient food and drink, but it is tiring to read and write by the feeble light of this little lamp. But I should not have to wait long for the final doom: the death of this city; perhaps of the whole world. 
  I wonder; what did we do to so anger the gods? We always offered the prescribed sacrifices, with due reverence. Somehow, all unknowing, we must have committed a sacrilege so terrible that it shook the very foundations of the earth: so terrible indeed that the precise nature of it cannot be revealed even to us.
   My eyes grow tired. I shall cease writing and try to sleep. I wonder if I shall ever awake in this life? I do not know if anyone will be left alive to read this page, but I sign off thus: in the second year of the Emperor Titus Flavius Vespasianus; I, Marcus Barinius Scapo; citizen of Pompeii.

The Attic

These days, I buy far fewer books than I once did, but still I can seldom resist entering a newly-discovered second-hand bookshop, even one that looks as unpromising as this one did. It was no more than a little terraced house converted to a shop, in a squalid back-street. The meagre display in the window scarcely invited further investigation, but even so I ventured into the dark and cramped interior. The aged custodian in her fusty dress did not speak as I entered, but glared suspiciously at me as though she suspected me of intending to pilfer her stock. And this was indeed as feeble as might have been expected; faded paperbacks, redundant outmoded textbooks with battered covers and what are essentially non-books, puffing transitory media and sporting “personalities” and forgotten TV soap-operas. I might have walked out at this point, but instead something prompted me to approach the aforementioned custodian and say I was really interested in old and rare books.

To my surprise, she responded. “Och, we keep those up in the attic”, she told me, in a strong Glaswegian accent. “I’ll go and unlock it for ye”.

I followed her up the creaking staircase to the top of the house. The attic, under its low and steeply-sloping roof, was unsuitable for the display of books, most of which lay in heaps on the floor.  I soon discovered that, whilst old, they could hardly be considered valuable enough to merit being kept under lock and key. There were Victorian novels by writers whose very names had been forgotten, and 19^th century collections of the works of Byron or Wordsworth, in very small print. They felt grimy to the touch. But now that I was in the attic I continued to scrabble amongst them, hoping against all the evidence that I might chance upon something worthwhile. The custodian continued to watch me with silent suspicion, and showed no sign of animation until I picked up a volume which appeared no more promising than the others.

“That’s the colonel’s book”, she told me. No further elucidation was forthcoming, but I felt I should at least open it. I ruffled through its leaves until I came to a full-page engraving entitled, “The Skraelings greet the dawn”, which in the inadequate light appeared to show a party of mounted figures. I find it very difficult to describe what happened next, though at the time it seemed perfectly normal. I can only say that as I peered at the picture I somehow found myself absorbed into it, so that I was no longer in a slum attic but on the summit of a low ridge, facing a party of warriors. Very fierce they looked, bearded and helmeted, though their equipment did not resemble any I had seen before, and to call them horsemen would be a misnomer, for the beasts they rode were monstrous multi-legged creatures. Exultantly they raised their spears to salute the crimson glow of a rising sun. (Did I explain that the engraving had mysteriously acquired colours?) I realised I had strayed from earth to some other planet: perhaps one where the coming of the dawn was less frequent than on earth; separated maybe by months or even years of our time. It did not occur to me to wonder who the colonel, whose book this was, had first found this place, and how the discovery was recorded in this strange way; for now I was there myself, and if I waited a little longer, the Skraelings would start to move, like a film which resumes after pausing on a single frame, and I would be amongst them ……….

Then I awoke, and found I was at home, lying in bed; but the book was still in my hand. 

The Tenth Man

(Genesis XIX, verses 20-31: "And the Lord said: the sin of the city is very great. But Abraham said to the Lord: Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked? What if ten righteous men be found in the city? And the Lord said: if ten righteous men be found there, I will not destroy the city").    

So who was he, the tenth man
whose righteousness saved the city?
And where was he found:
in the office or the schoolroom,
the workshop or the bar,
or the little patch of grass where only the drunks go?
And did he realize?
Did he know it was for his sake 
the earthquake was dormant,
the tsunami was stilled,
the bombs did not fall,
the invading armies turned aside
and the city was saved  
by him?

This year, in Syria
he wasn't there at all.

The Hitch-Hiker

A huge black-purple cloud like a gigantic sinister mushroom had sat menacingly over Cheshire and south Lancashire all afternoon, threatening imminent downpour up ahead of me. Soon it was officially night-time, though this made no real difference to the visibility, or lack of it.

    I don’t generally pick up hitch-hikers, but the state of the weather made me more merciful usual. Besides, this was a woman, so I daresay some old-fashioned chivalry kicked in too.

   She was good-looking in a slightly blowsy way, but her clothes were unusual. She wore a hat a bit like a traditional gentleman’s topper, and a black dress, with lace-up boots of the Doc Martin’s variety. The most striking feature was her eyes, which were intense and piercing.

       As we drove off I commented on the foul state of the weather. She replied that she didn’t mind it, and then surprised me by talking about how in the past storms were caused by witches, and that some still possessed the power to do this. I don’t talk much when I’m driving, and I reckoned that any human contact would be preferable to the third-rate pop music and inane chit-chat that you get on the radio, so I responded with some vague interjection like “Oh really?” This set her off, and soon, with no further encouragement from me, she was into a detailed discourse about black magic today, and her part in it. She kept turning round to face me; fixing me with those unsettling eyes of hers. I was increasingly puzzled, and uneasy.

    As we joined the M6, the storm was going full blast, the rain came lashing down and we were reduced to a crawl. My companion was delighted. “What a storm!” she chortled, “There must have been some really strong cursing going on to get this! I think I can make a guess as to who’s responsible! I wonder why they did it!” For no reason that I could discover, she began discoursing on initiation rituals, and tantric sex as a powerful engine for magical power. I told her I’d never been initiated into anything. “Oh, but you must!” she cried. I daredn’t turn to look at her, but I could feel her eyes boring into me.

   How was I to get rid of her? It occurred to me that, although I’d told her where I was going, namely, right up to the Lake District, she’d never told me where she was going or where I should drop her off. What on earth was I to do?

    We stopped at a service station, and I filled up with petrol while she nipped inside. While she was away I came to a decision, and I’m afraid I took refuge in an outright lie. I told her that I’d just received a message on my mobile from the friend I was going to stay with, saying that he was surrounded by flood-water and advising me not to come; so I’d have to leave her there, because at the next intersection I’d be turning round and going home. No doubt a more adventurous man would have taken her home and demanded to be instructed in the joys of tantric sex, so I suppose you could say I chickened out, but there you are.

   The last I saw of her was in the rear view mirror as I drove away. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated her as she stood there. I wondered whether she’d claim credit for it.

Actors and Actresses

Mike came to Pauline's flat and said, "Well, the production's finished, so I'm returning these things of yours I borrowed for it. Did you see the play? Did you like it?"
    "Yes, I did see it", Pauline replied, "but now you mention it: no, I didn't like it at all".
    "Oh? And may I ask why not?"
    "Well, for a start; it's hardly a new concept, is it: a shortened version of Macbeth in modern dress. And Phil Duckworth was easily the worst Macbeth I've ever seen: to describe him as wooden would be an understatement. I suppose you had to choose him because he was the only man in the cast capable of remembering his lines. And as for having the three witches as a kind of drug dream under strobe lights: that should have come with a taste warning instead of a health one!"
  "I see. And did it perhaps occur to you that the intention was to show Macbeth as a rather dim soldier who suffered from delusions because of post-traumatic stress, so it was all deliberate?"
   "So you say. But I say Phil was just a rotten actor. Period".
   "Well, I can see there's no point trying to debate the point with you. But what about Samantha Johnson as Lady Macbeth? Wasn't she terrific? She'd never acted before,you know. Talk about undiscovered talent! Now she wants to be a professional actress; full-time!"
   "And that's another thing. What on earth possessed you to depict Lady Macbeth as some kind of tarty teenager? It wasn't even funny!"
    "Why shouldn't she be a teenager? There's nothing in the play to say how old she is. And Shakespeare's plays are full of teenagers. Look at Romeo and Juliet; and for that matter, Richard III and Anne Nevill at the start of the play. So why not Lady Macbeth too? And Sam played the part so well!"
    "Look, Mike; I've known Sam Johnson for a lot longer that you have, and I can tell you, she's nothing more than a common little scrubber. So for her to play a tarty teenager wasn't acting at all: she just had to behave naturally! As a matter of fact, I can see her as a professional actress: on porn videos for sale on the internet; that'd be just her style. And I know perfectly well why you picked her for the part. You've always fancied her, haven't you? and you thought selecting her for the leading part would increase your chances: the old casting couch, of course. Well? Did your cunning plan succeed?"
   Mike stood up to go. "I know perfectly well why you're being so rude", he said."You're angry because I asked you if you wanted to help with the production, and you said no. Either you were just too idle, or more likely you chickened out. Now I've had to work hard on it, but I've achieved something - and I can tell you, a lot of people liked the play, for all your sneering - and you've achieved nothing. You're jealous!"
    "I wouldn't have wanted to be associated with rubbish like that, thank you very much!"
    Mike snorted and left the room noisily.


The next visitor was Sam Johnson. She was wearing a new dress, in what looked like an expensive Designer style. How on earth could Sam have afforded that, Pauline wondered.
   "Hiya!" said Sam in her usual slovenly voice, "I was packin' up my stuff an' I found I'd got these CDs an' fings belongin' to you, so I fought I'd better bring 'em back before I left".
   "I like the dress", said Pauline.
   "Nice, innit? It was a present".     
   "Are you going away?"
  "Yeah! This guy: he saw me in the play, an' he gave me this dress. He wants me ter come down ter London. He's a film director, an' he wants me ter work for him. Short stuff to start wiv. Adverts; fings like that!"
    Pauline thought any comment on her part would be superfluous. 

Now Is The Time!

( I wrote this some years ago, when I was studying Nazi ideology, and called it "A Futurist soliloquy from Dr Josef Goebbels", I have returned to it because I think it has relevance to events in the world today, particularly the behaviour of ISIS)

The past is dead, but still it sits
a moldering corpse upon a cobwebbed throne
and still its priests and acolytes
preach subservience to its stupid creeds
and tell us, this is good, but that is bad
thou shalt do this, but thou shalt not do that
self-serving claptrap! shameless lies!
by which the young are smothered by the old.

But now:
now is the time
you are strong
rise up!

Throw off the shackles that enslave you
tear down the rotten prison walls
take up the stinking rubbish of the past
and burn it: burn it all!

And from this cleansing flame there will arise
like a phoenix
a glorious new world.

Forward the fighters!

Quiet Ghosts

He did not have a name,because he was dead. He could remember little of his past life, but he recalled the face of a girl whom he had very much wanted to meet. He drifted from town to town, over many countries, until eventually he found her in a hotel room. He was invisible to most people, but she could see him.
   "Hello!" she said, "Who are you?" She was not in the least bit frightened.
   "I don't know", he replied. "I just wanted to be with you". It was strange that they could understand each other,since they spoke different languages.
   She said, "Tomorrow I have to fly to America. I would like it if you could come with me".

They boarded the plane and he watched over her until she fell asleep. He then drifted along the cabin and into the cockpit. None of the passengers saw him, but the pilot did. With a sudden scream of fright the pilot drew a small automatic pistol and fired several shots. They passed harmlessly through him and punctured the fuselage of the aircraft. It immediately depressurized and plunged downwards into the waters of the Atlantic.
    There were no survivors of the disaster, but he and the girl drifted contentedly together through the world until they had both forgotten who they had been.  

Cinderella: An attempt at a pantomime script!

Cast in order of appearance:

Lord Chamberlain

Cinderella

Baron Hardup

Gertrude (first ugly sister)

Marguerita (second ugly sister)

Page

……………………………………………………………………….

(Sound of bell ringing. Door opening)

Lord Chamberlain: Is your master in, child?

Cinderella: Yes, sir: I’ll fetch him (she exits)

Chamb: (aside) If she’d wash the dirt off her face, she’d be quite a pretty little thing

(Footsteps)

Cind: Here’s a visitor, father. (Cinderella exits)

Baron Hardup: What can I do for you, my man? You haven’t come with a bill, have you? Because I’ve explained: I will pay everything in full; it’s just that right now …..

Chamb: Do you have any daughters living in the house, Baron? It’s them I need to see.

Bar: They haven’t been ordering more dresses and jewellery, have they? It really is too bad! I’ve told them again and again that I won’t be responsible for their debts, and they simply take no notice! Can’t you tell them? They might listen to you!

Chamb: Baron, I am not a debt collector. I am Lord Chamberlain to His Majesty the King. What I have to say to your daughters could be greatly to their advantage, and yours. Just call them, please.

Bar: Oh, your grace! However could I have made such a stupid mistake! (Claps hands) Gertrude! Marguerita! You’ve got a very important visitor!

Chamb: (aside) Idiot!

Gertrude and Marguerita (enter, chattering) What’s happening? Who’s this?

Chamb: (aside) Good grief, what a hideous pair! Still, orders are orders. (aloud) Young ladies, I come on a mission of the highest importance. At the ball last night, His Royal Highness Prince Charming danced with a mysterious young princess, who then unaccountably vanished, leaving only a single slipper. His Royal Highness was so taken with the beauty of the said princess that he has vowed to wed her as soon as she may be found. To this end, I am commanded to ask every young lady in the city to try on the aforementioned slipper until the true wearer can be identified. Let us therefore proceed. Page: the slipper!

Page: Here, sir.

Gert. and Marg. (together): Me first! Stop pushing! Out of the way! Ow!

Gert: Give it here, you moron! (Grunts and groans as she tries on slipper)

Chamb: It’s clearly far too small for you. (aside) That’s a relief!

Gert: It’s my feet! I danced so much last night they’ve swollen! It would fit normally.

Marg: My turn now! (Grunts and groans)                                                  

Chamb: It doesn’t fit you either

Marg: I think I’ve developed a bunion

Chamb: (aside) I can’t imagine the Prince would be disappointed to hear that. (aloud) Well, Baron, I’m afraid these two don’t qualify. Are there any more young ladies in your household? What about the girl who answered the door?

Gert: Oh, she’s nobody

Marg: Just a servant. Besides, she wasn’t at the ball: she was here, working in the kitchen.

Chamb: But, Baron, didn’t I hear her addressing you as father?

Bar: Well, yes, there is another daughter. Her name’s Cinderella. But she doesn’t get out much. Too shy, you know.

Gert: You’d be wasting your time.

Chamb: Nevertheless, Baron, His Royal Highness has commanded me to try the slipper with every young girl in the city. So would you be good enough to call Cinderella in here? (aside) It’s no more than a very long shot, but I’m going to do it anyway, if only to annoy these two revolting hussies and their ridiculous father!

Bar: Cinderella! (claps hands)

(Cinderella enters)

Bar: Cinderella, the gentleman here wants you to try on a slipper

Cind: Yes, father

Gert: Look who’ll be getting a swelled head!

Marg: She’ll be insufferable after this!

(Short pause)

Page: Oh look sir! The slipper fits her perfectly!

Gert and Marg: Oh!

Chamb: So it does! Well, well! Cinderella, you must answer me truthfully: were you at the ball last night?

Cind: Yes I was, sir, and I danced with the Prince; but at midnight I had to run away, and I was in such a hurry that this slipper came off my foot and I didn’t have time to pick it up.

Gert. and Marg: (together) But she can’t have been! It’s not possible!

Chamb: (aside) Hmm. With a decent hairdresser and dressmaker she could be made to look quite presentable. The Prince could do a lot worse. The next step must be to get her away from her appalling family. (aloud) Now, Cinderella, your whole life is about to change. You must come with me to the palace. No need to pick anything up; we’re leaving immediately!

Bar: Just a moment, your grace. If you’re taking my beloved little girl to meet the Prince, I don’t suppose you could find your way to lend her poor old father the odd fiver, could you?

Teddy

The child threw her teddy-bear which
came bouncing towards 
me. It had wild
ferocious eyes and its
mouth was open; its teeth
sharp and hungry.

I have had this dream several times, and each time I have woken up in alarm at this point. But what if, on some future occasion, I am still asleep when the teddy-bear reaches me?

At the seaside

“I have come to the sea. I hate the sea”.

     He had much the same thought every year. There was so much about the seaside that he disliked. The strange and unpleasant fishy smells. The way sand got everywhere when the wind blew: into his eyes, his hair, his clothes: all very irritating for a fastidious gentleman. The perpetual taste of salt on his lips. Not to mention the extortionate prices charged by mediocre hotels in the holiday season. 

     But of course there were compensations. He would be sure to meet some attractive young girls, and with luck their mothers would allow him to photograph them, and to write to them afterwards. It would all be very pleasant. But in his heart he knew that any such episode would be no more than a doomed attempt to recapture the joy of a lost love from the past, which now survived only in memory. Here he was, a middle-aged gentleman, moderately successful and prosperous, with plenty of friends, but afflicted with a gnawing feeling of loneliness. 

    Fortunately, he never remained despondent for long. While he was collecting together the toys to attract the attention of children, he ran through in his mind a jokey little poem about his dislike of the seaside, and before he set out for the beach he jotted it down. He signed it, as was his wont, “Lewis Carroll".

Dreaming and Waking

There was a man in Carolina who
had a Diplodocus which he
bought at a pet store because
the shopkeeper thought it
was an alligator, but it
grew to an enormous size and devastated
the country for miles around
but soon people came from
all over the world to
see the monster, and his attorneys who were
called Magree and Graeme initiated complex
lawsuits on his behalf and so the
man and the Diplodocus lived happily
ever after.

.............................................................

But I'm not sure I really believe this story. Quite apart from the fact that the Diplodocus became extinct tens of millions of years ago, I don't see how anyone could possibly mistake a baby one for an alligator. The whole thing is most improbable. Even the names of the lawyers are only anagrams of each other. Nevertheless, I would like to believe that he really did have a Diplodocus. 

Why teenagers shouldn't necessarily be encouraged to write! (Part 2)

When I was about 16 I began to write a novel by post with Ted, an old friend. We were living in different parts of the country by this time, so I would write a chapter and post it to him, and he would then write a following chapter and post it back. We continued this until we were in our early twenties, and both at university. Another mutual friend, David, also made contributions. The work went under the title of "The life and epic adventures of Cecil Z. Frampton, Gent." - showing the influence of Henry Fielding: other influences including Sherlock Holmes, Francois Rabelais and science fiction. It was eventually abandoned unfinished. I discovered the manuscript several years later, and I think I can say, in all honesty, that it was pretty bad. Ted's contributions were on the whole rather better than mine.
     There are two problems with teenage writing. One is that teenagers are unlikely to have a style of their own, and instead are unduly influenced by the style of other writers; often producing a pastiche verging on parody. The other is that teenagers usually don't have much to write about that would be of interest to non-teenage readers. It is very noticeable that a large number of first novels by young writers are about how they were misunderstood at school; often focusing on how they were no good at maths. Ted and I at least managed to avoid this: we both did well at school and were good at maths. Nevertheless, almost all the characters were closely based on our teachers and school-friends, and the plot was sheerest fantasy.
    I still have the manuscript of  "Cecil Z. Frampton", but I doubt if it will be released on an unsuspecting public.
   Oh, and we really did enjoy writing it!  

Frizzy and Jack: a story for children

When they had settled into their new home, Jack’s mother decided she would like a dog, and, Jack agreed, so they went round to the local Dog Rescue centre. Mother’s eye was caught by a small, bedraggled-looking creature. She immediately felt sorry for him.

“Isn’t he sweet!” she said, “What’s his name?”

“I don’t think he has a name he would recognize”, said the man who was showing them round, “He was very badly mistreated by his previous owner, and at the moment he doesn’t trust anyone”.

“Does he bite?”

“No; he’s just very scared of everyone he meets”.

“Well, I’d like to take him home and look after him!”

Jack’s father, who was not interested in dogs, thought he would go along with his wife’s wishes, and Jack agreed, though secretly he had hoped for a much bigger dog.

Jack said, “I shall call him Frizzy, because of his hair!”

At first, Frizzy was very mistrustful of his new family, but after a while he became used to them. He was a very affectionate little dog. When he saw Jack sitting on a chair, he liked to jump up on his lap and lick his face, which tickled Jack and made him giggle. But Jack was less pleased when he discovered that Frizzy was very timid. He was frightened of other dogs, and backed away from them when they barked at him. There was a big chocolate-coloured labrador living not far away, which barked and shook its garden gate jumping at it whenever it saw Frizzy, who was most reluctant to pass the house. Father said that the Labrador was only trying to be friendly, and that Frizzy had probably been bullied by other dogs at the rescue centre, and would eventually get over it. But Jack was not convinced. He was rather shy at taking Frizzy for a walk, because he was afraid his friends from school might laugh at him.

 “Why do you call them your friends if you’re afraid they’ll laugh at you?” said Father. “You’re not exactly being particularly brave yourself!” Jack said nothing: he knew father wouldn’t understand.

One Sunday afternoon Jack decided he would take Frizzy out and force him to be brave. He put him on the lead and deliberately led him past the house where the fierce labrador lived. As usual, they were greeted with wild barking and the big dog jumping against the garden gate, rattling it. Frizzy tugged at the lead and wanted to go straight home again, but Jack told him there was nothing to be scared of and dragged him past. They walked on to the end of the town and came to a field of cows. Although they had never been in the field, Jack knew that Frizzy would be afraid of the cows; but he wanted to teach him to be brave so he opened the gate and went in.

They hadn’t gone very far before the cows noticed them. Cows do not like dogs in their field, and they quickly gathered round in a menacing fashion. Now it was Jack’s turn to be frightened. He realized with alarm that their route back to the gate was cut off. Frizzy suddenly fled with such force that the lead was snatched from Jack’s hand, and sprinted for some woodland on the far side of the field; and Jack, panicking just as much, followed as fast as he could.

There was a fence. Frizzy found a gap between the railings and slipped through it. Jack clambered over the fence, but when he jumped down on the far side he felt a sudden agonizing pain in his ankle and collapsed on the ground. He lay there, panting. The cows stood looking at them for a while, but then lost interest and wandered off.

Jack tried to stand up, but found he couldn’t. His ankle was extremely painful, and must have been badly damaged. There was no way he could walk home. He realized he hadn’t told his parents where he was going. There was no-one about. What was he going to do?

For a while he laid on the ground in despair. Frizzy, not knowing anything was wrong, licked his face. This gave Jack an idea. “Frizzy”, he said, “You must help me! You must run home and let father and mother know where I am. I’ll write a note and tie it to your collar so they’ll know”. He felt his pockets, but discovered he had neither pencil nor paper. What was he going to do now?

There was only one small hope. He took off his watch and threaded it through Frizzy’s collar. Frizzy licked his face again.

“No, Frizzy! Not now! Go home! Run! Good dog! Run home and lead them back here! Home!”

Frizzy suddenly set off at a great rate, through the fence and across the field before the cows had time to notice, through the gate and onto the road, out of Jack’s sight. All he could do now was wait and hope for the best.

Jack’s mother and father heard Frizzy’s frantic barking. “Thank goodness!” said Mother, “He’s late for tea! I thought he’d never come!” She heard father open the door and say, “Hello, Frizzy! Now where’s Jack?” He called out, “Jack! Where are you? Teatime!” but there was no response. Then he said to himself, “That’s odd! No sign of Jack, but Fizzy’s here, and the dog lead’s missing. What’s going on?”

Mother came to have a look, and noticed the watch dangling from Frizzy’s collar. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “Jack’s put it there for us to find! He’s in trouble somewhere, I can sense it! He send Frizzy home to get help! What shall we do?”

Father was inclined to think this was a load of nonsense, but he knew better than to argue. “Well, even if that’s the case”, he said, “what can we do about it?”

“You must go with Frizzy and he’ll lead us to where Jack is!” Seeing a look of reluctance on his face, she added, “If you don’t want to do it, I’ll go!”

“No, I’ll go”, he said, concealing his private belief that this was ridiculous. He selected a length of rope to act as a lead and tied one end through Frizzy’s collar. “Now then Frizzy, take us to where Jack is!” he commanded. “I hope this isn’t some damn stupid game of Jack’s!” he thought to himself.

The big labrador barked more frantically than ever as they passed its house, but Frizzy ignored him and trotted on. Eventually they came to the cows’ field and Frizzy waited for the gate to be opened.

“Are you sure this is right?” said Father. “Hello! Jack! Are you there?” he shouted, but there was no response. There seemed to be nothing he could do except trust Frizzy, so they set off across the field towards the wood.

Once again, the cows gathered round in a hostile manner. Father tried to shoo them away, but they quickly closed in again. Then one of them tried to tread on Frizzy. He jumped aside, but the animal’s hoof caught him a glancing blow on the front leg. Frizzy gave a piercing yelp of pain, which was answered by a faint and distant call from the wood.

Father scooped up Frizzy. “I’m coming, Jack!” he shouted, and he ran, faster than he had done for many years. He was very out of breath by the time they reached the fence and scrambled over it, but there was Jack; found at last!

He looked at Jack’s ankle. “I’m not sure if it’s broken or not, but it’s badly swollen and you certainly can’t walk on it”, he said. “We’ll just have to summon assistance and wait”. He took out his mobile phone, tried to dial a number, and cursed angrily.

“Dammit! No signal! What a time for it to give out on me! Right: I’ll have to carry you home!”

“But what about Frizzy?”

“I’m afraid Frizzy will just have to take his chances”.

“But Frizzy won’t ever get across the cow field with his leg. No, Father, I’m not leaving him. If it hadn’t been for Frizzy you’d never have found me. I’ll carry Frizzy if you can carry me.”

Father thought for a while and then said, “Yes, you’re right. We can’t leave him; not after what he’s done”.

Despite his pain, Jack managed a weak smile. “Do you think you can carry both of us, Father?”

“I’ll have to try, won’t I? We’ll manage somehow”.

In truth, Jack’s father was not at all looking forward to carrying the two of them, but he hoisted Jack onto his back and took Frizzy in his arms. “Off we go!” he said, “There’s no point in trying to cross the cows’ field: they hate dogs, and we'd never get through. There must be some other way out of this wood!”

They followed the line of the fence. It was rough under foot. Soon Frizzy was whimpering with pain and Jack was trying very hard not to cry. Just when Father was thinking he would have to give up, they found a gate which led to a farmyard. The farmer’s wife was able to make phone calls, and soon an ambulance came for Jack. Mother arrived too, to go with him to the hospital; but he didn’t want to leave until Father promised to take Frizzy to the vet at the same time.

Later, when Jack was sitting on the couch with his ankle strapped up, sipping a hot drink that Mother had given him, and stroking Frizzy, who had a bandage on his injured foot, Father said to him, “I think we’ve all learned some lessons from this, haven’t we? First, of course, you must promise us that you’ll never again wander off without telling us, right? But also, we thought you were very brave with your accident; and very clever too, thinking to put your watch through Frizzy’s collar. Without that we’d never have guessed you were hurt. I’m sure you’re going to be brave in the future too. It doesn’t matter if you feel frightened: everyone feels frightened sometimes. I don’t think you’ll be worried about people laughing at you after this. Just remember: you may be very frightened, but you can still be brave – as brave as little Frizzy was”.

“But you were brave too, Father”, said Jack.

“Oh, rubbish!” said Father. He laughed and ruffled Jack’s hair.

The Wizard and the Demon

Udlotwyn was seated outside his cottage in the warm sunshine when he sensed coming towards him up the hill a sword with a man. When they were within sight he knew that his fears were justified.
    The man proved to be a youth; probably not more than about seventeen. He rode a good horse, but rode it clumsily, suggesting it did not belong to him: probably he had stolen it somewhere. But it was the sword he wore that worried Udlotwyn, for the sword was a demon.
   In past aeons, there had been many demons in the world, but now there were few: it was many years since Udlotwyn had seen one. They had come from Outside, he had been told, and the mighty wizards of past ages had striven to trap and imprison them, to preserve the world from the chaos and destruction they brought. He guessed that this one had been imprisoned in a sword ("Not a wise thing to choose!" he thought), and then buried deep in the earth for safety. Perhaps this youth had turned it up with his plough, and now he imagined he was possessed of a mighty weapon; but in fact the sword was possessing him. It would urge him on to deeds of violence, telling him that he could become a mighty hero, but in fact it would drain him dry, and when he was no more than an empty husk it would discard him and find a new bearer. In the meantime, he,Udlotwyn, would have to be very careful, for the demon in the sword would doubtless seek to kill him. Demons always hated wizards.
     Udlotwyn put forth his powers, out of practice though he was. Ignoring the youth, who would be under the sway of the sword, he concentrated on the most vulnerable target: the horse. By the time it reached the cottage,the horse was convinced it had gone lame in its right fore hoof and was limping badly.
   "Ho, wizard!" called the youth, brandishing his sword, "Bring me out your treasure, or I shall kill you now,rather than later, and slowly, rather than quickly!"
   That's the demon talking, thought Udlotwyn: how else would he know I'm a wizard? But the demand for treasure shows that the youth still has a mind of his own, otherwise he would have killed me immediately instead of wanting treasure. If I proceed carefully I may yet escape with my life.
    "Greetings, Sir Knight!" he said, "My treasure you are welcome to take, for what would an old man like me want with treasure? But it is hidden, and many spells are needed to unlock it,which will take time. But I see you horse is lame: you will not be able to ride far with him unless I cure him. I have food inside, and good water in my well. Pray you: stay a while in my humble cottage while I release the treasure".
   The youth dismounted, and being unaccustomed to riding, he had to return the sword to its scabbard in order to descend. Immediately the demon's hold over him was reduced, and Udlotwyn had little difficulty in persuading him that he was both hungry and thirsty. When the youth had come inside the cottage and was seated at the table, Udlotwyn placed before him not just bread, but the choicest wines and sweetmeats such as might be set before a monarch. Udlotwyn could sense the sword screaming Do not trust him! it's a trick!, but the youth's greed was now in full control of his mind, and it was not long before he had fallen into a deep drugged slumber.
    Udlotwyn unbuckled the youth's sword-belt and, taking care not to touch the sword with his hand, carried it to the back room and locked it in. He then returned to the sleeping youth and caused him to walk, all unawares, out of the cottage and mount his horse, where Udlotwyn secured him to the saddle. The animal was now recovered from its imaginary lameness, and he gave it a slap and commanded it to walk on. When the youth awoke,he would have forgotten everything that had passed. Udlotwyn hoped that the owner of the horse would not punish him: without the sword he seemed to be a harmless enough young man. Udlotwyn then returned to his cottage, sat down and wondered what to do next.
       Once, long ago, he reflected, the world was full of magic; but over the centuries it has all seeped away, and soon there will be none left. It is many years now since I met a wizard: maybe I am the last one. And this sword, perhaps, is the last demon remaining at large. But with no more wizards, who will be able to control even this single solitary demon? I must now watch over it, for as long as there is life in me.
     He entered the back room and with great reluctance drew the sword from its scabbard. Instantly he perceived the power of the demon as it spoke in his mind. Take me, master! it said. Together, none can resist our strength! Together we shall rule the world! But Udlotwyn knew it was only a deception. The demon in the sword would use him to spread death and destruction, and eventually, though it might take many years, in the end it would drain him dry and abandon him. But what could he do? It was said that in the past there had been mighty wizards who could expel demons, back to the Outside from whence they came. But I do not have that power, he thought: nor is there anyone remaining who could instruct me.
     He could still feel the sword tempting him with visions of power and glory, but although there was turmoil in his mind,he managed to resist, and decided on a plan. I must keep the sword here, he thought:  and then I must stay here to guard it; if necessary till the end of my life. But I must also place it somewhere even I will be unable to retrieve it, for I do not know whether I shall always be able to resist its temptations.
    He took the sword from its scabbard. Immediately it resumed speaking to him, promising wealth and glory. He felt his mind tottering as he walked across the back garden to the well. The sword guessed his intent. No, master, no! it shrieked, do no reject this chance! You can rule the world! You can restore the glorious days of magic! It took the last vestiges of Udlotwyn's will to take the cover off the well and drop the sword down. He heard it splash into the water far below. He the picked up several large stone and dropped them down until he was sure the sword was buried. He was utterly exhausted as he replaced the cover.
   He could still hear the voice of the sword, but it was now distant and faint. Maybe it would be best, he thought, to have a new well dug, in a different part of the garden. I shall say that the water from the old well is bad. As the men dig out a new well, I shall use the earth to fill in the old one. I had better do that part of the work myself, lest they should hear the sword and be tempted to look for it.
    He settled down to start his vigil. He would be there a long time.
 

New Year

Brian awoke to see weak daylight creeping through the window. Sheer force of habit meant that he always woke up at the same time every day, and it was only after a few seconds the he realized that it was New Year’s Day, and he was entitled to a little extra lie-in. Not that this day would be particularly special: he knew exactly what was going to happen. Certain people would wish him a “Happy New Year”, and he would wish the same to them: others he would attempt to avoid. After breakfast he would have a stroll outside. He always tried to walk round the garden unless the weather was absolutely foul: not that there would be anything much to see there at this time of year, but he could at least reflect that in a few weeks little green shoots would be emerging from the soil. And maybe he would see a few birds come down for the crumbs that he always scattered. Then for the rest of the day he would read and watch television, and maybe play the odd game of table tennis or pool with his mates. In fact, it would be a day much like any other. The next day was just as predictable, and the one after that. Another year in his life had ended, another was beginning.

   The sheer sameness of each day, and each week, might have preyed upon some minds, but Brian had become accustomed to it, and it no longer bothered him. In a way, the unchanging routine that stretched for years into the past, and ahead into the future, was quite reassuring, and saved him having to think too much. Though of course, he reflected, there could be some major change lurking in the coming year, something beyond his control, which would upset all his routines. They might even decide to transfer him to another prison.      

 .

Police Report on a Double Death

The case of Alexei Pavlovich Tikhonov, following the discovery of the two bodies, has awakened much interest throughout the city. Although not all the facts have yet been ascertained,enough has been discovered for most of the story to be constructed.
    Tikhonov was a middle-aged scholarly bachelor, and most of his immediate circle were people like himself. His life had hitherto been blameless: the only one of his acquaintances known to the police was his disreputable schoolfriend Ketsbaia the Tatar, who was suspected of being a receiver of stolen goods. But Tikhonov's quiet life was to be overturned by Yelena Borisovna Chetskaya.
   She is described as being young, vivacious, friendly and very pretty. She remains something of a mystery, in that the police have been unable to trace a single relative of hers. It has been suggested that she was, as the old saying goes, "no better than she should be", but no firm evidence on that point has yet come to light. Why she was attracted to Tikhonov is not at all clear (it could hardly have been for his money, for he had little), but there is no doubt that he quickly became besotted with her. Rather than take her back to his sparse bachelor apartment, he installed her in an expensive hotel, where they lived together for several weeks. He bought her clothes and jewels, and accompanied her to the theatre and other public events attended by the cream of society.
   Tikhonov's limited finances were soon exhausted. He sold such of his possessions as were of any value, but then had to turn to other methods of raising money. His old friend professor Razminsky has reported that several rare old manuscripts are missing from his collection, so it seems likely that Tikhonov stole them and then sold them on through Ketsbaia. He may have committed other thefts as well. But he must have known that his crimes would be discovered before long, and he would face exposure and punishment. He therefore obtained a measure of poison, and on the third of June poured it into glasses of wine, which he and Yelena then drank.
   Tikhonov's suicide is readily explicable, but, why he should murder Yelena is harder to understand. It was not only pointlessly cruel, but goes entirely against what we know of his character. It is better to think that the two of them, having briefly found happiness in each other's company, resolved to depart this life together.