The Sleeping King

Eight men sat round the table, lit by a strange radiance that appeared to pervade the whole cave. The boy crawled out from the narrow passage through which he had entered, but for the moment remained on his knees, amazed and awestruck. For some little time Michael, for that was his name, continued in that position, until he was able to nerve himself to examine the scene more closely.

          Facing him was a king, for he wore a crown, beneath which his hair was like the mane of a lion, though his long beard was streaked with grey. His hands, heavy with many rings, rested on the table before him, and between them lay the hilt of a great sword. His eyes were deep and piercing, and they bore down straight at Michael, with such intensity that he could scarcely dare to return their gaze for more than a fleeting moment. It was therefore with downcast eyes that he slowly walked round the table. Of the other seven men, some were in armour, and some in courtly robes. Their eyes too were open, but did not move, and their gaze remained fixed on the king.

          Michael knew who they were, for many times he had heard of them in legend and story, and now he had found them. They were the great king, the emperor, and his seven counsellors; not dead, but asleep beneath the mountain, awaiting the moment of their country’s greatest peril, when they would rise from slumber to save it. Now he, Michael and found them. Was it now his task to awaken them? Was indeed his country in mortal danger? How was he to know: he was only ten years old.

          He tiptoes further towards the king, and every time he dared to glance upwards, he sensed the king’s eyes following him. The strange light, which at first he thought came from the roof, he now realised radiated out from the king himself, illuminating the whole gathering. At last he stood at the king’s side, and hesitated, unsure of what to do; until, suddenly making up his mind, he reached out and laid his hand upon the hilt of the great sword.

          Abruptly, and horribly, everything began to change. First, the sword crumbled to rust beneath his hand. Then the table creaked and groaned as its massive timbers rotted and split. Like a creeping tide the infection spread to the assembled lords. Garments fell in shreds and armour collapsed. The very flesh on their faces blackened and shrivelled, exposing the bones beneath.  The radiance flashed violently, and stones crashed down from the roof. Last of all the disease reached even to the king, until his eyes blazed out as through a monstrous lichen, and the look in those eyes was of unforgiving hatred and despair.

          Then Michael awoke. The window of his bedroom was rattling in the violent wind, and outside lightning and thunder were raging. Guilt and anguish filled his heart. He knew it had been a dream, but nonetheless he felt that somehow the universe had been diminished by his actions. 

Waiting Room

It was a large room, more like a wide corridor, with various doors with name-cards leading off it. Doctors in white coats strode purposefully from one door to another, and every so often nurses appeared with clip-boards, summoning names for consultation. A few of the patients thumbed in a desultory fashion through the magazines on offer, but most sat passively waiting. I passed the time observing the couple sitting opposite.

                Judging by the remains of a teddy-boy haircut adorning his head, I thought he must be in his late sixties. His white shirt too had seen better days, and was now too tight for him, so that every button strained. But even so, he looked in far better shape than his wife sitting next to him. She was wearing a long coat, and a brown beret on her grey hair. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes gazed blankly ahead. Her spectacles hung around her neck on a chain. Her husband spoke to her, gently and continually, and too quietly for me to hear a single word. Not once did she respond, or even turn towards him. I only saw her move when she decided to put her glasses on, but this simple action defeated her, and he had to come to her assistance.

                Finally a nurse came and summoned her. She showed no sign of recognition, but her husband arose. With the greatest gentleness he helped her to her feet, and then took her elbow and led her away, following the nurse. My name was called soon afterwards, and I never saw them again. But still I was touched by this tragic yet beautiful picture of love. 

Low-level Cricket: a true story

For many years I took part in a "lads-and-dads" cricket team which played occasional matches in the evenings and at weekends. Some of the players were genuinely talented, others were not, and took part solely to make up the numbers. These, of course, are the ones I remember best.

We won a few matches; others we lost. Our most alarming moment came when we had a fixture at Keele University. We found the pitch occupied by a team of gigantic West Indians: one looked exactly like Clive Lloyd; another looked exactly like Charlie Griffith. They were hurling a ball around at 100 miles per hour and snatching it out of the air. They took one look at our motley crew and burst out laughing. "Oh, man, we're not playing you, are we?" they chortled in disbelief. It turned out they'd gone to the wrong pitch. We weren't half relieved. At the opposite level of ability, we once played against a team who did not possess the standard white kit. We never found out all their names, so our score-book contained entries like "Bowled Brown Trousers"

Aran, an Indian, impressed us at the start because he had an M.C.C. coaching certificate, but our favourable impression waned when we actually saw him play. For an enthusiastic sportsman, he was quite the slowest on his feet I have ever come across. Once when I was at the non-striker's end when he was batting, the ball eluded the wicket-keeper and I called him for a bye. He moved so slowly that fine leg had time to throw to the bowler's and and run him out. He was furious. "It is never the non-striker who calls for a run! It is always the striker!" he berated me, incorrectly. On another occasion he contrived to tread on his own hand whilst attempting a sweep shot and decided to retire hurt. He was scathing of the way I held the ball for bowling an off-break, telling me I'd never get it to turn. But the only time I saw him bowl was in a practice knock-around. Tony, who was a strong batsman, tended to dispatch anything on his pads into the trees; but when Aran bowled, Tony said the ball came through the air so slowly, and with so little rotation, that he could read the maker's name on it. Tony simply hadn't the heart to smash this bowling, and played every delivery with an exaggeratedly-correct forward defensive stroke. "Well, at least I kept him quiet!" said Aran afterwards.

My principle, when I was captain, was less to ensure a win than to make sure everyone who had volunteered to take part should get a chance to do something. Thus those who could bowl well might have to bat after the non-bowlers, and any volunteering would always be accepted. This sometimes led to odd results. Geoff had played very little recent cricket, but wanted to have a go at bowling. His first delivery, right-handed,was a wide. He then switched to the left hand: another wide. Finally he abandoned these attempts and said he would have to complete the over bowling underarm. Result: more wides! I don't think he played again.

Bill was no cricketer, but such an entertaining character when sober that it was always worthwhile picking him. He generally had difficulty in pushing up his batting average for the season to more than about 2. In one match he was told it was essential for him to defend his wicket as long as possible and not to bother about scoring runs. This suited Bill's unusual defensive procedure, which was to ignore any ball wide of the stumps; staying completely motionless at the crease and not even deigning to pick up his bat. He found this could be quite demoralizing for the bowler. On this occasion, Bill followed the instructions for some time, until eventually he received a ball which actually bounced twice before it reached him. Bill thought he was justified in having a swipe at it, and was duly caught. Once when Bill was bowling it occurred to him that the non-striker might have ventured out of his ground, and calculating there wasn't the time to turn and look, he held the ball behind his head and performed a back-dive into the stumps, driving them violently against the umpire's shins. Bill looked upwards amidst the wreckage with a smile on his face and enquired, "Oh, by the way, umpire: how's that?" First slip was so convulsed with laughter that he actually fell over. I used to have a photograph of Bill executing a square cut, which would not have been out of place in a coaching manual, so perfect was his position; but a spoilsport friend who also knew Bill asked whether there was any reason to believe that the bat had actually made contact with the ball. When I discussed this with Bill, he told me how he once overheard a conversation between two fielders while he was batting:- "He's only got one stroke". "He hasn't even got that!"

Most cricket is played at a much higher level than this, but we could hardly be bettered for entertainment value.

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.