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2009:

 

A walk in the woods

 

Held Captive, Chapter 7

 

Held Captive, Chapter 6

 

Held Captive, Chapter 5

 

2008:

 

Safe in a Crystal: A tale of Merlin and Nymue / Held Captive, Chapter 4 / Respect The Sea (Winner of the Samhain Short Story Competition in the 2008 Samhain Online Party) / Seeking Truth.. / Shipton / Held Captive - Chapter 3 / Fictional History / The DeadGiveaway - Chapter 9 / 1am / Held Captive - Chapter Two / Held Captive - Chapter One / The Dead Giveaway - Chapter 8 / The DeadGiveaway - Chapter 7 / Godmother / The Soul of the Song / A sample chapter from: Divine Comedy of Neophyte Corax and Goddess Morrigan / The Dreams Were Back Again / The DeadGiveaway - Chapter 6

 

 

2006 -2007:

 

The DeadGiveaway - Chapter 5 / Frella’s Choice / The Blue Hippopotamus (MP3) / Jet, the stone of physical protection / Ragnarök / The DeadGiveaway - Chapter 4 / The Stone of Stability / The DeadGiveaway - Chapter 3  / The DeadGiveaway - Chapter 2 / Just can’t get a break / The DeadGiveaway - Chapter 1 / Endurance / Where could it be? / Running with the Horned God / Still Alive / A God's Sword / Kissing The Rain / Rites of Passage / Adriana Meets the Crone / Sister / Sea Princess / The Task / Walpurgisnacht / Erin / Winter Solstice Woman / Finn MacCool / Samhain Calls / The Troll-Tear. A Children's Story for Samhain / Litha Story / The Wolf Flute / I Dreamed / Magick for Change / The Craft / Trust in Magic

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The snow melts.
Drip, drip, drip.
Pools of hope form as the warm rays of the sun melt away the memory of the cold.

I have taken this time to walk. Out into the trees, still barren, but humming with waiting life.
I walk with no particular direction in mind, and I wander deep into the waiting arms of the forest.
I am day dreaming, living small lives within my own imagination.

I see the long shadows that are stretching towards me and I see Suna dip her head below the gnarled fingers of the trees.

I have lost my way and wandered to far to hear anything but the life around me.

My heart quickens, as do my steps, carrying me further and further, until, gasping, shaking, I emerge on the edge of a small clearing.

Perfectly formed, as if some human hand had drawn the landscape. A circle of grass, brown, lifeless, within a perfect circle of trees, each one touching the other, so close it was hard to tell where one stopped and the other began.

I felt something here, something special, not meant for a mere mortal as myself, so I slide back behind the ring, and closed my eyes, to catch my breath.

As I opened my eyes, hoping I had somehow been brought back to the road where I had entered, I was dismayed to find I was still staring at the ring.

Somehow it had changed. Each blade of grass seemed to stretch and vibrate, almost dancing in some invisible breeze. The trees seemed to sway just beyond my vision, glimmering, shifting, breathing.

Then I see. The light, small, faint, but growing, emerging from the trees. As I watch, silent, barely breathing, fearing I would stop it, I see more lights, varying in size, colour, and shape, start to emerge all around the circle.

They are women, beautiful, each in their own way. Each different, and I know their names. Not from study, not from lessons taught, but a primal, universal knowledge.

Brigit is the first to step forward fully from the trees. The flame above her brow dancing, and softly glowing about her face. She smiles and turns to the Lady next to her. Reaching out her hand, their fingers entwine together, and it goes around the circle.

Lada, Persephone, Flora.

Beiwe, Freya, Hare Ke,

Each grasping the hand of the next, each sharing their light with the other, each becoming part of something more.

Anna Perenna, Blodewedd and Dziewanna, complete the circle, and I can feel Mother take a breath.

Within the circle a woman appears. Eostra spreads her arms to the sky, and exhales.

Within that one moment the earth stood still, then she sighed. Life has returned, light has returned, and the Mother is rejoicing.

As I watch in awe, humbled by what I was permitted to witness, I see Eostra change, as each woman takes her place within the circle, not anyone more important, more honoured, than the one before. Each one equal, each one an important part of the whole.

As the last faded from the center, the circle was one once more. Together they raised their arms, hand still joined, to the sky, one by one, their heads fell back, and together they welcomed Mother back from her long slumber.

Then one by one, they faded back into the shadows.

And I was alone in the circle once more. I stood for a long time in the melting snow. And I thought. I thought about the Ladys, I thought about Mother Earth, and I thought about me.

I turned to find my way back, and after a few steps, the trees opened and there was the road.

I may have stumbled upon the circle by accident, or I may have not. But as I made my way back, I knew I had been touched by something magickal. The names may vary, the paths may be different, but together they all welcomed back life, they all rejoiced with the Mother.

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By Nicole S Kapise      

As he had said, Lucius returned and carried me down to the atrium. The slave girls had dressed me simply, for which I was grateful. Now, wrapped in a woolen palla to prevent chill, I was placed on a cushioned litter in a sunlit corner of the atrium. A basket containing some scrolls and my sewing was placed beside me, but the thought of reading Latin gave me a headache, and as I had no child, sewing seemed rather pointless. Instead, I simply sat and enjoyed the warmth. Lucius sat a little way off, studying household accounts. I had a strong feeling that I would no longer be allowed to wander the villa alone. I hoped my illness had done its work, and I could no longer bear children. As the growing season was over, I knew my womb would not quicken, regardless, and so for some months I was safe. Come Imbolc, or Februarius, as the Romans called the month, I would need to be on my guard. Februarius…“What day is it?” I asked suddenly. How long did I have?

Lucius looked up, startled. “Quartus de September. Why?”

I shook my head. Larentalia was still over two moons off; Imbolc six moons. I saw movement over to my left. The two houseboys were digging up plants. I watched silently as they pulled up the herbs and flowers that went into the contraceptive potion. Lucius must have spoken to the housekeeper.

“I will leave the rest, as the housekeeper says they are beneficial to healing potions, and the others are harmless. Now that you are well, our marriage arrangements can begin. You will not risk your life in preventing more children, Siobhan.” He stood and came to sit beside me. “Whatever you may think, whatever you feel, you are not a slave. I will marry you according to the laws of Rome, and you will become a citizen. I want children, Siobhan. I want your children, and they will be born citizens as well. Our daughters will have the same education as our sons, I assure you. You need to let go of the past and allow yourself to live in this world now.” 

The faeries’ chimes twinkled like stars in the shade cast by the willow tree.

“As you wish,” I said.

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      By Nicole S Kapise

 

 

“Can she return home?”

 

“I believe so, My Lord, though she is very ill. We have done what we could. A priest of Apollo or Minerva would be more knowledgeable.”

 

I could hear the voices above me, as though some distance away. I recognized Lucius’ voice; the other was a woman’s, one I did not know. I felt myself being lifted. The sanctuary…I was back in the night of death and fire, and that hated voice spoke to me again.

 

“Siobhan, please. Allow yourself to wake. Stay here with me, Siobhan. Don’t let yourself enter your Shadowlands.” He spoke in Cruithe, keeping his pleas between us. I could hear murmurs around us, voices in Latin wondering what ailed me. The Temple of Venus, I suddenly remembered. We were still at the Temple, then. I had finally succumbed to the near-lethal dose of the potion I had taken. It was well for Lucius to beg me to stay with him, for at this point I had little choice. I had achieved my aim, I thought. If I lived, I would surely be barren.

 

I opened my eyes briefly as I felt myself placed on the cushions in the litter. Dimly I saw Lucius’ face, drawn with worry. “Siobhan! Thank the gods. We’re returning to the villa.” I closed my eyes again. “What have you done to yourself?”

 

Lulled by the movement of the litter, I allowed myself to sleep.

 

My dreams were a maelstrom of fire and memories. I heard snippets of the cradle songs my mother sang to me, invocations of the high priestess at moonrise salutations, and my own screams as I birthed my son. I felt the heat of the flames that burned the sanctuary and the agony that tore my soul when Aonghas was killed. Once, briefly, I saw Her face, wreathed in flames. I felt the Goddess’ touch as I had once, so long ago, it seemed, and then She was gone again. I heard my voice, begging Her to come back and show me how to return home. Another voice answered but I couldn’t understand the words it spoke. Despair devoured me once again, and I was left alone, the last survivor of my nightmares.

 

I could feel sunlight shining over me. Slowly I opened my eyes, dazzled by the brilliance. I looked about the room. It was vaguely familiar; I knew I had been in it before, but I couldn’t quite place it. I began to sit, but fell back, surprised at my own weakness. Lucius’ room, I realized. I must be in his room rather than mine. That thought alone made me try to rise again. I met with some measure of success just as the door opened. The old housekeeper walked in carrying a bowl of steaming water and a pile of cloths. Humming to herself, she didn’t notice me until she was nearly to the bed. Her eyes rose and locked with mine.

 

“Mistress,” she gasped. “Thank the gods, you’re awake. We had begun to despair of you ever waking.” She set the bowl on a table and turned to leave. “I must fetch the Master.”

 

“No,” I tried to say. It came out as a whisper. I tried again. “Please…”

 

She turned back to look at me. “I must Lady,” she said gently. “The Master’s orders were to tell him the moment you woke, if he was not with you. I dare not disobey.”

 

She left the room, and I let myself fall back into the pillows to wait.

 

I heard his footsteps approach the door. “Return to the kitchens until I send for you,” he told the housekeeper.

 

I heard her murmured reply, and then the door opened and Lucius entered, quietly shutting the door behind him. “I thought I had lost you.”

 

I turned my eyes from the windows to find him standing before the door, regarding me with a closed face. He was very good at hiding his emotions unless he was very angry. I had learned that lesson long before. He waited, as though expecting me to speak, and then walked to the bed. “The priests of Apollo tell me you poisoned yourself. They said there was nothing they could do to heal you and that you would either heal yourself or die. I am glad you chose the former.”

 

He sat beside me and picked up my hand. I saw then how thin I had become. Blue veins traced my skin like the paint of the Picti people. “Do you loathe me so that you would kill yourself to escape me?”

 

I did not answer him. He could think what he liked.

 

“Siobhan, you have been lying near death for nearly a month,” my incredulity must have shown on my face, for he paused and leaned closer. “Yes, Siobhan, a month. You collapsed at the Temple of Venus, and have woken only a handful of times since then, only for brief periods. You begged to be brought home, and asked Deirdre to bring Aonghas to you. If you have seen your son’s shade, I can only conclude that this Deirdre is dead as well?”

 

Tears were rolling down my cheeks. I nodded silently. I hated that he had been near to hear my pleas.

 

“If you were so close to your Shadowlands, why did you not go?” In his eyes I saw hope. How to tell him that I lived not to be with him, but because my gods deemed me unworthy of entering their realm?

 

“She would not allow me to.”

 

The hope flickered and died, though his face betrayed nothing. “Then perhaps your Goddess has another task for you here in this world.” His voice changed, grew softer and became again the tone he normally used with me. “Why did you poison yourself Siobhan? I know you are unhappy, but I want to please you. Why will you not let me?”

 

Suddenly I was very tired of this dance we were caught in. If I had to live, I would not make myself any more miserable than I already was. “I did not poison myself, Lucius,” I sighed.

 

His surprise was clear. Not only had I spoken, I had spoken his name. “I took too large a dose of a contraceptive potion. It made me ill.”

 

Happiness and anger warred in his face. “You spoke the truth then, when you said you had not killed any of our children.”

 

“I did.”

 

He leaned forward and kissed my brow. “I will send your slaves to dress you, and I will return to bring you to the atrium. You need sunlight.”

 

Lucius rose and looked down at me. “Whatever your prayers might have been, Siobhan, know that mine are answered.”

 

He smiled at me briefly, then left.

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By Nicole S Kapise

 

            The ride to the Temple of Venus was nearly as much of a nightmare as the journey from Cruithintuait. The potion, taken undiluted and so soon after eating, was reacting violently. I felt so ill I wished to die, and the closed curtains of the litter (to preserve my modesty) combined with the jerky movement increased my misery.  I closed my eyes and leaned back against the cushions. Why couldn’t I just die? I had surrendered all interest in living long ago. At the Temple we had been taught to give up our lives through simple will power. If we truly desired not to live, we would die. I had seen it twice. Once, one of the elder priestesses, an old woman of nearly one hundred winters, ill with a cancer, has willed herself to die, not wishing to burden her sisters with her care. We mourned the loss of Gaela, but knew she was united with the Goddess after a lifetime of service. Her reward would come in her rebirth, and we would know her again.

 

            The second time, the death was not so happy. A young novice, having broken her vow of chastity to lie with the son of a village chief, found herself with child. The young man denied any knowledge of the girl and refused to claim her child. For three days the girl sat on her cot in the novice’s house, disgraced and heartbroken. No amount of coaxing could convince her to live, and on the fourth day she and her child were dead. We buried young Riva at the foot of a thorn tree, acknowledging her pain.

 

            I sighed, and turned my mind from dead children. I was trying too hard, I realized. I wished for death so strongly that the gift eluded me. I the days to come I needed to temper my wish with patience. Then, I would wake one morning, not in Lucius’ arms, but in the lost isle of Avalon, and see my sisters and my beloved Aonghas again.

 

            The motion of the litter slowed, and stopped. Slowly the bearers set it on the ground and Lucius opened the curtains. I must have looked as ghastly as I felt, for Lucius frowned and held his hand out, but did not assist me from the litter. “You are ill Siobhan. You should be in bed. Why did you not tell the bearers to stop?”

 

            “I am well enough,” I said quietly. “It is nothing. It is so close in the litter, it makes me feel ill. We have arrived?”

 

            He nodded. I placed my hand in his, knowing I would need help to stand. He felt my hand shaking, and ran a concerned eye over my face. “Your hands are cold. Are you sure you feel well enough?”

 

            I nodded, afraid to speak. I pulled my veil over my face and stepped from the litter. It took all my willpower to stand upright, but I succeeded with minimal support from Lucius. I took a deep breath, and looked up at the Temple.

 

            It was a beautiful building. Sunlight shone off the marble walls, causing the Temple to glow like the moon. Wide steps led to a line of graceful columns, beyond which lay the inner sanctum and the Goddess herself. It struck me how a people that so admired grace and beauty could cause such horror and death.

 

            “Come,” Lucius took my hand and led me up the Temple steps. “What were you thinking just now?”

 

            I remained silent. Lucius sighed. “I wish—” he began, and said no more.

 

            The square surrounding the inner Temple was bustling with activity. Vendors sold sweet cakes and honeycomb, flagons of wine, doves and flowers. A small girl of perhaps five winters, dressed in the plain white smock of the Temple novices, approached Lucius and welcomed him to the Temple. He thanked her, and gave her a silver coin, asking her to purchase two doves. She bowed, and ran to the vendor’s stall. When she returned, Lucius motioned for her to follow us, and we proceeded to the inner Temple. A lovely young woman greeted us at the door.

 

            “Welcome, Lucius Malleus, and you, Lady Siobhan,” she said bowing to us. “We are honored to have you here.”

 

            “Thank you Lady,” Lucius said. “We are here to seek Venus’ blessing on our marriage. We are to be wed at the festival of Larentalia.”

 

            Her beautiful face brightened. “An auspicious time, My Lord. I offer you my congratulations on your marriage. A priestess such as Lady Siobhan will be a credit to your house.”

 

            I thanked her quietly for her kind regard. Lucius’ hand tightened around my fingers. I could sense he was pleased with the reception his announcement had garnered. We followed the priestess into the inner Temple. Lucius took the small cage from the young girl, and rewarded her with a small copper coin. The little girl smiled her thanks, and vanished on silent feet. The priestess led us to sanctum and left us alone before the Goddess.

 

            Silently I looked into the face of the Goddess of Love. She was no less beautiful than Clionda or Blodeuwedd, but in her face I saw arrogance, a cold assurance of the worship she knew was her due. This goddess’ love was the hateful kind.

 

            However arrogant she might have been, it was clear her people loved her. Flowers and jewels were piled at her feet, sweet incense floated through the air, and doves cooed from alcoves beneath the roof. Lucius removed the two doves from the cage and handed one to me. I sank to my knees beside him, and while Lucius made his invocation, asking the goddess’ blessing on our marriage and our children, I silently begged my own boon.

 

            ‘Great Lady, grant me an empty womb. My son is dead; I want no more children to take his place. My death will come in its own time; until then, allow me to be barren. Let Lucius find another to love, one that will love him in return, and give her his sons. I want none of them.’

 

            Lucius finished his invocation, and we released the doves to carry our prayers to the Goddess.

 

            I followed my bird’s flight. It flew to the carved ceiling, circled above the goddess twice, then flew out of the Temple itself, winging away through the clear blue sky. Faintly hope stirred, and I took it for a good omen. I turned to see Lucius standing, watching me, his dark eyes unreadable. He lifted me from the floor and set me on my feet carefully as though I were the thinnest glass. The priestess reentered the sanctum.

 

            “The Goddess has heard your prayers,” she said with a gentle smile. “You will be blessed, I’m sure.”

 

            Lucius thanked her, and we began to follow her out of the Temple. My head felt heavy, and I longed to return to Lucius’ villa and sleep. Faintly I heard my name. Someone, somewhere, was calling to me. Through a thick fog I could just make out a figure, veiled in dark hair. Deirdre, my dearest friend, a priestess my own age. We had entered the Temple together as girls. I had seen her body, crumpled and bloody at the edge of the Great Forest that night so long ago. She stood now, distant but there, where I could see her again. I saw a glimmer of gold, and knew she held my son in her arms.

 

            “…not now…” A voice, deeper, harder than Deirdre’s flute-like tones cut through the fog. Deirdre and Aonghas began to fade from sight.

 

            “Wait for me,” I whispered. I tried to speak, to beg Deirdre to take me with her, but she didn’t hear. She turned away, disappearing into the fog.

 

“Aonghas,” I whispered, and knew no more.

 

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I woke the next morning, blissfully alone. Light streamed through the open shutters, painting the spare furnishings in the room golden. I rose quickly, shivering in the cool air, and dressed myself. I didn’t know when Lucius would return to his rooms, and I wanted to be away before then. My heart sank as the door opened—I hadn’t been quick enough. To my relief, the housekeeper entered, carrying a tray. “Lady,” she bowed her head. “I’ve brought you some breakfast. The Master says you’re to eat before you leave his rooms.” She set the tray on a table, and pulled a stool from the corner.

I shook my head. “I can’t eat, Mistress. Just some water is fine.”

She patted the stool. “Sit, child. You need to eat, or those herbs you’ve been taking will poison you.”

I looked at her sharply. She nodded her white head. “I know what you’re growing in that garden, girl. Those plants grow in my homelands as well, in Gaul. I know also that the amount you’ve been taking every day will kill you if you’re not careful. So eat, Lady.”

I brought another stool to the table. “Will you join me?”

She shook her head. “I’ve already eaten, Lady. But I’m glad to sit. These old bones get weary sometimes.”

I sat at the table, and the housekeeper set my breakfast before me. Roast ducks’ eggs, bread warm from the ovens, honeycomb, wine and figs. My stomach clenched, tried to rebel. “This is too much, Mistress,” She looked mutinous, and I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

“You do that. You’ll feel better then.”

I ate slowly, aware that she was watching, probably counting bites. I wondered if she would report back to Lucius when I was finished. She probably had no choice, and I wasn’t going to put her at risk for my actions. When I felt I couldn’t eat any more, I pushed the tray away from me. I had barely eaten half, but the old housekeeper nodded, satisfied. “That’s better Lady. Not too much at first and soon you’ll be well again. Now I’ll send for your maids to dress you.”

She stood and collected the tray, and I began to follow her out of the room, only to stop when one of the girls assigned to me entered with her arms full of my gowns.

“What is this,” I asked the girl.

“You are to stay here with me,” Lucius answered, coming in behind her. “I will keep you with me, so I know you and our children are safe. She ate,” he turned to the housekeeper.

“She did, Master.”

“Good. You will bring here meals here, unless she dines with me.”

The housekeeper bowed, and quickly left the room.

“Well?” Lucius looked at me again. I said nothing; I simply watched the girls bring clothing, jewel chests and cosmetic cases into the room. Two men entered carrying pieces of furniture.

“Siobhan.” Lucius’ voice was stern, and from the corner of my eye I saw one of the girls flinch.

“You,” Lucius beckoned to one of the girls. “Attend your mistress. She is coming into the city with me. Have her ready.” The girl nodded, and she and the others rushed to collect clothing and set up a bathing screen. Another went to fetch water.

“I will return soon. You will not leave this room without me,” Lucius said, and left.

I stood a moment, dazed and angry then forced myself to swallow my anger. There was no point. Lucius would hold me until I died, and I could only hope that would be soon. I walked to the table on which the girl had placed the jewel chests. I opened the most ornate and took out strings of pearls, tortoiseshell hair combs and gold fillets. I had fashioned a false bottom for the chest so I would have a place to keep the medicinal brew that prevented pregnancy. The bottle was still mostly full, as I had made it only two days ago. I wondered how much freedom I would be allowed now. I doubted I would have many more opportunities to brew such medicines. Perhaps it was time to begin making another kind of potion.

I heard footsteps approach, and quickly pulled the stopper from the bottle and drank a large amount. It would make me ill, I knew, but would continue to work. The taste was vile. This kind of brew was never given plain; priestesses and midwives always mixed it with honey-wine in the hopes that most of it would stay down. Hands shaking, I replaced the bottle and the false bottom then carelessly threw the jewels back into the chest. The girls would think I had been searching through the chest, nothing more.

“Lady,” one of the girls touched my arm. “Your bath is ready.”

I nodded to her, and followed her to bathtub.

Lucius returned in an hour. I was seated in a carved chair, pretending to enjoy the ministrations of the maids that were arranging my hair and painting my face. In reality, I was dizzy and forcing myself to breathe slowly, trying to reach a state above my own, and failing horribly. For once, I was grateful of the litter Lucius had purchased for me. A carriage or chariot would be the end of me.

“You may go.” Lucius’ voice dismissed my maids. I sat still, eyes closed. I felt him standing beside me, and let him stare. I was too ill to care, and regardless, he would do as he wished.

“Look at me.”

I sighed and slowly opened my eyes. Lucius eyed me critically. “You are pale. Are you unwell?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Then we shall leave,” Lucius took my hand and pulled me from the chair. I swayed as the room tilted beneath my feet. Lucius’ arm went around my waist to hold me up. “You are ill. We must stay home.”

“No,” necessity made me speak. If I stayed in this room all day I’d go mad. “I’m a bit lightheaded; I’m well enough.”

“Good. The Priestesses at the Temple of Venus are expecting us. We will sacrifice to the Goddess and ask her to bless our marriage.”

I followed Lucius from the room silently, taking note of the two house boys that sat on either side of the door. I was a prisoner in the villa, then. Everywhere I went, I would be followed. I too would ask the Goddess’ blessing, but I would not ask for a fruitful womb.

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(Winner of the Samhain Short Story Competition in the 2008 Samhain Online Party)

 

by Seawitchthetis

 

You won't believe this story, but it is true. It was told to me by my aunt Mary…

 

Just five miles north of the Cornish town of Newlyn nestles the small fishing village of Porthluna. It is a traditional Cornish fishing village with a Post Office, Inn and small working harbour. Few tourists go there. It has no beach, no picture postcard cottages and like the village itself, the residents of Porthluna have seen better times.

 

There was an air of sadness over the village these past few weeks. Old Isaac, a wiry old fisherman, had passed away and his passing had left a void in the close knit community. Usually when a fisherman passes, his boat and its equipment are passed on to his sons. Old Isaac had long outlived his loyal wife Jenna and they had never been blessed with children. Therefore, out of respect for a fellow sea dog, the local fisherman had tended to his boat and Miss Mary, Isaacs housekeeper, had carried on tending to his cottage, right down to laying a fire in the grate every night.

 

One morning, a van pulled up outside old Isaacs cottage and men in overalls began to take what little there was of the furniture, away from the house. Soon there was nothing left in that cottage that belonged to old Isaac, except for a small framed photograph of Isaac and his fishing boat.

A small crowd had gathered to watch the comings and goings, unsure whether to stand and watch or go and stop them. Just as one brave soul was about to step forward and enquire what was going on, a brand new Landrover pulled up. Out jumped a young man with flowing blonde hair. He was dressed, much to the locals amusement, in a traditional fishermans smock, a red necktie, smart black jeans and Wellington boots. An Incomer !

 

He introduced himself to the watching fisherman as Isaacs great nephew and informed them that he had come down from London to take over the cottage and boat. Breathlessly and with great enthusiasm, he told them of his plans of turning the cottage into a bed and breakfast and of giving holidaymakers trips on a ‘genuine Cornish fishing boat’. But, before the fisherman had time to assert their dismay, the incomer enquired after Miss Mary. A runner was sent off and she was then dutifully brought before him. To her he gave a bundle of bank notes and then quietly said that her services were no longer required. Miss Mary gave no reply but smiled shyly at the young man and walked silently away.

Over the next few days, the arrival of the incomer was the subject of many musings around the tables of the local Inn. Old Isaacs house was painted a chocolate box pink, fishing buoys hung up outside the door and the small front garden that had been Isaacs pride and joy was gravelled over to make a drive for the Landrover. Old Isaacs nephew could be seen scurrying back and forth directing ‘the improvements’.

It was some three days after his arrival that the incomer turned his attention to the boat.

 

The Kelpie was berthed next to the steep and slippery steps that led down to the water. Gingerly the incomer dressed in his ‘traditional’ fishermans attire clambered down to survey his new boat. In his arms, he carried a package. The local fisherman made great play of mopping the decks of their boats and fixing the nets, but their eyes were really beadily fixed upon the incomer, watching his every move. He pulled from the package two small pieces of timber. Putting these down upon the deck, the incomer then walked along to the bow, where, bending over, he cleanly wrenched The Kelpies name plate clear off her sides. If it wasn’t for the gulls screeching out their horror at this barbarous act, you could have heard a pin drop that fine autumn morn. All good sailors know that once a boat has been named it is enlivened and like a person must be treated with respect. With a satisfied grunt, the incomer tossed The Kelpies nameplate into the harbour where it sank with a faint sigh and a gurgle.

 

There was no gossip about the Incomer that night. The pub was quiet and the fishermen were in a solemn mood. It was the night before Samhain and the fishermen were in no mind for laughter and gossip. Their hearts were heavy with sorrow for the memory of old Isaac and how saddened he would have been to see his beloved Kelpie treated with such disrespect. The pub was closed early and the locals pulled up their collars and hurried home quickly, their eyes darting left and right for fear of things lurking in the shadows.

 

The morning of Samhain was cold, clear and crisp. The boats of Porthluna bobbed in the harbour,with the fishermen once again tending their nets. There would be no going out with the tide today. It was tradition in Porthluna to stay on land and raise a glass to fellow fisherman who had pulled their last net and share memories of ancestors over good food and company. The only boat getting ready to go out with the tide was The Kelpie, or The Dolphin as she had now been re-named.The incomer received no fond fare thee wells or wishes of good luck as he steered old Isaacs boat out of the harbour. The Dolphin cut a lonely figure as she chugged out to sea. The incomer was oblivious to the black looks given to him by the locals and he whistled happily as his blonde hair blew about his face. Today was the day when he would check out the route he would take his first paying customers on. He already had a few bookings, so his mood was light.

 

It wasn’t long into his voyage that smoke began to billow from the engine and it started making rather mournful gurgling sounds. With a sigh he switched it off and dropped anchor. Armed with a book in one hand and a spanner in the other he was about to go below to deal with the problem, when he noticed the fog bank coming towards him. The gulls had now stopped crying and circling overhead. They soon figured out this boat wouldn’t offer them a hearty fishy meal for free. In fact, the only sound to be heard now, was the slapping of water against the sides of the boat.

 

The sea fog soon enveloped the little boat and the incomer could barely see in front of him. Gripping the handrail with little impatient movements, he began to make his way back to the wheelhouse. Through the fog, stars could be glimpsed here and there in the sky. Surely, thought the incomer, the night could not have come on so soon. The sea air, once so clear and crisp began to feel oppressive and the subdued, peaceful sound of the waves became rather ominous, akin to bare branches knocking against a window.

Suddenly the incomer spun around. There ! A sound ! A sound almost peaceful, like that of the breath of a sleeper. Again ! A sigh ! No, surely not, it was just his imagination. With a wry smile the incomer got into the wheelhouse. He was just about to turn on the engine when he heard the singing. Quietly at first, softly came the sound of a woman singing in the distance. Closer now and louder, but still he could not make out the words. Another boat in the fog ? He shouted out. No answer. Still the singing was coming closer. A faint flutter of panic began in his heart. No, don’t be as superstitious as the old sea dogs. He was from the city and he didn’t frighten easily. Still, he’d heard legends of Mermaids, and just think of the extra money he could pull in with tales of Mermaids off the coast of Porthluna.

 

With a grin, he grabbed a torch and shone it over the side. There ! No it couldn’t be! A face? The incomer leaned over the side of the boat to get a better view. Staring up at him was the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair was floating like a halo around her head and her eyes were the deepest green. Coming out of this angelic creatures mouth WAS the singing he had heard. It was real ! It was the most beautiful natural sound he had ever heard. He had to get closer; he had to touch this wonderful creature. Leaning even further over the edge, he reached into the water.

It was at that moment that the creatures fingers gripped the incomers outstretched hand. No longer beautiful, no longer a woman but a grey-green monstrosity, cold and covered in barnacles the creature began to slowly pull the incomer into the sea. It’s eyes! Oh my god it’s eyes! They had become the rheumy old eyes of Isaac staring deep into the incomers very soul . He tried to pull away, but the creature pulled the incomer nearer, reaching out with its other hand to grasp him by the throat. It was at that moment the incomer heard the words to the mermaids song “ respect your ancestors, respect the sea” over and over again.

 

When the other fishermen found him, he was crying, huddled in the wheelhouse clutching his throat and soundlessly mouthing a scream. Clutched in his clawed hand was the nameplate of The Kelpie…

 

The Kelpie now sits upon the harbour of Porthluna berthed in her usual place next to the slippery old stone steps. The fishermen tend to her and keep her in tiptop condition out of respect for old Isaac. Not wanting to see the cottage go to ruin, the fishermen saw that it was repainted, the buoys taken down and the garden replanted. Miss Mary looks after it now. Every night she lights the fire in the grate, looks up at the photo of old Isaac with The Kelpie and twirls about her fingers the wonderful silver pendant of a mermaid she wears around her neck…..

 

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by Lupa

Mist shrouded the dark tower. It was not a natural mist, but one created from necessity. There was magic in this place. Magic older than time, raised for one living now.

Her heart beat wildly, as she ascended the final stair to the top. She had come here for comfort, for solice, and for balance. She had worked hard to be strong, free, to be in control. She would not willingly give that up, but there was one who threatened her hard fought life. One who threatened her very heart. That was the one thing she protected the most, and in a moment of carelessness and selfishness, she had made it vulnerable again.

She walked quickly to the alter and prepared to cast her circle. Gathering what she needed, she stepped into the center of the room and began. As she called each guardian she could feel the power building, waiting. When the circle was cast, she returned to the center and called her Goddess. She sought comfort and strength from one, and that was the form she called.

"Mighty Lillith, I seek your strength, and your guidence. My heart is troubled, and I seek your comfort."

The power built to an almost unbearable pressure, then broke with the crash of thunder. Lightening flashed, blinding the woman for a moment. As her vision cleared, she saw someone standing before her. She gazed at the figure, confused and angered.

"I do not understand Great Lady, this is not the form I seek, why do you betray me, when I need you the most?"

The Great Mother smiled at her, and held out her hand.

"The one you seek is not the one you need. Lillith will only hide your heart deeper. Take my hand, there is much you must see, and hear. You have hidden far to long."

The woman reached up and took Hecate's hand.

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By The Pseudomat

 

It never used to be like this.

 

Medication, restraints, straightjackets, visiting hours; these weren’t always the markers that delineated the outline of my day.

 

I don’t think they were anyway. My day doesn’t seem to have an outline anymore anyway.

 

No, I remember, there was a time when I was free, when I lived alone, when I slept in my own bed. I remember I had a cat, he was called….oh god, what was the cat called? Buttons? No, Mittens. Yes, Mittens. I think. Or was it Buttons?

 

SHIPTON! The cat’s name was Shipton!

 

I miss the cat.

 

I remember I had a job. I had an office and a mug, and a picture on my desk. I used to have friends, I used to go out, go to parties, meet girls. Not anymore.

 

Not since those pills. The pills that got into my head and changed the way the world works. Thank you Dave, for those pills. Or was it Mike? Maybe it was that girl I went to the party with.

 

There was a time when……

 

‘Time’. An odd choice of words. For me there is no time, its flow has been stemmed. Instead it spills out over the banks, taking me to places that I’ve been before, to places that I will go, and to places that I hope never to see again.

 

Time. I have no time. Instead I have memories, thoughts of things that I have seen. I remember things that have yet to be, recall events that happened many years ago, and anticipate views of yesterday.

 

I miss the cat. They won’t let the cat in here. Unhealthy they called it…or ‘will’ they call it unhealthy? I forget when-abouts I am today.

 

The view from this window is dire. Nothing but bare, leafless trees, standing like aged sentinels against a warm autumn sky. They had leaves this morning, they will have them later, but for now they are simply covered with snow. Looks cold out there.

 

Steve gave me the pills! Thank you Steve! Those pills that made the world work sideways, made me travel like TV static through/in/around life.  Thank you Steve, but this jacket is making my arms hurt, I don’t like the way it buckles at the back. Could you undo it for me?

 

I used to have clothes too. Suits. Shipton didn’t like them, he said they made me look like a bank manager.

 

Why would the cat say it didn’t like my clothes? Maybe it wasn’t a cat. Maybe it was a boy.

 

A boy? A boy? I thought Shipton was a cat, but it could have been a boy. No, Shipton is a man! He came to see me yesterday, or he will tomorrow, but I know him. Looks a bit like me, but has more hair and no glasses. He used to be a boy, but now he’s a man, or that could be the other way around, I don’t remember.

 

My arms hurt. This jacket isn’t nice. This wheelchair isn’t nice either. They stole my suits and put me in this wheelchair. Shipton says that he likes my wheelchair, says it makes me look like a racecar. He’s a nice boy. I think he comes here with that man who looks like me. I think that man’s called Shipton too.

 

I keep telling them I’ve got to go, I’ve got to get Steve, but they don’t believe me. They just leave me here, tied to this bed while they help everyone else. Jan thinks I’m drunk, but I’m not, but I have to get to Steve, so he can take away the pills, cos they’ve made me ill.

 

The party was good I think, but Shipton couldn’t come, he went to his grandma’s, or his friends, or maybe he stayed at his house, with Cathy and the kids, I can’t remember. The TV’s not working properly, cos I’ve seen this programme before. Saw it yesterday before we went to the party, before we took Shipton to his gran’s.

 

The trees have leaves again, but they are getting rained on, it’s raining outside. I don’t mind, the wood of the box keeps me from getting wet. It’s soft in the box, and warm too. I can hear people crying outside, or they might be laughing. Maybe they’re laughing at that programme.

 

I wish I could see the programme, but they won’t let us have the TV on in here, they say we get too excited. I don’t mind, I can’t stand up to change the channels anyway, my legs don’t work.

 

Shipton! It’s time to go. Put the cat down and turn the TV off. You only have to stay at granma’s for a bit. We’ll pick you up after the party. Now, let’s go and find your mum.

 

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by Nicole S Kapise

 

I said nothing. What was there for me to say? All I had known, all I had loved, had been destroyed by this barbarian that claimed to love me. My only consolation was that Lucius didn’t know the properties of the plants I cultivated in the atrium garden.

 

“Siobhan.” His tone was stern, and edge to the honeyed tones he normally spoke to me with. I raised my eyes from my plate and met his. Lucius’ features relaxed into a brief smile. “Tell me of wedding traditions in Caledonia.”

 

If the gods existed I’d ask them to damn him. His disregard for my people destroyed the sanctuary of the Goddess; his soldiers set torches to the sacred forests where the God walked. How did he dare ask me of our mysteries? How dare he make a mockery of all I had lost?

 

 “Siobhan,” he set his goblet on the table beside him and rose from his couch. I started to sit to give him space on my couch.

 

“Stay as you are.” Lucius’ voice was hard again. I sighed inwardly as he reclined before me, pressing me back against the cushions along the low back of the couch. He propped himself up on his right arm and with his left hand drew the veil from my head. He threaded his fingers through my curls then traced my jaw. “I wish to marry you Siobhan. Had we stayed in Caledonia I would have married you there and adopted your son. I will marry you, and with the Senate’s blessing. I know you, I know how you think. If I do not include your traditions, you will feel our union is incomplete and will one day try to leave. You will not leave me.”

 

“You know me?” My anger betrayed my determined silence. “You know nothing of me, nor—“

 

“Then tell me,” he shouted, his face inches above my own. “Tell me of yourself. Tell me of your desires, of you thoughts. You are brilliant Siobhan. Tell me what you know. Tell me what’s in your heart.”

 

My anger was hot as the flames that ate the sanctuary. I saw again my babe’s body crumpled on the ground. “My heart died in Cruithintuait.”

 

“And you blame me.” Lucius’ voice was soft. His hand cupped my cheek, stroking softly.

 

I had nothing to lose in honesty. “I do.”

 

His hand dropped from my face to stroke my arm, then pressed against my belly. It was empty—I saw to that every day. “And yet you are here.”

 

 “You wouldn’t let me die.”

 

He reared back in surprise. “I wanted you to heal. You are too young to long for death. I want you to be well.”

 

 “Let me up.” I had to be free of him.

 

 “No.”

 

I wouldn’t fight him, for I knew he wanted that. He wanted some sort of reaction, through word or movement, to know that I could still feel. Every night he came to my bed, and were I another woman his tenderness would be my undoing. I had no doubt that he believed himself in love. One sound, one touch in the dark— he would view it as the greatest gift and I would bring him much joy. I would not give it. I lay silent as he used me, my eyes open so as not to relive events of the past. When he lay spent beside me he would stroke my stomach whispering of the child he hoped I would bear, begging me to sometimes to speak. My silence would lull him to sleep and I would stare at the carved ceiling until dawn.

 

Even now, angry as I was, Lucius so near caused my breath to quicken and I hated myself as I hated him. I sought refuge in silence and dropped my eyes from his.

 

“And now you will not speak to me,” Lucius said quietly. “Even angry, your words are more welcome than your silence. I dared hope you might finally break free of the silence you have surrounded yourself with. I love you Siobhan. I want you to be happy again.” He bent to kiss me.

 

“Let me go.”

 

Lucius sighed. Even if I did, where would you go? There is nothing for you in Cruithintuait. The sanctuary has been destroyed.”

 

 “Because you destroyed it!” I could take his nearness no longer and struggled against him, trying to push him away.

 

He cursed and rose abruptly. Freed, I stood as well. I was angry, but would show no fear. He paced before me and in each movement I saw Rome’s pride in Her perfect soldier. Broad-shouldered and well-muscled, though slighter than the men of my own land, Lucius exuded strength. He was intelligent, and I had heard that he didn’t fear to face his enemies on the battlefield. He was capable of murdering the family of the woman he loved.

 

Lucius turned to look at me. “Did you never think once that I was acting under orders? I was told to bring the rebel priests to heel, regardless of the cost. The villages would have settled if the priests hadn’t urged them to resist. Victory rested on defeating the priests, and so it was there that I had to strike. I had little choice in the act.”

 

Wordlessly, I left the room. His excuses failed to raise any sympathy. That he had specifically singled me out before his soldiers struck the sanctuary told me he had invested some personal thought into his actions, even if orders had come from a higher power.

 

I didn’t realize my direction until Lucius’ hands closed over my shoulders. As he spun me toward him I suddenly smelled the flowers. My escape had carried me to the atrium and the garden of death I cultivated there.

 

 “Don’t run from me Siobhan,” he said quietly. His anger had already spent itself, while mine continued to grow. “I understand your anger. Everything you loved was taken from you. But you need to allow yourself to heal. I will give you everything I can to make you happy, and when you again hold a babe Aonghas’ shade will smile for you.”

 

I pulled myself out of his hands. “There will be no babe.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

I walked away from him, stopping at the fountain that stood in the center of the atrium.

 

“What do you mean, Siobhan?” I could feel him beside me, close, but not touching me. Not yet.

 

 “It is the one gift left to me. I will bear no child to live and die in this prison.”

 

Lucius sighed. “I have told you: you are not a slave. You are to be my wife, and will bear me legitimate heirs. Wouldn’t you like a son, fine and strong as the babe you showed so proudly in Cruithintuait? Or a little daughter, perhaps with your beautiful hair, to walk round this garden and teach the flowers’ names to. Your goddess will not leave you barren for long.”

 

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. “My goddess is dead. Your command burned Her soul from my lands and left ashes in my heart. My empty womb is no gift of Her, but of my own ability.”

 

Now he was angry, I could see. “What have you done?”

 

I looked him in the face. “I have done what I am capable of doing. Not all the secrets were lost when the sanctuary fell, and what little skill that I retain I will continue to use.”

 

Lucius’ grip on my arms was painful. “How many children have you rid yourself of?”

 

I tried to push him away and failed. “There have been none. I will not allow myself to get with child…let me go…”

 

He dragged me under a torch and searched my face in the light. “Siobhan, if you have killed any of our children…”

 

I wrenched myself away, ignoring the pain in my arms. “I have killed nothing. But I will see to it that you get no children from me.”

 

He snarled something unintelligible and lunged for me. I ducked away and dashed into the garden. This was the Lucius I saw beneath the veneer of solicitude he wore. This was the Roman general, and at this moment his anger knew no bounds.

 

I had no hope of escape, but thought I might be able to circle around the atrium and reenter the villa and make my way to my rooms. Locking the doors would only keep him out momentarily, but I could try, at least. I had a priestess’ skill of moving silently through the growth, and even when he caught me around the waist I knew he hadn’t heard me. I had gotten farther than I expected. I was only some few steps from the villa.

 

Lucius held me tightly against himself. His breathing was heavy, as though he had been running, and I knew his anger had not abated. If anything, it was greater.

 

“Siobhan…” his voice broke, and he said no more.

 

He continued to hold me. I tried to step away, and his grip tightened. Then, wordlessly, he scooped me up and began walking toward his rooms.

 

“No…” now, finally, I fought him. I tried to, anyway. Lucius said nothing, just held me tighter, and carried me to his bed. I expected that his anger would carry over into his lovemaking. I was wrong. And that frightened me.

 

I slipped from Lucius’ arms and rose quietly from his bed. I plucked my palla from a chair by the bed and slid out the double doors leading to the second-floor patio. Wrapping the thin wool around myself I looked up at the stars, searching for something I knew, aching in heart and soul. I could feel tears fill my eyes as I searched the heavens for a sign, a familiar star, anything. I needed to know that the life I had left hadn’t been a dream ending with a nightmare. As usual, I found nothing. There was no light left to be a beacon for Cruithintuait, no guardian souls to watch over the new dead. With a small sigh I took my eyes from the sky and looked down into the inner garden of the villa. The night flowers released their fragrances into the still night, lighter and sweeter than those of the day, but over all I could still detect the heavier, rich scent of the Faeries’ Chimes. Refusing to be overlooked, the small white bells that grew hidden beneath trees had developed a scent as intoxicating as love, a liquor as captivating as lust. A poison swift-acting and brutal.

 

 Love is often thus, I think. I had barely known my son’s father; he was a priest from the sanctuary to the south of us, but I had loved him for the gift he left me that Beltane eve. And my son, my little Aonghas, blue-eyed and fair-haired, as his father, but with a sprinkling of flame in his thin curls, him I loved with all the fire of my soul. Nights after I’d fed him I would hold him, relishing the feel of his little fingers, my heart shuddering in awe with each breath he took. I continued to love him, lost as he was, and the love was painful, as though each beat of my heart opened a wound deeper.

 

I would bear no more children. As much as I longed to have my child back with me, I would wait until my soul was free of this world, and then in the otherworld would I find my son. His was a new soul; I could not count on him being reborn to me so soon, and so much as Lucius wished for sons, he would get none on me. I knew this, the array of herbs in the garden knew this, and perhaps the old housekeeper did as well, though she said nothing. I took the brew often, in the hopes of making myself barren as much as to prevent pregnancy. What Lucius didn’t know couldn’t make me any more heart-sore than I already was.

 

I turned my gaze back to the sky and lost myself in the unknown worlds that swirled above me. A star fell, trailing a tail of sparkling flame in its wake. It was an omen, I knew, but of what I couldn’t know. I had asked no questions, made no promises, and had no gods left to petition for any kind of aid. Lughnasad was in two days, and though the people here didn’t refer to it as such, they were preparing for the grain harvest as well.

 

I had no fear of a child growing in my womb now. I was still linked to the seasons, and knew I would not conceive a child at harvest. For a few months, I was safe. I would continue to drink the brew of flowers and herbs I mixed, however. Eventually it would make me barren. I didn’t realize I was weeping until Lucius wiped my tears away.

 

“I’m sorry you are so broken,” he whispered. His lips brushed my temple. “Let me help you. Let me show you there is still happiness for you in this world. Come back to bed, and sleep. I know you don’t. Let yourself sleep Siobhan. I will not harm you.”

 

I allowed him to lead me back to bed. For the rest of this night, at least, I would allow myself to forget.

 

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By The Pseudomat

“They got some more history wrong at school today” said Jack, unscrewing the lid of the orange juice bottle, “It was just, well, wrong.”

His Mum, Sylvia, didn’t look up from the chequebook she was attempting to balance, and said simply, “Hmm?”

“The teacher said that Christopher Columbus’s ship sank on it’s way to America, and that America was actually discovered by Blaine Mortimer, ancestor of B. Algenon Mortimer, Head of ChronoTech Inc.” As Jack upended the large, heavy bottle and poured the contents into his glass, he spilled a small amount on the tabletop, “Bugger!” he said, slightly too loudly.

“Don’t use words like that sweetheart.” Said Sylvia, her concentration broken. “Here, use this.” She offered Jack a wad of kitchen roll, with which he mopped up the pool of juice. “So what was wrong with your lesson, again?” she asked “Did they get the name of Blaine’s ship wrong? They usually do.”

Jack looked puzzled.

“Well,” continued Sylvia, as she busied herself with clearing the remnants of the evenings dinner from the table “Blaine’s ship was called ‘The Temporal’, but many people incorrectly call it the ‘Temporary’, as it was only a fill-in ship as his primary ship, ‘The Chronos’ which was dry docked for repair during his voyage to America.”

Jack continued to look confused. “No, Mum” he said, “Christopher Columbus discovered America. Every school kid knows that. In fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue” he sang, “I’ve never heard of Blaine Mortimer”.

Sylvia placed her hand on Jack’s forehead, “Are you OK, sweetie?” she asked, “Only this is the third time you’ve asked me this sort of question since the weekend, and it’s only Wednesday”.

Jack look frustrated, “But they keep getting things wrong!” he said, his voice breaking with irritation. “On Monday they told us that Percival Q. Mortimer discovered Penicillin, and yesterday we had an entire lesson dedicated to Wolfgang Amadeus Mortimer the famous composer!”

Sylvia looked concerned, “Honey, these are well known and extensively documented historical facts. Very clever people have been researching these things for a long time. They can’t have just appeared overnight. I think we might have noticed if they had”. She smiled softly.

“But something’s not right.” said Jack. “In fourteen hundred and ninety two…” he began

“In fourteen hundred and ninety two, When Blaine did sail the ocean blue, He anchored off the shores so grand, And claimed for us this mighty land” finished Sylvia.

Jack looked incredulous.

“What’s up?” asked Sylvia.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I learned that at school when I was younger than you.” Sylvia looked concerned “Are you sure you’re OK sweetie? You really don’t seem yourself.”

Jack wasn’t sure what was going on, but worrying his mum about it wasn’t going to do anybody any good.

“I’m fine” he said, “just a little confused that’s all. I should go, I have homework to do”. He climbed down from the table.

“Wow” said Sylvia “I need a recording of that. Now I know something’s wrong.” Jack gave her a sarcastic smile and hurried up to his room, slumping heavily onto the bed.

Something was wrong. He knew Columbus found America or, at the very least, was one of the first people to find it, so why was everyone so sure it was Blaine Mortimer? He glanced over at his computer. Maybe there was something about it on the internet.

He typed ‘Christopher Columbus 1492’ into the search engine and clicked ‘Search’. 13 million results, and each seemed to be information about his ship sinking. That needed refining a bit.

He started a new search and typed ‘Columbus found America 1492’. only 900,000 results, that was better, but the results he was getting were still along the lines of “Columbus would have found America if his ship hadn’t sank on the way”.

In frustration he started another search and typed “What the hell happened to Columbus”. He hit enter.

Only 1 result. A forum called ‘Whathappenedtohistory.com’. Odd, he thought to himself and clicked the link. The forum looked much like any other, with a list of thread titles at the front and a banner ad at the top.

The threads were entitled things like ‘Where did Mozart go?’ and ‘Fleming discovered Penicillin not Mortimer!!!’. One that interested him the most was titled ‘What the Hell Happened to Columbus?’. He opened it.

Much like him the thread starter ‘knew’ that Columbus had been amongst the first to discover America, and was confused about Blaine Mortimer being given credit. This person, who’d given himself the name Historic Avenger had done a lot of research and had provided links to allsorts of information about the Mortimers and ChronoTech Inc and the kind of work they did. Jack clicked a couple of links, but wasn’t particularly interested in their content.

He spent the next couple of hours reading through the forum but, although he did discover that there were far more historical anomalies than he realised, no-one seemed to know what the hell was going on. The only thing anyone seemed to agree on, was that the Mortimers and ChronoTech Inc were behind it. This wasn’t, however, much of a discovery as all the ‘new’ historical figures appeared to have the surname Mortimer and were apparently ancestors of the current Mortimers.

Jack was beginning to get extremely frustrated and was about to go back to the search engine and try again when something caught his eye.

AntiMortimer23 had arranged meetings for everyone who remembered how history should be, and was asking as many people as possible to attend. Jack scanned the list of locations. One of them was on the other side of town this evening.

He checked his watch. It started in 45minutes, if he hurried he could probably make it.

He ran downstairs, explained to Sylvia that he had to go out but wouldn’t be late, and flung himself out the door. Grabbing his bike he leapt out of the garden and narrowly missed getting hit by Mrs Jones’s car as she pulled onto her drive.

There was a screeching of brakes and Jack skidded around the car. He glanced back to see Mrs Jones shaking her fist at him he pulled a face that he hoped looked apologetic. Then he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop.

Mrs Jones was a religious type and had a fish symbol on the back of her car to let everyone know that it was God’s will that she drive so slowly in the fast lane. But now it looked different. Now under the fish symbol was a sticker that read “Mortimer Saves”.

It was getting worse.

It was already getting dark by the time he made it to the meeting’s location. He quickly locked his bike up and pushed open the door to the old YMCA.

Inside were about 70 people, most of them no older than him, but there were people of all ages there, all looking confused and sheepish. There was something in the air, something tangible. Maybe it was the odd silence that hung over such a large crowd of people, or the electric nervousness that seemed to crackle through the group.

Jack, walked slowly into the room, talking in the scene that lay before him.

“Is everyone here?” said a voice suddenly.

Everyone in the room looked up as a thin, bearded man descended a staircase in the corner and addressed the room. There was a collective murmur as everyone appeared to agree that they were all there.

“Good” said the man, coming to a stop behind a large wooden podium. He wore a tight black roll neck top and beret and looked, to all intents and purposes, like he’d stepped straight out of a catalogue for Beatniks. “My name is AntiMortimer23 and I’ve called you all here because you all have one thing in common; you all remember how history should be.”

Jack felt the atmosphere lighten. It was if everyone in the room suddenly relaxed at the same time, the tension of the situation draining away as they realised that they were all there for the same reason, and hadn’t wandered mistakenly into Self-Conscious Anonymous.

“History,” the thin man continued “is being corrupted. The Mortimer’s are taking over the world one historical figure at a time, and almost the entire world has no idea it’s happening.”. He cast an appraising glance over the room full of expectant faces and smiled. “You, however, you remember. Every single one of you in this room knows how history should be. You know that the saviour of mankind was Jesus and not Mortimus Mortimer.” The thin man had become very animated, and was waving his arms about to accentuate his words. But something didn’t feel right. There was something in the words themselves that made Jack uncomfortable, but he couldn’t place his doubt. “You remember that the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was painstakingly painted by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni and that Raffaele di Duccio Mortimeria is an imposter.” He smiled again, “Who can tell me the name of the person who became the first to complete the world’s first non-stop solo transatlantic flight?”

Jack looked around him. He didn’t know the answer, but several others obviously did as they slowly raised their hands like nervous pupils.

“Charles Lindbergh” said a voice at the back.

“Excellent” said AntiMortimer23, “and who wasn’t it?”

“Granville Mortimer” was the reply given by several people.

“Wonderful” said AntiMortimer23 “You know these things. And you are not alone. Hundreds of people around the world remember history, just as you do. There doesn’t seem to be any reason why you remember and everyone else doesn’t. There is no correlation between memory between of history and age, sex, race, social class. It’s just a quirk of the process.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “You remember. And that causes a problem for the Mortimers. If you recall how things used to be, then their vision of a perfect world is ruined. Their world wouldn’t be perfect if there were people who didn’t conform. And that’s what you are. You are elements that don’t conform to the new world”. He paused and smiled again, but there was something behind the smile, something sinister.

Like a slap in the face, Jack realised what was what had been bugging him; what was wrong with the speech. AntiMortimer23 kept using the word ‘you’ not ‘us’. He wasn’t including himself in the speech about being different! That meant…

“So, because you all have memories that don’t fit, something needs to be done, or rather something has been done”.

Jack felt sick. AntiMortimer23 had lead as many people as he could to this room so that he could eradicate them, destroy the evidence of what the Mortimer’s were doing. He had to do something, but suddenly he didn’t feel well.

A yell from the side of the room caught his attention.

“Yes” continued the thin man, “unfortunately, we can’t have you causing a problem for us, so we’ve brought you somewhere that you can’t cause any trouble.” he chuckled to himself “Actually, I should have said we’ve brought you somewhen.”

Jack made for the window, the suddenly swaying floor making progress difficult and causing bile to rise in his throat. If he didn’t know any better he would swear they were on a..

“We’re on a ship!” shouted a voice.

“Yes” said the thin man, now secreted behind a metal grille, “The Santa Maria to be precise, the largest ship in Columbus’s fleet which, if you know your history, went down before Columbus stumbled across America.” He looked at his watch, “In fact, it’s due to go down in approximately 5 minutes, so I really shouldn’t be here, tata”. He pushed a few buttons on the wall behind him.

The room erupted in chaos as people began panicking and shouting.

“You’ll never get away with this!” shouted Jack, involuntarily above the noise. It felt like such a stupid thing to say, but he was really stuck for anything else constructive, “There are others out there who know the truth, they’ll stop you.”

The thin man laughed derisively, “My dear boy,” he said “the beauty of time travel is that you can get rid of everything you need to dispose in one fell swoop, rather than bitting about with assassinations and accidents. At this moment, I am currently giving similar speeches to other groups like yourselves elsewhere on this ship and on the Nina and the Pinta on either side of us. When this fleet goes down, it’s going to take every problem the Mortimer’s have with it.”

"But we’ll be missed” shouted Jack, “Hundreds of people can’t just go missing without questions being asked.”

The thin man smiled again. “Believe me, with the technology we possess, we can do anything. You won’t be missed.” He flicked one last switch and disappeared.

Jack staggered to the window and stared out at the vast expanse of blue water that stretched out in front of him, and suddenly heard the cries of hundreds of people from unseen location who had all realised what was happening.

From somewhere beneath his feet Jack heard an explosion, and water began pouring through the floor.

Sylvia looked at her watch. He should have been back by now, he was never this late. She looked out the window. Something was wrong.

As she picked up the phone to call the police, the door opened and a tall man walked in carrying a jacket and briefcase.

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Sylvia, “I’ve been worried sick.” She flung her arms around him. The man dropped the things he was holding and hugged her tight.

“Sorry, Mortimer bridge was closed so I had to take the long way and my mobile’s dead so couldn’t let you know.” he smiled at her, “I didn’t mean to worry you”.

“Just don’t let it happen again” she said, slapping him lightly and playfully on the face.

He leaned in and kissed her, then said “I think we should have a baby.”

She pulled quickly away and looked excitedly into his face, “Are you serious?” she asked.

“Of course, why not?” He hugged her tightly, “Though I don’t want Jack to get too jealous.”

“I don’t think Jack’s going to be too worried about babies. Provided he gets fed and is allowed to play in the garden, he’s happy.” She turned her over on the man’s shoulder and looked down at the armchair where a small black Labrador was curled up on the cushion, “You don’t mind if we have a baby, do you Jack?”

The dog made no movement and the couple laughed gently. “Wow” said Sylvia eventually, “I wonder what it’ll be like with a child in the house?”.

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By The Pseudomat

          The alley was dark. If asked to describe its most outstanding quality, the average passer-by would undoubtedly say of the thin strip of space between Vinny’s Launderette and Singh’s Carpet Tile Warehouse that it was the alley’s darkness that featured most heavily. Of course, in this neighbourhood, the average passer-by would be highly likely to punch anyone stupid enough to ask them a question and steal anything that wasn’t attached to the questioners body by skin and blood vessels and, on a few occasions, some things that were, but that didn’t detract from the fact that the alley was dark.

            Obviously, as related as these things are, the narrow roadway was also, dank, filthy, strewn with insurmountable piles of litter, infested with all manner of scuttling horrors and, on this particular occasion, incredibly wet as it had now been raining for 5 hours straight and showed no signs of knocking it off any time soon.

            Yet, in this cesspool, this rat riddled, shit piled back street, this nightclub toilet, in stark contrast to the environment in which it stood, was a long, black, shiny limousine, its wheels rim-deep in grungy, scum coated puddles that sizzled in the swiftly falling rain, its darkened windows reflecting the alley’s dreadfulness back at itself.

            “Shit!”

            “What?”

            “I think I saw another rat!”

            “So? The place is teeming with them. There’ll be more vermin on this street than would normally be found outside Britney’s Spears house brandishing cameras. The trick is not to panic. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

            “Are they really!? Has anyone ever tested that theory? Because when it comes to demonstrations of fear, humanity has several well-documented generations of women in polka-dotted skirts standing screaming on dining chairs as rats, mice and various other disease ridden parasites scuttle beneath them. I challenge you to find a single picture or video clip of a rat squeaking in terror atop a Thonet no. 14 whilst a housewife crawls beneath the bentwood! Shit, there’s another one!”

            A conversation like this is not uncommon amongst those unfamiliar with the back streets of New York and, should those people actually be having the dialogue whilst creeping warily through the darkness, is unerringly followed by strangled gurgling noises and couple of heavy thuds.

            However, this kind of exchange, the kind saturated with fear and revulsion from one side, is not usually had by individuals who would normally instil fear in the hearts, minds and colons of normal people. Individuals for whom the phrase ‘muscle bound’ could have been invented solely to describe.

            The two men stood either side of the limousine and looked, to all intents and purposes, as if their sole remit was to intimidate, petrify and terrorise anyone who looked directly at, indirectly at or in the vicinity of, the car. Their actual remit was to intimidate, petrify, terrorise and, if they didn’t stop it, physically damage anyone who looked directly at, indirectly at or in the vicinity of the car, so they were doing their job quite well. Clothed in Armani, with their eyes shielded from the rain by Ray-Bans, and possessing the builds of sideshow strongmen, the men exuded intimidation.

            At least they should have done. One of them, however, appeared to have adopted the on the spot dance of nervousness usually associated with 12 year old girls discovering a spiders nest.

            “Will you quit it!” hissed one of them across the sodden roof of the huge car.

            “I can’t help it!” whined the other as his feet splashed about in the unspeakably filthy water that was doing its best to dissolve the limousines tyres, “I just don’t like rats!”

            “OK, so you don’t like rats!” hissed the first, “But if you don’t stop acting like a child, you’re going to get us fired, and then where will we be? Up Fucked Street that’s where, so give it a rest!”.

            The second man glanced over at the first and appeared to mull over what had been said, the process giving him the look of a constipated grizzly bear. He stopped dancing and contented himself with darting wary looks up and down the street and flinching in fear at the slightest rustle.

            The rain continued to fall.

            The street continued to be shit.

            “How long’s he been in there now?

            “2 hours. He’d better be done soon, I’m beginning to lose all sensation in my legs”

            “Your legs?”

            “You know what I mean.”

            The men lapsed back into silence.

            “So…?” began the first man, but was cut off by the gratingly appalling sound of a heavy metal door sliding back along old worn runners.

            From the shadows a group of similarly suited men appeared. They emerged onto the street and surrounded the limousine, keeping a watchful, yet strangely impassive eye around the alleyway.

            A few seconds later a smaller group of men came out of the darkness and stopped just on the periphery of the shadows.

            “I hope we can do business again” said one of them, his voice saturated with a thick Texan accent. In his hands he carried a thick brown envelope.

            “Zat vill not be a problem” said a second man, his accent was also thick but not a bit Texan.

            The two men shook hands and the American, surrounded by a few bodyguards, splashed onto the filthy street and climbed into the back of the limousine, quickly followed by his entourage. The European, remained on the edge of the darkness, watching his associate leave.

An electric window whirred down and the Texan addressed the two remaining bodyguards.

            “Martin, would you and Julius check the main street for us? There shouldn’t be a problem but with something like this you can’t be too careful.”

            “Of course, Mr President” said the rat hating guard, “We’ll get right on it.”

            The President looked at him quizzically for a few moments before closing the window.

            The two large men began walking slowly towards the healthier looking lights of the main street, barely visible through the haze of steam and smoke that exuded from every available orifice of the alley, one of them looking nervously around him.

            “You idiot” said the second guard, when they were far enough away not to be overheard, “I’m Martin, your Julius, I thought you knew that?”

            The rat hating guard, frowned, “I thought I was Martin”.

            As they approached the end of the alleyway, they each put a hand inside their jackets and flattened themselves against opposite walls. Slowly they slid towards the lively main precinct and glanced out. Hundreds of people were scattered liberally about the street, and the gaudy neon signs of several local businesses were buzzing overhead, but nothing seemed untoward. The two men looked at one another, nodded and began to walk back down the alley again.

            “OK, so I’m Julius, and you’re Martin”

            “Yes. For gods sake don’t forget that. If you mess up and call me Amanda, hell knows what’ll happen.”

            The two of them climbed into the limousine, and it sloshed its way along the alley and out onto the street.

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By The Pseudomat

It wasn’t that he found the view unsightly. On the contrary, the lush palatial two-tone lawns, shimmering, fizzing fountains and ornate, intricately carved marble sculptures that dotted the visible landscape were a wonderful sight to behold.

It wasn’t as though he could complain about the weather as the sky was speckled with small white clouds that floated across a perfectly blue plain, propelled gently on their way by a warm, almost continental, wind that tousled his hair and tugged playfully at the leaves of the nearby oak trees.

He couldn’t even say that the huge hotel-sized house that sat on a slight rise overlooking everything, it’s many, mullioned windows glinting in the mid-morning sun, was ugly, despite the fact that he usually hated architecture.

No. The point that unnerved him, the aspect that was causing him some consternation was not the wonderful country scene before him, but rather that it wasn’t something he’d expected to be faced with when he opened his bathroom door at 1am to take a shit.

Grungy, used-to-be-white bathroom suite? Fine. Stained, cracked lino, lifting at the corners where water had undermined its hold on the concrete? OK. Dog-eared copy of ‘Horror Digest’ containing in-depth interview with scream queen Velicity Marshall? Without question. Panoramic view of lush gardens belonging to looming Elizabethan royal retreat? Not really.

He glanced at his watch, which silently informed him it was 1:02am. For some reason he shook it and held it to his ear, as if it held some magical power that was going to tell him what the hell was going on. Being digital it didn’t even tick. He dropped his arm again, then looked back at his watch which displayed 1:02am for a few seconds then flicked quietly to 1.03am. He mentally questioned this act and decided that it was simply an attempt on his part to ground himself in reality. He looked out over the gardens again. If this was reality, he was a mongoose.

He pulled the door shut. Maybe he’d dreamed it. It was probably that block of cheese-concrete that he’d found in the back of the fridge and had tried unsuccessfully to melt onto toast, but had eaten anyway, sending tiny cow-shaped toxins into his brain, making him hallucinate.

He counted to 10 and opened the door again. The gardens had gone. In the grand scheme of things, this was good. The house, too, had vanished. Again, as part of the things belonging to the grand scheme, this was acceptable.

The detail that was swiftly pushing him towards insanity was that he now appeared to be looking down at the ground through broken cloud cover, at a height his terror-powered altimeter measured to be somewhere between ‘staggeringly high’ and ‘AAAAAAARRGHH!’.

He slammed the door quickly and was stunned to discovered that, despite the mind-buggering sight he’d just witnessed, the bang of the door made him jump.

Something was very, very wrong. Either that or he was very, very disturbed. He looked at his watch again, which said 1.04am, and decided both answers were acceptable.

The only thing he could say for certain was that, despite the absolute oddness of the situation, he still needed a shit.

Hesitantly he reached for the handle. It took, what seemed like, years to turn the knob far enough to push the door gently, carefully open.

Nothing. Well, nothing abnormal anyway. OK, nothing that he wouldn’t expect to find in his own bathroom. The average person might not have Transformers wall paper covering most of the walls in their WC, but then whoever had decorated this house was far from regular. But it was definitely his bathroom.

He pulled the light cord. The popping of the light bulb blowing itself out almost negated the initial purpose of this nocturnal toilet trip, but he managed to hold it together. Just.

For a few moments he contemplated keeping the door open, silently kidding himself that it was so he would have enough light to see by, when it was really because he didn’t want to shut the door again. Finding Kew Gardens in your bathroom is one thing, finding them outside your bathroom, when all you’ve got on is a 7 year old pair of faded Dangermouse boxers and have the sense of direction of an earthworm in zero gravity, is entirely another. He balanced this argument against the repercussions that would be hurled his way if Annie came down the stairs and was treated to the sight of him on the crapper at 1am.

He shut the door.

The room was plunged into darkness. Not total darkness, there was enough ambient light struggling through the frosted glass of the window to see by, but it was still a form of darkness. And darkness in any guise was, he’d always maintained, not man’s natural environment. He wasn’t scared of the dark, but it wasn’t a situation he put himself in on a regular or voluntary basis. He glanced at his watch again and silently cursed his own cheapness at not forking out the extra tenner for the backlit model. Whatever time it was, he’d spent far too long not having a shit, and his bowels were beginning to complain.

He realised he was sweating, decided speed was of the essence, wandered across the room and lifted the lid of the toilet.

His watch displayed 1.06am when he looked at it seconds later.

He was able to read the time now, thanks to the sunlight that was streaming, unhurriedly  from the space beneath the toilet lid that should have been occupied by the inside of the toilet. Instead of murky water, limescale and a Maxi-Bleech rim block, he could see something that resolutely refused to be anything one would normally expect to find within the confines of a regular, everyday toilet.

Instead of stained ceramic, springy green moss was visible, dotted irregularly with small red flowers and the odd rock. A dark green jungle-style creeper was also lying, obstinately in view.

Something was not only up with his bathroom, it was positively sideways.

He removed his boxers and sat down. The situation may be mind-bending, but his bowels were tying themselves in knots. He needed to go and if the universe was going to abduct the inside of his toilet and stick the bloody Amazon in there, then it was going to regret it. Besides, the animals went in the jungle and human was a form of animal, so this was just natural, just nature taking its course.

He sat, motionless, for two minutes before admitting defeat. His bowels had locked tight and there didn’t appear to be any budging them.

Bloody universe.

Ignoring the gnawing cramp that was building in his stomach he stood up and turned around, just in time to see a sickly, poisonous looking spider the size of a small dog crawl into view across the moss covered bottom of his toilet.

He wasn’t entirely sure where he’d got the dining chair from, or what protection he thought it would give against a spider that could eat a sofa, but when his brain had stopped screaming enough to allow him to see again, he found himself cowering behind a chair that he was holding by the back, lion tamer-style, and brandishing an evil smelling towel.

It took him a few moments to notice that the toilet lid had been closed.

Excruciatingly slowly he edged forwards, casting nervous glances around him into the murky darkness and hefting the towel with what he hoped was menace.

When he was within range, he eased the toilet lid up with a leg of the chair and braced himself for the thing he knew for sure would fling itself out of the bowl and aim for his throat, teeth gnashing and multiple legs flailing. He’d seen enough horror movies to know that that’s what happened.

But it didn’t. Sunlight no longer spilled over the ceramic rim of the toilet.

Cautiously he withdrew the chair and leaned slowly forward to look down the pan, hoping against hope that the jungle had actually gone and it wasn’t just blocked from view by the huge body of the spider.

No jungle. Excellent. No spider. As before, excellent. What wasn’t quite as excellent was the almost entire lack of anything, save for a few pin-pricks of light billions of miles in the distance.

So he now had space in his toilet. Wonderful. Just marvellous. All he wanted to do was pop down the stairs and take a shit and now he had, what appeared to be, an entire universe in his toilet. If that had been there when the very first toilet was invented he felt pretty sure that Thomas Crapper would have shit himself.

He slammed the lid down in frustration. It failed to connect with the seat and bobbed gently a few inches above it.

He sat heavily onto the lid and made a decision.

He was going back to bed. Fuck it. All he wanted was a shit and the universe had, instead, decided to take up residence in his toilet.

Well, fine. If it wanted to be that way, then he wasn’t going to play any more. He was going back to bed and Annie could sort it out in the morning.

He stomped across the room, flung open the door and stomped through it.

Clouds flung themselves recklessly passed his head as he hurtled out of the sky towards, what looked suspiciously, and irritatingly, like Florida.

He looked, unhurriedly at his watch which seemed to scream 1.12am at him.

“Well” he thought to himself, as the ground rushed towards him, “At least I managed to have a shit.”

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Nicole S Kapise, © 2008

“Siobhan.”
The Master’s voice caries across the atrium much the way it carries over the battlefield, I expect. I turn without speaking. Eyes lowered, I wait for him to speak. I can hear him approaching. His fingers brush my cheek, and he tilts my face up to look at him. 
He is a handsome man, though these Romans are very different from my own people. Slender and dark, with brown skin, they appeared quite alien in Cruithintuait, where most are red- or golden-haired, and even those with black hair are fair as ewe’s milk. The Master is tall for a Roman, and broad shouldered, though the priest I lay with at the Beltane fires was easily twice the Master’s breadth. Aonghas would have grown to be a great man—I stifle the thought, and force myself to meet the Master’s eyes.
“Why are you out here in the dark?” His arm slides around my waist and he pulls me close. He wants me to put my arms around him. I never do.  
He leans closer, his lips brushing my temple as he inhales the fragrance in my hair. Were it my choice I would allow myself to decay, hoping infection might take me away from this, but the Master gave me a staff of slaves to see to my every need, and I fear that by not using them they will be punished. Really, even if I were here willingly, I would need no assistance. The Romans’ women are apparently a feeble lot, if they have so great a need of slaves to bathe and dress them.
The four slave girls that were given to me have few duties. One draws my bath and lays out my gowns, two tend to my chambers, though I leave them little to tidy; and the last dresses my hair, for that I cannot do. We priestesses wear our hair loose, or in braids; fashionable Roman women dress their hair in elaborate curled masses, something I doubt I will ever learn. Absurdly, after the girl has worked my hair into an acceptable fashion, it is then covered with a veil, for Roman women of quality are required to cover themselves. Women of Cruithintuait, Albion and Eire are much freer. We are judged by our character, rather than by how much of our person is visible.
The Master pushes my veil off my head and runs his fingers through my curls. “What are you thinking Siobhan?” He speaks in heavily accented Cruithe, though he knows my Latin is perfect. When he is in my bed he murmurs to me in my native tongue, as though that will make the act of rape sweeter to me.
I shake my head. Nothing you care to know Master.
His fingers under my chin again, looking into my eyes. “Tell me.”
I sigh. I have nothing to say worth speaking.
His thumb brushes my lips. “Speak Siobhan. Tell me your thoughts, how you spent your day. Tell me of the season, how your people celebrate the harvest. Tell me how the household is running.” His other arm slips around my waist, his hands resting on my hips. “Say my name.”
I have no choice now. I can make the night easy for myself, or hard on the household. “Master, I—“
He silences me with a gentle kiss, and were I another woman in a different place my heart would melt. Even now, hating him, hating this, I feel my breath quicken.
 “My name,” he murmurs. “I am not your master. I have told you this. I treasure you above all things. I would love you if you would allow me to. I love you even now, though I know it breaks your heart to hear me say it. Say my name Siobhan. I want to hear your voice.”
“Lucius.” I will give him this much. As for the rest, my people are destroyed; there is no one to celebrate Lughnasad in three days’ time, and if he wants news of the house he can speak to the slaves.
“Better,” he smiles, and I am again taken by his smile. He truly is a handsome man, Lucius Suetonius Malleus, commander of Rome’s Fourteenth Legion.
Unfortunately, his command was the word that burned my home to the ground and killed my infant son.
He claims he loved me from the moment he saw me cradling Aonghas that day at the sanctuary, and that he asked the Lady if I was wed. Her response that I was not was sweet music, he says. He was knowledgeable enough to understand that the priestesses were not required to wed, though it seemed strange to him, and he understood that my son was not a bastard, but blessed by the gods themselves, being both conceived and born on two of our high festivals. His anger that his orders for my safety were ignored was terrifying. Indeed, he asked me if I knew who had forced me—was it any of the men that had accompanied him to the sanctuary? I had given him no answer. I had resolved not to speak, for I feared what I might say, or that I would give him the satisfaction of hearing me weep. When he asked where my son was I nearly came undone.
“Did you send him away, Lady? If we can find who you gave him to I will gladly claim him…”
As tears began to roll down my face he stopped speaking, then in a hard voice asked, “You did send him away, didn’t you Lady?”
I closed my eyes, unable to bear the pain of my babe’s loss, seeing again his body breaking against the tree’s trunk.
“Siobhan.” He grasped my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Where is your son?”
“He’s dead,” I whispered. “They took him from me…” I dared say no more. He would see my tears, but he would not hear my broken heart.
With a curse he released me and stalked from the tent. I could hear him outside, speaking to one of his aides, shouting that the men who’d raped me were to be found and brought to him, or the entire legion would be executed. That night three of the men were crucified, and the fourth, the one that had flung my babe against the tree, was tortured for hours, and finally disemboweled and left to die. He did it for me, I know, but I found no comfort in the deaths he gave me.
His work done in Cruithintuait, Caledonia, Lucius Suetonius Malleus was to return to Rome. The five moon journey was a nightmare I could not wake from, though he saw to my every comfort, even going so far as to hire a medicine woman to tend the wounds so brutally inflicted on me so soon after giving birth. Her assurances that in time I would be able to bear more children was little care for me, though Lucius was delighted.
He did not lay with me the entire journey, though he took me to his bed every night, and his hands roamed my body, often followed by his lips. I was to be his, but he would not inflict any more injury on my body he said, and when I bore him a son, he assured me that he would break with Roman tradition, and though the boy’s name would be Lucius, his second name would be Aonghas, for the son we lost. 
On our arrival in Rome he was eager to present me to his associates, for though I was a captive of war, I had not borne arms against Rome myself, and so was not a criminal. My lineage spoke well for me also, for my father was a priest and my mother the daughter of a noble Highland family. My education as a priestess far outshone that of many other Roman ladies, and I was spoken of well by all of Lucius’ associates, though their wives looked on me with scorn.
Admiration or scorn, it little mattered to me. Lucius had approached the Senate, announcing that he wished to marry me and not have our children born with the stain of slavery on their names. The Senate’s deliberation was brief, and now, as Lucius led me into the villa for dinner, he told me that we could be wed before the year’s end. 
He saw me settled on my couch, then signaled to the slaves to begin serving. I ate little, and he would urge me to eat more, as always. Tonight we were dining alone. He continued to speak in Cruithe to keep our conversation to ourselves, though I thought I recognized another of the boys from the sanctuary as well.
“The festival of Larentalia is in four months; I think that would be an auspicious time for us to wed.” He smiled at me, and sipped his wine. “What better way to celebrate joy in the home than to marry my love and begin a family?”
I said nothing. I touched little of my food. At Lucius’ signal a slave placed a sugared pear on my plate. I had no appetite for sweets, either, though I tasted it to spare myself his usual speech on how I needed to eat so I would bear him strong sons.
“You will have every honor as my wife,” Lucius continued. “The house and the slaves will be yours to oversee, much as they are now. And you will be a citizen, and will be able to travel the city freely. I thought tomorrow we might go to the Temple of Venus, and ask Her blessing on our union. What say you Siobhan?”
“Of course,” I answered quietly. I was familiar with his goddess Venus, and had little thought that love would ever grow in this marriage Lucius desired. I supposed I should have been grateful that he wished to marry me, for I understood that a Roman man could have children by his slave women and claim the children, thus making the children legitimate, and belonging only to him, while the women finished their lives in slavery. As Lucius’ wife, he wouldn’t be able to pass me around to his associates, as often happened to attractive slave women in many homes. Lucius was unmarried, and had no children, thus I would be spared petty jealousies of that ilk.

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Nicole S Kapise, ©2008

 

Twilight. The Faeries’ Chimes glowed in the fading light. What were they called here? I couldn’t recall, nor did I care to. Always one of my favorite flowers, they filled the air with their cloying fragrance, easily overpowering their more respectable neighbors. Ah, the sweet smell of poison. Oh Master, if you only knew: iron cannot shackle inborn knowledge.

I stood in the garden, the atrium, these idiot barbarians call it, and watched night fall on the city. A small part of me was thankful for this small green space; Rome was a filthy place, far dirtier than any of the great towns of my land, though I’d heard that a city called Londinium in Albion was quite large, and nearly as filled with offal as the gutters of Rome.

Here on the outskirts of the city, the Master’s villa gave the impression of open country. He owned a large estate, and many fields of wheat and vineyards. I had been told there was a kitchen garden around the back of the villa, but had never seen it. I was not permitted to leave the house, except to walk about this inner garden.

The Master had gone so far as to ask what I wished to have planted, so I might enjoy my garden more. As is my custom, I gave him no reply. The household slaves were told to follow my instructions; I gave none, and so they made no changes. Soon after, the Master had me summoned to him here in the atrium garden, and had me witness the slaves’ beatings. They had not followed my instructions, he said, and therefore earned their punishment.

I wept for them later in the privacy of my quarters before he came to my bed. The next morning I sent one of the kitchen slaves to the markets to collect healing salves and medicinal plants. I tended to the slaves, then planted the herbs myself. I will have no one suffer for me at the Master’s orders, and he knows this. These Romans use cruelty to meet their ends, and by needlessly whipping the slaves, he knows I will take on the role of Lady in his house, though I am no more than a slave myself, a spoil of his campaign against my people in fair Cruithintuait, the lands he invaded, and destroyed, and calls Caledonia.

A torch ended my reverie, and I stood motionless as a young boy came out to light the torches in the atrium. His face is familiar to me, though I can not quite remember who he is. Here he has no name—he is most probably simply called ‘Boy’. I know his name, but things of grace and beauty, like names spoken in Cruithe, are smoky memories, lost amid the fires and screams and blood that the Romans destroyed us with.

The boy’s torch pulls me back to the sanctuary, and the very moment we knew all was lost. As one building after another was eaten by flames, we made our way to the forest. Ancient, sacred, the forest would be our haven until such time as we could return to our ways. Our gods hadn’t fully abandoned us; they couldn’t have. Or so I believed.

I know who he is now, this boy. He is Ganelon, one of the younger novices, still in his mother’s care when the Romans attacked us, and when Eliean fell to a sword I took him with me and all the other children, and ran for the forest, clutching my own babe like our lives depended on it. They didn’t. Only his.

I had hoped Ganelon had escaped. There were Romans at the forest edge, but I saw them before they saw all the children, and we backed away, and I sent the children off in another direction I saw was clear. Would that I had sent my babe along with one of the older children. Or that I had followed them. But he was only a moon old, still too small to live without me, and I had thought to guard the children’s escape, then return to aid my sisters if I could. 

I didn’t have time to return to search for my sisters. As soon as the last small form melted into the forest’s mist, I returned from whence we had come, and still at the forest’s edge I was caught, four Romans looming over me as I stood and waited for my death. Perhaps that was my downfall. My arrogance at knowing that they could do nothing to me, that in my death I would be reborn, and be united with the gods again.

When they tore Aonghas from my arms and dashed his fragile body against an oak, I knew the gods had indeed abandoned us. When they bore me to the ground and ravaged my still birth-weak body over and over again, only to drag me to my feet and close my wrists in iron rather than kill me, I knew that the gods had never loved us, that we were just poppets, living and suffering for their amusement. 

Later, not even a day after our world had ended, the Roman general came to inspect the captives. Priests and priestesses, farm folk, we were all slaves, bound to live or die at the Romans’ wills. Not a fortnight ago the general had visited the sanctuary, and spoken with the High Priest and Priestess. Those of us in attendance were greeted cordially; in fact he had offered me congratulations of the safe birth of my son. The Romans set great store in boy children, though at the time I had no thought except thanksgivings to the great Goddess for such a gift.

Now he looks us over like we are vermin, gauging what price we will fetch at the slave auction, I expect. I close my eyes. I cannot watch him, nor bear the look on the faces of my remaining sisters and brothers. And the children…my heart bleeds as my womb does. Two of the younger priests had tried to tend my wounds, then carried me to an older priestess, but had no success. Our skills are lost now. I will heal or I will die, and I don’t care.

Footsteps approach, then stop before me. I don’t bother to open my eyes. I am curled around myself, bloodied and broken. They can not possibly have any more interest in me.

“Lady?” The voice is closer, as though the speaker has knelt beside me. “Lady Siobhan? What has happened to her?” A hand rests on my shoulder, then touches my hair.

One of the priests that tried to heal me speaks, tells as best as he can what ails me. He doesn’t mention my son. He may not have known I had one.

“Remove her chains.”

Hands work at my wrists, and I am marginally freed. Suddenly I am lifted, cradled in strong arms. Faintly, hope stirs, then my rescuer speaks, and I am thrown back into the nightmare we are all living. “I gave orders that Siobhan was not to be harmed. She was not to be touched. Find out who did this to her, and bring them to me.”

The Roman general carried me away from what was left of my home, holding me close, as though I were something precious. I’m not, though. I’m his whore.

 

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 By The Pseudomat

 

“Oh. My. God”

“I know”

“But…………”

“I know. Come on”

“Where are we going?”

“I have no idea?”

 

            “What are we doing?” the whisper was harsh and jarred against the silence that pervaded the lab.

            “SHH!” was the response intended to elicit quiet but that cut through the pervading silence so completely, had there been anyone searching the room for them, their hiding place couldn’t have been given away more completely than if they’d installed a 7ft neon sign that flashed “They’re here” and had an animated arrow indicating their whereabouts.

            “Yes, but…”

            “SHH!”

            Aside from the rasped questions and pointed interjections that floated around like squabbling spectres, the lab was empty. The only indication that anyone had used it recently was a pile of clothes crumpled on the floor, suggesting that their owners had vacated the premises in something resembling a hurry.

            “Look” whispered Steve, injecting into his voice a tone that made it quite clear he wasn’t going to be shushed anymore, “What the hell is going on!? Why can’t I fetch my clothes? It’s fucking freezing behind here!”

            Amanda glared at him, her expression stating categorically that she’d heard and taken note of the tone of his voice suggesting that he wasn’t going to be shushed anymore but that, regardless, If he didn’t shut the hell up she was going to forego the shushing altogether and simply pull out his voicebox.

            It was on the tip of Steve’s tongue to say “Look” again, and attempt to get as much of his annoyance out as possible before he was subject to physical violence from Amanda when the door to the lab was opened and a bunch of orange-suited men walked in who, despite their eye-wateringly bright attire, looked to Steve about as friendly as carving knife to the throat. These, he assumed, were The City’s heavy mob.

            He looked at Amanda who glanced in his direction and, with simply a widening of her eyes and a raised brow, managed to convey “See! This is why I wanted you to shut the fuck up!” without uttering a single syllable. Steve, who never was any good at mime, simply mouthed the word ‘fine’ and went back to squinting through the tiny holes in the console the two of them were hiding behind.

            The men searched the room and inspected Steve’s clothing. When they turned up nothing but a few printouts, one of them picked up the phone and dialled a number.

            “Agent 12, Sir. The lab’s empty. Looks like they left quickly. The mark didn’t even bother to get dressed. Of course, Sir. Would you like me to post a guard, in case they come back? Very good.” He replaced the receiver and spoke to the others. “Let’s go. The Boss wants us back for debriefing.”

            “Are we not waiting for them?” asked one of the men

“No” said Agent 12, “The Boss wants everything to appear normal. Our presence outside the office may provoke unrest. We’re to return to the office.”

Without a word the men exited the building and closed the door. Steve made to push the machine he was crouched behind out of the way, but Amanda grabbed his arm and shook her head. Steve, who was just as bad at reading between the lines as he was at mime looked at her exasperatedly. Amanda looked back, raised her eyebrows to indicate that she really couldn’t believe that he hadn’t learned anything from the last few minutes when…

“AH HA!!” the door to the lab flew open and one of the orange suited men burst through it. Steve thought it may have been Agent 12, but he wouldn’t have put money on it. “Oh” said the man, disappointedly. He glanced quickly around the room, then left, closing the door behind them.

Steve, who, though slow on the uptake, was beginning to learn a few things, strained his ears to hear anything helpful through the heavy stonewalls. The sound of the outer door slamming shut seemed to be all the indication Amanda needed, and she began to heave the console out of the way.

“Who the hell were they?” ask Steve, as he pounced for his clothes and began pulling them on.

Amanda looked pensive, the top of her nose was wrinkled and her eyebrows seemed to be huddling together for warmth.

“They…” she began, “…They were the Orthority. They’re like the heavy mob of this place.” Steve held back from patting himself on the back. “They’re supposed to police the city and the Detention Centre, to ensure that order is kept.”

“The Authority?”

“No, Orthority, O, R, not A, U”

Deciding that Amanda’s ability to distinguish between homophones was something he reality didn’t want to ask about, he said “What did they want?”.

“You, apparently” she said, matter-of-factly, “Did you not hear them call you the mark?”. Steve hadn’t.

“No” he said, not a little petulantly, “What the hell do they want with me?”. He tried valiantly to keep the crack of panic, that had suddenly appeared in his larynx, out of his voice, and succeeded only in producing a tone like a teenage boy who’s hormone levels had just made a bid for the sky.

Amanda continued to look concerned. “I don’t understand” she muttered to herself, “It doesn’t make sense”.

Patience was never one of Steve’s more prominent virtues. He could wait in queues without problem, listen to someone who stammered struggle through a conversation without feeling the urge to finish their sentences and even stand at a night club bar at 1am and wait to get served. But when it came to issues that may, or may not, directly affect his ability to live, breathe and in anyway survive, he was of the opinion that urgency took priority over confused mumbling.

“OK, it doesn’t make sense, brilliant. But being confusing doesn’t necessarily preclude the possibility that the situation has the ability to inflict tremendous pain and suffering on my extremities, so what do we do about it?”

“You don’t understand” Amanda began “Something is hugely, HUGELY wrong”.

“Nope, got that. Heard that loud and clear. The big guys in horribly loud suits made sure of that. The question is who can we ask for help?” Steve knew he was beginning to sound whiny and unreasonable, but the fact was that burly men with frightening fashion sense wanted to arrest him and probably hurt him in strange, otherworldly ways and, frankly, he didn’t want them to. He was allergic to pain. It brought him out in all manner of unsightly bruises.

“No” said Amanda, her voice now full of urgency and something Steve couldn’t quite place, “You’re not getting this. The only people who know that you’re here are you, me and…and…” she paused.

“And, who?”

She looked at him, and he realised that the other thing he heard in her voice was unmitigated confusion.

“Custodial Pete Gately” she said.

 

“There! That’s where we need to be heading for”

“But it’s miles away!”

“At this point, our options aren’t exactly multitudinous”

“OK, just don’t let go of my hand.”

“I’m not holding your hand.”

 

“Pete Gately!” exclaimed Steve

“SSH!”

He failed to keep the frustration from exploding onto his face, but managed to wrestle his voice box under control and whispered “Why the hell would Pete Gately send the Authority after me?”

“It’s Orthority” Amanda corrected him, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to respond to some unheard rendition of the national anthem, “and, I have no idea.” She chewed her thumbnail for a few seconds and then said “We have to get out of here.”

Steve didn’t need telling twice. ‘We have to get out of here’ was the universal signal that things had gone beyond bad and wandered helplessly over the border into shit. He quickly laced up his shoes.

“Where are we going?” he asked, straightening up.

“Not a clue” said Amanda.

“Ah.” There didn’t seem much else he could say.

Amanda quickly gathered up a few sheets of paper, stuffed them into a bag and slung the bag over her shoulder.

“Let’s just get out of here. We can decide where we’re going on the way”.

 

“I can’t let go”

“Just try to keep moving, we’re almost there”

“Steve help!”

“Amanda!!”

 

They crashed through the outer door to the building and made it about 30 feet down the street.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!”

Seemingly from nowhere, hundreds of orange suited men appeared making Steve feel like he was in some kind of bizarre soft drink advert. The lurid crowd began closing in, slowly forcing Steve and Amanda backwards.

“WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!! ESCAPE IS IMPOSSIBLE!! SURRENDER NOW AND NO-ONE GETS HURT”

Steve never considered himself a brave man. Every time he heard on the news about some soldier throwing themselves on a grenade to protect his platoon, or a householder who physically beat a burglar into submission, he’d catch himself wondering what he would do in their place.

And each time his answers were the same. If it came down to a choice between run away or save everyone with a sacrificial death dive, he’d probably watch the explosion from a good 100 paces away. And, as for tackling burglars, he knew for a fact that he’d much rather stay at the top of his stairs and give the raiders pointers on how to unplug the tangled mess of cables behind his huge TV than thrown himself at them armed with a rolling pin.

However, even with the knowledge that he was an inherent coward, he was still surprised at the mental strength he had to utilise to stop himself from flinging his arms up in the air, dropping to his knees and pleading “I give up! Just don’t hit my face!”.

Closer and closer the badly dressed crowd pressed, forcing Amanda and Steve, further and further backwards.

“Stop” said Amanda suddenly, but quietly so that only Steve could hear, “We go any further back, we’re into the Relloc”.

Steve allowed himself a quick glance backwards and gasped at just how close the two of them were to the dark, sparkling mass.

They were trapped.

“CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS!” yelled Steve. He was well aware that the chances of actually talking his way out of this were beyond slim, but as every other option appeared to have fucked off, this seemed to be the only one left.

“NO!” was the swift and conclusive reply.

Well, that put paid to that, he thought. We’re done for…unless….

“Amanda?”

“Yeah”

“Do you know what they want me for?”

Amanda shook her head.

“And, do you know what they’ll do to us if they catch us?”

Again, Amanda shook her head “No” she said.

He looked out at the sea of orange bodies around them.

“Have you ever seen this many of the Orthorities out at once?”

Amanda’s head only seemed to know the one dance.

Steve thought for a minute, then said “Do you have any idea how we’re going to get through the crowd?”

Amanda looked at him “ We’re not” she said, crushing any remaining hope he harboured that they wouldn’t have to do what they were about to do.

“You know what we have to do, don’t you?”

She shuddered, but nodded “I know.”

She took his hand. “On 3” she said, “1…2…”

“Wait, are we going on 3,or is it…..”

As the Seville suited crowd surged forward, Amanda leapt backwards into the Relloc, dragging Steve along for the ride.

The darkness slammed down around them and the noise of the crowd was cut off instantly. Steve, though he knew he was sitting on the floor, couldn’t feel it beneath him, and struggled to, what he hoped was perpendicular.

So it hadn’t been a dream, he thought to himself, I was in the Relloc.

Somewhere to the side of him Amanda gasped.

“Oh. My. God.”

“I know”

 

The light exploded around him as Steve stumbled out of the darkness. His eyes, struggling against the sunlight that stabbed at them, could make out only a few shapes, nothing discernible.

“Steve!”

Spinning around, Steve could make out a rectangle of darkness behind him, surrounded by light, and within the darkness colours seemed to be swirling.

Amanda.

Ignoring the fact that his eyes were still unaccustomed to the brightness, Steve lunged toward the dark shape and grabbed for the colour that thrashed within it. It took a few moments before he could gain any purchase, then his hand caught hold of something warm and he grabbed onto it and heaved as hard as he could.

He landed heavily, his coccyx informing him loudly and painfully that it didn’t appreciate that kind of abuse, but he wasn’t listening. He’d heard Amanda grunt as she hit the ground beside him and that was all he was concerned about.

“Are you alright?” he asked, mashing his palms into his eye sockets in attempt to rub the darkness from them.

“I think so” Amanda answered, “but I can’t see properly.”

“It’s the darkness” said Steve, blinking frantically, “It should go away, eventually”. He blinked again, then waved his hand in front of his face. “Mine’s almost completely…..” He stopped. In front of him was a doorway, no bigger than a standard, run of the mill, everyday doorway. Yet this one wasn’t attached to anything other than the ground and appeared to contain the Relloc. Daylight surrounded it, which meant, he supposed, that it was possible to walk completely around it, yet walking through it would, probably, take you back in to the Relloc.

“Where are we?” he asked, no-one inparticular.

“It doesn’t matter” came the deeper than expected response, “You’re coming back with me.”

Steve turned and came face to face with one of the orange clothed Orthority guys. Leaping to his feet, he adopted, what he hoped passed for a fighting stance and held his fists out in front of him, circling them like a character from Tom Brown’s School Days.

Turns out, he thought, I’m not as much of a coward as I thought. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to win.

“Come here!” shouted the Orthority agent, as he lunged forward. Steve, instinctively threw a fist out in front of himself, then bravely shut his eyes and braced for what he knew would be a bone breaking impact.

It never came.

Tentatively, he opened one eye, then the other. The agent had disappeared. All that seemed to be left of him was an odd smelling orange mist, within a cloud of which Steve now stood.

“OOO. KKK.” he said, slowly “What the hell happened?”. He looked down at Amanda, and saw that she was still laying on the floor, but had lifted herself up onto her elbows and was staring, open-mouthed, at something.

When he saw what she was looking at, someone cut all the strings that held his jaw in place, and it dropped to its lowest point possible as several different variations of confused expression fought for space on his face.

It was a city. A glowing city surrounded by enormous mountains. It was beautiful. Even from this distance it made Venice look like a scruffy, east coast beach town.

“Steve?” asked Amanda, without taking her eyes off the scene in front of her.

“Yeah?” He offered by way of an answer.

“Where the fuck are we?”

“I believe I can answer that.” From the other side of the door, satisfyingly proving Steve’s earlier hypothesis, came the most bizarre man either of them had ever seen. At first glance he appeared to be two completely different blokes, jammed together to form a single entity so that they each had possession of one side of the body. A second and third glance only served to prove the first one right.

The odd man, walked slowly towards them, and smiled.

“I am Brian” he said, tapping himself on the left side of his chest, “and I am Gordon” he continued in a different voice, this time tapping himself on the right side of his chest.

“We’re glad you could make it” said the first voice again. “Welcome to the Relocation Centre”.

 

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Steve shifted uncomfortably in the dentists like chair, and grimaced as the thick, vine-like cables that had been secured to his body by tape, pulled spitefully at his body hair.

He was beginning to wish that he hadn’t made such a fuss about things.

If he’d simply agreed with Amanda that he hadn’t and couldn’t have been inside the Relloc, then at this moment he’d be sitting at his grim, depressingly grey desk looking at a stack of incomprehensible DD21 forms that every business in the city seemed to be required to complete and drinking warm, stale water from the office’s small, cramped kitchen. But no, he’d had to go on and on, asking about ‘possibilities’, using sentence after sentence that started “But, what if…”, and asking ‘wasn’t there anything she could test for?’.

He paused in his reasoning. Maybe being here, wired up to a myriad of ancient  electrical equipment, that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a laboratory run by Boris Karloff, in just his underwear was preferable to the office. At least here he wouldn’t be subjected to Karen’s regular outbursts of “Oh my God-duh!!” that she exclaimed every time anyone told her anything, in her appallingly squeaky nasal voice, or be confronted by Colin and his perpetual sniffle that he treated, every 5 minutes, with a quick rub with a hanky that Steve felt pretty sure would shatter if Colin ever dropped it.

His thoughts came to a stop again. Now he came actually came to compare them, neither was particularly appealing. Though here he did actually get to see Amanda, who was currently examining the results from a test she’d just run on him on a dusty old device that looked as though it had been pulled, as is, from the helm of a submarine.

“How’s it looking?” he asked, painfully aware that the look she was wearing was the universal expression for ‘we’ll have to run more tests’.

“We’ll have to run more tests” she said, “There appears to be something screwing up the equipment.” She tapped on the glass covering of a small dial, “Probably just a system glitch, a mouse probably got into the Central Processing Compartment again and chewed through a couple of cables, but we have to be sure.”

Steve considered this and asked “What makes you say that? What’s wrong with the results?” he also considered the examination she’d just exposed him to and added, “and what sort of tests?”.

Amanda squinted at a small screen, flicked a couple of switches, didn’t seem happy at the consequence of this so flicked them back again. “Well” she began, still staring at the screen, “The Spectral Matrositer…er, the big, water tank looking thing in the corner,” she waved her hand vaguely towards a large black box with wires streaming from it, that sat and loomed at him from the corner “appears to be detecting something that it can’t identify, which isn’t possible because I’ve personally seen to it that it contains information on absolutely everything in this place”. Still cowling, she turned to face him, “You give it a bowl of peanuts to analyse, and it can give you the genetic make-up of the peanuts, the chemical composition of the bowl, the names of everyone that has eaten from it, and what they had for breakfast. It’s a fantastic piece of kit.” Her scowl deepened, “Too bad it’s got such a shit name”. She returned her attention to the screen. “Anyhow, the point is, if it can’t identify this stuff, which it’s saying is only a residual trace anyway, then there must be a glitch in the system.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, and got as far as “Bu……”, before Amanda cut him off and answered his unasked question.

“And no, it couldn’t be from inside the Relloc, before you ask. Just like the air inside a shop will contain traces of the air outside due to people dragging pockets of it in with them whenever they open the door, so the inside of the Relloc would contain traces of it’s outside.” The ghosts of science classes that he’d paid very little attention in swam silently through Steve’s head and he began to wonder if he would understand more of what Amanda was explaining if he’d paid more attention to whatshisface, the teacher, than to mooning over Veronica Russell. He realised that Amanda was still talking at decided that paying attention now would be a goo idea. “This system knows Relloc radiation better than I know the back of my hand.” she explained “If there was even the mere hint of a possibility that this trace was Relloc, the Spectral Matrositer would flag up the relationship between the radiation signatures and would have given me a print out explaining its findings. This radiation trace is simply reading as ‘unknown’, which suggests the system doesn’t have a clue what it is, which as I said, isn’t possible. So we’ll run the test again, but this time I won’t initiate the control buffer so we should be able to pinpoint where the problem lies.” she paused “It’ll be a mouse again. Tenner says it is”.       She lifted her head and smiled at him.

He wanted to smile back, but her explanation had jammed down his panic button and was refusing to release it. He went through several different combinations of words in his head, as he attempted to construct a question that would convey his concern concisely, yet at the same time not make him sound like a pansy, and plumped for “Radiation?”. This he expressed whilst, apparently, using the vocal chords of a 7 year old girl.

Amanda smirked at him. “Don’t panic” she joked “You’re teeth or…ahem…anything else aren’t about to drop off. Radiation in this case simply means energy that radiates from it’s source. Besides,“ she went on “You’re already dead. Even if this were Chernobyl things couldn’t really get any worse could they?”

Steve’s initial reaction was to cup his crotch, but he managed to refrain and said simply, “Actually they could.”

Amanda continued to smile “Yes, well, let’s get this test over with shall we. Once we find out what’s causing the problem you can get dressed again and, erm, make sure everything’s still where it should be”. She flicked a couple of switches, checked some displays then took hold of a large black dial. “Ready?” she asked him.

“As ready as I was la…”

Amanda twisted the dial.

 

Steve had never liked medical tests. When he was about 5 years old he’d seen someone given an MRI scan on TV and his older cousin had told him that the white tube that you were put in was for cutting you up so they could see inside, and that everyone had to have the test.

He’d cried for a week.

Years later, when he heard that his cousin had lost part of his ear in an unfortunate accident with an MRI scanner and a surgical steel ear stud, he’d allowed himself a tiny feeling of justice at the irony. But this didn’t help him overcome his fear of medical equipment. Even having his blood pressure taken made him queasy.

So when Amanda had succumbed to his relentless questions and agreed to undertake a few tests, he began to curse his own tenacity when he saw the inside of her lab.

It was like a Hammer Horror film set.

Huge glass valves sat atop riveted together, rusting units, into which large, analogue dials with huge ornate hands and incomprehensible markings, had been bolted. A bewildering array of cables snaked across the floor in thick bundles, branching off at intervals to wind their way behind an assortment of nefarious looking machinery, whilst a couple of long metal prongs, set at a slight angle to one another, and up which ran a thick blue spark every few seconds, took pride of place at one end of the room. Their were levers and switches and metal wheels and chains and handles; almost everything that a scientist would need to reanimate a patchwork corpse. The only thing missing was a metal slab with wrist and ankle restraints.

He’d allowed himself to relax slightly at this point and told himself that his imagination was getting the better of him and that if he looked hard enough he’d be able to see the digital equipment hiding behind the retro, steam-punk façade.

It was then that he saw the chair and almost gave himself a hernia as he stiffened at the sight of it.

It looked, to all intents and purposes, like an electric chair, and not one of those nice ones that old people scoot around town in, blatantly disregarding the rules of the road. For the most part it was wooden, but this didn’t make it look any less menacing as the rest of it was comprised of metal and leather straps and the whole thing had been bolted to the floor.

“I know what it looks like” Amanda had said of the room, seemingly in answer to the look of sheer terror that had tattooed itself across his face, “But, believe me, it looked a lot worse before we moved in.” She’d gestured towards a curtained screen and informed him that he could “undress behind there”.

Steve, it appeared, had discovered a new skill and was able to communicate his innermost feelings without saying a word because Amanda had said “Oh, don’t worry, it’s standard procedure. The system gives a more precise result if city residue from clothing isn’t present”.

So, undress he had, and she’d strapped him into the chair. A small part of him considered that in another context this could be seen as exciting, almost kinky, but that part was brutally stamped on by the rest of his mental processes who acknowledged that, whichever way he looked at it, he was still being strapped almost naked into a tool of execution.

Amanda had attempted to allay any fears that may have spilled out of his brain and dripped down his face by explaining that the equipment was actually infinitely more advanced than it looked, and that it had been originally used to analyse the structure of organisms and materials in Afterspan and The City, but had been modified to analyse anyone that wandered anywhere near the Relloc, just to see if they could garner any useful information.

This, Steve had thought, is all well and good, but I’m still buckled into a seat that looks like it came from the S&M page of the latest Argos catalogue, in my pants.

As she’d taped the large, cold sensors about his person, with something that felt suspiciously like Duck Tape, she explained that the reason the lab looked like it had been designed by Mary Shelley was that modern technology didn’t work very well in the City, or Afterspan for that matter, for reasons that no-one really understood. Phones seemed to work OK, but that was about it.

At that point, to distract himself from the fact that Amanda had pulled one of the sensors from his chest to reposition it, and had actually taken with it a large patch of body hair that had relinquished its hold on his skin with a sound like ripping tweed, he thought back to the caravan and the fact that nothing in it worked properly. The toaster alone was enough of a death trap to make Lynne Foulds-Wood gibber into her coffee for a week. He’d never really given more than a passing thought before because, hell, when did anything in a caravan ever work? He’d once gone on holiday with his parents and had to spend a week eating cheese sandwiches because the cooker never got hot enough to melt clingfilm and the fridge had permanently defrosted itself not long after they’d arrived so they couldn’t cook or store anything that needed keeping cool.

As the screaming burn on his pectoral muscle skin began to subside he returned his attention to Amanda again who was explaining that a bunch of scientists had discovered that if they took older technology and applied modern thinking to it, they could get similar results to digital equipment. Often the machines were better than expected and some actually exceeded expectation, functioning to higher standards than living world technology. Whilst no-one was entirely sure where these scientists managed to get their hands on a bunch of old technology, they maintained that it was simply ‘lying around’.

“This place” she’d said “used to be the City’s equivalent to IBM, until people realised that they could never reduce the equipments size enough to make it viable for mass producing so they gave it up and left it here”. When the Relloc appeared, it only took a bit of tweaking to allow them to use the machinery to analyse the anomaly, and that when she’d taken it over, she’d spent months and months learning how to use the equipment. “I felt like I imagine a 21st Century CGI artist must feel if he were suddenly told that all of his work from now on had to be completed out of Lego”.

Steve had tried to concentrate on what she was saying, and had absorbed the basic gist, but much of his mental capacity was taken up with the thought that if he had to be strapped into the chair for the test then he was probably being prevented from moving about which, his rapidly panicking brain had reasoned, probably meant it was going to hurt. And he’d never been good with pain. Sure, he’d been knocked out a couple of times since he’d arrived but that was the sort of pain that crept up and leapt on you from wildly varying angles, taking you completely by surprise. The kind of pain he was expecting here was the kind that walked calmly up to you, shook you by the hand, explained how it was going to feel, then proceeded to saw off your legs with a bone saw fashioned out of an old spoon.

Anticipation was always the worst part.

“Ready?” she’d asked

“Umm, no, not really. Er…” he’d offered by way of an answer, “Will it, will it, will it….ahem…will it, will it…” he paused and took a long slow breath in an attempt to calm himself the fuck down, and force his brain out of the panic induced rut it had fallen into. He’d woven the word ‘fuck’ into his thoughts which had had the opposite effect to the desired one, and made him even more tense. If he’d resorted to swearing at himself, the chances of breathing deeply succeeding in dissipating his agitation were particularly slim.

He tried again.

“Will it, will it, will it…”

“It’s not going to hurt, no.” Amanda had said, mercifully. “It might feel slightly uncomfortable, but certainly won’t be painful. The restraints are just there to hold you in place as some of the sensors can be a bit touchy about movement.”

“Good. OK, right, well. Good.” he’d said, as eloquently as he could.

“So, ready?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

“But, let’s pretend that I am”

She’d placed her hand on a large black dial and made to turn it.

“It’s just…” he’d said suddenly, scrabbling around his brain for something, anything he could say that wouldn’t sound like he was just stalling the test.

“Yes?” she’d asked

“Nothing” he’d said and braced himself.

Amanda turned the dial.

 

Amanda had been right, it wasn’t painful. It didn’t actually hurt one bit, but that didn’t stop it from being THE most excruciatingly uncomfortable experience of his life.

If asked to describe the sensation he’d have to concede that it defied any real description. ‘Like the full body equivalent of chewing wire wool whilst simultaneously being poked by a swarm of pencil erasers’ would be the closest illustration he’d be able to give anyone, but even that wouldn’t really give an idea to just how discomforting a feeling it actually was. For some reason, whilst the test was being run, he couldn’t help but wonder if the Post Office used a similar device in its interview process for new employees, just to give them an idea of what it’s going to feel like when they’re sat in that little glass box with the stamps.

            Thankfully, he didn’t have long to contemplate this as the feelings quickly subsided as Amanda twisted the dial again and turned the machine off.

            “You didn’t wait for me to say that I was ready!” he yelled, incredulously.

            “Nope” said Amanda. “You wound yourself up last time, and I didn’t want you to do it again. Now, sit there and shush while I check the results.” She turned and began checking readouts and dials, leaving Steve feeling like he’d just been violated, and not in a good way.

            As he watched, Amanda checked the readouts, pulled a face that suggested she was expecting to see familiar results and had been shown a video of a marmoset running the gauntlet up the west part of the M25 instead, flicked some switches, kicked at a lever, then returned to look at the original screen again, her subsequent expression making it clear that, instead of rectifying the situation, her actions had actually turned the marmoset into a large pink fish.

            Steve felt a tad perturbed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in the manner of a man strapped to a chair and covered in electrodes who believes he is about to be wired to a large battery.

“I have no idea” Amanda whispered, not at all reassuringly. She flicked, experimentally, at some more switches.

“That isn’t reassuring”

“Sorry, but the Matrositer is adamant that there is no mistake. You have trace radiation on you that is unidentifiable. Without the control buffer in place, I’ve been able to pinpoint that the majority of the radiation is coming from your hand. This has never happened before.” Amanda drew a pencil from the pocket of her jacket and began to scribble furiously on a pad, mumbling to herself.

Steve looked at his hands and wondered which of them he could most live without as he felt sure Amanda was seconds away from setting about him with a hacksaw.

“Can I get dressed now?” he ventured cautiously

“Hmm?” hmmed Amanda, still scratching away with the pencil, “Oh, right, yes. Just give me a minute.” She didn’t appear to be in any hurry to unstrap him and kept saying things like “This is extraordinary” to no-one inparticular.

“I would, actually, really like to get dressed” said Steve, trying to ignore the rising panic inside him, and hoping that the crack in his voice wasn’t as audible as it felt.

“Yep…yep, I’ll be right with you. I just have to make a quick phone call”.

 

A phone rang. It was answered.

“Hello? Yes?” The voice sounded congenial, it was the kind of voice you’d gladly bank with. “I see” it said, it’s congeniality wavering slightly “You’re sure it’s unidentifiable? The Matrositer was calibrated correctly, yes? I see. Right, well, bring me the results and we’ll see what next steps are needed, OK? Excellent”

The voice’s owner replaced the receiver, then quickly took hold of it again, and dialled a short number.

“It’s me” the voice said, no longer congenial. It had gone from a voice you’d bank with to one of such nervousness the words that it spoke were positively sweaty.

“We have a problem”

 

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By Nicole S Kapise, © 2005

           

Joe Miller was crying again.  It seems like every time you turned around he was tearing up about something.  Take this afternoon for instance. Peeking  over  the  divider  between  our  cubicles  in  response  to  the  burbley  snuffling  I  could  hear,  there  was  Joe,  an  outline  for  the  Meyers  proposal,  and  an  inkblot.  His  pen  exploded.  On  an  outline.  An  outline  is  not  presented  to  anyone.  Well,  that’s  Joe  for  you.

 

So  there  goes  Joe,  wiping  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and  steering  his  grungy  SUV  with  the  other  (yet  another  cause  for  tears-it  got  dirty  after  he  washed  it)  and  nearly  taking  out  a  yield  sign  in  doing  so.  Even  from  where  I  stood  I  could  see  him  start  to  bawl.  Funny,  he  drives  much  better  when  he’s  on  a  hard  core  crying  jag.

           

There’s tons of speculation  as  to  why  Joe  Miller’s  always  so  damp.  He’s  an  excellent  worker,  one  of  the  best.  He’s  won  employee  of  the  year  at  least  six  times  (all  smiles  then,  but  woe  betide  the  years  he  didn’t!).

           

I think it’s that fairy godmother of his.

           

You  know,  kind  of  like  the  one  in  The  Ordinary  Princess  that  seems  to  do  more  harm  than  good,  only  everything  turns  out  all  right  in  the  end,  so  you  know  the  gift  was  good?    Yup,  I  think  that’s  what  happened.  Only  somehow  I  don’t  think  Joe’s  gift  is  ever  going  to  do  him  any  good.  I  mean,  the  guy’s  forty-six!  What  good  is  being  caring  and  sensitive  going  to  be  while  working  in  an  investment  firm?  If  he  were  a  nurse  or  priest  or  musician,  sure.  Joe  fishes  and  drinks  beer  on  weekends.  He’s  not  some  closet  Beethoven.

           

Thank  God  my  fairy  godmother  looked  ahead  and  gave  me  a  gift  with  numbers.  I  can  lay  out  financial  statistics  like  anything.  Joe?  Joe  can  cry.  And  gasp  when  his  pencil  tip  breaks.  And  gulp  when  the  cover  doesn’t  twist  off  the  bottle  of  WiteOut  easily  enough.  He  blubbers  in  line  in  the  company  café  because  the  paper  napkin  left  a  piece  of  a  corner  in  the  dispenser.  A  trip  to  the  men’s  room  is  a  trek  through  enemy  territory,  for  all  the  wailing  Joe  does  when  he  comes  back.

           

I  would  love  to  get  my  hands  on  Joe’s  fairy  godmother.  I’d  give  her  a  taste  of  her  own  medicine:  spend  a  week  with  Joe!  Thirty-two  hours!!  She’d  de-wing  herself  after  two  days.

           

Why  couldn’t  she  have  gifted  him  with  chest  hair  or  a  green  thumb?  Why  tears?  Did  her  favorite  piece  of  milkweed  fluff  stain  the  carpet  that  day?  Was  she  PMSing?  Maybe  she  broke  her  best  wand,  or  was  just  having  a  bad  day.  I  didn’t  think  fairies  had  the  same  emotions  as  us,  but  anyway,  why,  oh  why  did  she  have  to  pass  everlasting  sorrow  on  to  poor  Joe?

           

Maybe  she  expected  him  to  be  a  failure,  and  just  got  him  ready  for  the  worst.  Well  she  was  wrong.  Joe  could  be  a  chairman,  the  CEO  says,  if  he  could  just  get  a  grip  on  his  emotions.  (Which  of  course  sets  off  more  waterworks.)

           

So  what  was  wrong  with  Joe  as  he  was  leaving?  I’ll  probably  find  out  tomorrow.  Oh  gross.  Someone  hit  a  bird  in  the  parking  lot.  Funny,  I’ve  never  seen  a  bird  with  sparklie  purple  wings  before.  Interesting. 

 

For  Henry.

 

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By Nicole S Kapise, © 2000

 

Once, in a time that was and may be again, a song was born. Now, many people say that songs cannot be born; they can only be written then sung. This is not true, not for this song. This one was born, as was its singer, though the two were born at times and places far distant from each other.

           

The song was born in Otherspace. The female deity presiding over Otherspace brought the song forth as any mother might birth her child; then she watched as her offspring, the song, drifted away through Otherspace. Most just-born children do not fly from their mothers moments after birth, but this child was different. This child, the song, was on a quest. It was searching for a singer, for a soul.

           

The song’s soul, its singer, was born three eternities after the song. Two long eternities the song drifted, dreamily and silent, through Otherspace. Then it floated into Thenspace, where it floated for nearly another full eternity, until, on the final day of the third eternity, the song witnessed the birth of its soul.

           

The singer of the song was born to a couple married nearly fifteen years whose hopes of having a child were a dream of sorrow. The woman who would be mother to the song was barren, they were told. How she and her husband cried! They were not wealthy, but had the means and hearts to care for a child.

           

Then came the wonderful day the woman who would be mother to the song learned she was with child. It was not illness, the village midwife told her, nor the Crone years. It was the gods’ own wish that her prayers finally come to fruit.

           

Again, how she and her husband cried! Tears of joy coursing down tracks of sorrow. That had been six moons ago. Seven altogether had passed, and now the midwife was back, holding in her own fears as she tried to soothe her friends’. The child was far too early. All knew that. The child would not live. All thought that. The song knew differently.

           

The frightened woman held her equally frightened husband’s hand tightly through the birthing. The child was delivered to into the midwife’s hands, gray-skinned, heartbreakingly silent. The woman began to cry as the midwife slapped the child, then gave him air, but to no avail. Just as the midwife was about to give the child up for lost, the soul swooped through the open window and engulfed him.

           

At the song’s touch, the child trembled, took a deep breath, and cried out. To the long-waiting new parents, the child’s cries were the most beautiful song they had ever heard. 

 

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by Payam Nabarz.

Available from http://www.lulu.com/content/1728442

 

Act V: A Kali Puja: a magickal workshop.

 

On a bright sunny day, Corax was flying over the forest when he heard

the sound of falling trees. He flew to where the sound had originated,

and was greeted by sight of his old mate Oilphant Ganesh. Oliphant was

gently making his way across the forest, knocking down trees like they

were grass, (which to him they were!)

 

Corax: Hi, you're looking cheerful 2day where r u heading?

 

Oliphant: Hi, going to new temple in the old castle.

 

Corax: Not the castle!

 

Oliphant: Yes, there is a new temple to Kali, and there will be a

`Kali Puja' workshop to mark Kali's festival...

 

Corax: Wow a real Kali Puja, I always wanted `to do' a Puja, who is

running the Puja?

 

Oliphant: Its Lady Pelican, she spent a whole six months in India and

a year in Siberia.

 

Corax: Great, I'll accompany you then.

 

Corax and Oliphant make their way towards the castle, they are faced

with signs like: `keep off the moors' and `don't go to the castle'.

They both shake their heads on such signs muttering about Christians

who try to stop them reaching enlightenment. As they approach the

castle several hearses leave the gate, carrying coffins. At the door

they are faced with a very nice dog called Canine.

 

Canine: Welcome brothers, and sisters. The workshop is about to start.

Just leave all your dosh in the donation box on the way in and please

take off your shoes.

 

Corax and Oliphant excitedly go in and sit down in the large meeting

room, which is freshly painted. Corax smells the faint scent of blood

underneath the smell of paint.

 

Lady Pelican: Sit down and relax your body…...

 

Many hours of chanting, and meditation pass, however there is no sign

of Kali as far as Corax can see.

 

Corax: (whispering) Oliphant, can you see Kali?

 

Oliphant:(whispering) No, except I felt touch of hands on my shoulder.

 

Corax: Sorry that was me, I was nodding off and had to balance myself

by putting my hand on your shoulder.

 

Oliphant: Oh, well this is just not happening for me, do you remember

the door opening thingy that drunk rat told us about the other day in

the pub.

 

Corax: Yep, you mean opening doors to parallel dimensions and letting

the gods come through.

 

Oliphant: Yes, let's try it.

 

Corax and Oliphant try the `opening the door thingy' and suddenly the

room is filled with flashes of lightning.

 

Lady Pelican: Keep the chanting going everyone, here comes 'The Goddess'.

 

One of the ladies, who was already painted in blue stands up and

starts handing out flowers to all.

Oliphant and Corax look at each.

 

Corax: I guess it didn't work, she was already painted in blue!

 

Oliphant: Errrmmm, look at the ceiling!

 

A translucent blue figure is forming on the ceiling.

 

Corax: Uh that would be Kali, though she is not wearing her usual

human skull necklace.

 

Oliphant: She prefers her necklace fresh, probably.

 

Corax: I am sure it will be fine, where are you going Oliphant? Oliphant?

 

(Oliphant runs off very quickly).

 

The rest of congregation seemed to be too busy chanting and collecting

the flowers to notice the blue figure descending.

The rest happened in a flash, several heads were chopped off by Kali

before anyone had noticed. The Kali priestess screamed on seeing Kali

and everyone opened their eyes. Kali picks several heads from the

floor and makes a skull necklace, which she brings and puts on her

priestess.

 

Kali: You, who act as my priestess, should wear my necklace.

 

The Kali priestess faints. (Perhaps it was the weight of several human

heads dangling from her neck which overcame her.)

 

Kali: Now for my own necklace.

 

Kali's blade moved across chopping several more heads, and was

approaching Corax fast. But Corax is fixed in his seat, caught by the

beautiful light from Kali's eyes. Kali's Blade is inches away from

Corax, when it hits another metal object. The sound makes Corax to

break eye contact and look up. It seems another blade had stopped

Kali's blade. The hands holding the sword are covered in black feathers.

 

Corax: Morrigan, ace what timing.

 

Morrigan: Silly boy, I'll deal with you later.

 

Kali: Get out of my temple Morrigan, this is not your place, can't you

see I am busy.

 

Morrigan: Not this one, he is Mine.

 

Kali: He is in my temple.

 

Morrigan: He already belongs to me....

 

Lots of lightening and sword fighting between Kali and Morrigan takes

place.

 

Corax looks across at the dead bodies, the fainted priestess, and the

rest of living congregation and finally sees the workshop organiser

Lady Pelican. Lady Pelican seems calm and is handling the situation

much better than others. Corax walks up to her.

 

Corax: Is this what you had in mind for the workshop?

 

Lady Pelican: Be calm child, we are all in the astral plane now and

what you are seeing is a vision, and not real. Remain focused on your

breathing.

 

Corax: Are you sure this is all in the astral plane?

 

Lady Pelican: Yes and we are now communicating with each other as I

have Telepathy Certificate Level 42.

 

Kali and Morrigan are fighting each other just above the heads of

Corax and Lady Pelican.

 

Corax: (while dodging one of Kali's arms) I see, maybe you should

bring this workshop to an end, it seems that Kali and Morrigan are

fighting each other.

 

Lady Pelican: You just focus on the astral vision, and allow it to tap

into the collective subconscious, these goddesses are archetypes.

 

Corax: They seem very real to me, do archetypes chop people's heads off?

 

Lady Pelican: The chopping off the heads which `you' are seeing is

internal symbol for liberation, also Kali and Morrigan are not really

fighting, as you know all goddesses are just one goddess.

 

Kali and Morrigan suddenly stop fighting, and both look at Lady Pelican.

 

Lady Pelican: As I said. They are all just One Goddess. … Corax why

are you running away?

 

Corax: But do `they' know they are all one goddess.

 

While flying away Corax took one quick look over his shoulder, and saw

Kali and Morrigan both with their swords raised rushing towards Lady

Pelican. Despite flying away fast, Corax still heard Lady Pelicans

screams..... Flying, he quickly caught up with Oliphant, who was also

still running.

 

Oliphant: Glad you made it out, what happen to the rest?

 

Corax: Death by archetype.

 

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By Anthony Collins
Copyright 2007
 
            Tonight again, for the first time in years, the dreams were back
and even more vivid than they ever had been. Were they really dreams, or
something more? Tom Colin once again found himself in the midst of an
ancient battle with carnage and death all around, but with a complete
lack of sound. There were hundreds of men on foot in every conceivable
phase of battle, with a few mounted on large war horses at the rear of
each host. Some of the foot soldiers had swords or pikes, and wore
various combinations of armor and chain mail protected the more vital
parts of their bodies. Others, clad mostly in leather, were fighting
hand-to-hand with an extraordinary martial skill that only comes with
exhaustive practice and battle experience. Still more were clumsily
swinging crude clubs or wooden pitchforks and dressed in rags and
barefooted. All were fighting and dying with a savagery born of true and
complete hatred for their enemies.
 
            This time, the battle scene came to him from the vantage point
of someone flying above it, but at the periphery of the conflict. The
bright sun streamed through the clouds above and warmed his body,
quickly banishing the chill that the wind brought as it rushed by him.
His eyes watered a little and he blinked away the false tears, and the
excess lightly crusted on the surface in the corners. Tom could feel all
these things well enough, but didn't seem to have the ability to control
his body. Did he have a body? It felt like his fingers were in supple
leather gloves, and they were quite cold, but he could not seem to rub
them together the way he wanted to create some warming friction. He
wasn't even sure that he had hands.
 
            A medieval highland castle sat alone in a clearing half again as
large as the battle field he surveyed. It was rather large, dark and
menacing, so it could easily be seen in the distance over the expanse of
trees that lay beyond the rolling, bloody grassland below. He could see
all the way out to the very limits of his eyesight, and he marveled at
the beauty of the world surrounding this unfortunate carnage.
 
            The vision seemed to gently bob up and down, smooth and steady,
as it might if he were some large bird of prey making a fly-by to
investigate something new to its hunting territory. He began to wonder
if this were just going to be a normal dream experience about human
flight. Then again, that wasn't usually the case with this sort of
dream. Tom realized then that he wasn't actually seeing through the
bird's eyes, but more as if he were riding the thing, whatever it was.
 
            As if that were the cue it had been waiting for, a huge scaly
head swung around and uttered a rumbling growl of what seemed to be
annoyance. His heart jumped up into his throat as he understood in that
instant, that he was on the back of a dragon! He immediately tried to
force his unresponsive limbs to grab the blunt, flesh colored spike that
emerged from the reptilian hide in front of him. Then, just as
strangely, the anxiety that had instantly started to build suddenly
faded away. The initial fear was quickly overwhelmed by a child like
sense of wonder as he felt the strangely familiar hide through his thick
leather breeches for the first time. Being a dragon rider was a definite
improvement over the ominous beginnings of this dream of his.
 
            Tom looked down and marveled at the amazingly complex patterns
of multi-hued tan scales that decorated the large muscular neck emerging
from between his knees. He could see the great translucent wings out of
the corner of his eye, beating out a slow measured pace that drove them
effortlessly through the sky. The rider Tom felt incredibly alive at
that moment. More alive then he could ever remember being in his whole
life.
 

            The exultation of first flight was short live, however, as a
dark object seemed to streak down at them from ahead and slightly to the
right. The bright afternoon sun had almost obscured the thing from him,
but it seemed to have misjudged the angle and was now clearly visible to
them. The great dragon beneath him suddenly vibrated wildly as it gave
what must be a mind numbing roar of challenge, as they both
instinctively seemed to recognize it as an enemy dragon. With a great
lurch, the deceptively agile drake seemed to bend its body nearly in
half and folded its wings flat against its back. Then it stretched out
of the jackknife position into a startling dive that snapped Tom's head
back forcefully, as their velocity was amplified in the blink of an eye.
 
            The ground rushed up at them hurriedly as the dark dragon
changed its attack angle to give chase. They began to pull out of the
rapid decent gradually as the beige dragon slowly extended his wigs
until they were very nearly skimming the tops of the vibrant green trees
of the forest. The pair of dragons were tacking and maneuvering for
position as they broke into the air above the large clearing where the
foot soldiers from both sides were still fully engaged in a pitched
battle of their own. The mounted commanders continued observing from the
relative safety of their remote positions at opposite sides of the
battlefield. There seemed to be muffled sounds of the fray that came to
him now, but they were muted as the wind rushing past his ears drowned
out everything but his racing heartbeat.
 
            There was a burst of dark auburn flame from behind, and his
dragon rolled to the right in time to keep Tom from being hit between
the shoulder blades. His left arm shrieked with pain and wisps of smoke
floated off his smoldering sleeve. The abrupt change in the situation
had finally caught up with all his senses and Tom ignored the pain and
began to take in the scene around him. They dodged and weaved above the
fighting below until he could see that they were quickly approaching the
dark, brooding castle perched atop a low hill at the far end of the next
clearing. It was a dark, foreboding place and had a feeling of extreme
uneasiness about it. As if some ancient evil were calling the assembled
stones its home.
 
            They could feel the dark energy radiating from the castle and
veered away at the last second before the forward momentum of the cat
and mouse game carried them over the wall. From the parapet heights were
hung the decomposing corpses of soldiers wearing familiar colors,
suspended upside down from the ankles with ropes and rusting chains. The
missing heads and torsos that looked as if they were torn in half or
chewed on were a common theme among the mangled bodies. Not even the
speed of their flight could mask the horrid, rotting stench that
assaulted the sinuses of both dragon and rider as they streaked by the
atrocity, and turned back toward the battle again.
 
            A terrible rage seemed to well up from somewhere deep within him
as they streaked back over the now familiar trees. The urge to retaliate
on behalf of the hapless souls of those fallen comrades seemed to become
instantly overpowering. Both sentiments were obviously shared by his
dragon, as it let loose with the most devastating bellow that he could
ever remember hearing come from anything. The giant reptile turn
abruptly to the left and slightly upwards at the same instant the
thought of revenge had occurred to Tom. It arched its back around until
it could almost bite its own gleaming tail. The dark dragon pursuer was
caught completely unawares and he knew it was a fatal mistake. Its roar
of defiance was cut off as the brilliant tawny head clamped down on the
black neck with lightning quick speed. The connection point of the
beasts became a fulcrum, and the pivoting action easily snapped the
spine of the dark dragon with an enormous crack.
 
            As the trajectory of his tan companion carried him over the head
of the dark rider, a large broadsword seemed to magically appear in
Tom's hand. Before he could even think about what was happening, the arm
came down with its own bone crunching force and sheered off the head and
right arm of the man, shoulder and all. Dark green blood rained down all
around the members of the dark army below. Too late they tried to flee
from beneath the falling corpse of their supporting dragon and its
rider. Dozens of enemy soldiers were crushed as the mass of dragon flesh
and bone came crashing to earth, throwing even more troops to the ground
as they ran.
 
            Tom and his winged friend hovered protectively over their own
startled group, and watched as the demoralized opposing army fled toward
the surrounding forest. An immense feeling of satisfaction came over him
as the victorious dragon roared in a "and don't come back," sort of way.
He looked down at the broken form of the defeated rider and his eyes
fell on the stone dragon amulet that lay next to the body. Suddenly the
whole scene seemed to pause then, and blurred into the familiar segue
that marked the end of the dream segment and the beginning of reality.
 
            Tom awoke yelling at the top of his lungs for the first time in
years, and Christie sat up and screamed too. She spun her legs around to
her right and hopped out of bed, turning to face him in one graceful
movement. His pain subsided more slowly this time, and he sat there
trying to regain control of his breathing. The burning agony on his left
arm seemed to slowly disappear as he stared at his shaking hands with
tears idly rolling down his cheeks.
 
            "What are you doing Tom? What's wrong with you," she added as
her eyes came up to meet his. "Are you alright," she asked, the anger
fading rapidly as she saw the look on his face.
 
            He turned to look at her as he wiped the tears from his cheeks.
"Yeah, I think so. Or at least I will be once I catch my breath. How
about you, are you okay?"
 
            "You scared me out of a dead sleep, again. How do you think I
am? You haven't done that for a long time. What is going on with you?"
she asked plaintively
 
            "I had another dream. It was no nightmare this time though," he
answered. He swung his own feet over the side of the bed and stood up.
 
            "No nightmare. No nightmare? What was all the screaming about
then," she almost accused. "You still screamed like you did last time.
So what happened if it wasn't another nightmare, and why is the back of
your arm all red and blistered?"
 
            "It was just a dream," he said. "I must have been jerked awake
because of the blazing pain in my arm. It felt like someone was holding
a blow torch to my arm and baking the skin right off. It started to fade
away as soon as I woke up, like the last time, only faster."
 
            "What do you mean, faster," she questioned? She moved around to
his side of the bed and looked up into his face. "You didn't say
anything about any pain before. What kind of pain? Why didn't you tell
me about it before now? Are you sure you're okay?" She reached up with
her small hand and touched his cheek tenderly. "Maybe this is more than
just a dream? Do you think you should go talk to your Witch Doctor
tomorrow?"
 
            "He's not a Witch Doctor, he's a Druid. No, I'm fine. I actually
feel great," he responded truthfully. He smiled down at her worried
look. "I promise you, I'm fine. Look, the redness is almost gone now."
He twisted his arm around to show her. "I'm going to go check on the
kids. I'll be back to bed in a minute."
 
            "Okay," she said as he left the room. "I won't give up so easily
if this happens again Thomas."
 
            "Yes dear." He quietly called over his shoulder. "It'll be
fine."
 
            "We'll see, dear," she whispered into the darkness.
 
                Tom walked out of the island hut they called home. The
warm tropical breeze barely moving the palm leaves above his head. He
continued over to the equipment shed and made sure that the diesel tank
was filled up before he hit the starter button. The old marine generator
rumbled to life, and the even older Edison bulb over his head began to
glow. He walked back out the door and over to the fenced in area near
the cliff face at the edge of the camp. Two small lumps on the ground
stirred as the noisy engine noise and the light from the floodlights
roused them.
 
            The two figures lumbered over to him and the one put its
beautiful scaly head on the top rail of the fence. Tom looked into the
sleepy eyes of the baby dragons and smiled happily.
 
            "You guys weren't bothered at all, were you? Maybe it was
just a dream."
 
            A lantern came bobbing up the path from the darkness beyond
the ring of light around the dragonet's nursery. A smaller man with
graying hair and tanned leathery skin walked up and stood beside Tom as
he blew out the lamp and set it at his feet. They had known each other
for years and had been through a lot together, so Tom had felt him
coming even before he could see or hear him.
 
            "Did your arm blister much," the older man asked in a matter
of fact tone.
 
            Tom smiled. "No, just a little redness and some pain. You
saw it too then?"
 
            "Of course, so did your son. I sense that Kaleb's already on
his way back as we speak. Gaia has a way of getting her message across,
doesn't she," the little man said.
 
            "Yeah, but I wish she'd use the satellite phone next time.
It makes for long day when a guy gets yanked out of a sound sleep like
that," Tom said riley.
 
            His friend smiled and nodded his agreement. "The great Earth
Spirit has been sending these warning messages to her guardians since
the beginning of time. I doubt she would condescend to use your fancy
cell phone, even if she knew how."
 
            "I suppose you're right Scully," Tom replied. "I'd settle
for an instruction manual. Do you have enough information to decipher
what she was showing us?"
 
            "Not completely," Scully offered. "I will have to meditate
on it for a while. I think it's a safe bet that there is another Dark
rider emerging somewhere in the world. You will be the first to know
when I figure out where and when our new enemy might surface."
 
            "Good. You know how much I just love those surprises that
can get me killed," Tom said, with more than just a touch of sarcasm.
 
            Scully turned to Tom with an exaggerated and totally false
look of indignation on his sun browned face. "That was not my fault. The
teacher can not be held responsible for the student's thick headedness.
At least I know you'll be more careful the next time," he said breaking
into a smile. He put a fatherly hand on the big man's shoulder, "Go
check on our friend. I think he was bit unsettled by Mother Earth's
revelation. I'm off to start on my vision quest. I'll check in with you
tonight." With a small pat on the head of each dragonet, he relit his
lantern and started back down the dark trail that had brought him there.
 
            Tom gave each little dragon a quick one armed hug around the
snout, and then turned back toward his own hut. About half way back he
turned left and walked up a warn dirt path that ran through a small
stand of sugarcane and coconut trees. The trail ended at a rather large
cave entrance that was cleverly concealed by the layers of foliage. A
large, pale green head with brilliant blue eyes was looking out
expectantly at him as he approached.
 
            This dragon was no baby, and snorted with irritation as Tom
walked over and pulled the cover off the brazier mounted just outside
the opening. The emotional link between them was so strong that it was
rare if one didn't know what the other was thinking. The surly beast
turned his head slightly and snorted again, producing a small gush of
pale green tinted flame from one grapefruit sized nostril. It instantly
lit the contents of the iron vessel and forced Tom to jump back to avoid
the sparks that flew in every direction.
 
            "Sorry big guy, but I had to check on the little ones first.
You knew I'd be here, and now I am," Tom apologized quickly.
 
            The dragon gave another half hearted snort and lowered his
head to give the man's face a quick forgiving lick with his giant forked
tongue. Tom chuckled as he wiped his cheek and hugged the scaly neck
with true affection and ardor.
 
            "So I am same in assuming that you had the dream too?"
 
            The scaly head gave a slow smooth nod of agreement, and Tom
patted the end of the large muzzle with tenderness and understanding.
 
            "Then you know what this means also, don't you, my friend?"
Tom continued, "The days of long, boring patrols and half hearted battle
drills are over for a while. No one ever said being the protectors of
Gaia was going to be boring."
 
            With that, Tom mounted his companion's neck and they flew of
into the sunrise. Silently vowing as they went, that they would truly
enjoy the last full day of peace and quiet before they answered Natures
call to arms, once again.

 

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By The PseudoMat

Copyright 2007

 

“So where is he?”

“I don’t know, maybe there’s been a hold up somewhere”

“Hold up? Hold up!? What the hell could possibly be holding him up!?”

“I don’t know, do I? It’s not like I’ve been given a sheet of instructions for this ya know! I’m winging it just as much as you are!”

Anyone watching this argument would have been forgiven for hurrying away in the same manner that they might employ to escape a house fire, landslide, or spontaneous outbreak of mimed theatre for, though there were evidently 2 sides to the disagreement and 2 very separate voices, a single man appeared to be having the quarrel with himself, alone. And anyone that hadn’t dashed off at this initial realisation, may have had second thoughts and turned sharply in the other direction, possibly explaining loudly to no-one in particular that they’d left the cat on or had to put the gas out, if they paid this rather strange man anything more than a passing glance, as his appearance, attire and general demeanour was that of someone to whom the word sane was alien without the word ‘in’ glued haphazardly at the front.

If onlookers were able to ignore the fact that his suit was black on the left side and white on the right, with a perfectly straight line running down the length of his body that separated the two colours, and were willing to overlook his mismatched shoes or his oddly shaved face, that was smooth and silky on the left, but sported a long white moustache and beard on the right that was so long he’d thrown over his shoulder, they would probably be completely thrown by his wild, haphazard gesticulations that made it seem as though he was trying to conduct a classical orchestra to play a trance music track. His arms seemed to be fighting with each other to win the ‘most animated limb’ award, and flung themselves around wildly as the man continued to argue with himself. Spectators may also have questioned the importance of the shining white doorway over which the peculiar man appeared to be standing guard, but so surreal was the rest of the scene that they may not have questioned it for long.

“Winging it?! I wasn’t bloody winging it!” he shouted “I knew exactly what I had to do, and I bloody well did it! If I’d known that you didn’t have a clue what you were doing, Id’ve done your bit as well.”

This seemed to enrage one half of him, though which half it was, was difficult to tell.

“You knew exactly what you had to do, because I bloody told you what to do!” he yelled, “And it wasn’t exactly taxing was it?! All you had to do was not move! Hardly a mentally demanding task was it?! Even for someone as half witted as you!”

His left hand balled itself into a fist and punched the right side of his face. It then grabbed a handful of white beard and yanked on it hard.

“Aargh!” He screamed.

With his right hand he poked himself violently in his left eye, before sticking a finger inside his left cheek and fish-hooking it sharply.

“Ow!” He yelped.

For a full 5 minutes the odd man continued to pummel, punch and kick himself, and looked as though he could have sustained the momentum for quite some time had his right elbow not struck something unexpected as his right arm drew back for a kidney punch.

The bearded half of him stopped and he held his hand to his face. On top of hitting something, he’d just felt a sharp pain on his cheek. He pulled his hand away. No blood, so it couldn’t have been serious.

“Stop!” yelled the bearded half, “I just hit something.”

“Yeah,” shouted the clean shaven half, “my bloody eye socket.” His left hand grabbed more beard and pulled.

“Get off!” shouted the bearded half, and swiped his left hand away with his right, “I’m serious, I’ve just elbowed something.”

“Like what?” asked the clean shaven half, bitterly, as he dabbed at his side of his mouth with his fingertips then withdrew them for examination, “I think you split my bloody lip”.

“Oh, boohoo!” said the bearded half, not at all sympathetically, “This is serious. I think something’s gone wrong.”

This seemed to catch the clean shaven half’s attention.

“What do you mean, gone wrong? Define wrong.”

“Well,” began the bearded half, nervously “I can’t be sure, but..”

“But what?”

“Well, whatever I hit felt, sort of, soft as well as hard.”

The clean shaven half screwed up the features it controlled into a confused scowl, leaving the bearded half to look sheepish, giving new meaning to the term ambivalence.

“Soft and hard?” asked the clean shaven half, “Soft and hard how?”

“Well, and don’t blame me for this, you were just as much to blame, if it is in fact the case, which it may not be, but…”

“Oh, for gods sake spit it out!”

“OK, well, it felt like I elbowed someone in the nose.”

The clean shaven half of the face continued to scowl for a few seconds, before unscrambling into horror struck realisation.

“Oh christ!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, but if you hadn’t been stamping on my foot this might not have happened.”

“Bollocks! I’m accepting no part in this cock up.”

The man sat heavily on the floor.

“F*cking hell, Brian, what’ve you done?”

 

He held his hand up to his face and waggled it about for a third time, just to make sure that the results from the first two attempts weren’t lying to him.

They weren’t. It was, as he’d previously assumed but tested anyway, just in case, pitch black. Not a crack or shaft of light to be seen anywhere, not even behind him, which he assumed was the way he’d come, but as he’d had to pick himself up off of, what he could only surmise was the floor, he wasn’t entirely sure.

He strained to make out something, anything that might give him some bearing, some idea of where he was, but the darkness was absolute

Bugger.

“Hello!” he shouted, then wished he hadn’t, as the sound was swallowed by the darkness almost immediately, leaving behind it not a trace of echo.

Bugger.

Once, when he was about 12, he’d gone on a school trip to visit some caves, and the guide had turned off all of the safety lights to demonstrate just how dark it was down there, and had explained that your eyes never got used to the lack of light. He’d laughed along with everyone else when the lights came back on and someone noticed that Nigel Glassman had wet himself.

Now, however, the shoe was on the other boot.

The shout he’d just given had been eaten by the darkness so completely, that it confirmed something that he’d been refusing to acknowledge; he was surrounded by nothing.

Don’t panic, he thought to himself, and wished he had a book with him with those words printed on the cover in large friendly letters. He quickly realised that, even if he had a book like that, he wouldn’t be able to see them regardless of how reassuring they may be, so got back to more important things, like not swallowing his own tongue in fear.

Logic, he thought, think logically. What would Spock do? Probably wave a tricorder in the air and scowl as Kirk got off with girl covered in blue body paint. Not helpful.

Think! thought Steve, there must be a logical way of approaching this, I can’t have fallen too far into this thing….

Brilliant, even if he did say so himself, which he hadn’t as the passage of sound in this place gave him the willies. He couldn’t have fallen too far into the Relloc, therefore all he had to do was walk forward for a few paces, say 5, then, if nothing happened, carefully retrace his steps, choose another direction to try and repeat the process until he escaped.

Brilliant.

He started walking. 1, 2, 3. The ground was odd. Not soft exactly, more insubstantial, as though he’d lost 99.9% of his body weight and was walking on the meniscus of a duck pond. 4, 5. Stop.

Nothing but darkness.

Crap.

OK, walk backwards slowly. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Stop.

Now try right. 1, 2, 3, 4. Something else was odd. He was walking, therefore he must have legs, but he realised that he couldn’t feel them. He was aware of them, and sensed his shoes and the hole in his left sock, but when he put his hand down to his thigh, it just stopped without his nerves registering that he’d touched anything.

5. Stop. Darkness. Balls.

OK, back again.

He tried left and backwards and tried to kid himself that the results were similar, but had to concede eventually that they were exactly the same.

Shit.

He considered sitting down, but the disconcerting nature of the floor put him off the idea, so he stood and fretted.

What if this was how death was supposed to be?

He heard tell of people having near-death experiences in which they’d walked or flown down a bright tunnel, before being told that it wasn’t their time and they’d woken up on a hospital stretcher with a big stitched wound on their abdomen where their spleen used to be.

What if everything he’d experienced wasn’t the actual endgame to life, but the system with which you were eased gently into the idea of death by summing up your life in a virtual, 3d soap opera? The bright, Dulux white tunnels were for when it was a mistake and the Butlins on a budget was saved for when you were actually 110% devoid of life, before you were thrust into this…this…total absence of anything.

Let’s examine the evidence:

The taxi ride, that was just to drive home to him the fact that he’d, well, never learned to drive and was forced to take public transport everywhere, meaning he was almost always late for things he didn’t prepare for days in advance.

The office of Pete Gately. He worked primarily in other peoples offices, and could spot fake clutter a mile away, such as that which filled Pete’s office. That would be a metaphor for work then.

Orientation, something that he paid no attention in, reminded him of school which, likewise, he’d paid little attention in.

The caravan was, no matter how much he complained about it, reminiscent of his own house, complete with its collection of funky smells and sulking, petulant electrical equipment.

Accountancy, well that was obvious.

Amanda. Amanda, there was an odd one. Although, to begin with, he felt tongue tied and spaz-like as he would have in life, he eventually managed to pull it together and she’d even given the impression that she liked him, something that happened to him when he was alive so rarely, that he had actually managed to miss it on more than one occasion until it was far, far too late.

Amanda. Maybe she was just the afterlife’s way of pointing out what things could have been like had he not been a cloth eared pillock.

So maybe this was actually the proper afterlife.

This total absence of anything was actually death.

Forever.

And ever.

He began to panic, then wondered what good it would do so stopped.

So, this was it. The end. It wasn’t so bad really. OK he’d probably go mad with loneliness and the sheer terror of absolute nothingness, but that might fun. He’d always worried what other people would think of him if he suddenly went completely doo-lally, began wearing fruit as jewellery and made up his own language that only he and dandelions could understand. Now it didn’t matter as there was no-one around to see it happen.

No-one.

Not a soul.

Ah well, he thought, I suppose I’d better start getting used to the place. I just wish someone would turn off that tiny pinprick of light.

He’d begun running before he realised what was happening.

The distance was far too great to measure, but that didn’t bother him. All he cared about was getting there, and as he didn’t seem to be getting tired, he could run for as long as it took.

Which, surprisingly, wasn’t as long as he expected.

The pinprick of light slowly grew to the size of a mousehole, then a fireplace, then a doorway, then a garage door, then a house, then a barn, then he was through into the blinding light.

The brightness stabbed at his eyes like a sword and he blinked heavily against it, managing briefly to make out buildings and trees and sky and, oddly enough, shouting and swearing. He reached his arms out in front of him as he stepped forward and his fingers brushed against something fuzzy.

Then it all went black.

 

“Steve? Steve?”

The voice tapped gently on Steve’s consciousness. His brain opened the door to his mind a crack, blew a raspberry and slammed it shut.

“Steve? Steve, what happened?”

“Ugh” muttered Steve, as this was the second time in a week that he’d had to regain consciousness he felt that consistency was the best policy.

“Oogh”, he groaned. He sniffed and yelped as, what felt like a firework, exploded in his nose. He rolled onto his side, pushed himself gently upright and carefully opened his eyes, allowing them to get used to the light slowly so his lenses didn’t melt.

The first thing he saw was concrete. While not the most aesthetically pleasing sight in the known universe, it was infinitely better than nothing at all. He sat himself up and blinked as his vision caught up with his head and he focused on the concerned face in front of him.

It was Amanda.

“Steve, are you alright? What the hell happened?” she asked, worry creasing her face, “I’ve only been gone a few minutes. Who did this too you?”

Steve gently prodded his face with his fingers. Much of it seemed OK, though for a few seconds he panicked that his entire mug had been damaged beyond repair as everywhere he poked hurt, until he realised that he’d probably landed heavily on his hand and twisted something vital inside it. There did, however, appear to be a large are of actual pain where his nose used to be. On inspection of his digits, he discovered that as well as being painful, this are was also bleeding.

“Hmm?” he said as he realised Amanda was still questioning him

“I said, who the hell did this to you?”

“Umm…” he began, but wasn’t entirely convinced that he knew where the sentence was going, so changed its direction, “…er…” this new direction didn’t feel comfortable either, and he slammed the brakes on, “Hmm.” he said.

“Steve, talk to me” pleaded Amanda.

He looked up at her and gave her a weak smile, “Help me up” he said.

With, what felt like a herculean effort, he hauled himself to his feet and, with Amanda’s help, managed to stay mostly upright, though someone appeared to be moving the floor about and had turned off that part of his brain that stopped him from swaying. For the first time he took in his surroundings and realised that he was back where he’d started. Of course Amanda being there should have been quite a big clue, but he’d just suffered some kind of facial trauma, so he forgave himself for failing to notice.

He glanced sideways and realised he was standing perilously close to the shimmering  surface of the Relloc, and took a few small steps in the opposite direction.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Amanda asked again.

“I’m not entirely sure I can” he said because, frankly, he wasn’t sure that he could. Had what he thought had happened, actually happened? Or had he just hit his head, or more accurately, his face, on the concrete and dreamed the whole thing?

“You mean they came at you from behind?” asked Amanda, who obviously wasn’t one for vague, wishy-washy answers and was one of those people who actually liked to have their questions answered with complete sentences.

Steve shook his head gently. Something moved inside his nose, which almost made him sick. If there was one place on your body you don’t want to be able to feel something move inside, it’s your nose.

“No-one attacked me. I tripped.”

“Tripped?”

He nodded and the part of his nose that was celebrating its independence made it clear that it also enjoyed vertical movement too. “I tripped and smashed my nose onto the concrete.” he frowned, “I think.” he added.

            It was Amanda’s turn to frown. “That doesn’t make sense.” she said, “When I found you, you were on your back and,” she quickly glanced around at the floor “there’s no blood on the ground.”

            “You think I’m lying?”

            “No, no, no,” She put in quickly, “Nothing like that. I’m just thinking that you might be confused. Maybe you were hit and just don’t remember it.”

            “Maybe” he said, unconvincingly.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “Well,” he began, “I definitely tripped because I was” (staring at your arse) “not looking where I was going, but I had this dream, at least, I think it was a dream.” He swayed again, “I think I should sit down.”

“OK” said Amanda, and she helped him sink down to the floor. “So” she said, when they were as comfortable as you can get on cold concrete, “You had this dream.”

“Hmm” Steve said “Basically everything was dark. Not just dark, there was nothing. It was as though everything had been taken away, and there was just me. It was like…” He stopped.

“Like what?”

“Well, like that would probably be inside.” He said slowly and nodded towards the Relloc.

Amanda turned to look where he was indicating.

“You think you’ve been inside the Relloc?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. As I said, it felt like a dream, but…but it felt incredibly real.”

“Steve” began Amanda gently, “You can’t have been inside the Relloc. If you had, you wouldn’t have come out again.” She took his hand, and felt something inside his fist. “What’s this?” she asked, holding it up.

Steve took it and held it between his thumb and forefinger to examine.

“Don’t know” he said. He looked around the immediate vicinity, but nothing came anywhere near matching it. He looked back at it and scowled. Where the hell did he get a tuft of wiry white hair?

 

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Back to Top

 

By The PseudoMat

Copyright 2007

 

One minute there was nothing. The next there was still nothing, only this time the nothing was 60 foot square and resembled a really compact universe only without all the stars and planets and galaxies and other flotsam.

A void. A hole. A vast expanse of nothing. The space left inside a celebrity chef’s head after they’ve had their interpersonal skills removed as required by law. The Relloc fit all of these descriptions perfectly yet, at the same time, none of them described it exactly, because the more you stared at it, the more it blatantly defied description and just stood there looking both menacing and mournful, like Al Capone at a funeral.

And, no-one knew what it was, where it came from or why it was here. It even had a dedicated team of investigators who’s job it was to, well, investigate it and who were considered the foremost authority on Relloc lore, yet even the Director of this group, Dr Amanda Travers, had gone on record as saying “We just don’t know what it is”.

It was a puzzle, wrapped in an enigma, bound in some kind of quantum jiggery-pokery.

“Oh, and it’s 2-dimensional”

Steve stared at Amanda like a 3 year old stares at a scrambled Rubik’s Cube they’ve been told they have 40 seconds to solve, fighting the urge to be overcome and conquered by her smile, and rolled the statement around in his head looking for somewhere nice and logical to put it.

He failed and, pruning the beginning of the sentence, he turned it into the form of a question and gave it back to her.

“2-dimensional?” He asked.

Amanda nodded, her dark hair falling across her face. She hooked it back behind her ears in such a way that Steve’s libido, already on alert, had to have its status lifted from Crikey! to Grrr!

How is it possible to adjust your hair provocatively? Steve thought, It’s long strands of dead protein and, described like that, about as sexy as Post-it notes. Is there something wrong with me?

Yes, he answered himself, an act which was both unnerving and comforting in equal measure, I’ve been without any form of physical contact with the opposite sex for so long, I’m getting all my turn on’s mixed up.

I am not, he countered, And it’s not really been that long since I last had a girlfriend. What about Gillian?

Gillian!?, he replied, incredulously and began to wonder if other people had similar internal arguments with themselves. He didn’t like the answer he came up with, Gillian kept telling me I was a worthless human being, and on the 2 occasions we slept together, she shouted I love you Barbara at a crucial point the first time, and fell asleep the second. Gillian should not be used as an example of a good relationship. Her only use is as a warning about the horrible consequences of mixing Tequila, lager, office Christmas parties and dark photocopier rooms.

True.

Of course it’s true, he mentally berated himself, She was as good for me as an Arsenic enema. He was beginning to worry about how long this internal argument was taking, then remembered something he’d seen on TV about the speed of thought being faster than the speed of light and decided that it would probably be OK.

The last decent girlfriend I had was Pam, and that was only good for 3 months until she realised that she was actually lesbian and thanked me for helping her realise it.

Ah, Pam. She was lovely. She’s married now you know, to a 6ft plumber called Judy. thought Steve

Of course I know, he went on, beginning to get worried, I’m me remember? Anyway, I like, in this order, legs, bum, breasts. Those are what I find arousing in your average woman, not tiny hair adjustments or smiles. Now get back to the conversation.

Steve checked the alert board, and Grrr! was still flashing away lasciviously.

“Yep.” continued Amanda, “It only has length and breadth. No depth.”

This statement, too, rolled around inside his head, like a lost marble, looking for something to connect with. Like its brethren before, it failed to find any frame of reference under the dusty floorboards of Steve’s mind with which to form a connection and, as it had worked so well before, he took the beginning off the sentence, jammed a question mark on the end and returned it to its owner.

“No depth?”

Amanda placed her hand on her chin, looked puzzled and asked “Are all conversations with you like this?”

Steve swallowed hard.

 

For Steve, talking to the opposite sex was never easy. He had several friends for whom meeting women was so natural that if they fell off a log, their landing would be covered with silk sheets, rose petals and have an lingerie model in it, but for Steve it never came naturally.

Oh, he had female friends; the friends bit was easy. Provided they either made it perfectly clear that nothing was ever going to happen, or he didn’t find them remotely attractive, then he was on easy street and could talk for hours about nothing in particular.             But sit him in a situation where he was duty bound to converse with an attractive woman who gave off none of the usual passive-aggressive ‘No Way Buster!’ body language and Easy Street swiftly took a sharp left into Oh-Oh Avenue, before u-turning and doubling back on itself until it met up with Umm Terrace and Err Close. His brain acquired 2 left feet, became all thumbs and would usually fall over itself whilst attempting to keep his inherent retard hidden.

9 times out of 10 he failed so miserably that if a standard failure could be termed ‘crashing and burning’ then his unsuccessful attempts to chat up women would be a term as yet undiscovered by aviation that they’d probably use to describe something so horrific it wouldn’t be allowed on the news for fear of frightening old ladies and small children.

And the 1 time out of 10 that he succeeded in talking a woman into believing that he was actually a normal human being and that coming home with him would be quite a good idea, it usually wound up being indescribably horrible, which would inevitably mean he’d attempt to form a meaningful relationship out of it. Which is how things like Gillian happened.

As he sat at the small rickety table, in the little café she’d indicated after he’d knocked her over and watched her over the mug of, possibly the worst coffee he’d ever tasted, that she’d had to buy him because he had no money, he realised that Amanda ticked all kinds of boxes, on both sides of his mental dysfunction.

He’d spent the last half hour listening to her explain all there is to know about the Relloc, while trying not to notice that she was attractive, clever, funny, smelled nice, didn’t flinch we he said anything and actually smiled at him in a way that didn’t give him the urge to cover his jugular.

And she was causing him major mental problems.

For a start, she was dead. OK, granted, so was he, but being dead surely wasn’t a fantastic basis for the start of a long term relationship, especially given that ‘long term’ took on a whole new meaning here. She could also, quite conceivably, be a lot older than him. She might look 30 and have skin that could double for a baby’s bottom in a talcum powder advert, but if the cause of her death was, say, accidental inhalation of a daisy chain after an acid induced VW camper van crash, then she could easily be over 70, or worse.

Besides, he’d only been here a week. He had no idea where anything was, or what you did for fun. He’d spent the entire week in a large aluminium box that smelled of drains, trying to come to terms with what had happened, only venturing outside on a couple of occasions to prevent himself suffocating when Dennis had seen fit to block the toilet after gorging himself on curry. What would he do for a date?

And anyway, why was he even contemplating this? He’d just found out he had to spend eternity being an accountant. He was in no fit state to start dating anyone.

He realised she was looking at him.

 

“Like what?” he asked

“Obviously they are” Amanda giggled, gently pressing her hand to her mouth causing Steve’s libido to almost choke itself to death on its metaphorical chain.

“Sorry?” said Steve, confused. Amanda stopped giggling.

“Do you realise that, other than some mild swearing, you’ve replied to everything I’ve said since we met with a question?” she said.

“Have I?” asked Steve, which caused Amanda no end of amusement, “Sorry, didn’t realise I was doing it, some kind of defence mechanism I think.”

“Defence mechanism? What on Earth do you need a defence mechanism for, I don’t bite.” She flashed a friendly, and slightly nervous, grin at him.

Steve mentally grabbed his libido and chained it as tightly as he could to the nearest tree he could find in his mind (which was surprisingly difficult), then hurriedly changed the subject.

“So…er…why’s it called the Relloc?” he said, nodding to indicate the monolithic nothingness that was still visible through the café’s window.

“Ah” said Amanda, her grin giving way to excitement, “That’s an interesting story, but” she stood up, and drained the dregs of her coffee “one that’s going to have to wait until next time, I’m afraid. I’ve got to get back to the office, Marcus’ll kill me if I’m late again.”

Steve, who’d never got this far with a girl who wasn’t clinically insane or an emotional vampire (a term he’d found in one of Gillian’s self-help books, of which she had thousands) without the aid of alcohol and well meaning friends, didn’t seem to want to end the conversation there. Whether it was interest in hearing how the Relloc got its name, or that he wanted to find out what she meant by ‘next time’, he wasn’t sure, but he felt he had to do something.

“Can I walk you back to the office?” he said, feeling about twelve. He realised he also sounded about twelve and quickly added, “You can tell me about the Relloc on the way.”

“OK” Amanda said, without so much as a moment’s pause, “Sorry” she blushed slightly, “That sounded slightly too eager, didn’t it?”.

“No” said Steve, hoping that the WOOHOO! sound that his brain had just made wasn’t audible outside of his skull, “Sounded fine to me.”

Amanda gave an unconvinced smirk, “That’s kind of you to say, but you’re lying. I sounded like a teenage girl who’d been offered the chance to go backstage at a Take That concert.” She blushed even redder, “Not that I’m thinking of you like Take That, or anything, but it’s not as if you couldn’t be in Take That, it’s just…um…shit…anyway, yes, that would be lovely.” She fumbled her coat on, realised she’d put it on upside down, swore loudly, and began untangling it.

Steve was confused. Delighted, but confused.

First off, she’d said Take That, which meant she wouldn’t really be much older than him, otherwise she’d have used The Bay City Rollers, Slade or Beethoven as an example, but it also meant that she was incredibly clever as she was head of the only Relloc research group. Not that intelligent women made him nervous or anything like that; women in general made him nervous, but when they were attractive as well as clever, he’d usually fair as well in conversation as he would in a fight to the death with velociraptors.

Yet here he was, getting ready to walk an incredibly attractive woman to her office, and was holding it together like a pro, while the woman in question fell over her words and sounded, to all intents and purposes, as though she liked him.

He mentally slapped himself. Pull yourself together. This is all just some kind of misunderstanding. Women don’t react like that to me unless they’re a woven basket, tablecloth, sandwiches, large gateaux, bottle of lemonade and a bear called Yogi short of a picnic, which she very obviously, is not. You don’t stand a chance, not in this life.

But, he thought, This isn’t life, is it? This is the Afterlife.

“Ready?” he asked

“Sorry about back there” said Amanda, looking sheepishly at her shoes, “I’m not usually like that.”

Steve smiled “S’alright” he said, “Makes a change for it to be someone else. It’s usually me that makes a hash of conversations.” He breathed in sharply, “Not that I think you made a hash of that conversation, but …well, not a complete hash, but…shit…”

It was Amanda’s turn to smile.

They walked along in silence for a few moments, then she said, “The thing is, when I was alive, I was popular. Really popular. I’m talking friends, dates, parties, boyfriends, the works. Everyone wanted to be me.”

“So what happened?”

“Oh, you know how it is. You go to a party, meet a guy, go home with him, then slip on a wet floor in the middle of the night and land heavily on the cutlery basket of his dishwasher, chest first.” Steve winced. “Yeah, that’s how everyone reacts.” She said “Anyway, I die, end up here and, because of my pre-death occupations, and the fact that no-one else wants to do it, they put me in charge of the Relloc investigations.”

“What did you do when you were alive?” Steve asked

“Senior Director of Theoretical Research in Quantum Optics and Quantum Mechanics, Assistant Lecturer in Non-linear Optics and Lead Professional in Advances in Atomic and Molecular Spectroscopy.”

“Oh.”

“It all sounds a lot more important than it actually was.” she went on “Most of my time was spent in boardrooms with fusty old men fending off attempts to pinch my arse whilst trying to get funding increased for my departments.” She managed to sound proud and angry at the same time “It never worked, and we were always way behind other facilities in the technology stakes, mostly because they hated the fact that I was running 2 and a half departments successfully, single-handedly and was 2 of the things that they hated most in the whole world; an intelligent woman and under 30.”

“Hang on” queried Steve “How is it possible that you had all those jobs, yet were able to hold down an existence as a popular party queen? As far as I was aware, anything containing the words Quantum or Theoretical were about as cool as beige corduroy, and you’re clearly cooler than that.”

“That” she said “is the problem. The truth is they are as cool as beige corduroy, less so in fact, and its geek factor, MY geek factor, was heightened exponentially by being the youngest person ever to gain a degree in Quantum Theory. But I had a really good bunch of friends who managed to look beyond how geeky my jobs were and succeeded in keeping me afloat popularity-wise.” She stared, wistfully, into the distance for a few seconds before adding “People don’t seem to be able to do that here. The Relloc is an anomaly that no-one understands, and my department is looked on to provide all the answers, yet because we spend so much time around it, everyone seems to view us as weirdoes or something. Even more so thanks to the Miller incident a few months ago.”

“Miller incident?” asked Steve. He was aware that they were approaching what must have been her offices as the building was almost entirely glass, looked very professional and was situated within about a metre of the dark mass of The Relloc. Actually he had a choice of 2 buildings, but as the second choice was even closer to the shimmering darkness, behind it, about 100 times bigger and had all the charm of a borstal he presumed that this other building was the Relloc View he’d been threatened with.

“OK” said Amanda, stopping and sitting back against the window ledge of a grey building, “I have to be back in the office in about 2 minutes, but I promised to tell you why it was called the Relloc, so I’ll try and make it quick. Ready?”

Steve folded his arms and concentrated “Ready” he said

“OK. When it first appeared, which was about 10yrs ago as far as anyone can remember, something else came with it. A message. Scrawled on the concrete directly in front of the main body of the thing in appalling handwriting, which said ‘Pure Crown. It is the relloc’ Then it just stops dead. No-one has any idea what it means or who put it there.”

Steve turned the phrase over in his head. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, it struck a chord. Not a strong chord, nor a particularly tuneful one, but it certainly tinkled some tiny ivories in the darker recesses of his brain.

“Has anyone ever touched it or stepped through it?” he asked.

Amanda winced a bit and turned away, “Yes” she said “We’d been tinkering with it for a while, attaching items to the end of a rope and throwing them into the darkness. Not the most scientific approach I’ll grant you, but every experiment has to start somewhere.” She paused “Each time we withdrew the rope, the items on the end were missing.”

“Don’t tell me. Miller was one of the things on the end of the rope”

“He’d been pestering me for weeks, saying that as we didn’t have any useful monitoring equipment to use, that it had to be an actual, physical reconnaissance by one of the team, and he was volunteering. ‘I’m already dead’ he kept saying, ‘what’s the worst that can happen?’. But I didn’t like the idea and keep shooting him down. Then, one day, I walk towards the office and see a length of rope lying on the ground, one end of which was tied to those railings there” she pointed to a set of badly painted tubular metal structures “and the other end was inside the Relloc”

“Shit” said Steve, intelligently.

“That’s exactly what I said” explained Amanda. “I run over, pull the rope back through, knowing that he’s not on the other end, then run into the office to call for help. On my desk is a letter from Michael, that was his name, Michael Miller, that just said ‘I have to see’”

“Shit” repeated Steve.

“Precisely. I keep pushing for fences or barriers to be erected around it, something to stop people from going near it, but no-one seems to be that worried. Everyone’s attitude seems to be that you’d have to be a total dick to go anywhere near it, and most of them stay away.” She gestured to their surroundings ”You’ll notice that our neighbours are conspicuous in their absence”. Steve looked around, and for the first time noticed that all the buildings that they’d passed were empty and derelict.

Amanda stood up hurriedly, as if the movement would drive whatever was sitting, unwelcome, inside her head away “I’m sorry, but I really do have to go now.”

“Right, yes, of course” uttered Steve, not at all uncomfortably, “OK, well, it was nice to have met you. Thanks for the coffee.”

Amanda pulled a face “Really?” she asked, “I thought it was shit actually”

“Thank f*ck for that” said Steve, “So did I.”

They giggled for a few seconds then, during the following 5 seconds in which they looked at each other, ice ages popped up, had a look round, and buggered off again, eons passed unnoticed and entire animal species evolved, created contemporary dance and became extinct.

Amanda was the first to come round. She shook herself gently, as if emerging from a trance. “Right, I really, really, have to go. Nice to meet you Steve.” She turned to leave and Steve’s inner 15 year old decided that it was his turn at the wheel.

“Do you want to go out?” he asked, trying to wrestle control away from his teenage self and failing. He cringed against the immaturity of the question and waited to be let down gently.

“No-one has asked me that in over 16 years.” Said Amanda, and she smiled at him “I get off at 6. You could walk me back if you’d like”. Hoping he looked nonchalant and cool, instead of the drooling pavlovian dog that he felt, he nodded at her and mumbled

“Yeah, uh-huh, that’d be nice.”

Amanda smiled and walked away.

Steve watched her walk away for a few seconds then, realising that he looked a little creepy, turned quickly on his heel and began to walk in the opposite direction, trying desperately not to skip. He had no idea where he was going and, frankly, not to be too blunt about it, he didn’t give a shit.

So, he thought to himself, let’s have a quick recap on the situation.

I’m dead, but apparently am now better with the ladies.

So that’s alright then.

Sure I have to be an accountant until the end of time, after which I probably get an appraisal or something, but even so…..she likes me. As a reward for being brilliant, he allowed himself a quick glance back, just in case she was looking his way.

That, he decided later, was his first mistake because she wasn’t looking his way; she was bending down.

His second mistake, he reflected, was not paying enough attention to what was going on in his head as, with a silent primal scream, Steve’s libido burst free of the metaphorical shackles which Steve had used to chain it, and lifted its own status right to its maximum setting of Holy Monkies!!! and snapped off the handle.

Amanda straightened up and disappeared through a door. Steve span himself around and forced himself to marched away.

At least that was the plan.

As he tripped up the kerb, several things occurred to him at once.

The first was that he’d been walking in the mother of wrong directions.

The second, that hit him immediately as the first was getting comfortable, was that all he could see was black. Lots and lots of black.

The third, that pounced on him from an unseen direction whilst waving at the first two, was that he was about to find out if there was an Afterafterlife.

In the 2 seconds it took for all of this to happen, only one word saw fit to flash across his mental screen, which then completed its journey by falling out of his mouth.

“Bollocks” he said.

The Relloc swallowed him.

 

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By Eduard Shtern

Copyright 2006

 

She had been different from the beginning. None of the girls were ever interested in fighting half as much as she was. None were as heavily built, as intensely practicing the battle arts with the axe, the mace and the spear.

    

But Frella didn’t mind that difference, she reveled in it. She was special, as fit as any boy to sit here in front of the fire and listen to the words of the shaman. “This is your last chance, boys,” The old man was slowly saying, stressing the last word. It was unheard of for a woman to come to the maturity trials together with all the boys. Times were changing though, the tribes needed more warriors now than ever before to subdue the enemy, and the shaman permitted her to try, but he didn’t have to like it.

    

This might have been the reason he was frowning now, or else the news from the Horned One were unsettling. Another novelty that, Frella’s grandmother had claimed. The Antlered One used to be the protector of the enemy clans, natives to the region. Now the Great Wild One has become the defender of their people as well. He favored those boys who passed his test by proving their strength, from whatever tribe they came, so it was said. And the girls as well, Frella inwardly added to the saying, in her heart of hearts. She craved for a changed status that would surely follow her success today.

    

Then all the people would respect her, and most importantly, she wouldn’t feel so estranged from them. Her distinction would become a badge of honor, a blessing instead of the curse it has been so far. She was ready and only half listening to the speech of the wise teacher. “Today you will be able to prove your worth by slaying the aurochs. This is your last opportunity to return to the safety of your houses. It is not shameful to do so now, not all of you will become men at the same time. Some of you are ready for maturity, under the protection of the Horned One. Others may retreat to the safety of their houses and try again next time. What say you, boys? Are all of you ready to become independent warriors of the people?”

    

His only answer was silence. All of the boys, and the single girl, waited patiently for the trial to start. The shaman reached for his pouch and took out the runes, without looking. He carefully selected one with his hand and briefly glanced at it. The results of his selection must have been reassuring, Frella gaged from the pleased expression on his face. His ritualistic blessing confirmed that impression.     

   

“Go then, oh children of noble warriors. Slay the bison that the Great Spirit of Animals provides for you. Let not your hand waver as it throws the sacred spear. Prove to the Horned One your worth. Show him you can protect yourself from any enemy, and return back to the fire, as one more warrior of our tribe. Go, with the blessing of the Mighty Spirit!”

    

The shaman threw the tansy herb into the fire, mumbling some spell to force its flames to spread. The old one cautiously reached for the holly spear known as Lugh’s Claw. Its head ominously shone, the red glint of the fire reflected in its metallic surface. Evidently Lugh’s Claw was ready to accept one more bloody sacrifice.

    

This was one more thing the girl was looking forward to - to have an opportunity to wield the mighty weapon against the noble aurochs. The spear had been a faithful companion of the warriors for several decades. It drank from the sacrificial animal, swallowed its soul and used the ingested power to protect the tribe from the enemies. Frella couldn’t think of any greater glory than to bring more safety to the people with a skillfully slain beast. To be judged worthy of entering the halls as an independent warrior of the people.

    

The privilege wasn’t automatically bestowed on every strong shoulder. Several boys have already returned, and the spear’s head glowed too palely. In these cases the shaman would look sadly at the pale light emanating from the metal, and declare the sacrifice to be insufficient. The loser would have to await his doom, whatever it might be. Most times, those who failed would be exiled with disgrace. Frella shuddered as she noticed a few of the boys she had known meeting this unenviable fate.

   

Finally it was her turn to hunt. The shaman crushed a few tansy flowers against her body and rubbed it all over. “For protection against the evil spirit and the attention of the Wild One,” he muttered. Then he deposited Lugh’s Claw in Frella’s hands, and motioned her to go. For a second, she looked hesitatingly at the old man, as if asking for further instructions, but the wise teacher was as silent as he had been during the boys’ trial. He turned away from the girl and went back to his fire. From now on, the girl had an undetermined status until she either slew the animal, or failed. The thought that there was no turning back now, gave Frella the necessary courage to continue.

    

She went forth, grasping the powerful spear in her hands, carefully treading on the green carpet of the forest. All the sounds around her seemed somehow enhanced, and the menacing approach of the big bison was easily detected. Frella didn’t want to think with what spells the shaman drew her opponent to her so soon. She didn’t dare to allow herself any distraction now. She would have only one chance to throw her weapon and kill the animal as it rushed towards her, or die, impaled on its ferociously curved horns.

    

It was strange, how the noise in the clearing around her seemed to grow quieter. Frella couldn’t believe the animal was waiting for her to make the first move; it simply wasn’t prone to defensive tactics. The bison always attacked when pressed, whether by hunters or by spells. That was the reason the ritual could continue for as long as it did. There were always enough aurochs around to answer the challenge of human warriors with their might and fury. And yet she couldn’t detect its running hooves. It must have been laying in wait for her. The girl was terrified. She couldn’t fathom getting out of her ambush; any other place would be to her disadvantage, enabling the animal to move freely. Frella waited and finally heard the slow pace of hooves approaching. The animal was right there now, but not running. Before she knew it, the girl’s eyes met his usually wild but now calm eyes.

    

The animal was looking at her, without moving an inch! Frella gave her right arm a mental command to pick up the spear and throw it but she was now too frozen to do it. All she could do was staring into the big, all enveloping, gentle eyes. It was beyond her how this wild animal could ever have those soft, humanlike eyes. Nor did she try to reason out what kind of trick or wizardry was that. She was mesmerized by the gaze of the aurochs’ eyes, drawn deeper and deeper into them, until they have encompassed her entire field of sight.

   

In her mind's eye, Frella saw two visions. The first, of her becoming a warrior, then growing old and feeble, alone, an outsider within the tribe, in spite of all the successful hunts she’d performed for the sake of her people. The second vision, of going away into the wilderness, following the beast that was now standing in front of her. There, she learned from the spirit of the animal how to keep her own magical fire, and other secrets of shamanism. In this second vision, she finally understood and accepted the reason for her being different. She saw her hair grow thinner, her brows wrinkled, but still as strong in the body and in spirit as in her youth. Finally, she saw a determining battle between her people and the enemy, herself playing the very important role of an adviser to the chiefs of the tribes. With her being a simple decayed warrior she was shown to be in the first vision, the battle would be lost.

    

“This is not fair,” she bitterly cried, throwing away the spear out of impotence. She cursed the animal, or whatever it was, for the difficult choice. Her tears ran down her cheeks, her fists clenching together, as if she meant to pummel the meanness out of the bison. Perhaps she did, and she knew the animal would just let her. The aurochs was different and didn’t respond in accordance with what was accepted. He just might let me beat him with my hands for a while, she reasoned. If that makes me feel better, he might even allow me to ride him. “Blasted creature,” she said almost peacefully now, as the placid eyes of the bison kept staring at her. “You know I cannot turn back now, don’t you,” she intoned with irritation. The animal gave a grunt that could have passed for an assent. “And you know I wouldn’t be able to kill you now, even if you are just a big and stupid cow,” she giggled and the bison impatiently waved its tail, perhaps telling her it was time to make the obvious decision.

    

“A shaman then, me, who would have thought!” the girl said pensively and made one step forward, then another. On second thought, it wasn’t much of a sacrifice after all, to leave behind everything she knew, because she didn’t value it much anyway. Yes, it was the only possible decision she thought, following the aurochs that now almost disappeared from the clearing, with the exception of its tail. It was truly an easy choice, because she had been different from the beginning.

 

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The Blue Hippopotamus:

When a Hippopotamus falls in love with a human princess, he must use the magic of a wizard to be able to be with her. But will the magic spell be enough?

Have a listen to this classic Egyptian tale as told by Hobbes, the Bardic storyteller (John David Hickey).

John David Hickey ("Dave" or "Hobbes") has been performing as a storyteller since the fateful day that he attended the story swap night at the Montreal Storyteller's Guild back in 1996. Since then, the storytelling bug has been biting him and biting him hard.

http://www3.sympatico.ca/jdave/story/

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by Nyna Shtern

     

Ellen hadn't slept right for weeks!  She'd sleep in the day most of the time because she was too on edge at night. The few times she had managed to fall asleep at night, she'd only remain so for about half an hour.  A dream of hands grasping at her body would wake her with a jerk.  She'd be breathing fast and covered in a cold sweat.  Each time this enraged her.  She had the right to feel safe.  The right to sleep when she chose!

    

These thoughts plagued her as she paced round her small apartment in a circle.  She'd move from room to room and back again, ending in her bedroom only to begin the circle once more.  As she angrily paced, Ellen mentally counted all the things she'd felt had been taken from her when she'd been robbed three weeks ago on the short walk from her apartment to the 7-11 where she'd planned to buy a gallon of milk.  Her confidence had been taken. Now she would not walk alone.  She had to wait for her mother or brother to come over and drive her to the store and even to college.  She lived two blocks from school, but the one time she'd tried to go alone, she hadn't been able to handle it. She'd thought that running the entire way as quickly as possible would get it over with faster. It had, but she'd gotten to her economics class in a panic attack.  It was awful depending on her family and friends so much, but she simply couldn't help it. Even being in her apartment alone set her teeth on edge. Still her pride would not allow her to beg anyone to stay with her full time. Her friend Karen had slept over on her sofa for the first three nights after the robbery. After that, though, she'd assured her friend that she'd be alright alone. The apartment was a tiny 1-bedroom, after all, and it wasn't right to expect anyone to stay too long in her cramped quarters.

    

Her calm had been taken, and not only when trying to sleep.  In the past three weeks, Ellen had noticed every breeze at the window, every thump of her neighbors on either side of her, and every drop of   water in her bathroom sink.  Each sound would cause her head to come up, and her ears to listen attentively for a moment.  Sounds she'd never have noticed in the past had her on edge almost all the time for fear that someone was in the small apartment with her.  She was even having issues with touch.  Each time a friend touched her arm to gain her attention in class, or her mother reached to give her a hug, it was all she could do not to pull away.  Her breath would catch in her throat and her heart would pound at the memory of his hands groping her body.  He'd been looking for money, but the touch had still been quite intimate and personal.  She remembered the look in his eyes as he'd cornered her against the brick wall of the side of the 7-11.  He'd clearly enjoyed the power he thought he had over her, and the fear his touch had caused her.  He'd only gotten five dollars for his pains, as that was all Ellen had been carrying with her.  The robber had taken the five dollar bill and vanished into the night.  She'd been numb with shock at first, then had started to shake all over.

     

Of course she'd considered calling the police right away, but the man was quite average  in appearance, so she was doubtful they'd be able to find him.  Also would any law enforcement officer care about a stolen five bucks when 'real crime' was happening all the time?   She'd gone inside the store for human company, but could not buy her milk as all her money was gone.  After a bit of walking about and calming herself as best she could, she'd asked the man behind the counter to use the phone. He'd seen that she was upset, so had allowed her to do so.  Ellen had called her mother who had come to pick her up right away. Of course Mother had called the police, and they were waiting at Ellen's apartment to take her statement.

 

"It doesn't matter how much money it was," Her Mother had said. "What matters is that he put his hands on you and took something from you against your will!  Who knows what else he'll do!"

     

After hearing that Ellen had not ever seen the man before in her life, and that he'd not hurt her, the policeman had politely lost interest. He'd still taken her statement, but as she'd guessed, nothing came of it.  Now she was tired of being afraid and tired from lack of sleep.  Her grades were even beginning to suffer because of it, and it angered her to no end that some nameless robber had been able to do this so easily.

    

It was four in the morning, and still dark at the edges of her windows.  She was feeling hungry, and would've loved a breakfast muffin from the 7-11.  A walk in the brisk predawn winter cold would surely wake her up, but she didn't feel safe enough to walk!  It wasn't right. As she passed her sofa, she gave it a hard kick.  Luckily for her toes, the bedroom slippers she wore against the chill of the carpetless floor of the apartment were quite thick and puffy.  The first kick had felt so good to her pent up emotions, that the sofa got another.  At that, a small object clattered from the edge of the sofa cushion and onto the linoleum floor.  What had she left on the sofa, Ellen wondered as she bent over to retrieve the small object.  It was cold to the touch, but warmed quickly as her hand curled around it.  It was very light weight, almost like plastic, but oddly shaped.  Then she remembered!  It was the jet her brother Ryan had given her the previous evening.  He'd come over for dinner after work, and handed it to her as soon as he walked through the door.

 

"Here," He'd said, closing her hand around it in much the way she was holding it now.

"This is for physical protection. Carry it with you all the time when you go out."

 

She'd opened her hand and glanced down at the blank lump resting on her palm. It felt smooth to the touch so had likely been put into a rock tumbler.  Ryan worked in a rock shop in the mall, and was always talking about some new stone or other he'd discovered on the dusty shelves.

    

He said that each stone was an ancient spirit of the earth just as a tree was, and that the energy of each stone could help folk with various things. It seemed that jet worked in the field of physical protection.  Ryan had explained to her how this was done. He'd said that jet would put out a protective field around the person carrying it that would say clearly to anyone, 'Do not touch this person.'  That was how it would protect one from harm.  Ellen thought it seemed like a nice idea, but dinner was in the oven, so she'd not had time to think on it for long.  She'd put the jet on the sofa and dashed to the kitchen to check on the casserole.

 

"I guess I forgot about you," She said softly to the jet in her hand.  As she spoke, Ellen realized that holding the jet and remembering what Ryan had said to her had calmed her down immensely!  She wondered fleetingly how long she'd been standing beside her sofa and holding the jet.  Had it been seconds or minutes?  Letting out a slow breath, she decided that it didn't matter.  She felt good and that was all that counted.

     

Flicking on her small study lamp that rested on the little round end table beside the sofa, she opened her hand to stare down at the jet that rested on her palm.  Could she feel a field of protection around her like a hard bubble?  Running her thumb over the smooth surface of the jet, she whispered, "thank you."

 

There were tears of gratitude in her eyes as, still holding the jet in her right hand, Ellen padded into her bedroom to get dressed.  As she did so, the jet rested on her dresser just in reach.  She glanced at it from time to time as she pulled on a jogging suit and sneakers.  When she was fully dressed, Ellen scooped up the jet and slid it into the right front pocket of her red sweat pants.  In the left front pocket, she put her slim plastic debit card.  She'd quit carrying cash, and felt it was best that way.  Heading into the living room, she switched off the lamp.  After a final glance around, she headed out the door of her apartment, pausing to lock it behind her.  There was a breakfast muffin at 7-11 and it was calling her name. Thanks to her new friend the jet, she was confident enough in herself to walk alone again.  Her head was high, and her shoulders straight. Ellen would bet anything that she looked like a girl who could take care of her self, and who was not to be messed with.

 

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By Guinevra

 

A fantasy view of German mythology

 

Wothan went through the big empty rooms of Walhalla looking at the beauty that surrounded him. He felt lonely and bored something that seldom happened to him. His wife and the children, who lived at home still, were visiting other relatives and friends among the deities who dwelled in their own halls and palaces in Asgard. It was quite peaceful besides some birds singing, he only heard the clashes of swords because two of the Valkyries busied themselves with swordplay.

           

At last he decided to have a look at Mittgard and humankind, his last creation from the branches of an ash tree. So he climbed the roof. Looking around, he was shocked. Mittgard was not the place of peaceful development he had imagined when he populated the beautiful place with humans. Besides castles, halls, small towns and thriving farms, even besides Holy Forests and Groves, he saw more fighting done than work or even entertainment.

           

Angry he donned a hat and a wide cloak, disguised himself as an old man and went down to Mittgard to explore what happened there. Wandering mostly invisibly through the world, he felt his anger rising - anger at the humans who were not able to live peacefully together, but also anger at himself, that he had not visited Mittgard before. He even felt a light fright because a disturbing presence covered the place.

           

He had neglected the fact, that his daughters, the Valkyries, had brought many knights, killed in battle to Walhalla. Here they lived now, happy with all kinds of entertainment offered to them, good food that they hunted themselves, beautiful women as the Valkyries collected on the battlefields not only fallen valiant knights but also shield maids who had chosen to be warriors instead of wives and mothers, and last but not least were tournaments and swordplay to keep warriors fit for fighting.

           

And he needed these warriors for guarding Asgard and Mittgard against the constant attacks of Ice-, Stone- and Water-Giants and, of course, to win treasures from the dwarfs who were the most talented craftsmen. They worked inside the mountains making the best magical weapons and armour as well as jewellery beyond any comparison. But they seldom parted voluntarily with their work, so Wothan had the warriors fight the dwarfs or cheat them with all the cunning his brother Loki was able to contrive.

           

Tired from the long days and nights he spent in Mittgard, often as a guest in castles, halls and farms, speaking with people, observing their lifestyle and circumstances, Wothan returned to Asgard and Walhalla.

           

A feast to honour his return ended late crowned by loving hours with his wife Fricka. But he could not sleep, left his bed at dawn and sent one of his daughters to fetch Loki for a meeting. But the Valkyrie returned alone - Loki had vanished. Full of despair and angry, Wothan decided to look for knowledge, information and wisdom. He sought to ask the Norns - Urd (Past), Werdandi (Present) and Skuld (Future) - who sit and spin the fate of the world in a room inside the roots of the World-ash Yggdrasil besides a spring which feeds a small lake. This is the water of life that blesses the whole world.

           

The three sisters of fate refused to answer Wothan and send him down to Mimir’s Wisdom spring under the roots of Yggdrasil. But there is no gaining of knowledge and wisdom without a sacrifice. Wothan received a spear wound that took out one eye.  This eye was placed at the surface of the lake and he then hanged himself head down from the branches of the tree. The eye in the lake enabled him to see the past and future of Mittgard and Asgard.

       

Shocked he saw that his brother Loki, ever jealous of Wothan’s power and leadership, had decided to destroy Mittgard, Wothan’s creation and spread Evil among its inhabitants. Even worse, he was evil himself and had already created terrible beings (his children) as helpers for a fight, the last fight. Loki intended to kill deities and humankind together with any life in the world and finally let it all end in an orgy of fire as Loki is the God of fire. He had already won numerous enemies of Asgard, Walhalla and Mittgard for his plan, all the different kinds of giants, some dwarfs and many more dark creatures who haunt the world.

           

Wothan saw the creation of the Fenrirwolf, the Mittgard-serpent and Hel. For nine days and nights Wothan observed the future, which Loki prepared for him, all deities, all humans, for any living and feeling being and the whole world. He recognised, as well, Loki’s intention to soon commence his attack against an unprepared and ignorant enemy.

           

After the nine days were over, he was taken down, healed and nourished, but he had to leave his eye in the lake as a permanent sacrifice. So in the future he became known as the one-eyed God. Filled with rage coupled with despair he returned to the Norns and demanded a change in their weaving the fate of the world. Skuld denied Wothan’s request and explained: On their scales the guilt and faults of deities and humans weigh higher than the good, honesty and beauty in their works and actions. Wothan’s world was doomed and nothing could prevent this. Wothan was left with one small hope. Should they be able, during the last fight between Good and Evil, to exterminate all Evil, then the world would be renewed whereby a new and better kind of humans would begin to populate once more a changed world.

           

His second crucial question – When shall the destruction of their world, Ragnaroek, begin? - received a very crisp answer: “As soon as Loki has finished his preparations he will attack. But prior to that, you will have many signs when in all parts of the world Evil will win over Good.”  And suddenly Wothan found himself back in Walhalla.

           

After some days of rest he called all deities and the 12 Valkyries for a council of war. He explained in detail his experiences to them, what he had learned looking down into the lake and the judgement of the Norns, the Sisters of Fate.

           

The discussion lasted several days broken only by extended meals and entertainments which gave them a clear head once more for seeing all facets of this unexpected and difficult problem. At the last meeting they agreed that they must somehow gain more time as Loki’s attack in a near future would find them unable to accomplish the conditions of the Norns.

 

Knowing the world would expire and their lives would be forfeit, they united to create diversions, buying themselves time by – if possible – catching Loki and his helpers and imprisoning them for as long as possible. They would then use this time to gather as many knights and Shield maids in Walhalla as possible. They decided that their first task would be to neutralize Loki’s creatures for a long time. They forced Loki to give them over to Asgard. Loki laughed; because he was convinced no God could overcome them. But he was proved wrong.

 

They started with the Mittgard-serpent. In the dark Halls of the Giants – Loki’s friends – the serpent had grown into a gigantic monster. Wothan took her and threw her into the waste sea that surrounded Mittgard. She did not drown as he hoped but continued to grow until she circled the whole country. She continued to grow until she could bite her own tail and if she was enraged she would swipe the sea, causing storms and floods.  Despite humans praying to their deities she continues to do so still.

 

For the first time the Gods kept the Fenrirwolf in Asgard, but he too continued to grow. When he opened his mouth his lower jaw touched the earth and the upper jaw touched the sky. Only the God Tyr, relative to Giants, was able to feed him. They could not kill him as Asgard was a holy place and no killing was permitted so they put the Fenrirwolf in chains. The beast agreed and with one move it destroyed the strongest chains of Asgard.

 

Wothan’s messenger, Skinir, went with precious gifts to the dwarfs, begging them to forge chains that the Fenrirwolf would be unable to rend. A difficult task, but the dwarfs mastered it and gave Skinir small, soft chains. Wothan tricked the Fenrirwolf into trying to rend the chains a second time. Fenrir did not trust him and demanded that one God put his arm between his fangs and threatened to bite through the God’s arm if he could not rend the chains.

 

The chains held with the God Tyr, sacrificing his arm to the Fenrirwolf. They then closed his mouth with a sword, forged his chains to a huge rock and threw him into Mittgard’s deepest abyss. There he will stay until Ragnaroek begins.

 

Loki’s third creation was Hel, a stern strong woman, half white, half black. Wothan thought her harmless in comparison with the wolf and the serpent, so he gave her to rule the dark realms of the dead who had not perished in battle. She rules there and justly divides the innocent and good people from the criminals treating everyone as they deserve. So it seems she is not a danger to anyone. But who knows for which side she and her countless army will fight?

 

After he was robbed of his companions, Loki vanished. Now Wothan was left with catching Loki, his brother and partner in creating Asgard and Mittgard. Their powers were equal, but Loki was bored by peace. From the first time he stirred up the complacence of his brother and fellow Gods, he found that with his Fire energy he more and more enjoyed all evildoing.

 

So the gods searched for Loki. From his throne Wothan saw him fishing at the edge of a cataract. When Wothan and his friends arrived, Loki changed into a fish and tried to escape in the lake. But they caught Loki with a net and he once more became a God. While Wothan and the other gods forged Loki to a secure deep rock prison on an island, Skadi, a woman Loki had betrayed, added Loki’s torture. She drops acid into his eyes. The constant pain is made bearable only by Loki’s wife, Sigyn, who held a bowl over his eyes to catch the acid. But from time to time the bowl has to be emptied, and so Loki’s pains return every few hours.

 

Loki’s prison and the torture fill him with so much hate that in his mind a fine tuned plan was born, to finish the world and all its inhabitants. And he has used the many centuries of his captivity for completing an attack on his enemies.

 

But nevertheless he tries to solve the question. If Wothan never had gained knowledge at Mimir’s lake about Loki stirring up mischief in Mittgard, would he have gone tired of it and stopped and nothing unalterable would have happened? Because mingled with his thirst for revenge and his hate is the longing to turn back the wheel of time to the innocent joy and happiness, when he was young and the world was new. He knows it was he who changed happiness into torment, not only for himself but for the entire world and its inhabitants. Could the world have avoided Ragnaroek? Would the Norns have weaved another fate for them all without Wothan’s desire for ultimate knowledge?

 

But even Loki is not wise enough to answer this question, so – sighing – he returns to his vindictive plans.

           

Life in Asgard continued as before. Feasts and tournaments and adventures of some Gods with giants, dwarfs and even humans brought some excitement into their life. Wothan seldom participated and Fricka went her own ways. He controlled daily how many knights and heroes, killed in the manifold wars of Mittgard, were brought to Walhalla by the Valkyries and he concluded after some time, they will never be enough to fight the armies of Evil at Ragnaroek. He needed to increase their numbers.

 

After some time another war council took place. Wothan explained his intentions to a shocked audience. In the past, only few Gods visited Mittgard, some because they had duties there, some for fun and adventures. But they seldom interfered in the lives of humans. Now that should change. Gods in disguise should mingle with the humans and stir up wars between the different tribes and clans.

           

The Goddesses refused immediately. In contrast to the men they had from the beginning regular contact with humans, helping them to cope with an extremely harsh life, especially for the women. They ruled the homes, from childbearing to cooking and preserving food, weaving and sewing clothes, even worked in the fields when the men went to war or to look for adventures, the burden of caring for life’s daily necessities was theirs. Even some of the Gods busied themselves with similar tasks.

           

Niörd is the God of the sea and calms the waters when the water giants and the Mittgard-serpent dangerously whip up the waters. Niörd saves ships, prevents floods, gives sailors and their ships just the right amount of wind, sends the fishermen full nets and gives the people living by the sea rich harvests of many kinds.

 

Freyr lives and feasts during the 12 Holy nights among the humans and installed peace for this time. Both refused to join these plans. Wothan was enraged and so he punished Freyr with arranging his Wild Hunt just for these 12 Holy nights.

Freyr’s sister, Freya, is the Goddess of love, marriage and virtues. Wild cats drive her carriage through Asgard and Mittgard as she protects too the cats, the caring friends of human. The siblings were worshipped and adored in Mittgard and the name Friday for a weekday was chosen to honour them.

 

Freya too protects poetry and art and she was the leader of the Valkyries. She too refused to obey Wothan. The spring Goddess Ostara joined them as well as Iduna, who give the deities the apples that keep them young.

 

So Wothan faced refusal in Asgard. Even the war loving Gods like Thor and Tyr and their friends and brothers disapproved of Wothan’s plan. They were honest men and Wothan’s treacherous suggestions were not accepted. All these deities were united in their conviction; one cannot fight Evil with one’s own evil acts.

 

Wothan was furious by this negation of his plans and as it was deep winter, he called together the knights and heroes to choose companions for the first Wild Hunt during Freyr’s 12 holy nights of Yule in Mittgard. After the hunt was over, humans were nearly frightened to death and many crops in Mittgard were destroyed through the recklessness of the hunters. The knights and heroes also killed too much game just for the joy of killing. In the wake of the hunt many small wars started, for food mostly, as the hunting had bereaved Mittgards inhabitants of their winter food. Wothan was satisfied with the result and installed the Wild Hunt as a yearly custom. But his blood thirstiness grew, as the first steps on his path had such satisfying results, increasing considerably the number of knights who now dwelled in Walhalla. But he needed an army. So he redesigned his plan. He and Sleipnir, his eight-footed horse as well as the Valkyries would be sufficient. Two other important helpers in his “Holy Wars” he found in his two ravens, Hugin and Munin. Them he made scouts to look for probable trouble spots, which with a little bit of stirring up could be turned into wars.

He could not order Freya. The 12 Valkyries, though, were his daughters and they had to obey or they would be punished like Brunhild who had refused Wothan obedience. He called together the Valkyries and ordered them to take into their community all the Shield maids of Walhalla and to add constantly to their numbers by taking Shield maids they found killed on battlefields. Later, when women stopped fighting in wars, he congratulated himself for this clever decision. Also he ordered them, not to just take the great heroes and valiant knights to Walhalla, as was habit, but to take anyone who was killed in any battle.

 

But his most questionable decision concerning human sacrifice, met with heavy disapproval in Asgard. The deities of Asgard and the population of Mittgard never used human sacrificing as punishment besides for what Wothan had judged in the past as the most serious crime of all – oath breaking. And the dead were sent to Hel for further punishment. Wothan changed that. Sacrificed people, regardless of their gender, were to be fetched by the Valkyries and brought to Walhalla. He decided also to encourage the population of Mittgard to sacrifice their fellow humans in order to gain favours from him. As Wothan bestowed the asked for favours, sacrificing humans became a custom too.

 

What had happened to Wothan? From a shining god, representing all virtues, loved by his family and friends, trusted and worshipped among the population of Mittgard, he had changed. Corrupted by his urge to win against Evil at Ragnaroek he brought more evil into the world and did not even asked himself the same questions, Loki asks in his tortured captivity, his brother sacrificed him to – Mimir’s Lake showed Wothan Ragnaroek and the Norns told him there is a chance for a new world if he and his fellows could expurgate all Evil. But they left to his judgement how he would accomplish that. He did not see in Mimir’s Lake this part of the future. It was not decided when he gained his knowledge there. The decision was his. He was very lonely. A high invisible wall divided him from all the other deities, who were ready to give their life for a new world with no intention to ever bring more misery to Mittgard to achieve this goal.

And the Norns continued to weave their patterns; Werdandi weaves with ever increasing wrath. She has to cut short too many lifes.

 

Wothan went to work. He called all the Valkyries to a meeting. The big room was nearly full. They had obeyed him and included all the Shield maids. So he ordered them to watch Mittgard for the outbreak of wars and look for his signal. He would throw his lance at the army that was designated to lose - the army with the most warriors to be killed. They agreed cheerfully, wanting to have new company added to the knights already dwelling in Walhalla. Some of them ever protected a special hero and it happened too, that they fell in love with one of them, married and gave life to some special children: beautiful girls and boys who would grow into famous heroes. But these marriages never lasted long. If the husband asked too many questions they just vanished and returned to Asgard. But some years later they lured the former husband into a fight or war and brought him to Walhalla also.

           

Wothan went down to Mittgard, accompanied by his white horse Sleipnir and the two Ravens and fights and wars were started. Eirik, king of Swede, swore to be Wothan’s victim in 10 years time if he could win the fight against his nephew Styrbjorn. An old man gave him a cane wand to throw at the enemy’s army, chanting the words: *”Wothan takes you all”. The army was blinded and Eirik won.

           

Numerous tales about magic weapons and words given from an old man to the war leaders are known. But they also learned that this not always guaranteed victory. Wothan took them all in the end. Magic weapons suddenly did not help any more, the promised victory was given to the enemy, and advice given could be deadly and lead into a trap. The kings of Denmark and Swede learned how treacherous Wothan was, teaching new patterns of fight to both sides. One day a war leader or king was Wothan’s favourite. Then Wothan would change his mind and let him die in the next fight. So Walhalla’s army grew, quicker and quicker. And Wothan’s glory as God of war grew too, but so did his reputation for being treacherous and unreliable.

           

Wars were followed by more wars, and parts of Mittgard were continually fighting with each other. When a peace treaty came and average people began to hope for a better life, Wothan lured one of the opponents into breaking the contract. Walhalla and the Valkyries received open armed countless warriors. But – Hel gained a whole empire. For each knight slain, each big hall destroyed in flames, even more ordinary people died: children, women, farmers, merchants, serfs. They died of famine and epidemics, were mercilessly killed when they tried to protect their homes, their families, their crops, their merchandise. Wothan gave no mercy and Hel's Underworld filled up far more than Walhalla. Most of them were innocents who just did not count anymore. And Hel’s anger matched that of the Norns: Too many lives dying before their time, too many children and young women filling her halls. Hel was Loki's child like the Fenrirwolf and the Mittgard-serpent. She was harsh and strong at the time Wothan ordered her to rule the Underworld. But she learned mercy and caring, with the never ending stream of souls arriving at her gates.

           

People prayed fervently in despair to all deities for help and began to curse Wothan. Goddesses and Gods left Asgard for Mittgard and tried their best to help, risking the wrath of Wothan. They advised to escape all the wars by going south into more peaceful realms ruled by different Gods. They set in motion the migration of northern people to the South. But war followed them. The southern realms had inhabitants too, who defended their homes and countries. There just was no escape.

           

Of course, there was a reason. Wothan nearly panicked when he observed the spreading of a new religion. The new God had preached love, forgiveness, and peace. He saw many average people eagerly accept the new God and his doctrines and he feared the end of all wars and the end of adding ever more warriors to his army for Ragnaroek. So he increased his efforts to make some more sweeps before all wars stopped.

           

He would learn later when it was too late how wrong he had judged the new religion. So he influenced all northern tribes and clans against the new teachings and ordered the killing of their priests. The first of them came in peace and without weapons but he could not prevent that more and more kings were agreeing to be baptized into this new religion. Half of Wothan’s realm already had converted to Christianity when it came to a culmination.

Both sides had a charismatic war leader. One of the biggest northern tribes, the Saxons was united by their Duke Widukind. The Christians had Charlemagne, who did not shrink from forcing conversion on the followers of the old religion. Charles intended to have peace in his empire. But that hope was in vain too. Even after baptism many people in Mittgard followed the old traditions and rituals and often, stirred up by Wothan, denied Christianity once more, breaking their oaths to the Emperor and going to war with him.

           

Only one of the Saxon tribes had converted, the others fought with Widukind against Charlemagne. But Widukind lost the war and fled to Denmark where his father in law was king and the traditional belief not even touched by Christians. Charlemagne left for other wars and Wothan influenced Widukind one year later to return and continue with the war, raiding the already Christianized realms of the Franks. But Charlemagne returned and Widukind had to flee several times. Many tribes of Saxony were already baptized when Wothan stirred up the country once more. New fights started with breaking all oaths they had sworn to Charlemagne. This time the emperor was so enraged that after his victory he inflicted a terrible punishment on Saxony to prevent further oath breaking. He captured and beheaded 4500 tribal leaders at a field near Verden. Oath breaking: The one crime to be punished by sacrifice.

           

The Saxon tribes which had not accepted Christianity were joined by the tribes who had been baptized already and sworn allegiance to the Emperor. Staying with their oath, together they captured all the oath breakers and gave them over to Charlemagne for sacrifice to Wothan. Their belief of how heinous the crime of oath breaking was could not even be shattered by the fact that oath breakers helped them fight the spreading of Christianity. There were war leaders, Shield maids, even children, some of them relations or friends and with iron determination they extradited the traitors to Charlemagne.

           

The Emperor let his wrath rule him. He told his court and his army: “You will witness my justice; there will be no further war with the Saxons”. The chained victims were lead to a big free field, surrounded by a creek. Some Frank soldiers had volunteered to act as executioners. Doing their bloody work, they as well as the court, the onlookers and the army waited for a stop signal from the Emperor that never came. The captured Saxons as well as the ones who delivered them into Charlemagne’s power where the only ones who knew that there would be no mercy. They saw what the Christians were not able to see. Charlemagne’s wrath had opened his spirits. Behind him stood Wothan, fuelling his rage until the last victim had died.

           

Now, here, he enjoyed seeing one severed head after another fall to the earth. The exhausted, blood- covered executioners had to be relieved several times by others, who with ever growing concern and reluctance, continued. But Wothan had no mercy, and the emperor and the Franks continued, observed by the shocked onlookers of Franks, Saxons and the Emperor’s court alike. The last was a 12-year old boy who cried in despair: “I have done nothing, so let me live!” But Charlemagne was deaf against the cry and the boy died too.

 

There was so much blood, the earth refused to take it all, so the creek’s water went red too. And the water nymphs fled crying from their soiled homes. Charlemagne, as a Christian, had done the same as the Pagan rulers before him. He sacrificed the prisoners of war to Wothan believing his Christian God would approve, stop these wars, and beat into submission those Saxons.

           

This was the moment when Wothan learned that the words and teaching of one man, Jesus, could found a new religion of loving words. But these words could not change humankind’s lust for power and wealth and land. So the Christian leaders could be influenced by Wothan as well as his own followers.

           

This was the moment too, when the Norns decided to strip Wothan’s power to influence humans and drive them into wars. This punishment evolved into one of the most grisly slaughters in the history of Mittgard. Wothan did not know then that a similar future event - Richard the Lionhearted’s oath breaking at Acre - would change him beyond recognition. But this would be several hundred years later in the future and Wothan would be only an observer without power to change anything as it happened outside Mittgard.

           

The Norns tried to weave a different future. They removed Wothans warmonging influence in Mittgard, but the wars had gained their own speed and continued for longer than Charlemagne ever thought possible.

Legends tell the field turned red and till to day only red flowers are growing there. But the war did not stop. Wothan's hopes were fulfilled and a superabundance of warriors arrived at Walhalla. He returned to Asgard to welcome all the new inhabitants.

           

At the same time two messengers arrived with invitations. One was sent by Hel, who asked for a visit, the second came from Skuld, the Norn of the future, with the order Wothan had to be with her at Yggdrasyl's roots immediately. Both messages filled his mind with anger, because they interfered with his plans of returning to Mittgard and initiating new uproars in Saxony against Charlemagne. As he could not dismiss the order of a Norn he went, full of rage, and determined to stay only the shortest time possible.

           

But a terrible surprise awaited him. Skuld offered him her chair at the loom and told him to observe the weaving. He saw war after war and was very pleased. But not Skuld. She told him the Saxon wars had to be stopped. Parts of the Saxon tribes have another task for the future. They are destined to found a new empire on an island in the sea that surrounds Mittgard. Wothan protested but to no avail.

           

The Norns just informed him, his power to influence humans and stir up wars was removed. His century long warmongering had lead to an unstoppable avalanche of wars which will continue until the dawn of Ragnaroek. Each war will ever be more terrible than the ones before. He had missed his chance to set the time for Ragnaroek when he had Loki, the Fenrirwolf, the Mittgard-serpent and Hel in Asgard. His decision to postpone the last fight to muster a big and victorious army and his failure to understand that he had been able at that time to convince Loki to stop his wrongdoings had brought over Mittgard more disasters and misery than Loki ever could have afflicted.

           

Skuld added: The freedom to roam in Mittgard for him and his fellow deities will be not restricted in order that he can continue his Wild Hunt. She also foretold that even if Christianity will be accepted in Mittgard and beyond, he will never be forgotten and habits, customs, feasts and Holy places will continue as in the past. Some people’s belief in him and the other northern deities will be revived in the far future. Her last words were to accept Hel’s invitation and visit her.

           

Wothan’s mind whirled and rejecting to visit Hel, he returned to Mittgard trying to influence Widukind once more to start a new uproar. But it was in vain. He really had lost his powers. Widukind fled to Denmark once more and came back to use some opportunities to fight for the freedom of the Saxons. But he was not driven anymore by Wothan.

           

After Widukind lost another fight, Freyr and Freya had a meeting with the Norns. Skuld permitted the siblings to look at the weaving of the future too. The twin Gods took their time to observe more carefully than Wothan ever did. Where Wothan saw only the wars which presented him with fighters for Ragnaroek, Freyr and Freya saw the whole pattern: The possible extinction of the Saxons - whole tribes and clans - and they saw the determination of Charlemagne and his successors to fight for power even against the representatives of the new religion they all had succumbed to.

           

Freyr and Freya agreed with the Norns, even with the removal of Wothan's power to stir up new wars, these will go on and on in the future. Left to all deities of Asgard now was the possibility to influence either single events or humankind with advice and help; and preventing senseless cruelties and the extinction of families, tribes and nations, who would play a role in the future. They would be able to change some parts of the future but they had no power to end what Wothan had set in motion. The siblings decided to have their first attempt with Widukind.

           

One evening Widukind sat alone in the High seat of his hall. The funeral fires were over, all services done, he was at last able to mourn his lost family members and friends and the killing of so many Saxon knights, Shield maids and ordinary people. His only solace was that he would meet them once more in Walhalla, when it was his turn to loose his life in another fight or war.

           

A beautiful couple entered his hall. They introduced themselves as Freyr and Freya and Widukind looked in amazement at their beauty and serenity. He had almost forgotten that Asgard had deities besides Wothan, deities who helped ordinary people in their daily life, who banned fear and anguish, and who tried to mend the aftermath of constant wars. Freir told him, Widukind had forgotten something more important, that he was not only the Duke of knights and warriors but also the Duke of his whole nation: The women, the wives, the children, the old people, the husbands, the farmers and serfs. These people who had suffered terribly in the wars, lost all they cherished, from human relationships to possessions and, who without the help of Asgard's deities would have despaired total already.

 

Freya added, that Widukind failed to see that the wars against Charlemagne had forged a nation out of Saxons tribes and clans, a nation that will play an important role in future history, if he, Widukind does not lead them to extinction. She told him, Charlemagne’s two successors would be weaklings and the Emperor’s crown will pass for quite a time to Widukind's successors, who will lead not only the Saxons but all the different German nations. She showed him too, the important role Saxons will play in the future of an island in the sea surrounding Mittgard.

This island belonging to a different empire was abandoned in the long fight against armies of many nations and so left behind in a void that could be filled by a part of Saxons willing to leave their homes, first to squat the islands and later take the lead into the future there. Further, they explained to Widukind that Christianity and its ideals were doomed already since the day when Charlemagne, for his own power and greed, let guide himself by Wothan to sacrifice the Saxon prisoners. This treachery of his own belief will guarantee that Paganism never can be really beaten because Charlemagne, as well as all the folk, embraced pagan deities once more and so the future, for good or evil, will be guided by Pagans and Christians together.

 

For a long time this union will lead to more and more evil, spanning not only Mittgard, but too more parts of the world, where different deities rule and will continue to rule, because Christians will start to fight each other for power, gain, treasures and land. So at last the entire world will steep into Evil never known before. Wothan has to change his mind before Ragnaroek can cleanse the world. They vanished before Widukind could even utter one word and left him with new thoughts, ideas and worries, because this additional responsibility had never occurred to him before.

           

He postponed the plans for another war, which could have been the last between him and Charlemagne and spent the following weeks walking into the hamlets, villages and small towns of his realm. He talked with all kind of people, even with children and with raising dismay and despair he saw for the first time the living conditions of his subjects. Those people trusted him because Asgard’s deities helped them constantly and they saw in Widukind the one who was blessed by Asgard’s Goddesses and Gods. They just could not imagine how far they were from the truth. After returning home he had made up his mind and called his war leaders for a meeting and a feast and included their wives and the Shield maids.

 

They arrived looking forward to some days of entertainment and merriment amidst the darkness of constant war faring. The weather was fine and Widukind greeted each one of them. The meal and feast were prepared outside his hall and the sun’s merciless brightness showed him how much they had aged. Even children and the youngsters looked old. And where at former occasions gold and jewellery with precious stones had glittered on colourful gowns, there was now a prosaic drabness. The jewels were gone, the colours faded, most gowns mended and once more mended and worst of all, the once beautiful faces of the women were lined from worry, their bodies wasted with over breeding and the heavy work the men should have done. But many of their men had gone to Walhalla and the remaining returned home only for a short rest and for giving them more children to rise for the war.

 

Even the Shield maids looked not happy anymore. For the first time the choice to be a Shield maid or a wife was taken from them. There were not enough men left to marry. So the number of Shield maids had grown in the past years. Widukind sighed and closed his heart and his mind against Wothan. He had time enough to ponder the advice and suggestions of Freyr and Freya and had decided the orders he would give to his family, friends, comrades in arms and their war worn wives and children.

 

The cool evening found them in his hall, a fire burned in the hearth, meat grilled and they ate the abundant meal that was provided for them. They only wondered at the meagre amount of ale and Met. But they had nearly empty larders at home too, so nobody protested. Instead of drinking they listened to the bard’s songs, telling about past fights, lost heroes, beautiful maiden, but not one song gave praise to Wothan. The bard, an old wise man, knew already Widukind’s intentions and agreed with them, so he had chosen his songs appropriately.

 

After the meal he gave his orders, short but with emotion. The war against Charlemagne has to stop or the Saxons would be extinct in a few years. Their lands would be taken over either by the Franks or the Christian church whose priests showed themselves already very greedy. He told them they have to accept baptism and worship one God. They should keep their own customs, habits and order of life, because Asgard’s deities had promised to continue with their help in Mittgard and memory would be kept into the far future’s generations with legends, legendary places and the fact that baptism will be accepted through the order of their own deities. Charlemagne could not break the Saxons who would integrate their old belief into the new and take the new religion on their own terms.

 

A stunned silence followed. But the discussion was short. These were the leaders of different Saxon tribes, elected not only for their valour but for their wisdom too. And each one of them feared what Widukind predicted. If they continue to fight Charlemagne, the emperor would crush their folk. They agreed too, how Widukind intended to inform the Emperor of their change of mind. This clever move - advised by Freyr – would save the face of Widukind and the Saxons and give the Emperor confirmation that his high opinion of his own importance was justified. Pleased with this, he would not harass the Saxons more than the Franks and would give them the time to grow strong enough, so that one of Widukind’s heirs could save the crown for their own dynasty. Charlemagne’s house was destined for extinction.

 

Widukind had never met Charlemagne but heard all the gossip and the legends which already surrounded the Emperor during his lifetime. Characteristic besides his pride and high self-esteem was his charity. He never refused alms for a beggar. So Widukind concealed his splendid clothes and arms under a wide shabby beggars cloak and rode on his black horse to the Emperor’s camp. He choose Ostara's feast, as this was the chosen Christian day for mass to honour the resurrection of Jesus. Hiding his horse he mingled with the people of the camp, looking for the Emperor. He saw him from a distance after the service for the strange God was over. This was the time of the beggars, who surrounded now the Emperor. Widukind came near enough to throw open his coat, show his gear and asked for a meeting. Immediately Widukind was surrounded by Charles’s knights who brought him into the main tent.

 

The giant stature and the splendid gown and arms of the emperor impressed Widukind. So he spoke quite honestly that he and his Saxons had decided to stop fighting, accept baptism and the emperorship to escape extinction. Charlemagne accepted the peace offer, gave Widukind a precious white horse, forgetting that white horses belonged to Wothan, nominated him Duke of Saxony, once more forgetting that Widukind since years was the elected Duke and send him home to gather his folk and be ready for baptizing. Widukind obeyed.

 

But after baptism Widukind never took up arms anymore. He sent some of his warriors to join the Emperor’s army and saw that Freyr and Freya were right. Charlemagne was obsessed with gaining power and fought now his fellow Christians. He had opened his mind to Wothan’s ideas already before the Norns bereft his ability. Widukind sent no more warriors than he had to and ruled Saxony wise, brought prosperity back once more in preparation of the time when one of his successors would wrest the crown from Charlemagne’s weak heirs, which happened not even two centuries later.

 

He and the Saxons were baptized 785 B.C, so Widukind had sufficient time to prepare his folk for their destinies, to rule Mittgard and even countries beyond the borders and different clans and to found an empire that many centuries later was called England.

 

In 807 he died peacefully in his bed, went to Hel voluntarily and was to meet Charlemagne later, whom the Norns and Wothan had refused death in a fight. He was buried in a monumental tomb at the church of Eger near Herford.

 

Wothan returned to Asgard and tried to continue with his former life, but observing that Widukind accepted baptism for himself and Saxony to save his people from extinction enraged him once more. He could not see the irony his fellow Gods enjoyed, that Widukind stayed a hero of Pagan Saxony in historic tales and legends, but nevertheless was called “Blessed Widukind” by Christians. Despite Widukind’s crucial role in the Saxon wars not much is known about his life besides some dates and many legends. Later, Widukind was accepted as a Saint of Christianity.

 

Wothan let out his frustrations at the Wild Hunt, which grew wilder every year. For his family and friends nothing changed in Asgard. They continued to do their helping work in Mittgard so long as the last traces of belief lingered and did not stop even after that. They just went there invisible. Only few people with open souls and minds could see them. So they added a growing store of different legends regarding their part in the future history of Mittgard. Wothan only returned to Mittgard each year for the Wild Hunt, sometimes visible, sometimes not. It would need several centuries to let him return to Mittgard and sometimes he spoke with people or gave those favours once more.

 

Life in Asgard continued. One day another messenger from Sculd arrived, bearing a gift. Wothan received back the eye that he had sacrificed so long ago to Mimir. Sculd's message told him: “The future is shifting and the weaving cannot be controlled anymore. You will need your second eye back to observe the whole world outside the borders of Mittgard. The new Christian Emperors will play a deciding role outside Mittgard too. They alone will have the strength to resist power-hungry priests who intend to put humankind in slave bonds, misusing the teachings of their God.” The message finished: “We give you back all your competence. You will need it for backing up future German Emperors in their struggles with the Popes. You and your fellow deities in Asgard as well as in different realms have to use all your wisdom to guide these Emperors against their enemies. During some centuries they will be the only champions humankind has in the parts of the world that will be Christian. And remember, you influenced Mittgard's people to be warriors instead of seekers, so your main task is now to prevent unnecessary blood shedding.”

           

Wothan was too stunned to answer and the messenger vanished. Slowly he climbed the roof and sat down on his throne, opened the small box and the eye came back into its place. For the first time he could see the countries beyond Mittgard, but his attention was caught in Mittgard. Many years he had only visited there for the 12 hunting nights each year and seen nothing more than forests and game since his last visit to the Norns. Mittgard had changed. Beautiful towns centred on strange towering buildings, even the smallest villages had one of those. The Holy Oaks and Groves had vanished. He rose abrupt, called for Sleipnir, Hugin and Mumin and rode down to Mittgard to inspect one of these buildings. They were beautiful and he saw, it was the worshipping place for the new God. Invisible he rode through the provinces, learning how the old and the new belief had mixed. Sometimes he tested if he was forgotten. He visited 1208 the forge in Nesgar. The smith gave Sleipnir new shoes and talked with Wothan, recognising him. 1758 the same happened in another village. He ever paid generous for small services. Countless legends and songs tell about his visits, help and advice given to many people. And he never missed a Wild Hunt and made sure, people did not forget him.

           

The new belief brought a new social structure. No proud farmers anymore, who were knights and warriors when the need arose. They were all serfs now, bond to landowners or the priests. The same had happened in the towns. Some rich merchants besides the proud gentry and priests had managed to keep themselves free, but all had to pay something called taxes to church and rulers.

           

Back at his throne he too observed that the same had happened to other realms who came under the rule of Christianity, and all possible help was given by the deities of those realms, but all of them had to be very careful, that no report of this went to the priests, they punished terrible people for dealing with the old deities. But they could neither suppress the songs nor the legends, and the Pagan deities were remembered over all these dark times.

 

People worshipped a new God, but the prayers were empty words, especial when the century long fights for ultimate power between the Emperors and the Popes began. It was just unthinkable for anyone in Mittgard that a priest could obtain power over an Emperor. Rulers were chosen by the Gods and they became automatic too their representatives. That was a law never to be broken inside and outside of Mittgard. And when the Popes usurped the Imperators of the Roman Empire, that Empire declined and perished and Wothan once more chose the German Emperors as his proxy. Belief in Wothan, Asgard and Walhalla lingered despite the persecutions and punishment of that new church. Songs and legends spread secretly through Mittgard, reminding of a time when priests and wise men and women in the name of their deities advised and helped rulers and people.

 

But despite his renewed power Wothan lost interest in Mittgard. The never ending wars and fights bored him, so he sat in his throne for years only observing. There was not even sense anymore. Some Emperors: Otto I, Otto II and Otto III – descendants of Widukind – he backed when they were in danger to loose against the Popes.

 

The Valkyries brought less and less warriors to Walhalla and that puzzled him. So one day he called another meeting of all deities and Valkyries. He needed informations badly, to long had he neglected to care really for Mittgard after the Norns had reduced his power. He learned that in the meantime a nearly constant war had ravaged not only Mittgard but the former Roman Empire too, whose deities were as helpless as those from Asgard to prevent the destroying of their realms and busied themselves with unobtrusive help for single people, families and clans. The German Emperors who ruled now parts of the Roman Empire too were involved in constant wars with the Popes, the leaders of the Christian church, who demanded absolute Power for themselves in the name of their God warping the words that their God had taught.

 

German Emperors fought that claim. History, custom and common sense told them, they were responsible for the welfare of their subjects and they saw that this religion endangered the freedom of all countries.

 

So the Popes initiated a “holy” war against a former province of the Roman Empire in an oriental country, where already another religion had developed. The goal was to recapture the town Jerusalem, the town where the Romans had judged and put to death their God Jesus. The Pope declared this town – “the most holy place of Christianity” – has to be freed and initiated a war against the infidels there. He promised all riches to the conquerors and so they fell into the trap of this distracting operation. Stripping their own countries from the much needed armies to fight the power greed Pope and his successors, they went into that war and at home the priests took over and nearly succeeded to rule Mittgard as they already ruled the former Roman Empire.

Wothan asked Freya, who led the Valkyries, why so few of these warriors were brought to Walhalla. Freya's reports showed him a terrible picture. The Valkyries could not find enough real knights and warriors anymore, because during these wars diseases, treachery from all sides e.g. demanded the most victims.

 

And those few real valiant warriors they let live as long as possible, like the German Emperor Fredrick I who was still needed in Mittgard. And, Freya continued, the Valkyries are really tired of these wars without purpose and sense, besides to enlarge the power of the Christian church even more and weaken the German Emperors. After the meeting Wothan reflected for the first time the words and warnings of the Norns so long ago. He ordered the Valkyries to continue using their own judgement whom to bring to Walhalla and when, until he would give different orders. He now spent several hours each day observing Mittgard and the bordering countries, their fights against each other and the spreading misery of live conditions. And he focussed his attention on the so called crusades. Very soon he despaired, finding no importance in them besides greed and bloodlust, so he singled out 2 famous warriors to look into their lives. First of course the German Emperor Frederick I, called Barbarossa, because of his red hair. He already had stood behind Barbarossa as the elected German Emperor and thought how he intended to welcome him in Walhalla, but like the Valkyries curbed himself: The man was needed in Mittgard. Wothan had already understood some lessons of the Norns. He saw the wisdom of Barbarossa to try for peace. But against emotions gone out of control there was no chance.

Wothan called the Valkyrie Swanhild and ordered to bring Barbarossa to Walhalla. Barbarossa was 70 years old now and the danger that he dyed not by sword but illness grew daily. The Valkyrie came too late. Barbarossa drowned, crossing a swollen river. But Swanhild brought him to the doors of Asgard and refused to let him go to Hel. So Wothan, Swanhild and Barbarossa discussed his possible future until the dawn of Ragnaroek. Barbarossa decided his fate and opted to sleep in the mountain Kyffhäuser. Here he is sitting on a stone before a table with 2 ravens as companions to sleep there, but guard Mittgard. He awakes about every century, sent out the ravens for information; if his help is needed and goes back to sleep when they tell him: No! His beard grows around the table and legends tell he will be fully awake and ready for action when the beard wounds 3 times around the table. Sometimes mountain climbers saw him and so there is known, the beard has already grown 2 ½ times around the table.

 

Wothan's second interest was in Richard Lionhearted, King of England. That was intelligible. England was the goal and the future of those Saxon tribes, which left Mittgard for the island in the sea, as the Norns had predicted. He saw a knight, a warrior, comparable with the ones he liked in the past. And when the siege of Acre nearly failed, he influenced the king to offer an honourable armistice. This accomplished Wothan intended to take him in the next fight to Walhalla.

 

When the armistice was sworn and the beaten survivors left the town, King Lionhearted acted. Another massacre, comparable to the one that finished the Saxon wars took place. And this time King Lionhearted was the oath breaker. He and his army slaughtered all, who surrendered to the Christian army, trusting the armistice and not even a child escaped. A cold fury, self-loathing coupled with despise for the king filled Wothan. His own treachery, guiding Charlemagne into sacrificing all the Saxon warriors, was repeated, but Wothan's motive at last in his own mind was honourable. Richard Lionhearted acted from egoism, greed for fame and power and the longing to leave that war behind to return home, where his position as king was in danger.

But Wothan sent a Valkyrie to arrange the betrayal and imprisonment of Richard Lionhearted for 6 years. Who knows what would have happened to England, if the king had come home in time to prevent or upset the Magna Charta?

 

And once more Wothan turned his back to Mittgard disgusted. This year's Wild Hunt was extremely furious and violent. But with his rage and frustration spent, Wothan had to face himself, his actions and their consequences. The greatest fight of his life he fought with himself, to accept the truth of the Norns verdict. He had done and spread more evil than his brother Loki ever could. His intention to gain warriors for Ragnaroek ended with wars breeding wars, and none was honourable any more. Greed was the motive for all of them. So he gave the Valkyries free choice. They should don their swan wings to look at last like the beings who worked with the deities of different realms and times since ages, to save who could be saved, preventing even disasters as he had learned when his eye was given back. If possible the Valkyries should work together with these beings, called Angels by the new religion, but who were roaming the world since uncountable times. And now the Valkyries do the same as these beings.

When the crusades were over and the occupied lands and towns including Jerusalem lost once more to the strong infidels, he spent some more centuries only observing Mittgard and the world. Some years he even forgot the Wild Hunt. He and all the deities of Asgard withdraw from Mittgard, only the Valkyries now and than visited and saved an honourable man or woman from certain death. Legends of these centuries mixed Angels and Valkyries and some of the deities who could not stay away from the world, as they saw the downtrodden people still as their responsibility.

 

Some more centuries passed after the crusades and Wothan as well as his fellow deities observed with ever growing horror the escalation and progression of wars: The change from fights to slaughter. The war leaders planned but took no part anymore. They forced helpless victims into wars, where bravery played no role against ever more refined weapons which killed and maimed or poisoned from even greater distances. The leaders guarded themselves very well against any danger.

 

Wothan and Asgard were now more looking out for the first signs of Ragnaroek than observing these wars. It needed a long time for the first signs to show. And during the passing years the Valkyries were known in many legends as guardian and rescue Angels for soldiers and ordinary people in danger. Sometimes they worked together with those Angels they could simulate so convincing with their swan wings. But they saw too the waning of the mundane powers of Christianity after the long time of terror this religion had spread over the world. They saw the fires burning, consuming wise women and men, healers and bards and many of the real decent people in the world. The example of treachery this religion gave infected even decent folks. All victims of this terror in Mittgard were brought to Walhalla by the Valkyries, so for a long time the halls of Walhalla filled up again with more fighters for Ragnaroek.

 

At last there came 2 great wars in one century. Nearly all countries of the world took part. These were crucial wars too. They showed humankind that there are no limits for destruction and annihilation. The first war was terrible, the second a horror beyond imagination. In both wars the Valkyries tried to set up a stop signal. First in France, the country that once had belonged to Charlemagne’s Empire. Many soldiers were resting after fights at a very hot day near a place called Le Mons. Suddenly an attack started, but 3 of the Valkyries showed themselves in a strange light in the cloudless evening sky, 3 winged shapes only, standing guard over the enemy lines, spreading a fog over them, so the attack had to stop. Of course many legends told many different stories here too.

 

The second incident happened some decades later at Dunkirk. The ill-fated attempt to shore there, ended with overturned boats and small ships, with soldiers swimming for their lives and drowning under the constant attack of the enemy. But suddenly heavy clouds obscured the sky. The enemy could not see their targets anymore, but the British and French soldiers saw, heard and felt. Hospitals on both sides were full of tales about a great host of winged beings coming to their rescue. They helped tired swimmers to reach intact boats, others near drowned already were just seized and in a moment put down either in boats, on board of ships and those who were already on the beach were brought to the enemies hospital tents, where doctors and nurses treated them all and the “Angels” were nearly everywhere. Valkyries and Angels had united; the task was just too great.

 

Tales of that miracle spread through the whole world and the Angels were given all the credit of course. But Wothan had sent all his Valkyries too, because this war, this fight was Mittgard's war, the inhabitants of the former German Empire fighting with each other, their leaders never considering that they fought a brother war.

 

The returning Valkyries had even more disturbing news. The Mittgard serpent was violent too and had taken part at Dunkirk with whipping the sea, capsized ships, drowned soldiers; it was the old fight Evil against Good once more. For quite a time all countries were shocked, but soon wars started once more all over the world and more and more signs of Ragnaroek began to disturb the deities as well as humankind. Loki shakes his chains and is half free already; earth quakes and Vulcan eruptions are the results. The Mittgard-serpent stretches her gigantic body and causes ever more flooding and some Tsunamis. The Fenrirwolf shed the sword that closed his mouth and is roaring thunderstorms from the sky. The Stone-, Water- and Ice-Giants stir too and influence the weather as well.

 

Wothan, Asgard, Mittgard and the whole world is worried, because the outcome of Ragnaroek now is even more uncertain as when Wothan postponed it and began to stir up wars. And as the responsible warlord he begins to muster his troops, ever listening to the growing signs that the last fight is near.

 

But the most superior army belongs to Hel and Wothan remembered her invitation many centuries ago. He went down to her overcrowded realms and asked her, to accompany him to the Norns for a meeting regarding the future of Mittgard and the beginning of Ragnaroek. She agreed and now they confer, if it is possible to postpone Ragnaroek once more or even avoid it, or if it is better to choose the day themselves with freeing Loki and the Fenrirwolf. The waving of the Norns is only grey, no patterns, and no future events can be seen any more at the loom. So it all depends on them.

 

But what they fear most is the decision of Hel. She has changed considerable during the times. She as well as Wothan learned compassion. Will she fight for Good or Evil at Ragnaroek?

 

Hel has not decided jet.

 

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Chapter 4

 

            ‘Dear Mr Reiner (DAC no.: 0310197742324)

 

            We are writing to enquire as to why you have not yet reported for employment evaluation.

 

            You have now been a resident at the Afterspan facility (27 Meadow View, XTC District, Afterspan) for over 1 week, and have yet to report to HVN Employment Resources (Floor 435, Building 7, Overarching Drive, The City) to be evaluated for employment.

 

            Failure to report for employment evaluation within 3 days from the receipt of this letter will result in your case being transferred to the Employment Evaluation Evaluation Office, whereby your residential arrangements will be subject to change and you will be assigned eternal accommodation at The City’s Relloc View Towers Detention Centre for the Employment-phobic.

 

            Thank you for your time and have a nice afterlife.’

 

Steve stopped reading. He’d read it countless times already and already knew how it ended; an incomprehensible squiggle followed by an unpronounceable, foreign looking name with nowhere near enough vowels for him to be able to pronounce without spitting out at least 3 teeth in the process, above a scary, official looking job title.

Work. How was that fair?

First you’re born, then you live, then you die, then you get to play Canasta and Bridge with Elvis and Kennedy whilst staring unashamedly at Cleopatra’s boobs. All his life that was how he understood things worked. At no point did he imagine that he’d be told to ‘get a job or else’.

“What’s that?” asked Dennis, wandering into the room wearing nothing but a torn pair of boxer shorts and evil looking socks, “Must be official. I’ve been here 15 years and only ever received 3 pieces of post and all those were official: ‘here’s your approved paperwork’, ‘please fill in this questionnaire’, ‘stop mooning other residents or else’, your basic administrative bullshit.” He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, pressed down the tray lever, then jammed a fork into one of the slots to hold the mechanism down. “So, what ya got?”

Steve handed him the letter.

“F*ck man, you haven’t been evaluated for employment yet!?” exclaimed Dennis, sitting down and allowing more of himself than Steve would have liked to peek through the holes in his underwear.

“I didn’t know I had to” said Steve, defensively, vehemently looking anywhere but down, “It’s not exactly the kind of thing I expected to happen when I died. So far no discussion I’ve ever heard or been part of about life after death has ever mentioned the need for team building exercises or continuing professional development.”

“Where the hell do you think Glenda and I go everyday?” Dennis looked both bemused and curious, giving him the look of a constipated badger.

“I dunno” replied Steve, intelligently, “I just presumed you have lives to be getting on with…well, not lives, deaths, afterlives…oh you know what I mean”

“But orientation mentions….” began Dennis

With cat like reflexes, Steve leapt from the sofa, grabbed Dennis in a wrestling hold and slammed him, hard, into the floor, then proceeded to rhythmically bounce his head off the nylon carpet, whilst uttering ‘I didn’t pay attention at orientation’; one bounce per word.

“But orientation mentions exactly what to do and why it needs to be done” Dennis went on, snapping Steve out of his daydream, “You’ve gotta get this sorted, man, otherwise big trouble will come looking for you, and will probably bring his big brother along.”

A buzzing, electrical sound effect dragged wholesale from an eighties sci-fi movie suddenly erupted from the kitchen area as the end of the fork that wasn’t inserted into the toaster began licking the metal taps of the sink with a long electric blue tongue. There was a flash, and when Steve and Dennis were able to see again, they saw the toaster sitting smugly on the counter with 2 slices of slightly charred, gently smoking toast sticking out of the top.

“God, I love making breakfast in this place” explained Dennis, standing up and adjusting his underwear in such a way that Steve felt as though he owed him a drink or should, at least, leave some money on the bedside cabinet. He wandered over to the kitchen and began abusing the toast with all manner of slimy things from jars, as Steve sat and worried.

“You’re really going to have to get this sorted, mate, and fast.” offered Dennis, casting about the sideboard, “Where’s the bloody fork gone?” He searched for a few more seconds before realising it was stuck in the ceiling above his head. He pulled it free from the heavily perforated plastic that had been molested in previous similar breakfast explosions, and began to stir his coffee with the handle. “What was I saying?” he asked, sitting down next to Steve again with his breakfast.

Steve sighed, “you were telling that I’d better get this sorted quick”

“Thad I wad, and thad you hat” Dennis said, spraying the table top with toast. He swallowed. “When they say you’ll get moved, they mean it, and the RDC is not a nice place, think Strangeways without the sense of family.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Only for a visit, and I’m not going back. That place sits so close to the Relloc you could almost reach out and touch it, if you were that way inclined and didn’t have any kind of emotional attachment to your arms.”

“The Relloc?”

“Blimey you weren’t kidding about paying no attention at orientation were you?” The fact that Steve didn’t punch Dennis in the face said more about his state of mind at that particular instant than it did about his ability to restrain himself.

 

“Reiner, S, DAC 0310197742324.”

Steve looked down at his letter. DAC 0310197742324. That was him. He peeled himself off of the lurid orange plastic chair and began winding his through the crowd of newly dead awaiting employment evaluation towards the stern, grimly dressed clerk who’d called his name.

“Reiner?” asked the clerk, who’s highly polished name badge indicated was called Randall, and who’s manner, attire and skin tone suggested that working within an employment office was something they probably also did when they were alive.

“Yes” Steve answered, slightly too eagerly, “Reiner, S. Steve. Steve Reiner. That’s me, I mean, I’m him. I’m Steve. Yes”. He was always like this in governmental offices. Stick him in the main offices of a Paper company in dire need of a financial wizard and he could command the same level of respect as royalty, and was as confident and forthright as an East End car salesman. But drop him into any office in which he had to do anything for himself personally, like an employment office, and he turned into a gibbering moron who allowed any thought that popped into his head to fall out of his mouth without any form of mental processing. Once, while at the DVLA getting his licence renewed, he panicked and told the woman behind the counter that she had a nice set of boobs. When she’d taken offence, he tried to back track and explained that he didn’t mean it like that, it was just that he could see her nipples through her blouse and…..it was at that point the alarms started going off and security appeared.

“Follow me” droned the grey suited Randall who turned and walked off through the maze of depressingly drab cubicles at a speed that belied his melancholy appearance, and pronounced limp. Steve had a hard time keeping up, and actually lost him at one point. He succeeded in finding him again only by standing on a two-drawer filing cabinet and searching for a grey head that rhythmically dipped below the top of the cubicle walls, implying that the heads owner, was also in possession of a pair of ill-matching legs.

“Take a seat Mr Reiner” monotoned Randall and gestured towards a dusty, ancient office chair that had once sported a wheel on the end of each of its splayed plastic legs, that stuck out at angles like a flattened plastic octopus, but was now bolted to the floor in front of a desk so beaten up and worn it looked as though it had been on the move longer than it had been stationary. Steve discovered that the chair had been further disabled by having its ability to spin taken away, as he dropped himself in it and bruised his thigh when it didn’t give an inch.

His anxiety, aggravated by his inability to move his chair about nervously and the total lack of anything within his reach to fiddle with, forced him to look out of the window, as he waited for Randall to complete whatever it was he was doing with the filing cabinet, and this did nothing to calm him down.

He was never one for heights.

It wasn’t as though he’d had a traumatic experience as a child, or had nightmares in which he’d fallen out of a p