Snapper and the Griffin

Bridge of Locks

2012-01-12T14:52:00.000Z

Eva had wanted coffee desperately. Her feet ached from walking for so long around Paris. She did not regret it. Paris like most cities was full of sights and wonders, mostly unofficial and transient as a flower-bloom. But the cafes were full and when she saw that there was a table with the young man alone at it, she asked if she might share it. He smiled briefly and gestured to the chair opposite. When he saw her Plan de Paris and heard her slightly awkwardly order a coffee he knew she was a tourist. At first he had asked simple questions of her; how long was she in Paris for, where was she from, how did she like the city. His accent was slight and he was pleasant and polite, Eva liked politeness in the young. She soon found herself at ease with him and soon enough asked him about all the padlocks on the fencing over one of the bridges.

    "Ah that, that's a story to move you at least a little," the young man said softly beckoning a waiter over.

It was almost lunchtime and the young man ordered a pot of coffee and a sandwich. Eva ordered a sandwich and cake - after all, she was on holiday. The waiter nodded, noted and left them.

   "Some years back, when I was still at school madame, there was a young lady from the Rue St Honore. A very, very respectable area if madame understands me," the young man began.

Eva nodded to show she understood and pushed her coffee cup to one side.

   "This mademoiselle used to walk across the bridge for her business studies tuition from Monsieur Saccard a very brilliant man so I've heard, I don't know for sure. Anyway the mademoiselle used to pass by a group of students and as she was beautiful but obviously rich, comments were made. One day it seems, a young musician on the bridge intervened and reminded the students that politeness cost nothing. The students sneered and rounded on him with their words. The musician defended himself well and without raising the temperature of anyone to violence. The mademoiselle was enchanted at the musician's wit and his willingness to defend her. She had always ignored the students as she passed trying to maintain her dignity, but she felt the barbs of their words nonetheless. She continued with her studies and would always leave money in the musician's hat if he was there. If he was not their, she missed him. The students remained and while they did not comment, they would sneer at her and bow in mock politeness and servitude.

Now it seemed that mademoiselle's father had employed a gentleman to follow her daughter to her classes and home again. When the gentleman remarked on the young musician, the father was at first grateful. He visited the musician when mademoiselle was at her classes and offered the musician his gratitude which the man took and a some large sum, which the man refused.

   "A Franc or two will be enough in appreciation of my music, monsieur," he answered politely.

The father did not understand this. He had always sought money and power and could not understand anyone not wishing to do the same. Is it not typical madame that we measure others with our own desires and aspirations?" the young man asked Eva.

She gave a little laugh and nodded in agreement. The waiter brought their lunch and the pot of coffee. Eva paid for it all and the young man thanked her and offered her the cost of the coffee and his sandwich.

   "Consider it my contribution to the meal," she said with a warm smile and he bowed in his seat and thanked her.

He poured them both fresh coffee and took a bite of his sandwich, chewing it carefully. Then he continued,

   "Ah now then... yes, the father thanked the musician again and returned home a little troubled. Still mademoiselle continued her classes through the summer and little by little as you may guess madame, they fell in love. Shyly at first, the love of glances and quick little smiles, but soon enough mademoiselle would pause and talk to the musician. He would sing a song for her and she would bring him something to eat on her way home. All this was reported to the father by the gentleman.

The father confronted his daughter," the young man shook his head.

   "It's the same story madame, old as time itself. Every father has thought he could command his daughter to protect her from undesirable men. Yet every man will be undesirable for his precious daughter, but no father ever learns - in my experience at least. So this father commanded his daughter not to see the musician again. The result - the predictable result madame, was that firstly mademoiselle laid down her own rules concerning herself and her rights. The second was that mademoiselle was driven into the arms of the musician to 'teach papa a lesson'. It is your English Shakespeare who says, 'Lord, what fools these mortals be' I think. Neither mademoiselle nor papa could see their own folly only the folly of the other.

It is perhaps fortunate that the musician was a good man of whom there are not nearly enough. My mother always taught me to be worthy of a woman in order to be worthy of myself. An excellent maxim, but not all women are worthy any more than men. We are all foolish at one time or another in our well-meaning efforts to get along as best we can, I think," the young man said thoughtfully taking another bite of his sandwich.

   "Monsieur is quite the philosopher," Eva remarked gently.
   The young man chuckled at that.
   "Madame, all students get philosophical sooner or later! Ah well forgive me, so much folly and I am sure I have my fair share of it too.
   Well after some time the angry father locked the daughter up at home and put a large steel padlock on the door to the street so that she might not get out without his permission - which by the way he had no intention of giving. This was 'protecting his daughter' in his mind and 'being unreasonable and stupid' in his daughter's mind. in truth they were both as unreasoning as each other. The musician missed her passing by and knowing from her where she lived, he stood outside her house and played songs to her. The father was furious as you may imagine. At first he warned the musician off, then when that did not work he threatened the man. That did not work either. So the father came up with a terrible idea. He had two men visit the musician and take him back to his pitch on the bridge. There he was chained to the bridge and padlocked to it. The key was then thrown into the river. The students asked him what the padlock and chain was all about and when he told them they brought him food and clothing. They spread the word and wrote about the lovers. Eh bien madame, this is Paris, the city of lovers, naturally the father came out badly. The women of the city adored the musician and were furious with the father. The men of the city kept their peace and let their daughters have a little more freedom but watched them anxiously as I suppose every father does.

Then one morning a few lovers attached padlocks with their names written on them and ribbons attached to the fencing. They fed the musician and gave him coffee. They put up a drape around him and gave him warm water to bathe and new clothes. His friends helped him too. A week later the father came to him and told him that if he would forget his daughter the chain would be cut and he would be freed. He laughed and remarked that he had refused offers to cut the chain though he had received many such offers. He loved mademoiselle and nobody else. The father began to get cross, for he realised that he had already lost. His daughter was pining away, refusing food and drink until she might be with her love. He growled and cut the chains anyway telling the man to be off.

   "You cannot chain love monsieur, your daughter is still her father's prisoner," the musician replied.

The father was about to make some angry comment when three more lovers came and attached padlocks to the fencing of the bridge. The father frowned and asked them what on earth they were doing.

   "It is our sympathy for all those lovers who are separated by the hard-hearted. Their love is our love," the lovers told him.

The father then hung his head in shame for he realised his folly then. He returned home deep in thought, followed though he was not aware of it, by the musician. He entered the house and removed the padlock. Almost immediately after he shut the door behind him, the musician began to play his guitar and sing to his love. Behind her windows mademoiselle heard her young man and burst into tears. She called for food and ate a little. Then she took the rest and tiptoed out of the house, quietly noticed by her father who sat in his study with his head in his hands.

Once out of the house, mademoiselle shared her breakfast with her musician who, shocked at her condition took her to a cafe and fed her. He took her home with him to his apartment in Montmartre and cared for her. After a little while he wrote to her father and arranged a meeting with him. The result was that the lovers were wed for the father could see that this man loved his daughter as much as he did and a little more. Which is as it should be. The padlocks remain on the bridge as a symbol of lovers locked in love no matter who or what shall keep them apart."

    "It sounds like a contemporary fairytale," Eva told the young serious man.
   "More a tale of the sympathy the world has for lovers," the young man replied.

They finished their meal and went their separate ways, but Eva wrote down the tale in her journal and did not forget it. It was for her one of those beautiful moments that are as transient as a bottle flowing along a river passing quickly but memorable on its own terms.

The Loving Mother

2011-12-30T19:51:00.000Z

A long time ago there was a woman who had three daughters whom she loved greatly. Each of them became fine needlewomen. The eldest, Daisy was an excellent weaver, the middle one Holly was a superb dressmaker and tailor; the youngest Rose was fabulous at embroidery. They became better at all the crafts of needlework until they were known for being the finest in Sussex where they lived.

Now it happened that one day an old man arrived at their workshop and told them that their services were wanted. The girls wondered if they had time to do the work for they were in the middle of a great deal of work already. Sadly they told him they would have to decline. The man shrugged and went away shaking his head and sighing.

Soon after, their mother sickened and took to her bed. She was no fool, she knew that there was a dark magic at work, but she called her daughters to her and told them to bring her three horseshoes. This was done and the sickness weakened in her, but still it persisted. She asked for salt and scattered it around her bed, but it was too late and she died.

Her daughters were struck deep with grief for they had loved their mother as sky loves sun and cats love fish. They wept until the old man returned to their workshop with a tall and imperious woman.

"You mother is gone and will never return unless you know her well," the woman told them.

She had hair as black as a raven's wing, eyes as green as spring leaves, skin pale and slightly green and lips as red as holly berries. When she smiled there was something dangerous about her. When she frowned it was as if a storm was gathering.

"There are ten trees in the Public Park, if you can guess which one is your mother she shall be returned to you. If not then I shall turn the three of you into a Daisy a Holly bush and a Rose bush. If I return your mother to you, I shall expect you to make the dress, veil, and shoes and the underwear I demand," the woman told them.

Then with a flick of her black hair she left them, the old man following her shaking his head and sighing. The young women were furious and upset. Daisy went to the Park and walked among the trees. They were all oaks, but below one of them she noticed a small clump of daisies. She looked up at the tree, curtsied and said softly,

"Come back to us well, mama," she said.

Then she went home and as she went a storm seemed to be gathering. The next day, Holly went to the Park and walked among the trees weeping. She sighed and thought of her mother until she noticed a small holly bush below one of the trees. She curtsied and said softly,

"I love you mama, come back to us soon."

She went home and a storm gathered over the Park. Clouds darkened the sky and a wind blew her hair about. The following day, Rose went to the Park and walked among the trees. She caressed all the trees and below one of them she saw a beautiful pink-orange rose growing. She stepped back from the tree and curtsied before saying,

"Come mama, let us go home together."

The clouds gathered and blackened. The wind picked up and suddenly it began to rain heavily. The oak seemed to shrink it's branches and and slowly became a woman. It was the mother of the three young women. Rose handed her mother her coat and kissed her. They went home together and the young women now set to work to make the faery's clothes. But with their mother's advice and help they sewed into all of the clothes, fine small pieces of iron.

The dress was of the finest silk, the shoes of velvet, the veil of fine gauze and the underwear of brushed cotton, finely embroidered. Anyone would have loved these clothes.

On the fourth day, the faery arrived with the old man. The young women had placed the clothes in the back bedroom where the faery might try them on in peace. Over the window was a horseshoe. The faery went into the room and shut the door. The young women heard her retch, then gasp. A painful thin hiss was followed by a scream. The bedroom door suddenly flew open and the faery staggered from the room her hand on her chest where her heart would have been if she'd had one. The old man stared at the faery then sighed. He turned and walked away, shaking his head and shaking his head in despair.

Suddenly, the faery let out a howling screech and vanished. She was never seen again and the clothes were burned. The ashes were scattered around the roots of the trees in the Park.

The Temple of Diana - at Siena

2011-12-03T16:22:00.000Z

A very long time ago a Duke of Siena wished to marry a beautiful young woman by the name of Laura. She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant and was much sought after by many of the young men of Siena. She however wished only to play her mandolin and read the books in her father's house. She soon left the mandolin when her careful study of her father's many books gave her an interest in art and the making of beautiful things.

It might be thought that the Duke himself would prefer a more genteel woman for a wife rather than this artisan, beautiful and wise though she was. Yet it seemed that the more she made herself an artisan - to the shame of her parents who did not understand her at all, the more the Duke was smitten with her. He gave her father all kinds of offers in return for Laura's hand in marriage, dowries of considerable sum and value. To them all Laura refused saying that she preferred to marry only the man she loved and while she respected the Duke up to a point, she was not in love with him in the least.

"Surely his grace would prefer a woman with more pleasure in keeping her Lord's house and bearing his children," she said.

"Would you not wish to be that woman, the helpmeet of my days and the love of my life, beautiful Laura?" the Duke asked her.

"I respect my Lord and love him as a citizen should, but I am not in love nor do I wish to be an accessory either to a Duke or even a King," she answered, adding "I'm no good for that, there's a mind inside this head and I have too much I want to do of my own."

Still the Duke persisted, believing that she wished only to be wooed. He sent her flowers; she planted them in public gardens. He sent her sonnets, she gave them to her mother. He sent her fine jewellery; she gave them to her sister. He sent her a fine mandolin, she sent it back to him. He sent her dresses of fine fabrics, she sent them to his mother who said nothing, but smiled, for she liked the spirit of the young woman.

Now it happened one day that the Duke, coming home from hunting and having caught nothing came very near to falling from his horse and down the side of a steep hill. Should he have fallen, he would undoubtedly have been killed and it occurred to him that he had no heir to his throne. This thought filled his thoughts until he took himself to the house of the di Monti and demanded that Laura should marry him that very Saturday.

Laura was furious. She knew that until now the Duke had indulged her for he wished her to love him. But she knew also that his word in Siena was law and none dare oppose him. She was but one woman in the city and she could not resist the law of the city. So she shut herself up in her workshop and made many plans all of which gave her no satisfaction at all. She could not leave the centre of Siena for the Duke's men were everywhere and would not disobey him.

That evening, the Duke told his mother everything and she frowned. She liked Laura and she of course, loved her son, but she did not want any wife of his not to love him.

"I am the Duke of Siena by order of the King himself. In this city I will have obedience from all my subjects. Besides which I do her a great service marrying her into the ducal family of Siena. She will obey and I will have heirs to continue my family line," the Duke told his mother who shook her head and threw up her hands in despair.

That night, there was a new moon, the Maiden Moon as the Siennese called it. Laura struggled to sleep and so rose from her bed to work on her flying machine. She did several equations and wished she had lighter materials to work with, but her machine would not fly. It must either be bigger and so heavier or smaller and therefore too heavy to fly.

The Duke's mother quietly left Siena that night for the hills around the city and changed from her rich red velvet dress to a white silk shift. She would no doubt at all have been hung for a witch had she been seen, but she wore a mask of silver and gloves of grey silk. She was no witch but a follower of Diana, an ancient order.

Clouds drifted across the new crescent moon and veiled the woods and ancient mountains around Siena as the Duke's mother Giulietta rode her palfrey through a thick forest accompanied only by six women similarly clad in the pale colours of her order. These six women were armed and ready to defend Giulietta to their last drops of blood. In a clearing in the woods was a ruined building. A great hall, it's roof fallen in a long time ago let in the night jewelled with stars and the crescent moon. Through this hall, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Giulietta and her acolytes drifted, a faint breeze plucking tenderly at their pale shifts.

At the other end of the hall lay an antechamber through which the women went before descending a stone stair until they came to a high vaulted chamber that was lit by other similarly dressed women bearing lanterns. Giulietta bowed and took her place. That night many prayers were said to the goddess Diana whose pale crescent was once again in the sky. Giulietta's prayer was one of those. She prayed to the goddess to advise her, for fear that her son might do something he should later come to regret.

The following day, the Duke went out to hunt. He found himself a little way ahead of his fellows when a white hart appeared before him and ran away through the wood. The Duke blew his horn and pursued the hart. No matter how fast his horse ran the hart remained always in view but beyond his crossbow quarrel's reach. It is said that he went deep into the wood and what happened to him there is unknown but some hours later he appeared to his fellows. They had been searching for him for some time with great anxiety but he would say nothing only preferring to return to Siena.

That afternoon he proclaimed that all the woman of Siena should be free to marry who they wished and that his own marriage to Laura di Monti was off. Laura was amazed though grateful and recommended to Bianca Casareggio that she might persuade the Duke to marry her. Bianca blushed and thanked Laura. The Duke's mother visited Laura that evening and ordered a thousand ceramic tiles; diamond shaped with the crescent moon on a blue ground. Laura was happy to oblige.

The Duke of Siena was married that Saturday to Bianca Casareggio a lady of some quiet, gentle beauty. And the temple of Diana in the Wood was proud to initiate Laura di Monti that night into the order of the Goddess. That is why the crescent moon features in Siena, for quietly behind all the men is the order of Diana in the Wood.

Cakes and Wine with Mademoiselle X

2011-11-26T21:34:00.000Z

There are some people who live with little or nothing. There are others who live with too much of everything. There are those who live with a little of one and too much of the other. There are those few, who by the instinct that leads them to dream, live with what they find or are given - either by others or by an unthinking fate.

At the turn of the last century there was a young woman who was undoubtedly a dreamer. I do not know where she came from or for that matter where she was going to. It did not matter to me nor to those of us few who knew her. She was known to us as X, pronounced 'Ix' and most definitely not 'Ex'. I was young myself then (weren't we all?) and I had a tendency to frequent flea markets looking for books mainly and strange clothing. I was studying Art History and English Literature at the University with the intention of becoming a writer and hopefully a collector of art.

One day I chanced upon some 18th century English wineglasses with their stems filled with fine spiral threads. I fell in love with them and was about to buy them when a charming voice asked the stall-holder the price of them. He smiled and I turned to see my rival in love for these wineglasses. She was a little shorter than me with a slender figure but a slight plumpness to the stomach that spoke of eating unwisely but well. Still, it was her face that captivated. Green eyes that darted about like a bird trying to take in everything, a heart-shaped face with the pale clearness that redheads often have and freckles that became that face beautifully. Her mouth was small and constantly moving even when she did not speak. She seemed to be tasting everything the world was as if she could not quite believe her luck at being in the 'best possible of all worlds'.

I was bookish and on the way to becoming peevish and narrow, but something in my young self seemed to awake and I found myself smiling. She made a moue on hearing the price and I took my wallet and bought the glasses. To my surprise and slight queasiness I asked if she wanted them very much.

"Not so much cherie, only they are rather pretty," she said, her eyes already having moved on.

I felt a slight disappointment mixed with triumph. After all if she did not want them that much, I should certainly keep them. I was about to buy a rather beautiful travelling wine cabinet complete with the decanters and glasses and padded rather elegantly in pale green watered silk when she leaned over it. Her mass of heavy red-gold hair fell forward and I gasped in astonishment at the sheer beauty. She reminded me a little of a woman from a Levy-Dhurmer painting, yet she was very physical and real. She was also very down to earth, asking for a set of cutlery. The stall-holder indicated a rather beautiful set, monogrammed with 'LS' in flowing copperplate capitals on the handles. She asked him how much they were and he shrugged and grinned,

"Ah for cheering up my day, you can have them," he said gathering them up in large hands, red with the cold.

She protested rather beautifully I thought, but he laughed and wrapping them he handed them to her. No doubt the LS was perfect for her I reflected pettishly, it would stand for La Sauvage. Even as I thought it, I recanted it, for she was undoubtedly beautiful and full of charm. I did not trust charm I had decided and was asking the price of the travelling wine case when she placed a hand on my arm. I tensed automatically and my eyes flashed for I did not like to be touched by strangers. I am less fussy now, for I am older and less fraught. She did not seem to notice my tension, instead she said brightly,

"Oh yes, you must have that, it's quite lovely. And you must use it too and travel somewhere with it."

There was something of a command in her voice that I did not quite understand, then she had released my arm and I paid for the case and took it. I turned then towards the bookstalls and began to head to them when I was conscious that she was still with me. She walked alongside me without talking as if we were a couple. Only couples used to each other's company do not feel they have to talk to each other incessantly, they are comfortable with each other's company. She somehow managed to make it look just like that, though she was a stranger to me then. Near the first bookstall I turned to her and asked a little peevishly,

"Madame, who ARE you that you follow me?"

She smiled and held out her hand then and without thinking I took it in mine. Her fingers were fine and strong and cool.

"Enchante my dear, my friends call me Mademoiselle X," she said and added confidently, "And you are Monsieur March of course. I know you quite well."

I was astonished. A thousand questions arose like a swarm of butterflies in me but all I could say was,

"I am Jacob March and my friends call me Jacob."

I did not at the time ask her how she knew me well given that I had only just met her. Instead she leaned forward clutching firmly yet kindly at my arm and kissed me with cool lips on my face. She gazed into my eyes with her intense green eyes and said warmly,

"You must come and see me. Of course you know where I live, it's not far from you in fact. Come and I will give you cakes and wine and we will sing of wonderful things."

In the same instant as I was about to protest that I did not know where she lived I found that I did. That I always had known in fact. She grinned and laughed,

"Well I have things to do and people to see and you must go back to the books which is a shame. Forget them for once and go to the fashion stalls. You need a new coat after all. Buy two then when one wears out you can wear the other one," she said, kissing me again and leaving.

I was young and I was easily led by my feelings - to be charitable to myself. I turned away from the books and headed to the clothes. She turned away then and left and when I looked back she had gone, lost in the crowd of the market. I bought two long coats - I still have one of them, the dark blue-grey one with steel buttons. I left the market and went back to my rooms. I fell in with a crowd about my own age and we talked about art and literature of all kinds. I wrote articles about art and slowly gathered a bit of money with which I bought some small works of art and lived on vegetarian menus for their cheapness.

It appeared as I talked among friends that many of them knew Mademoiselle X and yet none of us knew anything about her. Somehow it did not matter. We would visit her when we could and she would indeed feed us cakes and wine and there would be music, talk and happiness. I only once saw her unhappy. A young man called Simon whose parents were ardent Catholics had given him a steel crucifix to wear. He, rebelling a little against them had grown used to the crucifix so did not think anything of it. But when he came near her she seemed to become nauseous and ran to her bedroom bidding us all, 'eat, drink and be happy' and that she had a sudden bout of sickness that would doubtless pass. The day after, Simon could not remember her at all and refused to come with us to visit her.

I thought nothing of it then. None of us did. We loved her brightness, airiness and lightness. There was something solid and yet intangible about her. Someone once asked if they might call her Holly Golightly, but she gently refused. She was not, she said, fictional after all. She seemed to mean everything to us, she was the centre of our crowd and we loved her passionately as one loves a goddess rather than an actual woman.

She laughed at the idea, she was no goddess she said, but something more lasting.We did not know quite what she meant, but she turned it into a witticism that I later forgot. Things seemed to come to her as if, like us, attracted by her company. After the fine cutlery came a set of fine Sevres porcelain dinner plates that she insisted on eating off, much to my horror, so they were very beautiful. An art nouveau wardrobe by Guimard, original posters by Mucha, framed in black lacquered frames decorated her rooms. The very apartment was a large elegant affair. And her clothes were the envy of all the women I knew. Clothing by Dior, Balenciaga and later Alexander McQueen seem to come to her without her spending any money at all. Food was given to her by shopkeepers and neighbours and welcomed in with charm and laughter.

Then one afternoon we arrived and she had gone. The door to the apartment was open, but it was empty and she had gone. There was not so much as a note to explain her passing. One minute she was there and then she had gone. I noticed with astonishment the rest of my crowd shaking their heads and wondering why they had come. My remonstrances were looked on in bewilderment, Mademoiselle who, they asked?

I gazed at them in astonishment but they went back down the stairs and into the street as if they had woken from a collective dream and did not know where they were. I entered the apartment and walked around it. There was the faint scent of perfume and in the kitchen a potted plant on the window ledge, vividly green but with no flowers. I took it and went through the cupboards and drawers. In one of the drawers I found one fork left of the cutlery she had been given that first morning I met her. I took that and put it in my jacket pocket as a souvenir. The plant and I left the empty apartment and I never saw her again, but when I eat a meal, I set two places. I fill two wine glasses and I turn the fork with it's tines downward on the cloth in memory of my time with Mademoiselle X.

The Long Fight

2011-10-23T14:24:00.000+01:00

There was a boy once. Nothing special in that, you may say. This boy was born heartbroken - literally. His heart had a hole in the two lower chambers, a too narrow artery leading to his lungs, the main artery, the aorta was in the wrong place and the main chamber on the right side of the heart was too big. The doctors call this Tetralogy of Fallot because Fallot discovered it and there are four parts to it.

The boy had blue lips and fingertips when he was born - a blue baby the nurses told his mother, because not enough oxygen was making his blood crimson. Now if that were not enough, before he was due - at the age of seven to have major heart surgery, he caught meningitis. His mother, terrified took him to hospital, watched him writhe on his bed trying to find a cool place that might be a little comfortable. He managed with a mix of good medicine, excellent staff and his own stubborn-ness to survive the meningitis. But as if that were not enough, he went straight to another hospital in London for the heart surgery.

After that, he was terrified of so much. He hid deep inside of himself, spoke little and ran away into books where he sought a sanctuary from the haunting and hunting of his fears, sorrows and the pain of his memories. At the age of sixteen he was back in hospital for surgery to look around his heart. By then he had had enough of it all. He disliked everything to do with hospitals, feared them and the staff within them. He wrote of himself as a Ghost of Tears, killed with a kiss - of Life.

Still hunted and haunted by his memories, he took to trying to escape from his body and the world. He took poisons, pills, attempted to hang himself and to open up his veins. All of them failed and he wrote only of his despair at being, as he saw it, pinned into the world.

Now it happened, despite this apparent misery that Life gave him, as the rest, little moments of utter bliss and beauty. It made his path cross those of wise women who taught him about himself and about life. He came to notice this thread of luck and finally to learn how to love them, tho' only once did he dare to fall in love. The end of that love saw him lock up the gates to his emotional heart and to give his love only to friends.

The story is not yet over. He recently lost a battle with his fear and fled from the hospital. What of that? Is that not to be expected? But in that running he saw that his fear had bullied him, swamped him with shadows and filled him with clouds of despair. Finally he begins to stop, to think, to rouse the tiger in him. He will return and go through another angiogram in preparation for major heart surgery again. It will be a long fight, but now so roused is he in rage and defiance against the tyrant Fear that has bullied him, he armours himself, allies himself and prepares to fight. It will be a long fight, that he knows, but he will not quit. Not through bravery, for he is not a brave man, nor is he physically a strong man. But once more he call upon his stubborn resilience and the love of his friends who will not fail him nor allow him to fail himself.

He was forged in a hard fire like so many, almost drowned in his own sorrows like so many and despite it all, he still lives and for the love of his friends, will live.

So, if I do not post quite so much good friends and readers all - it is because I am in a fight with the shadow side of myself. With my fears. But this is a time when tyrants fall, when fragile people gather up themselves together and resist. This is a time when we call upon our faithful allies and upon our own strengths to fight against our fears and sorrows. Liberty is what we choose it to be - we make it for ourselves as we make ourselves who we choose to be. I will have that major heart surgery in January and will be recovering from it through February and possibly March. But I feel tigerish and full of fire. I wait now eagerly for the fight and the stories still in me. But like me they too will return again. I will put up stories when I can, but I crave your indulgence.

I will have good friends and allies to hold my hand and like Virgil guided Dante, lead me through the little hells I have made for myself. And Fear will be no more; Fear will die.

Neptune Rises

2011-10-02T12:14:00.000+01:00

It happened a long time ago, some centuries ago in fact. It seems that a large bronze statue of Neptune was commissioned by the King of France. A new palace was being built, the Luxembourg Gardens were being laid out. Fountains using statues that were meant to impress the people and show the grandeur of the King's court.

Therefore it seemed natural that a fountain showing the Roman God of the Sea should be created. The King was greatly impressed by the model of the fountain. He insisted that the Neptune fountain would be the centre of the Gardens. The maker of the fountain struggled to create the moulds and after the first casting the bronze cracked. The maker stood in the foundry and wept. The foundry men stood and considered the problem, for they did not fret. They thought about the heat, the moulds were inspected in detail, but nothing could be found to be the problem. They stood around the foundry discussing what might be wrong, scratching their heads and wondering what they could do.

As they stood and pondered the problem a little man entered the foundry and approached Monsieur Du Fer the maker and foundry owner. The little man wore a tall black hat and his green eyes sparkled. Little tufts of fiery red hair sprouted from beneath the hat and his eyebrows were red and bushy too. He bowed to Monsieur Du Fer.

"The Neptune Fountain looks likely to be unfinished in time for the opening of the Gardens, Monsieur. Perhaps I can help. I have relatives who know all about the working of metals and can create your fountain in short order. All I would ask is that you give to me the first living thing that meets you when you arrive home this evening," he said.

Now Monsieur Du Fer had read many faery tales to his daughter so he was aware that something dreadful might happen should she rush out to greet her father before anyone else. He tried to negotiate with the little man, who remained adamant. Monsieur Du Fer realised he had no choice. He agreed and shook hands on the deal as they did in those days.

Now among the foundry men was a young man called Pierre who, though he dared not speak of it to his employer, was deeply in love with Mademoiselle Du Fer. He had run errands to the house of his boss and met the charming and elegant Mademoiselle Constance. Indeed, Monsieur Du Fer called him and asked him to go to his house and bid his daughter to stay in her room when he came home and to send out the dog.

Pierre did exactly as he was told, blushing furiously at Constance's charming manners. That her hair was the colour of chestnuts and her eyes like blue diamonds with the mouth soft and sweet as a rose did not help. He stammered out his master's instructions and told her why.

"Oh how exciting!" Constance exclaimed.

She had longed to meet the faeries due to the tales of the Countess D'Aulnoy read to her by her father and mother when she was younger. Still, she like her father knew that she might be spirited away never to see her family or friends again. However she could not bear the thought of sending out her dog. She told Pierre that she would think of something and kissed him for his kindness. Pierre managed, to his credit to walk out of the house and feeling somewhat as if he were walking on air managed to return to the foundry. It seemed however that the little man had bid all the foundry men to go home and that they should all be paid for the privilege. Naturally they were only too happy to obey. The life of a foundry man was hard and hot and the weather outside was delightful. Monsieur Du Fer had waited for his youngest foundry man and paid him the money the little man had given him. He noticed then Pierre's state of being and a wicked thought entered his head.

The young foundry man was not wealthy and not fit for his darling Constance to wed. But should he be the first person to meet his employer that evening then the young man would most likely never be seen again. But how was he to engineer such an event? He could not think how to do it and now Pierre was leaving him.

Monsieur Du Fer wandered about the city until he came to a coffeehouse. There he sat talking with friends, constantly thinking about how he might ensure the removal of Pierre by the little man. As for Pierre, he took his money and divided it. Half he would save and half would feed him for a month on a little bread and whatever else he might get. As he walked through the poorer streets of Paris towards his meagre lodgings in Montmartre an old woman appeared ahead of him and begged him for a little money for bread. Pierre was loath to give up what little money he had, but he looked at the old woman and thought he might survive a month on less than she might.

"I have little myself grandmother, but you're welcome to it, what little there is," he told her and gave her the money.

She took it and thanked him before grasping his arm with her bony hand and kissing him.

"Kindness is always rewarded my dear," she told him and hurried away.

I have the other half of my money at least, so I shall not starve for a while, Pierre thought. He trudged up the hill towards his home and up the stairs to his little room. He was so tired he fell on his bed and slept.

Monsieur Du Fer wandered around all day trying to work out how he might get Pierre to be the first person to meet him when he arrived home that evening when an idea came to him. He sent a boy to Pierre's address and told him to meet him at his house in the Rue St Honore. Pierrre, did not suspect anything and having been awoken went to meet his employer. He had tidied himself up as best as he could so that Constance should notice him, but when he arrived he found that one of the King's inspector's Monsieur Dauchon was there already. Dauchon had hatched a plan to blackmail Monsieur Du Fer into giving Constance to him to wed. He was a fat, apparently agreeable gentleman with sleepy looking eyes and a heart of pure venality. He was offhand with Pierre and showed the young man by all manner of sly comments and gestures that he would rather Pierre wasn't there.

The young foundry man became so distracted and miserable that he went out to meet Monsieur Du Fer by the gate of the house. Evening was apace. Carriages took gentlemen home from the Bourse. Ladies home from their shopping and their various enterprises. Paris was busy preparing for the evening. A little later, Monsieur Du Fer arrived and Pierre went to meet him. Du Fer shook hands with Pierre and told him that he hoped the young man harboured no affections for Mademoiselle Constance. His blushes at this remark told Du Fer that the young man harboured all affections for Mademoiselle Constance though he had never intimated that he would take them further.

"Go home young man and find someone nearer to your own status in life," Monsieur Du Fer told him.

Pierre shook with emotion but nodded and strode away, his heart snapped and tears springing to his eyes. He turned again towards the hill of Montmartre but as he came up the hill a carriage with red and green livery stopped beside him and he was told,

"Get in sir!"

Pierre, so overcome with despair did not care if he died and got into the carriage. Opposite him sat a beautiful woman with hair the colour of fire and eyes as green as a cat's. Beside her sat a red-haired gentleman with green sparkling eyes.

The next morning, the Neptune Fountain was discovered fully made and gleaming in the foundry. It was a fine piece of work and much admired by the men and by Monsieur Du Fer who noticed that Pierre was absent. The men carefully packed up the fountain and it was removed to the Luxembourg Gardens to be connected. It was beautifully connected and began to work perfectly. The King was most pleased with it, though he noticed Monsieur Du Fer seemed unhappy. Dauchon had done his work and Du Fer was now left to wonder if he would have done better to meet Dauchon first that evening.

The grand opening of the Luxembourg Gardens was to be held in three days time and the workmen still laboured to finish everything. Monsieur Du Fer took his foundry men and continued working on the next order. No more was heard of Pierre and Monsieur Du Fer was forced to gather Constance's dowry and to arrange her wedding to the inspector Dauchon. He had told Constance of the wedding and she had locked herself in her bedchamber in horror. She refused to see anyone at all.

"I would sooner die than marry that fat simpering creature!" she had declared.

Monsieur Du Fer agreed with her, but Dauchon had suggested that faults might be found in the fountain should not he not be married to Constance within three days.

On the day of the opening of the Luxembourg Gardens, Constance was to be married to Dauchon. The wedding was to take place after the opening of the Gardens in the morning. It did not happen for this reason.

As Monsieur Du Fer was continuing his bronze casting, every piece since the Neptune Fountain cracked and fell apart. Monsieur Du Fer was mad with grief and despair. But one morning he came into the foundry ready to pay off the men and shut up the foundry when an elegant gentleman entered the foundry and asked if he might buy it.

"I shall of course require your foundry men and if you would be happy to manage the foundry I should be grateful," the gentleman said.

At the first word the gentleman spoke, Du Fer recognised Pierre. But Pierre had been transformed. Now he clearly was a man of wealth and elegance, not the poor, grimy foundry man he had been. Monsieur Du Fer refused and answered that every piece was ruined since the Neptune Fountain.

"Kindness was not rewarded by kindness, monsieur," Pierre answered and left.

The opening of the Gardens was a grand affair. The King himself was there with all his courtiers in all their finery. Dauchon stood with the Head of Works smiling at the thought of his young bride to be. But as the King arose to pronounce the Gardens open, the statue of Neptune seemed to shiver in the dry summer air. The horses of his chariot tossed their manes and raised their heads and Neptune arose in his chariot and raised his trident over his head. Everyone was silent with shock.

"Monsieur Dauchon must come with me," Neptune thundered.

The King was about to protest when the Head of Works nodded to three of his burly workmen and Dauchon was propelled forwards towards the fountain and thrown in to the water. Almost immediately Dauchon changed shape. His flailing arms became scrawnier and his fingers webbed. His legs too became scrawnier and his hat fell from his head. His high scream deepened until a large toad was sitting in the fountain. Neptune stepped from his chariot and took the toad in his great hand. Then he sank beneath the waves of the fountain and was never seen again. Instead the Du Fer Foundry provided an angel to hold the reins of the chariot. Pierre had visited the Du Fer house during the grand opening and spoken to Constance. He declared that he loved her and if she would have him, he would be honoured to marry her.

Smart young woman that she was Constance had negotiated several concessions first and they were wed that afternoon at a ceremony that also included Pierre becoming the owner of the Foundry.

Where Flowers grow

2011-09-22T16:46:00.000+01:00

Mary did not believe in Faeries at the bottom of her garden. It was probably lucky given that she stated it so bluntly that she wore a steel brooch that was very modern looking. For Mary believed in her garden and in all things modern and new.

One weekend her grandmother came to stay with her. Grandmother was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed so she said. Mary did not point out that her gran might be bright-eyed but unless she had any squirrel in her, she was unlikely to be bushy-tailed. Grandmother was wiry and small with a very down to earth attitude to everything. Mary recalled being shocked at the first time she heard her gran swear after stubbing her toe on the doorstep. Modern as Mary was, she could not believe somehow that Grandmothers swore. It seems that she had forgotten that to become a grandmother you had to first have been a mother. There are very, very few mothers who have never had a reason to swear. In fact they are so rare as to be practically mythical. This is why all mothers state "I love my kids, but..." and are both driven mad over their children's lifetime as well as driving their children mad by loving them. Hence, Grandmothers are exceptionally good at swearing.

The only other thing that shocked her was that Grandmother certainly believed in Faeries. She told Mary as if she were reporting local news that there was a brownie in the house on the first morning she stayed with Mary. Mary smiled but the smiled died on her face when her Grandmother did not smile.

"You'll need to leave milk and bread for it. Don't whatever you do go and do something daft like leaving clothes for it. Brownies don't want favours done, if they did, they'd ask. So anyway, what are we doing today?" Grandmother asked, helping herself to another slice of toast.

She barked a laugh when Mary stated categorically that she did not believe in such superstitions.

"Well you'd better start Mary, your house has bluebell woods on one side and flower meadows on the other. You'll need an old iron horseshoe over the doors and windows or the faeries will get in and you'll know about it then, believe it or not," Grandmother told her.

Mary humphed and drank her tea. They went into town after breakfast which Mary enjoyed for the town was all bright lights, plastic, concrete and relentlessly human. Nothing to do with faeries at all. She bought a pair of white shoes and white stockings, for she did not care for tights. She liked fastening her stockings in the morning and wearing a dress. She felt as she thought she ought to. A modern woman with elegance. Grandmother bought some old iron horseshoes from a bric-a-brac stall in the marketplace, a very charming set of fish knives and forks and six books with beautiful frontispieces. She was resolutely un-modern. Nonetheless, they sat and had coffee and cake at a gleaming modern cafe and Grandmother remarked that she was glad to take the weight off her feet for a while. The coffee was good and the cake calorific, which Mary was glad of for she worried about Grandmother.

When they got home Grandmother settled in an armchair with one of her books and snoozed. Mary took advantage of this to go out into the garden. She thought about what Grandmother had said and told herself that a meadow was no more than a meadow. She liked the pretty flowers and the few trees on the further side of the meadow, but she did not believe for a minute in faeries. As she was thinking she wandered across to the gate and passed through into the meadow. She did not feel the breeze pick up nor hear the faint laughter coming from the grasses in the meadow. She did not notice the slight darkening of the light or the intensity of the greenery becoming more intense. She felt a light free feeling and laughed. Standing in the middle of the meadow, she put her hands on her hips and wondered if she might make an extended garden of it. As she thought of it, she gazed about her and suddenly felt a light movement about her ankles and shins. Flowers seem to be growing out of the dark earth and along her legs. She cried out in surprise and leapt about, but still flowers seemed to grow along her white stockings upwards. She smoothed down her dress and backed away from the flowers, but where she walked, flowers sprang up in her footsteps. She cried out again and suddenly she heard a voice and the breeze died away, the laughter was silenced, the air lightened and a sudden dizziness she had not been aware of, faded away from her.

Standing in her garden was Grandmother with a stern look on her face that had at back of it, something of fear too. Her hands were extended before her and it dawned on Mary that her Grandmother was not the ordinary old lady she appeared to be.

"Come along Mary, let's have some tea," Grandmother called to her.

Mary found herself walking with her whole body trembling as if in fear of something nameless. She took her Grandmother's hands and was pulled through the gateway back into her garden. Instantly she felt as ordinary as if she had been dreaming and woken up. They went indoors and Mary remarked on her stockings that were now decorated with flowers. She did not ask her Grandmother if she was a witch, she did not quite know how to and it did not seem very polite. Grandmother for her part did not tell her either.

That evening when she undressed for bed, she saw that not only the stockings, but her legs were covered with a decoration of flowers that did not look as if they would wash off. She frowned and rubbed her legs until they were sore, but the flowers remained. Grandmother moved in with Mary a little later and after a few months, the flowers on Mary's legs had faded away. Mary does not speak of faeries any more and she always leaves bread and milk for the brownie of whom she also never speaks.

Let them eat Eclairs

2011-09-04T14:32:00.000+01:00

It was in the last days of Paris when the world's nations had overextended themselves and the economies had collapsed. The result was a contraction and a very sudden invasion of the cities and towns of nature who seemed to claim back what had once been her own. That was not a surprise as such. What was a surprise was what came with nature's invasion. Not merely the flora and fauna, but magical things, wild things. People reverted to living in village communities, sharing resources and being extremely careful in woodland.

Electronics became a thing of the past, an almost mythical past as time went on. We had learned again old ways, but transformed them with what we had learned before. Stories became treasured in a way that had not been known before. Villages had their own storytellers, bakers, herbalist-chemists, engineers and artists. Everyone grew their own crops but the results were shared so that no-one went hungry.

And then the faeries came.

That there really were faeries was a shock to the system. Very suddenly, good manners were essential in the woods. The dryads and faeries, the foxes and crows, all had to be addressed properly and with decorum if you were to keep living. Bad manners were not simply mere rudeness, they were a way of getting yourself killed... or worse.

Clayton village on the edge of the Sussex Downs was small and had contracted around the little church that now served as a meeting place for the village council and the people. The baker of the village was a wise woman who had three daughters who helped in the bakery and also made other foods for the village. It was a hard life for all the villagers but they managed well.

It happened one morning that the baker, Clotilda came into the bakery one morning to find an old woman no bigger than a child's chair standing by the oven shivering. Minding her manners, Clotilda asked if the old woman was hungry.

"I am that," came the reply, "And so very cold."

It being summer, Clotilda was surprised by this and yet hoped that feeding the old woman would warm her, for a full stomach is a warm one. She took fresh bread, good butter and fine honey and gave the old woman a good breakfast. The old woman wolfed it all as if she had last eaten when we used money and bought things. Clotilda then gave her tea which the old woman slurped crudely while her beady eyes like little black berries darted about the bakery kitchen. Clotilda had eaten a little to keep the old woman company and seeing the almost wild look in her eyes realised that she had a faery to deal with. She was exceptionally glad that she had minded her manners.

She took the dough from the cold cupboards and began to knead it to make bread. All the time she spoke to the old woman asking her if she had eaten enough or if she would like more to eat or drink. The old woman ate her way through six loaves of bread, four jars of honey and five large pats of butter. She drank four pots full of tea and having burped loudly with satisfaction she shook her head, thanked Clotilda and left.

Clotilda made her bread and her daughters came to help her a litttle later. They were each very beautiful and quite charming. But most of all they were healthy, strong and hard-working and that counted for a lot in a village where everyone worked to survive. Many of the young men of the village had their eyes on the daughters of Clotilda, but the young women had no intention of marrying for they enjoyed living together and with their mother. They had a cat to keep the mice out of the oast house and a dog to keep the rats out of their house and both cat and dog to keep them all company. That was enough for them.

However, it happened that one morning, when the moon had not yet set and the sun not yet risen that an old man came to call upon Clotilda and her daughters. Politely Clotilda asked him if he would like bread, but he declined the offer. Instead he said that he wished his three sons to wed and they had their eye on her daughters.

"Good sir, my daughters must choose who and if they wed. For my part I only wish their happiness and prosperity for I love them all dearly," she answered carefully.

The old man's green shoes were the colour of holly leaves and his red coat the colour of hawthorn haws. Clotilda realised from this, that the old gentleman was one of the Fair Folk. She did not wish to offend him, but she did not wish her daughters to wed the faeries either. It was far too dangerous and she might never see them again. The old man answered that his sons; Cobweb, Peaseblossom and Mustardseed were fine bonny lads who would bring nothing but joy to any woman, mortal or otherwise.

"Of that I have no doubts good sir, but my daughters have never expressed a desire to wed at all. As their mother I must respect their wishes, but if you would talk with them..."

She left the sentence unfinished for the old man seemed to be thinking suddenly. Then he laughed and told her,

"I wish for a great feast on the morrow before the moon sets and the sun rises. My sons will be there. If the food is to their liking and they cannot finish it, your daughter's shall be free to remain as they are and great happiness and prosperity shall be theirs. However, if my sons can finish the food you make, they shall wed your daughters whether they will or no and there's an end to it Mistress Baker," he said with a very decisive air.

Clotilda knew that there was no choice. You did not argue with the Fair Folk, for the Faeries had the power of the earth, a very ancient and strong power. She nodded sadly and the old man vanished into the motes of fine dust within the early morning sunlight that came through the windows. Clotilda thought hard very quickly, then she remembered something. A wedding that had taken place at Pyecombe some months ago, that she had baked for when their baker was unwell. She called her daughters to her and told two of them to fetch plenty of cream for clotting. The third daughter was to help her prepare choux pastry and a large vat of melted chocolate. The chocolate was not a problem, for the people of the village had created great greenhouses to grow Cacao and from that they made chocolate for the villagers and in a good year they traded it for what they needed from the surrounding villages.

Clotilda and her daughters then cleared the cold cupboards and made only eclairs. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands of them until they filled the cold cupboards and the larders - and the crockery cupboards and still they made them. When the rest of the villagers heard the story, they joined in to help until the village had produced millions of eclairs. Through that day they worked and through the night.

Before sunrise the following morning the old man appeared with his sons. The sons were indeed handsome, yet there was something old and wild about them, like the earth itself. Clotilda and her beautiful daughters brought out some eclairs for the sons to taste. They liked them. Who would not?

"We will have all you have for our feast," the old man said.

Clotilda curtseyed and brought out the eclairs. The four women were very tired, they had stayed awake through the night on hot chocolate, but now they were ready to sleep. Still they bought out trays of eclairs and the faerie sons finished them. Still the trays kept coming and still Cobweb, Peaseblossom and Mustardseed ate them greedily, rubbing their stomachs with great pleasure and complimenting the four women on such fine eclairs.

Slowly the darkness of the night began to fade into a sky that was turning white. Still the gentlemen ate and still the trays of eclairs kept coming. Slowly as the faeries ate they became rounder and rounder, fatter and fatter until the compliments ceased to come and they ate in stolid silence. The old man's brow darkened and he frowned. But still the trays of eclairs kept on coming until Mustardseed fell asleep and vanished into the earth. An hour later he was followed by Peaseblossom and the old man positively trembled with rage. With extreme politeness, Clotilda asked him if he would like some tea with bread and honey. He was about to reply when Cobweb yawned widely and his head nodded sleepily onto his chest. The eclair fell from his hand and he slipped into sleep and vanished into the earth.

The old man growled and he was about to say something very impolite when the old woman appeared and asked if Clotilda had any food and if she might sit by the oven to warm herself. Clotilda answered that there were some eclairs left and with a shriek of rage the old man vanished.

The old woman laughed and laughed. She began to change into a tall and beautiful young woman. Her hair was flaming red and her eyes were green as oak leaves. Her dress was crimson as holly berries and her pale feet were bare.

"Your daughters and you shall always be happy and prosper. No harm shall befall them or you so long as you show kindness as you did to me. As for Monsieur Blackthorn and his sons - let them eat eclairs!" she declared and vanished into the morning sunlight.

From that day onwards, Clotilda and her daughters prospered. Everything they made was fine and beautiful, and they were happy until that inevitable day when they were called away into the Silent Land of death.

Esprit d'Escalier

2011-08-25T09:54:00.000+01:00

Bishop Osric rode up the hill on the little jennet without fanfare or fuss. It was as he preferred. When the monks at St Cuthbert's had protested that he was a bishop he remarked that the little jennet was fine for him as an ass had been for the Virgin when the Holy Family had fled from Herod. That one witty monk had remarked that Christ himself had entered a city on Palm Sunday to much fanfare and fuss the bishop had only a smile and a wagging finger.

"Very good Brother Simon, very good. Nonetheless, less fuss is liable to attract less bandits," he remarked.

For there were still outlaws in the great forests of England then and not all of them as kindly as Robin in the Hood. Bishop Osric was not afraid of outlaws particularly, he was as broad and stout as an oak church door and his faith was such that little but the anger of the Lord was liable to frighten him. In His wisdom He had not seen fit to scare Osric yet. Osric was a tall man, with dark bushy hair and sparkling blue eyes. He looked like a knight - indeed he had been one in his young days, more like to fight than befriend. Perhaps because of his youth he was compassionate and gentle, slow to judge and to anger. He had been a good bishop, well-loved at St Cuthbert's, but when the call came to move onwards to Sainte Marie de la Rose he took up what little he had and the jennet riding to the coast and to France. The crossing from England had been calm and inspired in him all the memories of earlier times. As a bishop rather than a knight travel was easy enough and he was fluent in Latin, the language mainly used at the time. He blessed the ship and the crew and arriving at Calais he had mounted upon his jennet and rode south towards Sainte Marie de la Rose.

When he had climbed the first rise on foot and leading the placid jennet, speaking kind words of encouragement the view that rewarded him was of a walled town on a far hill with the tall spired cathedral above the houses at the centre of the town. Like a shepherd looking over his sheep, Osric had told the jennet with a slow smile. Then they had slowly and cautiously headed down into the valley, Osric taking care not to lead the jennet along paths unsuitable for it's hooves. The valley was a patchwork of fields in varying shades of green for it was the middle of spring. Between them the road was a dusty dark reddish colour that spoke of iron ore in the soil. Good for plants, Osric told himself remembering his books on gardening. He had led the jennet down to the valley where they rested at an inn. The jennet feasted on oats and the bishop on a roasted fowl and a bottle of good wine. Two men, merchants by the look of them joined him and in the conversation Osric revealed that he was for the abbey of Sainte Marie de la Rose. The conversation suddenly became brittle and bright like thin ice, but nothing Osric could ask would induce the men to say anything more of the abbey. Only their nervous glances at each other told him anything he cared to guess at.

Osric was no fool, he did not like to make conclusions without any facts and it seemed to him that all he could do was continue on his way. He changed the subject to farming and the iron rich soil instead and a farmer, overhearing the conversation joined them. They did not speak Latin but the language of the Occitan, which Osric had learned as a knight. When the words were spoken the language came back to him, haltingly at first then fluent as an undammed stream. He revelled in the sounds of the words in his mouth, generous sounds that reminded him of Baudoin his friend whom he had not seen for many years.

When he left the men he was in largely contented mood, helped by the fowl and the wine. The jennet he walked up the hill into the town and through the streets with their noise and bustle. He noticed the open, friendly faces of the people and their conversations about him cheered him. He arrived at the abbey in a good and happy mood therefore. He was met by a monk who hearing that he was the bishop called for the monks to come. The little jennet was led away to a stable and Osric's belongings were carried inside. At the right of the hallway was a small spiralling staircase that Osric glanced at.

"Where does that go?" he asked in Occitan.

The monk suddenly seemed afraid and pretended - openly pretended not to understand. Osric let it go, he was just arrived and no doubt there was much to learn. He was led to a finely appointed apartment, his belongings placed on the rug in the main chamber. His aide a small intense man called Brother Philippe came to him and asked if he had eaten. He replied that he had and said that he would speak with Brother Philippe about the abbey. During the conversation, the small staircase came up.

Brother Philippe smiled tightly and sighed,

"Perhaps we can come back to that your Grace," he said tactfully.

But Osric had the distinct feeling that after all the discussions nothing would be heard of it again.

"Perhaps not, Brother Philippe. If there is something I need to know then I would prefer the fears of other men not prevent me from knowing it," he remarked.

Brother Philippe gazed down at his feet and when he raised his eyes to the bishop he seemed to have aged a thousand years at least.

"Your Grace has no doubt heard of the phrase 'esprit d'escalier', a Norman phrase meaning literally the spirit of the staircase. On that staircase it is said - no, there is literally a spirit. It has asked anyone who dares to use the stairs a question. And pitched anyone who has not the answer to a terrible death. Nobody has correctly answered the question. By accident, someone listening at the bottom of the stairs heard the question shortly before another unfortunate victim was thrown down the stairs to their death. I forget it accurately now, but I am sure I can find it for you. The previous bishop on being told insisted on climbing the stairs to meet the challenge. You are his replacement, your grace. So you may understand why anyone wishes to speak of it," Philippe told him.

"I am grateful nonetheless. Had I unknowing gone up those stairs I might have been the spirit's next victim. Do please let me know what the question is. Perhaps by studying it we can find an answer to it and put an end to this spirit's fatal haunting," Osric answered.

That evening, as Osric stood at the bottom of the small staircase he said a prayer for the victims of the spirit. Then calling up the stairs he said angrily,

"You ought to be ashamed to kill those who cannot answer a question. Be you devil or ghost you shall not last."

He turned away and down the stairs came the distinct sound of laughter. He growled and walked away. He would fight the battle, but on his terms as much as possible. In the evening after supper as he strolled in the fine library of the abbey enjoying the books, Brother Philippe came to him.

"Your Grace the question the spirit asks is this, 'How do eggs backwards conquer everything?' A most peculiar question you will admit. An egg backwards is an egg still. It conquers nothing, unless it may mean that we are born of eggs in our mothers and have the capacity to conquer everything. Which is foolish as your Grace knows. Only God conquers everything," the young aide remarked.

Even as he spoke Osric turned to the windows and smiled. At the young man's last remark he suddenly burst out into laughter. Outside the spring evening was darkening. Cloud shadows crawled or dashed across the landscape and the sun was going down in the west.

"Where is the top of the staircase, Brother Philippe?" Osric asked him.

"Why at the far end of the corridor outside your chamber your Grace," Philippe told him.

"Will you have my vestments ready at the foot of the staircase in the morning," Osric asked.

"Your Grace, vestments? Or a coffin? Surely your Grace is not going to dare the spirit?" Philippe asked him.

"If that is the only question he asks then certainly I shall," Osric answered quietly.

"I beg your Grace to reconsider. You have only just arrived and there is much to do - so much to do. At least wait until after a year," Philippe begged him.

"Yes, the garden is to be dealt with and we need to raise funds for the vestry and there is more work to be done to help the poor in the city. Have my vestments and a jug of coffee in my office. We shall have work to do indeed," Osric answered.

"But your Grace, I implore you," Philippe cried out.

"Is that the only question he asks?" Osric turned to ask his aide and his blue eyes were firm.

"That was the question heard your Grace but if there is another, we know not," was the answer.

"Then obey me and trust in God," Osric answered.

Seeing the distress on the young man's face he embraced him and sent him to his bed. But the next morning when Osric opened the door of his apartment he found Brother Philippe asleep across the threshold. He smiled and covering the young man with a quilt he left the apartment and trod quietly along the corridor. About him were bound pillows and quilts, especially about his head and neck. He began to descend the stairs, in the dark for nobody dared light the lanterns. He wished he had brought a taper but still he continued until he became aware that something or someone else was present on the stairs with him.

"Answer my question and you descend the stairs alive. Fail and you descend into the other place," a hollow and solemn voice demanded of him.

"If I answer the question, you will leave this place and all in it never to return. And for all those you have killed you will undoubtedly go to the place below," Osric answered.

The presence of something became someone he was sure, for he felt his arms gripped as if by someone made of iron himself. The being laughed and agreed,

"But you must answer my question first," it said inexorably.

"By the Good God then ask it," Osric answered coolly.

"How do eggs backwards conquer everything?" the being asked him.

"By being Love," Osric said quietly, "Eggs in Latin is ova from the singular ovum. Backwards it is avo the sign lovers wear on their jewellery meaning Amor vincit omnia - Love conquers everything. Now, in the name of He who is Love I command you leave and never return."

The being shrieked once a sound that seemed to shatter the very stones around them.

"I bid you remember Jehan of the Well. Even I loved and for it I was pelted with eggs from this stair by her friends. Since then I have sought revenge for the affronts offered to me!" the being wailed.

Then the grip on his arms was no longer there and Osric felt that he was alone again. Quietly and thoughtfully he descended the stairs to the astonishment of those who met him. He put on his vestments and blessed them all. Turning to the stairs he blessed also the memory of Jehan of the Well and went into breakfast with his fellows.

Deep in the Woods

2011-08-18T14:45:00.000+01:00

Hundreds of years ago there lived a man called Jacob Jones. He was a handsome if lazy youth and was often found in the village flirting with the maidens there. All would have been well if he had left it at chat, but a young man is frequently the most capable of fools and his foolish flirting led to him leaving a lovely young woman pregnant. She was much chastised for giving up her virtue to such a foolish man who had never any inclination to work. Nor was he ever in money save what he could come by stealing or gambling.

The young woman's mother despaired of her daughter, but said that she would stand by her for there was only her and the girl's grandmother. The young woman's father had died in a riding accident some years after she had been born but the mother and grandmother were intelligent women and hard working. They had worked all the hours they could, the very opposite of Jacob Jones. The grandmother, strong and defiant told everyone who the erring father of the child was and suddenly Jacob found himself ignored by the women. He plotted to revenge himself on the old woman and as is often the case, his plans came to encompass the young woman's mother and the woman herself. No matter that she was pregnant with his child.

One night he decided, inflamed by drink and stupidity to set fire to the women's house. He staggered along the street chuckling cruelly to himself at the thought of the revenge he would have, but the grandmother at her bedchamber window saw him and guessing his intent she whispered a word.

That word fell from her lips out of the window and into the air where it flew towards the woods. A little later, a horse was heard galloping along the street and Jacob turned at the sound of it's coming to see a finely dressed and beautiful young woman riding towards him.

Her dress was long and red as the holly berry, bound at the waist by a sash as green as the oak leaf. Her hair was red as a flame and her eyes green and dark like the laurel. Her skin was pale as snow and her smile was gentle and gracious. She smiled upon Jacob and asked him if he would ride with her. Her tone was suggestive and he smiled wolfishly and said that he would be honoured to ride with such beauty. He mounted up in the saddle behind her and put his strong arms about her slim waist. The beauty guided the horse along the road through the village and out at speed into the woods. Jacob suddenly found that he could not get off the horse. He seemed stuck to the saddle and his arms about the woman's waist.

Faster they went towards the great barrow at the centre of the wood and to his shock the barrow opened up and they entered into it suddenly descending as if into hell itself. He murmured the Lords Prayer as they went and the woman laughed at the sound of it. The earth, dark and rich full of the roots of the trees above flew past them as they continued down and Jacob whispered in terror,

"Will I never see my home again?"

"You'll not want to Jacob my love, for at my side among the Fair Folk in our lands and demesnes you will find great happiness," the woman told him.

Some three hundred years later, while walking in the woods a young woman beheld an old man on a horse who asked after a young woman. The young woman herself laughed and answered that was but a legend and that the woman had died a long time ago, her son too.

The old man murmured, "If I get off this horse I too shall die, for I may not set foot on the earth if I am to return home."

The young woman misunderstanding said that she would help him off his horse. He need not be afraid of falling. He sighed and asked what the year was. When the young woman told him, he lowered his old head and wept.

"Then Jacob Jones is but a forgotten man and I am out of my rightful time," he said through his tears.

He bound the horse's reins about the saddle and slowly dismounted. You may imagine the young woman's shock when his foot touched the ground and he suddenly turned to dust that was swept away by the autumnal breeze. The horse raised its head and seemed to sigh before turning away and galloping through the forest out of the woman's sight. She ran home to her family and told them of what had happened and now, many hundreds of years later, if you walk in the forest you may come across the grave of Jacob Jones whom time has reclaimed as its own.

One Dog Rose

2011-07-24T16:33:00.000+01:00

Many years ago, during what was called the Wars of the Roses in the fair Isle of Britain there was a knight called Sir Hugo Sauvage, for his ancestors had been great and chivalrous knights. Now it happened that Sir Hugo was very fond, as many were in those days, of hunting stag and boar. Sauvage by name and it seemed, sauvage by nature.

While out hunting one day he paused with his companions at the Castle Beauvoir which indeed was beautiful to see being set in a great park of glorious aspect. It was the home of Sir Carom Viridian a most honest gentleman and excellent knight himself. It happened that as well as a wife whom he loved passing fair, he had also a beautiful daughter, Lady Rosa. Her hair was black as the raven's wing, her skin as delicately tinged as a pink rose and her eyes blue as an evening sky at summer. Gentle was her voice it seemed to Sir Hugo and pleasing in every aspect so that he fell quite in love with her. For Cupid was and is often a greater hunter than ever Sir Hugo was.

There was but one problem it seemed; Sir Hugo was perfectly happy to talk a great deal about horses, weaponry and indeed hunting. But he was quite hopeless at talking of love and in the presence of the Lady Rosa he was quite the stumbling nincompoop rather than the dashing knight he appeared. Worse, he knew it. His face would redden, he would harrumph like a walrus with a headcold and stammer in the most fearful way. At this rate he was unlikely to ever get up the courage to tell the beauteous Lady Rosa that he adored and respected and more than all, loved her. Sir Carom was a perceptive man and saw that his neighbour loved his daughter, but he was also a gentleman who loved his daughter's happiness more than all. So that when Sir Hugo had 'gorn orf' home as was said in those days, Sir Carom asked Lady Rosa what she thought of Sir Hugo.

"By Heaven he seems quite strange father. All that stammering and blushing like a schoolboy who's forgotten his homework and is in trouble with his teacher. I suspect his Latin is terrible and his French quite mundane. It is difficult to know how good his English is as he charged through it as if it were a thicket to be reckoned with," she said quite exasperated.

Sir Carom smiled and told her of the terrible suffering of Love which Cupid for all his cleverness had not considered. 'Must try harder' was no doubt on Cupid's school report though he might be exceptional at archery. Lady Rosa chuckled sympathetically when she realised that Sir Hugo was in love with her.

"Now I am quite sure he is mad, for I am nothing special to look at I am sure," she said with a smile that could have melted ice at several paces.

Sir Carom shook his head in disbelief and said that he would invite Sir Hugo to dinner one evening. That way he and Lady Rosa might get to know each other.

"He might reassure himself that you are less dragon and more human than you think you are," he said to his daughter with a smile.

She laughed and told her mother who kissed her daughter and said wisely,

"You are quite beautiful and for that reason alone you must be careful of men's avowal's of love."

Lady's Rosa blushed prettily and embraced her mother. She pished and pshawed considerably at the thought that anyone might find her in the least attractive.

Now Sir Hugo, having arrived home considered how he might show the elegant and beautiful Lady Rosa whom he considered more Belle Voir than her Beauvoir home. For she is the most beautiful to see than any old castle he told himself wistfully. Being a man who was unused to the company of women he struggled to come up with anything. Even he could see that a dead stag would not be quite romantic from a young woman's view. Horses her father had plenty of and she did not seem the kind who was all that fascinated by weapons or hunting. When he entered the great hall of his castle, a hound the size of a small horse leapt up and ran to greet his master. Sir Hugo embraced the large soft-headed animal and was amazed that such an animal would love him. The thought that the soppy hound might love him, but that Lady Rosa might not threw him into a despair of sighs and groans. The hound sat at his feet and placed its head upon his knees in sympathy and Sir Hugo caressed the large animal's head with his own soppy affection.

"Good dog, loyal friend," he sighed.

It happened, I perhaps should have mentioned it earlier, that Sir Hugo's castle was surrounded by several large thorny dog rose plants. Every winter they showed their thorns as much as Jack Frost showed his and every spring they showed the most charming flowers. Now it happened that when Sir Hugo fell for Lady Rosa, it was the end of winter and spring, so to speak, sprang. To the astonishment of all at Sir Hugo's castle, the dog roses produced only one rose. How apt, thought Sir Hugo, for there was only one rose that he loved too. It occurred to him that girls liked flowers and in his own rustic way he went out one morning and gathered a charming if naive bouquet. To finish it off with something rare and beautiful he thought he would pick the one dog rose. But it was too high up and he was much pricked by thorns for his attempts. There was a great deal of huffing, puffing and some very uncouth language from the otherwise very couth Sir Hugo. In the end he decided to leave it and went back indoors to prepare himself for a visit to Sir Carom.

He was quite a dandy, dressed in elegant and richly appointed clothes. He even had a bath which quite shocked the staff in the castle. When he came to ride his horse Joshua, he looked quite the dashing knight he was. Now if he could remember not to lose his composure in the company of Lady Rosa he might win her hand after all.

Sir Carom was quite delighted to see Sir Hugo again and asked if his daughter might join them. Sir Hugo felt his heart plummet with fear and his face redden, but of course he could not refuse. Sir Carom therefore called Lady Rosa to join them. She came and curtsied before the bewildered Sir Hugo and seeing the bouquet in his large paw exclaimed her delight.

"Harrumph! Er, there was a rather pretty dog rose but I couldn't get at it. Or I would have brought it for you m'lady," Sir Hugo explained nervously.

He was sure there was a thunderstorm outside, for he could hear it, but it was the thundering of his heart. He wrestled with his panic and the rather urgent desire to be elsewhere before he humiliated himself before the breath-takingly beautiful Lady Rosa. She however sat with him and gently held his hand. He was like to have fainted at that point, but for Sir Carom handing him a glass of brandy.

"Ha-hum, most kind my lord, most kind!" he said and drank it off.

"My lord has many dog roses?" Lady Rosa asked him.

He frowned and explained that this year the entire dog roses had managed only the one rose.

"Very pretty mark you, very charming, but only one! Quite remarkable! Still, one pretty rose is all one needs," he mused.

Suddenly realising what he said, he was about to harrumph again, but Lady Rosa, quite touched by that kissed him and said that it was the nicest thing to say. Especially given that she was not quite as beautiful as a real rose. At this Sir Hugo fell into a fit of harrumphing and protesting.

"No, no really I must say! I must say that is quite... you are the most beautiful young lady. A very beautiful rose, I must protest that anyone should... er, hum!" he said.

At which point Lady Rosa kissed him again and thanked him for being quite the sweetest man. He smiled and thanked her, by George, most kind, most kind indeed. And there at that point he quite forgot himself and asked her if she wouldn't mind marryin' him, be deuced kind if she would mind. He admitted that he wasn't quite the catch, but still, he was loyal and kind.

"As a single dog rose?" she said very sweetly, trying not to laugh, for she thought him really quite sweet.

"Hum, loyal perhaps, but not very kind what! Not with all those thorns scratchin' and stabbin' a man!" he explained.

It mattered little, Lady Rosa did marry him and changed his coat of arms to a dog rose upon a field vert - that is to say a dog rose on a viridian background. And while he could be a little prickly of a morning, he was loyal and gentle and kind - like the flower of a dog rose.

The Good Companion

2011-07-17T11:10:00.001+01:00

There was a man, a very minor civil servant. I forget his name; it does not matter, there are many minor civil servants who are forgotten. This man was fashionable, by which I mean, if anything new came along he was all for it. But worse, he derided everything that had gone before - even though they too had been the new thing once.

Now many of us who write; letters, reports, memos, even stories are glad of our computers. Editing your work is easier with the 'copy' and 'paste' functions and there isn't the waste of paper there once was. But we too miss just sitting and taking a slow pleasure in writing by hand as we once did. And, being so used to typing everything our handwriting has deteriorated to terrible scrawls as we fall out of practise. This man had awful handwriting until he was asked to write everything so that it was more legible. Even then he struggled.

It happened that he saw a film on the television about the war reporter Martha Gellhorn who had travelled everywhere with a small portable typewriter. He was amazed that she had managed without a laptop computer at all. He could not sleep that night for thinking about the amazing Ms Gellhorn and was struck with the idea that he too might become a journalist. He would not buy a typewriter however, but take his laptop.

He saved all the money he could and went out to Latin America where his laptop was promptly stolen. He was bereft until he came across a shop selling typewriters. Inside the shop an old woman was quietly repairing old typewriters. To the civil servant it was like walking into an antique shop, yet he remembered Ms Gellhorn, though he was miles away from Spain and indeed years away from the 1930s. He wandered around the shop fascinated, looking at the typewriters until the woman looked up and smiled a mischievous smile.

"You want a typewriter, senor?" she asked in her heavily accented English.

The civil servant had noticed an Imperial 'Good Companion' a typewriter from the 1930s and imagining it to be the kind of typewriter Martha Gellhorn would have used, he thanked the old woman and bought the 'Good Companion'. It was heavy to carry, heavier than his laptop, but the old woman had thoughtfully added an instruction manual and several typewriter ribbons in a charming wooden case. He bought several reams of paper and carried the typewriter back to his hotel. In it's battered case, nobody stole it from him.

In his hotel room that night, he woke up suddenly and began to write at the little typewriter. When he became tired he fell asleep dreaming of all kinds of very strange things. In the early morning he awoke to the sound of typing. He opened his eyes but could see very little for it was not yet light and he dared not get out of bed to turn the light on. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark he saw that his white kid gloves were at the typewriter. He had bought the gloves from an antique shop with the idea of wearing them out to supper. Now there they were typing away at his 'Good Companion'. Every so often the left handed glove would reach up to use the carriage return lever. When the present sheet of paper was finished, it would tear the sheet from the roll and put another in. The finished sheet would drift like snow to the floor or the chair by the table.

The civil servant told himself he was dreaming and drifted back into sleep. However, the next morning when he awoke, all around the typewriter were sheets of writing. He looked into the drawer of the dresser where he had put the gloves and they were still there, though the fingers were a little more worn than they had been. He ignored the possibility that leapt instantly to his mind. Instead he had a shower and dressed for the day. Only then did he gather up the sheets of paper that lay around. The typist had used all of his paper and written a novel it seemed. He made some coffee and sat in his room putting the sheets of paper in order. That done, he put them in his case, tying them with a tie he had intended to wear but had not due to the heat.

He wandered out of the hotel with the Good Companion and sat at a hotel having breakfast, trying to think what to do. He could not very well publish the novel as his own. He had not written it. But if he wrote a foreword explaining that his dress gloves had written it he would be thought quite mad. After breakfast he wandered back to the typewriter shop. The old woman noticing him outside smiled and murmured a word. Then she went to the front of the shop and invited the man inside.

"You like the Good Companion senor? It's a good machine, no?" she asked.

"Er, yes, very fine machine," he began, then taking a deep breath he explained what he was sure he had dreamed.

The old woman smiled and nodded.

"I am afraid I could not help tease the senor. I put a spell on the typewriter. But I have removed the spell so you will be fine now. There is news senor, a civil war in the south it seems. The people are overthrowing the tyrant - again. Ah me, it's such a foolish world we are born into and we make it more foolish, no?" she answered him.

"A spell?" the civil servant asked.

Then he paused, a civil war in the south? Martha Gellhorn would have been on the first train down there. He asked the old woman where he might hire a car. The old woman told him. He did not have his laptop, so he could not email his dispatches home. He would have to write and trust to fate.

He hired a grand old solid car called the Hispano-Suiza J12 Sport Torpedo and drove south. He was fired upon by both sides during the civil war and typed on the bonnet of the car and crouched down on the floor in the back as bullets flew around him. He felt an exhilaration and a vitality he had not felt before. When he could he posted his dispatches back home, first class air mail to a famous Manchester newspaper. Some years later and after some considerable adventure he returned home with the car and the typewriter intact. The car had suffered somewhat, but was repair-able. The typewriter had lived up to its name being a very good companion to him. As for the man himself, he was scarred and tattered and battered, but alive. In wet weather his right arm twinged a little with pain, but he merely swore and continued to type his reminiscences of the civil war. The 'History of a Pair of Gloves' was sent to the publishers and was quite a bestseller. His memoirs of the war came out a little after and he soon became a famous writer. Curiously, he never brought another laptop.

Spin, Spin, Spin

2011-07-13T09:40:00.000+01:00

Marianne, having moved finally into her own home courtesy of a financial prize had decided to furnish it. She was very fond of the Old Welsh Style that she had read about in Fashionable Homes and was looking for something Welsh - or at least something that made her think of the Welsh style. She had not told her brother Leonard who could be sarcastic at what he called her 'daft pretensions' for she was sure he might call this one of her daft pretensions. It is neither daft nor pretentious to believe in a specifically Welsh style, she told herself. That she was from Surrey and had never been to Wales was a fact she chose to dismiss as being inconvenient. She had always meant to go to Wales at some time, she had just not had the time.

This was why she paused at an antique shop in the high street to gaze upon two rather attractive spinning wheels. As a former marketing executive she had never had a need to actually spin her own yarn, let alone weave it and she did not know how. Still, she told herself, they are very Welsh. She pictured two old Welsh women in their national costume with their tall hats and white aprons. Shawls, she thought, I am sure they would have shawls too. So she went into the shop and asked how much the spinning wheels were. The old man in the shop had a face as wrinkled as an old apple and just as rosy. For a moment, Marianne wondered if he was prone to drink, but it was nothing to do with her.

"Thinking of taking up spinning are you?" the old man replied.

He had a voice like the crackling of old twigs being walked on and his laughter was just as crackly but cheerful and wholesome. Marianne answered that she had thought of it, but wanted the spinning wheels to decorate her house with.

"Decorate? Well I suppose they are rather handsome," the old man replied.

It seemed to Marianne for a moment as if he were going to say something more, some kind of secret information about the wheels, but instead he simply told her the price. Marianne was sure that the price was remarkably cheap, but she said nothing. The wheels were his to sell after all. She paid him and asked for the wheels to be delivered, giving him her address.

The following day, while she was at home, painting the bedroom, she heard a knock at the door. She went down the stairs and opened the door to find the two spinning wheels in her covered porch alone. She stepped past them and peered into the lane, but there was nobody there. She thought it strange and made a mental note to talk to the man in the shop when she next went into the town. She took the spinning wheels into the house and placed them beside each other in the front room.

That night, she was woken from a rather absurd dream by the sound of whirring and clattering. She was a little afraid at first, but then became angry. She put her robe on and took a Welsh brass poker from the fireside in her room. Quietly she went down the stairs and halfway down she distinctly heard a voice singing.

"I'll spin when I wish, til the sun shines back
For a wheel's to spin and spin I shall
Or race them both to Ravensburg and back
My name's beyond the Mountain's hall.

Unknown am I, for mortals forget
A wheel's to spin to make fine thread
Nobody knows my true name yet,
Not apple green, nor apple red."

Now Marianne was not easily scared and at this point her anger changed to curiosity. She tiptoed down to the hall and peered into the living room. There was a curious little man who could almost have been the brother of the man in the antique shop, so wrinkled was his face and so rosy. He wore a red coat and red breeches to match, but his shirt was green as the holly leaf as were his shoes and hat. He sat at one of the spinning wheels and spun a thread that was as gold as a field of ripe wheat and as fine as a hair. The other spinning wheel was going also as if in sympathy and he pressed the treadle with his foot in time to his song.

Marianne entered the room with the poker at her side, ready to hit the little man should it be necessary.

"What are you doing in my house?" she demanded suddenly, hoping to make the little man jump with shock.

He did no such thing. Instead he sang again and winked at her.

"I'm spinning young lady. Where there's a wheel there's a way!" he answered cheerily.

"I am trying to sleep and you broke into my house and are just sitting there spinning without so much as a please and thank you! Either you leave or I shall call the police," Marianne answered crossly.

The little man's cheeriness had seemed to her more impertinent than he had a right to. Hearing her threat, the little man laughed and whispered a word. Marianne blinked once and fell asleep.

She was surprised to wake up in her bed as if she had dreamed the whole thing, but having woken she took the poker and went back downstairs again. The wheels were still, the little man was gone and she for a moment did believe that she had been dreaming, but for the twenty skeins of fine golden thread draped over the bobbins of both wheels. Marianne went back into town that day, but the antique shop seemed to have vanished. She went into the cafe and tried to think over a cafetiere of coffee and a slice of cake.

She could not return the wheels and ask for a refund because the shop wasn't there. Yet she was not sure that she wanted to keep them either. She could not throw them away, for the little man might be angry with her and there was no telling what he might do. She left the cafe still unsure what to do and went home. She took up the skeins of golden thread and wished someone would help her to know what to do. The thread felt fine and she was struck by the beauty of it. She did not know what to do with it. She could not weave it for she did not know how. She turned around to phone the police, although she did not know what to tell them.

There in the hallway she found a small woman in a dark green suit. On her head was a rather extravagant hat that looked as if it was trying to be glorious but instead it looked a little odd. Marianne started with shock and stepped back.

"I believe you have the spinning wheels," the small woman said firmly.

"How did you get in here?" Marianne asked, trying to keep calm.

"I asked first," the woman said pointedly.

"You can have them and then just go please. Those wheels have brought me nothing but trouble. There was a little man spinning and singing last night," Marianne said desperately aware that she was out of her depth more than she liked to be.

Well and truly in my discomfort zone, she thought.

"Yes he is usually trouble. Excuse me miss, if you'd stand aside a moment," the woman asked her.

Marianne stood aside and the woman drew herself up to her full height - what there was of it and glowered at the two spinning wheels.

"Now then, come along and no dawdling," she said.

The spinning wheels seemed to shuffle sheepishly and stirred. The golden thread fell to the floor and the spinning wheels trotted across to the woman who turned to Marianne,

"You may keep the thread, I suggest you take it to Faulkner's in the high street, they will pay you well for it I'm sure," she said.

She took the wheels by their bobbin reels and vanished. Marianne promptly fainted. She did take the thread to Faulkner's the jewellers and goldsmiths on the high street. The thread was in fact spun gold of the finest quality. Faulkner's were highly impressed but Marianne assured them that she had not made it. They paid her a large sum for it and she decided that perhaps the Welsh Style was not quite what she was looking for. She used the money from the sale of the thread to go on a cruise in the hope she might meet someone.

March of the Mixers

2011-06-28T16:30:00.000+01:00

Apologies for being gorn so lorng... as usual, life had to interfere. But... I'm back! Praise the Lawd and hide the cake!

"It happens that a large number of us are in love. That we are in love with cake comes as no surprise to anybody. Many of us it so happens practise occasional magic."

So I was told by Mrs Laverne one day over elevenses. I was surprised, for given her slim figure I could not quite believe that she was quite so fond of cake. That she and the ladies of the local Womens Institute practised occasional magic, of course did not surprise me in the least.

Mrs Laverne herself had known me when I was much younger and she had taught me music at school. Now retired and widowed, I admit that I was still fond of her. When I was younger I had been highly impressed at her skills with guitar, piano and violin. Because of her I had learned the guitar, though I was not quite good enough yet to play the piano.

She had been a slim woman of medium height who was known for her cardigans, skirts and especially her shoes, which the girls had often seen as a style to emulate. Mrs Laverne had changed little. Her hair was now silver-grey but still long and bound up in a chignon that was most becoming. She was still fond of her various skirts, cardigans and now flatter shoes.

I had been telling her how I felt impatient to learn the piano faster than my agonisingly slow progress. She smiled amused and shook her head.

"Take your time my dear. You have plenty of time. Nobody will die if you learn the piano slowly. It took you time to learn the guitar too and it will take you time to learn the piano," she said sipping her coffee.

I grinned and agreed, she was right it had taken me time to learn the guitar, but I had wanted to learn it very much. Perhaps I needed to want to be good enough at the piano to practise more.

"Impatience is the enemy of learning an art," she told me momentously.

"You may not have heard of the March of the Mixers, but it was impatience that led to it," she said.

I ordered more coffee and cake before sitting comfortably and asking her to tell me about the March of the Mixers.

She smiled and put down her coffee cup.

"You just want a story," she laughed, wagging her finger at me.

I grinned and admitted it. I can't help it, I love a story. She ordered more coffee and sat back in her chair holding her coffee cup in both hands with a reminiscent air about her. Outside the sun had been veiled by dark clouds that had finally had enough of being ignored and now rained heavily. Rain bounced off the road and off the large windows of the cafe. It darkened all it touched; dresses, the road, the colours of the cars too became darker somehow. People came into the cafe gasping with the shock of the rain. Hair bedraggled and limp, umbrellas dripping, opening the door quickly and sidling in to keep the mischievous rain out.

"I do hope that isn't Phyllida being cross," Mrs Laverne said softly.

She waited until our fresh coffee had been brought and made herself comfortable. With an impish grin that belied her years she asked,

"Are you sitting comfortably?"

I smiled at that, it showed both our ages that we remembered the radio show.

"It was some little time before you started school, I believe," she began,

"There were a few of us teaching at the school then, it was much smaller. All of us were interested in using occasional magic and were studying it. One of our number, Miss... well perhaps I shall not bring her name into it, she is still around. Let us protect the innocent. Still, she was the youngest of us and most impatient with wanting to do things with magic. She did not fully understand that as much magic as you use comes back to you. She also did not I'm afraid fully understand all the spells, charms and incantations... and you needn't look at me hopefully because I am certainly not teaching them to you. Learn the piano with patience my dear!

One thing she was very fond of was baking. In fact she was and still is one of the best bakers in town. One morning she had decided to bake some cakes for the children to mark the end of their exams. I suppose that making all those cakes must have been quite time consuming. In any case, after the sixth or seventh she was hot and flustered and let herself be a little impulsive. She cast a spell and being so hot and flustered she said one part of it wrongly without even realising it.

All the ingredients were ready to be mixed and she had several mixers in several bowls. They were all hand-mixers in those days, luckly not electric mixers which would have been disastrous. It was bad enough, though at first it did not seem so. All the mixers began to mix up the ingredients as she wanted them too and she made a cup of tea.

You may imagine her surprise when one of the mixers leapt from the bowl to 'stir' her tea sending tea everywhere. It had not occurred to her at that moment that her spell might have been miscast. She thought it the action of one rogue mixer. A bad one in the bunch as it were. But she suddenly found that she could not get the mixers to stop mixing. And that was when she made things worse again by mistake. She cast another spell in a panic and suddenly the mixers leapt from the cake bowls and grew. She screamed and ran out of the house looking for another practitioner. I mean practitioner dear, we don't like the word 'witch' it has unfortunate implications.

The mixers followed her and began to well march... as much as mixers can be said to march. They were now as tall as a small tree and moved at quite a pace too. The lady concerned was caught up in their blades, which fortunately were not sharp and she was flung dizzily over the Waterson's garden hedge, narrowly missing the dog. She was not badly hurt, mostly bruises to her legs, hip and pride, but she was also terrified. Mrs Waterson had seen the mixers and called one of us older practitioners to tell us what had happened. Ms Weston and young Hazel went out to deal with the matter. In the meantime, people fled from the high street in horror. Builders who had stopped to look found their cement being rather vigorously mixed than they wanted, not to mention their vans being caught up in the mixers' blades and damaged. Dogs barked and ran at the mixers, children threw things at them, but the mixers kept going along the high street with no apparent destination in mind.

Young Hazel who was and still is a very fine practitioner (sometimes known unfortunately as Witch Hazel by the schoolchildren) stood her ground at one end of the high street and let others run around her. It was chilly that day and she pulled her cardigan about her shoulders and glared at the mixers. Ms Weston approached the mixers from the other end of the high street. Young Hazel sighed and murmured three quick spells in succession (I did say she was very good) and the mixers seem to shudder and halt. For a moment they seemed to consider running from her, but then without warning they stopped mixing and shrank to their original size. Ms Weston murmured her own spell and they vanished to the washing up bowl of their owner.

Without a word both women sighed and went back to their tea and knitting. Did I mention that Ms Weston is an excellent knitter? Hazel is quite the knitter too, she has a lovely amethyst coloured angora cardigan she knitted. Well as I was saying, the baker was summoned that evening to Mrs Cattermole's house along with the rest of us and she was told a few things about using occasional magic - preferably occasionally and not when hot, flustered and tired. I don't believe she has practised magic since. Ah the rain has stopped. Will you excuse me, I must, ahem, powder my nose!"

Mrs Laverne arose from the table and I sat back and marvelled at the apparently ordinary town I lived in with it's Victorian church and houses; it's usual shops and cafes and the apparently ordinary people. The wise women and occasional practitioners of magic like Mrs Laverne and Hazel and Ms Weston who one never thought to cross or to anger, not because of fear but because one could not help but love them.

Still I could not help mischievously asking Mrs Laverne when she returned if she'd like more cake.

"My dear, I do believe you are tempting me. Perhaps next time, I have some errands to run. Would you mind helping me?" she said.

Of course I did not mind in the least. I gave her my arm and as we turned to the door of the cafe, I saw the rain had stopped and sunlight glinted on the hard wet surfaces of the road and the cars. Mrs Laverne smiled and took sighed.

"How lovely to see the sun again," she said.

A dressmaker's beginning...

2011-05-27T11:47:00.001+01:00

It is said that objects have lives of their own. They are born when they are made and live like us thrown from one situation to another. They gather dust, they are loved and loathed and kept for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes they have financial value and are bought and sold for some strange kind of values. Their maker is famous or they were once owned by someone we think of as important or famous.

Pictures too have their own lives, subject to the vagaries of our likes and dislikes, our tastes and our lack of taste as it is popularly judged. But there are not just paintings or prints, but drawings. The drawing by one's child at a stage of their life, a drawing by a loved one...

There was once a young girl who loved to draw and loved clothes. Indeed, although she was poor herself, she used to experiment almost obssessively with pieces of cloth. She would save up for cloth and once she raided a bin where a woman had thrown out old clothes. This young girl, Gabrielle used to make all kinds of clothes on an old and frankly decrepit sewing machine.

She became a sempstress in Paris where there were many sempstresses but she soon made a name for herself. At first she did embroidery mostly by hand, but her luck changed with the visit of a strange woman. This woman had tightly bound red hair and the most piercing green eyes and when she spoke her teeth had something of the wild animal about them. Gabrielle was never sure if the woman was going to smile or to bite. But the woman wanted a dress made.

"I should love to madame, but I have no fabric to make it with," Gabrielle told her nervously.

"The fabric will be brought to you this evening," the woman told her, "I shall want the dress by the end of next week."

Gabrielle agreed for she had no choice and that evening, a little old woman arrived with a package. The old woman smelled of earth and trees and was as brown and as wrinkled as a walnut. She sniffed the air of Gabrielle's cold workshop and said it was cold, which it was.

"I have some nettles to make tea if you'd like," Gabrielle offered.

"Good, and I want food too," the old woman grumbled, sitting down by the grate.

There had not been a fire in that grate for months. Gabrielle could not afford coal and she did not have time to fetch wood. She wondered if she might borrow a little coal from her neighbour, but she was nervous and so she took a handful of old newspapers and burned them in the grate to heat the water to make the nettle tea. To her surprise the paper seemed to shift and twist in the grate and the fire blazed from logs. She fetched the little bread and cheese that she had and the old woman grabbed it with delight and banged the plate on the arm of the chair. Gabrielle's small table was suddenly groaning with food and drink.

"Well don't stand there gawping girl, bring me some food!" the old woman grumbled.

Gabrielle took a plate and piled it high with food and handed it to the old woman who positively gorged herself.

"Eat something yourself, you look skinnier than an ivy vine," the old woman said between mouthfuls.

Gabrielle was so astonished that she did eat and the food was wholesome and wonderful. She went to take the kettle off the fire and found instead that there was fresh coffee. But the old woman wanted wine. Gabrielle poured her a generous glass of wine and left the carafe beside her. She took for herself a hot cup of coffee revelling in the taste of it. She had not had coffee for quite some time.

Then she remembered the package and opening it she gasped. There was the most beautiful green silk and red silk brocade that was wanted for the bodice. She could not believe her luck for she now saw that she had the chance to make something wonderful and beautiful that the woman would pay her well for. She finished eating and the old woman fell asleep in her fireside chair, snoring loudly. Gabrielle smiled and took a blanket from her bed to cover the old woman with.

"Thank you for the food," she whispered.

The old woman did not seem to hear her but as Gabrielle turned away, a smile appeared on the old woman's face. Still she slept and snored. Gabrielle was too excited to have slept anyway. She began to make the dress, laying out the fabulous silk on her work table alongside the red silk brocade. She began with the dress, for that was the main item and with the coffee to keep her going, she began to sew using her foot powered sewing machine. All night she sewed and only when the sun was beginning to rise did it occur to her how tired she was. Her head nodded and dropped, her foot fell away from the machine and she slept.

When she awoke she was in her bed with a warm quilt upon her and the softest pillows beneath her head. She arose and washed before dressing. The old woman had gone, but there was good fresh food on the table and a note pinned to the dress that read 'By the end of the week'. She ate breakfast and had coffee before settling down to work. Outside the wind whistled past her room and rattled the windows. A draught made the fire in the grate flicker, but it did not go out. She shivered, but still she sewed. Coffee helped her stay warm, but she concentrated on her work, her head bowed over the work All day she sewed only stopping for a small lunch. The fabulous dress began to take shape as she worked well into the night.

She worked like this with a frightening intensity all week, until the wind, rattling her windows was joined by a relentless rain and grey, bleak, lead-coloured skies. She was joined herself by a cat mewing at her door. She let the starveling cat in and fed it. It ate well and slept on the fireside chair. Still Gabrielle worked away.

When she slept, the cat slept on her bed beside her keeping her extra warm. When she ate, she shared the food with the cat. There was always food on the small table and coffee in the kettle. All that week she did not go hungry. When she was cold, the cat climbed upon the work table and wrapped itself around her shoulders, purring as it slept upon her. Towards the last day of the week she became feverish and worked even more intensely, desperate to finish the dress to the high standard she expected of herself.

On Saturday evening she finished the dress and the bodice, the last day of the week. Having worked so hard, she got up from the table and collapsed on the floor of her little room. She awoke in her bed, delirious and raving. She must have dreamed then, for she saw strange things.

Birds in her room flew about singing. A spider in the corner of her bedroom wove a hundred gorgeous fabrics that fell from her web upon the dresser. Something wild and green-eyed that she could not quite name covered her body with thistledown, soft and warming. There were lights and strange music that seemed to be in one place and suddenly in another within her room. There was animated talking coming from behind the curtain that separated her bed from the main room, but she did not have the strength to move the curtain aside to look. She cried out and wept, but cool gentle hands brushed across her brow like the spring waters of a stream. Cool gentle voices soothed her. She slept again a deep sleep without dreams and this time when she awoke she felt only hungry. She arose and bathed but the table in her room was empty of food. She sighed sadly, but noticed then on her work table a small box that had not been there before.

Inside the box was a note that read, 'You have done well and shall be rewarded'. Under the note was a purse full of money. Gabrielle smiled even as her stomach growled. The door to her room opened and the old woman entered with groceries.

"You ready for breakfast then?" she asked.

Behind her the cat walked in, his eyes green and wild.

"Why yes, Grandmother, I am very hungry," Gabrielle answered.

The old woman smiled and put the groceries down on the floor. Then she began to spin and spin until she vanished in a fit of cackles. Gabrielle wondered briefly if she was still feverish, but she took a deep breath and made breakfast for her and the cat. Upon her dresser were bolts of gorgeous fabrics and she sat down after breakfast and began to draw. The woman in her drawing was the woman who had ordered the green silk dress with the red silk brocade bodice. And from that moment on, Gabrielle never went hungry again.

Abbe Otho's Revenge

2011-05-15T19:02:00.000+01:00

In the Musee Cluny at Paris there is a well in the courtyard. As you may see from the picture, at the side there is a figure of a man who seems to be jammed up against the side of the elegant side of the well. He is screaming in some unknown agony like one damned to the infernal dominions. His history is largely unknown, we do not know who his parents were or where he came from. All we know is written in a medieval manuscript that was recently translated by Dr Amelie Courageux of the Sorbonne.

Knowing Dr Courageux as I do, I wonder what she thought of it, but she was less interested in the story of this man than the details that she considered vital to the study of medieval French history. She pushed her elegant glasses up her nose and considered me as if I were to be studied.

"Oh you and your stories of the fantastic," she said with a trace of amusement, "They are just allegories and parables as Lemieux explains in his paper on the story in French medieval history. They are not relevant to anything other than that."

"My dear Amelie, stories are much more than that. They have power. They can move us, amuse, reflect our own problems and tell us even something about ourselves," I answered passionately, for it's true that I love stories.

She smiled indulgently and shook her head but allowed me that much, knowing me as she did. Ah, but you are not interested in such academic debates. So, let me tell you how it is translated.

Many years ago when Otho of Drax was abbe of the monastery at Cluny, water was hard to get during one summer. Now Otho needed water for the gardens, for those gardens kept the monks fed and helped the poor of Paris. But the only available water came from the Chateau above the Sorbonne and the Duc De Sauvage was not in a hurry to allow the water of his lands to be given away so easily.

The Dean of the Sorbonne went to him and asked him if water might not be given to the Sorbonne for their gardens, but he was thrown out of the Chateau. He mentioned this to Abbe Otho and the abbe was greatly concerned. He would have sent to the king, but the King was at Limoges. Instead, he went first to the Duc Le Meredoc, the Ducs of Caradoc and Mascagne and the Countess De Rascagnat. All of them tried their best to negotiate with the Duc De Sauvage, but he merely insisted that those who wanted water must pay.

The Ducs and the Countesses returned to Abbe Otho and told him of the Duc's obduracy and hoped that he would pay for it in the afterlife. However Abbe Otho was not willing to wait so long, after all, there were the poor to be fed and without a garden full of good vegetables and fruit, without water to make ale everyone would go hungry. He prayed all night and struggled to find answers to the problem, but to no avail.

Now it happened that the next day an old woman arrived at the Cluny and asked if she might have lunch with the abbe. The monks were indignant, for the abbe was an important man. The Abbe, seeing the woman from the window of his office leaned out and asked the woman to wait, for he would be happy to have lunch with her. He went down to the courtyard and she smelled terrible. It was as if she had fallen in a thousand stagnant swamps. Abbe Otho twitched his nose but bowed to her. She smiled and said that she wished to share his wine with him. Abbe Otho invited her in and took her to his private dining chambers where she shared bread, roast fowl and wine with him. Throughout the meal, Otho spoke to her courteously and kindly, though her manners were terrible. She crammed food into her mouth, spoke with her mouth full and burped when she was full. She scratched herself too and cackled when she spoke. She was truly a horrendous guest. Yet Abbe Otho treated her as if she were the Queen of France herself.

"I hear that that you are suffering from a lack of water Monsignor," the old woman said as their dishes were cleared away.

The Abbe told her with a sigh about the problem and said that he hoped the Duc De Sauvage would see reason.

"Oh he will never see reason, for he is a stubborn man with no care for anything but money," the old woman cackled.

Then Abbe Otho lowered his head for he thought of the poor who came to the monastery gates and his monks who would be also without food. He shook his head and raised his head to the woman who grinned a toothless smile.

"One day he came to the Lac des Fees and took water in barrels from the lake for his fountains. For his fountains Monsignor! Somebody from the wood went to him to demand our water be returned and he laughed at our messenger and said that when Abbe Otho himself begged for water we should get our water back. Monsignor, pride is a hard thing to ignore, but I am asking you to beg him to return our water to us," the old woman said.

Abbe Otho smiled and said to the old woman,

"Mistress, I asked Ducs and Countesses to negotiate for me and he would not give us water, why should he do so when I ask him myself?"

"Because Monsignor, you did not go yourself, you sent others. Many in Paris respect you and he does not. You help the poor when he does not. You continue to believe unlike him that people are more important than money. So he hates you for you show him to be the greedy man that he is," she replied.

Otho spread his hands and said that if begging would gain the woman her water, he would be happy to do so.

"In doing so, your own water will be returned to you Monsignor, this I promise you," the old woman answered.

Otho smiled at this and said that so long as the poor could be fed as well as the monks he would go hungry. He would go that day.

"If you will go now, I will go with you Monsignor," the old woman said.

It struck Otho now that there was something wild and strange about her, but he was too polite to say anything about it. Instead he helped the old woman up and gave her his arm. She took it and they went down to the courtyard. Slowly they went up the hill to the Chateau where the woman was told to wait outside. The Abbe was furious, but the woman merely cackled and said she would wait. Abbe Otho was shown with derision to the Duc De Sauvage himself. He sat at his own dining table and barely looked up when the Abbe was shown to him.

"My lord, I am told that you promised someone from the Bois de fees that if I begged for water you would return their water to them," Otho said restraining the anger within him.

"So I did," the Duc answered, "But I will have no water for my fountains if I did so. Therefore I am afraid they will get nothing."

"My lord Duc, you have so much will you not give some to save Paris?" Otho asked him.

The Duc shrugged his shoulders carelessly,

"If anyone will pay they may have water," he said negligently.

Abbe Otho struggled with his own pride, but reflecting that pride is a sin, he went down on his knees and begged the Duc to return the water to the Lac des Fees. The Duc laughed and threw a chicken bone at the Abbe.

"Here dog, eat well, then scurry home. The water for Cluny and for the Lac des Fees will cost you a million livres," he said snarling.

Then he told the Abbe to get out. Otho was furious and told the Duc that he would be avenged. Then he left, his demeanour so furious that the Duc's men bowed their heads. Outside the old woman had gone and Otho returned to the Cluny deeply unhappy for he did not see what more he could do. There were many poor people in the courtyard and all of them starving. Otho ordered that all the food from the stores be halved. One half to be given to the poor. If there were not enough, the rest was to be handed out to them. The Countess De Rascagnat hearing of this sent word to the all the Ducs and Duchesses in Paris. Food and wine was sent to the Cluny to feed the poor and the monks. The honourable behaviour of the Abbe Otho was well-remarked upon and his fame spread among all the people of Paris.

That night many people slept well. But the following day the news spread that the Duc de Sauvage had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere and it is fair to say that nobody missed him greatly. Many rumours abounded; that the Devil himself had come for him, that he had been so overcome with shame that he had gone abroad, that he had been poisoned by the water in his own wells.

But when the king returned to Paris he passed through the Bois des Fees and a beautiful woman with red hair and green eyes dressed in a long red dress with green trim the colour of standing lakes bid him bear a gift to the Abbe of the Cluny in Paris and to say that Abbe Otho had many good friends in the woods. The king was much puzzled by these words, but agreed to do what he may for the young woman.

Then six fine horses bearing a fine carriage were presented to the King and these were led to the Cluny in Paris. The King returned to Paris and had the carriage with the horses taken to Abbe Otho. He went himself, curious to know what was in the carriage. To the surprise of both the King and Abbe the carriage was placed over a certain part of the courtyard. The carriage disappeared and the horses turned into crows that flew lazily away over Paris. What was left was the well-head of carved stone with a figure struggling to flee. A figure that looked remarkably like the Duc de Sauvage. But it could not be him, for he had vanished who knows were.

Later the ironwork pulley was put over the top of it and to the surprise of the monks and the Abbe, water was regularly drawn from the well that had appeared there. The old woman however was never seen again. Perhaps she had gone away with the Duc, who knows?

The White Fox and the Flower Maiden - Part Two

2011-05-02T16:32:00.001+01:00

Palais de Luxembourg - Paris, by the Griffin

Now the two princesses Lily and Daisy grew up quite quickly and many people began to wonder if the queen was a witch. The king at first did not hear these rumours, for his two beautiful daughters must be educated as their wise mother directed. So they learned languages, ethics, politics and all that a princess must learn if she is to be a wise queen herself one day. But the two daughters were not dull and immersed only in their books.

They learned how to use swords, bows and staves too, for if there was a need to defend the realm, a good leader must lead by example. Only in this way can they too know the risks their troops take and so direct defences well. They learned also the arts of diplomacy, for it is better to negotiate truces than it is to begin wars, even if it is a good deal harder to negotiate than to fight.

It happened that through a distant king who wanted to expand his territories, that our king must lead his troops to war, for the distant king refused to negotiate and insisted that our king must either leave his kingdom and surrender, or the kingdom would be taken by force. The king did not like to have to fight, nor did he like to risk the lives of his army. But the wise queen told him to gather up the fresh grass cuttings from the royal lawns and to scatter the battlefield with them the night before the battle.

The king went to his gardener and the gardener gathered all the fresh grass cuttings that he could and gave them to the king. The night before the battle, the king took the grass cuttings and strewed them over the battlefield. In the distance he could see the campfires of the enemy and they were almost as numerous as stars in the sky. The king wept as he strewed the grass cuttings to think that tomorrow he and his armies would be food for the crows and that his poor wife would be the plaything of the enemy king. His tears fell freely as he strewed the grass cuttings.

But the following morning when he led his army to the field before the borders of his kingdom, the whole area was covered with warriors clad in green enamelled armour and bearing his pennants and devices upon them. There was green as far as the eye could see and they waited, these warriors for their king to command them. The enemy, seeing the whole battlefield and the surrounding area covered in warriors murmured that they had been brought to this place to die and their commanders too began to complain amongst each other. The enemy king who had thought this kingdom his for the taking now sent an envoy to negotiate. Our king received the envoy and told him,

"Tell your king that he is to take all of his troops home. That he is never to come within sight of our lands again and that should he attack any other neighbouring country merely for his own ambitions, we shall join in sending him home. We would have no war, for no good ever came from it, but if we must, we shall defend ourselves and our nation even to the sovereign's death."

The envoy took the message back to the enemy king and he brooded on it. In the meantime, a soldier came to tell our king,

"There is a white stag playing with Princess Lily in the garden, but how it came there we know not. Yet, so majestic is it's presence and of such power that none dare approach it. As it does not seem to wish the princess harm, we are unsure what to do."

"Sir, return home and ask the queen," the king told him.

"Majesty, the queen appears to be in a deep sleep and none can wake her," the soldier replied.

Now the king became afraid, for his wife and daughters were the greatest treasure of his heart. He bid the soldier go back to the palace and guard the princess and to guard Princess Daisy also, for he must await the answer of the enemy king. The guard bowed in his saddle and returned to the palace.

Later that evening, our king still awaited an answer and as he paced before his horse impatiently another guard came from his palace to tell him,

"Majesty there is a white bear playing with the Princess Daisy and we know not how it came there. So big and strong is it and with such terrible presence that we dare not attack it. As it appears to do the Princess no harm we are unsure what to do. Her Majesty the Queen seems even deeper in sleep almost as if she were - as if she were dead."

The king grew pale with horror at this news and sent a messenger to the enemy king to demand an answer. The enemy king sent back the news that he would fight the king and all his forces the following morning. The king bowed his head in sorrow and sent his troops to build their campfires and keep watch. Then he returned to the palace for everything seemed terrible and strange to him. Sure enough the queen was in a deep, deep sleep and the king held her in his arms and kissed her. Though she slept he told her of the impending battle to come and how sad he felt at the thought of losing his daughter and his love. Yet she did not wake to counsel him and after a while he lay down to rest.

But he could not sleep and arose in the night and went down to the garden to think. As he sat there sadly, a white glimmer of movement caught his eye and looking up he saw the white fox. He knelt and begged for her help.

"If I must die then so be it, but I beg you do not make the partners of my soldiers widows and widowers," he said softly.

The fox stood up on its hind legs and shook itself. The fox skin fell to the ground to reveal the beautiful maiden.

"Tomorrow o king, leave your human armies at home. Lead your green troops into battle. When your daughters join you, do not send them away. But do this - when you go into battle fling white jasmine flowers at your enemies. There will most likely come to the battle two mysterious kings. One bears a black banner with a white bear upon it. The other bears a dark green banner with a white stag upon it. Throw jasmine flowers at them and bid your wife awake and laugh. Do this in the battle and all will go well with you," she said smiling.

The king promised to obey and thanked her. The fox-maiden picked up her white fox skin and put it on and the white fox ran out of the garden into the night.

The following morning the king send for his commanders and ordered the entire army to stay at home and guard the castle and the people. The battle would be lead by him and the green warriors. The soldiers loved their king and protested that some of them at least must join with him, but he thanked them and said that if he were to die, his wife would rule in his stead. But he would not leave their partners without husbands and wives. Then he went back to the gardener and asked him for lots of jasmine flowers. It was the middle of springtime and there were a great many so the gardener gathered up the flowers and gave them to the king.

So the king went out to the battlefield and led the green warriors to the fray. At the head of the enemy came the enemy king and our king trembled to see the force that followed his enemy. But then he paused and glancing over his shoulder he saw the green warriors that followed him and his heart brightened for he knew that he would return this day, safe and well to his wife and queen.

The king remembered all the fox-maiden had told him flinging jasmine flowers at his enemies. The flowers blazed brightly in the sunlight and the horses of his enemies panicked and turned away. They fled back to the palace of the enemy king and the enemy king himself was thrown to the ground. He drew his sword and cried a wild battle cry.

Suddenly into the battle came two great armies. One was lead by a great bear of a king, his beard was white as his hair and he bore a large axe over his shoulder. The other was lead by a proud king with the elegance of a stag and long strong legs. He bore a trident over his shoulder. Both armies bore the banners of their kings - a white bear on a black ground and a white stag on a dark green ground.

But from his own palace came the Princesses Lily and Daisy and both of them lead half of the king's army each. The king feared for them, yet was also proud and bowed to them in his saddle. His daughters bowed in return for they loved their father and would not let him die. Now the king charged, throwing jasmine flowers at the new kings and bidding his wife awake and laugh in a voice clear and terrible, he flung himself at the enemy king. They battled hard, so that the earth resounded with the sound of it and the air was loud with the clangour of their weapons and their armour.

When the king threw the jasmine flowers at the bear-king and the stag-king both became flung back towards the great woods as if by a great whirlwind. The two princesses pursued them and captured their forces. The king was left on the field with only his enemy before him while the green warriors pursued the enemy soldiers to capture them all. The enemy king fought him but his blade was broken and as he reached for his short sword, vines of ivy sprang up from the field and entwined themselves about him so that he could not move. Our king could have killed then, but he had been advised many times by his wise queen and instead he threw down his own weapons and took the enemy king's swords from him.

"Go home king," he said, "Go home and learn what it is to treasure all living things. Learn how to govern well instead of merely gratifying your own selfish ambitions at the expense of your own soldiers and those you would make enemies of. Be a wise king and a good one, not a greedy and a foolish one."

That said he turned away, picked up his weapons and mounted up to his saddle. He called back his green warriors and they came like grass cuttings blown in a breeze. He blew his clarion to call back his daughters and they came with the army to ride home.

The king was overjoyed to find his wise queen wide awake and smiling as if she had awoken from a beautiful dream. Princess Lily married the Stag-king and Princess Daisy the Bear-king. That brought a great peace upon the land.

But what of the fox-maiden. Without the Bear-king and the Stag-king to bother her kingdom, she ruled the great forest in her rightful place as queen. All that she had done, she did to regain her queen's realm. But our king was most grateful to her for giving him the gift of a wise and beautiful wife. Wise as a fox and beautiful as a flower.

A Brief Interlude....

2011-04-27T18:15:00.001+01:00

I will be back for the next part in the story of the White Fox and the Flower Maiden next week.

With the oncoming term of note-taking in delightful lectures such as Maths for Physics, Maths, Economics and the like I need a break to remind me again why I am a) alive even tho' I rarely like it and b) why I am note-taking even tho' I very rarely like it. As such, I am off to Paris for three days. I shall visit museums with any luck and wander about a bit like a flaneur without the flan.

I also need to get away from the mass hysteria generated by the British media around a wedding. Suddenly we are all encouraged to say "Yes sir, no sir" and tug our forelocks in commoner's respect for a dysfunctional and defunct royal wedding... now if it was the Royle Wedding, that would be a different matter altogether!!! Royal Weddings, as far as I am concerned, belong in folktales as a reminder of another time and place and the sheer unreality of it all. Of course I may be ever so slightly biased, but I bow to none and that includes royalty.

So there!!!

And Gawd bless all wot sails in 'er... see you when the weekend's over and they are going round picking up bunting and tatty little flags.

The White Fox and the Flower Maiden - Part 1

2011-04-23T20:40:00.002+01:00

Many years ago a king who being unwed and without an heir went out hunting as many kings did in those days. After a while his horse outstripped his courtiers and still he went through the woods chasing a stag. After a little while the stag seemed to have vanished and his hounds suddenly paused and gathered about his king's horse. He dismounted and leaving the horse with his hounds, the king went on foot with his bow and his arrows in his hands.

When he came out of the trees and looked up to the rise he saw a pure white fox. At first he did not realise it was a fox until it turned and looked directly at him. He was about to string an arrow to his bow when the gaze of the fox met his. Suddenly he faltered and lowered his bow.

Without fear the fox walked down the hill towards the king who found he could neither move nor speak. As the fox came near him, it arose up on its hind legs and shook itself. The white fur of the fox fell to the ground and a beautiful maiden stood before him. The king dropped his bow and arrows and fell to his knees.

"Foolish king that believed the beasts of the woods are for him to kill. You are in need of a wife who will teach you wisdom. Go home king and you will find the flowers in your garden are in bloom. Gather the white flowers together with twenty oak leaves before twilight and leave them in a heap. Let nobody go near the garden all night, but tomorrow go into the garden and you will find a wise woman to wed. But you must always treat her with respect and kindness for she deserves no less," the fox woman told him.

The fox woman took up her white skin and turned back into the white fox. The fox ran away over the hill. The king found he could move again and stood up. Astonished at what he had heard, the king returned to his horse and the hounds followed him back to where his companions waited for him. He said not a word, but commanded a return back to his palace.

When he returned the sun was already setting. He went into his gardens and noticing all the white flowers he gathered them up as he had been told. Then he picked twenty oak leaves and left them on top of the white flowers. He placed sentries around the garden and commanded them not to let anyone in.

The following morning he went out into the garden and found seated upon the grass, the most beautiful being he had ever seen. Her eyes were blue as cornflowers, her skin was white like magnolias, her hair was white like camellias and she wore a long green dress. He was bewildered, but asked her to marry him and to his surprise she agreed to wed.

So they were wed to much happiness and surprise, for the people had thought their king would never marry. Now it happened that the king had a councillor who had a daughter. The councillor had hoped the king would marry his daughter, even though the daughter was much in love with the king's gardener. When the councillor saw the new queen he wondered where she had come from, but the king would say nothing. When he asked the queen about her family, she would only say that she was born of many flowers. This the councillor did not understand at all.

But when his daughter told the councillor that she wished to wed the king's gardener he was furious. He was sure that she was being foolish, but she assured him that she wished only to wed the man she loved and that was the gardener. The councillor would not hear of it, even though his wife told him not to be silly.

"Did I not marry the one I loved and he was not the king?" she told him.

Now after some time the king's wife became pregnant and the king began to wonder whether his children would be flowers or people. But he remembered the fox woman's words and remained respectful and kind to her. Nor would he allow anyone else to show her disrespect, not even the councillor whom he rebuked for daring to think ill of his queen.

The king's companions found that he could not be persuaded to hunt with them any longer and after a while they fell away. The king spent many hours with his queen for he loved her greatly and considered himself extremely lucky to have such a wife. She gave him wise counsel when it was required and taught him how to learn to respect other living things from the bear in the forest to the smallest ant in the garden. Not only great oaks, but even those flowers that gardeners call weeds. After some while, he took his counsel from her and not his councillor. You may imagine how this made the councillor feel.

Still, there was little the councillor could do about her, for she was wise enough to see through his politicking and his slyness. Now it happened that one day a guard came to the king and told him that a large white stag had been seen in the wood. The king was immediately reminded of the white fox and decided to go and find the stag.

To his surprise however, his wife advised against it, but she could not tell him why. The king agreed respectfully even though he wanted to go. After a while another guard arrived and told him that a white bear had been seen in the wood. The king was surprised, but suspecting that the bear and the stag were the same as the fox-woman he longed to go. His wife still advised against it and much though he longed to go, he respectfully and kindly agreed not to.

The councillor, believing that his chance had come at last, suggested that he went instead. To his surprise, the queen advised him not to go. Yet, still she could not tell him why, only that for his safety he should stay at home.

"Think also of your wife and daughter," she said.

The councillor replied foolishly that if she could not tell him why his safety was in danger then he would go for he was unafraid. At this the queen bowed her head in sorrow and asked the king to give the councillor's wife ten white camellia flowers the night after the councillor had gone to the wood. The king agreed and you may imagine the surprise of the councillor's wife when the night after her husband had gone into the wood the king arrived with a box of white camellia flowers. She thanked him and he told her that his queen had said the wife must open the box after midday.

The councillor did not return in the morning, nor did he return at noon. Just after noon when the councillor's wife and daughter had dined, the wife took the box into her bedroom and opened it. Instead of the camellia flowers she found the box was full of white gold. She wondered greatly at what this might mean and went directly to the king to tell him. When the king heard of this he began to wonder too. He asked his wife what this meant and she wept and answered that the councillor would never return again for he had met his death.

"If the flowers had remained flowers, he would have returned. But once they turned into gold it meant that the poor man was dead," she said sadly.

The councillor's wife returned home deeply upset and told her daughter that her father was no more. Now the king longed to go and return the councillor's body at least to his wife and daughter. But still the queen advised him not to, for it would put his life in danger.

A few months later, the queen gave birth to two beautiful girls. Both had hair as black as a raven, eyes as blue as a clear sky and skin as white as the white jasmine. They were named Lily and Daisy and were much loved.

Soon after they were born very early in the morning, a white fox entered the chamber where they lay in their cradles. It stood up on it's hind legs and grew up until the fox skin split and out of it stepped a beautiful maiden. The fox skin fell to the floor behind her and silently she kissed them and whispered something in the ears of each of them.

Then she passed through into the bedroom where the king and queen lay asleep and whispered something into the flower-queen's ear. This done, she put on her fox skin again and trotted out of the palace and the city into the wild wood without anyone seeing her.

Beach Cleaning and a World Challenge

2011-04-12T19:02:00.002+01:00

Hannah, daughter of Jackie Morris the artist and friend to cats and dogs is hopefully off to Peru with World Challenge. The cats have allowed Hannah a message on their blog at http://wethreecats.blogspot.com/ because they are kind cats. She writes on the cat's blog.

As a fundraising activity, I am going to be doing a beach clean on the less accessible coastal beaches that you will have seen on mum’s blog, as every year much debris is washed up on them and never really gets cleared away. As most of them can only be accessed by boat. This will not only benefit the wildlife and local community, but I will also be donating half of the funds raised to Save The Children, who carry but projects globally, and of particular interest to me in Peru. Any support would be gratefully received.

Thanks

Hannah

In order to gain access to the beaches, which are inaccessible from the land Voyages of Discovery are loaning Hannah a skipper and a boat. Ffion, the skipper, is loaning her a dry suit and she will have to jump overboard and swim ashore then bag up as much rubbish as she can and swim it back to the boat. With luck she will be able to clear much of the plastic, and most importantly the bits of netting and wires that tangle the seal pups that will be born on the beaches later in the year.

If you would like to sponsor Hannah please send cheques, made out to Hannah Stowe, to c/o Chris and Julie at The Moshulu Shoe Shop, New Street, Paris House, St Davids, SA62 6SN.

As I commented on their blog that I would see what I could do, here is one of the things I can do. I am full of admiration for anyone who has the get up and go to do such things... mainly cos my 'get up and go' got up and went some years ago. So if you can help Hannah, I am sure she would be very grateful and it would broaden her mind and help her to see another culture very different from her own. Which I am sure would make her even more of an amazing young woman than she is.

Good luck Hannah!

For Clara - Happy 30th birthday!

2011-04-05T13:37:00.000+01:00

Quite a very long time ago, as my mother used to say, there was a woman who fell in love with a man. Nothing unusual there. They married and moved into a lovely house with a small garden full of flowers and were very happy. Now it happens, as these things do that their next door neighbour was a witch and also a very keen gardener. But this witch, Madam Saxifrage by name did not bother her head with frivolous flowers. She had Nature's forests and meadows for that, no, she grew vegetables and the finest of her garden was the patch of fabulous red cabbages. Silvery-green of leaf with the finest purple-red veins and thick juicy leaves these cabbages grew very well. No slugs disturbed them, nor caterpillars dared to bite them for nobody and I do mean Nobody messes with a witch. It is indeed very unwise to do so, as my mother used to say.

After a little while, the married woman in this story who was most definitely NOT Madam Saxifrage who did not hold with such things as marriage, became pregnant. It was one might say quite a normal pregnancy what with swollen ankles and sickness and much sighing and of course the almost primal cravings. At first it was easy enough. There are few people who do not crave chocolates even if they are not especially fond of Raspberry creams like me. This woman got cravings for specific types of chocolate and then for salted custard. After a little while it was pilchards with apples but soon enough it was for red cabbage. She must have the best of course. Well the man knew that the witch had red cabbages so he went next door and explained his wife's craving and said that he would be happy to pay for all the red cabbage Madam Saxifrage would give him.

I must explain at this point that Madam Saxifrage was not a particularly nice witch. Which is not to say that she was a wicked witch or even a downright evil witch, but she loved her garden and her cabbages and devoted her time to them when she was not sewing for silly things like money. So she politely refused and recommended a supermarket locally that she was assured sold very fine red cabbages. Then she shut the door and went back to her garden and thought no more of the matter.

Well the man was glad at least for the recommendation so off he went to the supermarket, but he had little luck for the red cabbages were all sold out. He bought pickled red cabbage but it wasn't the same. He became desperate and went back to Madam Saxifrage. Again he explained the situation and Madam Saxifrage distinctly harrumphed. She did not approve of marriage, love or babies. Truth be told there was not a lot she did approve of.

"She can have all the cabbages she wants if she will give me the most precious thing she has at the time I ask for it," Madam Saxifrage told the man.

He could not quite think what that would be, but he was desperate for cabbages so he agreed. All the cabbages were given to the woman and she too freely agreed to the conditions. Right up to the point when the baby was born and Madam Saxifrage turned up on the doorstep and demanded the most precious thing she had. At first the woman offered her wedding ring. Well that was certainly precious, but not the most precious. Then she offered her house, which was also very precious but still not the most precious. Madam Saxifrage had noticed that throughout all this offering and refusal the woman had held onto the baby and suggested,

"What about the baby?"

The woman went pale with shock and had to sit down. Then she began to weep and moan and beg and cajole and plead, but it did no good. The baby right then was the most precious thing she had so she must give it up to Madam Saxifrage. The witch returned home slightly put out, for she would have preferred something else to be so precious, but even she must keep to the conditions set. She allowed the woman to come around and breast-feed the babe until it was ready to be weaned. Then the woman was turned away and could only watch when the witch took the little girl, for so she was, into the garden.

For someone who disapproved of babies, Madam Saxifrage was a remarkably good parent. She called the girl Clara which was her mother's name and taught her all that a young girl should know. How to manage a garden, how to paint and sew and repair a car or a train or a plane (she was extremely thorough in her notion of education for she thought the young people of today badly educated). She taught Clara to read and write and to argue with a judge, a police officer and always to question everything.

At the age of 18, she taught Clara something new. How to understand wines in depth and detail so that she might challenge the finest sommeliers in the world. Strangely among all the things that she learned, Clara was particularly receptive to this. She did not care to merely get drunk and fall over a lot, but she loved the textures and scents and colours of wines. For my part a 1982 Snorkhampton red will do, but Clara learned way beyond a mere amateur such as me. She would prefer a Chateauneuf du Pape and was not so naive as to ask if there was a white Chateauneuf du Pape either. She insisted on drinking it young, for it did not cellar well. She never drank it with dessert for it was too robust. Champagne she learned well too, going for Prestige Cuvee's only and those of the Grande Marques.

At the age of 20, Madam Saxifrage with some pride returned Clara to her parents as one would hand over the finest rose of a garden. Clara's mother was delighted to have her daughter back and shed many tears, which made Madam Saxifrage harrumph for she did not approve of sentiment. Clara went off to university soon after and distinguished herself both as an artist and as a sommelier. She travelled, revelling in her freedom until Love saw fit to remember that the girl exchanged for red cabbages well deserved his golden arrow. In a distant land from her dear old Sussex she met a man and like her mother fell in love. Madam Saxifrage would not I'm afraid to say have approved, but Love never paid much attention to the approval of witches. For Clara, Love and Life were as important as wines and art... or as red cabbages to Madam Saxifrage.

Happy Birthday Clara, may all the good things come to you and all the bad things be eaten by slugs and caterpillars before they get to you!

Small Enticements

2011-03-29T20:39:00.000+01:00

"It is not wise to seek revenge, there are all kinds of unforeseen consequences," Great Aunt Lilian said softly.

Suzette had got pushed in the mud on the way home from school and had sworn bitterly that she would get the girls who had done it.

"I don't see why they shouldn't suffer, they make others suffer," she replied.

"Then sooner or later my love they will get their comeuppance, I assure you," Lilian said, drawing the young girl too her and kissing her now clean hair.

Suzette breathed deeply in and caught the scent that Great Aunt Lilian used and which the young girl loved. She put her arms around her Great Aunt's neck and kissed her. Lilian was one of those aunts who speaks softly and carries a big stick. Mostly she spoke softly and Suzette adored her. Her mother had told her that Great Aunt Lilian had been quite the adventurer in the old days. She had flown planes and driven cars far too fast. She had once wrestled an alligator and rescued a young man from pirates. Suzette did not quite believe that Great Aunt Lilian had been anywhere near pirates, but it had been a good story and she liked the thought of it. She did find it hard to believe that Great Aunt Lilian had been an adventurer, what with being so old, but her mother remarked that one day Suzette would also be as old as her Great Aunt.

"I remember," Lilian began.

She paused and smiled to herself and Suzette saw that there was a wicked twinkle in her eye.

"What do you remember Great Aunt Lilian?" she asked as innocently as she could manage.

If she doesn't tell me, Suzette thought, I am sure I shall die of disappointment and be very languid too. She did not know what languid was, but she had read of a young woman dying languidly and it sounded very romantic.

"Pull up a chair, listen carefully and above all things - "

"Don't tell your mother!" Suzette murmured with a chuckle.

Lilian grinned and nodded,

"Quite. We don't want to worry her now do we?" she said.

Suzette shook her head and pulled a chair close to Lilian.

"I knew a woman once who had been known for her tolerance, which was possibly why she got married. She ended up by being struck dumb with shock and horror. It was sadly her own fault - well at least it ended by being her own fault.

Her husband had six sisters all very beautiful and elegant. The family was very religious and expected that Celia for that was the lady's name, would also be religious. She was however very definitely not religious. She believed in all the old things like hedgerows and faeries and pixie-rings and toadstools and being careful around elms and bowing to oaks because they are regal trees and we ought to respect them.

I am afraid that Celia soon found out that while her husband did not press the issue, his sisters were very wicked and not in a good way either. She referred to them as the Inquisition whom nobody expects because they would turn up when least expected and certainly uninvited and start to cajole Celia and try to persuade her of the error of her ways. They tried in all kinds of ways to convert her until she was worn out with rage.

Now Celia and her husband lived in a charming house that backed onto woodland and in summer the bluebells burst up through the soil and bloomed beautifully in all their glory. Seeing them, Celia knew that there would be faeries there. One twilight evening, she went out into the woods with a horseshoe in her pocket and held onto it firmly. She knew all about the faeries and she didn't want to be in their woods unprotected. She sat very quietly upon a fallen log and began to sigh. She talked as if to the bluebells and the trees about the six sisters and their mother, who I am afraid was no better than her daughters where Celia was concerned.

Suddenly a little old woman appeared strolling through the trees. Her cheeks were like two pippins and her eyes like sloe berries and while she had a charming smile on her face, there was something of the fox about her. It was not the russet dress she wore or the yew green shoes either. She came and sat on the log next to Celia and chuckled.

"Got anything to eat?" she asked Celia, who had for she knew that the faeries loved human food as much as their own.

She gave the woman a large piece of the fruit cake she had made earlier and the old woman thanked her and said that she would see about the family for her but that Celia was expecting something precious and the old woman wanted it. Celia did not know what the woman meant, she wasn't expecting anything precious that she knew of.

"It will come at the end of the month and when it does you'll bring it to me. If not, I'll take it," the old woman said quietly and then she was like a fox or a cat with a mouse.

Celia wondered if the old woman knew something she didn't but she knew that it was unwise to cross the faeries so she agreed.

One evening just as Celia's husband had settled down to watch a football match and Celia was in the kitchen reading there was a little tap at the cat flap and the old woman came in with a box.

"For your sisters-in-law my dear," she said, adding "They'll be here in a minute or two."

Celia thanked the old woman who curtseyed and vanished as if she had never been there. Celia put the kettle on, sighed and opened the box. Inside were the most tempting cakes she had ever seen. It was all she could do to take one herself, but somehow she suddenly did not feel hungry at all. She made tea and just as she had put it on the table she heard the doorbell. She answered the door and sure enough it was the beautiful, elegant and utterly wicked sisters-in-law. They kissed her and cooed and entered removing their coats and following her into the kitchen. Each of them wore a small gold crucifix and sat around the kitchen table to have tea with Celia and to attempt to convert her.

Celia opened the box and placed the cakes on a silver tray that reflected them with a strange moonlight glow. For a brief moment she wanted to sweep the cakes away and throw them into the rubbish bin, but Livia the youngest took one up and licked her lips almost like a cat with a fish in it's paws.

"Darling," she purred, "How charming and how delicious they look!"

The other sisters were not shy either but took a cake each. Celia wondered briefly how they managed to look so slim if they loved their cake that much, but as each sister bit into the cakes they suddenly cooed in delight and turned into doves.

The cat who had been asleep twitched his ears and turning his sleepy head saw the birds - in his kitchen! He sprang up and began to pounce at them. They flew up with little cries of alarm and settled on the curtain rail over the sink. Celia let them out of the window and they flew away into the night.

Now you may imagine the outcry at the disappearance of the six beautiful sisters. They were looked for high and low but never found. Only Celia knew and felt the guilt at seeing them looking reproachfully from the tree at the bottom of the garden. She wished suddenly that she had not done something so awful but it was too late and if that were not bad enough she soon found that she was very pregnant. It was thought that the baby might not survive, but Celia gave birth on the last day of the month and lay happy in hospital with the baby in her arms.

"What a precious little thing she is," a nurse remarked and Celia suddenly gave a sharp cry of horror and fainted.

Now she understood what the old woman had meant and she could only lie there and weep. But she was soon firm with herself and dried her eyes. She would do all that she could to protect her little one. Before she came home she asked her husband to put up iron horseshoes over every door and window. He thought it a little odd but assumed it was a strange old English custom he had not heard of and did it.

This done, Celia brought her baby girl home. The weather was awful. It rained hard and the wind whirled around the house and down the chimney. In the sighing of the wind Celia could hear someone saying softly,

"Give her to me, you promised. Give her to me!"

The baby paused at this and looked sadly at her mother, but made not a sound. Celia held her close. She put a small steel cross over the cradle to protect her daughter. It did no good. One morning she found the cradle empty and rushed downstairs to search for her baby. The back door was open wide and all along the path was a trail of small cakes, each one bitten. Celia cried out in horror and despair but it did no good. She went back to bed and sobbed. The very next day her six sisters-in-law, no longer doves, turned up at the house and brought her a box of charming little cakes. As I said, they might have looked beautiful but they were very wicked really. As for that little girl, she was never seen again. So my darling Suzette, be very careful about revenge, it may be you that gets bitten by your own trap," Great Aunt Lilian told her.

The next day however, Suzette found Great Aunt Lilian at the school gates dressed in a long green dress and red shoes. Her white hair seemed to have a reddish tinge to it and she looked at the girls who had pushed Suzette into the mud.

"Go home my dear," she said softly.

Suzette nodded and Lilian turned around to face the girls, leaning on her walking stick with it's carved head in the shape of a horse. Suzette went a little way and left the path so that she could watch. Lilian went up to the girls and said something Suzette could not hear. The girls suddenly went pale and nodded before running up the path in tears. Lilian sighed, shook her head and walked up to where Suzette crouched.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I fought pirates, Suzette?" she asked.

In her Floral Dress She Slept

2011-03-18T20:03:00.000Z

It was often said of Lilian that she must have been a cat in a past life for she was often prone to sleeping. In class she had day-dreamed much to the annoyance of her teachers. Lilian still managed to get excellent grades and showed clear understanding of her subjects. They did not know how. The girl with her dark red hair and green eyes had been motherless it was said since she was very small. Her father had been devastated but doted on Lilian who always seemed a little wild.

Lilian had a tendency to suddenly disappear from where she should be and this did not stop when she began work. As a result she was soon without work and this did not seem to be a problem at all. Again, this was much to many people's annoyance, but they could not explain it. Lilian for her part was not disposed to explain it either.

She bought a dress for her 25th birthday with money she 'just happened to have for such an occasion'. It was a rich turquoise silk with large daisies printed all over it. She bought it simply because she liked it. Well, also it was her birthday. Her father had bought her a pillow, for she had worn out so many from sleeping.

Lilian declared to her father on the morning of her birthday that she was leaving home to seek her fortune. It seemed to her father that Lilian never seemed to be short of money and might be said to have her fortune. But he knew better than to argue with her as he had with her mother whom he missed.

"Then I must inform you Lilian," he began, but misunderstanding him, Lilian silenced him with a gesture.

"No I must insist. I shall go out into the world and seek my fortune. My mind is made up," she said.

Her father tried again valiantly but Lilian merely kissed him and said she would miss him too. He gave up with a sigh and went to work. He did not have Lilian's gift, but along the way, he stopped off to see Lilian's godmother. He told her what Lilian had said and she approved. He told her what he had wanted to say and that he hadn't said it. Lilian's godmother sighed, frowned and muttered something about sending a man to do a woman's job.

"Leave it to me," she told him.

Lilian took her handbag and her new pillow and went out into the street. It was an ordinary street in an ordinary part of town. She walked and walked until her shoes fell to pieces. Then she walked on in her bare feet with her handbag over one arm and the pillow under the other. She soon felt sleepy and approaching a wood, she placed the pillow against a tree and in her floral dress she slept.

She dreamed that a very tall woman with dark coppery hair and bright green eyes came to her and left a pair of shoes by her. The woman kissed her and went away. As if she had actually been kissed, Lilian woke up and lying beside her were a pair of turquoise satin shoes with little kitten heels. Lilian put the shoes on and as she always did when she woke up, whispered,

"Why thank you, I am most grateful."

Then she stretched and yawned and went on her way. After a little while her sleepiness and hunger made her place her pillow against a tree and again in her floral dress and her new shoes, she slept. She dreamed that squirrels gathered a heap of chestnuts for her and that bees brought her honey. A host of birds brought her plump blackberries from far away and the coppery-haired lady with the bright green eyes brought her a gold goblet with nectar in it for her to drink. Lilian felt the woman's kiss on her brow shortly before she awoke and stretched.

"Why thank you, I am most grateful," she whispered and ate the chestnuts with the honey and blackberries.

She drank the nectar and put the gold goblet into her handbag having cleaned it out with fresh leaves. She went on her way and soon came to a small cottage. There she found a poor woman with two small children and Lilian reached into her handbag for the goblet but imagine her surprise when she found, not the goblet but lots of gold coins. She gave them all to the poor woman who kissed her and changed her mind about stealing Lilian's dress and shoes.

Further along her way, the sun began to set and the trees of the forest began to thin out. Lilian felt sleepy again and placing her pillow against a tree, she fell asleep in her floral dress and turquoise satin shoes. She dreamed that her godmother came to her and shook her by the shoulders. She wasn't dreaming, her godmother had come to her and was telling her,

"Do wake up Lilian, you'll ruin that dress sleeping on the ground."

Lilian yawned elegantly, placing a hand over her mouth and hugging her godmother. She said that she was going to seek her fortune.

"Well I do wish you'd listen to your dear father. Your mother, as he was trying to tell you is a faerie and you have no need to seek your fortune for she will help you whenever she can. So do get up and come along home," her godmother told her.

Lilian was most impressed and asked her godmother if she was a faerie godmother.

"Don't be absurd Lilian, I'm a witch, not a faerie. You'd think that much would be obvious," her godmother answered whistling for her broomstick.

She patted the broomstick and Lilian did as she was told and sat behind her godmother. She held her godmother's hips and the broomstick obediently carried them home. It was fortunate that by the time they reached home, the sun had set. Nobody saw them land in her godmother's back garden on the lawn.

Lilian suddenly felt very tired, but she yawned and stretched and was sure that she opened her eyes. Was she dreaming, or was she awake?

She heard her godmother's voice downstairs and turning over in her bed, she went back to sleep.

Teazel

2011-03-12T17:57:00.000Z

A very long time ago there was a woman who was forced by poverty and cruelty to cast her little daughter out into a dark wood. You may imagine the terrible feelings of the mother, but imagine the even more terrible feelings of the little girl. All her mother could give her daughter was an old horseshoe and the advice to beware all men for too many were worse than wolves. To be polite where she could and to stay among the honest trees, for if they could not help her at least they would not hurt her.

The little girl went off then into the woods with her old horseshoe that her mama had told her to keep for the faeries would get at her otherwise. The little girl found blackberries to eat and though some were bitter, many were sweet. She gathered many and also picked some mushrooms that her mother had once fed her. These she kept for later and gathered up also some hazelnuts, carefully for their shells were like small green hedgehogs and pricked at her fingers.

Now, although her mother did not know it, there lived in the forest a witch of some bitterness and rage. She was not one of those wicked witches, but rather had been brought to her bitterness a hard life and as such had also become crosspatched. Her hair was wild and long and dark like treacle. Her eyes were dark blue like two sapphires and her skin was pale as porcelain from staying in the shade of the trees all the time. She had never had a child of her own and never known kindness. Being a witch, she was often condemned by the assumptions of others who did not know her yet believed they had a right to judge her. So she shunned all human society and kept to herself. She had built with her magic a charming little house in the woods with a tower so that she might defend herself in the event of needing to.

When she heard the whispering in the trees, she learned of the little girl and said haughtily,

"I shall tend my garden and let her tend her own."

The little girl came along and seeing the witch in her garden she paused. Remembering her mother's advice, she said politely,

"Good day to you mistress. I am all alone in the world, for my mother fell in with a man who beats her and for fear of him, she sent me into the trees. I have some blackberries and hazelnuts and mushrooms that I gathered, would you like some?"

The witch was astonished at being so politely addressed. Part of her heart melted, but catching herself in time she replied,

"I am a witch little girl and everyone hates a witch."

The little girl was highly impressed for she had never met a witch before.

"Should I hate a witch, mistress? My poor mama is hated and she is not a witch. Her man hates me and I'm not a witch. Still, if you will allow me to stay with you, I shall do all that I may to help and share the little food I have," she said.

The witch considered this and frowned, but agreed. So the little girl stayed with the witch and kept house for her as best she could. After a week, the witch had lost her frown and after two weeks she had come to speak to the little girl quite gently. After a month she came to love the little girl and to treat her as if she were her own daughter. She began to teach the little girl what she knew of hedge-witchery and how to gather honey and make pots to gather it in. She taught the little girl how to weave and though this was hard for the little girl, the witch was patient and kind.

It happened that autumn, that teazels grew in the witches garden and she asked the little girl to uproot them for they were of no use to her. The little girl asked her if she might keep them if she could find a use for them and the witch smiled and agreed. That evening, after they had eaten, the witch lay down on her couch with her head on the little girl's lap and began to sing softly. The little girl took the teazels and gently began to comb out the tangles in the witch's long dark hair. So soothing was this that after a while the witch closed her eyes and began to relax. Thinking that she was asleep, the little girl began to talk to the room. She spoke to the fireplace and the chairs complimenting them on their kindness. She spoke to the woven carpet on the floor and thanked it for keeping their feet warm. She finally began to speak to herself and wished her mother was with the witch and herself.

"For I do miss my mama even though the witch has been like a mama to me. Mama is not quite as beautiful as the witch, but nobody would dare beat the witch. I wish my mama was a witch, then nobody would beat her either."

The witch said nothing, but began to think. Still the little girl combed the witch's hair with the teazel and hummed a little tune. Without knowing it, she was humming a tune full of hedge-magic and the teazel began to comb the witch's hair so that it became sleek and smooth and as beautiful as the witch herself. What is more, the little girl's love flowed through the teazel which slowly combed out the witch's bitterness until the witch opened her eyes and sat up. Turning around to the little girl then, she embraced her and held her close, weeping at the cruelty of a man who had made a mother abandon her daughter to the woods.

"Only have a little faith in me my love," she said adding, "I never asked you your name, but for what you have done for me, let me call you Teazel."

Teazel was so astonished that she threw the teazel head that she had been combing the witch's hair with into the fire. It cracked and popped with the bitterness and sent a curl of black smoke up the chimney until the faint sweet scent of honey filled the room. She hugged the witch and told her that she loved the witch very much. This made the witch weep the more, so moved was she by the little girl's sincerity. She picked up young Teazel then and put her to bed. She kissed the child and assured her that all would be as well as it could be.

Teazel thanked her and fell asleep directly while the witch sat on the edge of the bed caressing the girl's soft face as she thought. The following morning, Teazel awoke to find a note on the kitchen table asking her to clean up the house and make up the lumber room into a bedroom. Then to prepare lunch and weed the garden, 'with the exception of the teazels, which have a use for you'. Teazel ate her breakfast and set to work with a will. She used no magic for she wanted to please the witch and besides one should only use magic when there is no other way. It is not wise to use power simply because one can and Teazel knew it.

The witch meanwhile had disguised herself. She had bound up her long, dark tresses and covered them up. She had cut herself a Blackthorn staff and went through the wood to the town. There, at the edge of the wood she looked upon it with distaste.

Everywhere was cruelty and poverty and little enough humanity. Only the brutality that the people's Papercoin god had brought them to. Everyone struggled with each other for coins and notes. Those that had much money wanted to hold onto it; those that had little wanted to gain more of it. The witch wrinkled her nose and stepped onto the road that led into the slums.

By a large housing estate, she saw a thin, weed of a woman covered in bruises and stained with her own tears. Yet for all the tears and bruises, she saw that there was something of Teazel about the woman and something of the woman in her beloved Teazel. She stopped by the woman and gave her bread with blackberries and bid her eat. The woman looked up at her and then took the food and gratefully ate.

"There was once a woman who was forced by poverty and cruelty to cast her little daughter out into a dark wood," the witch said quietly.

The woman burst into tears and sobbed heavily remembering her own little girl.

"I once did the same and I hope she fares better than I," she wailed.

The witch described Teazel and the woman nodded and said that was her little girl and asked if the witch had seen her. Was she safe? Was she living?

The witch assured her that the little girl, or Teazel as she called her was both safe and alive. She raised up the young woman and told her,

"I am a witch whom your daughter had no fear of and was polite and kind to. She took away my bitterness with her love and now I have come to bring you to her," the witch told her.

The young woman suddenly gave a little cry, for they had heard a shouting and threatening yells coming towards them. The witch bid her be assured that nobody would harm her and led her away. They went along the road out of town and into the wood where suddenly it seemed as if the air was cleaner and better. Before long they arrived at the witch's house and there in the garden was young Teazel weeding. Seeing her mama with the witch, she stood and ran to hug them both. There in the wood, like the plants she had a use for, young Teazel grew tall and straight but without spikiness. She lived there with her mother and the witch and when they grew old she worked about the house for them both.

Cinderella - at 40

2011-03-06T14:44:00.001Z

On her 40th birthday, Cinderella was confronted by the thought that she was no longer young. All through her thirties it had seemed to her that she was somehow neither young nor old. Now, with her own daughter a princess of her own and her son at sea, she was faced with the fact that she was a woman of a certain age.

That night, she was out with a group of duchesses for a 'girl's' night out. Girl, she thought scornfully, I haven't been a girl for twenty years. She looked in on her husband, Charming who was now becoming grizzled and grey haired. He had fallen asleep in front of the television with the football still on. She smiled and quietly turning the television off sat beside him and kissed him softly. He had not been complacent once they were married, nor had he flirted with younger more attractive women. He had loved her as much as when they were first married. There had been the occasional disagreement but he had learned and so had she, to compromise.

"I love you too much to let some silly disagreement stand between us," he had said.

From that she too had learned when to give way and when not to. Over her children he learned, she would fight like a tigress - like several tigresses in a bad mood. But when they were alone, she saw that she loved him a great deal and would not like to have lost him. They really had lived 'happily ever after'. He learned to get along with her faery godmother and she learned to get along with his mother and indeed came to love her mother in law very much. Funny, she thought, I never once gave a thought to what my life would be once I was married. It was always as if once I was married the story would be over and yet it was the beginning of a new story.

She placed a gentle hand on his stomach and kissed him again. Silly old thing, she thought affectionately and hugged him. He did not wake, the affairs of state always tired him out, yet he had been determined to watch the match between Sidonia and Liviari. He had fallen asleep just before Sidonia had scored to come back from one all. Cinderella kissed him again briefly and stood. She put her hands in her back pockets, 'Bette Davis style' as the poet had once put it. At the thought she frowned slightly, she had never, ever seemed 'so easy' she thought. Cheek!

She went upstairs to her daughter, but Jane was not there. She's probably gone out with her friends, thought Cinderella. She sat on Jane's bed and gazed around the room thinking of her daughter. She was so proud of her. Darling Jane, she thought to herself with a smile. There was a dress draped over the chair before her toilette table and her shoes were scattered about the open wardrobe. Was I like this once, Cinderella wondered?

The room smelled of roses and Poison, Jane's favourite perfume. Somehow it seemed so paradoxical, for Jane was not at all poisonous. Cinderella smiled at the thought of her favourite perfume being L'Air du Temps; at 40 the Air of Time was distinctly upon her. She picked up the dress and hung it up in the wardrobe and put away the shoes, remembering a lovely glass mule slipper she had once worn to a ball.

That night, she wore black court shoes with red soles and a long column dress in black and hot pink satin. Even after having had two children she had kept her figure and was proud to have done so. She was also, if truth be told, relieved for she had not thought it possible. There had been the slight fear that Charming would not have loved her, which he had dismissed when she told him.

"Why would I want anyone other than you, my sweet?" he'd said.

She thought he was merely being, well charming, but he was honest and kind. He loved her and was a good father to both children if occasionally prone more to discipline than kind reasoning. Still, she mused, they had not done a bad job between them. Jane was always a delight and Wolfram (named after an unfortunate uncle) was as charming and kind as his father, though he had more of his mother's looks.

The duchesses met her at the steps of the palace and seeing them as around her own age, she felt a warm affection for them. They were no longer girls but women with experience of the world and a deeper understanding. As they prepared to go Jane came dashing down the palace steps in a dress of dark red silk and shoes of black satin. She flung her arms about her mother and kissed her. Cinderella felt herself well up but took a deep breath.

"Happy birthday mum! Can I come with you?" Jane said breathlessly.

Cinderella held her daughter away from her and looked upon her. Had she really given birth to this radiant creature?

"Thank you darling and yes you may. I just hope daddy will be alright without us," she said.

Jane smiled and kissed her again.

"He's watching a movie. Lots of guns, explosions and car chases. He'll be fine," she said.

Cinderella chuckled softly and took her daughter's arm. They got into the car and drove out to Rosati's overlooking the ocean. It was not that far, but Charming had insisted that they go out in the car for he feared for her safety and the dangerous glitter of the paparazzi. For his sake then, they went in the car. They had a table reserved and ate well. There was a ballroom and Jane insisted on taking her mother on to the floor to dance. Cinderella laughed and danced and remembered - oh but so long ago when she was her daughter's age and she had danced with Prince Charming in those dazzling glass mule slippers. In between that dance and this, time had slipped away. Jane had once been a baby in her arms and now was a beautiful young woman of whom she was very proud. Had she ever told Jane that, she wondered?

She leaned forward, slipping an arm about Jane's waist and kissed her.

"I am so proud of you darling," she said.

"What?" Jane asked and made a gesture to signify that she had not heard over the music.

Cinderella waved it away, the moment had come and gone. When the music paused, she took her daughter in her arms and hugged her. Jane laughed and kissed her. The duchesses had gathered some gentlemen to dance with and they danced too. Cinderella sat and watched them, sipping her wine and sighed with happiness. A wonderful night, she thought. But where did all the time go?

Was it so long ago that she had looked young and beautiful as her daughter? That men had looked on her with frank admiration at her wedding? A woman came to her table and sat, pouring herself a glass of wine.

"Juniper," Cinderella said politely.

"Happy Birthday Cinders," said her stepsister.

Juniper was the only stepsister left, her other stepsister Celine had spontaneously combusted out of sheer bitterness at the thought of Cinderella getting the prince. This had surprised almost everyone, for nobody had actually believed such a thing could happen. Cinderella's faery godmother had not been at all surprised.

"Probably had some goblin in her family somewhere," she'd said, "Happens to goblins all the time."

Cinderella never made peace with her stepmother, but with Juniper she had found another daughter not much loved. Sympathy and kindness made up for a lot and now they could meet on speaking terms and had a kind of awkward affection.

"How's things?" Cinderella asked.

"Not so bad love. I've been made office manager and my two kids recently graduated. I see Jane's turned out well," Juniper said softly.

Cinderella smiled, "Kids? When did we ever think we'd be sitting here talking about our kids?" she said.

Juniper smiled and got up to move closer to her stepsister. She slipped an arm about Cinderella and leaned her head on her shoulder.

"Not ever love. We were too young to think that far ahead. But at least we are now both loved and..." Juniper paused and sipped wine.

"Have learned to love each other. I've got something for you in my handbag. Love the dress by the way."

Cinderella felt herself well up again but kissed Juniper's hair and put her arm about her stepsister's waist. Yes, they had learned to love each other, perhaps closer than blood-sisters in some ways. Juniper put down her wine and opened up her ruby velvet bag. From it she took a small box which she placed on Cinderella's lap.
Cinderella put down her wineglass and opened the box. Inside was a necklace and matching bracelet: beech leaves of beaten gold with berries of rubies and emeralds.

"Juniper it's gorgeous!" she murmured.

"Really? You really like it? Because if you don't it's ok," Juniper began.

Cinderella kissed her and this time her tears came.

"I love them, they are so lovely. And you are a wonderful sister to get me such a gift," she said, embracing her.

Juniper embraced her and later they staggered a little tipsy but not so drunk from Rosati's and forgot the car. The night was warm and there was a pale golden moon and a few stars. They walked back to the palace and along the way, Cinderella kicked off her shoes. Jane, seeing only the one placed it on the kerb and reminded herself to collect it much later that morning, though she never did.

It had been a lovely night and the following morning, Cinderella was forty and slightly hungover. It was worth it, she thought and smiled at the thought of Juniper's gift.

The Apprentices

2011-03-01T07:57:00.000Z

Birmingham City University, School of Art.

There was once a man who had three sons and there being few schools in those days, he sent them off to be apprentices. The eldest went to be a shoemaker, the middle one went to be an engineer and the youngest who was a bit of a dreamer went off to be a sorcerer.

The eldest learned quickly and soon he could make such shoes that everyone wanted them. He made shoes that made tall people look elegant, short people feel and look taller, fat people look and feel slimmer and skinny people look a little broader, but not too much. He made shoes for runners that made them extra fast and shoes for women that made them fall in love - or if they wished, fall out of love. He made boots for men that made them dashing and brave and boots that could carry a man across whole continents to their loves - or to meet their enemies in duels. In short then, he became a shoemaker paragon.

The middle son also learned quickly even though his brain had to learn vast amounts of mathematics. He learned about Boltzmann's Constant and Phillipson's Inconstant. He knew all about Gauss' Theorem and Haus' Functions and Cobb-Douglas' Fourths and such maths that are beyond my poor little brain. The result was that he was capable of designing all kinds of wonderful machines and structures.

As for the youngest, well you may imagine it is hard to find sorcerers and it was hard then too. Somehow in the heart of a great city, he did find one willing to take him on. Now this sorcerer's apprentice was no fool. He studied hard and swept the floors and asked intelligent questions and fed the cat. He became partial to good wine and looking at Anne Marie the sorcerer's cook who was not in the least bit interested in him.

"One day you'll just run off and marry a princess and you won't remember me at all," she told him.

Still and all, he loved her quite considerably and swore he would rather have her love than the love of the most beautiful princess in all the world. Anne Marie laughed and told him to go and study. There was one book, the Last Book in the sorcerer's library, which the sorcerer did not mention. For the young man was becoming very quickly as good a sorcerer as his master. But the young man was also very perceptive and one evening he crept into the library and took the book for the night. He called up a tiny djinn of light and read the book under the bedclothes with the djinn curled up asleep in his hand, glowing softly. Reading that book he learned a great deal and from that he became a greater sorcerer than his master. Yet he knew better than to let his master know it.

Now it happened that after many years the man became old until he knew that his time was coming (Death had sent him a letter saying so). As such, he sent for his sons for he wished to know that they would be able to find their place in the world. He was certainly glad to know that they excelled at their chosen professions and knowing that they would be well he asked them who they would share their lives with.

The eldest had made shoes for the princess of Ecuador and she had fallen for him. They were to be married very soon. The middle one had fallen for the duchess of Lancashire and they too were to be married soon. The youngest had studied and though he loved Anne Marie, she had not said she loved him.

He went back to the city and asked her for her hand in marriage.

"What for?", she asked him, "You'll just run off and marry a princess and you won't remember me at all."

"Doubt that the stars will fall, doubt the sun will rise or that birds will sing, but never doubt I love you," he answered romantically.

Anne Marie laughed and told him not to be silly.

"After all, only a man who could tidy up a house in an instant could be mine," she said.

The youngest son said a few magical words and Anne Marie's little house was suddenly as neat and tidy and clean as any new house.

"Yes," Anne Marie said, "But can you cook and how would we live - if I married you of course?"

The youngest son said a few more words and made a couple of gestures too. The table was full of beautifully cooked food. As for how they would live, the youngest son told her that he would provide them with all they needed with his magical powers.

"Oh you big silly. One day you'll just run off and marry a princess and you won't remember me at all," she told him.

Now it happened, that the Princess of Ecuador and the Duchess of Lancashire had a little talk with their husbands and told them about the Princess of Poland who was at that time the most beautiful princess in the world. It seemed that she had been imprisoned for being beautiful by a wicked and rather comely witch who would rather she was considered more beautiful. Witches can get like that, it's all the fashion magazines they read.

The eldest son went to the witch and offered to make her a beautiful pair of shoes in return for the release of the Princess of Poland. The witch thought about it and agreed, but when the shoes were made she took them and imprisoned the eldest son. She did look rather lovely in the shoes though. The Princess of Ecuador was very angry, but she did not know what to do.

The middle son used all his engineering abilities and built a tunnel to free his brother and the Princess of Poland, but he ended up imprisoned too. The Duchess of Lancashire was not happy, but there was nothing she could do either.

The two fiancees went to the youngest son and told him that his brothers and the most beautiful princess in the world was being held by the Wicked Witch of Wythenshawe.

"We are furious but there isn't anything we can do," they told him.

The youngest son saw his chance now. He went round to Wythenshawe to see the witch and demanded she release all the prisoners.

"Or what, young man?" she sneered.

"Don't make me turn you into something horrible," the young man replied.

The witch made a spell but the young sorcerer countered it and made ivy grow up around her tightly and quickly. Before it could reach her arms she had responded with an enchantment. The young sorcerer answered it with an incantation followed by a spell and a cantrip. Around they went like this until the air was sizzling with magic. Then the young man whispered a word and the witch's shoes vanished. The witch was mortified. If he started with her shoes there was no knowing what else he'd remove. She yelled a spell and his sorcerer's hat grew so that it fell over him. The sorcerer then vanished from the hat and appeared behind the witch and tickled her mercilessly until she was gasping and shrieking for him to stop.

"Release the prisoners then," he told her.

"I can't, the Princess of Poland is too beautiful and who will love me if she's around?" the witch gasped.

The sorcerer told the witch that if she was a lot nicer and sweeter then nobody would resist her for she was very beautiful. The witch asked him if he would marry the Princess then.

"Oh no, I'm in love with Anne Marie," he said firmly.

The witch did not believe him but as she was afraid he'd start tickling her again she released the prisoners. The two brothers were very cross with the witch but the youngest brother mollified them with a mollifying spell and they returned to their fiancees who were much happier. The Princess of Poland was stunningly beautiful. Her skin was clear and fine, her eyes were soft and dark and her hair was lustrous. Her figure was elegant and she was wickedly witty and funny. When the young sorcerer saw her he asked her if she would help the witch find a true love.

"Easy that," the Princess answered, "I love the witch of Wythenshawe, I came looking for her but suddenly I was imprisoned in a cave and I have longed for her all this time."

You may imagine how astounded and indeed how foolish the witch felt. She kissed the Princess who blushed very prettily and asked if the witch would be hers. The witch agreed and the marriage would be held very soon.

As for the sorcerer he went back to Anne Marie who hearing of the Princess sighed and married the young sorcerer. That's life for you.

Winged Time

2011-02-17T08:02:00.000Z

Time himself stands waiting upon us all. As we all know, the more enjoyable moments pass too quickly and the harsh and tough moments seem to stretch their very seconds and minutes out. Nobody as far as we know can stop time or make our time in life go on. Oh there was that time when... and now I come to think of it, time did stop then - but it moved on very soon after.

It was a cold, crisp clear day in Spring when the sky was touched only by the barest wisps of cloud. In the quiet suburban street only a cat trotted home after a night's prowl, eager for breakfast and the warmth of a kitchen. A fox darted from a garden and lolloped along the road towards the woods without a backwards look. In a bedroom, Ophelia St Clair turned her back on the clock and pointedly tried to ignore it. But the sun would not be ignored and pushed through the pale curtains lighting up the room. Ophelia yawned and sighed heavily for she did not care to get up out of her warm bed and go to work.

"Come on, get up you sluggard," she told herself.

She sat up and stretched and wished silently that time would just stop for a little while. But she did not speak her wish aloud, which was just as well. There are and were at that time, certain imps, sprites and the like who like nothing more to cause mischief among we human beings. Naturally, being sensible and rational we do not believe in such things. But these creatures are aware of us and we annoy them with our blundering ways and our treatment of the world as if it were ours to do with as we please.

Ophelia was not a fool, but nonetheless she did not believe in such things as imps or sprites. She got up, prepared herself for the day and went down to make breakfast and coffee. Especially coffee. She sipped her coffee and watched the pale sky turn blue, the sun rising up.

As an architect and indeed like all designers she had a mind that mixed mathematics with art. The mathematics made her buildings stand up and not collapse, the art made them look good - so she hoped. The current project was behind time. There had been bad freak weather thanks to children wanting the snow back and - dare one say it, imps hearing them say it. Of course the children wanted the snow, they got to play in it. Their parents did not much care for snow at all, it interfered with work and it was cold. Naturally the imps obliged the children having something of the child in themselves.

But with Ophelia's project being behind time, a certain sprite was listening very hard. The builders wished there had not been the bad weather, so did Ophelia. They wished, like Ophelia that they had more time, but the client wanted the building done in the time specified. There was overtime and that cost. There was the extra cost of the machinery. Ophelia altered some of the design where she could to make the building quicker to finish but still safer and as beautiful as it could be.

"We really could do with time outside the building site just stopping for about a month," the exasperated contractor told Ophelia that morning.

"Oh I wish it would," she said.

She heard a faint crackly chuckle and thought no more of it... until she came to leave the site and time had stopped. People did not pass by, they were frozen in the middle of what they were doing. Ophelia backed nervously onto the site again and called the contractor. At his exclamation, several of the builders turned to look and were shocked to see that Time had stopped outside the site.

It is typical of the contractor and his builders that they instantly organised the site for immediate use. There were bedrooms of a sort set up, toilets and a kitchen. The people were organised into groups to deal with everything. Fortunately there was a well stocked cafe on the site, purely by accident. The contractor sat for a while in the office and considered his wish. It occurred to him that Ophelia had wished what he had suggested and he grinned at the thought.

"Don't you worry love," he told Ophelia, "We have a month to catch up, so let's use it as best we can."

Ophelia was at too much of a loss to do anything other than agree. She nodded and the work continued to her original plans. The organising was phenomenal, the work went ahead with vigour and suddenly at the end of that month the building was finished. Noise, which had been absent from outside of the site continued as life continued. The sprite who had stopped Time for a month out of mischief was most disgusted that mischief had not been done. Indeed it had done the builders a favour if anything. He packed up what little he had and left for Tunbridge Wells to see if he could upset a retired colonel instead.

The builders and Ophelia went home. Ophelia never, ever wished for anything again. She had realised that if you are not careful what you wish for you just may get it.

The Mermaids Revenge

2011-01-22T23:24:00.000Z

In our town on the seafront, there is a statue that we always thought was called The Old Sailor. At least when I was at school, we assumed that the statue was just a symbol of the sailors of the 16th century. I don't think any of us ever thought that this was a statue of a particular man. The statue had been paid for by Miss Celia Allan a rich old woman who lived at the grand old Rectory in the centre of town. It was a large house with a larger garden, part of which was an orchard. We were very familiar with the orchard, though we never mentioned such a thing for fear of getting into trouble.

One afternoon a group of us, all in our twenties sat at a cafe on the seafront talking. J____ indicated the statue and mentioned that he looked miserable.

"He must have been on a terrible ship," he said.

"Not a terrible ship, but it had a terrible fate," a voice answered him.

We were a little in awe turning to face Miss Allan, taking tea. Now I have never been able to resist a story, especially one that involves real people. Indeed I have often wondered at the people in our town long ago who lived and moved where now I live and move. All their stories have fascinated me and the thought that they had their stories even as we have ours. So I could not help myself and my friends knew it, smiling at me as they did. We were off to university that autumn and it felt as though this was our last hurrah before leaving home.

"What terrible fate was that, Miss Allan?" I asked.

At first she did not seem as if she would tell. She fell silent and bowed her head for a moment and when she raised it her eyes seemed filled with tears. I knew then that there was such a tale as would hold me. Yet, at first I did not know what to say to apologise for her tears. I opened my mouth to speak, but she waved any apology away and said softly,

"Forgive me, my dear. The young always believe that love is their dominion, but well I thought that too once. That statue represents Captain Mortimer Speedwell of the ship Fearless. She was a fine looking ship, built along the coast at Shalemouth and my aunt loved him. Every time he returned from the sea she met him and every time he kissed her and thanked her. He called her his blessing for every time he thought how far he was from home, he would tell himself that Iris was waiting for him on the quayside. That her love would draw him home no matter what.

Now you young men will laugh no doubt, but believe you me there was once a time when the ancient sea was full of ancient things and ancient beings before the times of human beings. At the end of one voyage he came home to her a little afraid. He said that he had seen a mermaiden and she had called to him. She had named him love and sea-sweet and bid him wed her. But he had told her that he had a sweetheart waiting for him and he intended to wed her and no other.

Iris kissed him then and said that they should wed before he went back to sea. He sighed and said he would but he feared the mermaiden would be angered. Iris wondered what could be done and being a sensible young woman asked her grandmother, for they know all the old things that the young forget or dismiss. Her grandmother told her that if she sang a true song of love every twilight between day and night a mermaid might grant her a wish or three. Iris thanked her grandmother and told the good Captain not to fear.

They were married the next day and much rejoicing there was too. They were so much in love and it was so evident that all the guests recalled their own vows, those that were married. Those that were not wished they were. The following day Captain Speedwell was to go to sea again. No matter that he had been wed the day before, but that he must to sea. Iris kissed him and swore she would sing him home safely if she could.

That evening, she went down to the quayside and looked out over the dark sea. She sang of how she was wed and how much she hoped her love would come home safely. How she missed him and longed for him and how she knew he longed for her. There was a sighing breeze across the sea that lifted her hair from her shoulders and ruffled the tops of the waves. She sang until the fair moon rose up and then went away to her bed alone.

Each evening she sang on the quayside until the news of it got around. Each evening she sang and each evening the wind sighed across the sea and the waves lapped softly against the quayside but no mermaid came there. But on the third evening, the sea broke to let a head rise from it's constantly moving waves. The head of a beautiful young woman with skin as pale blue as a summer sky at morning and hair a thousand shades of greens and blues. The mermaid, for so she was, lingered until Iris had finished singing and the moon had risen. Then before Iris could say a word, the mermaid sank beneath the waves and once more the sea was full of waves and nothing more.

On the sixth evening however, the mermaid had come a lot closer to listen and in her song, Iris asked the mermaid of her pleasure to protect her love and bring him safely home to her. The mermaid said nothing at all and sank beneath the waves again, but as Iris turned to go she heard the waters break and a clear voice called her back. She turned and the mermaid asked her,

"Why should I protect your man when so many women long for their men to be safe?"

Iris said that her husband was afraid he might not see her again for he had been told to wed another but had wed her. The mermaid considered this and said that well if Iris would sing for another six nights - even if her love came home, he would be safe.

"But mind you do, for if you but miss one evening, he is as good as lost," the mermaid told her.

Iris thanked her and said she would do all in her power to be at the quay every night to sing for her. The mermaid flicked her tail and disappeared. Now I said that the news of Iris singing had got around and the reason why also. Many in our town then thought that a find romantic thing to do and would do all they could to make sure she was there every evening.

But a priest came to our town. A stern and powerful man who had no time for such trivial things as romance. Unlike the Christ he professed to believe in, there was little love in him. He was a powerfully persuasive talker too and in two days he had the town in his hands. On the third day he had heard of Iris' singing to the mermaid and vowed to prevent this superstitious nonsense. He visited my grandfather's house, though my grandfather was away and spoke fiercely to Iris. He called her a blasphemer and a rebel against his true faith. He told her that to believe in such superstitions was foolish and would lead her to Hellfire and eternal damnation.

Iris was a fierce young woman when roused and told him that she would sing as she pleased and if it meant damnation because he said so then she would 'dare damnation!' The priest was furious at this and demanded that she stop her singing or he would demand she be stopped by the town council. Iris laughed in his face and sang a song of ridicule and derision at him until he dashed out of the house in a rage.

That evening, she went down to the quayside by the cliffside walk and so avoided the priest who was waiting to stop her in the town square. All he heard was the wind murmuring through the square and the wild screams of the gulls. That evening the wind blew across the quayside and took Iris' song out over the sea where the mermaid listened clad in the lacy-crested waves. Iris told her of the priest, but the mermaid reminded her of her promise.

Iris pleaded with the mermaid but the sea-maiden was as fixed in her view as the priest was in his. Iris sighed and went home sadly for she feared the cruelty of the priest. The priest having heard nothing that night went home satisfied and vowed he would be sure of stopping her the following night too.

This time he placed six of his fervent disciples in the square but one of them remarked upon the cliffside walk and three men were sent to block that way off too. But Iris came down to the quayside by the poor fisher's cottages, for they understood her singing all too well and loved to hear her. She sang through the evening until the moon rose up and the wind whispered along the cliffside walk and through the square so that neither the priest nor his disciples heard her singing. When the moon arose Iris went home to bed but as she passed through the town she was seen by one of the priest's men. The priest was furious and the following day he and his disciples caught hold of her and locked her in the church so that she should not find her way to the quayside. She begged the men to let her free for one night - the last night of her vow to the mermaid, but the priest had so persuaded them that he was right they would not relent. She reminded them of Captain Speedwell and how their love for him was not greater than her own. Would they let him die for want of one night's song?

The laughed and mocked her using the priest's words to justify their cruelty. Then she stood up straight and told them that if they wished her as well as the Captain dead they would hold her in the church. For if her love was to die then so would she. Still they would not let her go, but she persuaded one man to go and tell her grandmother what was being done and why.

Now the day began to fall away and in the quiet afternoon the priest himself came to watch over her. He mocked her and derided her foolishness but she sat quietly, resigning herself to her death for she was sure he would not let her sing. Then he became seemingly gentle and said that she might sing for his god instead of some absurd fairytale thing. Iris remarked that a dead woman cannot sing and that if her husband died, then so would she. The priest told her severely that if she committed suicide she would burn in Hell. Iris replied that if he was for Heaven she would prefer Hell with one she loved.

The men went home for their supper but the priest ate hard bread with hard cheese and a little water. Iris would eat nothing. Just after supper, her grandmother knocked at the door of the church and demanded to speak with her grand-daughter. The priest opened the door to reject her and the poor fishers thrust him back and held him while they carried Iris down to the quayside and fed her along the way.

The sun was beginning to bleed across the sky turning the pale golden sky red. She was tired and frightened, but Iris lifted up her head, supported by the poor fishers and sang the last song required. She bid the sea be kind and the mermaidens and their mermen be gentle and bring her husband home. She told them of how some had tried to prevent her coming to sing her last song but that good friends to Love had triumphed at the last. She begged the sea to never forget her love and how she had fulfilled her vow through love of her good Captain Speedwell. She sang of his firm chin and strong brow and of his sad yet loving eyes and his kisses that she longed to taste again.

All this time the mermaiden had listened with her head tilted on one side, but when she heard the name of Iris' husband she grew wild and howled at the sky. Still Iris sang and the wind blew in off the sea drawing up the sea to the sky. It raised her hair and tore at the fishers' clothing and their hair, it growled and wailed as if it would drown out her song. Still she sang through it all and the fishers joined with her singing so that it might be heard that she had kept her vow.

Then the winds seemed to reach down into the troughs of the sea and pull it up by the crests so as to fling it against the quayside. The fishers stood firm and raised her up a little. Still they sang on together with Iris' voice clear among them all. The mermaiden shrieked as the moon arose and plunged down into the sea. Now the fishers lowered her to the ground and she thanked them for their help and swore she would do all she could to help them. The fishers wept for they were deeply moved and carried her home. The priest they took from the church and led him out of the town telling him to go and never return.

That night a storm raged and Iris only slept from sheer exhaustion. The wind howled about the house, rattled the windows in their sashes and the doors on their hinges. A savage rain beat its drops upon the town as if it would destroy every house to it's last brick and stone.

In the morning with the rising of the sun, the sky was clear and the storm had died away. The day was calm and subdued as if the world was holding its breath. That evening Iris went down to the quayside and sang. This time, the whole town turned out to join her and sang with her so that their voices went out over the waters as if calling to the Fearless and her crew. The wind died away a little and the sea lapped indifferently against the quayside. The following morning as Iris stood upon the quay, the Fearless sailed into harbour and the whole town cheered. Captain Speedwell and his goodly crew were embraced and patted on their backs. Drinks and food were brought for them and music was played. Though she was happy to have her husband back, Iris told him what had happened and begged him to stay on land with her. He, for love of her said that he would.

Five days after, he felt the sea call to him and would spend hours upon the quay looking out as the fishing boats went out to sea and the great ships like the Fearless, the Adventure and the Sea-Tiger were sail-set and un-moored for their voyages. He felt his heart torn, for he loved Iris but the sea was a part of him and he knew it. At first he pleaded with her, but she reminded him of the mermaiden and asked him if he was so quick to choose death over his own wife. But her grandmother shook her head and sighed, for she understood. She tried her best, but she could not make Iris understand.

So on the seventh day, Captain Speedwell went down to the quayside and joined the crew of the Valiant as a navigator. He had left a letter and as the Valiant sailed out of the harbour mouth, he saw with sorrow his darling wife standing on the quayside. She was calling vainly out to him with the letter he had left for her in her hand as if it were a flag of surrender. In that instant it came to him that he would never see her again. He dived overboard and swam to the pilot boat, but he never reached it. Two pale blue arms reached up and took him down into the depths of the sea never to rise again. In that very instant, Iris flung herself into the sea also. Her clothes soaked up all the sea and dragged her down also.

The town was in mourning for many years until their story seemed to be in danger of being forgotten. That was when I paid to have that statue put up. There was one on the quayside of Iris singing, but no matter what happened, it kept falling into the harbour. Eventually, I settled for just the Captain and there he stands gazing out over the sea as his darling wife once did, singing him safely home."

"We'll not forget them, Miss Allan," R____ assured her and the rest of us joined him in his assurances.

She smiled then and thanked us. We went off to university shortly after and did not meet up for years after. Then it was at the funeral of Miss Celia Allan and while her coffin was being lowered into the grave, a fisher began to sing a song of such deep longing and sadness that I wept. It was the first song that Miss Allan's aunt Iris had sung to bring her husband home.

Snowfrost Garden

2011-01-11T10:24:00.000Z

It was not quite Spring when the weather turned suddenly very cold. I went to bed after a bright Spring day and woke up to snow and ice.

"Someone's upset someone," my darling said, quoting her grandmother, "Or why would we have snow in Springtime?"

I went outside wearily to get a shovel and clear the snow from the paths and to my surprise I found a white cat with the most brilliant blue eyes looking at me from the wall. I love cats, but no matter how politely I spoke to this one, or offered bribes it looked disdainfully at me. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to shovel the snow to the side of the path. The frost had bitten all the flower buds and it pained me to see them dying before blooming. After a little while, I stood up and stretched my back and loosened the tension in my neck and shoulders. I had rarely worked quite so hard. When I reached down for my shovel, I saw the white cat had come a little closer and thinking it might be afraid of me, for I am tall, I crouched down and spoke to it.

This time it sighed and said dryly,

"Well you have manners of a kind at least."

I was shocked, but maintained my composure and answered that I loved cats and admired their grace and beauty. The cat harrumphed as much as a cat can and seemed to shift into the snowy whiteness. Only those ice blue eyes remained staring at me. The cat had become a small young woman about the height of my knee. Her hair was whiter than bone, her skin was white with a bluish tinge and lips seemed almost bloodless. I stood, stepped back and bowed to her. To my surprise, she chuckled. It seemed such a warm sound from so cold a being.

"Your majesty," I said softly.

"Majesty eh? Well now I don't mind that, but I'm no majesty my lad," she answered with a wry smile.

"You are not the Snow Queen from the wintry north?" I asked her.

"Snow Queen? Certainly not. I'm Jackie Snowfrost, or Jacqueline Snowfrost to you. I have a brother but he only comes out in winter. When he sleeps, it's my turn. Now then my lad, I'm hungry. What will you do about that then?" she answered me.

I asked her what she would like to eat and she grinned and said, "Ice Cream of course, the colder the better. And a glass of iced water to drink too."

I said that I would fetch it immediately and went indoors eager to tell my love about what I had seen in the garden. But she was on the phone to her dear friend Maura and I did not like to interrupt. I took a box of ice cream from the freezer and the ice tray. The ice cream was a solid block but I persevered and hacked off a large chunk into a bowl. In a glass I put cold water and then ice cubes to chill it. I took both out into the garden and set them on the garden table before Jacqueline Snowfrost. She sighed and took her meal and would not talk to me.

"It's rude to talk while eating. Rude to the food and rude to me, so hush," she told me.

I hushed and went on with clearing the paths all the way to the pavement. Then because it was there, I cleared the pavement before our house and the road too. I went back to the garden to find the bowl and the glass empty and no Jacqueline Snowfrost. I heard a soft sigh and the snow in the garden began to melt away. By evening, all the snow had melted and my love and I went up to bed in our warm house.

For Love or Money

2011-01-05T10:54:00.000Z

Rooftops with gulls and sea - by Diana Heyer and used with permission.

A tale inspired by the song, 'Annachie Gordon'.

My grandmother told me this when I was lying in bed with a bad cold. She fed me her soup with chunks of bread and gazed out of my window over the frosty rooftops with the gulls perched on the posts at the roof ends and the sea and sky beyond. I think she intended it as a bedtime story to help me sleep, but I somehow never forget it when I look out of my window towards the sea.

A long time ago in our town, there lived a man who had a daughter. This daughter was as beautiful as a summer morning and twice as sweet as strawberries. She was tall, well-figured that is to say neither skinny nor too plump but well-figured, so grandma said. This daughter was called Rachel and she went around with as likely a group of young women as you could imagine. Rachel's hair was dark like molasses, her eyes blue as the sky on a winter's day and every young man longed for a kiss from her bonny lips.

However, it seems also that further inland on a hill lived a Lord, a rich and powerful man with a big house with many towers and much land. This Lord had heard of Rachel and when first he saw her, he fell deeply in love with her, so bright and beautiful was she. He went to her father and asked for Rachel's hand in marriage saying that she should have all she desired if she would wed him. Rachel's father agreed to the marriage for the Lord was very rich and he hoped to do well by his daughter.

But when he mentioned it to his housekeeper she shook her head and said that ill would come of such agreement. Had not Rachel her own heart and mind? Should she not find the love she sought?

The father dismissed the very idea; Rachel was his daughter and she would do as he bid her.

That very moment, Rachel was in a cafe in the town and sang softly to her friends how her heart was with a sailor and it would not remove from him for he was both handsome and bright. More than that, he loved her and was sworn to wed her when his ship returned. Her friends agreed with her saying that he would entice any woman with his looks and charm. They did not speak of wealth or lands, only of love, for such is the way with the young.

So you may imagine her horror on returning home when her father informed her that she was to wed the Lord on the Hill.

"I am to wed my handsome sailor when he comes home from the sea," Rachel answered as if that were an end to it.

Her father grew angry then and stood firm upon the floor, saying, "Madam would you try the tricks of some common wench? You care nothing for a man who cares so very much for you. You will leave your young sailor and marry the Lord on the Hill. Your sailor may be pretty but where are his lands and riches? How will he keep you when you are wed?"

Rachel flew into a rage and replied that she with her good sailor she would beg for her bread. Not for gold at her brow nor fringed gowns would she wed the Lord on the Hill. Should she be forced to wed the Lord, she would never bear him any children nor bow her knee. She would die if she could not wed her true love.

"Oh foolish father that loves not wisely," the housekeeper murmured, "Foolish to forget the wife he loved and who has died. Did he wed her for her wealth or her for his?"

But having his anger roused, the father became stubborn and so Rachel was brought to the church and wed to the Lord against her will. Nor would she say 'I do', nor look at the Lord, but bowed her head and wept for her true love. When she was brought to the Lord's house upon the hill she went to her chamber and cried all alone. That evening on the wedding night, the Lord bid her gently,

"Come to bed fair Rachel, my honey, my sweet, for to style you my mistress it would not be right."

"Oh it's mistress or Rachel it's all the same to me, I'll never share your bed, Lord though you be," she answered and slept upon the floor.

The Lord was hurt and angered, yet he could not force her to share his bed, that would be dishonourable. So instead, for the love he had for her, he gave her many large pillows and a quilt to keep her warm. He hope she might not hate him he said and that he loved her passing well. Rachel said nothing but cried herself to sleep thinking only of her true love.

In the morning her father came and was furious to hear of Rachel's behaviour. He called upon her friends to come and loosen her gown but all refused and Rachel fell into a faint with horror at such a suggestion saying,

"See how I'm dying for my true love."

Indeed, the day that Rachel married was the day that she died. A cold, ice-blue frozen winter's day. The day that her sailor came home on the tide. Then Rachel's friends met him dressed in crow-black silks and lace, wringing their hands and saying to him,

"Woe to you sailor for staying from the sands, so long upon the sea and far from the land. Your Rachel was married by her father and now she is dead."

The sailor's face grew pale like the early morning sky and his grey eyes were like storms that flashed with both anger and pity. He bid her friends take him to where his love lay and there they led him. Still she lay, cold and pale that he wept to see her and bid her friends leave him with her.

"Foolish father yet who meant so well. Young sailor weep not, your darling yet lives, only listen to me," said the housekeeper when Rachel's friends had gone.

Then she took him to a secret door in the tomb and showed him how it led to an old jetty by the sea. There lay a boat all ready to sail. The housekeeper returned to Rachel and opening her mouth a little, poured a few drops of some dark liquid in. For a while Rachel did not move, then her mouth opened and she breathed as if she were merely sleeping. The sailor took her in his arms and down to the boat. There he lay her in the cabin and thanked the old housekeeper.

"Where did they go?" I asked grandma

"Nobody knows my dear, but I do recall reading a story in a French newspaper once about a wedding. Perhaps that was where they went. It is the housekeeper who was more interesting. She was an old woman like me, but she wore an old green dress and a faded red apron and her eyes were blue like the sea. Soon after Rachel and her sailor departed, the sea burst into the town and washed the streets clean. The old housekeeper was never seen again. Perhaps she turned into that seagull who has just flown towards the sea," grandma said taking my tray away and pulling the duvet up over me.

Good Manners

2011-01-01T00:29:00.001Z

Tea pot, silver with either silver gilt or brass touches

and wicker wound handle from the V&A collection.

It is said that one may thrive among the faeries so long as one has good manners. Now it happened that a long time ago a woman had three daughters of which the youngest was her stepdaughter. For the love the woman had born her youngest child's father, she treated the youngest with the same love she had for her own daughters. Her husband having died, the woman brought up the three of her daughters alone. She and her daughters were among the finest seamstresses in the land. Yet they made but little money and were very poor. Despite this, they survived as best they might, growing vegetables and by a little hunting of pheasants and rabbits.

One day the youngest daughter asked her stepmother if she might go hunting. Her stepmother gave her a little bread and some carrots, the rough hewn bow and two quivers of arrows. She told the youngest daughter to be careful for the forest was full of dangers. The daughter replied that she was not afraid of wolves or bears, but the stepmother shook her head and wagged her finger at the young woman.

"I'm trying to keep you safe my love. Keep good manners with all you meet and you will make friends rather than enemies. If you come across any of the fair folk and are rude and dismissive you cannot fare well. If you make friends my child you will be helped by all. If you make enemies then you can only suffer." she told her warningly.

Knowing her stepmother loved her, the daughter agreed and promised to be polite and keep good manners with all she met. This said, off she went across the field behind their cramped cottage and into the forest to hunt. She amused herself by considering that hunting the pheasant, rabbit or hare was hardly polite to them. Still, on she went among the trees until she met an old woman no higher than her hip. The old woman wore a dull green dress with a red apron over it.

Remembering her stepmother's words, the young woman greeted the old woman thus,

"Hallo honourable grandmother, may I be of service to you?"

The old woman asked if she had a little food for she was very hungry. The young woman answered that she had little enough and was hunting to feed her stepmother and sisters.

"Still and all, you are welcome to all I have. I shall hunt and seek for food as I can," she answered.

She opened up the little package of food and to her surprise, instead of the bread and carrots she found fine food, tea, cups and a fine teapot. The young woman and the old woman then had a good meal and the young woman thanked the old woman sincerely. The old woman told her to keep the teapot and the cups and that they would bring her good luck if she kept them. The young woman said she would do so, if only for the memory of the old woman's good company. Then she took her leave and went hunting. By the end of the day she had a great catch and returned home to a fine welcome as you might imagine. She kissed her stepmother that night and thanked her for her good advice.

You may imagine that for a while the four women lived well enough, but having seen their younger sister do so well the two elder sisters also wished to try their luck. First the middle daughter went out to try her luck. She went across the field and entered the forest. There she too met the old woman, but not believing that the old woman might benefit her she dismissed the old woman with a wave of her hand and went off hunting.

By the end of the day, not only had she caught nothing but her clothes were torn to tatters by the branches and briars as was her lovely skin. She went home in a terrible mood and would say nothing. Still, they loved her and took care of her and put her to bed. The following day, the eldest daughter went out hunting. She took a small portion of bread, a few carrots and a little dried meat for her lunch. She went out across the field and entered the forest. She had barely entered the forest when she too came across the old woman.

"Good morning grandmother are you well?" she asked politely.

"I am quite hungry my child, do you have anything to eat?" the old woman asked her.

Now the oldest daughter was not a fool, she offered up the little food that she had and was not entirely surprised to find the package had become fine food and with it there was a crystal bottle of wine and fine glasses to drink the wine from. The two of them ate well and having done so, the old woman told her to keep the bottle and the wineglasses for they would bring her good luck.

"You are most kind grandmother, but I must go hunting and these beautiful glass objects are so fragile that I am afraid they might break. I should hate to damage them. I shall keep the memory of you in my heart and I am grateful for the fine meal we have shared, for my family have had little to eat very recently," the eldest daughter said.

The old woman chuckled and assured her the glassware would not break at all. The eldest daughter thanked her then and went hunting having politely taken her leave. She made a great catch that day and returned home to her family with great cheerfulness.

They ate well for a while but then they began to run out of food again and the middle daughter refused to go hunting for she remembered well what had happened to her.

"My sisters have brought home fine things, why can we not sell them and raise some money?" she said.

The stepmother considered this and took the teapot and the cups from the youngest daughter and placed them on the table. She asked her daughter to pour the tea. The youngest daughter objected that no tea had been brewed, but her stepmother smiled and asked her to pour it anyway. The youngest daughter sighed, but obeyed and from the teapot issued a pale gold infusion that turned to gold coins when it touched the cups. The youngest daughter was so surprised that she continued to pour and the gold coins spilled over the edges of the cups and all over the table. The stepmother put her daughter's hands gently down on the table and gathering up the coins they sent the middle daughter to town to buy food.

"Be polite to all you meet, my dear and treat everyone you come across as you would wish to be treated," her mother told her.

The middle daughter said that she would and went out to the town. But we will stay with her sisters and mother. The stepmother asked her eldest daughter to bring the wine bottle and the glasses. The daughter did so and poured from the bottle into the glasses. As the wine, red as blood fell into the wine glasses it became rubies, diamonds, sapphires and emeralds. The eldest daughter was amazed and continued to pour until the gems spilled over onto the table until her mother put her hands and the bottle gently down. She gathered up the gemstones and put them away.

What of the middle daughter? She had learned her lesson well and was polite to all she met on the way to town and back, which was lucky. On the way home she met the old woman and greeted her politely. The old woman said she was on her way to the forest but was tired. She looks such a little old thing and I am young and strong, thought the middle daughter. She crouched down and took the old woman on her back and carried her back to the forest where she put the old woman gently down.

"Do be careful grandmother for there are wolves and bears and even faeries in the forest," she advised.

The old woman smiled and said she would not have any trouble.

"But I am most grateful for you bringing me back," the old woman told her and gave her a small box from the pocket in her apron.

"Keep this box, it will bring you good luck," she told the middle daughter.

The middle daughter thanked her and asked her if she would like to come and have supper with her family. The old woman chuckled and thanked her but she had to get home. She bid the middle daughter farewell and disappeared into the forest.

The middle daughter went home and told her mother and sisters about the old woman. The stepmother asked her to put the box on the table and to open it. The middle daughter was happy to do it, for she too was curious as to what was inside. When they all looked into the small box they saw fabric. The middle daughter took it and pulled gently. The fabric kept on coming until the room was covered at least twice by the fine red silk damask. The middle daughter let go of it then and looked in again. She took another pinch of fabric and pulled it. Again there was more and more fabric until she let go of it.

For the rest of their lives the four women had plenty of beautiful fabrics to make dresses and coats for all kinds of people. They had more than enough money and wealth with which they raised a great many people as well as themselves out of poverty. They never saw the old woman again, but they also did not ever forget her. Nor did they ever forget to be polite and keep good manners with all they met.

Most honoured and honourable readers,

may the new year bring you all good things and

be better than any year you can remember.

Happy New Year to you, every one!

The Frozen Rose

2010-12-22T16:10:00.000Z

There was, a long time ago one of the coldest winters you might imagine. I read about it from the manuscript in the box I had found in the Deep Wood. Was it all true?

I don't know, but this is how the story went. I have merely updated the spelling and such. I don't know who wrote the manuscript, but from the writing I would date it to the early 16th century. The person was clearly literate though the manuscript was difficult to read for it's script which was in a beautiful but tricky hand. No doubt it was readable then. To modern eyes it is more difficult and it took me some time. Enough. To the tale itself, for such I account it to be rather than the truth, though I don't know for sure.

In the winter of 1536 anno domini, the rain did turn to snow and fell at first lightly, melting away just as quickly. In my garden the last of the roses had put forth a few tentative budding flowers. One began to bloom still and I praised it and pruned back the woody branches to let the flowers have more energy. Despite the cold the rose still persisted.

I had met Beldame Damson in the village and with her was the most charming woman, her god-daughter by the name of Rosa Elizabeth White. This young woman, modest in her manner yet quick of wit and of eye roused my heart in the cold of the winter. Her height was middling, her hair was dark like a raven's wing, her skin was white as the snow and her lips were red as the living blood. Still, though my heart unlocked to behold her and I found her to be most personable, I kept my composure. Beldame Damson invited me to visit her and Master Damson for I should find much in the way of good company. Yet, though Rosa Elizabeth was witty, there was something cool in her manner towards me. This I put down to her not knowing me and wishing to know more before making any rash judgement.

Nonetheless I accepted the Beldame's kindly invitation for she and I were both keen on our gardens and I had much respect for her good man. It appeared that Rosa Elizabeth had come to our village on account of her step-father's dislike for her great beauty, which he accounted a source of Pride. A very great sin. Yet I saw no evidence of Pride in the young woman, only a desire to be herself in all things. For my part I had been raised among women and saw them as no less than myself, though I was often told otherwise by many men.

The dinner I had at the Damson's was a goodly affair. Master Damson is a fine lutanist and his wife is in good voice at the lute's sound. For my part, I had brought my viol and we played in good part together. There was much merriment and the servants did dance finely I do swear upon my honour. Mistress Rosa Elizabeth sat quietly through all by the fireside and listened with a calmness that I barely noticed until we paused to take wine. She had on her face an expression that was a little wild, like that of a beast, tempered with a quiet amusement. I had not seen the like before, save upon my cat Astraea at the sight of a mouse.

So proud of my rose was I that I could not but mention it to my hosts and it was indeed much praised by them both. Mistress Rosa Elizabeth answered that a rose by any name was but a rose. The cold frost would kill them all. I was, I must confess somewhat startled at such talk, for who might detest a rose?

Yet I made some harmless comment and we struck up our music again. It seemed that she was disdainful and would rather leave. My love for her seemed to cool at her seeming contempt and I recalled being once told that the devil wears a pretty face. Yet for the sake of my friends I avowed I should remain polite and gentle with her.

As it grew late, I managed to steer the talk to her and her family. She had gone to her bed but my friends remained and told me little. I realised quickly that they knew little for she had appeared with some clothing and a letter apparently from her mother. The Damsons being goodly folk had taken Rosa Elizabeth in and cared for her.

"By my honour she is strange though," Master Damson said, "She eats so little and then she dislikes metals save silver and gold of which we have little as you know. Our wooden platters she loves well enough. She will eat meat without a knife. Her sewing is fine though and she does love to play upon the lute when nobody is by to hear her."

I went home that night my mind full upon their strange ward, my heart both loving and fearing her. It was only as I settled myself to sleep that I recalled that she had not spoken either the name of God or Our Lord at all. Not even in the way of country folk. I found this exceeding strange, for in an half hour it was unlikely that someone would not do so. Yet I composed myself to sleep and was roused in the morning with a sad John who informed me as he lit the fire in my bedchamber that we had got ourselves a frost.

"The Winter Rose is frostbitten sir," he told me sadly.

This saddened me and I recalled the words of Rosa Elizabeth from the previous night. How right she had been I told myself. I dressed and went out into the bright, frosty morning, my breath steaming in the air, the sun dazzling in the blue of the sky. I thought to give my Winter Rose a burial but as I brought my dagger near the stem, the frost seemed to recoil and fade from the rose. I knew then that I was in the presence of magic and had placed about the garden, as many iron objects as could be found. Directly the frost departed my garden and indeed all about the house.

Later that morning I was visited by Beldame Damson for some honey and wine, for it seemed that Rosa Elizabeth was not well and felt some dislike of the world as I myself have oft felt when all seemed wrong. I gave the Beldame both wine and honey and some cinnamon which I have often found raises spirits. I recommended an infusion also of St John's Wort which I know to have been of good effect upon low spirits.

Yet I considered much of what I had heard and seen and could only conclude that the seemingly innocent god-daughter was something more than any woman. I took two eggshells and betook myself to the Damsons house. There with the good Beldame's permission I took the eggshells into Rosa Elizabeth's chamber where she lay behind drawn bed curtains. I drew back the curtains at the foot of the bed on the pretext of keeping her warm and poured a little wine into the eggshells. These I put upon the fire to heat.

"What do you with the eggshells, sir?" she asked me.

"Why mistress, I shall brew a mulled wine in them for you," I answered her with a smile.

"By my troth," quoth she, "I have seen the first oak born and the willow too, but never have I seen anyone mull wine in an eggshell."

I bid her repent such blasphemy and tossed her my mother's small iron crucifix. With a sudden sharp cry, she seemed to age before my eyes and turn to a cloud of smoke before vanishing up the chimney. As if waking from a dream, I took the eggshells from the fire and turned to the room. It seemed still and quiet. I called for the Beldame who came into the room shaking her head.

"By our Lord! I feel as if I had woken from a dream and here you are lighting up the fire in my dead daughter's bedchamber. What a thing's this?" she asked.

I tried to explain but somehow I did not know where to begin. Rosa Elizabeth was never seen in our little village again. My Winter Rose bloomed up well as did the other three buds before the snow returned and all the plants slept. Some years later I met a fine woman from the village of Six Birches and we married. I told her my story and she accounted it blasphemous and bid me never repeat it again. I love her enough to obey her as I expect her to obey me and so I have not. To free my memory of it I have writ it down and placed it in this box that I have hid in the Deep Wood. Let whomever find it read it as they will.

So this tale I found and have offered it to you all in this wintertime. May you all be safe, well and warm. Have a happy Christmas and a better new year than you have ever had.

Fallen Apples

2010-12-14T07:25:00.000Z

Fallen Apples and Tree, Loughborough University by The Griffin

I had passed the Cromarch Estate many times as I walked along the road from the True Love Inn to visit Lady March. At one point along my walk, beside a large grey brick building that seemed forbidding and definitely loomed beside the path, a small apple tree had been planted. It seemed as if someone had tried to relieve the gloomy wall by planting the tree. In Spring it blossomed and with all its leaves, one did not notice the wall for the sheer abundant beauty of leaf and flower. In Autumn, the bright orange-red apples seemed like a blaze against the pale grey-brown of the branches and the darker greys of the brick wall and only in Winter did the tree almost merge with the brick of the wall.

I remarked upon this tree to Lady March who was staying at that point with her dear friend, Lady Carisonne a woman 'of infinite jest' as my good landlady Mrs Tuppence told me with a smile. She made me sure that Lady Carisonne was not a frivolous woman, but always ready with a witty remark and a smile. Indeed, I had hopes that my Lady Carisonne might also be a friend to myself as she was to Lady March. I liked the woman for her good humour and her kindness - and I admit it, for her cats. They would follow me into her drawing room and allow me to sit before looking pointedly at my lap until I invited them upon to it. There they would sit purring while I stroked them and talked softly to them. I believe the Lady liked that in me, for many men are more familiar with dogs than cats and dislike cats altogether. For myself, I am amiable with any creature if it will show its friendliness to me, but I am partial to a cat.

I remarked as I say upon the tree to Lady March and Lady Carisonne for the first time in my company looked sadly.

"You must forgive Mr Pelland, Florisette. He can spot a story anywhere and longs to hear them. I believe myself that his nurse was deficient in telling him stories as a child and he has been compensating for it ever since," Lady March remarked lightly, but shooting me a warning glance.

"I apologise Lady if I have unwittingly given offence," I said softly, "My Lady March is quite right, my nurse was never one for telling me stories. Only at scrubbing my face and making sure I knew how to behave properly in polite company. As a result I have resisted anyone coming too near my face with a handkerchief and have never behaved well since I was free of her influence."

At that, Lady Carisonne chuckled and asked me to forgive her for I could not know the tale of the apple tree. She answered that she was glad I was not about to behave myself for she could not abide propriety in company.

"There is, my dear Mr Pelland, nothing worse than being boring. I consider it unforgivable. As both Strangeways and Smudge are fond of you, I am quite sure you are not horribly well-behaved. Like attracts like as they say!" she added.

I laughed and stroked both cats gently leading to an outbreak of purring. Lady March sat back upon the sopha and smiled, a sure sign that a story was in the offing. I too made myself carefully comfortable and waited. It did not take long before Lady Carisonne sighed and glancing at both of us took Lady March's hand in hers and smiled.

"Oh very well, I know when I'm invited. You know that the brick building was once intended to be a Gothic pavilion of a sort. It was built in the late 17th century and after a little while, became the gardener's cottage. I am sure I don't know why, it must be a gloomy gardener that would want to live there. Beyond the wall where the path passes by was not Cromarch land, so the outer wall served also to mark the boundary of the land.

Now if you had looked up you would have seen a now bricked up window space. That was done some fifty years ago after the events I shall relate. It seems that the path was once frequented by many village folk from Hard Riding to Little Hallamswyck. One such passer by was a young woman called Rose Littleton."

She paused and turning to Lady March remarked on the Littleton family being originally from Saddler's Down and having moved when one of the Littleton ancestors had seduced a local girl and basely abandoned her.

"In any case, that is another story, which I shall leave until Mr Pelland shall come by here again. Rose was a most comely girl with dark hair, pale, clear skin and the green eyes of a faerie. Indeed it was often said that her beauty must have come from the faeries. This was part admiration and part malice if I am honest. Still and all, she was a sweet and lovely young woman and most people loved her.

The Cromarch gardener at that time was a man called Abel Worthy, a very fine gardener but not alas well favoured with beauty as Rose Littleton. Having once seen her pass by he was instantly smitten with love. Mark me, I do not mean that his affection was born of lust that he glorified with a greater name. No, he was full of a longing to be with her at all times. He loved nothing more than to gaze upon her loveliness as she passed. He loved her at a distance, sure that his own ill-favoured looks must play against his own heart's longing. He had plenty of examples of that happening and did not wish his heart to be broken again. Too much mockery will break a loving heart so that it is rarely mended if ever. My darling husband knew that and I had all I could to assure him that I loved him truly. Yet once he knew it, ah well we had a long and happy marriage until he died."

She sighed again and then looking directly at me she smiled and continued.

Abel was not the only man who loved Rose, many a man in both Hard Riding and Little Hallamswyck had their eye on Rose for a wife. But she, while she was aware of the attention ignored it. She knew only too well what many of those men wanted and she was not about to be ruined by them for it. She wanted a love as true as steel and as strong and she meant to have it.

Now it happened that Abel watched over her as she passed for some time. In the winter when she went past, she would find a fine shawl left draped over the wooden fence for her, with her name upon the card by it. She took it but did not know who had left it for her.Her father insisted she hand it in to the Cromarch family, but she would not. It had been given to her and in all good faith she had received it. Still every day she got up to walk the path to work and every morning she put on the shawl. She left a note where the shawl had been to thank whoever had left it for her, but got no reply. Abel was too shy for that, but watched her every morning passing by and delighted in her beauty. Every day that love he had grew deeper without him even realising the depths of it. Her passing by was a moment he waited for and treasured, even as he cared for the first new flowers in the gardens to bud and blossom or the vegetable garden to show signs of produce.

In the winter, he also planted an apple tree and when he could he tended it well. Passers by saw yet another plant and did not remark it, but through the following Spring the plant grew up reaching for the warmth of the come-again sun. Abel left Rose a dress and a hooded cape to keep her warm and to keep the rain from her dark tresses.

In the summer he had left her a dress of fine stuff and bouquets of flowers. In the autumn he left her apples from the orchards. In the winters he left her other delights for her to find. She did not know who her benefactor was, but she came to love him, guessing him to be young, strong and handsome. She did not guess him to be strong, a little older than her and not especially handsome.

However, the story of this benefactor came to the ears of the Cromarch family and while many of them wondered who Rose's unknown friend might be, Lady Cromarch guessed when she walked the path for herself. Being kind and romantic by nature, she pitied Abel, seeing that Rose who might have any young handsome lad from either village would not look twice upon him. Yet, she knew his kind and gentle nature and wished for his sake that he might find someone who might see these things in him. One day she decided to act and visited Rose while the young woman was at lunch. She asked Rose if she knew Abel Worthy, her gardener.

"Oh everyone knows old Abel," Rose replied with a smile.

She went on innocently talking about how he was a rough-looking man, but he seemed kind enough. She would not see that he was the one who loved her. Instead, she talked about her mysterious friend describing him in glorious colours as her imagination would have her believe. Eventually, Lady Cromarch lost patience with Rose and told her,

"Madam, Abel is your benefactor and no other. He is who he is, yet you do not see his decent and gentle heart or his kindness. You look only for the look of a man without understanding his inner nature. Yet Abel who would not dare to speak to you in case you heard his heart beat in him. Abel who is not one of your handsome young men but a gentle and kind soul with a love that is true steel... him you would not look on twice. Madam you disappoint me, I had thought your heart to be as beautiful as your looks but I was mistaken. I will say this to you Rose Littleton - when you are old and grey and your fresh young looks are gone, who will love you for them then?"

Rose frowned and Lady Cromarch left her with much to think on. Rose walked home that evening quiet and wondering, but said not a word. When she got home she spoke to her father who agreed that her looks would not last and she must find someone who loved her not her looks. Rose became quieter over the years. She would not go out to talk to other men and instead continued to pass the tree that grew and spread its branches.

Every day she found some little gift for her and every day she would look up to the window and wonder at the man who loved her but would not speak his love. She came to understand his fear and to feel compassion. Age will do that sometimes if we allow it to happen. Five years later when the apple tree had grown, she was called away and went to West Passington in Sambleshire. For months she stayed and wondered until she had made her decision. She returned to Hard Riding and went directly to the Cromarch House to speak with Lady Cromarch.

Lady Cromarch was now older as was Rose but neither had forgotten their conversation many years ago. Rose asked after Abel and Lady Cromarch bowed her head sadly before informing Rose of his death three years ago.

"You did not pass by and he missed you. I know that he longed to find you, but he could not and without good reason, your father would not tell anyone. He pined away thinking of you and your beauty. He believed to the last that your heart was as beautiful as your looks a mistake I once thought I'd made," she told Rose.

Rose wept and informed Lady Cromarch that she had come to ask him to marry her and without his kindness to her she wanted no other.

"I was young my Lady," she said, "That is all my excuse for not seeing a true heart in front of me. I realised my error too late and now he is lost to me."

She went out into the evening and walked around to the wall. The new gardener had drawn curtains across the window, shutting out the world. But in the autumn evening, the apple tree still stood against the wall, its branches pale grey and mossy green against the darker grey of the brick. About it's trunk lay many fallen apples, bright in their red and orange skins. Like the love that had ripened and fallen with no-one to catch it. Then Rose went away again and never returned. Yet it is said sometimes that in autumn when the trees blaze in their finery a young woman walks that path and pauses at the apple tree.

That Mr Pelland is the sad tale of the apple tree. I know it because Rose Littleton was my sister and never married."

2010-11-30T07:49:00.000Z

Mount St Bernard Abbey, Leicestershire

It had snowed heavily, but that was not something likely to trouble Lady March. We had agreed on what she called a 'winter picnic'. This involved my car, a large hamper in which plum brandy was to be found and at least four blankets and three shawls.

"There is no reason to be cold, even at a picnic," she observed.

As we had agreed on the picnic, my Lady was determined it should happen. She insisted that the snow should not spoil an agreed engagement and so it was that I drove up to the Hotel Royale to collect her. My car, the grand and heavy Ligniere IV had belonged to my father and on his retirement with my mother some years ago it had come to me. Lady March had three bellboys in attendance. She smiled on all of them and more to the point gave them each a generous tip.

"I have always loved to be waited on by gorgeous young boys," she said as we drove away.

I did not comment. I merely inquired after the news, for my Lady is better than the Gazette and much better informed than the Journal. I listened then to the news as I drove the Ligniere out of town and towards Cambreaux Hill. There we stopped and having parked the car overlooking the Vale I got into the back with Lady March and we gazed delightedly over the snowy landscape. In the distance was Silverdale Village and White Carn, but it was the imposing presence of the ruined Cambreaux Abbey that filled the more immediate foreground.

The abbey was a fine ruin, still apparently owned by the Rangiferens, a medieval order of monks in their pale brown habits with white fronts. The Abbey had been built by local worthies for the monks on condition that the monks would pray for the local community. They agreed, the Rangiferens praying not only for their own sins but those of others, out of compassion. So the abbey was built, though now it is a ruin fit only for the deer to roam about in.

"Do you know how the abbey came to be a ruin, Mr Pelland?" Lady March asked.

I admitted that I did not and sensing a tale, which my Lady knows I love, I poured another glass of plum brandy for us both and settled back so that I should see both the abbey and my dear friend. She was old now, but as robust as a bear. Her hair was long and soft and white as the snow that surrounded us. Her eyes were still bright and dark and I smiled to think that I had been lucky to have her friendship for so long. She too settled into the seat and gazed down upon the abbey.

"Soon after it had been built - about the 1400s I think, the then bishop wished to extend the abbey," she began.

"On one side were peasant farms, but the monks would not build there. But to the other side as there still is, is Cambreaux Forest. The bishop thought that some of this woodland might be cleared and the abbey extended that side. The peasants advised the monks that this would be extremely dangerous for the wood was full of bluebells and that most definitely meant a faerie wood. But the bishop and the monks dismissed the very idea of the faeries. They cleared the trees and used the wood to make beams for the extension. The bishop placed iron crucifixes all around the site to keep the faeries out, for he had read up on faerie-lore.

Well as you may imagine, the faeries were furious, but could not stand against the cold iron. They made the rest of the wood very dangerous for anyone in any religious order. A visiting bishop was turned into a hedge-pig and three nuns were turned into swans. Then the faeries found a friend, a young woman. She had been brought up in the village of Cambreaux, for there was a village in those days. This young woman was called Marianne la Louvainoise for it was widely believed that her mother was from Louvain. Marianne tore up the iron crosses and made a gap in their wall. Through it, the faeries swarmed and took vengeance upon the Rangiferens Order. The bishop they turned into a goat, but the monks they turned into reindeer. Yes, Mr Pelland, those deer who roam about the ruin are the descendants of the monks who once lived at the abbey.

They made ivy grow and tear the stones of the abbey into fragments. They made oaks and beeches push up through the foundations and broke up the abbey so that it should always be a ruin. Even now, nobody will dare to renovate it for fear of what may happen. The developer Armand Snodgrass had thought of buying up the land, but his lawyers advised against it and indeed, local opinion was against him too.

As for why Marianne had done such a thing, well that came out soon enough. It seems the bishop had taken a fancy to her mother and in her confession, he had begotten on her a child. When the unfortunate woman raised up her anger and accusation, he condemned her as a witch and had her burned at the stake. Marianne's father had fled in terror taking his children with him, but Marianne was the child of the bishop and was brought up to know it. She kept her anger simmering until she saw her chance, living wild in the forest like an animal. When her chance came for revenge of her own, she let the faeries take it for her. The bishop who had been turned into a goat, she tied up and burned as the bishop had her mother. After that she left Cambreaux and came to the city. I don't entirely know what became of her there," Lady March said softly.

I had caught that word, 'entirely', but I knew that she would not discuss it and it would have been considered vulgar had I pursued it. She would tell me in her own time I had no doubt. We finished our brandy and leaning across I kissed her face softly. She smiled and patted my hand.

"A little coffee perhaps my dear?" she suggested.

Wood Intensity

2010-11-21T20:01:00.000Z

I should never have played with the book. Mistress Sapienza told me that words have power and meaning, but I wouldn't listen. I borrowed the book, determined to learn all that the Mistress knew and show her my abilities were more than I thought she guessed. I ended by proving myself an impetuous fool and cursed into the bargain for a while.

I had opened the book at random and amazed at the enchantment I read it aloud. It was a mistake and I knew it instantly. The book fell from my hands and shut itself. I felt nauseous and dizzy before I fell from my chair almost lifeless.

When I awoke I realised with awful sudden-ness what I had done. I stumbled from the room with all my senses on fire with the intensity of everything around them. I could smell the polish upon the wood, the dust upon the glass, the carpet fibres. The tiniest of sounds were loud in my ears, every living thing's heartbeat, the mites in the dust and the house creaking as the timbers expanded and shrank with the change of temperature.

Every detail was suddenly visible. I staggered from the house, my hands over my ears and struggling with the smells that overwhelmed me. In the back yard I fell to my knees and groaned. My senses were so sharply aware that it was painful. I was vaguely aware of the Mistress glancing out of the window. She frowned and then raised her eyebrow before looking directly at me. She closed the window and turned away.

I felt suddenly abandoned. I struggled to my feet and staggered forward. There was a pile of cut wood against the woodshed and the scent of them washed over me. There was oak, elm and on top silver beech. The mixture of the scents fell upon me and I fell again, sobbing. The sound of my own tears falling and my own sobbing, my heartbeat - even the blood running in my veins were all loud in my head. I opened my eyes and saw the fine detail of the wood and the woodshed. The bark of the cut branches as it slowly peeled. The black patches and the white bark of the silver beeches. I struggled to rise but the intensity of the wood was too much for me.

The sound of silk swishing and boots upon the ground made me cover my ears with my hands. I cowered upon the ground before the approach of my Mistress. She said nothing, but lifted me in my arms. I smelled her perfume, her silk dress, her skin and her hair. Her hair, her breathing, her heartbeat, I heard them all loud in my ears. Had she spoken I should have been in considerable pain. She took me to my bed and laid me upon it. For a moment she stood gazing upon me. Then she crossed the room and opened the window. I heard every sound from the garden and the woods beyond. The scent of flowers rising up into the air filled my room and my senses.

She left the room and I lay struggling not to sob in my agony. Instead I wept and the tears falling along my face felt hot and I heard them upon my skin. A little while later she returned with the book and sat beside me. I turned to her and wept but could not speak. I apologised and begged her to help me. She pondered this and shook her head sadly. Then she arose and left my room. I felt abandoned again, but suddenly I found my body shivering and the world returned to sensory perspective again. She entered the room and sat by my bed.

"I will not repeat myself boy," she said sternly, "The next time you open a book you will not speak the words. I have told you that words have power and meaning and you ignored my warning. Do so again and I will let you suffer for a whole day or a week. If you live I will punish you. If you die there will be no need. I will have your obedience while you are learning. If you will not obey me, then you may find yourself another teacher in the Arts. Is that clear?"

I sat up and wiped the tears from my face. I swore to her that I would obey her in all things and that I would not presume again. She nodded and took my words as true. I remembered vividly the horror I had brought upon myself and promised again that I would obey her. I knew without fail that I would too. Since then I have obeyed her. I still have a long way to go before I am fully qualified in the Arts, but I learned a considerable amount in that one day.

Shifting Trees

2010-11-16T10:46:00.001Z

It was a long time ago, but they are still moving about the countryside. Some say it was governmental genetic engineers, some say we had it coming and others just speculate. The truth, as it usually is, was very mundane in it's own way. Even if it led to the extraordinary events we live through now.

As far as I know it began with a walk in the woods that I took some years ago. I was with a friend who I was on the verge of declaring my love to. That never happened. I don't know where she is now. All I can do is sit here among the rocks and try my best to survive another day.

We were walking through a meadow into the woods when a small group of men caught our attention. They wore smart business suits but with wellington boots and were carrying papers and gesturing at the trees and the meadow. It was a lovely meadow, mostly enclosed by the trees and the grass was tall. Between the grasses all kinds of interesting flowers grew, not just the usual field poppies and worts, but all kinds of things. Beyond it was the edge of the woods where the warm sheltered light meadow gave way to the tall dark columns of the trees with filtered light drifting through between the branches. Columns of trees with the occasional column of light.

"Of course all this will have to go," one of the men said aloud and suddenly gripped the arm of one man when he saw us.

"Good grief man, if the tree-huggers get hear you say that..." the other man replied.

Both of us recognised Darcy Carshalton-Snodgrass the very well-off property developer. I don't know how well he knew the woods, but in the summer they had been carpeted with bluebells and now they held a quiet, waiting atmosphere - a stillness that was both peaceful and dangerous in what it could promise if roused. My friend and I understood it, we had long loved the woods.

"What does he want to develop this place for," my friend muttered, "Isn't he rich enough?"

The men suddenly advanced upon us and I stood slightly defensively between them and my friend. I am generally peaceful, but I do not care to be bullied and I felt the sense of their numbers and their innate sense of right to bully.

"This is private land, you'll have to go," one of the men told us.

"This is not private land, it was bought by Mrs Sylvia Oakley in the 1950s for the benefit of all and it is still in her name," I answered.

The man looked somewhat deflated and Carshalton-Snodgrass smiled as he said,

"There are six of us and two of you," he said quietly.

I felt my hackles rise at that and my friend said furiously, "Try it and I'll have the law on you so hard you'll make a pancake look plump."

He chuckled and turning to one man said something softly that we did not catch. I had picked up a blackthorn branch as a walking staff and now I stepped into a defensive position and held it before me. Nobody had ever told me that it could be used for magic. I doubt whether I would have believed it if they had, but at that moment it was if the whole land held it's breath and went even quieter than usual. The birdsong stopped and even the noise of insects seemed to stop. Even as I held up the staff before me, words, strange words in a language I did not know rose up in my throat and seemed to push their way out of me. They burst from me into the air and like a swarm of angry wasps spiralled up before heating the air with their fury.

Carshalton-Snodgrass laughed openly at me and I stepped forward to beat him, my own rage mixing with the words in the air. My friend took my arm and whispered my name and I stepped back.

"Come on," she said softly, "We came for a walk and we're having a walk."

I let her lead me away, my anger now simmering and cooling slowly. The echo of those words seemed to whirl about my head as if they wanted to be spoken again and I murmured them softly as we walked through the woods. Only after a brief moment did everything suddenly become clear and calm again. My friend took my arm and held me with a sharp cry that shot up into the still air.

"The trees!" she said, "They're moving!"

I frowned and looked hard at them. Sure enough, they seemed to be moving slowly forwards back to where we had come from. Then we heard the shouts and cries of disbelief - followed by screams that were suddenly cut short. My friend wanted to run, but I stood firm and held her in my arms. I felt that if we moved the trees would cut us down too. I did not want to hear my beloved friend scream in pain or fear, yet it was all I could do myself to be still. I held the blackthorn staff beside me and somehow it protected us both. For a long time the trees moved past us and now there was a clear and powerful sense of anger in the air. A dangerous blazing rage that seemed to crackle between the moving columns of the trees. Only after they had gone, leaving the earth churned up around us did we move slowly, watching the still moving trees.

They tore apart the fences and the gates. They tore up roads and with their branches they destroyed cars. When they moved to the town, we knew we had to find more secure homes. We wandered for some time amid the devastation, but then she took up with a band of people and we argued. She left with them and I continued sorrowfully on. Now I live here among the rocks with my blackthorn staff and with what little I can scavenge from the devastation. When the trees moved, they made up for all the insults we had given them and the land over time. Fire did not stop them, even poisons did not stop them and those that dared to try using these weapons suffered at the branches of the shifting trees. I had somehow known the words to rouse them, but I did not know the words to still them again. I have not found them yet.

Small Chilli, Big Heat

2010-11-08T02:36:00.000Z

It began as most plants do as a seed. She'd been given a chilli and wrinkling her nose at the thought of the sharp heat, she'd put it in a pot with soil and left it. When it first sprouted, she'd been thrilled - even though by then she had forgotten what it was. She put the pot on the kitchen window sill and watered it when she remembered.

It was rarely watered, she kept forgetting. But it took in the warmth of the morning sun coming in through the window and began to grow. She admired the way it spiralled upwards, elegantly almost artistically and the gentle curve of the leaves. She had stroked a leaf of it once feeling the delicate softness between her almost too clumsy fingers compared with the leaf. Yet, there was a strength there, a fire of it's own as it sought to grow and reach upwards.

For a while, she thought little of it, work consumed her energies and her time. She was making books and the stitching of pages, the attaching of spines and covers were all jobs that took time and patience. Her lover was a calligrapher and it suited them both to create books that were hand-written in an elegant hand and bound just as elegantly. It was hard work, but they enjoyed the company of each other. Occasionally a hand upon a shoulder, the soft caress of hair, the gentle hand upon a knee.

"Ah love and bookbinding!" her lover said with a smile, kissing her.

So they went on like this, unaware of the chilli in the kitchen that blazed with it's own heat. They did not notice the small flower or the tiny bud of a chilli that formed and swelled. Only when it had turned from green to a dark green to a dark red that lightened to a fiery flaming red did they notice it. They had just cooked and were washing up when her lover noticed it. She peered at it and smiled. She had not expected anything from the little plant and the little chilli was an unlooked for bonus.

They went to bed that night wondering idly if there would be more chillies on the plant. But both were tired and fell asleep in each other's arms, their mass of dark hair mingling on the pillow like fine filaments of ink running into each other. A warm hand upon a warm back pulling the beloved closer.

She dreamed - at least she thought she did, she could not be sure at one point that almost scared her, if she was dreaming or she was actually experiencing it. There was a soft sound from downstairs in the dark and soft spiralling sound that had something of music in it. Music that was sinuous and powerful without being loud. She had arisen then, gently untangling herself from her lover and kissing her as she slept. She drew her shawl about her shoulders and slipped on her red slippers before going down softly. She was half terrified and half curious. In the end the curiosity won her and she went through towards the kitchen.

The plant seemed to have grown considerably and the chilli seemed to have cracked open spilling its seeds like small gold coins on the dark earth that she suddenly noticed was upon the floor of their little kitchen. For a moment she did not know what to say and remained silent. Then a small voice called her name and she peered into the soft, bright light of the kitchen. She did not know where the light was coming from but it seemed to pervade the dark in the way full moonlight will. Gently and yet with a pale insistence.

"Who is it?" she whispered, "Who's there?"

At first nobody answered her and then she heard her name again from above and looking up a small cry slipped between her lips and shot up the trunk of the chilli plant. The plant had pushed out of the ventilator and continued upwards. It's trunk was now thick enough to climb and she was about to climb when the voice told her to pick up the chilli seeds but with care for they were hot. She took an oven glove and with care tipped the seeds into it. She flung the oven gloves over her shoulder and began to climb now.

After a little while she came to a very broad leaf and stepping gingerly out upon it she saw that she was above the clouds and that a little way off was a large house. She walked cautiously towards the house and found herself sweating as she did so. The air grew warmer and warmer and the seeds in the oven glove grew heavy as if they were gold. At the house the door was opened by a small pretty girl with blazing red hair and green eyes. She wore a red dress and smiled at our maker of books.

"I wondered if you'd come," the little girl said quietly.

"I brought the seeds like you asked," She told the girl.

The little girl nodded and led the way inside the house. There in the grand parlour was a big red and gold dragon with fiery eyes and claws like golden chillies. Along his back was a dark green frill and he asked Her when She entered the room,

"You planted the chilli, you watered it when you remembered and now it has grown and I must know what you will have of me?" he said.

"I don't know," she said truthfully.

The dragon sighed and said slightly peevishly, "Alright then, you have three wishes, will that do? Now do get on with it we don't have much time."

She bowed and said that she would have eternal love from her lover, that she would always have slightly more than enough to live on and that her work would always be in demand. The dragon raised an elegant eyebrow at that. He was used to more dithering.

"Will you plant the seeds you have gathered?" he asked her.

She assured him that she would and he nodded and said that would be all then. She was a little confused but went back the same way she had come. She put the chilli seeds in a jar and gathered up some earth from the floor of the kitchen to put them in. Then she put the jar on the window sill next to the plant already there and went back up to bed.

Two years later the plants had all grown up and the greenhouse at the bottom of the garden was full of chilli plants. Some she gave away and others she kept. Her lover continued to write elegantly and she bound the books. They could not help it, in every book there was always a red and gold dragon with a dark green frill. Furthermore, one afternoon a pretty red-haired girl came to live with them and stayed. She grew into a very beautiful young woman who was somehow wise beyond her years and never married. She managed the business and made it grow. She made the two lovers their clothes and their food and kept them well. Such is a good life, such is a good life. Only love can make it grow, for like a chilli, love is a small thing but has a mighty heat.

Sniffle, hack, koff, koff!!

2010-11-02T07:57:00.000Z

Alas and thrice woe with a side salad and chips of woe... I am not returned from Klondyke, but I am down with the dreaded Lurgi, also known as Fresher's Flu. But once I have banished it finally from my kingdom.... I shall return!

May you all keep warm and well and away from the cold and the wet. It's times like this I wish I was in Australia now!

Be safe and well.... The Griffin

Into the Trees

2010-10-17T17:54:00.000+01:00

Nigel Coutts-Couttington or The Old Coot as he was somewhat irreverently known did not like the countryside. As a civil servant of Her Majesty's Government, who loved order and neatness he found the countryside quite disorderly and possibly on the verge of rioting. While he loved a well cultivated garden with a lawn, he disliked the countryside for its dirtiness, its wildness and all that was against conformity.

It was possibly not his favourite promotion as Assistant Chief Secretary of Rural Affairs then and Muriel his wife remarked upon it as he knew she would. One of the things that he loved about her was that he knew what she would say and when she would say it. Whatever else she might be, Muriel was consistently conventional in all things and perfect for Nigel. Living in their charming suburban home in Surrey with neighbours who were as conventional as themselves suited them. While others might dream of a cottage in the countryside with fields, trees and the like, Nigel and Muriel certainly did not. Suburbia was their idea of happiness and they would stay there.

So you may imagine his disquiet when he was ordered to Loamshire in the middle of England, a county best summed up by one wit of a journalist as leafy, loamy and lugubrious. Nigel, with all the cunning working for the civil service had taught him tried to hand the job to one of his subordinates. Alas, it did not work and one might be forgiven for suspecting that Sir Caldwell, Nigel's boss had arranged the visit to Loamshire because he knew of Nigel's dislike of the countryside. In any case, Nigel packed his suitcase with much sighing and some irritability (including large jars of coffee, tea and sugar and the accoutrements of a long voyage). He had booked a room at the local inn at Quainton where he was to stay. From there he was to visit the local farms and make notes on the woodland areas also. It had not gone un-noticed that a child had gone missing in the woods at Titheland and while a police investigation was under way, Nigel had been asked to check the woods himself as a representative of the Government and the Office for Rural Affairs.
Muriel kissed him tenderly with something of the air of a woman from a Victorian melodrama. She wondered if she might ever see him again and if she did, might he not be changed terribly?

Nigel harrumphed at the thought that the countryside might change him and suddenly resolved to go up there and tame the wilderness to the good behaviour of a Surrey garden. Meadows would become lawns, trees would be trimmed as if they were large box hedges and the flowers would be replanted if necessary. He would take no nonsense he decided, the countryside would jolly well do as it was told. You may realise that he was not over-familiar with countryside in its natural state as one might say.

He arrived with some surprise at Quainton railway station, for he had not expected it to have a station. He had passed wistfully through London on his way and even the city of Leicester that was foreign to him he would have preferred. Still he could not stay in Leicestershire, he must go on and on he had gone. He took a taxi (he was expecting a horse and cart) to the King's Head Inn and there the landlady, a stout charming woman called Mrs Dearlove showed him to his room and told him the house rules.

"I 'spect you'll be wanting some food after your long journey," she said with the soft tones of a Loamshire accent.

Nigel said that he would certainly be wanting supper and followed her back down to the bar. The inn was wood panelled and quaint. An old Welsh Border Collie dog wagged its tail wearily at Nigel but did not lift its head from its paws. It was stretched out near an open fire that had a stone surround and a laid brick hearth. Nigel, for all his suburban angst suddenly felt very comfortable and sighed softly to himself. Mrs Dearlove said she'd bring him some roast chicken and vegetables and he asked if he might have a pint of Scroggins' Original a beer that was possibly made by Scroggins but was far from original. In line with his prejudices, Mrs Dearlove told him she only had Grey Lady Beer made by a local brewery. Nigel sighed again and said he was sure it would do in the tones of someone trying very hard to be very tolerant... and not succeeding greatly.

Despite his misgivings, the meal, which he ate by the fire with the dog glancing up at his meal sorrowfully was very good and he became if anything more comfortable. He went for a brief walk about Quainton and was relieved to see the same sort of shops that he recognised in his suburban home town. Perhaps, he thought, this job might not be so bad after all.

The first week was a mix if anything. He visited farms wearing his Barbour wellington boots and waxed jacket and bowler hat for he was a civil servant after all. The farmers, a bluff, rough-hewn lot were kind and welcoming, despite him being a government representative. They kept the more territorial dog away from him, guided him gently away from potholes and cowpats and offered him mugs of hot tea and home made cake. There were small mishaps, but for the most part, he found himself enjoying the work and liking the farmers a great deal. They were not suburban and they were a little too fond of the countryside, but he liked them well enough.

The last week was however another thing altogether. The local police had provided him with all the information they had been able to gather but if they could make no sense of the child's disappearance, neither could Nigel. He chatted to Mrs Dearlove about the disappearance of the child and offered his own explanation that the child had most likely got lost in the forest. He was shocked at Mrs Dearlove's expression at the thought. She had gone quite pale and her hand flew to her throat.

"Dear God, I hope not sir. If that little girl has got lost there, she'll never be found again. Mostly they don't get lost and they always have a small cross made by the blacksmith with them," she said nervously.

Nigel did not enquire into the meaning of the cross made by the blacksmith, it did not seem relevant to him. Instead, he went out the following morning after a sturdy breakfast. Mrs Dearlove handed him his coat with a little smile and wished him luck.

"If anything comes at you sir, cross a stream. They can't cross after you, see?" she said.

Nigel did not understand then. He went with a local man, Billy Jarvis to the woods. Billy had always lived around Quainton and knew the woods better than most. He had a slow, wild look and a haunted air about him as if he had once had a scare and never forgotten it. He was a quiet, gentle man however and Nigel liked him. They went out of Quainton and up a small hill through a meadow that was full of poppies and cornflowers and tall grass. The sky was clear and bright with a mild breeze that brushed the long grasses against their legs and made gentle waves of the meadow. They went over a stile and onto a path that led into the trees. There were at least six streams that crossed the wood, but they were not deep and both men waded through them easily. Billy kept one hand in his jacket pocket, an old tweedy, patched jacket that was clearly much loved. He seemed to be clutching onto something but Nigel did not remark it. The light fell pleasantly through the pale beeches of the forest and Nigel found himself enjoying the walk. Ahead of them suddenly was a large clearing and there upon a fallen tree sat a very attractive young woman. Her beauty intimidated Nigel a little. He was not used to beautiful young things and in any case there was something slightly wild and predatory about this woman. Billy had backed away against a tree and stammered with what Nigel suddenly realised was fear.

"Good morning miss," he said civilly and introduced himself with his full title.

Usually it impressed, even mildly, but the young woman just smiled and said softly, fixing her green eyes upon him,

"I do believe you are looking for a child," she said.

It was said as if she not only knew it but knew the whereabouts of the child and did not care who knew it.

"Why yes we are," Nigel said, "Have you seen her? I understand her mother is worried that she might be hurt. By the way, aren't you a little cold in that thin dress my dear?"

The woman laughed then, a soft low, wild laugh that made Billy Jarvis whimper.

"I do not feel the cold, I am about as old as the wind and the trees and the dark earth," she answered, adding,
"The child will not come home, she will stay here."

It was clear to Nigel then that the woman was one of those rebellious types of whom he did not approve. She was probably a fifth columnist or a dangerous feminist (he was not entirely sure what either was, but he was sure they were against the government).

"Now look here, young lady," he began, "I am a government official and if you don't want to spend the night in prison I suggest most strongly that you hand the child over immediately."

The woman looked at him then with a slight trace of amusement on her face. Billy Jarvis had suddenly dashed forward and grabbed at Nigel's arm, but now his blood was up.

"Her mum will understand sir, come away. Quickly sir, come away and don't argue with her," Billy told him.

"O pull yourself together man, for God's sake!" Nigel snapped.

The woman stood then even as Nigel turned to her and he reached into his pocket for his civil service badge. She began to sing, but Nigel had suddenly drawn something hard and metallic from his pocket, sure it was his badge and held it up before him. The woman shrieked then and seemed to fly away through the trees on the gentle breeze. Nigel frowned and held the metallic object in his hand. It was a small circle with a cross in it, roughly made as if by a hammer. He was about to say something when a small voice said,

"Hallo Mr Jarvis. I've had such a dream..." and before them stood a little girl in a grubby pair of jeans and a grass-stained shirt.

Billy stepped forwards then and picking up the little girl in his arms turned and said quickly to Nigel,

"Come on sir, quickly, before she comes back with her - friends."

Nigel did not fully understand but obeyed. He had had quite enough of the woodland for the day. They went back towards the stile at a rush and Nigel wondered what the rush was. He did not know why Billy should be afraid of a young woman with red hair, green eyes and a thin green and red dress. All he knew was that he did not want to get lost in the trees.

As they crossed over the stile, they heard a furious cry and the wind picked up suddenly. Now Billy Jarvis ran through the meadow and with a nameless fear driving him on, Nigel followed, huffing for he was not as fit as Billy. Behind them the grasses seemed to be pushed aside and to whip furiously against their legs as they ran.

"My child! Mine!" came a voice from the woods, a voice rife with rage and power.

Billy did not look back and neither did Nigel. The little girl said nothing but buried her face into Billy's shoulder as he ran. When they reached the edge of Quainton, Billy turned up the high street and fled towards the smithy's forge. Only when he was standing within the forge did he put the girl down and tell her to stay put. The blacksmith seemed bemused until Billy turned and said,

"The Queen of the Trees."

The smith suddenly took up rods of iron and placed them across each other about the forge. Nigel frowned but watched, struggling to regain his breath from the running. A winding, whirling of leaves and twigs flew through the streets and outside the ring of iron crosses within the whirling greens and browns and greys, Nigel saw the young woman in green and red. Her hair seemed to blaze with a wild light and her eyes were filled with rage.

"Give her to me! She's mine and I will have her! Give her to me or I shall make you pay!" she screamed.

Nigel put his hands over his ears in sheer terror for he had never seen such fury in his life. But Billy and the smith held up rods of iron and bid her begone. The smith took his own iron pendant and placed it about the neck of the child and handed her two iron rods.

"Take her now if you dare," he boomed back.

The young woman shrieked and disappeared, whirling back up the streets.

"Forgot your cross didn't you Millie?" the smith said to the little girl.

"I lost it in the woods and then she came and I fell asleep and had such weird dreams," the child answered.

Nigel grabbed at Billy's arm and shook him.

"Good God man! Who in blazes was that woman?" he asked.

"A faerie sir, the Queen of the Trees," Billy told him.

It was on the tip of Nigel's tongue to say that faeries did not exist, but the look on Billy's face made him swallow the words. That and the wild experience he had just had. He still does not like the countryside and has since transferred to the Office of Inner City Business, which is considerably safer.

Who am I?

2010-10-09T19:42:00.003+01:00

The Outwoods, Leicestershire by H. Lezanowski

"You really must be careful," Elise told her son, "You might get hurt running around in the woods."

Tom nodded and told his mother that he would be careful. He had just turned 10 and felt that his mother ought not to fuss when he was so much older than his sister, Catherine. He turned and walked carefully away towards the trees until he was sure Elise could not see him. Then in the green shade of the woods, he ran among the trees laughing to himself. He understood in a way only children and dogs can the pure joy of just running around until you were breathless. Even being breathless from doing it was blissful, though it stopped you for a while.

He went up the slight slope, leaping forwards until he saw the rocks. Behind them the ground continued to rise, but Tom was more interested in the rocks. He clambered over them and pulled himself up, feeling the damp mossy surfaces and the hard unyielding stone beneath his fingers.

Just to one side, he suddenly noticed the small cave formed by the rocks and gasped with excitement. It was only momentary, for suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed him around the waist. He felt the strong, long bony fingers and cried out, but he was too far into the trees to be heard.

"Who are you clambering over my rocks?"

The voice was crackly and quiet, like the crackling of dry twigs underfoot. The arm that held him was large and almost mossy itself. Tom said nothing at first, he was too frightened, but then he remembered what his grandmother had told him and said slowly and in as deep a voice as he could,

"I am slugs and snails and dogs tails. I am damp moss and cold iron. I am all these and sorrow's bane too."

He did not know what a bane was, but his grandmother had told him to say it so he did. The owner of the mossy arm thought this over and told him,

"And who am I? Tell me this and I shall let you go, but make one mistake and I shall bite you."

Tom did not like that, he was only 10 and did not know who the thing was. But his grandmother had told him once a story about a troll in the woods called Tatterdemallion Green. Tom did not know for sure, after all his grandmother had told him that the troll had lived a long time ago and he did not know how long trolls lived for. He shut his eyes tightly and said quickly,

"You are not heard, you are not seen
I do believe you're Tatterdemallion Green."

The voice grumbled and muttered, but then the long fingers released him and he tumbled backwards until he fell and rolled down the slope. He was breathless and dusty and his body ached, but he got to his feet and humphed. Now that he was free he was quite cross and determined that he would conquer the troll. He grabbed a large stick and was about to climb back up the slope when a young woman appeared suddenly as if she had been sitting on a rock all that time. Her hair was wild and red like holly berries and her eyes were dark and deep. She wore a long, green, shimmering dress that looked as if it were made from leaves and her feet were bare. She laughed softly and shook her head.

"That would be a bad idea my child," she told him, "A very bad idea indeed."

Tom was now astonished at her beauty, for he was not used to women paying any attention to him as such. He felt a little shy, but then a thought occurred to him and he asked her,

"Are you a faery?"

The young woman smiled and there was something slightly dangerous about that smile. She stood up and her figure seemed to fill out that dress rather strangely as if she were both inside it and not inside it. She bent over and put her face close to Tom's.

"I am and if you like, I will take you with me to faeryland where there are all sorts of wonderful things. Would you like that?" she said brightly.

Tom stepped back and shook his head nervously. He clutched nervously at the steel toggles on his coat and suddenly the woman stepped back with a frown. She sighed then and turned away, but as she did so, Tom asked her,

"Is it true what is said about Tatterdemallion Green?"

The faery turned and stared very deeply into his eyes. He saw a beautiful castle and a garden full of roses and camellias. He saw drowned men and children who were quite empty of any feelings inside. He saw decay and death there and shook his head.

"Who am I child?" she asked him.

Tom decided that he did not like that question any more. He bowed his head and pretended to think about it, but he did not know who she was at all. He strongly suspected that she knew it too. But as he thought, he watched a spider in her hair spin a web and he shut his eyes again and said quietly,

"You are seen in mists and in the hedge
You are the woven one, Cobweb."

He waited for her to turn him into something dreadful but she gave a little cry and when he opened his eyes he was alone in the woods again. By now he was really quite cross. He had been grabbed by a troll and called 'child' by a faery and asked who they were when he did not know. It was all quite maddening and he was angry now.

He took up his stick and walking back up the slope he reached out with the stick and tapped the rocks above the cave. The mossy arm came out and grabbed the stick.

"Tatterdemallion, Tatterdemallion Green,
The faeries are come and you are seen," Tom said in his deepest voice.

"I'm not afraid of faeries," the troll answered.

"You have their treasure deeply hidden
And they come for you, er, unbidden," Tom said quickly.

He was suddenly very nervous and hoped unbidden meant what he thought it did. The troll suddenly threw out of the cavern a small box, a necklace, a chalice, a rough looking small table and a few other pieces of jewellery.

"Tell them to take it and go away," the troll said gruffly.

Tom gathered the things up and carefully walked out of the trees back to where his mother was waiting. The jewellery was in his coat pocket along with the chalice. The box and the small table he carried with him.

"Oh Tom! You do look a mess. Where on earth did you get that table and the box from?" Elise asked him.

"A troll gave them to me," Tom answered truthfully.

Elise sighed and shook her head. At least he had an imagination, she thought. So many children these days seemed to grow up too fast in her opinion. She dusted his coat off at the back and led him back to the car. Tom looked back and smiled. He did not mind being truthful but it was better when his mother didn't believe him, he thought. He knew that his grandmother would believe him though.

The Artist's Shoes

2010-09-28T17:47:00.001+01:00

She bought them when her old shoes wore out. They were flat heeled but in keeping with her personality they were red and comfortable. Being on her feet every day, she needed them to be comfortable. But there was something she did not know about them, something she only found out when she went to see her grandmother.

She got in her old red car and drove out of the town through the Outwoods and past Swithland Woods, by the reservoir. It was by Granby Forest that the red car broke down and then refused to start. Now as an artist, she was given to being much in touch with her emotions and this time she gave full vent to them. Very, very full vent to them. Had the sky not been naturally blue, it would have been when she had finished giving vent. At which point she grumbled and muttered and thanked her lucky stars for having comfortable shoes. She pulled on her long black overcoat for it looked as if it might rain and what with the car, she was sure rain was next. Then she dragged her basket of goodies for her grandmother from the back seat.

"You had better start when I get back," she told the car pointedly and with some menace.

That done, she trudged through the forest towards her grandmother's house in the village on the other side of the forest. She was in somewhat of a temper or I am sure she would have noticed the crumpled thing looking like a bundle of sticks fall from her car and tumble after her. It was a pixie called Wormwood and he was rife with mischief and loved a human in a temper more than most. Mainly because they were unlikely to see him. He followed the artist through the tall trees with slim trunks and their soft, whispering greenery with a grin. Pixies are notorious for misleading travellers and Wormwood was very good at it. For the moment however he was content to listen to her grumbles and mutterings. Being an artist she was inventive with her invective and Wormwood admired that. It made a change to the usual and against his own judgement he began to take a liking to her. But when he saw the faerie, he tumbled away quickly. It is not wise, even for a pixie, to make trouble around the faerie. They are considerably better at trouble than most.

Our artist did not see a faerie, for she was not looking for one. All she saw was a tall graceful and elegant young woman with auburn hair like burnished bronze and very green eyes. The young woman wore a delightful green dress and very beautiful red shoes.

"Good morrow mistress," the young woman said politely.

The artist liked politeness and though the greeting was a little odd to her ears, she thanked the woman and returned it with equal politeness.

"I would have a favour from you and will give you a favour in return," the young woman said.

The artist pondered this and asked what the favour might be.

"Your red shoes mistress. I like them greatly and would have them. In return I will give you a choice of three favours," the woman answered.

"What these tatty old things?" the artist said, "But tatty or not, I haven't spare shoes with me and I have a long journey ahead of me," she added.

"I will clear the path and keep you warm so that you feel no pain or discomfort, so you give me your shoes," the woman replied.

Now the artist took in the auburn hair and green eyes and understood that it was a faerie she had to deal with. She asked what three favours the lady would offer her.

"You are an artist mistress. I will offer you constant inspiration, instant recognition, potent wealth. Your work will be of the highest quality and the most beautiful whichever you choose. Only I would have your fine red shoes," the faerie told her.

The artist was no fool. She knew that what a faerie offers will have a catch to it unless that catch can be spotted early.

"Let me and those I love not suffer from whatever I choose, let me remember you and your offers with kindness and I will give you my shoes," she said.

The faerie agreed and the artist chose constant inspiration, for that is most important to an artist. The faerie granted her that favour and took her red shoes. The artist bowed and walked on, her bare feet unharmed and the earth comfortably warm where she trod. In this way she reached her grandmother's house in silence, reflecting on the beauty of the faerie woman. As she did so, inspiration came to her and she decided that the first piece she created with her new gift she would leave in Granby Forest for the faerie in gratitude.

She reached the small village where her grandmother lived and trudged up the path with the basket of goodies. She sat for a while and talked with her grandmother before trudging back in her bare feet to where she had left the car. But her inspiration flooded her and she paused in the fading daylight and took leaves and twigs and made a beautiful statuette, which she placed within a small close growing grove of trees.

"I give this work in gratitude mistress for your gift to me," she said quietly, sure that the faerie would hear her.

The faerie did hear her, for when the artist returned to her car, she found beside it the shoes she had given up. With them was a small note that read,

Your gave to me with good grace your shoes
And did not my wish at all abuse
So I return your shoes mistress
With all my favours without distress.

The artist smiled, turned back to the forest and gave the faerie grace and thanks. She got into her car and drove home again. From that day on, she had constant inspiration, instant recognition and very potent wealth, which I am glad to say she used with responsibility and kindness. With all that, she was much loved and never forgot every year to take a work of hers to the forest that she gave with gratitude to the faerie. Usually, she took a pair of red silk shoes.

A Vase of Alliums

2010-09-17T13:10:00.004+01:00

She sat down heavily in the armchair and sipped her tea. It had been three years since Jeffrey had gone. Now she had managed to rebuild herself as she thought it. It seemed strange to thing of being rebuilt, as if she were a derelict house that had been renovated room by room. She had felt a bit like that at the time too. Her mind had been full of terrible aching thoughts that had torn at her own sense of self. Jeffrey had not been a physically beautiful man and in the last few days he had not been a verbally beautiful man either.

The cat, a bright orange and white short-haired animal with green impenetrable eyes mewed at her feet and she leaned back in the armchair to let it leap up onto her lap. The cat sniffed her fingers and the tea, licking it's nose and turning about before sitting on her lap. She stroked the animal absent-mindedly and sighed. She did not miss Jeffrey at all, but somewhere deep within she seemed to wonder if she ought to. It was, rather like him, fleeting and like him she let it go. Keep only what you need, her mother had once told her and, as if it had suddenly occurred to her she had added,

"And that includes men."

Friends laughed when she told them, but her mother had not laughed and neither had she. It was meant in all seriousness. She had not needed Jeffrey after a while and when he went she felt herself bruised and exhausted from the relationship. He had been less a relationship and more just hard work. Like gardening or housework, necessary but not always pleasant. At least until she realised that he did not have to be necessary either. She began to understand that she did not need to be in a relationship of the 'romantic' kind when her friends rallied to her cause.

She looked to the little cabinet in the corner of the room. On it she had placed a red vase that ...well, that had a tale. It had looked bright and vivid against the whiteness of the room in front of the little key box and she smiled to think about it.

A little after Jeffrey had gone, summer had come and her alliums had grown. Their thick mist-grey green stems had seemed laughably phallic and yet there was something about them that was powerfully alive. She had put sunflowers in the garden too but pests had got to them. Instead of the sunflowers the alliums pushed upwards and unfurled their tiny purple flowers on wiry stems. They formed delicate and intricate balls of flower that seemed despite their fragility, strong and vital. As she herself slowly began to feel over the summer.

She too went from feeling bruised and emotionally buried to being reborn and full of life. She got a job in a small antiques shop and revelled in researching objects. After a little while, she began to buy and sell on her own account online. People were surprised that she should do that at her age, she was 55, as if it was the sort of thing that only the young would do. They were even more surprised when her own business, like the alliums in the garden, thrived and grew. She heard occasionally about Jeffrey but did not pay attention. She was no longer interested in him, even if she once had been.

She realised during that summer that she loved the alliums and the poppies. They put on a good show of flower, leaf and stem. When their flowers had gone they took on sculptural form as if they were not simply about flower but had diversified into sculpture beyond their floral art. When the alliums had finished their flowers, she cut them and put them into a pale green vase at the corner of the room on the cabinet. They had dried and yellowed, their seed pods seemed like satellites, tripartite at front with the spikes behind them to pick up messages from some distant plant home.

That was when she had seen the young man. At least he was young to her, about his mid-thirties in fact. He had come to pick up a piece she had sold to him. He was tall and slim hipped. His face reminded her a little of Michelangelo's David and his beauty so entranced her that she felt her walls being strengthened in her heart. She would not be hurt twice and so she kept a polite distance. He was however, kind and gentle with her, even respectful. She found herself warm to him in spite of herself and when he continued to buy from her and to even recommend pieces that she might like for herself, they found themselves meeting more often. She did not know then that he engineered it like that.

He had found in her someone who he could talk about art and furniture with. He loved her garden and, she smiled to think of it, she had thought him near perfect when he commented on the beauty of the alliums and how he loved her cat. Indeed, the cat had taken to him, rubbing itself against his legs and pushing it's nose against his hand when he stroked the animal. It went from a meeting to dinner to somehow more. But he did not rush her into anything. He enjoyed her company and wanted more of it, but seemed to sense through her coolness that she had been hurt and was wary of being hurt again.

Still he persisted and yet gently and with kindness. After the winter had passed and spring burst out in her garden, he had brought her crocuses and primulas bright against the dark rich soil in the pots. He had even offered to plant them out in the garden. He did not just bring her flowers, but plants. A white jasmine, a pink camellia, clematis and tea roses. The summer had followed and once more the alliums had pushed through, rising up almost overtly sexual at first until they burst into their flowers. He had never once tried to seduce her and somehow she had felt that she was too old for seduction - or at least the popular type of seduction shown in advertising. Yet she felt herself rising up and living again, glorying again in the sunlight of her life.

It was undoubtedly the presence of the young man and she remembered how finally she had kissed him and felt his arm about her waist, his hand flat in the middle of her back. His warmth and the firmness of him that made her shiver inside and long for him. That was when she knew that Love had returned in the spring and waited His chance to conquer them both.

The young man had brought the red vase and she had put the cut and dried alliums in them. The green vase she had saved for a snapped branch of the dark red acer instead. It looked right on the windowsill and the red vase with the alliums seemed to have made the corner of the living room more like it's centre. She suddenly tipped back her head and laughed softly; a tumbling bubbling sound in the quiet of the living room. The cat's ears turned back to her, but he did not shift.

From the kitchen she heard the young man making supper and busying himself with the table. She felt very suddenly as vital and strong as the summer alliums as if the vase of them symbolised her intense red heart full of a new strength.

The Earth Dragon

2010-09-09T08:56:00.004+01:00

Bradgate Park, Leicestershire, England

I went out one Saturday with Pixie, which was not her real name, but there was something of the pixie about her and so the name stuck. She wanted to go for a walk and I enjoyed her company, so I went with her. We walked up over the sinuous ridge overlooking the Vale of Wyvernwyck and along the walk Pixie talked about work and life and other things. We laughed and chatted and she said, almost wistfully,

"Oh what larks."

Her grey eyes darting about the landscape looking for a photograph that waited to be taken, while she spoke. There at the top of the hill were large stony ridges, rocks that followed the ridge and had thrust upwards jaggedly out of the earth. They were grey with blues in them and greens where mosses had grown. They were high in places and near them a couple sat while a small boy ran about shouting and squealing. He seemed as full of energy as they seemed ready for a rest. We watched in amusement as the little boy ran about with his arms out and his red woollen mittens bound by elastic, flapping in the breeze. We said 'hallo' to the couple and I indicated the boy with a nod, remarking that I did not know how they had so much energy. His mother laughed and called him over. As he came, he jumped upon the stony ridges as if he would stamp them into the earth.

Suddenly, Pixie's face changed from amusement to alarm and dashing across, she lifted him up and carried him in her arms to where the couple sat.

"You mustn't jump on the rocky ridges," she told him, "You'll wake up the Earth Dragon and he won't be happy. Nobody is ever happy at being rudely awakened."

Like the couple I smiled, but a look at her face made me suddenly aware that she was serious. She sat with the little boy on her lap and kissed him, brushing back his hair from his face. She was single and had longed for a child. As such she was very loving of children herself. She used to tease me that it was why she was so good to me, though I was sadly not a child any longer. When the little boy said there was no such things as dragons she shook her head.

"My dear, you may have been told that and you may even believe it, but I promise you the Earth Dragon lies beneath the earth here. His bones are stones, his flesh is earth and the tiny streams beneath the earth are his blood. He is very old, old as the earth itself and nobody actually knows where he comes from. If you're very good, which I am sure you are, I will tell you how I know," she said.

The little boy glanced at his mother and then asked Pixie if there was really a dragon and what did he eat? Pixie gave him a hug and answered that the dragon was definitely there and he ate what he could get. But for the last two hundred years he had mostly slept but for once when he stirred in his sleep.

"Then everyone knew he was there," she said.

The couple did not interrupt her, nor did I, for Pixie knew a lot about the area being a historian of note, though that was not her paid job.

"It was a long time ago when I first came to this country and was a little girl. A little bit older than you sweetie, but not too old to think I knew better. My family used to come out here and walk as we are doing today. I loved it so much that one morning very early, I got up and took a bus out to Stonehouse Eaves and got off near the road here. It was not quite light just yet, but the sun was turning over in his bed and thinking about rising. I walked along the track, through the gate and up the hill here to just about where we are now. Like you, I was curious about the rocky ridges and began to jump on them from one to the other.

Suddenly I heard a rustling in the grass and the rocky ridges shook so that I fell and rolled away. I was surprised, but I thought it was an earthquake. They had a serious one in America in 1906, which was before even I was born and I'd read about it. Well the earth stopped moving and I got up and began to jump again from one rock to the other. Then I heard a low grumbling roar and the rocks shook me off again. This time I noticed that it was only the rocky ridges that moved. The rest of the earth was mostly still. I was puzzled so when I could stand up again, I went over to the ridges and looked down beside them. The earth had shifted and I got a stick and poked through it until I hit something hard.

Then there was a great movement of earth and the whole hill seemed to shudder all the way along to Greenleas. I fell over again and when I looked up there was a great big eye looking at me. It did not look happy either. I was frightened so I scrambled backwards until I saw that the eye was set in a huge face with a large grey-green muzzle and very long sharp teeth."

"Were you scared of it?" the little boy asked.

"I was, but especially when the vast mouth opened and stretched. Actually the dragon was yawning up at the sky and for a moment I thought he might swallow the sun itself. Where he had raised his great head the earth was all torn up and there were clods of earth and grass upon his head and powerful neck. I found that I could not move. I was too scared to move. I thought that he might notice me and then I would be a small breakfast snack for him. So I stood very, very still.

The dragon yawned and grumbled for a moment before turning his great eye upon me again.

"Was that you jumping up and down on me and prodding me with a stick?" he asked me.

I was tempted to hid the stick behind my back, but instead I nodded and then apologised.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, I was just curious," I told him.

He harrumphed in disgust and mentioned what happened to the proverbial cat when it got curious.

"Well if you're going to disturb me, then you can get me some food," he told me.

I shut my eyes tightly then for I was sure he was going to eat me up, but he hummed and then chuckled a long low chuckle.

"Not you child, you would barely make a mouthful. I mean go and get me some food. A cart of hay or four cows or some sheep or something," he said grinning.

I ran away and found a farmhouse at the bottom of the hill. The farmer was already up and when I told him I needed a cartful of hay, four cows and some sheep he frowned.

"What d'you want that little lot for lass?" he asked me kindly.

When I told him he laughed, but I pointed up the hill and when he saw the dragon his jaw dropped in astonishment. Instantly he gathered up a pitchfork and told me to come along. I was put to work pitching hay into a cart, while he hitched it up to a tractor. Then he frowned about the cows and the sheep, for he did not like the idea. But instead, he went into the farmhouse and brought out lots and lots of pies that were meant for the farm shop. He also brought out some cheeses and a six barrels of ale.

"That should do him," he said.

I got up on the tractor beside him and we took the cart up the hillside to where the dragon was gazing about him. He turned his huge head when he heard us and bowed most politely. The farmer told him that no sheep or cows were available, so instead there were some pies, cheese and ale as well as fresh hay. The dragon thanked him politely and lowering his head he began to eat up the hay and then followed it with the pies. I had to get up onto his paw and tip the ale into his mouth, which was hard work, I can tell you. The dragon yawned again and told me not to jump upon the rocky ridges or poke him with sticks.

"It's very impolite and you wouldn't like it if I came and did it to you when you were asleep," he said gently.

I promised him that I wouldn't and hoped he would have a good sleep. Then he lay down again and before long he was asleep. The earth slipped and fell about him and over him like an endless coverlet and before long he was covered up again. The farmer put me into the cart and took me back to the farmhouse. Then he made me breakfast and phoned my mother who was very cross with me for wandering off when I was so young.

"Anything could have happened to you," she told me.

I did not tell her what had happened to me, she would never have believed me. The farmer winked at me and gave me a hug and said he would take me home. From that day to this I have not seen the dragon, but I have done well for myself. So young man, no waking the dragon. Let him sleep or he might come and wake you up and you wouldn't like that, I promise you," she said.

The boy crossed his heart and said that he wouldn't wake up the dragon.

"Goodnight dragon," he said softly and Pixie kissed him again before handing him back to his mother.

We got up then and wandered along the ridge.

"That was a wonderful story, Pixie," I said.

She turned to me crossly and said, "I wasn't telling a story I was telling the truth."

I said nothing but I have never forgotten the very serious look on her face. She was indeed telling the truth. We wandered on in silence for a bit and as we went home I turned to the hillside and murmured,

"Sweet dreams Dragon."

Goodbye Sweetest Rose

2010-09-05T16:36:00.005+01:00

O Glorious Rose your open, delicate, radiant bloom
In brightest summer had it's time and fullest state
Fading from the sweetest flower to autumnal tomb
Sad reminder of time's glories and our final fate.

In gentle Spring we welcomed your fair flower
In all it's delicate, vibrant, perfumed loveliness
A symbol of lovers glory and Summer's balmy power
Yet we too must fade, like you in cool autumn sadness.

Fair Rose, like you I aimed up for my place in the sun
Growing all my hopes and glories such as they were;
Tho' truest love, fame and wealth I never had - in sum
I attempted all not wisely but well, my sorrows to conquer.

O but Goodbye Sweetest Rose, now slumb'ring autumn's here
And like you I must my flower fade into the withered and the sere.

The Gateway

2010-08-25T11:46:00.002+01:00

Bradgate Park, Leicestershire

Grandmother did warn me I suppose. I was young and thought I knew better as so many of the young do. Now I sit and sigh and in the wards the nurses come and go, talking of old Mr di Angelo....

I used to play in the Wildwoods as a boy. The stream chuckled and gurgled through the trees and their living columns reached, as it seemed to me then, ever upwards. I would stroll through them imagining that I was Robin Hood or a hunter of something wild. The deer would vanish before I got to them, but I saw them once in an enclosed meadow, grouped together grazing gently. They looked up cautiously, but I stayed still just watching them, entranced by their beauty. Once or twice I heard a chuckle that was not the stream but never found the source of that merriment.

As I grew older in my boyhood I explored further into the wood and it was then that my grandmother warned me of the wall and the gateway.

"You'll know it my dear, there is a long wall of stone and a gateway. You can go through the gateway during the day or the night, but if you go through it at twilight - at dawn or dusk. Why then you are lost, for you will enter the faerie country and that is not a good place to be for anyone, especially a child. If you will wear a piece of iron or keep with you your penknife it will give you some protection. But if you eat or drink anything there, you will fade into their realm and never return to us," she said.

I thought she was telling me stories and when she implied that I was a child I was cross. For I was of an age when I could not wait to grow up. I regret that now, but it is too late for me. I was warned.

I had gone into the forest the next day with a rucksack filled with food from the pantry. A game pie, cheese sandwiches with cucumber a bottle of elderflower, bags of nuts and raisins and a large piece of cake. For I intended to find the wall and the gate and to dare the faeries. Such is the folly of youth. Such was my youthful folly.

It was mid-morning when I headed out and by the time I was high on the hill and crossing the meadow it was already past midday. I stopped and sat upon a fallen tree to eat a little. I had the sandwiches and some of the cake and being full, I continued on my way. The sunlight was dappled falling through the trees to the forest floor and I sang as I walked for it was so quiet but for the birdsong. I felt almost as if I were being watched. I crossed the stream and after a little while I felt sure I was being watched, but no matter how quickly I turned I saw nobody. Only the grey-green trunks of the trees that seemed to almost breathe in the stillness. When a squirrel sprang from one tree to another and sped upwards, I jumped and then laughed at my fears.

The afternoon wore on and a little after five o'clock I came out of the thickly growing trees and found myself on grass with trees growing more sparely and there ahead of me was the wall. I paused to look at it and catch my breath and marvel. I guessed that it had been built a long time ago. Grandmother had said that it was there when her mother was a girl. Beyond it I could only see the sky and a few trees, but it was still light enough to see. I felt nonetheless a vague uneasiness that my boyish bravado pushed aside. Still I put my hand in my pocket to close my fingers around the reassuring penknife there.

Then I straightened up and took a deep breath. I was no child to be frightened by old wives tales. Either side of the gateway I could see there grew two trees, oaks both of them. As I got closer to the gateway I could see that the grass my side of the wall stopped and beyond there was a pathway and a few trees. I stopped at the gateway and peered through.

The pathway went straight ahead and entered more trees through which in the distance I could just make out some kind of structure. I backed away from the gateway and sitting beneath one of the trees I had a brief supper of some of the game pie and the cake. As I sat and ate I heard a rumbling that seemed to grow louder between the trees. A coach and four came through the trees heading towards the gateway. The coach was fabulous and beautiful almost as if it were made of plants. The steeds however were large glossy black beetles that paid no attention to me at all, much to my relief. I had never seen beetles so big before. They and the coach seemed too big for the gateway. I was sure that they would get stuck within it, but as they passed me they all seemed to shrink and went through with room to spare.

Another rumbling announced another coach, this time pulled by foxes who also ignored me. But the occupant of the coach glanced out at me as she passed by. I caught a glimpse of a high collar, a pale face with a mossy green tint and dark deep eyes that seemed to pierce the gathering gloom of early evening. Then the coach was past and through the gateway. I pulled on my rucksack, felt for the penknife in my pocket and walked towards the gateway at six-thirty that evening of August 1863. I pulled my collar up against the evening chill and strode boldly through the gateway.

As I did so, I felt something shift deep within me and I noticed that the setting sun had suddenly shifted to a rising one. Again I felt that vague uneasiness and again I pushed it aside. I strode along the side of the pathway not wishing to be in the way of any other coaches or carriages. Three others passed me and headed towards the mysterious structure in the trees. One pulled by deer, one by large squirrels and the third by pheasants. The fourth, pulled by six fine stags drew up alongside me and the window was let down. A beautiful being with flaming red hair like the light of a dying sun, skin as pale as new milk and eyes as green as leaves with the sun shining through them leaned out of the window and smiled at me. There was if I am honest, something of the predator in that smile and something of whimsical amusement. Like a cat toying with a mouse it has caught. Yet, in my youthful amazement at her beauty I saw only that smile as one of kindness. It most certainly was not.

"My dear, so far from home? And whither will you go?" she asked me.

Somehow I knew than to be casual with her, call it my survival instinct.

"I am heading for the building in the trees my Lady," I answered her.

She opened the door to the carriage and moved back into it, inviting me in. Her beauty and the dazzling gorgeousness of her dress and the coronet she wore struck me as I gratefully accepted her offer. Still, the first words that sprang to mind as I got in beside her were - ''will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly'. I dismissed them and sat trying not to gaze into her eyes. I was well I did not for as green as they were, they were also deep like pools and I would have been lost in them very quickly. She leaned back and took a deep breath and grimaced quickly, like a ripple passing over a pond. She seemed disturbed by something, I know not what, but said nothing to that effect. Instead the stags dashed onwards and the carriage entered the trees passing through them at speed until we arrived at the building.

It was a grand structure like an Elizabethan mansion house yet somehow not quite the same. The wooden beams were covered in ivy and from between them it seemed to me, a multitude of creepy crawlies seemed to dart and move over the surface of the building. It seemed to be there and yet not quite there. Substantial and yet without any weight or structure at all. I followed the Lady inside and felt instantly out of place. Within the hall were similarly elegant beings to the Lady, dressed in the most beautifully delicate clothes that seemed somehow familiar but just beyond the reach of memory. Many of the ladies dresses seemed to change as I watched them from one thing to another. A collar would shrink and the cloth would change colour and texture. All about me was constant movement and restlessness. As I passed a group of people, a woman fainted and a man coughed as if he were choking on something. I wondered if they were making a point about me being there. But my Lady led me through by the hand. The feel of her fingers was cool and almost like holding a bunch of twigs in my hand. Her skin felt dry and papery, not soft like my mothers. It was not the feel of work-hardened hands that still has some softness in them, but something without blood or flesh.

Then music began and the large chambers fell silent. The music wound itself like the ivy about the house, like smoke spiralling upwards into the cool mists of an autumn morning. I knew that this was not my world, but somehow it seemed strangely more beautiful and sickly at the same time. I felt lulled by the music, almost drowsy, yet at the same time already dreaming. The Lady began to dance with another gentleman, a slow genteel dance. Her face did not change and by the light of the large chandeliers her face at first seemed ghostly, her eyes like deep holes in snow. Almost like a death mask. Her high lacy collar seemed to close about her elegant throat and flare at her jaw and chin until it resembled nothing so much as a head on a platter.
"Will you take a little wine and some food?" an gentleman asked me.

His face was the grey-green of the trees I had walked among and his smile was bloodless. Again I had the sense of a predator sizing me up for food and yet he seemed kindness itself. I declined, for after my supper earlier I was sated, but I declined politely. I felt a growing sense now of danger without quite knowing why. Then my hand was taken and I was pulled easily into the dance. The music, once wistful and winding was now sprightly and joyous. I danced, oh how I danced!

Every step felt light and fiery at the same time. My heart thrilled in every beat to the music that wrapped itself about my very bones and soul. The violin and the flute, the harpsichord and drum, all conspired to sing of wondrous things. Of summer mornings with the dew-silvered grass and the crow calling across the fields. Of the high, wide blue of spring mornings and laziness of drowsy summer days. Of blackberries bursting with sweetness in late summer and autumn. Of the deep comforting drifts of snow and the trees whispering in a breeze. All the living breathing fields, woods and lakes was in that music and in the dance. The fish in the streams, the bats in the dusk, the fox cubs playing and the badgers snuffling for food; the otters joy in the water; the crows lazy glide and the gulls flight over the wild sea. I danced to it all and for it all and found it there in the music around me.

When I paused briefly, a cup was pushed into my hand but somehow I could not drink and put it down. A plate was pushed into my hand then and various foods placed upon it.

"Eat up, drink deep and we'll dance some more!" someone said into my ear.

Yet I could not eat or drink somehow. Something inside of me recoiled from it. The music was still inside of my head and then I heard it amidst the music - a long moan of despair. Only then did I shake my head and feel the cloying cobwebs in my brain as if I had fallen into a deep sleep. Suddenly all the elegance and finery about me seemed dangerous and cruel and sickly. I fought to keep from being sick then. Instead I strode from the hall calmly and with my dignity. Fingers reached out and plucked at my coat but I gently disentangled myself. Hands fixed themselves about my arms and voices bid me come and dance, but I needed fresh air and pleaded so.

When I was free of the building I ran. Tears then started out of my eyes and stained my face in my terror. I fled along the pathway to the gateway and almost threw myself through it. There on the quiet darkness of the night I collapsed as if dazed. When I awoke in the dark, the faint light of morning appearing, I struggled painfully to my feet and staggered homewards.

My old home was occupied by new people in strange clothing, who yet took pity on me. They were shocked to hear my name and asked me many questions that I could barely answer to their satisfaction. All I could think of was how my grandmother had warned me.

So I sit here now in this large home for old people, smelling of age and death and slow decay and remember only that distant dusk when I came upon the gateway. Sometimes, on a summer night in my room at dusk I hear music and tears come to my eyes. Nobody else seems to hear it, but it tugs at me so much. So this early morning when it is not quite dawn, I have returned to the wall and the gateway. This time I shall cross into their realm and never return, for there is nothing for me here now. All that I once knew is gone.

Nobody Knew

2010-08-17T09:40:00.003+01:00

Mystery Girl - photographer unknown

I do not know, but I was told this by my grandmother who had it from her grandmother... who had it from her grandmother. The men did not pay much attention, they dismissed it as the tales of fishwives. My grandfather however said nothing on the subject and never would. If you asked him he would fold his arms across his barrel chest and say, 'Humph!' Then he would ask for 'coffee, real coffee like in the old days'.

My grandmother had a photograph in her boudoir. Actually it was just an extra room attached to her bedroom. One day when I was a little boy I was allowed in to the boudoir with all the mysterious notions the word conjured up for a small boy of my age. It was mysterious and distinctly feminine and I felt then the great difference I had between my mother, grandmother and me. It saddened me for I knew that I could never be a part of that world that I longed to be a part of, for I loved the women in my life considerably. Except for my sister of course, but I never did see her as a woman. She always seemed more of a mythical beast than a woman.

Anyway the photograph. It was black and white, well actually shades of grey. It showed a young girl with a slightly wary look in her eyes that longed to believe the best but strongly suspected the worst. The smile was not quite happy but not overwhelmingly sad. There something of the Mona Lisa's ambiguity about it. The eyes were full of depth and perception for she seemed to be looking deep into everything and somehow seeing it all at once. It was not the only photo in my grandmother's boudoir but it was the only one that struck me to the core. I asked if that was her when she was younger but she shook her head and smiled, her work toughened hand gently caressing my hair.

"No my dear, that isn't me, though I was quite the beauty once. That girl..." her voice drifted off and I turned to look up at her.

She was gazing at the photo but when she saw me looking at her she smiled and kissed me, smelling faintly of roses and sandalwood. I reached up then and hugged her tightly as if I had suddenly become aware that she would not be around forever. She took me to a chair and sat me down.

"Now then," she said wagging her finger at me, "if I tell you this story you must not tell your mother, alright? She would not approve."

I crossed my heart and hoped to die if I told mama and grandmother smiled at that and hoped I would live for a long time like her uncle Vanya who had lived to be a hundred and one until a pig fell on him from a balcony. But that was another story for another time she said and settled herself. It was quiet in the boudoir. We could hear faint voices downstairs, but they seemed very far away and in another house. The spring sun came in through the windows and grandmother's old cat lay sprawled on the carpet where the sun fell.

"Many, many years ago my dear, our people lived in a little village near a great forest. There was a little wooden church and everybody worked very hard. In those days you had to be careful if you went into the forest a bear might eat you all up and in the autumn and winter the wolves would get you. But more frightening than either bears or wolves were the faeries. You never quite knew what they would do, but mostly it was not good.

Well now, one day a young girl, that young girl in the photo in fact walked into the little village where your great-great-great-great-grandmother lived and that was a very long time ago. Even before I was born. This girl had no shoes and no hat. She wore a long green and red dress of the finest stuff and over her shoulders was a woollen cloak of grey wool. She looked to be about fourteen or so and did not say a word. Instead she went to the carpenter's house and whistled. The carpenter's four dogs came out to see who called them and she smiled at them. They lay down then with their muzzles on their front paws and made not a sound but nothing more happened.

She went to the baker's house and whistled. Two cats and six pretty kittens came out to see who called them. They lay down before her and rested their heads on their front paws. The girl smiled at them, but nothing more happened.

She went to the laundresses and whistled. Six cats, four hens and a host of pigeons came to the yard to see who called them and again she smiled at them. The cats lay down before her with their front paws stretched out before them and laid their heads on their paws. The hens settled before her and the pigeons flew up in a cloud of feathers and soared away towards Bremen in the North.

The laundress, who had been in the yard was amazed and looked as wide-eyed as you do my dear. She asked the girl where she came from and what her name was. She thought the girl was lost and had come from another village you see. The girl said not a word but walked up to the laundress and kissed her tenderly on the face. The laundress smiled and took the girl in her arms declaring that she should live with the laundress.

So she did and for many years. Now here's the thing. You and I my dear, we get older every birthday, but this girl never changed at all. People wondered all kinds of things about her then. Old Peter wondered if it was because she had no birthday, for she never said when her birthday was. People laughed at that, but not much. You see, she had come out of the wood wearing red and green - faery colours. So they thought she was a faery child, but nobody knew for sure. The girl did not speak at all. Instead, she sat in the house of the laundress and sewed. She repaired clothes that were torn and patched those that needed it and her work was the most beautiful any had ever seen. But at night she ate only nuts, berries and drank a little water and while she supped she sewed. She made dresses and jackets and coats. She embroidered boots and shoes. She made... well something else, but nobody knew and she never said a word.

Tales were invented about her. There was a tale about her having brothers who were swans by day and that she had to sew shirts for them all out of nettles. It wasn't true, but it was a pretty tale nonetheless. It was said that she was a princess who had been enchanted and must sew for a living until the spell was broken. It was said - well anyway, all kinds of things were said, but right underneath all of them was the fear that she might be a faery's child. She did not seem to be a faery, her eyes were grey like stormclouds, her hair was brown as a hazelnut and her skin was pale as the milk from Basia's goats. So while she was certainly beautiful as you can see, she did not look like a faery. Her ears were not pointed as people thought faery ears were, her eyes were not wild. She was simply a very beautiful young girl... who did not seem to age.

Then one morning she simply wasn't there. The people looked all over for her but she had disappeared. Only a drawing remained by Young Peter who was deeply in love with her. He was heartbroken until he met another girl who won his heart. Love is as crazy as that, my dear.

Well a hundred years later, our people still lived in the village. One day a young girl walked into the village without shoes but dressed in a long red and green dress of fine stuff and with a dark grey cloak over her shoulders. She was that girl again. Nobody knew anything about her but everybody especially the old people noticed that she had not aged at all. She did the same as last time, but this time the baker's wife took her in and made her welcome. Now this time, there was a man who had come from the city and set up a little shop. He was a photographer and so beautiful was this young girl that he asked the baker's wife if he might photograph the girl. The baker and his wife thought that would be fine. There was talk in the village that nothing would show on the photograph if she was a faery, but the photographer did not believe in such nonsense.

He took six photographs and of all of them, this one he liked the most. He made several prints and gave the baker's wife one and one he gave to the girl but she was not interested and wandered away down the street to the baker's house. One print he put in the window of his shop for he was very proud of it. As you see my dear, it is a beautiful picture of a beautiful girl and many people of the village would stop and talk about it when they saw it. I was so struck by how beautiful it is that I bought a print and so did lots of other people. But three weeks later, the girl had gone again. We have not seen her since. Maybe she has come back to the village and is living there now. Nobody knew who she was then and nobody will ever know who she is. But I promise you, she is no faery or faery's child."

The Long Path

2010-08-11T14:39:00.002+01:00

Bradgate Park, Leicestershire taken by the Griffin

Mariel, a very dear friend of mine mentioned to me about the Long Path. The phrase stayed with me for some time, though I did not know what it meant. Then one day we went for a walk through the country up to an old Victorian Gothic ruin. The ruin had been an old house and there were still traces of the stone frames to the windows and the great pointed arches of the doorways. Other than that, great rocks had pushed up through the soil around it. We walked up at a slow pace talking of various things and I remember using the phrase, 'the Long Path', though I forget the context. Mariel glanced sideways at me and said nothing at first. Then she continued with the chat until we reached the ruin.

For a while we stood in silence, regarding the remains of what must at one time have been a remarkable building had it not come into disrepair.

"Let us sit upon the stones and have tea," Mariel said quietly.

Tea sounded a good idea and I had made some honey cakes for us both. We sat upon the remains of a wall and gazed over the green and almost bluish landscape. In the distance our town seemed small and insignificant. Fields and even the distant reservoir were more important and grander. The reflections of clouds could just be seen passing over the reservoir for it was spring and the wind was fresh but not chill. On the other side of us a forest grew thickly and holly bushes gleamed with their glossy leaves among the sycamores and oaks. Green in many gorgeous shades surrounded us interspersed with the stubbornly grey rocks mottled with lichens. High over our heads the sky was pale and clouds raced each other, merging and separating from each other.

"Did I ever explain the Long Path, love?" Mariel asked me.

I answered that she hadn't but I used it as a metaphor for something that would take a long time to achieve but was worth doing. She smiled and sipped her tea for a moment. Then, she lowered her cup to her lap and gazing out over the landscape she said tenderly,

"It wasn't quite that," she said wistfully.

She took a deep breath and straightened up. Still she did not speak, but took another sip of tea. I turned my head to gaze at the trees and only turned back to her when I felt the warm softness of her hand on mine. She looked into my eyes then with great tenderness and smiled. Her grey eyes were soft and yet there seemed to be sorrow in them also. She was not an old woman, yet she had, so I had been told, seen a great deal in her young life.

"I hope you never have to walk the Long Path sweetheart, for if you do then you have already lost a great deal," she said.

"You've done it then?" I asked her.

She shook her head and sighed sitting up straight again and releasing my hand. But I reached across and took her hand in both of mine and softly spoke her name. I might not be in love with her, but she has always been one of the dearest of my friends.

She turned to me then and spoke.

"Many years ago, I was briefly married. I loved him but I was not blind and soon enough his wickedness showed itself. This was not a ruin then. People think it was ruined in the Victorian age, but it was ruined soon after I married him. We lived here then. It was a beautiful house and you can see it was a lovely view as well. Where the trees now stand there was a garden once.

But my husband as he then was would talk with all kinds of men and was utterly unscrupulous. He delighted in cheating and defrauding men when he might legally get away with it. He seemed to believe that it showed his cleverness but it only showed the cheapness and cunning of his character. I felt cheated myself for I had married him with love and in good faith. I at least had the sense to keep my money separate from him. My mother always told me to keep my own money separate for a woman must always have money to keep her independence.

One day he had gone out when I felt the most horrible feeling of danger in the house. I ignored it and yet it grew. My husband returned an hour later and grinned. I did not know why but I could guess. Yet for all his grinning and exulting over his triumph his dark hair was now utterly bone white. He kissed me and told me that he was about to make a vast amount of money from a gentleman he'd met. A gentleman dressed in red and green who did not have the sense he was born with. Or so my husband thought. I had been brought up on folktales and loved them as a girl. When I heard my husband's story then and felt the growing sense of danger I listened to my heart and told him to come away for the day. He ridiculed me and locked himself in what was the library and I, seeing I could do nothing for him gathered what I could and left the house.

There was a pathway then, the grass has grown over it now I suspect, but it was clear enough then. It meandered down the hillside towards the road to town. I had often got a bus from the road into town. I was out of the house when I met a man. He was a short man with a wizened face like an old apple and he was dressed in red and green. He smiled at me for a moment and stared into my eyes. Oh what a gaze it was. It felt as if he were reading my very heart and my thoughts. After the moment passed he said gently,

"It's a long path to walk mistress. If you will walk it you might save all you have or lose all you have. Take the Long Path and at it's end you will have what your heart truly desires. It's truest desires mind."

I nodded cautiously and dashed down the pathway to the road. I was so frightened that I dare not look behind though I wanted to. I truly wanted to. The sky began to darken and the ground beneath my feet seemed to tremble with my own horrors. Only near the end of the path did I turn and look up the hill. I swear to you I saw the head of some great beast push up through the earth. A head that seemed almost like the very rocks and yet not a part of them. This great beast opened its large jaws and bit down hard upon the house pulling what it had beneath the soil with it. Then rocks were flung up and I cried out and fled to the road. I did not wait for the bus to come, I ran towards the town with my heart racing and beating as if it would escape from my chest.

I left the town then and went as you know to India. It took me a long time to return home and discover that I was a widow and that all I had was my own money and nothing more. I promise you, it took me longer to take a long path back up to what remains here. I have never seen my husband again and never expect to either. The Long Path. A path that leads to what your heart truly desires even if you deny it to yourself. I have gone back to my own name and I have a new life now. But sometimes I come up here and remember what I once had and lost. It reminds me not to hang on to everything I have as if it were everything there is. There now, I beg of you, please don't mention that path again," she said.

I promised I would not and after we had eaten and drunk we walked about the ruins and through the forest. I heard a light laugh behind us and when I turned my head quickly I was sure I glimpsed a movement of red and green, but I could not swear to it.

Little Wings

2010-08-07T17:58:00.005+01:00

It seems that many years ago there was a magician. His name I don't recall, but I do recall that he once made a terrible mistake. This was, as I say a great many years ago. That time when humans were aware of the elementals, faeries, dragons and the like, is now long gone. But my grandmother had it from her grandmother, who had it from her grandmother and so on along a whole line of grandmothers.

This magician had gone to live in the forest for religious reasons. It seems he was very religious about avoiding folk who wanted things done for them that got in the way of his study. They were the sort of usual things like getting rich, falling in love, falling out of love, becoming unbelievably handsome and even getting teeth to grow again. He got tired of referring them to the local witch or wise woman and instead, he just up and moved into the forest. One day he was there, the next he'd gone. Only the foolish or the very brave would have dared follow him into the forest, for the place was faerie ground.

The wizard thought he'd be alright though, after all he was an adept at magic. The first day he was there, studying away at his old magic books there was a knock on the door. He sighed and got up to answer it and found a tiny old woman there. As old as you can imagine and no higher than a large dog. Like a Great Dane or something. The wizard politely asked what he could do for her and she asked him if she might have a cup of tea and a little something to eat. Her mentioning it reminded the wizard that he hadn't had his elevenses yet, so he invited her in and put the kettle on while she chatted away about the weather and how she liked his little house and such like. The wizard's cat went and hid under the table when the little old lady was there and would not come out. He knew exactly what was what. More so than the wizard who ought to have known.

The little old lady asked him what he was doing all the way out here in the woods and he told her that he liked trees and the quiet meant he could study his magic. She seemed suitably happy with the response but then asked him if he wasn't afraid of the faeries.

"Well now," says the wizard carefully, "I don't think I need to be. I don't intend to bother them and I doubt they will bother me so long as I am careful to respect their woodland."

The old lady nodded, put down her tea and vanished. It seemed that agreed with him and he drank his tea and went back to his studies. Three weeks later however, a knock at the door had him trudging to answer it again and this time he found on the doorstep a small boy with a bat cupped in his hands. The bat was hurt and the boy was wondering, the wizard being clever and all if he could help. Well the wizard was a kindly old soul so he invited the boy in and told him to sit down. He took up the bat gently and examined it and saw that both it's wings were broken. Poor little thing, he thought, let's see what can be done.

He did not notice the shrewd and wicked look in the beast's green eyes, which he ought to have done, instead he went out into the wood and fetched a small set of sycamore seed wings. He went about his magic with all seriousness and care and turned the sycamore seed wings into little wings for the bat. These he magically attached and taking the little beast outside, he set it free. It fluttered away and the little boy thanked the wizard and went home.

But the next day there was a knock at the door and the little old woman was back. She did not look happy either.

"I thought you said you wouldn't bother the faeries, young man," she said crossly.

The wizard was a little taken aback and declared that he didn't think he had.

"There was a very bad faerie called Windweed who was turned into a bat and his wings broken for good measure, but you couldn't leave him alone could you? You had to give him his wings back and now he's causing trouble all over the wood," she said.

The wizard stammered his apologies, he had not realised that the little bat was really a faerie. He had only seen a damaged little animal and sought to help. The little old woman stomped inside his house and sighed. She told him to look more closely at the eyes next time, for faerie eyes are green. That is why they like some redheads, for they have green eyes and a hint of faerie blood in them. The wizard said he would and asked if he might help repair the damage he had done by mistake.

"Undo your magic and return the wings to where they came from," she said.

The wizard managed to do as he was asked, but at the last minute Windweed flew in through the window and attacked the wizard. The wizard messed up the spell and the sycamore wings suddenly grew upon his own back and he became a winged wizard. It took him some time to remove the wings and he was allergic to sycamores for the rest of his life.

As for the bat, it fell to the floor and the old woman dropped a pestle on it. The bat squeaked once and never again. So my grandmother told me and she had it from her grandma so it came from a reliable source.

The Watcher on the Hill

2010-07-20T07:41:00.006+01:00

Deer at Bradgate Park, Leicestershire - Halinka Lezanowski

The man in the dark red coat clambered up the hill, gasping for breath. Above him the open vault of the sky was still blue, though streaked with cloud that formed a wide arc around the hill. To the man's right the sun was setting, gilding the grassy landscape and the rocks. He did not know how much longer he might stay free or alive, but he had no intention of going without a fight. At the thought, he gripped the basket hilt of his rapier. Inside his coat, beneath his belt were two flintlock pistols. His close fitting boots, black and scuffed from his long march reached up to his thighs and within the tops he had crammed bags of lead balls and two horns of powder. Oh he would fight if he must and die too if necessary, but he did not intend that should happen just yet.

It was said that there was something atop the hill, within the ring of rocks. Something un-nameable and dangerous. The man, Markham did not care for tales by grandams at a fireside. He only knew that the something at the top of the hill was preferable to the known men who pursued him for his book. The Rathbone Codex itself was wrapped in soft leather and in a box made to keep it dry and safe. It weighed in the bag across his body and bumped pleasantly against his hip. It had been passed to Markham by his old friend Vickers who had been killed soon after. Markham wanted revenge for that and swore to the memory of old Vickers that he would keep the codex safe from the men who wanted it and murdered for it.

He was curious too. Curious at what the book was about and what made it so valuable, but he had been given no time to sit and read it. That very night he had left home and was almost murdered in the garden of his house by two men who he had left with death upon their eyes. The land at Deerwood was untouched, it was said with some justification that the nearby wood was a faery wood and that quite likely the heathland and the hillside were also their land too. As such, nobody built upon it and the deer owned it along with the faeries. If one believed what people said. Markham like most men believed some and disbelieved others. He believed that the wood was a faery wood, but disbelieved that something was on the hilltop. He did know that the natural ring of rocks would give him a defensible vantage point and that was enough.

Once upon the summit of the hill by an old ruined tower beside which stood an old stone doorway, Markham gathered himself. The first thing he did was look for somewhere to hide the codex and he found it easily. At the base of the old stone doorway a large stone block was loose. He pulled at it until it came free and discovered that above it was a cavity. The cavity was a little big for the box with the codex in it, but that was all to the good. He placed his bag with the codex inside and placed it upon the stone. Carefully and with some effort, he pushed the stone block back into place, scuffing the ground about the doorway and away from it. Now he drew his rapier and his pistols. He loaded the pistols and placed them ready. Within the ruin of the tower he laid out his powder horns and the lead shot. The walls of the tower must once have been tall and imposing, but now they were broken down by weather and people taking the stones for their own use. Until the tale of something dangerous upon the hill had scared folk away.

Deer appeared and grazed upon the bracken, watching for danger within their groups. They watched Markham for a few moments but then lowered their heads to graze, keeping their ears in his direction. Markham ignored them. He felt tense and ready to fight and was working himself up to a pitch of tension that made his heart beat faster. He knew that they would come for him, but not when. He wished he knew the name of their employer too, but no doubt their employer would keep his name well hidden in this dirty business. After a while he felt a slow growing of dread crawling upon him. The sky was greying now, misty almost and turning darker slowly, but it was still light enough to see by. He peered into the landscape which had become greyer somehow and less distinct. Colours such as they were now, seemed to merge into a darker grey-green. Darker greens seemed almost black. Then he heard a footstep and turned cursing softly, his pistols in his hand.

"I will not harm you Mr Markham," the stranger said softly, almost tenderly.

"Who do you work for?" Markham growled, keeping his pistols on the stranger.

"I do not want the codex, nor do I work for De Lisle who does. No, I want to make a deal with you on another matter," the stranger answered, coming into clear view.

He stood in the opening to the ruined tower with the light upon him and while the deer had looked up at the sound of Markham's voice, they did not appear to notice the presence of the stranger. He was taller than Markham and seemed somehow old. He had spoken in Latin also, which was nothing to an educated man like Markham, but the Latin had a distinct accent to it that he could not place. His face was gaunt but not wasted and the eyes were large and soft. The mouth was soft and almost sensual in a debauched way, Markham thought. He wore a long pale cloth about him in the style of a toga or something similar.

"I don't do deals," Markham hissed.

"You'll want to do this one, sir. I can die now and you can have eternal life. All you have to do is watch for invaders as I have done for many years. Some people will not listen and others will, but if anyone invades this land, you will know. I have done my service, now I offer you the chance to do yours. The codex will be safe, do not fear for it. De Lisle has gone too far this night already and dared De La Zouch who is more powerful and stands well with the Queen. He will suffer for his arrogance, De La Zouch will insist upon it. In it lie secrets that are best kept from the eyes of such as would have power for it's own sake. The faeries will keep it safe. Come sir, all you have to do is kill me. If I die here upon the hill, whomsoever living is upon the hill must take my place and become a watcher for those who would dare this precious land of yours," the stranger declared.

Markham heard a soft chuckle and a shot broke the dusk. The stranger fell and Markham turned his own pistol upon the shooter and fired. He heard a cough and a groan with some satisfaction, but it was too late for him. The stranger had not only fallen, but now seemed to fade into the gathering dusk. Then Markham stood and made as if to go down the hill again, but found that he could not. He hurled a howl of rage then into the sky and damned De Lisle and all his kind. The deer had scattered at the sound of shots, but after a little while they had returned. Yet, with all the anger and pleading and despair he vented upon the night, they did not look up once at Markham.

These days it is said that there is a strange figure sometimes seen upon the hill who comes through the stone doorway beside the ruined tower and gazes forlornly upon the landscape and weeps. Yet for all he weeps, he also watches out to warn against invasion of our precious land.