inspired by a real event and set in the late Iron Age

It happened on the day before Samhein, when I was out hunting.  It was late afternoon, the clouds had covered the sky, and the day was rapidly darkening toward night. The temperature was dropping, and I could hear thunder growling in the distance. I was worried, this was not a night to be out in; I recalled the time, some twenty five years ago, when the chief Caoilte Cruithne was out, and one of the Sluagh got him. He became cruel, beastly, and tortured and killed his people.  It took four Druids and the High King to cleanse him, but he died at peace. I did not want to become like him!

It hadn’t been a particularly successful hunt, but I did have a cony to cook up for supper, if I could find shelter. And I needed to find shelter soon, for it would be a cold, dark, and stormy night. As I made my way out of the forest, hoping to find a charcoal burner’s hut, or some kind of shelter, a huge white stag leapt into the path ahead of me. Instead of leaping away again, it stopped and looked at me, then turned and trotted along the path. After a few steps, it turned its head and looked back, and moved its head as though beckoning me. I knew it wanted me to follow, so I started walking again, as one should when faced with a magic animal.

I followed it uphill through a thinly forested area, and as I rounded a bend in the path, I saw the silhouette of a building on a hill to the right of the road. The stag stopped a bit ahead of me, touched its nose to the ground on the right, and then leapt away. In no time at all, it had disappeared. I turned off on the narrow lane where it had indicated, and found that it led up toward the building, and as I neared it, I could see that it seemed to be just ruins. But I knew that there was something I must do there, the presence of the stag made that clear. As I got closer, I saw that some parts looked reasonably whole. I went on, I knowing I would find shelter from the coming storm there.

I reached the building and made my way through the ruined section. When I came to an area that was still partially roofed, with walls that seemed solid, I lit a torch I had fashioned from some wood I’d gathered on the way, and investigated. As I continued along a hall, I passed a doorway to my left. I felt an incredible aura of evil emanating from the room beyond. I hurried on by, and found another room, solid and safe from the weather, with a good sturdy door to shut and bar. I decided this would do nicely, for my night’s shelter, and went back out and gather bracken and pine boughs for my bed, and some more wood for a fire. Soon I had all I could carry, and went back in.

The evil aura was stronger than ever, stretching out, but unable to break whatever bond it was that held it tied to that room. As I hurried past the doorless room, the evil aura was reaching out toward me, trying to ensnare me. I almost decided to look for some other shelter, but there was that stag, and a very strong compulsion that told me I had to stay.

I settled down in my safe room, with the door shut and barred.  I prepared my bed, lit a small fire on the stone floor, cooked up the cony and after I had eaten, I banked the fire and settled down to sleep.  I was very tired, and it felt good to lie down, but sleep would not come. The memory of the stag, combined with the compulsion that was growing stronger by the minute, wouldn’t allow me to sleep. The room was very dark with the fire banked, so I took a stick from the pile, and coaxed it alight and set out to examine my surroundings. I had just done a cursory look around before. Off in one corner, I saw that one of the stones in the floor was softly glowing.  As I neared it, the feeling grew that this was why I was here. I needed to lift that stone, and remove what was hidden under it.  Outside the storm was coming closer. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, and the wind was rising and I could hear the patter of rain on the floor where it was being blown in through the broken windows.

Ignoring the sounds of the storm, I took out my knife and pried at the stone. After some time, I was able to lift one corner, but could not raise it high enough to get my fingers under it. I went to my pile of firewood and found a sturdy stick, about the width of my thumb. When I again raised the corner of the stone, I slid the stick in, and pried with it. Eventually, I had it high enough to get the fingers of both hands under, and gave it a heave.  It dropped back with a crash, revealing a hollow beneath. Shining the light into the hollow, I saw something wrapped in a rotting cloth; I worked the bundle out, opened it, and stared. There sat a beautifully carved gold torc, the ends formed into lynx heads.  It was beautiful, and I knew it had belonged to a powerful chieftain and was dedicated to Lugh.

I crouched there for some time, turning the torc over in my hands, and suddenly I remembered. About twenty five years before, a jealous brother killed a clan chief and his family, and took over. There was an infant son whose body was never found, nor was the chief’s torc. Later, it turned out that the infant had been raised by shepherds, and when he came of age, he fought and killed the usurper and was acclaimed as the chief. But the family torc was never found. Could this be it? Is that why the stag directed me here? I knew that the usurper had built a large stronghold in this vicinity, and that he was a cruel and vicious man, capturing peasants and warriors alike and torturing them. That room, the one with the evil aura, could that have been his torture chamber? And had the toc been hidden all these years here where he ruled? The heir had asked about the torc, questioning everyone he could, and had sent men out searching for it, unsuccessfully.

That evil had to be cleansed, and suddenly I knew how, as though a voice spoke to me. I rose, carrying the torc in front of me, and went to the door. Unbarring it, I went along the passage until I came to the room with the evil aura. I could feel the evilness reaching, stretching, trying to break the invisible barrier that held it locked in the room. I knew it wanted to reach out and overpower me. I stood just beyond its reach, held up the torc. I called on Lugh, the God of Light to come and destroy the evil. There was a moment of stasis, and then something snapped. A blinding light flashed in the room, and the barrier sprang back, into the room and taking the evil with it. Then the feeling of evil started to fade, and a faint shriek echoed away to nothingness, and was gone.  When it was over, I thanked Lugh for cleansing the room, and asked his blessing on me, went back to the room, rewrapped the torc and placed it in my pack. I then settled back in my bed and slept soundly for the rest of the night.

When I woke in the morning, I ate and packed the leftovers in the pack, unbarred the door and went out. When I passed the room where the evil had been, there was no trace of it left. I stepped into the room, just to be sure, but it was just an empty room, with dead leaves littered over the floor. Outside, I found that the sun was shining in a clear sky, and the air was brisk. It would be a good day for walking. I had good hunting for the rest of my journey, and knew that I had been blessed by Lugh. After resting at home for a few days, I traveled to Tara and showed the torc to the high king. He admired it, and told me its story, and my memory was true, it was just as I had recalled, there in that old ruin. Then he sent me back to Cean Tir, where my home is. He told me that the torc belongs to out Chief, and as I found it, I should return it.

I have done so, and was given much praise and adulation. But I do not deserve it. It was the magical stag that led me to the torc. But it is a Samhein eve I will never forget.

inspiration, a face sharp shinned painted on wood

I sat in the sling chair and let my eyes wonder around the room. I was in a hut, in a jungle village, the only white person here, or as far as I knew, the only one within a thousand miles. And I was stuck here for the foreseeable future.

I was a member of an exploration group. We had come because Dr. Savage had heard rumours of a tribe who were almost never seen, living in the most primitive manner deep in the mostly impenetrable jungle. Their village was situated part way up a mountain, in a hidden valley, and the only way in was by boat, by a river that was almost impossible to navigate. That was why no one had ever visited them. No explorers had deemed it possible for boats to ascend that river, particularly because there were very rough rapids about half a mile up, and they extended for two or more miles of very steep going. Much steeper, and they would have been a series of water falls.

As it was, just as we finally reached the end of the rapids, I had fallen from the boat, and was swept down river. I hit several rocks on the way, and my left leg was broken in two places. I was rescued only because I had managed to get a firm grip on a large rock, and pull myself partly up on it. Even then, it was touch and go, as they had to keep the boat by the rock, fighting the strong current, and in pulling me in almost swamped it. So now, I sat in a primitive hut in a primitive village, waiting for them to come back for me. If they could.

The hut was, surprisingly, fairly clean, and the air was fresh touched with the scent of the big purple blossoms on the trees outside. My eyes rested on the raised platform, where a boy, 13 year old Bnocru, lay. He was the only son of Gnogru, the chief, and had been bitten by a poisonous spider the day before. Scrabti, the Shaman, had been in and out ever since, dancing and chanting, shaking rattles and burning some kind of bark and herbs. I knew he was worried. No one had ever survived such a bite, and the boy was failing fast. I had tried to get him to let me give him a dose of the antivenom medication we all carried for just such an emergency. However, he refused. He didn’t like or trust me, or any who had come with me. But that boy would die, in agony, if something wasn’t done soon.

The one thing he would allow me to do was sponge the boy’s body and face with cool water, and try to get him to drink some. I had been faithfully acting nurse, waiting my chance. Now I could act. The shaman had told me the last time he left that he was going to ‘commune with the spirits’ in hope of a healing. I knew that meant he would be in a drug induced stupor for at least a couple of hours. Taking the stick I’d been given to help me walk, I went to the door and looked out. No sign of the chief or the shaman, only the women at their work. Good.

I went back to my seat, and dug into my backpack. I took out my first aid kit, and found the antivenom capsules. First dose, two capsules, followed in six hours by another. I didn’t think I could get the capsules into him, as he was only swallowing small amounts at a time. I got the drinking vessel, filled it about half full, broke open the capsules and emptied them into it. I had to use my finger to stir it, but it was soon all dissolved. The boy was getting restless again, and that meant I could get him to drink.

It took me a good ten minutes to get all of the water into him. When that was accomplished, I felt better. He was still restless, and hot with fever, so I went to work with the cloth and cool water. How I wished for some ice! Really cold water would have lowered the fever so much better. By the time I was finished, Bnocru was quiet again, and soon fell into a deep sleep. This was the first time he had really slept, so I knew the medication was working.

Unfortunately, Scrabti would take all the credit for the healing, if my treatment worked. And the next person to suffer the bite would, like all the others, die, since he knew nothing of what I had done. At the moment, my only thought had been to heal Bnocru, but now I was thinking of the future. I was still standing by the sleeping platform, balanced on the stick, thinking deeply while I monitored the boy. His pulse rate had slowed, and I thought his temperature was down some. It was at this moment that his mother, Mlunga, came in with my midday meal.

She looked anxiously at her son, and then at me. I knew she wanted to know how he was, but we couldn’t converse. I smiled the happiest smile I could call up, touched his head, and nodded. She gazed at me for a moment, the putting the food down, came over. She touched Bnocru’s head, and looked up at me, questioningly. I nodded again, and tears filled her eyes. In pantomime, she asked if it was the shaman’s magic that was working, and in that instant, I put my life in her hands. I shook my head, and showed her the capsules. I mimed breaking two open, adding the powder to water, and getting Bnocru to drink all of it. She grasped my hands and kissed them, then put them to her forehead. With one last look up into my face, she put a hand to her heart, then moved it, cupped as if holding something, and place it to my chest. I knew she was thanking me. I bowed to her, and smiled. She turned quickly, and left.

I settled down to eat the food she had brought, and wondered what would happen next. Would she tell Gnogru? If she did, how would he take it? Would he have me killed for using foreign magic on his son, or would he in turn thank me for saving his heir’s life? There was nothing I could do, either way, so I took my own medication and settled down on the mat that was my bed while I waited for the pain in my leg to subside.

I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew, the light of sunset was brightening the door, and there were loud voices right beside me. When I opened my eyes, I saw Scrabti, Gnogru and Mlunga, standing beside the sleeping platform. I looked at Bnocru, and he was awake, and looked a lot better. Then the shaman grabbed my arm, and tried to pull me off my mat. The chief stopped him, and with gestures, asked me to sit up.

There followed a long period of gestures, questions for me, my answers, and the demand to see the capsules. I showed them, and the shaman made a grab at them. I was fast enough to keep him from taking them. I knew he would destroy them. He was angry, angrier than I had ever seen anyone in my whole life. Gnogru intervened, and said something that brought Scrabti to a stiff halt, indignation in every bone of his body.

He went into an impassioned speech, stabbing at his own chest, at the chief’s, and at Broncru. Even though I couldn’t understand the language, I could those vehement gestures. He had served the chief and the tribe all of his life. How could the chief think he didn’t want the boy to live? Gnogru responded, his gestures saying that he knew how devoted the shaman was. But then why was he so angry that this stranger’s magic had done what they all knew to be impossible? Bnocru lived, was healing, the stranger’s magic was stronger. Should they not all rejoice that the Gods had sent this man at just this time? When his magic was so needed? Scrabti deflated, and stood with shoulders drooping. That was not good, he needed his confidence, the tribe needed his skills. And they were not without merit.

I reached out and touched the chief’s arm. When he turned to me, I managed, with gestures and the few words I had picked up, to tell him that Scrabti could learn to use this same medicine. It came from a plant that grew in abundance in the jungle around. I could show him how to prepare it, if he would let me.

And so it was that when Dr. Savage and the others arrived the next morning, Broncru was sitting up and eating, Scrabti and I were hunched over a stone bowl with a short knobbed stick, crushing leaves of the Spiderbane plant. The whole story was told over lunch, and Dr. Savage gave Scrabti two bottles of the capsules. She was also able to give him more directions on the drying and preparation of the plant. And Scrabti, and the whole tribe, accepted the strange white men as friends. And me? I was a hero. Unbelievable

This is an excerpt from my Fantasy book end of chapter 7 beginning of chapter 8.

‘Up and at them,’ Janalyn cried. ‘Get those gourds flying, aiming for the base of the overhanging ice, and as far up the slope behind the giants as you can get them. Krystabel, Bristynn, Penipol, we must start sending the fireballs over. The giants are hard to see, but if you watch for movement, you should be able to hit them. Archers, ready your fire arrows and fire when ready, aiming at the overhang, the slope, and the giants. And, everyone, be careful not to expose yourselves too much. The shards of the icicles and snow boulders can do serious damage. May all the good spirits be with us, and steady our hands.’

With that the battle started in earnest. Soon fire was flying one way across the pass, while giant icicles and snow boulders were flying the other. Krystabel had never used magic so intensely, or so constantly, so she lost all track of what was happening around her in her deep concentration. She knew that she had hit one of the largest giants twice, because the eagles kept her informed. She was faintly aware of cries of pain, when someone was struck by flying shards, but it barely registered in her mind.

Time went by, fire and ice flying through the air, and the sun appeared over the mountain at their back. They could clearly see the damage to the snow-pack on the other side, and the Frost Giants were more apparent with the sun glittering off them as they moved. On the battle went, Janeldra and Tineslinn moving quickly to get the wounded into the shelter where they could be cared for.

‘One of the largest giants is seriously wounded, and is standing near the edge of the overhang’ Krystabel informed Janalyn. ‘The eagles tell me that the surface of the ice pack behind the giants is starting to melt and move down towards the drop-off. They can see the smaller giants starting to edge around the soft area, heading up a path around the peak. One of the larger giants is trying to get to the injured one, who is waving him off. …. Oh, there goes the overhanging ice, and a whole section of the ice-pack is moving more rapidly now.’

Everyone withheld their weapons, and watched as the huge overhang broke off, and fell to shatter in the pass. With it went the injured giant, barely seen, to crash and shatter, too. Then the moving avalanche of frozen snow-pack reached the edge of the cliff and followed, filling the pass to a depth of several feet. For moments, the watchers stared, shocked at the sudden end to the battle. Then Janalyn stirred.

‘Everyone! Send all the gourds, as many fireballs as you can manage, and the rest of the fire arrows down into that blockage. We must melt it, and clear the way so we can continue on. It will make a formidable flood, but fortunately, most of the water will spill over the cliff where the road makes that sharp bend, and only a few trees will be damaged. The camp is high enough to be safe, I hope.’

They bombarded the huge pile of shattered ice and snow, and eventually it started melting and pouring away down the road. The noise, even from their height, was almost deafening. Then all the fire weapons were used, and they sat and watched the huge wave of water and chunks of ice as it thundered away and out of sight, but not out of hearing.

 

inspired by: http://ozlandbard.blogspot.ca/2010/08/hit-or-flop-by-lillian-morpork.html

my name in Second Life)

“Hey, Sheriff! Ed’s dead!” Cassidy raced into the jail house yelling, almost bowling Sheriff Armstrong over. Armstrong grabbed Cassidy by a shoulder to slow him down, and to keep his own balance.

“Where? And when?” he asked. “And do try to calm down. You are totally incoherent when you get over-excited.” He spoke slowly and quietly, still keeping a hand on Cassidy’s shoulder.

“Sorry, Jim,” Cassidy took a deep breath. “Just now, at Morgan’s.”

Armstrong strapped on his gun belt, grabbed his hat, and went striding out the door. Cassidy had to run to catch up.

“It was Big Bart, Jim,” he said.

“Oh? Ok, how many were there, Cas”? I’ll need to talk to them all.”

“Well…uh…there were about ten, but when Bart and his boys showed up, they slipped out quick and quiet like.”

“Cut! Cut!” another voice shouted.

Cassidy and Armstrong stopped and turned. “Ok, Steve, what’s wrong this time?” Armstrong asked.

“The whole damned thing, that’s what!” Steve growled. “This is the worst script it has been my misfortune to have to try to direct – ever!”

“Well, yeh, but then why did you agree to do it?” Cassidy asked.

“It’s like this. Mr. Lastor has always been very generous in backing great plays for me. Now he is insisting on this one, because his wife wrote it. He doesn’t want to upset her.”

“Does he have any idea how bad it is? No matter how hard we try, it’s not even going to make the B list. More likely the F list – for flop!” Armstrong said

“I think he knows, he’s just afraid to tell her. Ever met her? She is one forceful, determined woman!” Steve grinned.

Armstrong, aka Tom Simmons, one of the top leading men in Hollywood, sighed and sat down on the edge of the stage. “Yeah,” he said. “I had that dubious honour.” He sighed.

“That bad, huh?” said Cassidy. His real name was Clarence ‘Clancy’ Hoolihan. “You know, every time I have to say one of those lines, I have a real fight just to keep from breaking up.” He stood and stared at the other two.

Steve stared at Clancy for a moment. “Clancy!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got it!” He started pacing, getting more excited and positive as he went on.

“Huh?” grunted Clancy.

“A comedy! Make it a real farce! Ham it up for all you’re worth.” Steve went on excitedly.

Tom’s head slowly came up, he looked at Steve, then at Clancy, as big grins gradually spread over three faces.

“Right, Steve,” he said. “The script says Cassidy is clumsy.” He turned to Clancy. “When you rush in, instead of me staying up, we both go down. You stumble when you’re trying to get up, and knock me back down again…”

There was a moment of silence, then all three broke into roars of laughter and shook hands.

Six months later, the three left the stage. It was opening night. The crowd had roared with laughter. There had been three standing ovations, and three encores. It had turned into the funniest musical comedy in a decade.

As they walked to the Star’s dressing rooms, Steve said “Tom, your idea to add music and dancing really put the show over the top! Great job, guys.”

“Yup,” Clancy said, grinning. “Most fun I’ve had on the job in years. Hmmm .. Wonder what Mrs. L thought?” They looked at each other, shuddered, and broke up again.

“Well, never mind,” Steve said. “We won’t have to face her. And ‘Ed’s Dead at Morgan’s Saloon’ is a smash hit, and we’re all winners.” They walked on, smiling.

inspired by this picture

http://ozlandbard.blogspot.ca/2010/08/farewell-to-morgans-town-by-lillian.html

The young woman slipped out of the shadows by the saloon and approached the Stage Coach driver. “Sir, I have my ticket, sorry I am so late.” she said softly.

He had just finished loading passengers and luggage, and was about to mount to the box, so he turned angrily at her voice. Taking in the slender body loaded down with luggage and baby, his face softened.

“Ok, Ma’am. Just leave the luggage here and get in and settle yourself. There is plenty of room. I’ll tend to your things.” He tipped his hat and opened the coach door.

Leaving all but one bag on the ground, she climbed in and settled herself in a corner. There were only two other passengers, officials of the railway line who had been looking over the area. The railway company was going to extend the line through the town and on Westward. In a few years, this Coach, from Morganstown to Tucson would be retired.

They said nothing, just tipped their hats, tight lipped as they contemplated a long trip with an infant. A short time later the coach started, and soon they were travelling along at good clip. There was not much light as night closed in, the moon being in the earliest crescent phase.

She sat looking out the window, seeing nothing with her eyes, only that last scene in Morgan’s saloon. She still felt shaken, still heard the report of the gun, muffled though it was between their bodies. Why couldn’t he have left her alone? No one in that bigoted, judgmental town had ever believed her. She had come to teach, but instead she was condemned as a whore, a slut – because she had a child and no husband in evidence. She had shown the Preacher and the school board her marriage certificate, and the death certificate for her husband, and they had scoffed and brushed them off as forgeries. Any enterprising whore could provide herself with the like, they said. She should have been wary when the advertisement for the teaching job said ‘four-square Gospel Christian preferred.’

Still, she had tried to make a home for herself and Jamie there. She had no where else to go, she had used almost all of her money getting there, expecting a job and salary. She had scrimped and saved, doing sewing, housecleaning for the women who practically spit on her if they met her on the street. And all the time fighting off the oh, so holy men of the town. Now she had enough for the Stage Coach fare to Tucson, thanks to a gift from her in-laws. They had tracked her down, and begged her to come to them. They wanted to help her and their grandson. If only the Stage had come in earlier, then nothing terrible would have happened. She sighed.

I didn’t mean to kill him, I just wanted him to leave me alone. But no, he grabbed me, held a gun to little Jamie’s head, threatening him if I didn’t ‘put the kid down and give out’. I put Jamie down on the floor, and as I was straitening up, he jumped me. We both fell and I fought, as hard as I could, using teeth and nails. He still held the gun, and somehow it got between us. I got my hand on it, and pressed his finger on the trigger. He jerked, and his arms fell away from me.

When I stood up, the blood was running from his chest. He moaned once, tried to turn his head, and stopped breathing. Now Ed Stanley is dead and I am a murderess. Maybe, when I get to Tucson, I should go to the Sheriff and tell him what happened. But not until I make sure Jamie will be all right with Will’s family.

The tiring journey went on, the coach stopping before midnight at a small way station. The passengers were given food and a place to rest. She was able to change and clean Jamie, and even got some sleep. Then they were on the way again just as the sun was rising.

Three days later they were in Tucson and a neatly dressed black man approached. “Excuse me, Ma’am, are you Mrs. William Clarkson? I’m George, driver for Mr. William Henry Clarkson, and they sent me to bring you home.” He tipped his hat and smiled.

“Oh!” AnnaBeth said. “Yes, I am. I didn’t expect to be picked up, thank you.”

“Fine, Missy, just you rest here and I will gather your luggage.” smiling again he pointed to a bench. She agreed, described her luggage, and settled down to wait. It was not long before he was back pulling a cart with all her bags on it. “Come along now, Missy, the carriage is just outside.”

She got up and followed, and was amazed when she saw the splendid coach, shiny black and pulled by a matched set of greys. There was an insignia painted on the door, WGC, in red and gold. OH! She thought. I didn’t know Will’s family were rich! Oh, dear, how will I ever fit in? Ah, but I won’t, not if I tell them about Ed. At laest I’ll know my Jamie will be well cared for and educated.

“In you get, Missy, I’ll just stow your bags and we’ll be off. You don’t have anything more to worry about, now.” He helped her up the steps, folded them away, and very soon after climbed up to the driver’s box, clicked to the horses, and they were off.

Less than half an hour later they drove up a long, winding drive to stop before a beautiful mansion. Standing on the steps were an older couple, undoubtedly Will’s parents, smiling and holding out their hands.

Once they had each had a chance to cuddle Jamie, he was sent off with a nursemaid, and they sat down to a sumptuous meal. She felt she had to tell them about the killing, it was not a thing she could hide. They listened quietly, William asking an occasional question. There was silence for a few minutes after she was done.

“I thought I should tell a sheriff about it,” she said.

“No, my dear, you are not a murderess.” William said. “I am an attorney, and know the law. You had no intention to kill, you were just protecting yourself and your son. And he was the one who drew a gun. I know the governor of Oklahoma, and he will have that town investigated. The only demand they can make on a religious basis is that the person be Christian. And they can not refuse to accept valid evidence of anyone’s marital status. Forget that place, and Ed Stanley. You and Jamie are safe here, now. And we are so happy to have you. We lost a son, but now we have gained a daughter and a grandson. You and Jamie are a true blessing to us, and will fill a big hole in our lives and hearts. Please look on us as your new parents, and let us love and help both of you.”

“Do you really think I should just forget Ed? I’d like to forget him and that whole terrible town. Thank you so much. It would be so good to have a real home, and a family again.” Her strained face eased, as she smiled and felt the tension drain out of her tired body. Maybe all would be well, and she and Jamie could have the future Will had planned for them. With that thought, she was at last able to relax, and look forward to a good future.

this was inspired by a picture, black background, two colourful eyelashes with tear drops

 

All of the insects, birds and small creatures in the forest were hurrying to find shelter. They knew that a big storm was coming, and it would be very dangerous for small things to be out in it. The two furry caterpillars, Tic and Tac, were slowly working their way along the branch of a Jimson weed, trying their best to hurry. But they had been nibbling at the plant as they went, and it was great! They were having a grand time.
First, they were on a plant with white flowers, and it didn’t really taste all that good, but it made them feel relaxed and calm. They moved on to another plant, this one had light purple flowers. Still didn’t taste great, but Wow! They felt wonderful.

“Hey, Tac!” Tic cried. “look at that beeootiful catypilah! Ain’t she a knockout?”

Tac looked around, confused. “I don’t see no catypilah – you dunce, it’s a rainbow flutter…a….butterfly!”

“Really, that’s what you see? How odd. “

They moved on, the storm forgotten. Then they were on a plant with deep purple flowers. It tasted worse than the others, and they stopped moving for a while. The wind had picked up, and the branch they were on was moving up, down and sideways, and they were getting very dizzy.

“Uh, Tac,“ Tic mumbled, “I don’t feel too good. I’m dizzy, and I think I’m going to throw up!”

“Yeah, Tic, me too,”

Tic started to move, and his back end fell off the branch. “Oh, help!” he cried, and clung on for dear life. Tac tried to go and help him, but he couldn’t move in a straight line either, and his front end slipped off. He screamed, and started to cry. They hung like that for a few moments, then he made a great effort, and managed to get his front legs on the branch again. “Hold on, Tic, I’m coming,” he called, and very carefully moved toward his friend.

Just then, it started to rain, and in moments it was like a cataract of water. The wind rose, so that the rain was almost horizontal, and Tic lost his grip and fell. Tac stared for a moment at the empty spot. Where was Tic?

“Hey, Tic,” he said, “how’d you do that? You disappeared into thin air!” A voice called from below “Wow, Tac, you should try that – I flew like a bird! The landing wasn’t so good though.”

Tac humped forward a bit, and peered drunkenly over the branch. There, on a toadstool surrounded by water, was Tic, staring up, trying to focus on the branch. With the effects of the Jimson weed, the strong wind moving the branch, and the rain teeming down, neither could see the other clearly. Tac moved a little farther forward just as the branch bounced in a strong gust and he fell off. Next thing he knew, he was sitting beside Tic on the toadstool. But it didn’t last. The rain was making the rounded top of the toadstool very slippery, and they had nothing to grab on to. They began to slide, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until they went off the edge and landed with a splash in the puddle.

Caterpillars don’t do well in puddles, even when they are sober. And Tic and Tac were far from sober, even after the fall, and landing in the cold water. They started trying to crawl forward, but to do so, they had to put their heads down. This put their heads partly under water, and made it even harder to move. They stopped, raised their heads, and started yelling.

“Help, help!” they shouted as loudly as they could, for as long as they could, but soon were too tired to continue. Tac had an idea. “Let’s try taking turns shouting. I’ll go first, and shout as long as I can. Then, while I rest, you shout. We can keep shouting a lot longer that way.” And so they did, while getting colder and colder, and soberer and soberer. It seemed to take forever, but wasn’t more than half an hour when two fairies is special wet weather gear came, flying not too far away. They were having a bit of trouble keeping to the direction they wanted to go, because of the wind, but the storm was dying out, so when they heard Tac shouting, they were able to fly to the scene of the accident.

The storm had almost died out, and the fairies had no trouble landing beside the puddle. “Oh, my!” Bluebell cried. “You poor things, however did you get down here?” She started laughing, and laughed so hard she almost fell into the puddle with them.
Tac looked embarrassed. “We were heading for shelter on those plants up there, and got a bit hungry. So we nibbled a bit. They didn’t taste too good, but they made us feel more relaxed. We went from plant to plant, nibbling a bit from each, till we were seeing things that weren’t there. The Tic suddenly disappeared, and when I looked for him he called from on the toadstool. I was moving so I could look down better, and the wind whipped the branch, and I fell, too. Then we started sliding, and couldn’t hold on, and – well, you can see where we ended up.”

“Ho ho ho!” Bluebell laughed again. “Don’t you know Jimson weed when you see it? It gives you hallucinations, and makes you drunk. And if you eat enough, it will kill you!”

“Oh – we didn’t know. Can you help us? This water is very cold.” Tac was very contrite.

“Never mind that, and this isn’t at all funny!” Buttercup scolded. “We need to get them out of the water quickly, and someplace where they can dry out. And yes,” she added. “We can help you. Come on, Bluebell, let’s take this one first, he’s deeper in the water. You take his head and I’ll take his tail. Got a good grip? Ok then, lift!” They lifted Tic and carried him up to a branch of a small sapling, not too high off the ground. Carefully, they attached his head and tail to the branch, and left him hanging there, swinging in the now calm breeze. In a very short time, both Tic and Tac were hanging on the branch, water dripping off them.The fairies flew off, heading home to their supper.

“Tac,” Tic whispered.

“Yes, Tic?”

“Remind me never to eat Jimson weed ever again!”

“I sure will!” Tac assured him. “I’ll remind myself too. I never want to go through something like that again.”

“Yeah,” Tic said. “But weren’t those hallucinations beautiful?” He sighed at the memory. Tac didn’t reply, but he thought of that beautiful rainbow butterfly, and sighed, too

This story was inspired by some light lines and a blob in a dark corner of an abstract painting, and the Travelocity garden gnome. To see the picture go to http://ozlandbard.blogspot.ca/2011_03_01_archive.html

Gnarly, Gweedy Gnibby Gnobs sat in the shelter of the small, shallow cave and cried. He was so tired, and very, very hungry and thirsty, and there was nothing to eat or drink on this bare shelf part way up the mountain.

He had started his travels much lower down, in an area that was full of trees, and alive with small animals and birds. And, unfortunately for him, there were also larger animals. Every time he had tracked and neared his prey, and was about to pounce, a fox or something else, larger and stronger then Gnibby had pounced at him. He had barely escaped several times, the last time the fox had got his claws in Gnibby’s shirt. Only a mighty, desperate pull had saved him. And torn his shirt. After that, he had headed up, hoping to get above those dangers and still find rats, moles, squirrels or rabbits that he could catch. But that didn’t happen, and now, here he was, alone and lonely, and afraid he would stave to death.

Taking a deep breath, he shook his shoulders and muttered ‘get hold of yourself, Gnibby. You certainly will starve if you sit here crying!’ He sighed, and wiped his face and nose on his ragged shirt tail. Then he looked around carefully. Oh! Over there, was that….? yes, it was! A tree! It was growing out of the steep face of the ledge, and….yes, out where the branches joined, a nest! And it looked like there were eggs! Before his mind had made a decision, his body had taken over, and he was on his way to investigate.

Yes, there were eggs, three of them, and they were big ones. One of them would fill his belly with both food and liquid. Making sure his bag was securely set over his head and shoulder, he turned and slowly, carefully, let himself down. His feet searched and finally he felt the bark of the tree under his right foot. Cautiously he looked down, keeping his eyes on the tree, until he could get both feet firmly planted. Then he let go of the ledge and squatted. For a moment he didn’t move, just concentrated on recovering his breath and his balance.

When his breathing and heart beat had slowed, he slowly turned until he was facing outward, toward the nest. Inching his way forward he approached, and at last was able to grasp the side of the nest and pull himself up enough to look in. Three beautiful, wonderful, eggs! Still kneeling, he straightened his body enough to reach in and cup one of the eggs in both hands. Surely, the birds wouldn’t begrudge him one, he thought

written Tuesday, August 17, 2010 inspired by picture of the corner of a saloon room showing a table chair and dead body

Zeke and I had been prospecting in the mountains for nigh on two years. It turned out to be a total waste of time. In that whole time, we didn’t get enough gold to fill a tooth. We finally decided to head back to civilization, or as much as we could find in the area around the foothills. On the way down, we ran into an unseasonal snow and sleet storm, and had to hole up in a small cave. We were stuck there for three days before things cleared enough for us to move on, and it stayed cold for the next week.

The mule didn’t seem to be well, even more loathe to move than usual, and off his feed. We hadn’t been trekking for three full days, when he up and died, right there in the middle of the trail. There were streams along the way so we had water in plenty, but we were already getting short on food. After three weeks more of travel, we were out of the mountains and well into the foothills, and had been out of food for two days. We expected to be able to hunt small animals, or even snakes, but unaccountably they seemed to have migrated or something. There just wasn’t a one to be seen.

At long last we staggered into Morgan’s Town, filthy, starving and weak. It was just after sundown on a Friday night, and the saloon seemed to be doing a roaring business. And I do mean roaring! Not just the usual high spirits, but what sounded like the start of a small war.

“Hmm…,” Zeke’s voice was raspy from thirst and lack of use. “Wonder what’s happening? Doesn’t sound like the usual high jinks.”

I stopped and listened for a minute, then said “Let’s go see. We might be able to cage a bite to eat. I’d be happy with some water and stale bread!”

We move along, and dropped out gear on the porch, then cautiously pushed the door open, and I peeked in. Everyone was standing and yelling, tables and chairs were overturned. I beckoned to Zeke and we slipped in, moving along the wall a bit. Some of the boys were waving guns, and suddenly one went off. That seemed to be a signal, because there was a fusillade of shots. I pulled my gun and joined in, shooting up to the ceiling, motioning to Zeke to join in.

In the middle of the uproar, the doors swung open and the Sheriff, his deputies and several other armed men walked in. “All right, boys!” the sheriff shouted, “Parties over. Everyone, sit down, put your guns on the tables, and your hands on your heads.”

Most of them did as ordered, and soon quiet reigned. Zeke and I sat down, put our guns down, and our hands on our heads, and waited. That was when the Sheriff’s Deputy saw the body, against the wall over in the corner.

“Sheriff, Ed Stanley is dead, shot through the chest,” he called.

“Oh, is he?” Sheriff Sam said. “Well, we certainly have enough witnesses – and suspects.” He frowned around at everyone. “So who’s going to talk first? Don’t be shy, boys, you’ll talk eventually.”

That started them, and it all came out in a flood, at first. Then he stopped them and had them tell their stories, one at a time. Most of them hadn’t used their guns, so he told them to scram. What they did tell him was that Big Bart and his boys had walked in, shot Ed, and then shot around at random, making sure no one would follow, and left. The uproar had been an argument, some wanting to head out after Bart, others saying they should call the Sheriff.

“Ok, we’ll get a posse together later and go after Bart. But first, we’ll check all the guns. The owners of those that have been fired will be locked up. You all know gunfire in this town is against the law. Bob,” he turned to his second deputy, “start checking the guns. Rafe,” he looked over his shoulder at a man who had come in with him. “Go get Doc, tell him we have a murder victim here.”

They each went about the duty assigned, and about a dozen guns were soon piled on the bar, ours included. Zeke leaned over and whispered “Jeb, why did you start shooting? Now the Sheriff has our guns!”

I looked at him. “Zeke, use your head. What do we need more than anything right now?”

“Well,” he said, “I could use a good meal, a good wash, and a good bed in a warm place.”

“Right!” I grinned at him. He stared at me for a minute, and then a grin grew in his beard, and he nodded.

“All right, you boys who decided on a shooting spree tonight, line up here.” he pointed to the floor in front of him. I motioned to Zeke, and we joined the line. There weren’t enough handcuffs, but no one seemed inclined to argue, and we were marched out, surrounded by several of the armed citizens who had come in with the Sheriff.

Off we went to the jail house, where our names were taken, and the charges listed. Someone muttered that Zeke and me should be charged with polluting the air with our stink, so the deputy in charge took the two of us out where there was a shower rigged up. We had a good scrub down
and he gave us clean pants and shirts.

Soon we were all settled, two to a cell, Zeke and me together, feeling much more civilized and comfortable. I looked at him and said softly “Well, have I provided all that you said you wanted?” He chuckled and nodded. Then he looked thoughtful.

“But Jeb,” he said slowly, we are charged with shooting in town. We’ll likely be locked up for I don’t know how long.”

I nodded back, grinning. “That’s part of the plan, friend. Where else do we have to go? Where can we live, without money?”

Just then the jailer came along, shouting “Chow time!’ He was followed by a nice looking middle aged woman pushing a wheeled table thing, with bowls, mugs and spoons on the lower shelf, and a big pot of something that smelled heavenly, three loaves of fresh, crusty bread, and a big urn of coffee on the top shelf. They went from cell to cell, opening each and handing out mugs, bowls and spoons. They filled each mug and bowl, added a couple of pieces of the crusty bread for each man as they went. Zeke and me were waiting anxiously, and thanked them whole heartedly when we were served. As we settled down on the bunks to eat, I looked at Zeke, and winked.

“One thing for sure,” I told him. “There is always hot chow at the hoosegow.” Everyone looked at us as if they thought we were loco, because we both howled with laughter.

inspired by the picture of the log lodge by the ocean; to see the picture go to http://ozlandbard.blogspot.ca/search?updated-min=2010-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2011-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=50

The Lonely House – by Florence Simpson – prose poetry

It stands, dark, quiet, alone, blindly gazing out to sea.  No sounds but the sighing wind, the seabirds, waves crashing on the rocks. Outside, the Christmas decorations are dark, unlit. Will Christmas come? Will this dark old house once again echo with voices, footsteps, laughter, carols?  Inside, the decorations, green swags, red bows, icicles, colourful balls, are dull with dust. The lights on the trees are dark, dusty. Dusty too are the gaily wrapped gifts, piled high under the tree. The house is lonely, only faint echoes of joy and laughter linger. No enticing odours of turkey roasting, apple wood logs burning. The fireplaces hold only the ashes of the last fires, three weeks old. Where is the family?

The old house stands, dark, silent, alone, blindly staring out to sea. Then, empty windows facing inland reflect movement. Two racing dogs, Irish wolfhounds, bounding happily over the snow. Behind them, running, shouting, the children! The family comes! Soon the old house glows with light, outside and in. Dust is gone, trees sparkle, laughter rings. Fires blaze in warming hearths. The heart of the old house warms, too.  Christmas will come again, and love, and joy, and feasting. The family is here, where it belongs, and all is well. Christmas will be Merry

the prompt for this story was to write a coming of age story with a first paragraph that grabbed the readers’ attention.

 

Grg was terrified. He hoped he was hiding it, but still, he was so afraid he could hardly breathe. The Mammoth was huge; taller at the shoulders then any of the men and the body even longer than the height, and it had to weigh at least 2,500 pounds. And it was coming straight for him; head down, big, sharp horns aimed at his chest, snorting and bellowing in anger and pain. In a daze, he raised his spear thrower, aimed and shot with his eyes closed then stood waiting for those horns to hit.

 

This was the biggest Mammoth the Tall Tree Clan had ever hunted, and they were short three men, who had been injured in a previous hunt. That is why Grg, Prt and Nig, three novice hunters, had been included; usually they were only in hunts for smaller game, like reindeer, foxes or hares. Grg had been on two such hunts, and even those scared him. Suddenly he became aware of two things; first, he was still standing and hadn’t been hit, second, the others who had been stationed at the rear of the mammoth were all yelling and slapping him on the back. He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the Mammoth, horns only about two feet from his toes with his spear in its left eye. He was stunned. He’d killed it? HE’D KILLED IT!!! He was both stunned and overjoyed; he had made his first big kill. How Wonderful!

 

The noise and excitement died down as the adult males, who had been in front of the animal waiting for it to charge in their direction, away from the annoying spears and rocks thrown from the sides and rear. Instead, a spear Prt had thrown by hand had hit it in the most vulnerable spot, and caused it to leap and turn back to put an end to those puny, insufferable things that had caused it so much pain. The surprised adults had stared in amazement, and when the noise broke out among the lesser hunters, came at the run, thinking the younger hunters were in trouble. During that run, Ulf, the master weapons and tool maker, had caught his foot in the entrance to a burrow and fallen, breaking his leg. They left him there, but when they saw that the mammoth was dead and the hunters all safe, two went back to bring him to the site of the kill.

 

Rph, the chief of the clan, stood for a moment staring at the excited younger hunters, amazed that one of them had killed the huge beast. He soon realised that Grg was the lucky hunter, and his heart swelled with pride. Walking over to Grg, he put both hands on his shoulders. “Grg,” he said, “I am so very proud of you, not only as your chief, but also as your father! Welcome, you are now a Full Hunter!” He grinned at Grg who looked stunned for a moment, and then grinned back, shoulders straightening in pride.

 

Rph turned to the others. “Start butchering the kill, we must start back soon. There will be a heavy load for each one to carry.” He looked at Ulf, sadly. “My friend, you are one of the most valued members of the clan, but we can’t carry you and the kill.”

 

Ulf looked up at him, face set firmly to hide the pain. “I know, Rph, it was my own fault, I should have been watching for burrows. Mft’s skills in weapon making are developing well, I’m sure he will be able to take my place. Be easy, friend. I know my fate.”

 

Everyone stood staring, muttering sadly. Mft was coming along well, but he was nowhere near skilled enough to make all the weapons and tools the tribe needed. Grg looked from Ulf to Rph, hesitated, and then said “Father, I helped Oogtag when Mrg broke her arm, and Blt was tending granfer. I can fix Ulf’s leg, if some of the others can gather googlegum tree leaves, a lot of them. And a stick long enough to go from his knee to his ankle. It should be about two inches thick and split lengthwise down the middle. Then I can fix him a stick to help him walk back home. He might need someone to help keep him steady.”

 

Rph looked at Grg for a moment, and asked “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes,” Grg said. “I am very sure. And if the mammoth is skinned carefully, perhaps I can suggest a way to get it all back home, even the bones and tusks. Remember how I used to move things for Mrg when they were too heavy for me?”

 

Rph laughed. “Yes, I do. I thought you were wasting time until I saw how well it worked. But those were small sticks. You couldn’t move that big animal on them.”

 

Grg grinned. “No father, but we could do it with those.” He pointed to a stand of ten very straight trees, with boles about ten inches in diameter, and a good five feet long from root to the first branches. “If the meat and as much else as possible is wrapped and tied in the skin, it can be pushed along by Brsh, Lrg, Luf, Drf, Zlt Vrk. With Prt, Nig, Flt, Wift, Volf and me; we can catch the logs as they roll out and run them to the front. That leaves you, Zrsh, Trg and Srv to help Ulf and carry the large bones and the tusks. Wouldn’t that be all right?”

 

“That would be perfect, son.” Rph turned to the others. “OK, you heard him everyone, get to work, we have a lot to do before we can go home.”

 

Grg quickly set Ulf’s leg, wrapped it in the googlegum leaves which stuck together when pressed, and contained something that promoted healing. He took the strips of wood and wrapped them in place on each side of the leg for support. Then he found a small tree, with a bole of about three inches diameter and branches that stuck out opposite each other. Trimming it down so that only two branches were left, he wrapped the leaves around the Y shape at the top and made a handy crutch for Ulf to use.

 

(Editor’s note: an insertion by Mary Duncan – I had been watching and listening to it all from hiding as I often did for the hunts, so I quickly gathered some of the googlegum leaves and joined the hunters who welcomed me with reverence. I offered to help Grg but he was managing well, so when the liver was extracted, I made a fire and cooked it, as was the tradition. The hunters always ate the liver of a kill on site, and with great ceremony, honouring the beast who gave it. Everything went as Grg had suggested, and the hunters returned in triumph with an abundance of meat, a huge hide, many bones and the ivory tusks for the making of handles for weapons and tools, and the full tribal celebration ensued.)

 

One of the younger boys was on the watch, and shouted the news when he saw them coming. This brought everyone out to see the triumphant return of the hunting party, and they were awed when they saw the size of the bundle, and the way they were moving it along. One of the older men, not agile enough for a big hunt had taken some of the younger boys out on a small game hunt and had brought back two hares and a fox. The women and older girls had been gathering fruit, berries, nuts and roots, to add to the food store. When they saw the men returning with a mammoth, the women quickly went back to the cook fires. By the time most of the mammoth meat was stored in a hidden, cold cave, the feast was ready. Everyone fell to with gusto, and after the worst of the hunger was appeased, Prt, the joker and apprentice storyteller, gave a lively, humorous account of the killing of the mammoth accompanied by much laughter and great enjoyment of the tribe. The feast ended with fresh red berries, and fermented grape juice.

 

After the women had cleared things away, Bft got out his bone flute and started playing. Soon Stph, Grg’s sister, started singing. Then some other flutes joined, and Dlg started hitting a Cave Bear skull with the palms of his hands, adding a driving beat. The whole tribe sang, crooning in harmony, thanking the Gods, their resident Goddess, and the Mammoth for the feast, and the good Ideas Grg had had to get everyone home safely.

 

Afterword:  The above story is based on a large store of flat rocks stored in a cave near a 1966 Archeological dig in a small village of Pit Houses, in what is now Mezhirich in central Ukraine, overlooking the floodplains of the rivers Ros and Rosava. Buried deep among the rocks was a plastic wrapped parcel containing three modern notebooks, giving a fifteen year history of the lives and doings of the clan who lived there at the end of the Upper Paleolithic age. The archaeologists had been stunned; they couldn’t understand how prehistoric rocks could have modern writing engraved on them, until they found the notebooks. Carbon dating had placed the rocks at around 26,000 BC.  When Paul Anderson opened the first notebook, he gasped, and exclaimed “It’s written by Mary Duncan, our archaeologist who disappeared last year!  She wrote it! it was buried among the rocks.” Professor Henry Gibbson hurried over to look at the notebook. “It is amazing that paper has lasted so well for so long. Mary did a good job of preserving it. I am so happy to find out what happened to her. It will be interesting to read her account” he said.

 

With the help of the notebook, the team was able to sort the rocks chronologically and get the entire story of the lives of the Tall Tree Clan. A young boy of the tribe found Mary and, though afraid, brought her home to the tribe. Here is a quote from the notebook. “Somehow, I was temporally displaced and I am now in the actual village we were unearthing. At first I panicked, and ran around pounding on all the rocks that looked like the one I bumped into when I stumbled in the tunnel. A little boy about four years old, managed to get me to follow him, and took me to his home. The people calmed me down, bowing and making offerings to me; they seem to think I am a goddess, and have given me an honoured place in the tribe. I know that I will spend the rest of my life here, so I will keep records and preserved them as well and as long as I can, to help those in the future who are on that dig. I hope this lasts for them to find” The story above, recorded ten years after her arrival, is the tale of how Grg went on a hunt, and went through a coming of age event.