Dumbo Olivier III stared at his reflection in the dressing-room mirror. His trunk drooped as he examined the growing number of wrinkles on his once-youthful face.
‘C’mon, Dumbs, this could be your big break.’ His agent waved the new script at him. ‘It’s regular work, Dumbs.’
‘A middle-aged medical examiner in a two-bit cop show?’
‘A show which airs every Sunday afternoon, Dumbs. This is the real deal!’
Dumbo shook his crinkly ears. ‘I’m not ready to be a character actor.’
‘Chicks love older men. Think of George Clooney!’
Dumbo turned to regard his profile. ‘Move over, George,’ he murmured.’
Alys stirred the copper cauldron. Three times widdershins and three times sunwise.
‘What’s next, Sparky?’ she glanced over at the diminutive dragon who was sitting on his purple haunches reading from the ‘Spell-book of Beauty for Witches’. Just out of her apprenticeship, Alys had been set to work on a particular potion for the Sisterhood.
‘Eye of newt and ear of bat…’
‘Stop messing, Sparky. Even I know that’s from Mr Shakespeare’s play.’ Alys laughed and flicked the long-handled spoon she was using to stir the pot at her tiny familiar. Small spatters landed on the pages of the spell-book where they sizzled ominously.
Sparky ran a tiny gleaming claw down the text. ‘Add five drops of crocodile tears and twelve drops of tincture of unicorn hair. Stir vigorously sunwise, then add tiny pinches of campfire dust until the mixture begins to glow.’
Alys added the ingredients and stirred.
‘I wonder if it’s supposed to look like that,’ said Alys, peering at the potion. ‘Oh well, it’ll have to do. Agatha of Aladore will be here any second.
Just then, Agatha materialized on the doormat. She grinned, holding out a small copper jug expectantly.
Alys filled the jug, wondering whether any potion could possibly work sufficient magic on Agatha’s gnarled and warty complexion. But Agatha cheerfully smeared the hot gloop over her face.
The potion began to fizz. ‘Oooh,’ exclaimed Agatha.
Her face puffed up like a poppadum. Then, with a loud hiss, the outer skin vapourised. Agatha’s hands flew to her cheeks.
There was a moment’s silence.
Agatha removed her hands. Her face was beautifully smooth. Her eyes shone wide and blue, clashing unfortunately with the colour of her skin which was… GREEN!
Agatha snapped her fingers; a small mirror hovered in front of her.
There was another moment’s silence.
Now I’m for it, Alys thought.
‘I LOVE IT!’ Agatha threw her arms around Alys. ‘Just the right tinge of witchery menace.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘I’ll tell all my friends!’ She tottered onto the doormat. ‘Vogue for Witches here I come!’ echoed her voice from the ether.
Alys held out her hand; Sparky sprang up and gave her a high five.
Bright moonlight reflects off the rain-bull’s back, casting a myriad of shadows across the barren landscape. His body strains against invisible shackles. At last, pulling free of his bonds, he throws his head back and roars.
The two men watch as the San Man raises the point of his spear-stick skyward, lifting his face to the still-clear sky where Orion with his belt of three she-tortoises guards the night and shooting stars carve graceful arcs across the heavens, measuring out the width of the veld below.
The rain-bull bellows again and the mountains ripple beneath the watchers’ feet. The great beast paws at the rock, displacing an avalanche of stones which trickle down the drought-cursed ravines. Dark clouds gather, veiling the silver moon. The two men stand silent at the San Man’s side, streams of pebbles cascading past their planted feet.
Back on the koppie the young man stands hand-in-hand with the once-maiden. Already there is a quickening in her belly. They raise their glowing faces towards the mountains.
The rain-bull roars again. Thunder rolls around the wide bowl of the veld. The San Man casts his spear-stick in a slow arc around his head. Thunder booms. The mountains roll and pitch under the heavy footfalls of the great beast.
The rain-bull is almost upon them. The two men cower, but the San Man stands firm. The rain-bull pauses and the San Man raises his spear-stick once more. Lightning issues from its point and the rain-bull lowers his great head.
Breathlessly I peddled up the hill. Jack loved the woods. We were going there anyway, but as soon as I’d reached for his collar he’d bolted out the back door.
I threw my bike down at the end of the lane. Sandals pounding over the dry earth, I called out, running this way and that.
No Jack.
I ran deeper into the woods. ‘Jack! Jack!’
Where would a little dog go? Suddenly the woods seemed huge.
Calling his name, I ran and ran until I could run no more. I leant against the nearest tree, fighting my rising panic.
Tears ran down my cheeks. I closed my eyes and began to howl.
Then I felt something rub against my leg. I opened my eyes.
It was Jack!
I crouched down and put my arms around my little dog. I’d gone to find him, but it was he who’d found me.
I stare wide-eyed at my invitation. As if I wasn’t already the breaker of a thousand diets.
I do not need any more temptation in my life. My fingers stomp on the keys like an over-weight middle-aged woman taking out the trash in which she’s concealed the evidence of her failure to stick to salad.
It’s virtual, a celebration for us girls, the ones who can only dream of those lithe bodies with which they once entwined.
Virtual chocolate cake? What’s the good of that?
Are you sure I can’t tempt you? Go on. See how many hits you get.
Author’s note: I was so taken with Violet Lentz’s response to this same challenge that this is what I found myself compelled to write. It’s also a little experiment about the magical pull of lust and chocolate!
Evening swells across the veld. Invigorated by its welcome sustenance, the two men rise to follow the San Man. Beneath their feet the dusty soil gives way to barren rock as they silently traverse the wide and empty landscape. With the last of the daylight, the breeze quickens. Gusts of scorched sun-baked air swirl down from the smudge-blue mountains and roll away across the veld towards the faraway koppie.
The ground is steeper now. Step after step the San Man leads them onwards. Walking among the ghostly moonbeams, their feet trace the tracks of long-ago water-carved pathways. Memories of gushing streams and bubbling springs are gouged into the parched rock. The foothills are aching for the water’s soft caress.
Back on the koppie the mountain breeze plays over the mouth of the cave. The maiden lifts her head and breathes the scent of the returning soul. The young man stirs, eyelid fluttering, his mind bursting with the memory of his long flight home.
He raises his head as the maiden kneels at his side. She offers herself to him and under the eyes of the ancestors they become one.
The maiden cries out, her triumphant ululation echoes across the empty veld; high up, among the lonely peaks of smudge-blue mountains, a force awakens. A rock splits, then another. Fragments fall, spilling and spiralling downwards. The San Man raises his spear-stick in salute and the rain-bull, glimmering in the moon-bright night, rises from his slumber and lifts his great head heavenward.
– You know, my Big Red Button. The important one! I want one like everyone else.
– Everyone else, Prime Minister?
– Yes, Putin’s got one, Trump’s got one, that slitty-eyed fellow in North Korea, even Monsieur Whatshisname in France has one.
– You mean the MAD button, Prime Minister?
– Oh no, this isn’t mad, it’s actually quite serious.
– MAD stands for Mutually Assured Destruction, it’s a mnemonic, Prime Minister.
– Never mind how it works, Humphrey, get me the person in charge of our Big Red Button.
– That would be the Chief of Defence, Prime Minister.
– All right then, get the army chappie over here and tell him to bring me my Button.
Later that day.
– The Chief of Defence is here to see you Prime Minister.
A man dressed in uniform with lots of gold braid enters the PM’s office. He places a metal briefcase on the desk and opens it. The Prime Minister rubs his hands together.
– Excellent. Now show me how it works
– Once all the protocols have been agreed, Prime Minister, you simply push that button in the centre of the control mechanism.
– Oh, that one? It’s not very big, is it? And it’s not very red.
– Nevertheless Prime Minister, that is Britain’s Big Red Button. Only to be used in the most dire of emergencies.
– But I’m the one who gets to push the Button?
– Yes, Prime Minister.
– Golly, isn’t politics exciting!
Sir Humphrey shows the Chief of Defence out, closing the door behind them both.
– Tell me that’s not the real thing, Nick?
– Good heavens no, Humphrey! We wouldn’t want something like that in the hands of a politician.
– Does it actually do anything?
– Well, it is armed. Otherwise it wouldn’t look authentic.
– Armed? Good Lord. What might he set off?
– Oh, nothing serious, just a few fireworks in the shrubbery.
With sincerest apologies to everyone who was involved in that great BBC institution, the TV series ‘Yes, Prime Minister’. For anyone who’s never seen it, here’s a little taster:
luna's on line 