A painting of ‘The Demeter’ which hangs on the wall of the Manager’s office at the SSC&B (origin unknown)*
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, realised that something had gone seriously wrong with her plan to write herself back in time to find the key to the mystery of the Gatekeeper’s sudden disappearance and subsequent demise; mostly because she simply hadn’t wanted to believe that he’d gone.
While roaming around the inner reaches of her writer’s mind, jotting down what she’d thought should be her next step, events had overtaken her; apparently the Gatekeeper’s casting off of his mortal coil had merely been an elaborate ruse on the part of the Gatekeeper and his equally-imaginative collaborator, Ford the Supplier.
A clever misdirection – she should have known.
Meanwhile, mention being made of a mysterious coffin had sent her down another stupid rabbit hole, the curse of the ‘brancanneering’ story-teller, and now she was stuck on some god-forsaken beach, up to her ankles in chilly seawater, while a strange Gothic ship loomed on the horizon; a storm was brewing too.
A sudden gust of wind ushered in her own personal downpour, drenching her notebook; she applied her pen to the page, but it refused to mark the soggy paper.
How was she going to write herself out of here now?
‘I lost him!’ Gary panted through the side window of the van, ‘I followed him into the park but he jumped over the wall… I think he’s back in the house,’ his eyes slid to the building where Patterson and his cronies were waiting; one of their number had also just pitched up, red-cheeked from running.
A nerve in Patterson’s temple twitched as he took out his keys and strode over to his car; beckoning to two of his crew, he indicated the now-open boot: one retrieved a crow-bar and the other a stubby-handled axe.
‘They’re going in!’ Gary’s voice rose half an octave with anxiety as the front door began to splinter.
As the door gave way, Joey launched himself over the banister, kicking wildly, taking two of the intruders down as he swung to the floor; spinning away from the man who was wielding the axe and snatching the crow-bar from where it’d fallen; with a mighty roar, Joey raised the crow-bar, smashing it against bone and flesh, Patterson was the last to crumple.
Joey stumbled outside, allowing the crow-bar to clatter to the ground.
‘In here, mate!’ Gary beckoned from the open back door of the van.
Is this the road I should be on the path I ought to follow? I feel as if I’ve lost my way caught up in toil and trouble.
I’m looking for a brighter path, one filled with joy, not sorrow. I place my hand upon the gate but still my heart is hollow.
So many years meandering I’ve drifted week to week, but maybe if I enter here I’ll find the place I seek.
~~~~~~~~
Image credit:Keith Hardy @ Unsplash The image showsa wrought iron gate with the words “the way” written on it. There’s a path beyond the closed gate leading into a tree-lined lane
Mermaids on the walls of a cave near Oudtshoorn from ‘Myths and Legends of Southern Africa‘ by Penny Miller
It seems strange to find an ancient rock-art painting, depicting what look like mermaids, in a cave near a town in an arid area of the Western Cape, some 60kms (40 miles) from the ocean. However, 250 million years ago, the stark, beautiful landscape of the Klein Karoo was submerged underwater. When the oceans receded, they left behind a fertile valley and these paintings of ‘fish-tailed humans’ have been linked to stories and legends about the ‘water-meisies’ who inhabit springs and rock pools, and who are associated with bringing both rains and droughts.
Some say that the ‘fish people’ in the San rock painting depict a ritual held by their shamans involving swallows, which are also associated with rain. However, many other people point out that the San people were known for drawing what they actually saw. Look again and you can see that the images have arms, not wings. Does this mean that these were creatures encountered and recorded by the San Bushmen?
There are modern-day accounts of people seeing creatures such as these too. One might suggest that the consumption of a few too many glasses of brandy and coke might have been involved, but I’m prepared to keep an open mind. In any case, I’m fond of writing in that space where myth and reality collide…
.
Excerpt from Song of the Sea Goddess
A mermaid? Sam can barely believe his eyes. His mouth starts to open and close like that of the fish which, imprisoned in the creature’s grasp, stares up at him blankly. Astonished as he is, Sam keeps hold of the line. The hook pulls at the fish’s mouth.
‘Stop,’ he says to her. ‘Wait. Let me take the hook out.’ Sam leans forward over the back of his little boat and extends his left hand towards the fish. He slackens the line and his hand closes over hers. It’s quite a big fish, enough for two. Sam looks into the creature’s blue-green eyes. ‘Can’t we share it?’
Her eyes narrow. ‘You’re not trying to trick me are you, fisherman?’
‘No,’ Sam shakes his head. ‘I’m not going anywhere, am I?’ He stares down at her, still not believing what he is seeing. ‘Now hold steady.’ He slides his left hand forward to grip the fish’s head and with the other he deftly slips the hook out of the fish’s mouth.
The fish is free of Sam’s line. ‘All right, you hold the fish and I’ll get my fishing bucket. We can keep it in there for now. I’ll make a fire later.’
She puts her head on one side.
‘Don’t you move.’ Sam turns and leans across the deck to retrieve his bucket. The moment his back turned, he hears a splash. He jumps up and spins around to see a large silvery fish-tail disappearing below the surface of the murky river. Another flash of silver further on and she’s gone, taking the big, beautiful fish with her.
Sam beats his fist on the rail of his little boat and curses loudly. He grips the rail in both hands and stares after her. Has he really just seen a mermaid?
His stomach growls again and he pulls the line with its empty hook back onto the boat. He threads the last of his bait onto the hook and casts the line back over the rail. No sooner has he finished securing it to the rail, he feels a tug on the other end.
As he reaches to pick it up, the mermaid breaks the surface holding a plump fish in each hand. ‘She smiles up at him. ‘You thought I’d gone, didn’t you?’
Sam shrugs. ‘S’pose so.’ He grabs his fishing bucket and holds it over the side. ‘Put them in here.’
The mermaid drops one fish into the bucket and takes the other in both hands. She opens her mouth revealing a row of little pointy teeth. Sam is reminded of a shark’s mouth. He can’t help himself grimacing as she sinks those sharp teeth into the still wriggling fish.
‘What’s wrong?’ She bites off the fish’s head and starts to crunch the bones.
Sam averts his eyes and looks down at the other fish, which is floating happily in the bucket at his feet. He visualizes it cooked; he’s too hungry to be put off. Sam looks at her again, the long dark hair clinging to her shoulders and flowing over her upper body, and the glint of her silver tail shining through the muddy river water. ‘I’ve never met a mermaid before.’
‘Well, you still haven’t,’ snaps the creature indignantly. She devours the last of the fish, bones and all.
He leans on the rail and stares at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Come closer and I’ll whisper.’ She gazes up at him with her big blue-green eyes and beckons with an elegant finger. He notices that the nail is narrow and curved, like a claw.
Sam is repelled and yet captivated by the creature. He crouches down and leans forward over the back of the boat. She reaches up to him and he puts his hands on her shoulders. Her hands close around his wrists, drawing him closer. Sam can feel her breath on his chest. Then, arching her back she flips her tail. Sam, caught off balance, is tipped off the boat and into the river beside her.
He flails in the water, unable to find purchase on the slippery river bottom. Although the river isn’t deep, Sam can’t swim and he panics momentarily.
‘Ha! Can’t swim, fisherman?’
He hears the creature taunting him as he splashes around. His hand finds the anchor rope and he steadies himself. Muddy water streams down his face as he finally stands up in the waist-high channel. He retrieves his sodden cap and jams it on his head. Rubbing the water from his eyes, he glares at the creature who is floating in a seated position a little way away from him.
‘What did you do that for?’ says Sam crossly, spitting out water.
‘Don’t you like to play, fisherman?’ she flicks her tail at him teasingly and an arc of water sprays over him.
‘I don’t know who you are, or what you are, but I don’t appreciate being soaked.’ Sam turns his back on her and is about to climb back onto his boat.
‘Oh, don’t be like that.’ She flips forward and swims towards him. She bobs up between where he’s standing and Porcupine’s stumpy stern. ‘I’m sorry,’ she looks up at him coyly with her big blue-green eyes.
Sam frowns.
‘No, really I am.’ She blinks her eyes at him and a fat tear rolls down her cheek. ‘I’m all alone, you see. No friends. No-one to play with.’
Sam relents. He reaches out and touches her face, wiping away the tear. ‘Look, would you mind if I sat over there on the island? I’d like to dry off a bit.’ She nods and he takes her hand and guides her to the edge of the sandbank.
Sam sits down on the grassy bank while she lounges on her front at the water’s edge, her glorious silver tail sparkling in the shallow slow-moving water behind her.
‘You were going to explain who you are before you tried to drown me.’
‘I didn’t try to drown you.’ Her eyes become even larger, the pupils black like saucers.
‘I’m joking with you, don’t you see? Playing. Like you said you were when you pulled me into the river.’ Sam grins at her.
‘All right, but I’m sorry for that.’ She smiles weakly.
‘All right,’ Sam says gently, stretching out on the grassy bank and resting his head on his elbow. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘My name is Shasa. I belong to the tribe of the Water People. You might know me as a water-meisie’.
Ignoring the repeated ringing of the doorbell in the flat above, Ceridwen was distracting her attention from the menacing figures standing in the front yard, concentrating on the progress of a wheelchair-bound man being chaperoned across the road by a white-clad nurse.
A new feeling of foreboding tugged at the edge of her consciousness, accompanied by a gentle tap-tap on her door; she pulled it open, Joey stood before her emitting the disquieting aura she’d sensed before: ‘How did you get in, Joey?’
‘Through the window by the back door you leave open for Cullen,’ her young neighbour looked about anxiously, ‘I just came to pick up some stuff.’
Ceridwen’s eyes followed his, ‘I take it those people outside are after whatever it is you have; not that it’s any of my business, but I should get rid of it if I were you.’
‘Look, here’s the plan,’ Joey’s eyes darted towards the stairs, ‘I’m in and out quickly, then I’ll ring the phone downstairs from the call-box up the road; you go and answer then tell the man outside it’s for him; I’ll talk to him, draw him off, like…’
Joey was interrupted by the sound of splintering wood.
In the dark hours the black pit opens yawning jaws have intent grim.
Demons lurk fingers flexing yellow-bellied monsters offer their embrace.
Regrets from the past fears for the future groping for every undefined concern.
Breathe deeply breathe again for all will be fine come the dawn.
~~~~~~~~
Image credit:Muhammed Hassan @ Unsplash The image shows a woman whose face has black streaks of mascara on her cheeks. She wears a sad expression and has her hands placed on her head.
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, was sitting outside on the small flat-roofed section of the old mill building, leaning her against the wall of the long-defunct elevator machine room; the upper floors of the large, storied building were derelict too, but the ground floor and basement were the busy hub of the thriving Six Sentence Café & Bistro, or at least they had been up until the outbreak of a small kitchen fire earlier that day.
It could have been worse; due to Tom’s rapid reaction and the prompt attendance of the fire department, the fire had been mostly confined to the sauté station, although the accompanying damage from the fire hoses had left the kitchen a soggy sooty mess; thankfully the rest of the Café had remained unscathed.
There was something else bothering her even more: the sudden disappearance of the Café’s doorman, the Gatekeeper, who’d subsequently been found dead in his apartment building, and despite communications from some female attorney, improbably called Finley Leana something-or-other, the Raconteuse was having difficulty accepting her fellow Proprietor’s demise; she sighed, if only she could rewrite that particular chapter in the SSC&B’s history.
She felt the reassuring solidity of the object she was holding, once described as a ‘non-functioning prop’, a purely fictional item, the silver cigarette lighter was now tangible, although granted, it didn’t actually work, which was probably just as well, since the lack of ignition fluid absolved her from any suspicion as to the cause of the fire, should there be an inquiry.
The point was, she had brought an item from one of her stories into her own actuality; maybe this newly-found phenomenon, where imagination and reality had collided to produce a tangible object, could be harnessed; as she slipped the lighter into her pocket her thoughts drifted to Jenne’s Time Travelling Tomahawk, still stowed on a shelf behind the bar, Jenne had said that she could borrow it.
She took out her notebook and pencil and started to write.
~~~~~
This has been my second offering this week for Denise’s Six Sentence Story Challenge where this week’s prompt word was fluid.
Stealing a glance around a tatty blue van, Joey observed the man he knew as Patterson drawing on a cigarette and obviously awaiting his return; the man’s head turned to face him and Joey saw the hunger in his piercing blue-grey eyes for object he was carrying in the pocket of his parka.
With one nod from Patterson to his little crew of small squat men lurking in the driveway, the chase was on.
Joey spun around and sprinted back down the road; hearing a vehicle’s doors slamming behind him and a voice calling out his name, he ducked into the grounds of the nearest building.
In one fluid movement, he cleared the back boundary wall, landing heavily on the grass at the edge of Princes Park; he dove down the leafy corridor between the bushes, feeling like a fox with a pack of hounds at his heels threatening to devour him.
Joey was almost level with his own building; grabbing for the top of the wall, his feet fought for purchase on the shiny brick, then he swung himself over and stumbled towards the slightly open window.
Minutes later, Joey was knocking softly on the door to Ceridwen’s flat.
An open road so many possibilities but without you I have no direction.
The way ahead beckons but without you I am lost.
We always trod life’s path together but now, without you I don’t know which way to turn.
~~~~~~~~
Image credit:Free photo The image shows a winding road, overhung by branches of a big tree. You can see greenery on both sides of the road and wildflowers.
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