After a solid day’s trekking, the hunters are cheered to find a group of thorn trees, indicating the presence of precious water. Aquila flies on, scouting for a cave to protect them from the coming night.
Distracted as they forage for food, the hunters fail to sense the danger. A lioness leaps, the group scatters, but an older man lags behind; Owab turns, raises his spear, but he’s too late.
Gripped by powerful jaws, the lions move in; by morning there will be nothing left but bones.
The pride is sated and under a blood-red moon a shooting star falls.
Previous episodes of this little African adventure are here.
Image credit: Clay Banks @ Unsplash The image shows an older man sitting on a bench by a park. There is a trolley bag behind him. He is playing a stringed instrument and has a collection bag by his feet.
Thanks to Cassa of Flicker of Thoughts and Spira of inSPIRAation I have learned what the instrument in the photo is. Called a Erhu, it makes a most beautiful sound:
Great Being Five had been practicing mindfulness while idly airbrushing some of the scenery on Orea, her second favourite planet, when a Thought Bubble popped up in the corner of her monitor. It was her friend and protégé, Great Being Nineteen. His Bubble glowed amber with agitation.
‘It’s Planet Earth. Something’s wrong!’
Five flicked a switch and focused her Third Eye on the spiral galaxy that contained her most beloved planet. Nineteen was right. Planet Earth was behaving very oddly. The whole world was flickering, like one of the earthlings’ little light bulbs when it was about to go out. Her Eye roamed around the screen. The stars in the Milky Way were shifting and shimmering ominously.
‘I think it’s the Time Grid,’ Nineteen yelled. ‘Something has gone wrong with the reset on Planet Earth1. Do something, Five!’
On the far side of her screen, a large chunk of the Milky Way blinked off and on.
A bolt of alarm shot through her. What had gone wrong? All she’d done was turn back Time a little bit in that small corner of the galaxy, so that the little humans could have a major re-think and cease their wanton destruction her lovely blue planet.
And it had all been going so well. The little earthlings had emerged from their planetary pandemic a reformed race. They’d been caring for the planet so well.
‘Shut the planet down!’ bellowed Nineteen. ‘Earth is compromising the whole galaxy!’
‘I can’t do that after all we’ve done,’ snapped Five, anxious to protect her little humans. She took a moment to focus. ‘There’s no need to panic.’
Nineteen’s Thought Bubble eye-rolled.
Five started scrabbling at the keys. She’d just have to reset the Timer again. Go back to the previous setting. Switch it off and switch it on again. Wasn’t that the mantra of every Techbot?
A sudden thought occurred to her. ‘What about your Mind-Set Program, Nineteen? Can you replicate that?’
Nineteen’s Thought Bubble made a thumbs up sign.
Five aligned the Time-Grid counter to its previous setting: 01.01.2020. She took a deep breath and pressed the reset button. At least the little earthlings wouldn’t know they’d already been through Nineteen’s Mind-Set Program, and after all, it had only taken a year for the scourge to die down. They’d be fine.
The screen went blue.
Five held her breath.
The image reappeared. Planet Earth and the Milky Way were stable. The Space-Time Balance had been restored.
The Thought Bubble made an apologetic pop.
‘What’s wrong, Nineteen?’
‘Sorry, Five. Planet Earth’s Virus-Settings wouldn’t accept the same program again. I had to opt for a Mutation.’
Five clutched the edge of her keyboard. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The pandemic is going to take a little longer to play out this time.’
‘How long?’
‘Well, there’ll be at least a second and a third wave before it’s over.’
‘And then?’
‘You’ll have your beautiful blue planet back again.’
‘But what about the little humans?’
‘Those who survive: never better.’
It’s been more than a year since we last caught up with Great Being Five in a story I wrote1 shortly after South Africa and many other countries first went into hard lockdown in March 2020. I wrote the story you’ve just read in January 2021, when South Africa went into the second wave of the pandemic but never got around to posting it. Reading it again this week, as the country teeters on the brink of the third wave, it seems even more apt than it did when I penned it.
The boomslang slithers from beneath the canopy of acacias, the nearest hunter in its big-eyed sights. Aquila cries out, letting his powerful talons swing forward to pluck the serpent from its thorny perch, as a group of startled magpie shrikes rise from the trees in a shrieking cloud of black and white feathers.
The snake thrashes while the eagle’s talons tighten, spearing the serpent’s skin. Ruby beads bleed across its sapphire scales and the snake slumps. Aquila spirals back to the waterhole, dropping the vanquished snake at Owab’s feet.
They will feast tonight but the journey continues: mauve mountains beckon.
Previous episodes of this little African adventure are here.
Darkness comes early on these winter days colour drains from bleached frigid skies cobalt tints bleed to shades of stone dripping into gun-metal water remorseless, brutal devoid of hope.
Darkness crowds in on these winter days warmth leaches from dwindling vistas landscapes recede, horizons narrow care-free life flutters out of reach fading to remembrance of times past.
A glimmer remains on these winter days a single shaft of sunlight reaches out to dispel today’s sombre skies one ray of honeyed promise for a golden new tomorrow.
On our literary tour this week we’re going on a little time-travelling detour. Let me take you back to my school-days when I deftly managed to avoid a week’s work experience by wangling my way onto a historical workshop run by a local theatre group.
There were about 10 of us from our all girls grammar school, and we were about to be transported to the time of the English Civil War, accompanied by a handful of enthusiastic actors, who were keen to recreate the correct conditions for our plight under the iron fist of the Royalists who held the walled City of York.
The historical details were somewhat lost on me, but the story was that our fathers, fearful for our safety, were sending us out of the city to an unspecified rural location, were we would conceal our identities as daughters of prominent Parliamentarians and assume the roles of farmer’s daughters.
There were various preparations including the fitting of period costumes and, for the sake of historical accuracy, being urged not to wash or wear modern undergarments (which of course we ignored). Then the following day, with minimal baggage and concealed toothbrushes, we were whisked away to the past in the theatre minibus.
We were undoubtedly too compliant for young ladies of the time thrown into such a situation, but eager to get into our roles we got down to work. There was much peeling to be done. I chiefly remember the potatoes and onions. The onion skins were boiled up to make a dye for some rather malodorous sheep’s wool, which was marinated overnight, and came up a vibrant shade of yellow the following day. We learned to card and spin wool. My spinning was woeful and I was sent to the kitchen to busy myself about the potatoes again. I learned to milk a cow which was brilliant, unlike the subsequent butter-making. Churning is absolutely arm-aching.
We were also shown the hayloft where we would hide should anyone in authority from the ‘wrong side’ come calling. Little did we know that the following evening we wouldn’t have time to hide.
The sun was setting and we’d finished our supper. We were all sitting together in the large room at the front of the farmhouse which looked out onto the yard. I chanced to look through the window to see a group of soldiers, wearing high boots and feather-plumed hats, marching towards the farmhouse. They were undoubtedly the enemy. Almost before I’d had time to call out a warning, they were hammering on the door.
They took the farmer into the back room. His wife followed. One soldier stayed guarding the door. We heard punches, screams and cries; furniture was being overturned. If we hadn’t been in character before, we certainly were in those few moments.
Then they emerged. The make-up was very realistic.
The soldiers moved on.
I really don’t recall what happened after that, but what an experience! One on which I was to draw on for a little piece, written about 30 years later, in a response to a writing group prompt: ‘A Scary Moment’. Revised and updated it became the first piece in my tiny collection of short fiction, released in 2018.
~~~
The Day the Soldiers Came
I smile as I watch my mother play with my little brother Tommy on the hearth-rug. My father sits in his chair, still but alert. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I detect a movement in the yard. I turn to look. Soldiers, four of them! By the way they are dressed, I know them instantly as ‘the enemy’. My father has followed my gaze as I gasp in fright and immediately he’s on his feet, sweeping up Tommy in the same movement and shoving him in my direction.
‘You know what to do Annie,’ he says quietly. He nods urgently at me and I grab Tommy’s hand and propel him through the kitchen. I look through the window, checking our route to the barn. It’s clear, so I open the door and we slide through and dash into the slatted wooden building. Behind us, I hear the soldiers hammering on the front door, shouting.
Although Tommy’s only little he knows what to do. Just as we’ve practiced so many times in recent months, I help him up the ladder to the hayloft. He doesn’t make a sound as we creep across the creaky boards and hide ourselves in the straw behind the loosely baled hay. We lie there, waiting. We haven’t practised what happens next. Then I hear a scream; I know it’s my mother, although the sound is like none I’ve ever heard her make. Her pain and terror flood my head. I grip Tommy tightly; he’s trembling and sobbing silently. The minutes tick by; I wonder what’s happening in the house. My father is shouting, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. The shouting stops abruptly and I hear the back door slam against the outside wall of the kitchen.
Heavy boots march towards the barn; I bite down hard on my knuckles. A cold fist contorts my stomach as I realise I forgot to drag the ladder up behind us. I hear the soldier’s heavy breathing down below. He’s pulling things over, searching. He approaches the ladder and in my mind’s eye I see him grab the ladder and place his boot on the first rung. Sweat runs down my back. Tommy is rigid in my arms.
There is a loud call from the house: ‘Move on!’ I hear the sound of the ladder clattering to the floor. It settles and there is no sound apart from the blood pumping in my ears. Slowly I get up, my legs are shaking. I grab the rail at the edge of the loft and feel for the rope which we use as a swing when it’s too wet to play outside. Telling Tommy to stay where his is, I let myself down and run towards the back door which is gaping off its hinges.
Inside the house furniture has been overturned and one curtain has been ripped from the window. My mother cowers in a corner. Her blouse is torn and there is blood on her skirt. Father’s face is bruised and bloody. He reaches for her, but she turns her face to the wall.
The English Civil War, 1642 – 1651. Scenes from ‘Cromwell’ with Richard Harris and Alec Guinness, music by The Clash.
A Sextet of Shorts is available from Amazon in paperback and ebook and on Kindle Unlimited
Rivalry for water amongst the creatures of the veld is driven by scarcity, and the pretty acacia-fringed pan is keenly guarded by a bright green boomslang. The uniquely big-eyed tree snake hangs watchfully, waiting for careless trespassers.
The hunters hasten to the precious liquid, heedless of Aquila’s warning. Young Owab runs with his companions, raising his eyes skywards, searching for the great eagle’s reassuring presence.
They jostle for position by the muddy waterhole but thirsty as he is, Owab hangs back; he calls out, anxiously reminding them of the danger.
The serpent slithers unhinges its jaws to strike; the eagle attacks.
Previous episodes of this little African adventure are here.
Photo credit: Pinterest – a beautiful, big-eyed boomslang – not so lovely when it slides past you when you’re sitting on your stoep minding your own business, although it was in a game reserve, so more the snake’s habitat than mine!
Varicoloured, head spinning, ebb and flow below Easy now, no need to go Reflect on your decision. No! Taking my leave now I’m stepping out Gasping, grasping Oblivion.
Image credit: Sean Robertson @ Unsplash The image shows a view of a busy street from the top of a tall building. Down below you can see traffic and pedestrians.
Welcome to the latest stop on our literary tour through the pages of my novels. We’re parking up by this magnificent Chinese Arch as the coach driver has reminded me that we finished our tour of Toxteth with a promise to come back and visit Liverpool’s famous Chinatown. Here we are at the gateway.
Opened on Chinese New Year in 2000, the Arch was manufactured in Shanghai and shipped over to Liverpool in sections together with the Chinese workers who assembled it from 2000 pieces. It stands 13.5 metres (44 ft) high and boasts 200 hand carved dragons of which 188 are ordinary and 12 are pregnant, the meaning of which is to symbolise good fortune between Liverpool and Shanghai.
Liverpool’s Chinatown is home to the oldest Chinese community in Europe. Their sailors were the first to arrive in the city in the 1830s when Chinese vessels arrived carrying silk and cotton. Many more came in the 1860s when the Blue Funnel Shipping Line was established by Alfred Holt, creating strong links between Liverpool, Shanghai and Hong Kong. By the 1890s, the Chinese were setting up their own businesses to cater to the needs of their own community. Many also married local women, often Irish immigrants.
During the Second World War, Liverpool became the headquarters of the Western Approaches which monitored and guarded the crucial lifelines across the Atlantic. Thousands of the Chinese sailors lost their lives to the Atlantic during attacks from German submarines and as part of the British fleet the Chinese sailors played an important role to Britain’s victory in the war. If you ever visit Liverpool, I strongly recommend a visit to the Western Approaches Museum.
Beyond the Chinese Arch is Nelson Street, where most of Liverpool’s Chinese restaurants are concentrated. There was always a brisk lunchtime trade, and I have fond memories of having lunches with intruder alarm reps, customers and colleagues, in particular a surveyor from Malaysia, who was desperately missing his ‘rice fix’. But the street really comes alive on Friday and Saturday nights when people pile in from the pubs and clubs in search of a late night meal.
My favourite of the many restaurants which line both sides of Nelson Street was the New Capital, formerly the Blue Funnel’s shipping and recruitment office, one reason being that I never carried out an insurance inspection of the kitchen! Believe me, there was more than one establishment on Nelson Street that I would definitely avoid. Let’s take a look at what’s on the menu. Looks good, doesn’t it?
Another of my favourite businesses was the Chung Wah Supermarket. Originally housed in a dilapidated three storey Victorian building, which was packed to the rafters and incredibly untidy (and virtually uninsurable), it was fortunately in the process of moving to a purpose-built premises, when I first carried out my inspection. The shiny new building was much more appealing insurance risk. The owner was a charming young man with some very interesting (Triad?) tattoos on his neck and wrists who, following my second inspection, insisted on giving me a lift into town as I’d arrived on the bus because my new company car had rolled off the transporter the previous day and stubbornly refused to start. I did a lot of grocery shopping in his store over the years!
But back to Nelson Street where, next door to New Capital restaurant, is The Nook. Sadly now closed, it was famous for being the only Chinese pub in England, and was a favourite with the Chinese seafaring community from the 1940s. I remember it being dark and dingy, with a pool table in the back room where a load of dodgy-looking Chinese characters used to hang out. The landlady was a very small but formidable woman who called ‘last orders’ in Cantonese. You wouldn’t argue with her or her ‘boys’!
In You’ll Never Walk Alone, I took a little bit of a liberty and placed ruthless Triad boss, Albie Chan’s office on the upper floor of the building. The basement also belongs to him.
Now, imagine it’s night time. It’s dark but the street and pub are still alive with the last of the late night revellers. Our hero, Pierre, has entered the building from the back entry and climbed the stairs to Albie Chan’s office. This is where the trouble really starts…
.
Excerpt from You’ll Never Walk Alone
“Mr Chan, Mr Chan, Mr Chan!” Arms stretched wide open, the man who called himself Pierre Bezukhov strode across the floor, his high black boots raising dust from the carpet. “I have a new proposition for you.”
“Where is the necklace you promised me, Mr Bezukhov?” said the Asian man sitting behind the desk.
Pierre put his hands on the desk and leaned over towards Mr Chan, his long dark hair tumbling over his shoulders. “I’ve found something which I know you’re going to like so much better.”
“I commissioned you to procure a particular necklace. Where is it?”
“I’m afraid I no longer have it.” Pierre walked over to the grimy window. He stared out at the dark Liverpool rooftops. “I found a better home for it.”
Mr Chan frowned. “A better home? I do not understand you.”
“Listen, I have something else for you. Something better.”
“Mr Bezukhov,” Mr Chan said quietly. “I paid you a substantial sum to obtain a very specific item. I will accept no substitute.”
Turning to face him, Pierre reached into the pocket of his long brocade jacket and took out a small velvet bag. He held it up between thumb and forefinger. “Mr Chan, you don’t know what I’m offering. If you just care to…”
Mr Chan banged his fist on the desk. “No!” His eyes widened. “No substitutes.” He looked over at his tall henchman who had been lurking in the shadows by the door. “Ju-long!”
Ju-long stepped forward and smiled revealing two gold front teeth. Mr Chan nodded and Ju-long advanced on Pierre.
“Bring me the ruby necklace. I give you one week.”
“Well, if you’re not prepared even to look.” Pierre shrugged. Pocketing the little velvet bag, he turned back to the window. In one swift movement he threw it open and swung onto the roof below. “Ta-ra, gentlemen!” And he was gone, skittering over the rooftop below and onto the wall of the back-alley, disturbing a cat which yowled indignantly.
“I’ll go after him, Mr Chan. Don’t worry, I’ll get the necklace from him.”
Albie Chan stood up and went to the window. He gazed across the inky black roofs. “Good. Find him and identify any associates he may have. Retrieve the necklace but do not harm him unduly. He may be useful to us.”
“Very good, Mr Chan.” Ju-long bowed and quietly left the room.
You’ll Never Walk Alone is available from Amazon in paperback and ebook and on Kindle Unlimited USA~ UK ~ CAN ~ AUS~ IND ~ the rest of the world
Yesterday the hunters ate only roots and grubs but now, in the fading light, they chance upon a lame bokkie. Hunt and kill are over quickly. Careful for the tinder-dry veld, they make a fire within a ring of stones and each eats their fill, leaving a portion for Aquila, who guards their improvised camp from a hungry howling wolf until dawn spreads her golden fingers.
The sun climbs and the dry savannah shimmers. A green smudge rises from the ripples and the hunters hasten to the acacia-shaded spring.
The eagle calls out Owab attends the warning: beware the serpent!
In case you’re wondering what in the world is going on, the previous episode of this little adventure is here.
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