As my faithful followers know, periodically I post my stories on this blog, so here’s a Flash Fiction story – just to finish off November month. Please enjoy.
“ I have a favour to ask you. I’m your new neighbor,” explained the dapper man on my doorstep. I took in the neatly trimmed white beard, the black eyes, the black Homberg hat, the tailored black suit.
“ Septimus Izzard, at your service,” he continued, extending a black gloved hand, which I meekly shook and mumbled “Daphne Turner,” in return. I was still processing the hat, the gloves, the … oh, everything; who wears a hat these days anyway?
“I’m so sorry to impose on you,” continued Mr Izzard “ but I have a family crisis and need to leave immediately; I should only be away for two days, and I wonder,” he gently grasped my hand and led me rapidly down the path, through his gate, and I followed like a lamb. Mentally replaying the events afterwards, I think he must have hypnotized me. Mr Izzard, indeed! Should have had a ‘W’ in front of his name, if you ask me.
“Here’s the key to the shed,” and he handed me the key, “ if you’d be kind enough to come twice daily, and turn my egg for me, it’ll take only 5 minutes at the most, let me show you. Oh: by the way – I breed …umm… rare reptiles.” He showed me a small poultry incubator. “ I will forever be indebted to you, dear lady and hope I can repay the favour soon.”
So there I was, that evening, dutifully turning the egg. I must say it was a very big egg. Not quite the size of an ostrich egg, but close. The dull grey shell had a surprisingly rough texture.
Funny sort of egg, but what do I know about rare reptiles? Next morning I knew a great deal more. The incubator no longer contained an egg, but a cracked shell, and … and .. a small reptile, bright blue, glistening scales, with a spiked tail ,yellow eyes, huge nostrils, a forked tongue, and sagging wings that flapped like damaged umbrellas. It was bleating in a raspy voice and was clearly distressed.
“Ohmigodohmigod!” I yelled. If that wasn’t a baby dragon, then I don’t know. Exotic reptiles indeed! Suddenly I heard a loud roaring, combined with a chuffing sound like an old steam train engine, you know? My hair was blown back by a violent wind, and a huge shadow covered the shed. I looked out of the window. “Aaaaarrrggghhh !” I screamed and ran to the shelter of the porch in front of the house. I cowered behind a column and tried to be invisible.
But the gigantic blue dragon wasn’t interested in me. With one swipe of its mighty foreleg it smashed down the shed door, and seconds later emerged carrying the baby dragon in its mouth, for all the world like a cat. It tenderly deposited the dragonet on the grass, turned, blew a massive gout of flame into the shed, then another, until the shed was blazing, picked up its baby and flew rapidly upwards.
I think I must have fainted, because the next thing I heard was the sound of the village fire engine’s bell and shouts of the volunteer fire brigade. I cautiously sidled round to the back of the house and made a quiet exit into the lane behind our houses, and crept into my back garden like a thief. I fell into my kitchen and took a big swig of brandy straight out of the bottle, then added another hefty tot into my mug of coffee. When I’d recovered somewhat, I combed my hair, cleaned my teeth, and went to join the bedlam in next door’s garden.
“Hello Daphne – shed’s a right old bonfire”, said George, one of the volunteers, as though I was both blind and stupid.
“Oh my goodness! I wonder how that happened?” I said. There was no way, on heaven or earth, that I was going to enlighten anyone about the source of the fire. After all, I had to continue living in the village, and I didn’t want to be labelled the local crazy lady, did I ?
“Probably some paint thinners or something like that,” I craftily added “You know how people keep all sorts flammable stuff in their sheds.” George took the bait and agreed.
I never saw or heard of Mr Izzard again. His disappearance became the Village Mystery. Shortly after the fire, I opened my front door early in the morning, and on the step was a beautiful potted shrub with blue flowers. Only the pot was solid gold, and the blue flowers were crystals. No card of course, but I knew. I passed it off as a gift from my godson in Singapore. And why not, I thought: why not?
Over the past few years, I’ve posted a Christmas themed story on my blog in December. Inspiration failed me this year, but what I can offer you is an excerpt from my Fantasy Trilogy, The Magical Musical Magian. The theme of the chapter is Gifts: appropriate for year end. What would be your ideal gift? Read below to discover magical, other-wordly gifts. I flirted with the idea of trimming down the chapter, but I had such fun writing it that I decided to post the original. Theoretically you should be on holiday with plenty of time for reading. So enjoy.
A brief synopsis: Selene is a 40-something New Age lady, transported from Benoni, South Africa, who lands up on the Magian’s island. Selene and the Magian fall in love. Life on the Magian’s island is lonely, with only Odo the hunchback dwarf, the Magian’s servant, as a companion. However, the Magian’s gifts keep life interesting …..
“Dearest one,” said the Magian in affectionate tones “I have a gift for you”. A brief trill of flute and penny-whistle decorated his announcement.
Selene looked up at the Magian. He was hanging in a relaxed pose from a trapeze bar, just above her head. His hands were empty.
“No, no” said the Magian “I do not have it here, at this moment, but Captain Odol will bring it within the day.”
“You spoil me,” said Selene happily, “and I love it”.
A soft chord of mellow stringed instruments swept over the pair, as they gazed into each other’s eyes. “Ah me,” said the Magian at last, “I must go now, I have matters to attend to,” and he swung away in a graceful arc. Selene watched him disappear into the highest regions of his webbed net. She often wondered what he did all day long, high up in his hammock, but whenever she asked the Magian, he was evasive.
She wondered what the gift would be. Some of the Magian’s gifts had been unsuccessful, to say the least. There had been the crock of pickled – what? sea-slugs? Snails ? Selene had no idea what they were, but they tasted disgusting. And then there was the ornate flask of perfume. As Selene wrestled to remove the rose-shaped stopper, one drop of perfume fell on the sand. The drop of perfume released a nose-fracturing combination of roses and sulphur, and immediately burned a hole in the sand where it fell. Luckily none of the perfume had fallen on Selene. “Ah,” said the Magian as he watched the episode “I had forgotten that the perfume makers of Underr-Hell enjoy their little jokes. I must remember to send them one of my musical pranks sometime, and return the jest.” A grim rumble of bass drums followed his threat.
Recently Captain Odol delivered a giant sea turtle which sulked inside its shell for days before poking its head out and making a surprisingly fast bee-line for the beach and the ocean. Selene hadn’t really minded. As a pet, the sea turtle didn’t really shape up.
Unlike the delightful little furry animal delivered by Captain Odol, on his next supply visit. Quite what it was Selene didn’t know, but it was warm and furry with enchanting round brown eyes, a long white and chocolate striped tail, chocolate ears and paws and a lush, coffee coloured silky coat. Released from its cage it bounded into Selene’s arms, chirruping madly and snuggling into her shoulder. Fortunately it seemed to enjoy the bland diet of fish and coconut, in fact it was prepared to eat anything edible that was on offer. As was the silver wolf, who had snapped up the little creature when it unwisely strayed too far down the beach. A snap, a crunch, three big gulps and that was the end of Selene’s pet. Fortunately she had not witnessed this sad incident, and it was Odo who found a few sad wisps of chocolate coloured fur and some bones in the sand, and immediately realised why they could not find the little animal.
“I hate the silver wolf,” wept Selene. “Why did it have to eat my little Pushkin?”
“Mistress, I am truly sorry, but we need the silver wolf to guard us,” said Odo.
“But no-one ever comes here – never! I’ve never seen anyone even try, or come close. Only Captain Odol”.
“Yes, Mistress, and why do you think that is?” replied Odo. “The silver wolf is greatly feared. None dare come to the Magian’s island.”
On Captain Odol’s current supply-run he delivered a stout leather trunk, studded with brass, boasting a massive bronze padlock. It took the combined efforts of Odo and two terrified sailors to get the trunk out of the dingy, up the beach and parked in Odo’s store yard. While Odo was rowing the sailors back to Odol’s ship, the Magian suddenly swung into view, announcing his arrival with a short trumpet voluntary.
“Dearest one,” he said, dangling effortlessly above Selene’s head, “I see my gift has arrived at last. I hope it eases your sore heart a little.” He gestured to the trunk.
“Oh,” said Selene, “this is a surprise! But what a huge padlock – where is the key?”
“Oh pshaw!“said the Magian “keys, keys – we have no need of keys. Stand back”. He produced a small flute, blew a piercingly high series of notes which caused Selene to cover her ears in pain. The lock glowed bright blue and exploded in a shower of metal fragments.
“There – now you can open it. Go on.”
Selene advanced cautiously towards the trunk. The Magian’s idea of suitable presents did not always coincide with her expectations. She was conscious of the Magian hovering on the edge of his network, watching her. She took a deep breath and pushed up the heavy lid. “Oh,” she gasped, “Oh my!”
She ran her hands through a cascade of garments, reverently stroked fur trims, caressed silken fabrics, and pulled out a long gown of purest sea green. “To match the colour of your eyes, my dearest one,” purred the Magian. “Find the purple gown – I am curious to see it”.
She carefully laid the green gown down on the trunk lid, and delved down through the layers of fabrics, delicate gauzy garments, intricate lace, jewel encrusted brocades, scarves edged with tiny silver bells, soft leather slippers, ornately embroidered waistcoats, brightly coloured leather gloves, soft velvet cloaks. The trunk seemed bottomless, with an endless cargo of beautiful garments. She found the purple gown and carefully extracted it. The fabric shimmered with threads of silver, intertwined with moonbeam greys and white. It was a garment of darkness and twilight, a whisper of romance and passion.
“Oh” she gasped “I – its so beautiful – I …” words failed her. She turned towards the Magian who huskily said “Put it on. It is my special gift to you, my beloved.” A vibrant wave of stringed chords, mounting to a magnificent crescendo rolled out of the Magian’s web.
********
Selene was intrigued with the prospect of yet another gift. What could it be? After the gorgeous treasure trove inside the trunk, it was hard to imagine anything to surpass it. But she reminded herself not to get too excited. Apart from the disastrous animal gifts, and the diabolical perfume, recently there was another very unsettling gift which Selene mentally referred to as The Book Trap. The book arrived in a tightly sewn parcel of sail-cloth, which had taken Odo several hours to unpick with his sharpest knife. She had been overjoyed at the prospect of a book – she’d really missed her book, magazines and newspapers, and somehow the Magian was aware of this. How she did not know, because she never complained about the lack of reading matter. So it was with excitement that she took the book from Odo’s shaking grasp. She looked at him with concern : “Why are you trembling, Odo? was it so hard to undo all that stitching?”
“No, Mistress, no. But I am not sure that you should look inside this thing . I am not sure …”
“Why ever not Odo? its only a book, and the Magian has given it to me as a gift – of course I’m going to look inside,” and with that she undid the thick metal clasp that held the book closed. The book covers were made of grey animal hide, scaly and rough, scuffed and scratched. There was no title or ornamentation of any kind on the cover, which was odd. Odo nervously backed away, with an expression of extreme distrust.
The cover was heavier than she had anticipated, and when she opened the book it revealed a blank first page. The first page was surprisingly stiff, and heavy, more like cardboard than paper. The colour was a faded sepia, the texture heavily ribbed, and felt surprisingly warm to her fingertips. Intrigued, she turned over the blank first page and to her astonishment discovered that the next page was transparent and hard. It looked and felt like glass. She stared at the glass page, and then realised that the book was in fact, a box. A box lay concealed within the covers of the book.
The box appeared empty. She gripped the book firmly in both hands and gently shook the box , then peered into the interior. A misty smoke now filled the cavity. As she continued to look downwards into the box the smoke cleared and to her astonishment revealed a scene, perfect in every detail, like a miniature stage set. Green grass in the foreground, sloping up a gentle hill to a small castle perched on the hilltop, its pale grey stone turrets bathed in sunlight, with a blue sky bordering the scene. “What on earth ?” gasped Selene, raising her puzzled glance to Odo, who muttered “Mistress, I told you, I told you – close it. I beg of you, close it!”
Selene returned her fascinated gaze to the tiny scene within the box-book. She could not have closed the box-book for all the money in the world. As she surveyed the miniature landscape, a shadow passed over the grey castle battlements. A massive red dragon with leathery wings and spiky scales appeared in the top right hand corner, circled twice, and landed heavily on the grassy field below the castle. There was no sound accompanying the developing action, but when the dragon raised its sharp snout and breathed out a flaming gout of smoke she felt the roar and rush of hot air and flames, she could smell the bruised grass, she …
“Mistress, Mistress – stop – you must go no further” cried Odo, wrenching the box-book from her hands, and hurling it onto the sand.
“Wha? Huh ? what you doing, Odo?” stammered the dazed Selene. “Let me – I want my book – there’s, there’s a castle, an a dragon, an I wanna see,” she wailed.
“No Mistress”, said Odo, quaveringly but firmly ,“leave it – it is an enchanted box, a dragon box, they are very dangerous, those who look too long into a dragon box become enslaved – some say by the dragons inside the box, other say it is a mighty magic from olden times, but it is powerful magic and will harm you. Come Mistress, let me get you water and wine, come and sit in the shade a while. The enchantment will pass.”
Selene obediently followed the hunchback and collapsed under the nearest palm tree. Odo bustled up with watered wine, and a few dates. The water revived her and the sugary dates drove away the dreamy hypnosis of the box-book. She felt exhausted. “Odo, “ she said slowly “have you seen a dragon box-book before?”
“No, Mistress, but I have heard tales – they are very ancient and very powerful.” He lowered his voice and whispered furtively “I do not know why the Master would give you such a thing as a gift – he knows they are dangerous.”
In that moment Selene wished that Ruby was with her – Ruby would know what to do; or Jules. Jules would have been fascinated with the box-book. Selene knew that although the Magian loved her, he had a dark side to his nature. He had a dangerous and unpredictable streak which flashed out briefly, and it was at these times that she longed for somebody to confide in, somebody from her own world, somebody normal. Slow tears ran down her cheeks. Odo hopped from foot to foot in agitation. “Mistress – shall I bring you a calming cordial?”
“Dear Odo – no, I shall be alright, in a little while. Just leave me here. I need to rest and .., I just need to be alone.”
That evening Selene confronted the Magian. “Why did you give me a dragon box-book? If Odo hadn’t stopped me, I would have been trapped inside the box-book with the red dragon – how could you give me such a dangerous thing? What were you thinking? What have I done that you place me in such peril?”
“Selene, Selene – calm yourself; Odo’s head is full of old wives’ tales. I thought you would enjoy a box-book – they are very diverting, it is like owning your own theatre with players. There are infinite stories contained in box-books. Did you really think I would permit harm to come to you, my beloved?” A smooth succession of sitar notes hung in the warm evening air.
“I .. I was frightened” she stammered, gazing up at the shadowy form of the Magian as he hung casually from a low trapeze bar, just above her head.
“I am sorry,” the Magian said, “perhaps it was not a wise choice of gift for you. Remember, you are the first other-world being that I have befriended, and sometimes I forget that you are different, perhaps not as strong as I am, and not as accustomed to magic as I am. Forgive me, I will be more careful in future. Come, let me play you a sleep-song and banish your worries – you will feel better in the morning.” With that a gentle lullaby swelled over Selene and she dropped to the warm sand, unable to resist the Magian’s sleep-song.
A is for: Atlas, Almanacs, Amazon.com, Amanuensis, Automatic Writing, Aubergine ….
Atlases – those intriguing collections of maps. I have a fantasy about closing my eyes, opening a world atlas at random, waving a pencil over the page and blindly selecting a town, city, province, mountain range, river or sea and having the time, the strength and the means to travel there. Imagine that! The atlas is a relatively modern invention ( Abraham Ortelius’ Theatrum orbis terrarum ;1570; Epitome of the Theatre of the World) is generally thought to be the first modern atlas). Prior to this date it was a case of hand-drawn charts, decorated with sportive mermaids and round-cheeked zephyrs blowing winds from the four compass points. And dire warnings in ominous Gothic lettering: here be dragons. Not to overlook the exciting X’s indicating the buried treasure. Harrison Ford, where are you?
Almanacs – This word conjures up mental pictures of lanky farmers dressed in blue bib dungarees studying the book by the dim light of an oil-lamp, making notes with a pencil stub, deciding when to plant their crops. Alternatively I get another mental snapshot of a brown, tattered, exhausted almanac hanging from a piece of string on a nail, spending its last sad days in an outhouse. Do almanacs still exist, I wonder?
Amazon.com – oh electronic trove of wonders; global purveyor of books; warehouses crammed with millions of volumes; saboteur of good intentions & New Year’s resolves; assassin of credit cards. Bookish field of dreams.
Amanuensis – clerk or secretary who writes from dictation. One of the earliest and most hard working must have been Robert Shiel (d 27 Dec 1753), amanuensis to Samuel Johnson, compiler of the Dictionary of the English Language. Do clerks still exist ? Ditto secretaries, taking dictation. “Take a letter, Miss Jones” and we’re back in the 1950’s. Voice recognition software has probably sounded the death knell of the amanuensis. However, I have seen National Geographic pics of pavement scribes in Asia, writing letters for customers, paper pad perched on their knees, or pounding old manual typewriters. That’s Asia for you: its either changing supersonically fast or petrified in the amber of bygone centuries.
Automatic Writing – strictly speaking this belongs in the heady realm of psychic fairs, with obscure messages filtering down from the opaque beyond. However, in a more modern context, I’m tempted to say that some very well-known writers would appear to switch into automatic mode when they churn out novel after novel, especially in the Young Adult category. Work it out for yourself. I don’t want to get sued for libel!
Aubergine – How come this has so many aliases? Eggplant and brinjal, being two of them, the Guinea Squash being another. Perhaps it needs to disguise the fact that it belongs to the sinister nightshade family. On the other hand, it is also related to the potato, a reassuringly comforting vegetable. The aubergine is commonly used in Middle Eastern cooking, and features in a Turkish dish known as Imam Bayeldi which translates wonderfully as ‘ the Imam who fainted’; whether because of the exquisite flavour of the dish is unclear. It seems unlikely, since the ingredients (other than the eggplant) are hardly startling: onion, green pepper, garlic, tomatoes, parsley, lemon juice, salt & pepper, and water. Insofaras fainting diners are concerned, one would be tempted to blame the deadly nightshade itself rather than the pretty purple aubergine.
despatchesfromtimbuktu 