Episode 34

Two clouds of dust converge in the middle of the desert. One cloud belongs to Demona and her creature, Carrapacchio, astride their twin Gravidores; the other cloud belongs to the pirate Captain plus one hundred and fifty sailors and their supplies loaded on horses and Aurochs. The Captain, having never seen a Gravidore before, is inclined to view the party of the other part with great suspicion, especially with such a beautiful woman at their helm. Women were not on his ‘most favourite’ list at the moment. Women and little boys. He lifts a hand and calls a halt to his entourage and the two parties confront each other cautiously.

“Greetings Captain. My name is Demona.”

“That doesn’t sound too promising. Demona. Demon. You’re not one of those other-worldly creatures, are you?”

“No, but I’m on the trail of one – a boy.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed the Captain. “I knew there was something fishy about him.”

“You’ve seen him then I take it?”

“Little sod stole my sword…and my mermaid,” he adds. “Chasing him right now.”

“How fortunate. Perhaps we could ride together?”

But the Captain is no unsuspecting fool any longer. He isn’t going to get conned twice.

“Rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“I know where he’s going,” says Demona. “And anyway you’re lost. The way you’re going you’re headed for the burning sands and you won’t last a day out there. So we can help each other,” says the oriental beauty with a bandage on her nose, fluttering her eyelids at him in a saucy kind of way.

The Captain smiles a sickly smile. She really isn’t his cup of tea – but it seems he had better play along if he wants to get his sword back and get out of this damned desert alive. The Captain turns to his retinue. Immediately behind him are the horses and bulls loaded with his own personal belongings: whole bookshelves full of his books, his writing desk and chair, his porcelain bath and toilet, and two wardrobes with all his clothes and shoes in them. Beyond that the horses are burdened down with kegs of beer and rum, ships biscuits and dried meat.

“Pass the word to set up camp,” he says to his valet.

The Gravidores have been inching slowly towards his horse, hoping to get a bite out of him, but the highly strung creature begins to fret and prance and the Captain retreats to a safe distance.

“Easy my pets,” says Demona. “Sorry about that Captain. My babies get a bit playful sometimes.”

“I’m sure they do,” answers the Captain, eyeing them sideways. Ugly brutes they are, missing a front leg and dripping slime and saliva by the bucket load.

“Carrapacchio! What are you waiting for? Unpack us, you miserable toad.”

Carrapacchio unfolds his misshapen form from the saddle and slides down onto the sand. His claws have grown so long that they curl back on themselves and cut into his skin. The Captain’s horse takes another step backwards at the sight of this new horror.

“Please Captain. Drinks in my tent in an hour.” This will give her time to freshen up and put on something more comfortable. The Captain isn’t looking forward to that at all, but he has no choice really. He has to humour this hoyden harpy harridan whatever.

“They’re headed for the Valley of Death – it’s the only way through to the Silvern Sanctuary. We’ll cut them off at the pass.”

“I’d like to cut him off at the knees,” mumbles the pirate.

Demona arranges her charms to her satisfaction, then smiles at the Captain.

“They’re trapped.”

The Captain was feeling a little trapped himself.

“There’s no way through the valley. It’s rather well guarded by a creature, some relative of the Gravidores I take it, just a whole lot bigger. So,” she says, shifting on the couch and showing off a whole lot of leg, “tell me about yourself.”

Carrapacchio is shuffling in his corner, chewing on his teeth in fury. The Captain is trying not to notice her efforts to seduce him. He is also beginning to feel slightly sick.

“I say, my man,” he says to his Valet. “How about a glass of Prosecco?” He turns to Demona apologetically. “It’s all I can drink really. Damn ulcer. But I have some rum if you are so inclined.” If he can force enough alcohol down her she might just fall asleep.

His life seems to be riddled with these women - trouble makers, the lot of them. Which is why he took to sea; where you don’t see many. Curse his luck for breaking a mast. If it had not been for the mast he’d never have met that blasted Mermaid and lost his ship, he’d never have met the boy and lost his sword, and he’d never have met this awful woman. God knows what he was going to lose to her, but he is quite sure that she will wreak her havoc upon him in some way or the other. He is going to have to keep on his toes.

Her toes, in the meantime, are inching towards his thigh in a playful kind of way and Carrapacchio is making wretching noises in his corner now.

“Have you finished making the supper that you sit there and make disgusting noises?”

“Nearly done, your buxomness. I just have to p….(he nearly said pee) put some herbs in to spice it up a little.”

“Well, don’t hang around here in all your filthiness. You’re spoiling the atmosphere.”

Carrapacchio scuttles off and starts banging pots and pans together in the other room.

“Where were we,” she says, sliding a little closer to the Captain. He can’t slide any further away…being perched right on the edge of the divan. Her foot is now firmly ensconced in his lap, her pudgy little toes twinkling away coquettishly. She gives his codpiece a little nudge and winks at him.

“How about an aperitif? Something to let the little monkey out of his cage?” she says meaningfully.

The Captain just wants to vomit.

Outside the sailors dance the hornpipe in the sand and the rum flows like rivers of gold. With songs of maidens fair and sailors bold, they sing the deeds of men of old. A hundred fires feed the roasting meat and steamy stories rise into the desert night heat.

This is the one time the Captain wishes he is carousing with his men. He’d have done anything to get out of that tent.

Samuel sat in stony silence. The rain rattled against the windscreen as he peered out into the night. All he saw was a couple of yards of illuminated road. That was about as much as he could see of his own life.

He was angry with her and he was in love with her; tenderly, chivalrously…and probably for the first time in his life. She felt sorry for him. She felt sorry for him because she was way out of his reach. If she stayed in prison or if she made her escape, she was equally inaccessible to him. He wasn’t the type to come and visit in her cell, and he wasn’t the type to leave everything behind and elope. She was like the mirage of an oasis above the desert sands. He had paradise on a plate in front of him and he couldn’t touch it. He was angry with the world for taking away his son…and he was angry at the world for giving him Ronetta, then taking her away as well. He was angry with Ronetta because he wasn’t the kind of man she could fall in love with. She took another look at him. Was he that kind of man? She just couldn’t tell.

 His face was just a picture of pain. Men in love did drastic things. You didn’t play around with them, and to tell the truth, from day one she’d never seen anyone fall so completely head over heels in love with her. It was flattering at first…but now it was a bit frightening. She’d never seen a man so besotted and so desperately hopeless. She’d have to be very careful not to drop him and break him. He might be a braggart and a bully, but beneath that crabby exterior he was a soft and sensitive person. It was always the strong silent types that broke down first and cried on her shoulder. And that this was his first time, in oh so many ways, made him all the more fragile and unpredictable.

She looked at him again, quite amazed that she could evoke such depth of feeling in another person. Just goes to show. Don’t mess around with people’s hearts. Was she messing? She didn’t know. She’d spent so many years messing that now she didn’t know the difference.

“I’ll go back to prison afterwards.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized she had spoken. “I’ve changed my mind…again. What’s the good of being a woman if you can’t change your mind hey?”

Samuel didn’t say anything. He wasn’t even listening to her. He was busy navigating a narrow twisting, turning road running through the warehouse section of the factory near the railway terminus.

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll come back to prison with you, whatever happens,” and she felt relief flooding through her body. Perhaps she too had been dreading her escape; dreading the unknown. She felt happier now that she had decided to go back into her cage. At least she wouldn’t be deserting him…she hadn’t felt at all happy about that…and who knows how things might develop. Suddenly she felt a whole lot lighter than she’d been in a long time, and surprisingly the thought of being near him in jail cheered her up.

“There it is,” she said, breaking out of her reverie and pointing to a neglected old warehouse. After all these years she still recognized the place. She felt a relief that it was nearly all over. It had been more stressful than she allowed herself to think.

Samuel switched off the lights and the engine, and coasted quietly to a stop outside the doorway. It looked like no one had been there in years. Suddenly he was icy cold. The shock of the whole event suddenly caught up with him and he began shivering in his seat. He clasped his hands between his knees and bowed his head. Now that the moment had arrived he was too scared to go through with it. Ronetta sat quietly by his side and waited with him. But what was going through his mind was ultimately worse than he would probably find so he finally took a torch from the glove box and forced himself to get out of the car. He had never been so petrified in his whole life. What would he find? He just prayed that Joshua was still alright. He couldn’t stand it if something had happened to him. Clara had threatened to kill him if he was dead…but she’d have to get in line. He would be first in the queue.

The beam of light was shaking in his hands as he forced himself to go forward, the blood roaring in his ears, deafening him to everything else.

He was surprised to find Ronetta at his side. He didn’t know if that was a good idea, especially if the old lady was as crazy as they thought, but he was thankful for the company. She smiled at him and took his hand.

The door swung open at their touch and his torch swept the empty room. It was empty of people……but there were plenty of signs that someone had been there: a cot, a table and chair, drip-feeds and such. Joshua had definitely been there – but they were too late. The birds had flown.

Episode 33

Follow-my-leader; round the washing machine and under the kitchen table, over the back of the sofa and out of the window. What a fun filled game when you are a child, the crazy, mad, mindless rush. What a dangerous game when you are an adult. Follow-my-leader, burning your bridges as you go…up the hill and tumbling down the other side into some dark-alley-deeds-done by drinking too much Dutch courage.

Early knock off time on Friday and everyone looking forward to the desperately named ‘happy hour’; as in the ‘happy farm’ or the ‘happy home’.

By seven o’clock the inhabitants of Mercia, not having eaten since their lunch-time sandwich, were more than happy. By eight o’ clock they were heroes in all but the making, and headed for the town jail. But their righteous quest had ended in disappointment, and the bitter bile of failure and the unrequited hatred of kidnappers boiled in every vein of the crowd surrounding Clara. She was still at the centre. But for how long. And what was she to do with them now.

Follow-my-leader is an age old institution. If you want to get something big done, that’s the way to do it. But a leader is nothing without his followers and vice versa. You, as a leader, are not separate from the people. You become them, and they become you. Your ideas become theirs, and theirs become yours. You become part of a collective will. You don’t, as leader and instigator, have a separate will anymore – you can’t change your mind once you have made a contract with the crowd. You belong to them as much as they belong to you. They don’t just follow you blindly – you follow them too. You can’t just change direction willy-nilly, and you can’t just call the whole thing off in mid-flight. Mobs are notoriously hard to stop once they gain momentum. If you opt out they’ll just push someone else to the fore (usually every four years or so if it’s a political mob) and carry on doing what their hearts are set on. These were some of the implications soaking through into Clara’s consciousness. Basically she had a runaway train on her hands. It’s easy enough to turn the switch on …but stopping is a whole other matter.

A burning prison behind her and a crowd all revved up with nowhere to go was a recipe for disaster - an open invitation for any loony-toony to step into the breech and suggest something crazy. The setting was sublime…scudding clouds across a sickle moon, electric torches and burning brands heaving up and down in a tumultuous sea of bodies around her…a real night for devilry. Clara was frightened out of her wits. Things had gone so badly wrong. Once inside the prison the crowd had been outraged at being cheated of their prey. All that had been left for them to do was break a few bits of furniture on their way out and drift off home. But that would have been a most unsatisfactory outcome. They had come too far to fizzle out like that. They were on the boil. They needed to do something to get rid of all the pent up adrenaline pumping through their veins.

Then some bright spark had the idea to throw her burning brand into a wastepaper basket. Many people attest to the fact that it was a ‘her’, with punky hair and black lipstick. With a loud cheer the crowd had then scarpered out of there before the police could nab any of them and had run down the high street towards the city centre. They had finally stopped in the park opposite the Town Hall and were now waiting for Clara to speak. What was she to do?  She needed help desperately, but for once Samuel wasn’t there to help her. This was where she missed him…his guidance….the things he could do that she never gave him credit for. No use calling him now…she doubted he’d ever come back, except to get his clothes. She had pretty much alienated him for life, and the memory stung her again like a bee. She had been so horrible to him; she doubted if he would ever speak to her again.

But the crowd were milling about over her shoulder and starting to get agitated by her dithering and lack of direction. She was losing her grip on them. Alice, to add to all her troubles, was standing at her side, nudging her in the ribs and whispering things in her ear but Clara wasn’t listening to her anymore. It was listening to Alice that had got her into this mess.

She had to do something…give the crowd a focus. But what? Ronald Watts was missing…God knows where. She didn’t have much else to suggest except a house to house search and all the hell that would unleash.

Then she remembered the priest knocking at her door this morning.

“I was hoping you would do a favour for me,” he had said. “I am holding a midnight mass tonight for Joshua, and I would like you to come….and bring your family with you.”

Clara remembered how kind he had been to her…how un-judgemental and friendly…and then she thought ‘that’s it’. The crowd couldn’t refuse to go to a mass for Joshua. This was a sure way of getting everybody to calm down and break the momentum of the mob. None of them were regular church goers, but none would refuse, and it was getting to the witching hour.

“How ugly are we.”

The priest sniffed and looked up at the overflowing flock blocking the aisles and entrance halls. Some even stood outside, craning their necks to catch a word or two.

“How ugly are we when we bray like a bunch of donkeys at a gatepost. How ugly are we, when we run roughshod over our feeding troughs and trample our keepers.

“How unlike the humble little donkey that stands patiently by the child born in his manger. How unlike the gentle donkey that carries Jesus into Jerusalem.

“We are donkeys. No doubt about that. He who would argue against that may bray away in vain. We make as much sense as a donkey. We generally have as much dignity. Stubborn and intractable, we follow our appetites and our irascible inclinations without giving any thought to others. We don’t care who we tramp on in our search for self-fulfilment; our neighbours and even our own children.”

He paused to give them the evil eye. He could hear by his tone that he was in a bad mood tonight. He never knew it until he started lashing into them. But he was only human after all. He was tired and irritable. He’d been very busy of late. Three teenage suicides in the last month and the parents didn’t have a clue. They never do. Totally unexpected they said. But he knew there were a whole lot of hurting youngsters out there with nowhere to go in a dead-end town that didn’t care about them. Yup. He was in a bad mood alright. He knew there were kids out there that needed help, but none, or very few, ever came to him. He was too yesterday. Today they dealt with their problems in a different way. This was the age of the pointing finger. Whip up a witch hunt and pin the tale on someone else.

“We are sneaky and treacherous. We cannot be trusted. We only look out for number one. If we can get away with something we will certainly try. If we could steal our neighbour’s apple, we would. If we could blame someone else for it, all the better. A donkey does not take responsibility for what it does.”

He paused here for a moment. The crowd were waiting to see which way he went with this.

“How ugly are we. Unloved donkeys. Biting the hand that feeds us. Kicking the one who brushes us and cleans our stall. Then we look around and say…how ugly is the world.

“Well, what can you do with a donkey like that? Can you hold him to account for his actions? Hee haw. Certainly not. It’s a donkey for goodness sake. He knows not what he is doing.

 “Uncared for and uncaring. And if these donkeys go on a rampage and trample a field of corn, or take an innocent young man and nail him up on a cross, are these donkeys to blame? Are they evil donkeys?

“Well,” he said, looking up at his congregation and taking his glasses off. “How much empathy does a donkey have anyway? How much empathy does a donkey have if he is humiliated and beaten and set to work from a very young age? How much generosity does he have in his heart? Mean, lean and bitter. Life is hard for a donkey. He is a sullen and bad tempered brute to be sure, but who can blame him. His only pleasures in life are giving someone else a kick in the pants so they may feel what he feels. That’s what we often bray at each other isn’t it……‘now you know what it feels like’.

“Who can blame them when they lash out? They are wholly too preoccupied with their own pain to notice yours. They are so busy trying to ease their own lot that they are not inclined to notice yours. Shall we punish these people…these donkeys?”

Many of the people were wondering if the priest had just forgotten about Joshua altogether. Perhaps the huge attendance had gone to his head and had muddled his poor brain.

“For all of you who have come armed with pitchforks tonight, I need to remind you that the person you are hunting….and in this case it seems to be a little old lady whose blood you are braying for…is merely a donkey like yourselves. Someone who is trying, misguidedly, to ease their pain. She has merely done what was done to her. It’s a law of nature. Something precious was taken away from her once, so she has taken something precious from you…as donkeys are wont to do.

“But this is an unforgivable crime you say. Rubbish, I say. And so says Jesus. She does not know the anguish she is causing. This is a senile old lady for heaven’s sake, not some all-powerful witch. This is after all the twenty first century.

“We can pray for Joshua….and indeed we do, but it is not his soul that is in jeopardy here.” And here he paused to look around at the people sitting in front of him. “It is yours.”

A loud rumble of thunder rattled the stained glass windows.

“Revenge is sweet. Like ice cream and coke. You know it's bad for you, but it is delicious. And of course once you've had one you want another. Revenge is never satisfied. We LOVE revenge. We plot and plan and daydream all day long on how to get our own back on someone who has wronged us. If someone hoots at us for whatever reason, don’t we fret and fume and scheme of the slowest possible way to rip out his testicles?

“Everyone knows ice cream and coke rot the teeth and give us diabetes. Diabetes restricts the flow of blood to the extremities of the body like our hands and feet, vital limbs which sooner or later begin to rot and have to be amputated.
This is bad. Revenge however is worse. Revenge rots the soul.
Revenge prevents the soul from accessing its organs of sympathy and goodwill towards man. Valuable organs which begin to atrophy and die from disuse until eventually God comes along and lops them off completely. And that is how we slowly grow into spiteful, miserable old sods that don't have a good word for anyone. And the blacker we paint them, the sweeter our revenge…and the more justified.

“This little old lady has not only kidnapped Joshua, she has kidnapped your minds as well. She has filled you all with hate and revenge and put your souls in jeopardy. She didn’t mean to. Do you think she’d have done this had she been in her right mind…if she hadn’t been suffering some sort of terrible anguish? If she hadn’t been under some terrible duress? Why do I even have to spell it out for you?” he asked, staring at them with a cross face.

“She is misguided….criminal….sure. But she can’t help herself. And she isn’t possessed by the devil. She knows not what she does. She is a troubled soul. She is preoccupied with her own pain and is unconsciously sharing it around with everyone else.

“It is so much easier to just say she is evil than to forgive. We need someone to blame. For the pain. But then again, I suspect this is not just about a wicked witch who stole a little child anymore. I think this is about you….and your pain. I think you see this as an opportunity to get your own back…for all the things that were done to you when you were a child and throughout your life…and take it out on a little old lady.”

He pulls a disparaging face at this.

“This is so outrageous that I am tempted, God help me, to judge you for it, but I just have to keep reminding myself that you are just donkeys…and know not what you do.”

With that he closed the bible and looked towards the windows where the rain was rattling down on the window panes. It was a calming sound. Soothing. The congregation listened for a while, not quite sure what to think or feel about the sermon.

“Let us bray,” was all he said.

It was a quiet and subdued crowd that walked down the church steps…right into the spiteful, scheming arms of Alice.

Episode 32

Camels are dour animals, not given to demonstrations of affection or happiness, but Clytemnestra does a little dance of joy when she sees the messenger again – unharmed and free. She gallops up to the little group and does a few dancing double-steps as she comes to a halt. They are busy getting two long-horned bulls into their traces and connecting them to the longboat that is now filled with water. Senjur is not quite sure whether her happiness is due to seeing him or if it is the smell of water that is causing her such elation, because after a brief reunion with her master she turns quickly to the boat and dips her nose in to the water to drink. That is when, by the light of the burning torches, she sees the mermaid just below the surface and nearly squirts out of her skin. She had thought the water was for her but obviously someone got there before her. With a baleful eye she glares at the strange creature preventing her from slaking her thirst. She doesn’t like this one little bit but there is no drinking that water now because mermaids are notorious for peeing in their water. She turns away with a snort, disappointed to the core and joins her old family.

Clytemnestra is right. The water in the boat is stale and brackish, not fit for a beast to drink, and it has a telling effect on the mermaid. Stale, saltless and slimy, it is hardly enough to keep her alive. They must work fast. Clytemnestra, to her chagrin, is roped in to help pull. Even the boy takes up a rope and heaves away. It is becoming a matter of some urgency now to get her to the sea as soon as possible. That and the fact that the pirates will be waking up soon.

The boy now has a huge sword which he wears in a belt around his waist. The sword is nearly as tall as he is and probably as heavy, but he bears his burden valiantly, an exhibition of his budding manhood. He feels a bit bad for stealing it, but he thinks the greater crime belongs to the pirate Captain for not using it except as a status symbol. The sword belongs to a real knight, even if he can hardly pick it up. The old lady looks at him with affection and admiration…her little boy is definitely becoming a man. He struts around in front of her, trying not to get his legs tangled up in the scabbard and directs operations with the air of a swashbuckler.

“Pull!” he shouts, slapping a giant Auroch on the rump. These primitive oxen are massive creatures – all of six to seven foot high at the shoulders…the boy barely reaching three quarters of their height. They pull with a will, easily dragging the boat with its ton of water through the soft, shifting sands.

In the six hours before dawn they make considerable progress and according to the mermaid they should reach the sea by midday…well before the pirates catch up with them.

It is the noise that first catches their attention. The roar of thunder on a clear calm desert day sounds very much out of place.

Crashing breakers and heaving sea swells up to fifty feet high greet their unbelieving eyes as they cross the final dune and look upon the skeleton coast so feared by mariners and pirates alike. Black rocks glisten in the foaming waves – ragged reefs ride out in the ocean swells like devils teeth hungry for their next meal. This is the mermaid’s home ground – where she is wont to lure unsuspecting wayfarers onto the deadly rocks. Nowhere is there a stretch of calm unbroken water. All is a turmoil of seething, sucking, crushing water smashing against the blackest rocks in all creation. A sobering sight that makes their hearts sink. No one would set out in such a sea. Three seconds upon this briny and they would be no more. Even the Aurochs are daunted by the sight and they are fearless creatures. But none-the-less, the boat is soon sliding down the sand dune and stands poised above the surf line. The Aurochs are hitched to the side and with little effort they pull the boat over, tipping out all the water and the mermaid who slithers off into her native element. For a while she gambols and plays in the fresh sea water and it revives her no end having been for so many days in brackish, stale water. She lunges under an oncoming wave then shoots up into the air like a dolphin, her tail flapping happily behind her. Then she beckons them to join her, but no one moves. It would be certain death for them to enter there.

“I will lead you through,” she says in his head. “Just follow me. You haven’t much time. The pirates are close by now. You must hurry.”

The boy looks at her, fingering his sword. He has no choice. They have no choice.

“But we don’t know how to sail,” he says.

“That matters not. The tide will take you – all you have to do is steer and follow me very closely.”

“Let’s go,” says the boy to the messenger who is busy setting the bulls free and tying Clytemnestra to the boat’s tiller with a length of rope. The camel is starting to get a bad feeling about all this. Not being naturally suited to the sea she has severe qualms about her abilities to remain afloat. But she needn’t have worried, for her empty humps now act as buoyancy bags and all she would have to do is paddle. But still she complains and bleats her distress to the open skies.

It takes them but a few seconds work to get the old lady aboard and launch the boat….the mermaid in front, guiding the way through the deadly reefs of ragged rocks – white surf crashing over their barnacle encrusted sides, the foaming water breaking one moment here and the next there as the rocks move around, hunting for prey. The rocks, nor their movements, have ever been charted; some rocks still bearing the signs of the wrecks that have come to grief upon them.

Wild waves crash one over the other at cross purposes, reefs and rocks rising and falling under their own whim. Nowhere is there any order or constancy. Where one moment there is an open passage, the next a wall of white foamed rocks bars their way like the very jaws of death. The boy stands in the prow, pointing this way and that with his sword as the mermaid directs him – the messenger at the rear tugging the tiller to and fro in an effort to follow his directions. Amidships sits the old lady, braced between the wooden seats. This sea is not kind to an old lady's bones and she holds on as best she can, as does the camel, braying and barking her discomfort in the wash of the boat.

For hours they toss and turn in that briny hell – at every moment expecting to be smashed upon some rock or other that would crop up in front of them. And to make matters worse, the sky begins to darken over and the sea take on a deep leaden colour, signifying a slow swell that bodes no good for any ship upon the surface. But they are in the grip of a fierce current and can do no more than be patient and pray.

And then, like magic, they are free of the foam and the clashing rocks. The mermaid, with her part of the promise fulfilled, waves a final goodbye and sinks beneath the ocean surface. Without wasting a moment the messenger sets the sails and the growing wind catches them and begins driving them straight into the heart of the coming storm.

Episode 31

It was a hot stormy night. The tepid air from the fan blew over his balloon-like bulk as he sat at his desk like some giant pupa about to hatch, his great rolls of fat palpitating when he breathed or moved. Nana Mouskouri sang softly to him in the background as he worked. Arthur J Havealot, Media Mogul and Movie Magnate, was a hard man; and she was the only one who could melt his heart. He watched the dirty red flames in the distance flickering against the darkening sky. A pall of smoke hung like a shroud over the twinkling lights of the town down below.

He was in his Penthouse suite. Founder of the Havealot corporation, owner of the Havealot High Rise building, the Canning factory, and nine tenths of the town. He was the wealthiest man in the country, with the swankiest apartment at the top of the world. He never went out, having no real need to; and having many enemies he would rather avoid, he spent all his time up here.

But the trouble with living and working in the world’s highest building is that you don’t often get to see the ordinary people walking below in the street. Your view is mostly of distant things…buildings and suchlike, and any people you might see are as small and insignificant as ants…and usually just as busy, which was good for profits.

Although he was never seen, and never spoke directly to anyone but a few select staff, he wielded immense power and influence through his newspapers and TV channels, controlling what people thought and did and bought, who they voted for and what views they held on any given subject. But bit by bit he’d gotten out of touch with life….printing things about people he never knew and never met…and eventually didn’t care about……just watching and directing their lives from his ivory tower.

He broke out another cigar and lit it from a ten dollar bill. A practice he had continued after making his first million. It was like a lucky charm to him. It brought him continued good fame and wealth. The end of his cigar glowed against the light of the fire on the horizon…the black cigar smoke mingling with that in the evening sky.

He was being kept abreast of events, as per usual, by his staff, who sent in a constant stream of moment to moment information. Distantly watching the drama unfold, he had no idea that he was the direct cause of the conflagration now beginning to eat up the town. ‘Irresponsible reporting’ was a phrase that applied to lesser mortals, not to him. Once chaos took over, it became ‘their fault’, not his. It was his job to ‘stir up the people; get things done’. That is what they wanted…action. ‘Inciting a riot’, on the other hand, was what mob leaders did, and this mob had set fire to the administration building of the local jail once they found that their bird had flown the coop. Fire engines fought desperately to stop the fire spreading to the rest of the prison. Measures were already in place for the evacuation of prisoners should that happen, and all this because Ronald, AKA Ronetta Watts, had escaped from his cell and was nowhere to be found.

Ronetta sat in the bath at the City Limits motel. The first one she’d had since she was a kid. They had come here first just in case her mother had stuck to the original plan. They had decided to wait an hour or two then go. Then she would take him to where she thought Joshua was. After that, who knows? The plan was he would bring her back here to catch the Greyhound bus to Tipperary.

She lay back in the steamy water and thought about jail. She felt she’d rather die than go back there; now that she’d given herself the dream of freedom, and the freedom to dream. She never knew how much she had hated jail until she was out...how much she’d hated all the things she’d had to do to survive. But with a bit of luck that was all over now. This was a new life…with a new her. She looked at herself. She was fascinated by the way her body looked underwater – the strange angles of her legs and feet, and how it accentuated her curvy hips and her breasts and belly. She looked beautiful and she felt beautiful.

She could hear Samuel pacing up and down in the bedroom next door. She had mixed feelings about him and couldn’t settle on any one particular emotion. It had started off with her just using him to get what she wanted – like she used all her men. But he had been different; different from the other prisoners and different from the other wardens who had lusted after her. He was so……innocent and sincere. And then there was the fact that she now believed he had really fallen in love with her; and that was a whole new experience for her. It put her thoughts all in a tangle. She didn’t know what she felt…what she wanted.

Things were in such a state of flux that she had to entertain many different scenarios all at once. Some involved leaving him behind; and strangely she felt very unhappy about that. In others she saw them escaping together; and that felt scary because she didn’t know if she wanted to live with him, or if she even liked him. She was attracted to him, sure, but she didn’t know if she liked him. Everything had happened too quickly. How could she know? And then there was a huge problem on his side to contend with. She feared that he didn’t fully understand the implications of the word ‘transvestite’.

In every respect but one, she resembled a woman. She was beautifully proportioned with small hands and feet, and big hips and bosoms. She had a delicately feminine face with a small pert nose and no visible Adams apple. There were absolutely no physical signs whatsoever to remind people that she was a man. With one exception - which was always well hidden - she was more woman than most women you’d meet on the street. A lot was due to the oestrogen pills she took. She put on weight in all the places that women put on weight…thighs and breasts, and her beard had practically stopped growing. Samuel had fallen so completely for the woman side of her that she was dreading the moment of revelation. Whichever way this whole thing went, he needed to know and see the whole truth about her sooner rather than later. She’d seen it all before. The shock…the incredulity…the embarrassment, the quick cover up by both parties…the awkward excuses and the hurried goodbyes. Once or twice there was anger, even though she was always clear about her gender and made sure they knew ‘she’ was a ‘he’. But knowing and seeing are two very different things; a fact which Samuel was going to find out. She knew he had forgotten this in his headlong rush to fall in love with her. There was no avoiding it though. She wanted to get the shock over and done with, because once the clothes come off there was no escaping the fact that she was one of God’s in-between creatures.

 “Samuel…” she called. “Would you be a dear and come and soap my back for me?”

In the next room Samuel was looking out the window at the helicopters and searchlights sweeping the sky…the faint sound of sirens and the red flicker of flames on the horizon coming from the direction of the jail. He could only guess at what was happening there, but he didn’t want to give it too much thought. And as for this motel, although you’d have thought this would be the first place the police would look, they would have thought that too. Anyway they had their hands full at the moment. Samuel had hidden the car behind an old shed some ways away and registered them as Mr and Mrs from Malvoli Heights.

He heard her call from the bathroom but didn’t bother answering. He felt she was just being cruel now, asking him to do something like that. He was in a lather of self-hate and his heart was pretty much ripped to shreds as it was. There were two aches inside of him. The one that hurt the most was Clara. The things she had said cut him like a knife. She might as well have stabbed him with the real thing…it would have been less painful. That she could hate him so much broke his heart. He knew he wasn’t a perfect husband…but who was? She wasn’t the perfect wife if it came to that. Alright, she had been very upset…under a terrible strain…and drunk, but even so, it didn’t hurt any the less. Something had broken inside and there was no picking up the pieces. He would never forget the words she had said. They would always stand between them. He would always know that’s how she felt about him. He knew their marriage hadn’t been the best, but they had been a support for each other over the years. They’d had children together…good times. And she was all he had. He couldn’t conceive of a life without her or the children. This crisis had smashed them to pieces. He’d lost his son. He’d lost his daughter after that incident at the church…and now he’d lost his wife. He felt very sorry for himself. He had no reason to carry on. He didn’t want to. He didn’t really want to live. And then added to the whole damn mess was Ronetta; who had bewitched him. He could think of it in no other way. He knew he was under some sort of crazy spell. He also knew that anyone who knew about it, and by now that was everyone in the prison – colleagues included – were laughing at him up their sleeves. Whereas previously he had strutted around the place like Mr Bigstuff, now he was a joke, his life and reputation in ruins. There’s no fool like a big-mouth fool. Not only was he a fool to love her – but he was a fool to think that she’d ever in a million years have looked at him other than as a means to an end. And that’s all he got. A look…to taunt his broken heart.

So there was pain on both sides of his heart and nothing to look forward to. Even though he deserved everything he got…it still hurt. No one loved him – no one wanted him. He felt like jumping off a bridge. He couldn’t carry on bothering to live or do things – there was no point – except that he wanted to find Joshua….if Ronetta was right about where he was. That was the only reason he carried on, but even so it was with half a heart.

“Darling…” Ronetta called from the bathroom; another insincere arrow through his heart. He would rather have her be honest with him…but she still needed his help…for a little while longer. Otherwise she had what she wanted, and he wasn’t included in the package. She was just throwing him a bone to keep him sweet. He had no expectations of seeing her after this. She didn’t get out of jail just to get stuck with a jailor…for that’s all he knew how to do…keep people prisoner. She would tell him where his son was and he would never see her again. She was taking the Greyhound out of here and he wasn’t going to be on it. She had a plan. Women like that always have a plan. She had money (carefully saved up over the years) and she had a plan. He had nothing and nowhere to go. Ronetta knew what she wanted; and Samuel wasn’t one of those things. Neither was going back to jail. He couldn’t blame her. He thought again of the cell he had rescued her from. Damp and bleak: a stained, open toilet bowl in one corner…sans seat, a rusty tin sink for her to wash in, a cup, toothbrush, a small cupboard for her clothes and make-up, and a single bed with a coir mattress. No place for a lady. It made him ache to think of her there.

“Got everything?” he had asked what seemed like years ago. That was the one moment he had felt like a dashing knight in shining armour actually rescuing his princess. He had been unable to find his keys that morning, so he’d had to improvise on the plan. Luckily for him, rumours had reached the prison concerning the intention of the local populace to break in and free Ronetta. Under the guise of moving her to a safer place he had got the co-operation of his colleagues to spirit her out of there. They had even offered him a police car but he had convinced them of the need to be incognito. He had collected her from her cell and given her a helping hand with her bags.

They had been just about to go through the security gates at the end of the processing hall when he had glimpsed a sea of twisting bodies trying to force their way through the entrance lobby.

“This way,” he said, grabbing her arm and starting to run, her soft flesh melting under his firm grasp.

“I’m glad you came,” she whispered in his ear and stumbled against him on purpose. He’d put his hand out to steady her and she’d lingered under his fingers. Even in that mad rush he had been that close to kissing her. He hungered for her from the bottom of his being; a ravenous need…a primitive urge that no brain could rationalize or deny, an ache of animal desire. And yet he knew that to her he was just a fool. A stiff, stodgy, old fashioned, conservative, ignorant, working class fool. What would she ever want with him? Which brought him back to the present moment.

“Would you be a dear and come and soap my back for me?”

Without thinking he turned to answer her call and caught a glimpse of himself in the full length bedroom mirror on the wall. The flames from the prison-fire played across the left side of his face, and the flashing neon sign of the motel splashed across the right side. For a moment he could not tell what kind of creature confronted him; a foreboding, two-faced mythological monster who had been lying in wait for him. The face in the mirror gave him an evil smirk of triumph, and behind him the room melted into gleeful glimpses of the Halfway to Hell Motel. For a moment Samuel could actually see himself and Ronetta entwining on the bed behind him…naked lust thrusting them together. Then the image spoke to him.

 “And you know that will never happen, unless you go in there and take what is yours. You know she’s playing you for a fool. You know she’s just using you,” said the voice in the mirror. “But I suppose she’s the one with the balls after all. You’re just a patsy. What a joke. Big brave macho man Sam…wiping another man’s arse and helping him to escape with tears in your eyes…. ‘please don’t leave me’…. ‘I love you’……Can you hear yourself? Why don’t you wait till she tells you where the boy is then drag her sorry ass back to jail (after giving her a good going-over of course). And back in jail at least you’ll be able to organize some regular sex with her. That’s what you want isn’t it.”

Tears sprang to his eyes. He knew he would never be man enough to do anything except let Ronetta walk right over him. She was much too strong for him. He would do anything for her. He was a sham of a man. When it came down to it he was all mouth and muscle and no courage.

The face in the mirror faded and the sounds of her splashing in the bath reached out to mock him.

Episode 30

Clara stood calmly on the raised platform of the town hall stage, Alice by her side. In front of her the town’s people were packed in to the rafters. There were so many bodies in there it was difficult to breathe. The air was so saturated with condensation that many of the more short sighted citizens had to keep wiping their glasses.

For a town that hardly spoke to each other this was unprecedented. Already whipped up into a frenzy by the press, wooden bats and torches at the ready, they stood in breathless anticipation of what she would say. So many people suddenly hanging on your every word, where before you couldn’t even get your family to listen to you…or the dog, was an electrifying sensation. There is something about being imbued with power…a feeling of rightness….a clarity of vision….an above-ness. In one moment Clara had been raised to these heady heights and she was calm, confident and self-assured. The crowd was bound to follow her. A just cause in her right hand - human decency in her left – she could neither stumble nor fall with these as her supports.

“My boy is missing,” she began, and waited for the sentence to sink in. The ripple of a murmur ran through the crowd. “He has been kidnapped. Kidnapped by a woman called Isobel Watts.” She said this last loudly and clearly, that from henceforth that name would be synonymous with evil.

“Why? For a ransom, of course. But you know all this. You know that she is demanding the release of her son from prison. And you also know that the authorities have refused permission for this to happen. So the authorities have as good as condemned my son to death.”

The crowd erupts and shouts of ‘yes’ and ‘disgraceful’ rise from the ranks.

“Are we asking for the release of a dangerous murderer? NO! We are asking for the release of a sad transvestite who had the audacity to refuse a freebie to a perverted police officer. For her crime she was beaten, raped and thrown in jail….for more than thirty years.”

‘Shame on them,’ someone shouted and a clamour of agreements rent the air. Clara waited for them to settle down again.

“Ladies and gentleman, friends and fellow workers, we are not asking for the law to be broken…we are asking for justice to be done….and at the same time to save my son.”

The crowd was now becoming agitated, backed by a righteous cause, they were raring to go.

“There is no time to wait for the slow wheels of due judicial process to turn in our favour. By then my son might be dead. We have to act now. We have to take the law into our own hands. We have to judge for ourselves. But,” she says, holding up her hand to still the rising tide of consent that is battering her ears, “although we may be justified in our actions…we are not justified in hurting anyone. This is very important. We will lose the moral high ground if someone is hurt or…God forbid…killed. We are merely demanding the release of Ronald Watts. And if they don’t comply, then we will go in and fetch him ourselves.

“And there will be no need to threaten or coerce any of the prison officials to let us in because….” and at this point she held her hand high in the air, “I HAVE THE KEYS!” she said and jangled her husband’s prison key-ring loudly for all to hear.

Clara and Alice marched down the high street side by side, the townsfolk at their heels and triumph in the night air. Thunder clouds battled up above as the storm began to develop. She felt like Boudica at the head of an army, nearly a thousand strong by the time they reached the prison. She wasn’t an insignificant, helpless nobody anymore. She had the whole town behind her. She was an empowered mother crusading for the life of her son. The mood was buoyant. For the first time since Joshua had fallen into a coma she felt hopeful, confident. For the next ten blocks she walked on air, simply intent on getting there. But as they came closer she began to wonder about things. Would the Wardens let them through? Would the police try and stop them? And how? She also wondered about this Transvestite. Would she even help them? How would she feel when this crowd of people showed up at her door…and set her free? She remembered a cautionary tale about a boy who set his pet Budgie free and the poor thing died. It just couldn’t look after itself in the wild. Doubts began to assail her now as they marched into the gathering gloom…all the things she hadn’t thought through. What would she do when she had her…Ronald? She hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. She couldn’t leave her at the City Limits motel as originally planned. The old lady wouldn’t go near that place now that everybody knew about it thanks to Alice. She could try and inform her through the newspapers…get the old lady to contact her somehow. But what if the old lady didn’t read the papers? She was beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea. But what else could she do? This man…woman, was her only link with Joshua.

Then she heard that strange, lonely piano music again. She had dreamed about it last night. She had dreamed she had been dancing with the Devil. ‘One step at a time,’ he had said, leading her down the garden path. At the front gate was her husband, frozen in time, newspaper in one hand, his keys in the other. Like a tree from which she was picking a fruit, she took the keys from his hand and continued dancing down the street. ‘One step at a time,’ the Devil said again, and the dream ended.

Maybe this is what he meant. Cross your bridges when you get there. Just trust. It didn’t worry her that it was the Devil’s advice she was following. She had no illusions about which camp she was in. She didn’t care what this cost her, as long as she got her son back. She was prepared to pay any price.

With a wave of her hand she brushed her worries aside and strode out purposely towards the prison.

Episode 29

A grey mist hangs over the land, the hazy sunshine too weak to penetrate its depths. The mist seems to suck up any sound and dampen their footsteps. They feel like they are walking in cotton wool.

The mist gets up Clytemnestra’s nose and she sneezes, waking up the old lady. The boy notices and puts his hand on her foot, giving it a loving squeeze. The old lady smiles down at him – glad to be reunited. She thought she’d seen the last of him. Happily they walk on, but soon the mist is so thick that they cannot see the ground at their feet.

“I think we should rest now,” says the messenger and brings the camel to a halt. Everybody stops and listens to the eerie silence. When the messenger speaks his voice sounds muffled and distant.

“Demona is not going to find us in this. Down girl,” he says to the camel, and she drops to her knees with a groan. She hates getting up and down with her cranky old bones. The boy helps the old lady off and gives her a warm hug when she is on her feet. They stand for a long time in each other’s arms while Senjur sets up camp; the old lady only responding to the boys touch, never initiating, never touching him in need. This way she doesn’t drain his energy. She doesn’t ‘take’…in these situations she just returns his love.

The messenger is glad to be out in the desert again. This is where he belongs. The Garden of Eden is fine – for a while – but there are too many dangers hidden in the lovely greenery. Too many places for traps and treachery. At least the desert is honest. It has nothing to hide. What you see is what you get. In the garden you have to watch every step. A snake hanging from every branch…a tiger lurking behind every tree, and every seemingly innocent flower full of potential poison. Too many treasures being fought over by too many creatures. In the desert there is only one treasure. Water.

Soon they have eaten their fill and sit silently staring at the fire. There is nothing to say. Their thoughts are as woolly as the fog tonight. Then they hear a long low hooting sound like a sandhorn in the fog. Our intrepid explorers look at each other in consternation. It could be Demona but common sense tells them she wouldn’t be broadcasting her approach like that. Perhaps it is just a trick of the fog…the sound of a dune collapsing…amplified by the mist. They listen for a while but there is no reoccurrence of the sound and they settle down for the night. The boy and the old lady now lie together under her blanket, tightly wrapped together. Ever since his abduction she is reluctant to let him go and clasps him to her body at every opportunity. As they snuggle together he feels her warm loins against his and his lips reach out for hers. She submits to his searching desire and lets him explore her mouth with his tongue. They are in paradise. The night creeps on and the two lovers entwine happily under the thin blanket.

In the morning they are soaked with dew from the mist. Even Clytemnestra’s fur is damp and spiky. Shivering with cold they crowd around the campfire, waiting for the thick black coffee to boil. The messenger in the meantime is squeezing every available bit of moisture from their clothing and blankets into a leathern container. It comes to nearly a litre and a half. A king’s fortune. The mist still hangs heavily about their ears. The old lady and the boy hold hands. They have eyes for no one else, their cheeks aglow with love and peace…and a calm acceptance of the universe and all her little foibles.

The messenger smiles at the fire. He feels privileged to be a witness at such an event. Even Clytemnestra purrs contentedly in the afterglow of their union. She too is happy that things have worked out so well. So much so, that when the old lady is tucked up on her back and she is told to get up – she does so willingly and without complaint.

It is a happy band of travellers who set off into the misty, confident that whatever the fates have in store, they will be able to weather it…one way or the other.

By midday the sun is burning through the upper layers of cloud, bringing a touch of warmth to its creatures below. A golden light filters through the fog as the boy walks – his hand ever resting on the old lady’s foot – one and the other, forever together – he feels complete, confident, and more than a little grown up. He doesn’t feel like a little boy lost anymore…and they don’t feel like grown up strangers to him. They are his family now.

The sound of the sandhorn cuts through all their thoughts and the caravan comes to an abrupt halt. Whoever is out there is very close now. They peer cautiously through the hazy sunshine, anxiety knocking at their breasts.

It is not long before they behold a most wondrous and strange spectacle. Out of the mist appears in front of them a ship. A ship sailing as it were, in the desert: three-masted and square rigged full-four, t’gallants flapping as it tilts and sways in the high breeze. As she emerges, for a ship is always a she, they see that she is being dragged by a ream of men with ropes afore and wheels beneath the massive shore-line of the wooden Galleon. Fifty Aurochs join the fray to drag and sway and sweat their way through the soft desert sand.

Then comes into view the flag. The black and white skull and cross bone motif so much favoured by the pirates of old, and a shiver runs through the timbers of all who see such a sight. And on creak and squeal the oil-less wooden wheels sinking deep under such a weight, and the pirate crew pull for all they’re worth. Three hundred men or more pull for some distant shore, with ropes and tackles and guts galore. Salty sailors, sand-washed and parched: dirt and dust crunching between their teeth as they grind on with their merciless task.

The little group watch in awe as this great Juggernaut approaches them in a cloud of dust and effort, whips cracking at every quarter, strains and refrains of pain and toil, boil in the close heat of the day. ‘Keep moving’ comes the constant cry, for if the wheels should stop then they would sink into the sand – never to set forth again.

The messenger leads his little group off to one side as they watch the megalith go on by…heat and dust and flies rising up into the skies – a dirty business by all accounts. And then a cry of ‘ho there’ hails them from the crowd and a group of horsemen approach nearby. A sailor upon a horse is a sad sight to see, for he sits so uncomfortably…and these fellows were set in a rather bad mood.

“And who in Hades are ye three?”

“Travellers,” says the messenger. Clytemnestra eyes the horses with suspicion. She doesn’t like them one little bit.

The pirates have no time for niceties.

“Come with us,” says the gruffest of the bunch and indicates towards the ship, the cutlass at his hip all the authority he needs. He turns and heads towards the ship, confident that they will follow, his friends riding on either side.

Soon they see the entourage at close hand. The sweat…the mud…the fierce struggle against God and his elements.

“There,” says the pirate, pointing at a rope ladder hanging from the side of the ship. It seems a long way up and the boy worries for the old lady.

“All of you, up.”

The messenger whispers in Clytemnestra’s ear and unhooks her reins. It will be better for her to be free to follow at a distance. Who knows how hungry these fellows be, and they say that camel meat is sweet. The camel takes off and the pirates don’t bother to follow. They know their horses will never catch her. Not on this terrain.

“Up,” he says again. “The Captain’s gonna love you.” He gives a knowing smile, and points with his cutlass.

The boy goes up first, then the old lady with the messenger behind to help her along. It is hard going at first, climbing up a swaying ladder, but soon they get used to the rhythm and make good progress. Suddenly the top is in sight and they tumble over the rails onto the deck.

Dust everywhere. It looks like half the desert is up here. The boy reaches over and helps the old lady up. They stand holding hands, waiting for something to happen.

There is a crash and a curse and a sailor comes running out holding his head in his hands.

“Lazy scoundrel,” shouts a voice. “If I catch you sleeping again I will keelhaul you.”

The sailor is over the side in a flash and skimming down the rope ladder.

“Keep moving,” says the pirate behind them. He has followed them up. “Thataways.” He points his cutlass aft.

The deck jerks and sways as the little trio make their way aft. They stop in front of a door which the pirate hammers on with the handle of his cutlass.

“Yes, dear Jesus, can’t you knock like an ordinary person. Come in. Give me a heart attack with that rat tat tat.”

The pirate opens the door and steps in. “A coupler visiters ta see ya c’p’n.”

“Well show them in.”

“In ya go,” he says, showing a full set of black rotting teeth. The smell is appalling.

“I thought you said a couple. There’s three of them.”

“Tha’s wha’I said. A coup’l.”

“Never mind. Thank you, and don’t slam the…..”

The cabin shakes on its foundations.

“….door.”

 “Well hello. How do you do?” The Captain offers a genteel hand somewhat reticently, for the little trio look travel-worn to say the least. He takes out his handkerchief and holds it under his nose.

“You are quite dusty,” he observes. “Are you someone important?”

It was like stepping into another world. Inside the cabin was cool and clean and sumptuously decorated. There was a silver tea service on the table, sparkling under the crystal chandeliers above, which would tinkle every now and then when the ship lurched too violently. Teak chairs and a table that gleamed a golden brown under the candlelight, with red leather upholstery fixed with brass pins. Silks and satins of every colour and design adorned the huge four poster double bed. In the corner was a commode of the finest painted porcelain with a matching washbasin. Twinkling on the table was a cut glass decanter with a ruby red port-wine inside, and stained glass windows lit up the room like a rainbow. The boy stared in awe and wonder…as did the other two. On the walls were bookcases with seafaring volumes. Charts and maps there were aplenty, each beautifully illustrated with wild and fanciful creatures that were presumed to inhabit the most far-flung reaches of a world they didn’t recognize at all.

“Yes, nice, isn’t it. But I ask again. Are you someone important?”

The messenger and the old lady know better than to answer such a question from a pirate, no matter how fine his manners, or how coutured his clothes.

“I don’t know,” says the boy after waiting for the others to speak. “But there is someone following us.”

“Ah. Then you are in trouble. On the ‘lamb,’ so to speak? And you?” he says, looking pointedly at Senjur. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Everyone knows me. But you have never seen me before.”

“Well I didn’t want a riddle in return. That was a pick-up line,” he grimaced. “But I suppose you aren’t that way inclined. Pity.”

“What way?” asks the boy, suspiciously.

“Never mind,” says the Captain, turning back to Senjur. “What is your name then?”

“I am the messenger.”

“Oh,” says the Captain. “And what is your message?” he asks facetiously.

“Abstention,” replies the messenger quick as a wink.

“Ha, ha. How very droll. Just what I needed. A bit of dry humour. Very well, ‘don’t kill the messenger’ they say, however, I am sorely tempted to kill myself.” And at that moment the chandeliers tinkle quite violently and the Captain rushes from the cabin clasping his mouth and stomach and moaning something awful. After a while he returns, looking pale and fragile.

“Land-sickness,” he says, tucking his kerchief into the lace ruffles round the cuff of his sleeve. “Do you have any valuables with you?” he asks. “Although I think not.”

“I have some rock-salt,” says the boy proudly. He has wandered over to the desk and marvels at the wonders thereupon arrayed, especially a golden cutlass, with a huge ruby on its pommel and a silk ribbon tied to the guard; obviously a favour bestowed by some beautiful damsel.

“Careful. Don’t touch that,” says the Captain, leaping to his feet. “It’s not a toy you know.” The Captain replaces the item with millimetric precision, his delicate fingers tap-tapping it into place. “That is a very precious item. It was given to me by my mother. It is the only thing I have left to remind me of her and her exaggerated expectations of me, so please don’t touch it.” He gives a wistful sigh, obviously remembering dear mama. “She would have been so proud of me. Not right now of course. We’re in a bit of a pickle as you can see, but generally I have done alright by her. I have been very successful at my chosen trade. Anyway. That’s enough about me. Tell me about this person who is pursuing you. And why?"

“She’s a demon,” says the boy.

The Captain looks at the messenger with a quizzical eyebrow.

“He’s a bit fanciful isn’t he?” says the Captain, and gives a bit of a laugh. “I think someone’s been pulling on your leg, son.”

The messenger puts a cautionary hand on the boys shoulder.

“He’s still young,” he says. “You know how boys are. Great imaginations. Of course there are no such things.”

“But you said…”

“You must have misheard me,” he says, squeezing the boy’s shoulder quite hard.

“Ouch.”

“Someone’s been taking the Michael with you,” says the Captain. “Care for a cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” says the messenger. The old lady puts her arm around the boy to try and distract him.

“I know it’s a nuisance,” he says, setting out the cups and saucers, “…but I am going to have to take you prisoner,” the Captain says apologetically. “I mean, you’re hardly dangerous ‘buckaroos’ or anything like that…” he says, eyeing the boy and the old lady. “But you’ll have to do.”

The trio stand quietly.

“I have to do it you see, or else the men will get disgruntled. I have a reputation to uphold. I have to swashbuckle every now and then to maintain their confidence in me…especially after the last debacle…with the mermaids.”

At this the boy looks at him with interest.

“Mermaids? Real mermaids?”

“Indeed. That’s why we’re in this pickle. Didn’t you think it a teeny bit strange that we are sailing across the desert instead of the ocean? Not by choice I can tell you.” The Captain gets that strange faraway look in his eye that often afflicts sailors in particular, and adventurers in general.

“We had broken our mainmast in a storm and had hove to in this particular bay to fashion a new one. It was soon done, but as we set off these mermaids started calling and crying to us in a most heart breaking manner, sitting on the rocks near the shoreline and wailing out their woe. As sad a sound as ever I heard. Well, the men just couldn’t resist. They lowered the longboat and crowded in as many as they could. I tried to stop them but…” He shrugged his shoulders. “The reef split them open like an oyster, and the mermaids helped carry them down.” He paused to look out the window. “We waited all night, but there were no survivors. Thirty odd men drowned.” There was a tear in his eye. “The next day they were back again, singing their siren songs, but the boys were wary this time, and we set about a plan to get rid of them. These creatures were terribly dangerous. Who knows how many ships they had lured onto those rocks…how many lives lost?

“We plugged up our ears and broke out the harpoons…well, I’d rather not go into details with the boy and the lady present. It wasn’t pretty. Killed them all…except one; caught her by accident in one of the fishing nets. They brought her onboard and put her in a sea-water tank on deck.”

“A real one?” says the boy.

“You keep saying that.”

“Onboard?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?” The boy’s eyes are nearly popping out of his head and he is dancing a little jig of excitation and expectation.

“First let me finish and then see if you are so keen to meet her.”

The kettle begins to bubble on the fire place and the Captain moves to fetch it.

“Please sit,” he says, and proceeds to pour the tea. It smells like mint and spice, and the trio’s mouths are watering.

“Turns out it was the worst thing we could do. These creatures are cursed. The killing of them caused us to delay too long; and the roving reefs closed in behind us. We were trapped between the rocks and the desert. Of course the irony of it was that the mermaid knew the way through these reefs but she would die before telling us. Anyway, my jack-tars are a hardy, imaginative sort when it comes to makeshift adventuring, so they set about building a brace of wheels and harnesses and a month later we hauled the ship up onto land. What a sight that was.”

The Captain begins pouring the tea, an almost impossible job with the juddering, lurching motion of the ship. “But be damned if I like travelling this way. Shakes a man’s insides out.”

“But what about the mermaid?” says the boy.

“I wouldn’t be so keen if I was you, she’s a tricky sort of creature. Plays with your emotions. Next thing you’ll be jumping from the yardarm just to please her. Nothing good comes of talking to them. They may look beautiful, but they’re deadly.”

The boy folds his arms together in a huff.

“Don’t set your eye at me like that, young man. I know little boys have a thing for weird and wonderful creatures, but this one’s not to be tolerated.”

The ship lurches again and so does the Captains stomach. “Oh dear sweet Lord deliver me from this wretched place.” He takes out a bottle of smelling salts and wafts it under his nose.

“If you don’t let us see the mermaid I shall tell your crew that you’re a nancy.”

“A Dandy. There’s a difference. No shame in that. And if you’re so strong set on seeing her, then see her you shall. Come on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She is indeed a beautiful creature, with soft sad eyes and smooth grey skin like a seal. Her hair, like soft green seaweed, falls in folds about her shoulders, her eyes, big and black, dart here and there as if searching for an escape route. In all respects, except for her skin colour and her fishtail, she resembles an ordinary woman.

The boy stands transfixed by the sight. This is what adventures are all about. The Captain stands with his fingers in his ears.

“Best not listen to her too closely, boy.”

But the boy pays him no heed, and indeed, just looking at her makes him start to feel quite sad. The old lady slips her hand into his and all the memories of last night flood back into him, the feel and the taste of her…holding the sadness at bay.

And then the siren lets loose with a wail that curdles the blood in their veins. Never was such a heart-wrenching heard; as if the sorrow and pain of all womankind was in that call; all the sufferings and persecutions ever visited upon the female sex, all in one terrible anguished cry.

The boy feels like he has been ripped open by a boat-hook. She calls to the infinite sadness within him. She is irresistible. He is impelled to go to her. The old lady squeezes his hand and holds on tightly, hoping the bond between them is strong enough to fight against the lure of his deep longing. There is the taste of salt in his mouth. He has bitten his lip through and there are tears in his eyes.

“There you go, smart-arse,” says the Captain rather loudly, for he still has his fingers in his ears. “Don’t listen to your elders.”

This caustic comment, like nothing else, helps to bring the boy back to reality. He remembers again who he is, and what is happening. But he still feels sorry for the captive creature.

 “Can you speak?” he asks her. She breaks off her lament and looks at him with surprise in her huge eyes. Her mouth doesn’t move but he hears her voice as clear as day in his head.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. “You are not dead.”

“I am waiting,” he says. “I am on my way to the Silvern Sanctuary.”

“That is a long way….by land.”

The boy shrugs. He doesn’t really know how long is long.

“I know a shorter way…by sea.”

The boy looks around to see if anyone else is hearing them. The old lady simply looks back at him and squeezes his hand. The messenger knows that something is going on, but not what, and the Captain has his eyes shut as well, so he sees and hears none of this. He is taking no chances with the mermaid.

“How will we get there?” he asks her.

“If you come to me at midnight and open my tank, I will sing them all to sleep. You can lower one of the longboats over the side and fill it with water. It won’t be too much trouble then to hitch it to a couple of bulls who should be able to pull me back to the sea. But I cannot be out of water for more than an hour, so you must work quickly.”

The next morning a terrible sound assails the ears of the Captain as he awakes. It is the sound of silence. He looks around. Nothing is shaking. Everything is still. His stomach is not lurching back and forth. There is no movement. Everything is peaceful and quiet. He rushes out on deck and looks overboard. The ship has come to a halt. The men lie where they have fallen…fast asleep….or dead. He can’t tell which. A terrible fear grips his bowels as the implications of this stationary-ness begins to dawn on him. Marooned. His ship is stuck fast and they are marooned in the desert. Then the cause of the matter dawns on him and he rushes to the siren’s tank. Empty! The visitors. He marches into their cabin and is greeted with the same emptiness.

“Master of the watch!” he shrieks in a falsetto so beloved by his crew. “Beat to quarters. The prisoners have escaped!”