Mini Stories and Poems

MY PRAYER

BANG …BANG

I woke suddenly. The noise was right over my head. I lay on the bed in total darkness paralysed with fright.

I thought there was a scrapping sound and movement. I was alone in a big old house, my parents' six-bedroom farmhouse, far from neighbours. The noise came from one of the bedrooms on the upper floor. I hardly went up there anymore. After the death of my mother and father, I converted a small sitting room on the ground floor into my bedroom.

There had been possums in the house at times, but this sounded too heavy for a possum. I reached out and found the big Watchman’s Torch. I didn’t know what to do. My rifle was locked in a gun-safe and the ammunition in another. The police, when available, were thirty minutes away. I remembered my father had kept a baseball bat hidden under a coat by the front door. It was still there. I crept up the stairs, part terrified, part determined that nobody was invading my house.

There was a faint light under the door of the last room in the upstairs passage. It had been Uncle Edmund’s bedroom and study in years past. He had fallen on hard times and my father had given him the room so that he had a chance to recover. He never did.

I reached the door; took a deep breath and flung the door open. There was a man searching the drawers of the desk.

“Uncle Edmund!” I exclaimed.

He looked up. “Oh, hello, Tony. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

I could hardly get the words out. “You’re dead.”

“True. Bit ghostly, eh? But I had to come back and sort out a few problems. I was a bit of a prankster, and one went wrong. I sent your sister a telegram saying she had failed her university entrance. Bit stupid, I suppose, and untrue. Anyway, she took it to heart and was terribly upset. I was sure I sent a letter of apology, but it seems that I didn’t, and I was just looking to see if I posted it or not. I must sort it out before I can go any further.”

I glared at him. “When I was ten you gave me a pair of bathing trunks for Christmas. They went transparent in the water.”

“Wow, you should have seen your face when you came out of the sea onto the beach and realised why everyone was staring at you. That was a laugh.”

“It was the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me. It still hurts.”

“I’m really sorry. I apologise. I seem to spend all my time now apologising. Hell, here it is.” He waved a letter about. “I never posted it. I’ll have to ask for forgiveness. On our side of the grave, of course, not yours. Really, I was an idiot. Look, do you mind putting down that baseball bat?  It is not much use against a ghost. Lean it against the bookcase.”

He seemed to become aware of the incongruity of the situation. “Tony, go back to bed and forget about this. Go now.”

I was in such a daze I went. 

I awoke next morning conscious of having experienced a disturbing dream. But there remained a feeling of disquiet. I went upstairs to the end room and opened the curtains. Had the desk been disturbed? Possums?

Then I turned to leave. I stopped breathing. Leaning against the bookcase was my father’s baseball bat.

It remains there still to this day.

From ghosties and ghoulies
And long-leggedy hairy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!  

Marcus Porter

Marcus Porter was consistently overdressed. He was a corpulent man born with an excessively deep fascination about his own existence. He caught the eye because he was too much. From his shoes polished to gem-like lustre, he reflected quality up through his silk socks to his Signature suit of pale grey with a pinstripe in purple just a shade too wide, to his crisp white shirt. His tie loudly declared that he had attended Melbourne Grammar but left one to speculate whether he rose any further. 

All of this was a frame for his waistcoat. It was a tartan of an as yet undiscovered Scottish clan, In rich reds, blues and purple, shot throughout with gold thread and edged with gold and purple cord hinting at a distant royal connection. The gilt thistle buttons dominated this excess.

Marcus Porter was the head of a large furniture company that he had inherited. His career had taken him from his initial position as Deputy Executive Officer to President on the death of his father, and the company still made an excellent income. 

It perplexed many people that a man as pompous as Marcus had married another human being, but his wife, Celeste,  maintained her position by marital obedience, and appeared in public dressed as he directed, in a manner designed to provide a contrast to his consummate display. She managed, as a dutiful consort, to always walk at her husband's side with a half-pace delay.

Marcus often appeared at charitable events. He was without compassion for anyone but knew his presence at such events was good for business, or to be more precise, helped inflate his ego.

Only one thing caused Marcus’s good-natured beam to fade. A person who referred to his waistcoat as a vest was forever banished, eternally gone from his splendid presence. A vest was a singlet. His mother had taught him that, so it was true. And a man’s waistcoat defined his character, and his character was outstanding.

As every day has a sunset, so the glory of Marcus could not last for ever.

On a bright Saturday afternoon in February. Marcus Porter, dressed in his usual splendour and accompanied by his wife Celeste, presided over a minor yachting race from the tip of the St Kilda pier. This was a charity event to raise money to support the Youth Yachting for Mental Health Foundation. Marcus was at the edge of the pier cheering vigorously during the race, when he was hit with considerable force in the back.

A teenager of some fifteen years named Archie Prentice was endeavouring to double-flip his skateboard on the planking at the outer edge of the pier. His education had failed to inform him that exposure to wind and wave eroded beams at the flank of piers and exposed the bolt heads. His skateboard and a bolt met at a crucial moment and Archie flew through the air and rammed Marcus Porter in the back. Owing to a rule made by Isaac Newton, Marcus Porter consequentially flew through the air, and landed in the water.

The crowd was awed by the sight of a spluttering Marcus Porter dragging his waistcoat upward in an attempt to save it, ignoring the life-buoy that was tossed beside him. Or perhaps it was stunned by the shrieks if his wife, “Marcus, your vest, your vest!” But whatever, clutching his waistcoat, Marcus sunk beneath the waves. Gone was the glory. As string touched to a candle splutters brightly for a moment, and only ash remains, Marcus Porter went under.

I’ll never go there again.

I’ll never go there again. I have this sad thought. I climbed Adam’s Peak twice, some fifty years ago. I will not be able to it again.

Adam’s Peak is in Sri Lanka. The jungle surrounds the mountain. It has always been a holy mountain, a place of pilgrimage. There is a large indentation at the peak, Sri Pada, the sacred footprint. It is 170 cm long and 18 wide in the rough shape of a human foot, attributed variously to Adam, St. Thomas, Buddha, and Shiva amongst others.

The climb is steep. It takes about three hours, depending on your fitness. There are very well-worn tracks up the mountain, but all, nevertheless, rough and difficult.

My second climb is the one I remember best. I went with Chris, an engineer I had met. We were both white Europeans and stood out a bit. The pilgrims were mostly Sinhalese and Tamil. Some people climb in the dark to reach the peak at sunrise, but that was not for me.

We set out early in the day. Chris was accompanied by a local servant, a man in his mid-thirties, who carried our supplies. There were several rest places on the way up, so he would climb ahead of us and prepare tea, clean up after us, and trot ahead to the next rest point to again have tea ready.

Fit people could climb faster. We moved at a modest pace. It was a shock to see a six-man police patrol jogging, actually jogging up the track past us.

A group of Sinhalese pilgrims returning from the Peak were chanting together as they descended. Chris translated; they are singing, “Look at those stupid Europeans who don’t know what they are doing.” They were probably right.

When we reached the Peak I rang the Pilgrims Bell twice, as this was my second achievement. The religious activity at the peak was predominately Buddhist. There is a Buddhist monastery that dominates the scene. 

I did not climb as a pilgrim. I am a Christian, but of a Western disposition, and not into legends of giant footprints. I was, however, a member of St. Thomas’ College, so I had that affiliation.

The atmosphere of Adam’s Peak is holiness. I was comfortable there because I lived in a Christian community that was also home to Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims. I expect for the inexperienced, the scene may have been noisy and chaotic.

Our trip down was marked by sadness. After a long climb up, the steep descent can cause a knee to lock and a fall. Children are more agile but also more careless. We met a man going down. He was carrying the lifeless body of his five-year-old son who had tripped over the edge and hit his head. There was a very evident depressed fracture of the forehead. It was not reported in the media. Accidents don’t happen on the holy mount.

It was all long ago. It is part of my holy memory. But I will never go there again.

HIDDEN MEMORIES

The children said, “Daddy nodded off”, but I’m not so sure. I came to my senses in a damp jungle. It felt stifling and wet. I had no idea where I was. There was a machete in my hand; totally unfamiliar. I started hacking a path without any sense of direction. Bloated mottled leaves and creeper rasped over my face and overlarge twigs caught my clothing. My clothing! I was wearing heavy cotton trousers and a coarse leather top I had never seen before, with gross boots that weighed as if armour plated. There was a damp cloth cap on my head.

Insects and birds didn’t seem to notice me. Then I became aware of the noise in front of me. It puzzled me for a moment, and then a whiff of smoke told me all. Fire! I turned back and began hacking a way to escape. I had no sense of time; maybe hours passed, and I grew weary. Just as I was beginning to despair, I broke through into a pine-lined corridor roofed by overhanging branches. I jogged down it, still moving away.

The jungle was on the run. Animals ranging from mice to largish cats and monkeys moved across or along the pathway. I dodged birds in flight. Flight in flight? My head began buzzing with mad phrases. Suddenly a leopard landed in front of me, turned on me, and snarled. Maddened by rage or fear, it leaped at me.

I am not athletic. When your hour has come, what do you do? I fell over backward and thrust the machete in the air. A huge threshing weight land on me, and then was still. I was very sore, but alive.

By dint of straining and wriggling, I was able to ease the impaled leopard off me. There was a deep gash in my left arm. I twisted the remains of the sleeve around it to control the bleeding. With muscles at the limit, I hauled the machete from the leopard. I didn’t know what else I had to face. I staggered further along the path.

At the end of the path there was a lake, and a boat already packed with locals. A slope-shouldered boatman was about to push off, but paused his craft to let me aboard. We travelled away from the fire to an island.

I was taken to a palatial home and met by the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She said, “You are wounded. I will help you”. I lay entranced on a bed. She spread an ointment over the wound in my arm. “It requires stitching. This will take away the pain.” She didn’t stitch, she embroidered. While I gazed into her sparkling green eyes and watched her expressive lips, she finished my arm. I focussed on her handiwork. There was patterned lacework around the wound, and at its centre the stitching spelled ANNA . “That is my name”, she said, “Just so you remember me.” She stroked her hand over the wound, and I would have sworn her eternal loyalty.

Just then I was shaken awake by the children. “Daddy, it’s half past two. Basketball in St. Kilda. Come on.”

My left arm felt very sore. I went into the bathroom and rolled up my sleeve. My gut turned over. It couldn’t be true. What is reality? The wound and stitching were there. ANNA. I will have to hide it until it heals and perhaps have something done by a tattooist.

My wife’s name is Judith.  

LEAVES

Antonio Marino was a barber. He had a Barber’s shop in Lygon Street. His father and grandfather had owned it before him. It was a very traditional Men’s Barber, unchanged for decades. It was for men. Few women ventured in here; boys mostly came with their fathers or uncles. Not many teens came; they preferred more modern styles. Those teens who did visit had realised that Family was more important than fashion. Most conversations in the shop were in Sicilian or Italian.

Because it was all about Family. And the big event of the week was Friday night. The shop closed at 5.30 pm, and then Mr. Marcu Costa arrived for his weekly trim. Mr. Costa was a man of Respect, Head of the Family. Perhaps in Australian slang a capo of the mob. He was always the sole customer. He was very particular about his appearance. His two nephews, Vinc and Paulu, loitered outside the front door, mainly because they smoked and were not allowed inside, but also because their function in life was to honour and protect Mr. Costa. They both wore floppy black suits which served the purpose of more or less concealing the pistols they wore.

A group of half-a-dozen drunken sailors wandered by, moving along the footpath to the left in the direction of the City They sang and caroused noisily, which is probably what distracted Vinc and Paulu, who didn’t notice the car which glided to the curb to their right, nor the two slugs which hit each of their hearts from silenced machine pistols. Two balaclava-covered men jumped over their bodies and smashed through the door.

Mr. Costa departed this life at 5.47 pm with seven bullet holes in his person. Antonio was hit once in the shoulder and collapsed, hitting his head with a violent whack on the floor.

Antonio woke in a room hopefully labelled ‘Recover’. A surgeon appeared and smiled at him, “Mr. Marino, you will be pleased to know that there was no serious damage. You will be back to your old self in a couple of months. But I’m afraid we’ll have to keep your arm strapped to your body for a while. No movement in the shoulder at all.”

He was interviewed by the Police. He had seen nothing. The Family code made the Three Wise Monkeys sound like garrulous alcoholics. Nevertheless, he could take a good guess at the identity of the assassins. There were only so many Sicilians in the inner City, and he had seen the pair. The Barber Shop was ruined, and Antonio decided that it was time to retire. His only son, Maceli, had declined to become a barber, instead researching Physics at the University, something incomprehensible like irrational systems in unsynchronised particles, if Antonio had heard him correctly.

It took a month for the coroner to release Mr. Costa’s body for burial.  The funeral took place at St. Monica’s. Antonio had paid his respects to the widow and Mr Costa’s three sons, and then withdrew apart from the family, as was proper. The body was interred in a family mausoleum at Melbourne General Cemetery. 

Antonio stood apart amongst the graves while the priest droned on. His gaze was caught by the Autumn leaves fluttering gently to the ground. A bit like people, really, he thought. Bud, mature, and die. But the leaves were beautiful and took his mind to higher things and the Divine Glory to come. His mind was on heaven when the bullet passed through his head and took the wing off a marble Angel ten metres behind.

Leaves no loose ends.

A FUNERAL IN OUTER SPACE

The guillotine or a trip into space. That was the choice I was given. I didn’t want to lose my head and space could be interesting. My crime was simple. I had been in a bar when a fight broke out. I slid along the wall on my way out when I was confronted by a man with a broken bottle in his fist. He looked nasty, so I hit him, apparently too hard. He died and I was sentenced.

The trip to outer space was an experiment. NASA had developed a rocket that would launch and accelerate vastly faster than had ever been achieved. The question was, could a person survive the initial thrust and the acceleration? I was sent from Paris to the USA. I was going to be the person in question. I was very fit and well built. They strapped me onto a stretcher and wired me up until I was just a jumble of connections to computers. There was an incomprehensible and unreachable dashboard containing a TV screen showing roughly ahead and a view of each side; I think for NASA’s benefit rather than mine.

I don’t remember the lift-off. I guess I blanked out and didn’t regain consciousness for about ten hours. On the screen in front of me there was nothing but blackness lit up by stars, well, galaxies, I guess. Apart from feeling that I’d landed flat on my back from ten stories above, I didn’t think I had suffered serious damage.

The enemy was boredom. I had distinguished a planet or two, but otherwise there was endless night sky. I had food and water; there were two nozzles I could poke, like a caged chicken. I didn’t know how much food there was or how long it would last. This was a one-way trip. I had no return ticket. Presumably NASA expected me to die of something sometime, as the rocket hadn’t exploded at launch. 

There were no nights and days, so I’m not certain for how long this continued. I did get the impression that I was travelling faster and faster. Maybe two weeks?

I knew I was hallucinating. A face appeared on the screen at the side camera; well, actually, a helmeted head. Then there was a solid clunk and the screws on the dome above began to undo. I was terrified. Then the dome was lifted off, and it was clear that another spaceship had somehow locked onto mine and the air pressure balanced. Three helmeted figures looked down at me.

“We’ll look after you, Earth man,’ one said. They moved down and began disconnecting all the wires to my body.

My terror was unabated. “Who are you?”

“We call ourselves Marnons, but you won’t have heard of us. We are invisible to Earthlings. We exist in wave patterns different from electro-magnetic so  they haven’t discovered us yet.”

“Then how come I can see you?”

“We’ve already transmuted you. You’re the first Earthling to come out this far.”

“But you speak English!”

One of the Marnons finished disconnecting me and lifted me into their spaceship. “We speak any language we please.” They climbed out of their suits. 

“You look like people from Earth!”

“What did you expect? Little green men? Evolution works much the same way anywhere in the universe. But we’ve developed a different lifestyle from Earth. We don’t have wars, and greed is vigorously discouraged. We live in family clusters. We’ve transmuted you because otherwise you would just wander on and suffer and die. You’re welcome to stay and be part of our world.

Now, what would you like done with your space rocket?”

I suppose it was a bit naughty, but I couldn’t help it.

MEDIA RELEASE FROM NASA
NASA today denied rumours that a space probe rocket had unexpectedly returned to Earth and safely landed at Cape Canaveral in daylight without  landing wheels or human intervention. A spokeswoman said, “As it’s impossible, it didn’t happen. Fake news is corrupting society.” A former NASA employee who is believed to have started the rumour has been placed on sick leave and a collection of faked photos destroyed.

The Person I most wanted to meet.

Christmas Eve was a real pain. My wife’s brother and his wife came to dinner. Laura insisted on inviting them. It’s Christmas, a family time, she said. The dinner was utterly nerve-wracking, and when they had left and we put the children down, Laura and I finished the remains of the third bottle of wine we had shared.

I woke up with a start. I looked at the clock and it was just after two in the morning. There was a small noise downstairs. It had to be the children sneaking down at this ungodly hour to open presents under the Christmas tree.

I crept down the stairs. The light in the living room was on. I marched in and came up short. Sitting in my chair near the TV was a guy in Father Christmas outfit, long white beard and all, munching on a slice of cake left out for Santa Claus.

I glared at him. “Who the hell are you?”

He smiled at me, “Not the most appropriate welcome, and I would have thought my identity was obvious.”

“You’re some loony dressed up as Father Christmas. Father Christmas doesn’t exist. How did you get in here?”

He took another bite out of the cake. “I came through the wall. Now that people don’t have chimneys, Himself gave me permission to go through walls.”

“Himself?” I queried.

He waved his hand vaguely upwards, and then said, “Your son wrote to me. It was a very nice letter for a boy of six, and he simply asked for a trampoline for himself and his little sister. I’ve set it up in the back yard.”

“This is all bulldust. How come you’re sitting here eating if you’re supposed to be delivering presents all over the world?”

“Oh, I don’t live in the same dimension as you do. Our time is different from yours. Mainly because your time is a function of your universe, and I’m not in it anymore.”

“What do you mean, anymore?”

“Well, I was Bishop of Myra in the fourth century, but died, of course. In what you now call Turkey, or rather, Türkiye. Hey, did you know the Brecon Beacons National Park in Wales the Welsh have named Bannau Brycheiniog. It will drive the English tourists mad.”

“Help,” I moaned, “I’m calling the police.”

“Not recommended. I’m invisible to most people, and you smell of wine. Now, when you were little, you really wanted to meet me, and, see, I’ve granted your wish. Your last request as a boy was for a Meccano set, and that wouldn’t be much use to you now. Recently you have been poking about on Google about quantum particle physics. But you are having a bit of difficulty getting your head around the concept that the fluctuation of basic particles in and out of the fifth dimension is possible. You’re hanging onto the inadequate science you learned in school.”

He finished the piece of cake. “So, for your Christmas gift, I’m going to give you a demonstration.”

I gawped. “How can you give me a demonstration here?”

“Watch!” He leaned against the wall, gave me a beatific smile, and faded from sight right through the wall.

Back at Uni. I’ve just completed my Master’s in Quantum Mechanics, and settling in for a Doctorate, but I’ve never told anyone what motivated me. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I was delusional.

APRIL FOOLS

I generally sleep until lunchtime. Mainly because I work until 5:00 AM. I have a little business selling used car parts. Most of the sales are with people I know. I don’t get much money. They don’t ask too many questions. It’s very profitable. Cindy, my missus, has a few cleaning jobs to keep her in pennies.

Mostly the parts are for Fords and Holdens. We are getting more requests these days for other brands. Usually they are slightly older cars. The kids go out of an evening and nick one  for me, after dark, of course. The thing with the kids is, if they are caught, they probably only get probation because they’re underage. Jimmy’s the big boy. And he wears a cap to give him extra height so it’s like an adult’s driving. The two girls, Jessie and Lizzy, keep their eyes open for  police. and people with suspicious eyes for kids like mine.

In recent years we’ve had a few problems with the electronics of cars. A mate  got hold of a device which scans cars and allows us to open them and start the ignition, and  Jesse, my older girl, is really good with locks. The kids can walk up to a car and open it and have it away before anyone notices. They whiz it home and put it in the garage and close the door. I and Jimmy go down later and start stripping the car. Nearly everything is sellable. You just have to find the right buyer. 

One night I opened the garage and nearly died of shock. Sitting there was a big shinny police car. I was frozen, paralysed for a moment. I charged into the house and  roared at the kids. “What have you done?“ In unison, they shouted. “April Fool, daddy. It’s just a Range Rover that we re-decorated it for you.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Just then a horrible thought struck me. “Where did you get the blue flasher?”

Jimmy grinned. “Oh, we did nick that off a police car. The blues were busy in a house, and it only took a moment.” I wondered whether the police had GPS on their vehicle parts. Probably not. Just the same, it was a bit hot for me. I was still angry. But grounding them for a week would ruin the business.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Followed by hard knocking. Sounded too much like the police. I’d be inside for a few years. I sent the smallest girl to answer the door while  I hid behind the couch. Lizzy came back and signalled me that I had to come. “It’s the police,” she said. I went to the door and pulled it open. There was my wife, Cindy, with a big grin. She said, “April Fool! And it’s only the 28thof March!”

I thought to myself, You lot, just wait for April Fools’ Day. I, too, can play.

Rumours of Electricity

Our Gwen had an astonishing tale. She’s in service as a maid in the Manor House outside Cardiff and come home on leave to the Black Mountains. 

“Ma, a man from London came and said that they had some lights in the house called electricity made of tiny lightening. No candles. Not for Servants, of course. And there was talk that this electricity might light the streets and run machines and put people out of work.”

I told our Gwen not to be silly, but she went on about it. Then someone else in the village heard the same and everyone was talking. It sounded dangerous to me. There was that story about a man flying a kite on a wire when there was lightening. He was fried.

In our cottage after dark there is the fire, and if you have to leave that, there are candles. We sometimes have enough beeswax, but mostly tallow, and there is a lantern if my Alun has to go outside for the stock. Not that we need candles much, as nobody moves far from the firelight, even to eat supper. Peter and I have a bedroom but the children all sleep in the wall cots and mostly go to bed soon after dark. They chatter a lot and listen to the mice in the walls, though Gwladys is the only one who has enticed one out and made a pet.

The mad speculation about electricity went on. The Price boy even thought they could make a machine to push water uphill, but he’s none too bright and hates working the long pump for the high fields.

For what reason would you want an electric to light the house or cook or sweep? And how would it pump or plow or shepherd or butcher? We don’t even have the gas they have in Cardiff that lights streets but people in the city seem to get out at night and some of the gentry have ballrooms lit, Gwen says.

I am writing in Welsh, of course. I had some schooling some days when we weren’t snowed in. Gwen is translating it into English. She is a very bright girl, our Gwen, and may rise to be a Housekeeper one day.

My Alun carves candlesticks by firelight. And how would electric help him do that? I think these city people have too much money and invent ways of spending it.

They were talking in the ale house, and someone was asking the Teacher whether there was anything in the stories about machines doing work with electricity.

“Oh, no,“  he said, “God never planned anything like that for us. It’s against nature.” He roared with laughter. “Why, next thing you’ll be telling me there will be flying coaches!”

The Minister has come out against it, but then, he is against most things. We have to hide the magic charms in the corner of the fields secretly since he came. Some people say they don’t work, but why risk the crops?

Anyway, the whole electricity thing may be a fairy-tale, because the story comes from London, and, as you well know, you can’t trust the English.

DAYLIGHT DREAMS

Dream a rainbow. Long I gaze,

In a waterfall’s light haze,

as gleeful angels wildly play,

freely dancing in the spray. 

A cloud of golden butterflies

rise to shimmer in the skies,

a foretaste of the home of Light,

Glory rightly my delight.

Meanwhile, nappies, dirty dishes,

Lunch packs, kids, and lonely wishes.

While my heart hunts life divine,

I’ll hang the washing on the line.

© David Townsend

TIME FOR A CUPPA

When I was a child I wasn’t allowed to say “cuppa” at home. Aunt Mary said that it was working-class and vulgar and therefore should not be used.

She had all sorts of Rules for us boys. You didn’t leave the house unless wearing a tie. You stood up straight and behind adults when they were speaking to others. You always tipped a bowl outwards when eating. You always raised your cap when meeting adults. You never swore. It went on and on.

She ruled my home and her side of the family. But school holidays were an escape. I went to my grandparents in a country town. My grandfather owned a grocery shop. This was back in the forties. I was eleven and allowed to work behind the tobacco counter. You wouldn’t get away with it these days. My brother Tom was two years younger than me. He came to the shop but sat in the grain storeroom and read books. He was different.

Old men used to come in from farms or the hills and buy Plug tobacco. “Six blocks, boy. And don’t you ever smoke.” Grandad said that some of them used to shave the blocks with an axe to chew.

My grandfather was respectable. He was a Freemason and a Churchwarden, but he had a rough childhood in London. He didn’t stand on ceremony. There was always time for a cuppa in the shop. Not a smoke’o, that was for the outside workers. There was no smoking in the shop. Mind you, my grandfather smoked, even though he’d been a cement worker in Portland when he first came to Australia, and it damaged his lungs. In later years when he had an X-ray his lungs lit up like neon tubes.

A cuppa is sometimes a soother if there’s difficulty. It was part of everyday life. Not that we spent time thinking about it. We lived in Malvern. My father was an accountant and always busy. My mother had a haberdashery shop. Tom and I were sent to boarding school. I think this was part of Aunt Mary’s urging. Respectable boys went to boarding school.

I didn’t spend a lot of time with Tom as we grew older. He was a loner and always tense. I found out why one Christmas when I was eighteen. The whole family was there for Dinner, and afterwards, Tom said, “I have something to tell you all.”

There was an expectant silence, and he said, “I’m gay.”

There was a hair-raising silence. I looked at grandad. He seemed a little puzzled, as if he didn’t quite catch on to the problem. But my father looked as if he had been hit by lightning at the same time as something nasty had been inserted into a delicate part of his anatomy, his face frozen, just before a gigantic explosion.

There was a loud sigh, and Aunt Mary broke several Rules. “Jesus! I have a feeling it’s time for a cuppa.”

FOX FEVER

I was climbing out of a taxi in Collins Street in the City about 10.15 at night after a liaison meeting when I saw a thin dog flit across the street and disappear into a wall. I had heard of urban foxes, though the CBD was a bit much.

I went to the wall and there was a small trapdoor. I tapped it with my foot, and it swung. A foxhole? 

A friend of a friend worked for the City. I asked him about the trapdoor. “You’ve got fox fever,“ he said. “People see movement and shadows in the night in the city. It’s caused by car headlights reflected in windows. Optical delusion.” I wasn’t so sure.

“But,“ he said, ”there are all sorts of tunnels under the city. Right from the beginning. There were tunnels for the night-men, you know, sewage disposal. And for water pipes, electricity, phones and gas. Do you want to see some; maybe find your trap door?”

I said yes. It could be interesting.

At 9.30 on a Thursday morning, I met Ted Patterson at a side door of the Melbourne Town Hall. We entered and went down a flight of steps. He handed me a hard hat and a torch. Then he tapped a code on a pad at a door marked NO ADMITTANCE and we entered a tunnel. He had a map of sorts, and we began an exploration in the direction of the trapdoor.

It was dark, sooty and creepy and there were pipes of all sizes everywhere. Ted said, “You’ll have to stoop. The main tunnels were made for men about five foot three and then they put all these pipes in. The smaller tunnels are crawl spaces. We’ll avoid them.”

We moved into a tunnel where there was quite a bit of rubbish, and walking past a recess Ted called out, “Someone’s even left their boots here. Shit, there are legs in them!”

There were. Ted called the Police. Ted said, “You know, they can carbon date bodies and things to see how long they have been here. Could be hundred years or more.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said. “They are Doc Martin’s boots and I recognize them. See the initials burnt on the sole. GF. That’s George Fenwick.”

There was a lot of noise and a Foreman arrived with a Police Sergeant. Ted helpfully opened the conversation saying, ‘He knows who it is.”

“Do you?” asked the Sergeant. “How’s that?”

“Met him a few times. Thought he had gone overseas.”

George’s forehead had a bullet hole so it was murder. I spent hours in a Police Station making statements and was then allowed home.

I went straight to my office, opened the safe, and removed an unregistered phone. I pressed a preset number. There were dial tones and whistles and clicks as it moved through sundry servers in the Dark Web.

A voice said, “Hello.” Maybe in South America. My cousin Ken.

“Ken, they have found George. It was me. I was chasing a fox under the City and I and the guide found him.”

“They say I’ve got a screw loose, but you beat that, chasing foxes under the City. Anyway, they can’t trace anything to me. Relax. There’s a really good restaurant above where you found the body. Try the Salmon, It’s fantastic.”

I didn’t say anything to anyone. We’re a family.

POEMS FROM THE LOCKDOWN

From Ward 6 , Farout Psychiatric Suite.

REFLECTIONS

I thought I saw a pussy cat

Sitting in a tree

But the tree was in a mirror

And the pussy cat was me.

I though I saw a yummy mouse

I leapt upon in fiercely

It really was a porcupine

And tasted rather beastly.

My doctor says that there’s some hope.

He’s given an injection

As well as half a dozen pills

I’ve swallowed in reflection.

The trouble is the mirror’s there

But on which side is me?

I tried to walk away from this 

But fell out of the tree.

Another person in my ward

Has got a mirror too.

It really is confusing now

Am I whom I view?

But reflecting back and forward

Through many a mirrored brain,

Has proved to me conclusively,

I’m absolutely sane.

   ©David Townsend 

CORONAVIRUS

I keep an open coffin
on the floor beside my bed
I’m hoping I won’t need it
until I’m really dead.

It’s this wicked coronavirus,
It’s got me rather worried.
With all the wild confusion
I’m becoming rather flurried.

Requiescat In Pace
isn’t what I want to hear
lying in the casket

nicely propped up on my bier.

The priest will speak quite nicely
to the ten that have been asked;
that’s provided it’s not raining
and they’re all grotesquely masked.

So I’m locked up in my office,
isolated from the crowd,
protected from the virus
alone with head unbowed

linked to the world by wireless
they call it Wi-Fi now.
I am universally present
so I think I’ll take a bow.

I’m still alive and kicking
The sun comes up each day
So join me on the internet,
And grow in a great way.

I’m dancing on the coffin lid
(temporarily replaced!)
It’s party time for all the world
The President’s* been disgraced,
displaced, etc. *Fill in your own choice,
writing in sand and then erase
because the CIA has universal access
to all computers and
They are watching you.

My psychiatrist says I’m paranoid,
I think that means I’m mad.
That is a super real diagnosis;
At last! Join me, I’m so glad!

    From Ward 6.

ADDer wandering

My Psychiatrist’s on home release
From a hospital with bars.
They say that it was all my fault;
nothing to do with Sars.

It seems that he lost his mind
while looking into mine.
Attention Deficit Disorder
And I can’t keep track of time,

Or anything else, really;
I’ve lost my list of lists,
and my powers of concentration
are somewhere in the pits.

Now my problem is a mind that leaps
from one thing to the next;
it switches sideways every phrase;
I can’t stick to a text.

It gets worse every moment;
it all comes out in verse.
I feel a poem coming on.
I’d better call the nurse.

He left me in the hospital.
Damn! My psychiatrist is free!
I thought for once I’d found a friend
to share the ward with me.

Rejection Sensitive Disphoria
just makes my life a pain.
I have to stop this poem now-
They’ve lost track of my brain.

Some ask about Disphoria.
It’s Greek for a heavy weight.
I thought that no one liked me;
That was a sad mistake.

Ha! Here is a solution.
I’ve re-aligned my mind
I’ve turned the whole thing inside out
I’m loved by all mankind.

David Townsend
  Ego sum laudatus

Dark Trade

Uncle Charly’s been released;
thirty days inside.
He had a set of handy tools
Only locksmiths can provide.

Three a.m. and all was dark;
along the street he slipped
when from a hedge a bobby leapt
and Charly boy was nicked.

It didn’t stop the family trade,
Charly saw to that.
He taught me skills that keep us fed,
I pick in seconds flat.

Of course, caronavirus means
I’m OK in a mask,
but people mostly stay at home
which complicates my task.

I’m very fond of cat doors
because I’m rather slim.
I slide quit easily through them,
there isn’t any din.

And animals just love me.
They never make a sound,
they think I’m just the sweetest thing,
They follow me around.

They lick my leg as I pocket
the jewelry from the drawer,
They let me lift a pile of cash,
They beg me, Take some more!

Of course you’re wondering
is it something Zen?
The truth is very plain, you see,
next year I’m turning ten.

My Family

I’m descended from an Emperor
and several Kings at least,
as well as Father Owen,
a naughty Irish Priest.

There were also Vikings,
Hit the West Isles like a flood.
They ravished all the villages.
I’ve got them in my blood.

A shipwrecked Spanish sailor,
the last one of his crew,
He married Gwen from Swansea,
which is why my eyes are blue.

I’ll mention Jack the goat-herd
and Lairds amongst the crags.
Then some Flemish weavers,
who brightened up our rags.

There also was a German;-
Came in sixteen forty-two.
Married Liz, the hatter’s daughter;
Children quite a few.

Then, Moish had come from Lebanon,
a Rabbi on the run.
Hardly got to London Town,
before he had a son.

I’ve got this great collection,
A family tree that grew,
that proves beyond a trace of doubt:
I’m British through and through.

The Davies Goat

I’ve come to the end of my tether,
I’m a lonesome Billy Goat.
I’ve chewed my way through the pasture
and come to the end of the rope.

There’s a bunch of delicious berries
four tail-lengths more away.
I’ve been really puffing and straining;
can’t get them into play.

I strain and contemplate them:
They’re something that I miss.
It’s rather like the feeling
There’s more to life than this.

There’s a rumour down the goat-vine-
(we never get a grape)
we once roamed free on mountains
and even on the Cape.

My mother was a Spanish goat
My father came from Wales.
A Davies from Glamorgan,
or so I’ve heard the tales.

We once roamed free and blissful
upon the open hills
and leapt from rock to hillock
undaunted by the spills.

We leapt from every outcrop
Our hair flaired in the rush,
We chased excited Nanny goats
Across the Hindu Kush.

It’s just genetic memory,
Day-dreaming in the sun,
But maybe there’s a heaven
where we goats can run.

He’ll need us up there anyway
to lead the Sheep in line.
And I think I heard there’s mountains;
Mind adrift in Bible-time.

Uh, huh! Here comes trouble,
Now it’s ‘walkies’ to the barn.
Little Charlie’s got a tow-rope.
They’ll comb me for my yarn.

I know we’ll meet again one day
chomping through the grass
Meanwhile I’ll butt this aweful boy
he has a tempting arse!

MIDWINTER

In the bleak Midwinter
Far beneath the snow
Elves have built an igloo
In a place they know.
 

Warm burn golden oil lamps
Tended by a gnome,
Dozens of hydrangeas
In the perfect loam.

Pruned and dressed for winter
Here they quietly rest
Hibernating sweetly
Forming powerful zest

To burst forth in spring-time,
Glory of the earth
Beauty multi-coloured
heaven’s bliss to birth.

Very close to heaven,
here Dave’s heart is girth,
beauty stored to leaven
gardens of the earth.

Skipped coronavirus
as their heart is strong!
Metered multi-distant,
Best way to belong.

DRIFTS IN TIME

I hate cuckoo clocks. I was twenty-one and began boarding  in Parkville because my parents thought it appropriate that I leave home at my age. This boarding house had been a student boarding house for many years. There were twelve of us, eight men and four women. The female students were a new innovation that the owner had reluctantly accepted in the face of social evolution and the expensive of gender distinctive facilities. During my first night a cuckoo clock cuckooed every hour all night and woke me every hour. In the morning, I created a small catch and set it by the cuckoo’s door.

I was interrupted in the task by a fellow inmate, George Thompson. “What the hell are you doing?”

I explained that cuckoos of that species get tired if required to emit their blasted squawk every hour for twenty-four, and it I would permit it to rest at night.

He regarded me with that quizzical look peculiar to University students, a meld of suspicion and acceptance of idiosyncrasy in a shared  culture. Then he walked away without further comment.

So, every night before bed I snibbed the cuckoo shut in its clock, and in the morning, I released it. Nobody else seemed to notice.

The one advantage of the house was the house mistress’s  daughter. Landlady’s daughters are girls at risk, if they are attractive, and often if they are not. Helen was more than attractive. She was bright and cheerful, and her pale blue eyes sparkled as she spoke. She waited on the tables and brought joy to breakfast.

The one limit to greater enjoyment was her mother. Queen Boadicea could not have projected a more fearful presence. Mrs. Hartison had made it clear that flirting with her daughter, Helen, meant instant expulsion. There did not seem to be a male owner in the establishment. It was assumed by other residents that he had fled.

My pursuit of Helen was not a student’s desire to break the rules. I fell in love. It was a love I was unable to express but consumed me, nevertheless. But then, by detective work worthy of Hercule Piorot I discovered that Helen was a student at a hospitality college of some sort in Collingwood. I followed her there and managed to speak with her. It was amazing. I had caught her eye. We continued to meet secretly for over a year, sometimes managing a hidden picnic in the grounds of the Melbourne Cemetery.

The time came for me to graduate. I had done Arts because I didn’t know what else to do. Like a number of others, I shifted into Dip. Ed. while waiting for enlightenment.

I then decided that the time had come to confront Mrs. Hartison and bring my love into the open. Helen seemed happy with this, so one evening I requested an interview with Mrs. Hartison and taking Helen with me, I bared my soul.

Within seconds there was a bomb like explosion. The screams reduced Helen to a shrivelling five-year-old. I was physically pushed into the corridor and told to clear my room. The Queen stood in her doorway until I left. 

Black was the night that bound me,
Harsh was the storm above.
A fearsome harridan ogre
kept me from my love.

I was hurt beyond measure. Only teaching was left. I was sent to Druin and married the Art Teacher. We have three children and long since have worked our way back to a High School in Melbourne and subsided into suburban life.

My psychiatrist has a hypothesis that past events are mere learning experiences and should be let go, but every now and again my mind drifts to a worn gravestone, and reaching over it I hold my true love fleetingly in the tangle of twisted emotions of what might have been.

Grief is the tie that binds me,
Sharp are the claws that rip
the innards of a memory
that will not give to slip.

Connan

They called Connan the strange one. He was a solitary boy without friends. He played by himself. The Freemans lived in a wooden house on the edge of town, hard against the bush.

Connan loved to go into the bush. His parents let this eleven-year-old boy free all Saturday. Into the bush he went, although never far from home.

He found a space and sat down. He ceased all movement, his breath slow and steady. He watched. After about thirty minutes everything returned to normal. He became part of the bush.

His head didn’t move, but his eyes swept constantly over the scene. There was a pile of bark at the root of a tree which revealed beetles, a small tangle of ground plants which were a known haunt of a Blue-tongue lizard, a rock lounged upon by skinks and concealing a family of scorpions, and some previous generation’s hydrangea that attracted butterflies. Insects buzzed their way through his vision, and bird calls filled the air. Into the stillness before him, a pair of honeyeaters flittered from bush to bush close to his face.

Connan gradually became aware of an incongruity. Something didn’t fit. He couldn’t decide what it was. He would wait. It would come to him- in time.

He began a minute search of his world. He knew what to do. He set up a grid in his mind and systematically shifted his vision from square to square. Several intense minutes passed before he recognised the discrepancy. 

A bush in the undergrowth was the wrong shape. Connan let his awareness take it in. His focus drifted around the bush and through it. It slowly resolved itself into a boy: a boy about his own age, clad in clothes the same grey-green as the bushes.

The boy spoke, “Hello, Connan, I’m Marcus. I live on a farm over the ridge.”

Connan rasped out, “How did you get here. Why are you here?”

“You watch creatures, Connan, I watch people. I know that you watch creatures because they are easier to deal with than people. People frighten you. Perhaps it’s time to make a  change.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Connan said. It was his usual response to disturbing accusations.

Marcus stood up. “Come over here, Connan.”

Connan walked to him. He paused hesitantly outside striking distance. Marcus reached out easily and pulled him closer. He spoke to Connan for several minutes, and finished, “You have to practice this. Practice it and do it. Of course, you will fail sometimes, but mostly you will achieve what you want. Go home now, I have to go home, too.”

Connan went home. He didn’t mention the boy he had met in the bush. He went into his bedroom and sat on the bed and thought. He didn’t need to write anything down. It was burnt into his brain.

***

Doctor Connan Freeman was an arborist of note. He had completed his Ph.D. on eucalyptus lignotuber, and devoted his time to reafforestation and koala conservation. He had met his wife, Fiona, at University. She was a specialist in fungi, and they joked that they were connected underground. They had four robust children.

Both Connan and Fiona worked mostly for the Department of Environment in conjunction with Departments and Universities along the East Coast.

One Saturday night in May, Connan collapsed onto the couch in the living room and hoped that nothing would happen for a while. It was ridiculous that once you became a leader, much of your time was taken up fighting for funding. The State Government was broke and sacking people, Commonwealth funds were tight, and this meant continual presentations to non-government groups keen to save trees and koalas and other wildlife. Fiona’s work was still funded, probably because the Estimates Committee didn’t know what  eukaryotic organisms were, and didn’t dare ask.

The previous week had included two government committee meetings and three presentations. Connan believed that he had won them all, but he would have to wait for documentation. One of his colleagues had given up and resigned, but more had been sacked under governmental austerity directions, which meant he had more work to do. Managers in Parks were being laid off, as well, which would lead to a decline in services, and, subsequently, forest welfare.

The scream of a four-year old disturbed him, and he stood up. Lisa’s screams could mean anything from beheading to a slight irritation. He heard Fiona call, “It’s OK, I’ve got it.” But he kept moving anyway, to find out what was happening. Lisa was the youngest, and irrationally believed she should have more attention.

He walked into his daughter’s room. “Bobbet took my bear.” Lisa stormed.

Robert was seven, and had his defence ready. “She left the bear in the hallway, so I took it to the back room out of the way.” None of the children lied, so it was probably just confusion. Fiona and Connan hushed them down.

Elizabeth arrived. She was nine, and was learning the violin. Connan had organised a space at the rear of the garage for her to practice in, which sometimes meant she was out of contact. “What was the scream?” she asked.

Lisa was about to tell all when Fiona interrupted. “Nothing, just the children misunderstanding. It’s getting towards bedtime. So, you had all better finish up what you are doing.”

Connan went back to the lounge and sat on the couch. In a few minutes he would go and assist the into bed routine with the little ones. He stretched back just in time to be interrupted by his eldest son, who was clutching a book. He was a ferocious reader. He plonked himself beside Connan and asked, “Dad, the man in this book believes in angels. Do you believe in angels?”

Connan smiled, “Yes, I think so.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“Yes, I think so.”

His son stared at him. “Did it have wings?”

Connan wasn’t sure what to tell him, then, “No, he looked very much like you.”

“How did you know he was an angel?”

Connan looked into his curious face. “He told me something that changed my life.” Connan didn’t add that when he was seventeen, he had determined to find Marcus, and had discovered that there was no farm over the ridge, and nobody had ever heard of a boy called Marcus in the area. He had gone back into the bush where he had seen Marcus. Where he had stood there was a very vigorous gum growing, and sitting in its branches a koala. He was overcome with an awe, it defined his life, and had shared only with Fiona that this was a spiritual experience.

His son was poking him. “What did he tell you?”

“He told me something that I have already shared with you and you have become. Foreshadowing, acting into your future self.”

“How did that change you?”

Connan told him, “I was a very withdrawn boy. He taught me to act into what I wanted, and I did. I became more assertive (his father’s version had been ‘more aggressive’) and I got into things at school and achieved a lot. Marcus taught me courage.”

His son sat up. “Hey, I’m Marcus!”

“True, and you were naturally named after him. But don’t go around saying that your father saw an angel. Marcus had a great effect on me, and I later decided he was an angel. Let’s just say I met a boy when I was a boy, and he greatly influenced me. Maybe there are people you will meet who have a great effect on you, and you may like to think that they are an angel.”

Marcus snuggled into him. “Daddy, I’ve already met one.”

Connan called Fiona in. “I’ve told Marcus where his name came from.”

Fiona dropped down and hugged Marcus. “Your grandparents thought it would be nice if you were also named Connan, but I said that two Connans in the world would be too much, so we named you after an angel. You are a little angel.”

Marcus eyed her warily.  “Last time you called me a little angel, you wanted me to clean the back yard.”

“No.” She ruffled his hair. “You are one fabulous kid. The only downside is that you take after your father.” They laughed and entangled giggling on the couch till they were forcefully interrupted by Elizabeth.

“Are you putting me to bed, or what?” 

Four Change Worlds

You can get stuck for holidays. Craig and Sam were brothers. Crag was oldest. Both their parents worked and couldn’t get leave, so they were sent to their grandmother’s place in Cresstown, way out in the bush. When they arrived, they found that two cousins had also been sent, Angie and Liz. They weren’t sisters, just cousins. Liz was the youngest, she was only eight. The others were older. Craig and Angie were looking forward to going to High School one year soon. The four of them found themselves in a room with two bunk beds. From the window they could see the back yard. There was a big farm tractor shed, and a work shed, and lots of vegetables. Craig and Sam didn’t know the girls very well. They sat on the bottom bunks and talked about their parents and  how they had dumped them on a farm for the holidays that afternoon.

Grandma called them to come for tea. “Now, children, you will have to play and look after yourselves a lot. Grandad isn’t very strong, and I run the farm, so I am busy all the time. Angie and Craig, you will make sure the younger ones are looked after. I expect you back in the house before dark every day, and don’t go into the bull’s paddock or near the geese. You can help feed the chooks and find the eggs each morning. I will leave sandwiches for you each day. That’s the best I can manage. I see you each have your own water bottles, so that will be enough. After tea you go to bed. I have to feed grandpa and clean up. Sam, you have to have two pills after breakfast. I will leave the bottles on the table, and you take them yourself.”

Craig laughed. “It’s my job to see that he takes them. One’s Ritalin and the other is a suppressor. If he doesn’t have then he gets really snarky.”

Angie asked, “What’s snarky mean?”

“It’s a combination of sneaky and nasty. He needs the pills. He’s got ADHD.”

“Enough, children. Finish your tea and go to your room,” Grandma said.

The children went to their room. Craig said, “What do you want to do tomorrow?” 

“The only thing we can do is explore,” Angie said. “There is bush at the back of the paddock behind the house. We could explore there. Mum said there was a deserted farmhouse in the bush behind this house. We could try that.”

Liz muttered, “They don’t seem to have any books here, so I will have to come with you.”

Sam was surprised, “We will have to do everything together. We are the only kids here. Dad said there are no other people for a long way. This farm is even far from a town. We can’t go and buy things.”

Liz was worried. “Do you think grandma has sweets?” 

“Trust you to think of that,” Craig said. There were sweets at that Christmas party we came to once. No harm in hoping.”

They pulled on pyjamas. Angie poked Sam. “Tell us a story. You are supposed to tell stories.”

“O. K., “ Sam said. And he started a story about a detective, which was his favourite.

After breakfast the next morning the children set off to find the deserted farmhouse. There was a track through the bush, so they walked confidently, but after a while the track veered away to the right. The bush was fairly open, so they cut off the track and walked towards the house. The house came into sight eventually, but it was still a long walk to reach it. They stopped and stared at it when it came into view. It was one story but very big. Like lots of old farmhouses there was a veranda all the way round.

Angie said, “There must be dozens of rooms. I don’t think I have seen a house that big.”

“It looks empty,” Craig said. “Let’s go and look.”

“How can you tell?” Liz asked, “There might be people there.”

Craig told her, “Easy to find out. We knock on the door. If someone answers, we just say we are on holiday at the farm and wanted to say hello.”

They received no response from the front door and wandered around the verandas looking in the windows. Ther were no curtains, and all the rooms were empty.

“Let’s get inside,” Angie said. They went back to the front door and tried the handle. To their surprise, it opened. They walked into a big, empty room. “This is amazing,” Sam said. “There is nothing here. I have never been in a room like this.” They wandered from room to room. All were the same. Empty.

“Ther is no furniture, no pictures,” Liz said.

“And no cobwebs or mess,” Sam said. “All the TV I have seen, deserted houses have cobwebs and mess. This is clean. But dusty,” he said, running his finger along a window ledge.

The place makes me feel uncomfortable, “Angie said. “I feel funny inside.”

“I feel really odd, “Sam said. “The house is the wrong shape.”

Craig didn’t look happy. “Sam thinks in shapes. It’s his head. Everything has to be the right shape. And I agree, the place doesn’t feel quite right.”

“Do we just get out and leave it?”

Craig said, “I don’t like leaving things. I want to know. Why don’t we measure it up and see why the shape is wrong? There will be a long tape measure in grandpa’s shed, and we can bring some paper tomorrow. We only have to measure some of the rooms’ walls.” Let’s have lunch and walk back to the farm. If grandpa is well enough we can visit him before tea.”

Next morning they set out for the old farmhouse with all they needed in their backpacks. The sun was shining and there were birds calling in the bush. They saw a wallaby and a lizard with a funny tail as they walked. They reached the house and immediately let Sam sketch the outside walls as Angie and the others measured them.

Sam had made a big outline of the house. “We have to add in the thickness of the walls to the measurements. Let’s go room by room through the house and see what we’ve got.” It took a lot longer than they expected to measure all the rooms and get them down on Sam’s sketch. When he finished, they looked at the sketch. The plan of the house was odd because inside the left of the house there was a big gap in the middle. 

“We can’t have made a mistake,” said Sam. “There’s a hidden room right inside the house and we missed it. We will have to go back to these rooms here.” He tapped some rooms on the map, “and check the walls. There must be a door somewhere.”

Angie said, “I am pretty sure I would have noticed any door. The only thing that’s different is in this room.” She pointed to a room near the front. “It has old bookcases lining all the walls. Hey, I’ve seen a film about secret doors in bookcases. Let’s go and try them.” So, they trooped into the front room and looked at the bookcases. They were empty, of course. 

“What you do?” Angie asked.  And Sam said, “You push, pull and swish from side to side. All of them. And see if one of them opens up.” And so the four began working at the shelves, pulling them, pushing them, twisting them. It didn’t take long to go try every one. Nothing seemed to happen.

“Perhaps there’s a magic word.” Liz said. 

“Oh, come on. That’s a bit fairy story,” Craig said. “Look, there’s a tiny space between these shelves. There are more screws, too. Perhaps this is the door. Push all the screws. Hey, hey, hey, here we come. It’s opening.” A doorway made out of bookshelf swung out.

They looked into another dark inner room. There was a dirty skylight which let in a little bit of light. The room looked quite empty. Dull. “I think it’s safe enough, Craig said.

Angie said, “Come on,” and led them into the room. They were stunned when there was a woosh and the door shut behind them. 

“I don’t like this at all. This is frightening,” Sam said. 

“I know,” said Angie. “I feel very, very funny. It’s just too strange. And something’s going wrong. It’s getting darker and darker. “This is frightening. It’s getting … It’s completely dark. Everybody hold hands. I don’t feel right at all.”  Craig, said. “It feels as if the floor is shifting. It shouldn’t be shifting. It’s …. Help! The floor is falling!”

The four woke up In a field in the middle of a flock of sheep. “What on Earth happened?” Craig said. “Where we? We’re not a grandma’s farm, that’s for sure.” And he said, “These aren’t Australian sheep at all. And they seem very tame.”

The children stood up and looked around. There was the big flock of sheep and there was no one else visible at all. The field was on the edge of a big forest. “There’s a bit of a hill over there,” Angie said, “let’s go there and look around.” They walked out of the sheep and climbed the little hill. There was a building in the far distance and a clump of trees close by. They could see the edge of a house sticking out one corner of the trees. And then they heard sobbing, crying. But it wasn’t a child. It was a grown up. They walked towards the trees and the crying. The  crying got louder and louder. When I got to the house, they found a woman crying hard. “Angie asked, “What’s the matter?”

The woman said, “The thugs have stolen my two children They’ve taken them away to be slaves or worse.” Craig asked, “What thugs?” The woman said, “There’s a group of men who live in that castle you can see. They take local children. We can’t do anything about it. They’re too strong.”

“Can’t you call the police?” Sam asked.

“What are police?” the woman wanted to know. Craig said, “Hey, what country are we in?”

“Aslucia.” 

“I’ve never heard of it,” said Craig. “What year is it?” 

“It’s the third cycle of the star. Year Three hundred and six,” the woman said. “Don’t you know that?”

“It’s 2025 to me.” Craig said, “I think that we’re in a different world.”

The woman sobbed. “I was praying for an army of soldiers to come and help me There’s no one here. You’ve come. You’re children and they will see you and make you slaves as well.”

“No, they won’t.”  said Craig. 

Angie looked around. “There are no men about. Do the thugs come here often?” 

“Oh no.” The woman said. “they only come out to capture a child. We think they have a factory. They make the children work or worse, we think.”

“How many thugs?” Angie asked.

“I have only seen three,” the woman said. “We think they have twenty children or more in that house.”

“I don’t know how we can help,” Craig said. “We can’t fight men.”
“But there is magic,” Angie said. “We were brought here by some sort of magic.”

Sam was looking at the castle in the distance. “We need a drone to look at that.”

Angie said, “In the magic of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe there were talking animals. I am going to try . There are magpies over there. They could have look.” She stretched out her arm and let out a shrill whistle.

None of the magpies seemed to take any notice, and she was just about to let out another whistle when an owl landed on her arm. It had big claws and she was glad she was wearing a thick jacket. She said to the owl, “We need to know how many adults and how many children are in the castle.” The owl flew away towards it.

Sam kept watching the owl. “If it comes back, do you think it will talk?”

Craig said, “Keep watching. But even if it comes back, I don’t know how we are going to rescue the children.” He turned to the woman, who looked more frightened than ever. “What are your children’s names?”

“Grath, he is nine, and Lisha, she is eight.”

“Here comes the owl,” Angie said. She put out her arm and the owl landed on it. “How many adults?” she asked. The owl tapped her hand six times. “How many are men?” The owl tapped her hand four times. “How many children?” The owl tapped her hand twenty-one times, and flew off.

“Well, that answers that,” Angie said. “ Owls don’t speak but they understand. This is peculiar.”

“No, it’s magic,” Craig said. “We came here by magic and I think we were brought here by some power. We are supposed to be here and rescue the children, and maybe we have magic powers. Perhaps there are other animals that will help, maybe even people. I am going to try.”

Craig turned and faced the forest beyond the open land where the sheep grazed. He lifted his voice and said, “I command my helpers to show themselves.”

Nothing happened for a minute, and Craig wondered what to do next. Then some big dogs slunk out of the forest. The woman shrieked, “Wolves! Get in the house, fast, or they will eat you.”

Angie grabbed the two younger children and pushed them into the house, but Craig stood his ground as the pack of about fifteen wolves trotted up. When they were close, he held up his hand and said, “Stop.”

The wolves stopped.

“Craig said, “Leader, come to me.” The biggest wolf came forward and lay down at Craig’s feet.

Angie said, “That’s amazing. I could have a helper. I have always wanted a tiger.” She faced the forest and said, “Tiger, come forth.”

Once again they waited, and then there was a movement at the edge of the forest, and a tiger emerged. It was an extra large tiger. It loped up to Angie and lay down at her feet.

“This should be a strong enough force to attack the castle,” Craig said, but Sam was wriggling. “I want one , too.”

“Oh, don’t,” Carig said, “you will do something stupid.”
Sam wasn’t listening. “I command a Tyrannosaurus Rex to help us!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Angie said, “they are extinct.”

But the forest began to shake and trees were pushed down. A huge animal appeared at the edge of the forest. Liz shrieked and ran to hug the woman. A massive dinosaur lumbered towards them.

Sam was excited. “Wow, amazing. A real dinosaur. No one will ever believe this.”

The dinosaur approached. It was at least three metres tall. It stopped at a distance and stood there.

Liz squeaked, “I am not having anything. I want to go home.”
“We can’t,” Angie said, “we have to rescue the children, we start now, come on.” The four set out towards the castle, with the animals following.

They came to the gate of the castle. It was actually a very big door, and it was shut. Angie said to the dinosaur, “Break down the door.”
The dinosaur did better. It leaned against the wall, and a huge chunk containing the door fell to the ground The children and animals rushed inside.

The space inside was bigger than they expected. There was a huge field of vegetables, and the captured children were hoeing and picking vegetables into baskets on their backs. There were three men with sticks walking about, hitting children they thought were too slow.

Everyone was already looking at the fallen wall. The lion roared, and the wolves howled. Out of a door in the wall two women appeared, wearing aprons. The men and women ran for their lives. They were so frightened that they jumped on the rooves of sheds and clambered over the walls. Craig said the wolves, “Hunt them down.”

Sam said, “There is one more man.” He strode over to a doorway, but it opened before he reached it. Out came a very big, tough looking man.

The man shouted, “What are you kids doing here. I’ll have you.” He slapped Sam hard in the face.

There was an explosion of arms and legs and teeth, The man wailed, “He’s bitten me! My ear, my thumb, my arm. Arrgh! He’s kicked me everywhere.” He fell to the ground and was writhing about. Carig said to Angie, “You wanted to know what snarky meant. That was Sam being snarky.”

“Angie asked, “Are all ADHD kids like that?”

“No. It’s very rare, Dad says. Sam is different, but he is really good at some things at school.”

Sam backed off, panting. The lion came and sat on the unhappy man. He stopped being unhappy. He looked up at the lion and was totally terrified.

Craig and Angie and Sam looked around at an astonishing sight. Liz was riding the neck of the dinosaur, surrounded by the freed children. Liz was laughing, “He’s tame. He’s friendly. I’m getting all the children to climb on. We are going for a ride. Come and stroke him. He came and licked me. He is loverly.”

Angie said, “I would never have believed it if someone told me Liz changed so fast, she is actually enjoying herself.”

“That’s great, “ Craig said, “But we have to get these children back to their parents. How are we going to do that?”

“The owl,” Angie said, and she stretched out her arm. The owl settled on it. She said to the owl, “All the parents need to come to collect their children. Invite them, please.”

The owl flew away. Angie said, “Those women came out of a kitchen, Let’s go and look.”

They went into the kitchen. There was horrible food in bowls. “This must be what they fed the children. The adults wouldn’t have eaten this. There is another kitchen through here.”

They walked into a beautiful kitchen with a pantry stuffed with wonderful food. “There is enough for a party,” Craig said. “Let’s get everyone together and have a party as soon as the parents arrive.”

It took nearly a day before all the parents came together. They were so happy to have their children free. Craig and Angie and Sam and Liz organised a massive party.

Angie said, “We can’t have animals here. They are frightening the parents.”

“Right, “ Craig said to the animals, “Thank you for your help. Now go back to where you came from.”

The animals trotted back into the forest.

After the party, Angie said, “I think it’s time we went back to where we came from, too. It’s time. Back to the empty house.”

They held hands and chanted together, “We are going back to the empty house.”

And I am sorry, I can’t tell you whether they got back to the empty house safely, because that is another story.

David Townsend 2025