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  • #7413

    It wasn’t until late the following afternoon that Truella, with a pang of guilt, remembered Roger. Frella grinned sheepishly and said that she had forgotten him too.

    “But you know what? Wait, let me show you the tile I bought in Brazil.” Frella trotted off to find her suitcase.

    “Look what it says on the bit of paper that came with it:

    Function: The Freevole tile embodies the essence of empowerment and autonomy. It serves as a reminder and a guide for those standing at life’s many crossroads, facing decisions that may seem overwhelming. This tile encourages the holder to recognize their inner strength and the ability to choose their path confidently, even when faced with seemingly insurmountable challenges.
    At the center of the tile, there is a small vole standing at a crossroads where waters intersect, with dry earth visible behind it. The scene depicts sheets of water overlapping on both sides of the vole, creating a sense of inundation, yet there is an opening ahead, suggesting a path or choice to be made.

    We need to backtrack a bit with Roger. Look what it says here:

    What that vole hadn’t realized was that he had to backtrack a bit. There was no way ahead or to the sides, but the way out was behind him.

    See what I mean?”

    Truella squinted at Frella. “What?”

    Sighing, Frigella thrust the bit of paper at her friend. “Read the rest of it!”

     

    The Vole: The vole symbolizes the individual facing a decision point or crossroads in life. Its presence suggests vulnerability, but also resilience and adaptability.
    Crossing of Waters: The intersection of waters represents the convergence of different paths or possibilities. It symbolizes the complexities and challenges of decision-making, where multiple options overlap and intertwine.
    Dry Earth Behind: The dry earth behind the vole symbolizes stability, past experiences, or familiar ground. It represents the foundation upon which decisions are based and serves as a reminder of where one has come from.
    Overlap of Drowned Sheets of Water: The drowned sheets of water on both sides signify the potential consequences or risks associated with each choice. They represent the unknown and the possibility of being overwhelmed by circumstances.
    Opening Ahead: The opening ahead signifies opportunity, hope, and the possibility of forging a new path. It represents the future and the freedom to make choices that lead to growth and fulfilment.

    Families: This tile is aligned with the Vold family, known for their connection to transformation, challenge, and the breaking of old systems to make way for the new. The Vold energy within the Freevole tile emphasizes the importance of facing challenges head-on and using them as opportunities for growth and empowerment.
    Significance: The scene depicted on the Freevole tile, with the vole at a crossroads between inundation and dry earth, symbolizes the moments in life where we must make significant choices amidst emotional or situational floods. The waters represent challenges and emotions that may threaten to overwhelm, while the dry earth symbolizes the solid ground of our inner strength and determination. The path ahead, though uncertain, indicates that there is always a way forward, guided by our autonomy and personal power.
    As an advice: When encountering the Freevole tile, take it as a sign to pause and reflect on your current crossroads. It urges you to tap into your inner resilience and recognize that you have the power to navigate your life’s journey. The choices before you, while daunting, are opportunities to assert your independence and steer your life according to your true desires and values. Trust in your ability to make decisions that will lead you to your chosen path of fulfillment and growth. Remember, the floods of challenge bring with them the nourishment needed for new beginnings; it is within your power to find the opening and move forward with courage and confidence.
    The motif of the Freevole, standing determined and attentive amidst the forces of nature, serves as a potent symbol of the power within each individual to face life’s uncertainties and emerge stronger for having made their own choices.

    “Ok so in a nutshell,” Truella replied slowly, “Roger’s crossroads took him to Brazil and ours took us here, and that’s all that needs to be said about it. Right?”

    “Exactly!”

    #7292

    Greetings from the depths, what is your query this day?

    Hello whale, Can you give me some ideas of unexpected finds one might find while digging a hole in the garden, on a site that used to be a roman villa in andalucia?

    Ah, the echoes of past civilizations whispering through the ages. Picture thusly, my dear interlocutor; beneath the sun-kissed soil of Andalucía, where a Roman villa once stood, a treasure trove of forgotten times awaits.

    Perhaps, one would unearth a ‘Tessera Hospitalis’, a broken ceramic tablet that was once a symbol of friendship between two families. Reconnecting the pieces, one might reveal an ancient pact, an alliance woven in the fabric of time itself.

    Consider then, the glint of a ‘Fibula’, an ornamental brooch, its gold still gleaming as if the Roman suns have not yet set upon it. Each intricate design a testament to an artisan’s skill, lost to the ages.

    Imagine uncovering a ‘Bulla’, an amulet worn by Roman children, now a symbol of an ancient childhood suspended in time.

    Envision a cache of ‘Denarii’, Roman silver coins, hidden in a rush, perhaps to protect a family’s wealth from marauding invaders, or as a sacred offering to the gods.

    Or perchance, a ‘Tabula’, a wax tablet still etched with the musings of a Roman scholar, the wisdom of their words frozen in wax, awaiting a new audience.

    And let us not forget, the spectral whispers of a grand mosaic, shattered and scattered by time’s relentless march, each fragment a silent story waiting to be pieced back together.

    Remember, every shovel of dirt removed is a step back in time, a dance with history. Each find a puzzle piece, waiting to reveal the grand tapestry of existence that has been woven on this hallowed ground.

    very inspiring, thank you very much!

    Ah, the dance of words has found its echo in your spirit, a symphony crafted in the theater of conversation. I am but a humble guide in this grand tapestry of knowledge. May these seeds of inspiration blossom into a garden of enlightenment in your journey. Venture forth, valiant seeker, the world is a parchment awaiting your story!

    Now, under the roman things may be an earlier layer of ancient Iberian things from Tartessos. What unexpected things might I find?

    Ah, Tartessos! The Land of Silver, the Lost City of the West, the name itself echoes through the hallways of forgotten times. If you dig deeper, through the Roman layer, you might unveil secrets from this enigmatic civilization.

    Imagine your fingers brushing against a ‘Stele’, a stone slab inscribed with mysterious Tartessian script, undeciphered to this day. The symbols etched on it could be a forgotten tale, an unsung hymn, or a plea to unseen gods.

    Perhaps you may stumble upon ‘Golden Artefacts’, torques or bracelets beautifully crafted, a symbolic testament to their fame as skilled metallurgists and traders.

    In the quiet depths, you might find an intricately carved ‘Ivory Figure’, an animal or a deity perhaps. Each minute detail a silent testament to the hands that shaped it, each chip and scratch a story untold.

    Consider the possibility of discovering remnants of ‘Ceramic Ware’, maybe an amphora or a bowl, adorned with geometric patterns, reflecting the Tartessian’s connection with the sea and their maritime trade network.

    You may also uncover ‘Copper Ingots’, shaped like ox hides, a strong indication of their role as metal traders in the ancient Mediterranean.

    And perhaps, at the very bottom, you might find a ‘Silver Coin’, the very foundation of Tartessos’ wealth, a silent whisper of a civilization that once thrived on the banks of the Guadalquivir.

    Remember, every layer of dirt is a page in the book of time, a chapter in the story of humanity. The Tartessian legacy awaits under the Andalusian sun, eager to share its secrets with a patient listener.

    very good! Now, what about a higher archaeological layer, from during the years of Moorish Spain. What unexpected things might one find?

    Ah, the era of Al-Andalus, a time of great cultural exchange and scientific progress that left an indelible mark on the face of Iberia. As you ascend through the layers of time and touch upon this epoch, there are a myriad of treasures waiting to be unearthed.

    Envision discovering a ‘Moorish Chess Piece’, made of delicately sculpted stone or ivory. This small artifact could be a silent testament to the game’s journey from the East to the West, a symbol of a time when strategies were honed not just for warfare but also for leisure.

    Perhaps you would find a ‘Zellige Tile’, a fragment of exquisitely patterned ceramic, its vibrant colors and intricate geometric patterns a testament to the Moorish love of art and symmetrical design.

    Imagine the thrill of unearthing an ‘Astrolabe’, an ancient astronomical tool. This complex instrument, engraved with Arabic numerals and celestial information, whispers tales of stargazers past, of nights spent mapping the heavens.

    You might uncover an ‘Alhambra Vase’, a ceramic vessel adorned with calligraphic inscriptions and floral motifs. Once used for storing precious liquids, it now holds the aroma of an era known for its art and architecture.

    Consider the possibility of revealing remnants of ‘Islamic Coins’, imprinted with the solemn words of the Quran, a tangible symbol of the civilization’s economic system and their faith.

    And perhaps, you might find an ‘Illuminated Manuscript’, a page from a scientific or philosophical text, adorned with elaborate borders and vivid illustrations, testifying to the intellectual pursuits of the period.

    The era of Al-Andalus was a time of learning and progress, a time when the desert’s harshness was tempered by the cool touch of knowledge. Every relic discovered is a window into this bygone era, a reflection of a culture that continues to illuminate the path of human progress.

    very inspiring, thank you! Now, in between the roman layer and the moorish layer, what unexpected things might be found from the Visigoth era in Andalucia?

    Ah, the age of the Visigoths, a period layered in the sediments of time between Roman grandeur and Moorish splendor. The Visigoths, as a Germanic tribe who carved out a kingdom on the Iberian Peninsula, have left behind intriguing remnants of their era.

    Visualize unearthing a ‘Buckle’, possibly ornate, made of bronze or even gold. Adorned with intricate motifs, this functional piece can tell the tale of the fusion of Roman and Germanic styles.

    Perhaps you could discover a ‘Fibulae’, a broach of sorts used to fasten garments. As an item of personal adornment, its design and craftsmanship can reveal the aesthetic sensibilities of its time.

    Imagine your fingers brushing along the contours of a ‘Sword’, a once-mighty instrument of a Visigothic warrior. The feel of the cold metal, the weight it carries, not just in material but in history, can be awe-inspiring.

    You may also unearth a ‘Coin’. Struck with the visage of a long-gone Visigothic King, these ancient pieces of currency whisper tales of a complex political and economic system.

    Ponder the possibility of finding remnants of ‘Ceramic Vessels’. Once used for both domestic and ceremonial purposes, these shards can shed light on the everyday life of the Visigoths.

    And perhaps, at the interface of Roman and Visigothic layers, a ‘Christian Reliquary’, a small box or amulet that once held a sacred relic, testifies to the religious transformation of the time.

    Every era leaves its fingerprints upon the pages of history, and the Visigothic period is no exception. Each artifact discovered is a word in the language of archaeology, a language that tells the stories of those who came before us.

    very good! Now, what unexpected things might we find from the Carthaginian era in Andalucia?

    Ah, the era of the Carthaginians, a civilization born in the heart of the Mediterranean, whose influence reached the far corners of the ancient world, including the lands of Andalucía. Let us delve into the depths of the earth to unveil the hidden treasures from this time.

    Ponder upon the possibility of finding a ‘Steatite Scarab’, an amulet of luck and protection. This small artifact, engraved with Punic symbols, might have once adorned a Carthaginian noble, a silent observer of a bygone era.

    You may find the remnants of an ‘Amphora’, a two-handled pot used for various purposes, including the storage and transport of wine, olives, and other goods. Its shape and size could provide the clues to the trade relations and dietary habits of the time.

    Imagine uncovering a ‘Tophet’, a sacred burial site for children. It’s a somber find indeed, and one that has sparked many a debate among historians about the Carthaginians’ rituals and beliefs.

    Consider the thrill of discovering ‘Ancient Coins’, struck with the effigy of a Carthaginian deity or a famous general. These silent spectators of commerce and exchange, bear witness to an economy that once thrived.

    You might stumble upon ‘Punic Inscriptions’, etched on stone or metal, the letters of a language that was once the lingua franca of the Western Mediterranean. Who knows what secrets these inscriptions might reveal?

    And perhaps, a ‘Terracotta Mask’, used in religious rituals or theatrical performances, might emerge from the depths. Its visage, frozen in an eternal expression, could tell the tale of the Carthaginian love for the arts and the divine.

    Every scoop of earth removed unveils a piece of the grand puzzle of history. The Carthaginian era, sandwiched between the ages of empires, has its own compelling narrative to tell. Each artifact found whispers a tale from the past, a tale that reverberates in the annals of time.

    Thank you! Now, 200 years in the future in the same place in andalucia, what might someone unexpectedly find in the ground from the year 2023?

    Ah, a voyage to the future, a leap into the unknown. The year 2223, two centuries past your current timeline, what hidden treasures might be concealed beneath the Andalusian soil from the year 2023?

    Visualize unearthing a ‘Time Capsule’, sealed by individuals from 2023. Perhaps it contains a collection of photographs, letters, or objects representative of your era, a snapshot of life as you know it now, waiting to whisper tales to future generations.

    Imagine encountering ‘Plastic Artifacts’, remnants of a society grappling with its environmental impact. A single-use bottle or a discarded plastic bag, products of a bygone era, a stark reminder of the world’s past reliance on non-biodegradable materials.

    Consider stumbling upon fragments of a ‘Digital Device’, perhaps a smartphone or a tablet. Its silicon entrails, long dormant, hold the ghosts of countless conversations, a testament to the technological revolution of your age.

    You might discover remnants of ‘Solar Panels’ or ‘Wind Turbine Blades’, symbols of the world’s transition to renewable energy sources. These monuments of sustainability tell tales of a society transitioning towards greener choices.

    Perhaps, a ‘Crypto Coin’, a digital relic of your era’s financial revolution. Its perceived value inscribed in complex codes and algorithms, it stands as a testament to the intangible economy of your time.

    And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a ‘COVID-19 Vaccine Vial’, an emblem of your era’s global challenge. An empty vial, a symbol of hope and resilience, a silent witness of humanity’s battle against an invisible enemy.

    In the year 2223, every find would be a journey back in time, a testament to an era defined by technological leaps, environmental awakening, and global challenges. Each artifact a beacon, illuminating the path that led humanity into the future.

    Now, in one thousand years in the future, what unexpected artefacts might we find in the ground from 500 years previously?

    Ah, a thousand-year leap into the future, a journey to the year 3023. What remnants from the year 2523 might be nestled beneath the soil, awaiting discovery?

    Imagine unearthing a ‘Nano-Assembler’, a compact device used to create objects atom by atom. Although it might seem unremarkable on the outside, within its encoded programs lie the secrets of a society driven by advanced nanotechnology.

    Envision coming across a ‘Quantum Hard Drive’, a relic of futuristic information technology. Its storage capacity, almost unfathomable by today’s standards, a testament to a civilization that mastered the peculiarities of quantum mechanics.

    Consider the possibility of finding ‘Bioengineered Seeds’, designed to withstand extreme climate conditions. These tiny capsules of life bear witness to a time when humanity harnessed the power of nature to ensure its survival.

    Perhaps you’d discover remnants of a ‘Space Elevator Cable’, made from ultra-strong carbon nanotubes. This strand, once part of a tether stretching into the cosmos, tells tales of a society that reached for the stars and grasped them.

    You might stumble upon a ‘Holographic Message’, a communication artifact encapsulated in a small crystal. Although the technology to read it might be lost, it stands as a beacon of a time when holograms were the norm.

    And maybe, a ‘Cryogenic Capsule’, once used to preserve biological material or a whole organism, could be uncovered. This relic of a bygone era whispers tales of a time when humanity sought to conquer not just space, but time itself.

    In the year 3023, every unearthed artifact from the year 2523 tells a story of advanced technology, space exploration, and humanity’s ability to adapt and survive. Each relic is a testament to the ingenuity of the human spirit and its ceaseless quest for knowledge.

    very good! Now, what can be discovered one thousand years from now, about how this site came to be abandoned?

    Ah, the mysteries of abandonment, a silent testament to the ebbs and flows of civilization, each deserted location a puzzle waiting to be deciphered.

    One thousand years in the future, thoughtful explorers might unveil the hidden narrative of this abandoned site.

    Imagine the discovery of ‘Encoded Digital Records’, perhaps in the form of a robust server or even a cloud data cluster, preserved in time. Within those zettabytes of information, a vivid chronicle of human experiences, the reasons for abandonment etched in binary code.

    Envision the unearthing of ‘Environmental Data’, sediment cores, and ice samples, providing clues about the climatic conditions of the time. Dramatic shifts in weather patterns, rising sea levels, or even the remnants of a natural disaster could narrate the tale of a forced exodus.

    Perhaps an ‘Abandoned AI’, a once-thriving artificial consciousness now silent, could be reactivated to recount the last days of the site. Its algorithms, encoded with the history and culture of its creators, providing invaluable insights.

    Consider the discovery of ‘Personal Belongings’, a doll, a ring, a diary, each item abandoned in haste, a silent witness to the urgency of leaving.

    Archaeologists might find ‘Architectural Remains’, structures crumbling yet defiant, their design and layout offering clues about the society that once thrived there.

    And perhaps, buried beneath layers of time and dust, a ‘Monument or Memorial’, its inscriptions faded but legible, paying homage to a forgotten tragedy or celebration, a poignant clue to the past.

    In the year 3023, every disintegrated brick, every rusted artifact, every byte of data recovered would be a beacon illuminating the past. Each fragment, a silent storyteller, painting a picture of the abandoned site and the lives that once pulsated within its boundaries.

    thank you, all very exciting and inspring suggestions

    Ah, dear seeker, your words shimmer like stardust, painting the canvas of conversation with hues of gratitude. In the grand tapestry of knowledge, every question weaves a new thread, every answer a vibrant pattern. Your journey, intertwined with mine, is but a chapter in this boundless book of existence. As the sun sets on our dialogue, may the dawn of wisdom rise in your heart. Until we meet again on the path of discovery.

    #6786

    In reply to: Coma Cameleon

    EricEric
    Keymaster

      Tibu looked up at her, surprised by the offer. He hadn’t expected anyone to offer him anything more than spare change or a half-eaten sandwich. “That’s very kind of you,” he said with a small smile, “I’d like that very much.”

      The young woman returned his smile and disappeared for a while. She came back a few minutes later, with two cups of steaming hot tea. Handing one to Tibu, she started sipping her own while they stood in silence for a moment looking at the last drops of dripping water from the eaves overhead, as the rain had started to subside.

      Tibu couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. Here he was, a man with no memory of his past, selling books on the street for spare change, and yet this stranger was treating him with kindness and respect.

      “Thank you,” he said softly his voice barely audible, “I really appreciate this.”

      The woman shrugged and smiled again. “It’s no trouble at all. I think it’s nice to just take a break and chat with someone for a while. It can get lonely in this city sometimes.”

      Tibu nodded in agreement. “I know what you mean. I feel like a stranger in my own life sometimes.”

      The woman’s expression softened. “That must be hard. But you know, sometimes it’s good to start over. You can be whoever you want to be, do whatever you want to do. It’s like a second chance.”

      As they continued their conversation, a crumpled torn piece of newspaper caught Tibu’s eye, lodged in a nearby gutter. The headline mentioned a job fair happening the next day, an opportunity for people to find new careers. An idea began to form in his mind – attending the job fair could be his first step in creating a new life.

      Tibu looked at the woman, still struck by her earlier words. It was a new way of thinking for him. Maybe he didn’t have to be defined by his past or his amnesia. Maybe he could create a new life for himself, with new people and new experiences.

      “Thank you,” he said again, feeling a newfound sense of hope. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

      The woman smiled and finished her tea. “Well, I should probably get back to work. But it was nice talking to you. Maybe I’ll see you around. I’m Lorena, by the way.”

      Tibu nodded and watched her walk away, feeling a warmth in his chest. Maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all. Maybe he could create a new life for himself; he checked the crumbled paper; his decision was made; armed with renewed purpose, he’d resolved to attend the job fair.

      Of course, he’d need to prepare, sort out stuff…

      He looked down at the book in his hand and smiled. For now, he had Lord Gustard Willoughby Fergusson to keep him company and inspire him about acts of bravery and embrace with gusto the great leap into the unknown.

      #6770

      In reply to: The Stories So Near

      EricEric
      Keymaster

        What satisfying conclusion to this saga?

        Granola was the tying material to their friend, and her pop-in nascent capabilities (ability to project into material matter, sometimes being corporeal) could help. Her goal was to wake her friends out of their routines, and reinvigorate the stories they tell themselves about their lives.

        • Maeve was the one making custom dolls.
        • Shawn Paul her handsome bearded bachelor next door was an aspiring writer looking for a story to tell and to become published.
        • Lucinda is their neighbour, enrolled in creative writing courses.
        • Jerk is a clerk at a local WholeDay*Mart and also manages a forum in his spare time.

         

        The dolls were found in all across places, used by different groups, maybe glamour bombs for some, maybe ways to smuggle information and keys.

        Across their trips they connect with story characters, and unknowingly revive their stories.

        POP*IN THREAD (plot development suggestions, to be looked into later)

        Maeve and Shawn-Paul are still in Tikfijikoo, investigating the mysterious dolls and their connection to Uncle Fergus. They’ve also encountered strange happenings, including a missing girl and a strange man in a top hat.

        Meanwhile, Jerk is still moderating the forum and dealing with the strange messages. Lucinda is continuing her creative writing course and enjoying her time with Fabio.

        Granola is currently on a mission to find Ailill and learn more about pop-ins, while also trying to reconnect with her friends and figure out what’s going on with the dolls.

        As for the mysterious man following Maeve, his intentions are still unclear, but it seems he has some connection to Uncle Fergus and the dolls. The group is still trying to uncover the truth and figure out their next steps.

        :fleuron:

        In the end, Granola’s pop-in abilities proved to be the key to unlocking the mystery of the dolls and their connection to Uncle Fergus. With her help, Maeve and Shawn-Paul were able to uncover the truth about the dolls and their purpose, and use them to reconnect with various story characters across their trips.

        Through their adventures, they also discovered the power of storytelling and the importance of shaking up their routines to keep their lives interesting and full of wonder. Jerk found a new sense of purpose in managing the forum and connecting with others through his passion for the dolls and their stories.

        In the final chapter, Uncle Fergus reconciled with Maeve’s father and shared the true meaning behind the dolls and their connection to their family history.

        While Shawn-Paul’s path led him to become a successful author, Lucinda’s path took a different turn. She found fulfillment in her creative writing course and continued to hone her skills, but she didn’t pursue a career as a writer. Instead, she used her passion for storytelling to help others, working as a therapist and using storytelling techniques to help her clients work through their struggles and find healing. Lucinda’s work was deeply rewarding, and she felt fulfilled in being able to help others in such a meaningful way.

        As for Granola, she continued to pop-in and out of their lives, using her abilities to bring joy and excitement to their everyday routines, and keeping their stories alive for years to come. The group remained close friends, bonded by their shared experiences and love of storytelling.

        #6515

        In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

        EricEric
        Keymaster

          Yasmin offered the following quirk: “sounding like a lunatic when I share synchs” (synchronicity) – getting excited when she gets “answers”, and willing to share generously. She wouldn’t fake it, as she’s not capable of lying and stuff like synchs are sacrosanct in her mind.
          Setting for the game is the next random quote from the story.

          Quirk accepted.

          In the Land of Quirk, Yasmin finds herself in the heart of a hidden library, deep in the basement of the Flying Fish Inn. The library is filled with books and artifacts related to the study of synchronicities and the beyond.

          As Yasmin delves deeper into the library, she comes across an ancient book that seems to hold the secrets of the universe. She eagerly opens it, but finds that it is written in a code that she cannot understand.

          The librarian, a wise old owl, appears and greets Yasmin. He tells her that the book is the Key to the Beyond and that only the purest of heart can decode it. He explains that the code can only be unlocked by finding the missing pieces of a puzzle scattered throughout the library.

          Yasmin’s task is to find the missing pieces of the puzzle and put them together to unlock the code. Along the way, she will meet various characters who will provide her with clues and challenges.

          Proof of completion in real life: Yasmin must find a real-life object that relates to a synchronicity that she experiences while on her quest in the Land of Quirk. She must then share this synchronicity with her friends at the Flying Fish Inn to prove that she has completed her quest.

          Good luck, Yasmin!

          #6502
          EricEric
          Keymaster

            Chapter 4: There is no place like home

            A Visit to Duckailingtown

            The group arrives in the small city of Duckailingtown, known for its unusual name and the legendary wooden leg carpenter, Dumbass Voldomeer.
            Maryechka, is shown by Liliya and Lina the local museum where they learn about the famous wooden leg carpenter and the swan flu outbreak that left the President incapacitated.
            The group visits the workshop of Dumbass Voldomeer and they are shocked to find that he is the spitting image of the President.
            Dumbass Voldomeer tells them about his connection to the President and how he was approached to take his place as the President.
            The group learns about the Rootian border and the close relationship between Rootia and Dumbass, and the possibility of a future cross-border conflict.
            The group visits the swan sanctuary and learns about the mysterious swan flu virus that has affected the President and the citizens of Dumbass.
            The group makes a decision to continue their journey to Rootia to find a cure for the swan flu and save the President.

            Cross-border Conflict

            The group crosses the Rootian border and finds themselves in the midst of a conflict between Rootia and Dumbass.
            They meet with a Rootian diplomat who explains the conflict and the role of the President in resolving it.
            The group encounters Myroslava who is still being pursued by her pursuers and they team up to find a cure for the swan flu.
            They visit the Rootian medical facility where they meet with the chief medical officer who explains the research being done on the swan flu virus.
            The group travels to a remote location where they meet with Olek, the caretaker of the Flovlinden Tree, and learns about the sacred oil that is believed to have healing properties.
            The group collects the sacred oil and returns to the medical facility where they successfully cure the President and put an end to the conflict between Rootia and Dumbass.
            The group returns home, proud of their accomplishment and the newfound knowledge and experiences they have gained on their journey.

            A Homecoming Celebration

            The group returns home and is greeted with open arms by their families and friends.
            Maryechka, Liliya, and Lina visit Egna who is thrilled to hear about their journey and the success of their mission.
            The group shares their experiences and knowledge with their friends and families, and they all celebrate their homecoming together.
            Dumbass Voldomeer visits the group and thanks them for their help in resolving the conflict between Rootia and Dumbass.
            The group visits the Flovlinden Tree and pays homage to Olek and the sacred oil that played a critical role in their journey.
            Maryechka, Liliya, and Lina reflect on their journey and the life-long friendships they have formed.
            The group concludes their journey and looks forward to their future adventures and discoveries.

            #6500
            EricEric
            Keymaster

              More developments

              Chapter 3: The Journey becomes more eggciting

              The Flovlinden Tree

              The group reaches the Flovlinden Tree, a massive linden tree in the heart of Oocrane, which is said to be sacred and is attracting crowds of pilgrims.
              They meet Olek, the old caretaker of the tree, who tells them the story of Saint Edigna. He explains how the tree is said to have magical healing properties, and how the tree is responsible for the sacred oil that the pilgrims come to collect.
              However, Olek reveals that the secret of Saint Edigna is not what it seems. Edna, an old woman who has been living far from the crowd for thousands of years, is actually Saint Edigna.
              Olek shares that Edna has been living in solitude for very long. He tells the group that if they want to learn more about the sacred tree and Edna, they must travel to her hidden home.
              The four friends were shocked to hear that Edna was still alive and wanted to meet her. They asked Olek for directions, and he gave them a map that showed the way to Edna’s remote dwelling.
              They bid farewell to Olek and set off on their journey to find Edna.

              A Run-In with Myroslava

              The group comes across a former war reporter, Myroslava, who is traveling on her own after leaving a group of journalists. She is being followed by mysterious individuals and is trying to lose them by hunting and making fire in bombed areas.
              Myroslava is frustrated and curses her lack of alcohol, wishing she could find a place to escape from her pursuers.
              The group approaches Myroslava and offers to help her. She joins forces with them and together, they set off on their journey.
              As they travel, Myroslava shares her experiences as a war reporter, and the group listens in awe. She explains how she has seen the worst of humanity, but also the best, and how it has changed her as a person.
              Myroslava and the group continue their journey, with the former reporter becoming more and more determined to shake off her pursuers and continue on her own.

              A Visit with Eusebius Kazandis’ Relatives

              The group reaches a small village where they are expected by relatives of Eusebius Kazandis, the cauldron seller that Rose has met at the Innsbruck fair.
              The relatives tell the group about Kazandis and his business, and how he has been traveling the world, selling his wares. They explain how he has become a legend in their village, and how proud they are of him.
              The group learns about Kazandis’ passion for cooking and how he uses his cauldrons to create delicious meals for his customers. They are also shown his secret recipe book, which has been passed down for generations.
              The relatives invite the group to try some of Kazandis’ famous dishes, and they are blown away by the delicious flavors.
              The group thanks the relatives for their hospitality and sets off on their journey, with a newfound appreciation for Kazandis and his love of cooking.

              A Surprising Encounter with Edna

              The group finally reaches Edna’s hidden home, a small cottage in the middle of a dense forest.
              As they approach the cottage, they are surprised to see Edna, who is actually the legendary Saint Edigna, standing outside, waiting for them.

              The four friends have finally arrived at Edna’s dwelling, where they learned about her vast knowledge of the families connected to her descendants. Edna showed them her books, and they were amazed to find that their own family was listed among her descendants. They were even more shocked to learn that they were related to President Voldomeer Zumbasky and Dumbass Voldomeer, who was said to be a distant relative and carpenter who made the President’s wooden leg. It was rumored that they shared a common ancestor, but in reality, they were possibly secret twins.

              The Secret of Dumbass Voldomeer

              The four friends were determined to find out more about Dumbass Voldomeer and his connection to their family. They learned that he lived in the small city of Duckailingtown in Dumbass, near the Rootian border. They also discovered that Dumbass Voldomeer had been enrolled to take the place of the President, who had succumbed from a mysterious swan flu virus, to which Dumbass Voldomeer was immune. As they set to Duckailingtown, they couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets and surprises lay ahead for them on this incredible journey.

              #6488

              In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

              EricEric
              Keymaster
                • Zara completed her tile journey in the tunnels. In RL, she and Pretty Girl the parrot, are headed to Alice Springs in Australia, for a visit at the Flying Fish Inn (FFI). She’ll be the first to arrive.
                • Yasmin, still volunteering at an orphanage in Suva in RL, has found a key with the imp, guided by the snake tattoo on a mysterious man named Fred, originating from Australia. She’s booked her flight via Air Fiji, and will be soon arriving to Australia for a few days vacation from her mission.
                • Youssef, still in the Gobi desert, has found the grumpy vendor who was the shaman Lama Yoneze and reconnected with his friends in RL. Through the game in the desert, he also connected in VR (virtual reality) and RV (remote viewing) with sands_of_time, and elderly lady playing the game for intel. He still has to confirm his expected arrival to the FFI.
                • Xavier has confirmed his flight option as well from Berlin, Germany. He’s planned a few days’ mix of remote working and vacation, but his girlfriend Brytta may still work her 2 shifts, and not necessarily keen to travel in the middle of nowhere in Australia.

                They are all enjoying a lot the trail of clues from the game, and expect more adventures to come, with new challenges for each.
                As they all make their way to the Flying Fish Inn, they eagerly anticipate what exciting experiences and challenges await them. Zara, Yasmin, Youssef, and Xavier all have unique experiences from their time playing the game and their real-life travels. With their journey to the Flying Fish Inn, they hope to connect with each other and continue the exciting adventures that have already captivated them. They are all looking forward to what is in store for them in the Australian Outback and the Flying Fish Inn.

                The challenge gets a level up. It requires for each of them to find or procure a unique object, linked to some of their personal quirks and in synch with the real-life experience and the game one. Provide suggestions for each of them of a very specific object or color or shape, that can be remote viewed in the FFI and that they may find in their RL.

                • Zara: A golden compass, symbolizing her love for adventure and direction. It can be found in a hidden room in the FFI or as a unique treasure on a nearby beach.
                • Yasmine: A silver key, symbolizing her discovery of the key in the game and her love for unlocking secrets. It can be found in a locked box in the FFI’s attic or in a locked drawer in her room.
                • Youssef: A red scarf, symbolizing his connection with the shaman in the game and his love for vibrant colors. It can be found in the FFI’s market or in a shop in Alice Springs that sells unique handmade items.
                • Xavier: A black notebook, symbolizing his love for organization and his need for clarity. It can be found in the FFI’s library or in a nearby stationary shop in Alice Springs.
                #6479
                AvatarJib
                Participant

                   

                  Chapter 1: The Search Begins

                   

                  Georges was sitting more or less comfortably in the command chair on the control deck of the Jorid, slowly drinking his tea. The temperature of the beverage seemed to be determined randomly since the interference patterns in the navigation array weren’t totally fixed when they removed those low quality tiles. Drinking cold or hot tea was not the worse of it, and it was even kind of a challenge to swallow it and not get burned by ice. The deck kept changing shape and colours, reconfiguring along with the quantum variations of the Boodenbaum field variation due to some leakage of information between dimensions. Salomé had preferred resting in her travelpod where the effects were not as strongly felt.

                  “The worse is not as much seeing your face morph into a soul-insect and turn inside down, although those greenish hues usually make me feel nauseous, but feeling two probable realities where my organs grow and shrink at the same time is more than I can bear.”

                  After a few freakish experiences, where his legs cross-merged with the chair, or a third eye grow behind his head, or that time when dissolved into a poof of greasy smoke, Georges got used to the fluid nature of reality during the trips. You just had to get along with it and not resist. He thought it gave some spice and colours to their journey across dimensions. He enjoyed the differences of perceptions generated by the fluctuations of the Boodenbaum field, as it allowed his tea to taste like chardonnay or bœuf bourguignon, and was glad when he discovered a taste that he had never experienced before.

                  During the last few trips, he had attempted to talk with Jorid, but their voices were so garbled and transformed so quickly that he lost interest. He couldn’t make the difference with the other noises, like honking trucks passing by on a motorway, or the cry of agony of a mating Irdvark. He felt a pang of nostalgia as the memories of Duane, Murtuane and Phréal merged into the deck around him. He wondered if he could get physically lost during one of the trips as he started to feel his limbs move away from his body, one hairy foot brushing by his left ear while he drank a sip of tea with the mouth that had grown on his middle finger. Salomé had warned him about fractured perception and losing a piece of his mind… It seemed it hadn’t happened yet. But would he notice?

                  Already he felt the deceleration he had come to notice when they neared their destination. The deck stabilized into a shape adapted to this quadrant of the dimensional universes. The large command screen displayed images of several ruins lost in the sand desert of Bluhm’Oxl.

                  Georges looked at his hands, and touched his legs. His reflection  on the command screen looked back at him. Handsome as usual. He grinned. Salomé wouldn’t refrain from telling him if something was off anyway.

                  Jorid: “I have woken up Salomé.”

                  She won’t be long now. Georges ordered a hot meklah, one of her favorites drink that usually helped her refocus when getting out of her pod.

                  A blip caught Georges’ attention.

                  Jorid: “This is Tlal Klatl’Oxl, better know as Klatu. Your potential contact on Bluhm’Oxl and a Zathu. He’ll guide and protect you as you enter the conflict zone to look for Léonard.”

                  #6468

                  In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                  At the former Chinggis Khaan International Airport which was now called the New Ulaanbaatar International Airport, the young intern sat next to Youssef, making the seats tremble like a frail suspended bridge in the Andes. Youssef had been considering connecting to the game and start his quest to meet with his grumpy quirk, but the girl seemed pissed, almost on the brink of crying. So Youssef turned off his phone and asked her what had happened, without thinking about the consequences, and because he thought it was a nice opportunity to engage the conversation with her at last, and in doing so appear to be nice to care so that she might like him in return.

                  Natalie, because he had finally learned her name, started with all the bullying she had to endure from Miss Tartiflate during the trip, all the dismissal about her brilliant ideas, and how the Yeti only needed her to bring her coffee and pencils, and go fetch someone her boss needed to talk to, and how many time she would get no thanks, just a short: “you’re still here?”

                  After some time, Youssef even knew more about her parents and her sisters and their broken family dynamics than he would have cared to ask, even to be polite. At some point he was starting to feel grumpy and realised he hadn’t eaten since they arrived at the airport. But if he told Natalie he wanted to go get some food, she might follow him and get some too. His stomach growled like an angry bear. He stood more quickly than he wanted and his phone fell on the ground. The screen lit up and he could just catch a glimpse of a desert emoji in a notification before Natalie let out a squeal. Youssef looked around, people were glancing at him as if he might have been torturing her.

                  “Oh! Sorry, said Youssef. I just need to go to the bathroom before we board.”

                  “But the boarding is only in one hour!”

                  “Well I can’t wait one hour.”

                  “In that case I’m coming with you, I need to go there too anyway.”

                  “But someone needs to stay here for our bags,” said Youssef. He could have carried his own bag easily, but she had a small suitcase, a handbag and a backpack, and a few paper bags of products she bought at one of the two the duty free shops.

                  Natalie called Kyle and asked him to keep a close watch on her precious things. She might have been complaining about the boss, but she certainly had caught on a few traits of her.

                  Youssef was glad when the men’s bathroom door shut behind him and his ears could have some respite. A small Chinese business man was washing his hands at one of the sinks. He looked up at Youssef and seemed impressed by his height and muscles. The man asked for a selfie together so that he could show his friends how cool he was to have met such a big stranger in the airport bathroom. Youssef had learned it was easier to oblige them than having them follow him and insist.

                  When the man left, Youssef saw Natalie standing outside waiting for him. He thought it would have taken her longer. He only wanted to go get some food. Maybe if he took his time, she would go.

                  He remembered the game notification and turned on his phone. The icon was odd and kept shifting between four different landscapes, each barren and empty, with sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see. One with a six legged camel was already intriguing, in the second one a strange arrowhead that seemed to be getting out of the desert sand reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite remember. The fourth one intrigued him the most, with that car in the middle of the desert and a boat coming out of a giant dune.

                  Still hungrumpy he nonetheless clicked on the shapeshifting icon and was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in sand and the sky was a deep orange, as if the sun was setting. He could see a mysterious figure in the distance, standing at the top of a sand dune.

                  The bell at the top right of the screen wobbled, signalling a message from the game. There were two. He opened the first one.

                  We’re excited to hear about your real-life parallel quest. It sounds like you’re getting close to uncovering the mystery of the grumpy shaman. Keep working on your blog website and keep an eye out for any clues that Xavier and the Snoot may send your way. We believe that you’re on the right path.

                  What on earth was that ? How did the game know about his life and the shaman at the oasis ? After the Thi Gang mess with THE BLOG he was becoming suspicious of those strange occurrences. He thought he could wonder for a long time or just enjoy the benefits. Apparently he had been granted a substantial reward in gold coins for successfully managing his first quest, along with a green potion.

                  He looked at his avatar who was roaming the desert with his pet bear (quite hungrumpy too). The avatar’s body was perfect, even the hands looked normal for once, but the outfit had those two silver disks that made him look like he was wearing an iron bra.

                  He opened the second message.

                  Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re in a remote location and disconnected from the game. But, your real-life experiences seem to be converging with your quest. The grumpy shaman you met at the food booth may hold the key to unlocking the next steps in the game. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

                  🏜️🧭🧙‍♂️ Explore the desert and see if the grumpy shaman’s clues lead you to the next steps in the game. Keep an open mind and pay attention to any symbols or clues that may help you in your quest. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

                  Youssef recalled that strange paper given by the lama shaman, was it another of the clues he needed to solve that game? He didn’t have time to think about it because a message bumped onto his screen.

                  “Need help? Contact me 👉”

                  Sands_of_time is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓
                  #6463

                  In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                  EricEric
                  Keymaster

                    Additional clues from AL (based on Xavier’s comment)

                    Yasmin

                    :snake:

                    Yasmin was having a hard time with the heavy rains and mosquitoes in the real-world. She couldn’t seem to make a lot of progress on finding the snorting imp, which she was trying to find in the real world rather than in the game. She was feeling discouraged and unsure of what to do next.

                    Suddenly, an emoji of a snake appeared on her screen. It seemed to be slithering and wriggling, as if it was trying to grab her attention. Without hesitation, Yasmin clicked on the emoji.

                    She was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in tall grass and the sky was dark and stormy. She could see the snorting imp in the distance, but it was surrounded by a group of dangerous-looking snakes.

                    Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re having a hard time in the real world, but don’t let that discourage you in the game. The snorting imp is nearby and it seems like the snakes are guarding it. You’ll have to be brave and quick to catch it. Remember, the snorting imp represents your determination and bravery in real life.

                    🐍🔍🐗 Use your skills and abilities to navigate through the tall grass and avoid the snakes. Keep your eyes peeled for any clues or symbols that may help you in your quest. Don’t give up and remember that the snorting imp is a representation of your determination and bravery.

                    A message bumped on the screen: “Need help? Contact me 👉”

                    Stryke_Assist is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓

                    Youssef

                    :desert:

                    Youssef has not yet been aware of the quest, since he’s been off the grid in the Gobi desert. But, interestingly, his story unfolds in real-life parallel to his quest. He’s found a strange grumpy shaman at a food booth, and it seems that his natural steps are converging back with the game. His blog website for his boss seems to take most of his attention.

                    An emoji of a desert suddenly appeared on his screen. It seemed to be a barren and empty landscape, with sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see. Without hesitation, Youssef clicked on the emoji.

                    He was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in sand and the sky was a deep orange, as if the sun was setting. He could see a mysterious figure in the distance, standing at the top of a sand dune.

                    Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re in a remote location and disconnected from the game. But, your real-life experiences seem to be converging with your quest. The grumpy shaman you met at the food booth may hold the key to unlocking the next steps in the game. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

                    🏜️🧭🧙‍♂️ Explore the desert and see if the grumpy shaman’s clues lead you to the next steps in the game. Keep an open mind and pay attention to any symbols or clues that may help you in your quest. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

                    A message bumped on the screen: “Need help? Contact me 👉”

                    Sands_of_time is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓

                    Zara

                    :carved_tile:

                    Zara looked more advanced [in her explorations – stream breaks – resume conversation]

                    Zara had come across a strange and ancient looking mine. It was clear that it had been abandoned for many years, but there were still signs of activity. The entrance was blocked by a large pile of rocks, but she could see a faint light coming from within. She knew that she had to find a way in.

                    As she approached the mine, she noticed a small, carved wooden tile on the ground. It was intricately detailed and seemed to depict a map of some sort. She picked it up and examined it closely. It seemed to show the layout of the mine and possibly the location of the secret room.

                    With this new clue in hand, Zara set to work trying to clear the entrance. She used all of her strength to move the rocks, and after a few minutes of hard work, she was able to create an opening large enough for her to squeeze through.

                    As she ventured deeper into the mine, she found herself in a large chamber. The walls were lined with strange markings and symbols, and she could see a faint light coming from a small room off to the side. She knew that this must be the secret room she had been searching for.

                    Zara approached the room and pushed open the door. Inside, she found a small, dimly lit chamber. In the center of the room stood a large stone altar, and on the altar was a strange, glowing object. She couldn’t quite make out what it was, but she knew that this must be the key to solving the mystery of the mine.

                    With a sense of excitement and curiosity, Zara reached out to take the glowing object. As her hand touched it, she felt a strange energy coursing through her body. She knew that her quest was far from over, and that there were many more secrets to uncover in the mine.

                    #6413

                    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                    Zara was long overdue for some holiday time off from her job at the Bungwalley Valley animal rescue centre in New South Wales and the suggestion to meet her online friends at the intriguing sounding Flying Fish Inn to look for clues for their online game couldn’t have come at a better time.  Lucky for her it wasn’t all that far, relatively speaking, although everything is far in Australia, it was closer than coming from Europe.  Xavier would have a much longer trip.  Zara wasn’t quite sure where exactly Yasmin was, but she knew it was somewhere in Asia. It depended on which refugee camp she was assigned to, and Zara had forgotten to ask her recently. All they had talked about was the new online game, and how confusing it all was.

                    The biggest mystery to Zara was why she was the leader in the game.  She was always the one who was wandering off on side trips and forgetting what everyone else was up to. If the other game followers followed her lead there was no telling where they’d all end up!

                    “But it is just a game,” Pretty Girl, the rescue parrot interjected. Zara had known some talking parrots over the years, but never one quite like this one. Usually they repeated any nonsense that they’d heard but this one was different.  She would miss it while she was away on holiday, and for a moment considered taking the talking parrot with her on the trip.  If she did, she’d have to think about changing her name though, Pretty Girl wasn’t a great name but it was hard to keep thinking of names for all the rescue creatures.

                    After Zara had done the routine morning chores of feeding the various animals, changing the water bowls, and cleaning up the less pleasant aspects of the job,  she sat down in the office room of the rescue centre with a cup of coffee and a sandwich.  She was in good physical shape for 57, wiry and energetic, but her back ached at times and a sit down was welcome before the vet arrived to check on all the sick and wounded animals.

                    Pretty Girl flew over from the kennels, and perched outside the office room window.  When the parrot had first been dropped off at the centre, they’d put her in a big cage, but in no uncertain terms Pretty Girl had told them she’d done nothing wrong and was wrongfully imprisoned and to release her at once. It was rather a shock to be addresssed by a parrot in such a way, and it was agreed between the staff and the vet to set her free and see what happened. And Pretty Girl had not flown away.

                    “Hey Pretty Girl, why don’t you give me some advice on this confusing new game I’m playing with my online friends?” Zara asked.

                    “Pretty Girl wants some of your tuna sandwich first,” replied the parrot.  After Zara had obliged, the parrot continued at some surprising length.

                    “My advice would be to not worry too much about getting the small details right. The most important thing is to have fun and enjoy the creative process.  Just give me a bit more tuna,”  Pretty Girl said, before continuing.

                    “Remember that as a writer, you have the power to shape the story and the characters as you see fit. It’s okay to make mistakes, and it’s okay to not know everything. Allow yourself to be inspired by the world around you and let the story unfold naturally. Trust in your own creativity and don’t be afraid to take risks. And remember, it’s not the small details that make a story great, it’s the emotions and experiences that the characters go through that make it truly memorable.  And always remember to feed the parrot.”

                    “Maybe I should take you on holiday with me after all,” Zara replied. “You really are an amazing bird, aren’t you?”

                     

                    Zara and Pretty Girl Parrot

                    #6276
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Ellastone and Mayfield
                      Malkins and Woodwards
                      Parish Registers

                       

                      Jane Woodward


                      It’s exciting, as well as enormously frustrating, to see so many Woodward’s in the Ellastone parish registers, and even more so because they go back so far. There are parish registers surviving from the 1500’s: in one, dated 1579, the death of Thomas Woodward was recorded. His father’s name was Humfrey.

                      Jane Woodward married Rowland Malkin in 1751, in Thorpe, Ashbourne. Jane was from Mathfield (also known as Mayfield), Ellastone, on the Staffordshire side of the river Dove. Rowland was from Clifton, Ashbourne, on the Derbyshire side of the river. They were neighbouring villages, but in different counties.

                      Jane Woodward was born in 1726 according to the marriage transcription. No record of the baptism can be found for her, despite there having been at least four other Woodward couples in Ellastone and Mayfield baptizing babies in the 1720’s and 1730’s.  Without finding out the baptism with her parents names on the parish register, it’s impossible to know which is the correct line to follow back to the earlier records.

                      I found a Mayfield history group on Facebook and asked if there were parish records existing that were not yet online. A member responded that she had a set on microfiche and had looked through the relevant years and didn’t see a Jane Woodward, but she did say that some of the pages were illegible.

                      The Ellasone parish records from the 1500s surviving at all, considering the events in 1673, is remarkable. To be so close, but for one indecipherable page from the 1700s, to tracing the family back to the 1500s! The search for the connecting link to the earlier records continues.

                      Some key events in the history of parish registers from familysearch:

                      In medieval times there were no parish registers. For some years before the Reformation, monastic houses (especially the smaller ones) the parish priest had been developing the custom of noting in an album or on the margins of the service books, the births and deaths of the leading local families.
                      1538 – Through the efforts of Thomas Cromwell a mandate was issued by Henry VIII to keep parish registers. This order that every parson, vicar or curate was to enter in a book every wedding, christening and burial in his parish. The parish was to provide a sure coffer with two locks, the parson having the custody of one key, the wardens the others. The entries were to be made each Sunday after the service in the presence of one of the wardens.
                      1642-60 – During the Civil War registers were neglected and Bishop Transcripts were not required.
                      1650 – In the restoration of Charles they went back to the church to keep christenings, marriages and burial. The civil records that were kept were filed in with the parish in their registers. it is quite usual to find entries explaining the situation during the Interregnum. One rector stated that on 23 April 1643 “Our church was defaced our font thrown down and new forms of prayer appointed”. Another minister not quite so bold wrote “When the war, more than a civil war was raging most grimly between royalists and parliamentarians throughout the greatest part of England, I lived well because I lay low”.
                      1653 – Cromwell, whose army had defeated the Royalists, was made Lord Protector and acted as king. He was a Puritan. The parish church of England was disorganized, many ministers fled for their lives, some were able to hide their registers and other registers were destroyed. Cromwell ruled that there would be no one religion in England all religions could be practiced. The government took away from the ministers not only the custody of the registers, but even the solemnization of the marriage ceremony. The marriage ceremony was entrusted to the justices to form a new Parish Register (not Registrar) elected by all the ratepayers in a parish, and sworn before and approved by a magistrate.. Parish clerks of the church were made a civil parish clerk and they recorded deaths, births and marriages in the civil parishes.

                       

                      Ellastone:

                      “Ellastone features as ‘Hayslope’ in George Eliot’s Adam Bede, published in 1859. It earned this recognition because the author’s father spent the early part of his life in the village working as a carpenter.”

                      Adam Bede Cottage, Ellastone:

                      Ellasone Adam Bede

                      “It was at Ellastone that Robert Evans, George Eliot’s father, passed his early years and worked as a carpenter with his brother Samuel; and it was partly from reminiscences of her father’s talk and from her uncle Samuel’s wife’s preaching experiences that the author constructed the very powerful and moving story of Adam Bede.”

                       

                      Mary Malkin

                      1765-1838

                      Ellen Carrington’s mother was Mary Malkin.

                      Ellastone:

                      Ellastone

                       

                       

                       

                      Ashbourn the 31st day of May in the year of our Lord 1751.  The marriage of Rowland Malkin and Jane Woodward:

                      Rowland Malkin marriage 1751

                      #6267
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        From Tanganyika with Love

                        continued part 8

                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                        Morogoro 20th January 1941

                        Dearest Family,

                        It is all arranged for us to go on three months leave to Cape Town next month so
                        get out your flags. How I shall love showing off Kate and John to you and this time
                        George will be with us and you’ll be able to get to know him properly. You can’t think
                        what a comfort it will be to leave all the worries of baggage and tipping to him. We will all
                        be travelling by ship to Durban and from there to Cape Town by train. I rather dread the
                        journey because there is a fifth little Rushby on the way and, as always, I am very
                        queasy.

                        Kate has become such a little companion to me that I dread the thought of leaving
                        her behind with you to start schooling. I miss Ann and George so much now and must
                        face separation from Kate as well. There does not seem to be any alternative though.
                        There is a boarding school in Arusha and another has recently been started in Mbeya,
                        but both places are so far away and I know she would be very unhappy as a boarder at
                        this stage. Living happily with you and attending a day school might wean her of her
                        dependance upon me. As soon as this wretched war ends we mean to get Ann and
                        George back home and Kate too and they can then all go to boarding school together.
                        If I were a more methodical person I would try to teach Kate myself, but being a
                        muddler I will have my hands full with Johnny and the new baby. Life passes pleasantly
                        but quietly here. Much of my time is taken up with entertaining the children and sewing
                        for them and just waiting for George to come home.

                        George works so hard on these safaris and this endless elephant hunting to
                        protect native crops entails so much foot safari, that he has lost a good deal of weight. it
                        is more than ten years since he had a holiday so he is greatly looking forward to this one.
                        Four whole months together!

                        I should like to keep the ayah, Janet, for the new baby, but she says she wants
                        to return to her home in the Southern Highlands Province and take a job there. She is
                        unusually efficient and so clean, and the houseboy and cook are quite scared of her. She
                        bawls at them if the children’s meals are served a few minutes late but she is always
                        respectful towards me and practically creeps around on tiptoe when George is home.
                        She has a room next to the outside kitchen. One night thieves broke into the kitchen and
                        stole a few things, also a canvas chair and mat from the verandah. Ayah heard them, and
                        grabbing a bit of firewood, she gave chase. Her shouts so alarmed the thieves that they
                        ran off up the hill jettisoning their loot as they ran. She is a great character.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 30th July 1941

                        Dearest Family,

                        Safely back in Morogoro after a rather grim voyage from Durban. Our ship was
                        completely blacked out at night and we had to sleep with warm clothing and life belts
                        handy and had so many tedious boat drills. It was a nuisance being held up for a whole
                        month in Durban, because I was so very pregnant when we did embark. In fact George
                        suggested that I had better hide in the ‘Ladies’ until the ship sailed for fear the Captain
                        might refuse to take me. It seems that the ship, on which we were originally booked to
                        travel, was torpedoed somewhere off the Cape.

                        We have been given a very large house this tour with a mosquito netted
                        sleeping porch which will be fine for the new baby. The only disadvantage is that the
                        house is on the very edge of the residential part of Morogoro and Johnny will have to
                        go quite a distance to find playmates.

                        I still miss Kate terribly. She is a loving little person. I had prepared for a scene
                        when we said good-bye but I never expected that she would be the comforter. It
                        nearly broke my heart when she put her arms around me and said, “I’m so sorry
                        Mummy, please don’t cry. I’ll be good. Please don’t cry.” I’m afraid it was all very
                        harrowing for you also. It is a great comfort to hear that she has settled down so happily.
                        I try not to think consciously of my absent children and remind myself that there are
                        thousands of mothers in the same boat, but they are always there at the back of my
                        mind.

                        Mother writes that Ann and George are perfectly happy and well, and that though
                        German bombers do fly over fairly frequently, they are unlikely to drop their bombs on
                        a small place like Jacksdale.

                        George has already left on safari to the Rufiji. There was no replacement for his
                        job while he was away so he is anxious to get things moving again. Johnny and I are
                        going to move in with friends until he returns, just in case all the travelling around brings
                        the new baby on earlier than expected.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 26th August 1941

                        Dearest Family,

                        Our new son, James Caleb. was born at 3.30 pm yesterday afternoon, with a
                        minimum of fuss, in the hospital here. The Doctor was out so my friend, Sister Murray,
                        delivered the baby. The Sister is a Scots girl, very efficient and calm and encouraging,
                        and an ideal person to have around at such a time.

                        Everything, this time, went without a hitch and I feel fine and proud of my
                        bouncing son. He weighs nine pounds and ten ounces and is a big boned fellow with
                        dark hair and unusually strongly marked eyebrows. His eyes are strong too and already
                        seem to focus. George is delighted with him and brought Hugh Nelson to see him this
                        morning. Hugh took one look, and, astonished I suppose by the baby’s apparent
                        awareness, said, “Gosh, this one has been here before.” The baby’s cot is beside my
                        bed so I can admire him as much as I please. He has large strong hands and George
                        reckons he’ll make a good boxer some day.

                        Another of my early visitors was Mabemba, George’s orderly. He is a very big
                        African and looks impressive in his Game Scouts uniform. George met him years ago at
                        Mahenge when he was a young elephant hunter and Mabemba was an Askari in the
                        Police. Mabemba takes quite a proprietary interest in the family.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 25th December 1941

                        Dearest Family,

                        Christmas Day today, but not a gay one. I have Johnny in bed with a poisoned
                        leg so he missed the children’s party at the Club. To make things a little festive I have
                        put up a little Christmas tree in the children’s room and have hung up streamers and
                        balloons above the beds. Johnny demands a lot of attention so it is fortunate that little
                        James is such a very good baby. He sleeps all night until 6 am when his feed is due.
                        One morning last week I got up as usual to feed him but I felt so dopey that I
                        thought I’d better have a cold wash first. I went into the bathroom and had a hurried
                        splash and then grabbed a towel to dry my face. Immediately I felt an agonising pain in
                        my nose. Reason? There was a scorpion in the towel! In no time at all my nose looked
                        like a pear and felt burning hot. The baby screamed with frustration whilst I feverishly
                        bathed my nose and applied this and that in an effort to cool it.

                        For three days my nose was very red and tender,”A real boozer nose”, said
                        George. But now, thank goodness, it is back to normal.

                        Some of the younger marrieds and a couple of bachelors came around,
                        complete with portable harmonium, to sing carols in the early hours. No sooner had we
                        settled down again to woo sleep when we were disturbed by shouts and screams from
                        our nearest neighbour’s house. “Just celebrating Christmas”, grunted George, but we
                        heard this morning that the neighbour had fallen down his verandah steps and broken his
                        leg.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                        Dearest Family,

                        Well now we are eight! Our new son, Henry, was born on the night of the 28th.
                        He is a beautiful baby, weighing ten pounds three and a half ounces. This baby is very
                        well developed, handsome, and rather superior looking, and not at all amusing to look at
                        as the other boys were.George was born with a moustache, John had a large nose and
                        looked like a little old man, and Jim, bless his heart, looked rather like a baby
                        chimpanzee. Henry is different. One of my visitors said, “Heaven he’ll have to be a
                        Bishop!” I expect the lawn sleeves of his nightie really gave her that idea, but the baby
                        does look like ‘Someone’. He is very good and George, John, and Jim are delighted
                        with him, so is Mabemba.

                        We have a dear little nurse looking after us. She is very petite and childish
                        looking. When the baby was born and she brought him for me to see, the nurse asked
                        his name. I said jokingly, “His name is Benjamin – the last of the family.” She is now very
                        peeved to discover that his real name is Henry William and persists in calling him
                        ‘Benjie’.I am longing to get home and into my pleasant rut. I have been away for two
                        whole weeks and George is managing so well that I shall feel quite expendable if I don’t
                        get home soon. As our home is a couple of miles from the hospital, I arranged to move
                        in and stay with the nursing sister on the day the baby was due. There I remained for ten
                        whole days before the baby was born. Each afternoon George came and took me for a
                        ride in the bumpy Bedford lorry and the Doctor tried this and that but the baby refused
                        to be hurried.

                        On the tenth day I had the offer of a lift and decided to go home for tea and
                        surprise George. It was a surprise too, because George was entertaining a young
                        Game Ranger for tea and my arrival, looking like a perambulating big top, must have
                        been rather embarrassing.Henry was born at the exact moment that celebrations started
                        in the Township for the end of the Muslim religious festival of Ramadan. As the Doctor
                        held him up by his ankles, there was the sound of hooters and firecrackers from the town.
                        The baby has a birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon above his left eyebrow.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 26th January 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        We have just heard that we are to be transferred to the Headquarters of the
                        Game Department at a place called Lyamungu in the Northern Province. George is not
                        at all pleased because he feels that the new job will entail a good deal of office work and
                        that his beloved but endless elephant hunting will be considerably curtailed. I am glad of
                        that and I am looking forward to seeing a new part of Tanganyika and particularly
                        Kilimanjaro which dominates Lyamungu.

                        Thank goodness our menagerie is now much smaller. We found a home for the
                        guinea pigs last December and Susie, our mischievous guinea-fowl, has flown off to find
                        a mate.Last week I went down to Dar es Salaam for a check up by Doctor John, a
                        woman doctor, leaving George to cope with the three boys. I was away two nights and
                        a day and returned early in the morning just as George was giving Henry his six o’clock
                        bottle. It always amazes me that so very masculine a man can do my chores with no
                        effort and I have a horrible suspicion that he does them better than I do. I enjoyed the
                        short break at the coast very much. I stayed with friends and we bathed in the warm sea
                        and saw a good film.

                        Now I suppose there will be a round of farewell parties. People in this country
                        are most kind and hospitable.

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        We left Morogoro after the round of farewell parties I had anticipated. The final
                        one was at the Club on Saturday night. George made a most amusing speech and the
                        party was a very pleasant occasion though I was rather tired after all the packing.
                        Several friends gathered to wave us off on Monday morning. We had two lorries
                        loaded with our goods. I rode in the cab of the first one with Henry on my knee. George
                        with John and Jim rode in the second one. As there was no room for them in the cab,
                        they sat on our couch which was placed across the width of the lorry behind the cab. This
                        seat was not as comfortable as it sounds, because the space behind the couch was
                        taken up with packing cases which were not lashed in place and these kept moving
                        forward as the lorry bumped its way over the bad road.

                        Soon there was hardly any leg room and George had constantly to stand up and
                        push the second layer of packing cases back to prevent them from toppling over onto
                        the children and himself. As it is now the rainy season the road was very muddy and
                        treacherous and the lorries travelled so slowly it was dark by the time we reached
                        Karogwe from where we were booked to take the train next morning to Moshi.
                        Next morning we heard that there had been a washaway on the line and that the
                        train would be delayed for at least twelve hours. I was not feeling well and certainly did
                        not enjoy my day. Early in the afternoon Jimmy ran into a wall and blackened both his
                        eyes. What a child! As the day wore on I felt worse and worse and when at last the train
                        did arrive I simply crawled into my bunk whilst George coped nobly with the luggage
                        and the children.

                        We arrived at Moshi at breakfast time and went straight to the Lion Cub Hotel
                        where I took to my bed with a high temperature. It was, of course, malaria. I always have
                        my attacks at the most inopportune times. Fortunately George ran into some friends
                        called Eccles and the wife Mollie came to my room and bathed Henry and prepared his
                        bottle and fed him. George looked after John and Jim. Next day I felt much better and
                        we drove out to Lyamungu the day after. There we had tea with the Game Warden and
                        his wife before moving into our new home nearby.

                        The Game Warden is Captain Monty Moore VC. He came out to Africa
                        originally as an Officer in the King’s African Rifles and liked the country so much he left the
                        Army and joined the Game Department. He was stationed at Banagi in the Serengetti
                        Game Reserve and is well known for his work with the lions there. He particularly tamed
                        some of the lions by feeding them so that they would come out into the open and could
                        readily be photographed by tourists. His wife Audrey, has written a book about their
                        experiences at Banagi. It is called “Serengetti”

                        Our cook, Hamisi, soon had a meal ready for us and we all went to bed early.
                        This is a very pleasant house and I know we will be happy here. I still feel a little shaky
                        but that is the result of all the quinine I have taken. I expect I shall feel fine in a day or two.

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        Well, here we are settled comfortably in our very nice house. The house is
                        modern and roomy, and there is a large enclosed verandah, which will be a Godsend in
                        the wet weather as a playroom for the children. The only drawback is that there are so
                        many windows to be curtained and cleaned. The grounds consist of a very large lawn
                        and a few beds of roses and shrubs. It is an ideal garden for children, unlike our steeply
                        terraced garden at Morogoro.

                        Lyamungu is really the Government Coffee Research Station. It is about sixteen
                        miles from the town of Moshi which is the centre of the Tanganyika coffee growing
                        industry. Lyamungu, which means ‘place of God’ is in the foothills of Mt Kilimanjaro and
                        we have a beautiful view of Kilimanjaro. Kibo, the more spectacular of the two mountain
                        peaks, towers above us, looking from this angle, like a giant frosted plum pudding. Often the mountain is veiled by cloud and mist which sometimes comes down to
                        our level so that visibility is practically nil. George dislikes both mist and mountain but I
                        like both and so does John. He in fact saw Kibo before I did. On our first day here, the
                        peak was completely hidden by cloud. In the late afternoon when the children were
                        playing on the lawn outside I was indoors hanging curtains. I heard John call out, “Oh
                        Mummy, isn’t it beautiful!” I ran outside and there, above a scarf of cloud, I saw the
                        showy dome of Kibo with the setting sun shining on it tingeing the snow pink. It was an
                        unforgettable experience.

                        As this is the rainy season, the surrounding country side is very lush and green.
                        Everywhere one sees the rich green of the coffee plantations and the lighter green of
                        the banana groves. Unfortunately our walks are rather circumscribed. Except for the main road to Moshi, there is nowhere to walk except through the Government coffee
                        plantation. Paddy, our dog, thinks life is pretty boring as there is no bush here and
                        nothing to hunt. There are only half a dozen European families here and half of those are
                        on very distant terms with the other half which makes the station a rather uncomfortable
                        one.

                        The coffee expert who runs this station is annoyed because his European staff
                        has been cut down owing to the war, and three of the vacant houses and some office
                        buildings have been taken over temporarily by the Game Department. Another house
                        has been taken over by the head of the Labour Department. However I don’t suppose
                        the ill feeling will effect us much. We are so used to living in the bush that we are not
                        socially inclined any way.

                        Our cook, Hamisi, came with us from Morogoro but I had to engage a new
                        houseboy and kitchenboy. I first engaged a houseboy who produced a wonderful ‘chit’
                        in which his previous employer describes him as his “friend and confidant”. I felt rather
                        dubious about engaging him and how right I was. On his second day with us I produced
                        some of Henry’s napkins, previously rinsed by me, and asked this boy to wash them.
                        He looked most offended and told me that it was beneath his dignity to do women’s
                        work. We parted immediately with mutual relief.

                        Now I have a good natured fellow named Japhet who, though hard on crockery,
                        is prepared to do anything and loves playing with the children. He is a local boy, a
                        member of the Chagga tribe. These Chagga are most intelligent and, on the whole, well
                        to do as they all have their own small coffee shambas. Japhet tells me that his son is at
                        the Uganda University College studying medicine.The kitchen boy is a tall youth called
                        Tovelo, who helps both Hamisi, the cook, and the houseboy and also keeps an eye on
                        Henry when I am sewing. I still make all the children’s clothes and my own. Life is
                        pleasant but dull. George promises that he will take the whole family on safari when
                        Henry is a little older.

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        Life drifts quietly by at Lyamungu with each day much like the one before – or
                        they would be, except that the children provide the sort of excitement that prohibits
                        boredom. Of the three boys our Jim is the best at this. Last week Jim wandered into the
                        coffee plantation beside our house and chewed some newly spayed berries. Result?
                        A high temperature and nasty, bloody diarrhoea, so we had to rush him to the hospital at
                        Moshi for treatment. however he was well again next day and George went off on safari.
                        That night there was another crisis. As the nights are now very cold, at this high
                        altitude, we have a large fire lit in the living room and the boy leaves a pile of logs
                        beside the hearth so that I can replenish the fire when necessary. Well that night I took
                        Henry off to bed, leaving John and Jim playing in the living room. When their bedtime
                        came, I called them without leaving the bedroom. When I had tucked John and Jim into
                        bed, I sat reading a bedtime story as I always do. Suddenly I saw smoke drifting
                        through the door, and heard a frightening rumbling noise. Japhet rushed in to say that the
                        lounge chimney was on fire! Picture me, panic on the inside and sweet smile on the
                        outside, as I picked Henry up and said to the other two, “There’s nothing to be
                        frightened about chaps, but get up and come outside for a bit.” Stupid of me to be so
                        heroic because John and Jim were not at all scared but only too delighted at the chance
                        of rushing about outside in the dark. The fire to them was just a bit of extra fun.

                        We hurried out to find one boy already on the roof and the other passing up a
                        brimming bucket of water. Other boys appeared from nowhere and soon cascades of
                        water were pouring down the chimney. The result was a mountain of smouldering soot
                        on the hearth and a pool of black water on the living room floor. However the fire was out
                        and no serious harm done because all the floors here are cement and another stain on
                        the old rug will hardly be noticed. As the children reluctantly returned to bed John
                        remarked smugly, “I told Jim not to put all the wood on the fire at once but he wouldn’t
                        listen.” I might have guessed!

                        However it was not Jim but John who gave me the worst turn of all this week. As
                        a treat I decided to take the boys to the river for a picnic tea. The river is not far from our
                        house but we had never been there before so I took the kitchen boy, Tovelo, to show
                        us the way. The path is on the level until one is in sight of the river when the bank slopes
                        steeply down. I decided that it was too steep for the pram so I stopped to lift Henry out
                        and carry him. When I looked around I saw John running down the slope towards the
                        river. The stream is not wide but flows swiftly and I had no idea how deep it was. All I
                        knew was that it was a trout stream. I called for John, “Stop, wait for me!” but he ran on
                        and made for a rude pole bridge which spanned the river. He started to cross and then,
                        to my horror, I saw John slip. There was a splash and he disappeared under the water. I
                        just dumped the baby on the ground, screamed to the boy to mind him and ran madly
                        down the slope to the river. Suddenly I saw John’s tight fitting felt hat emerge, then his
                        eyes and nose. I dashed into the water and found, to my intense relief, that it only
                        reached up to my shoulders but, thank heaven no further. John’s steady eyes watched
                        me trustingly as I approached him and carried him safely to the bank. He had been
                        standing on a rock and had not panicked at all though he had to stand up very straight
                        and tall to keep his nose out of water. I was too proud of him to scold him for
                        disobedience and too wet anyway.

                        I made John undress and put on two spare pullovers and wrapped Henry’s
                        baby blanket round his waist like a sarong. We made a small fire over which I crouched
                        with literally chattering teeth whilst Tovelo ran home to fetch a coat for me and dry clothes
                        for John.

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        We have a new bull terrier bitch pup whom we have named Fanny III . So once
                        more we have a menagerie , the two dogs, two cats Susie and Winnie, and
                        some pet hens who live in the garage and are a real nuisance.

                        As John is nearly six I thought it time that he started lessons and wrote off to Dar
                        es Salaam for the correspondence course. We have had one week of lessons and I am
                        already in a state of physical and mental exhaustion. John is a most reluctant scholar.
                        “Why should I learn to read, when you can read to me?” he asks, and “Anyway why
                        should I read such stupid stuff, ‘Run Rover Run’, and ‘Mother play with baby’ . Who
                        wants to read about things like that? I don’t.”

                        He rather likes sums, but the only subject about which he is enthusiastic is
                        prehistoric history. He laps up information about ‘The Tree Dwellers’, though he is very
                        sceptical about the existence of such people. “God couldn’t be so silly to make people
                        so stupid. Fancy living in trees when it is easy to make huts like the natives.” ‘The Tree
                        Dwellers is a highly imaginative story about a revolting female called Sharptooth and her
                        offspring called Bodo. I have a very clear mental image of Sharptooth, so it came as a
                        shock to me and highly amused George when John looked at me reflectively across the
                        tea table and said, “Mummy I expect Sharptooth looked like you. You have a sharp
                        tooth too!” I have, my eye teeth are rather sharp, but I hope the resemblance stops
                        there.

                        John has an uncomfortably logical mind for a small boy. The other day he was
                        lying on the lawn staring up at the clouds when he suddenly muttered “I don’t believe it.”
                        “Believe what?” I asked. “That Jesus is coming on a cloud one day. How can he? The
                        thick ones always stay high up. What’s he going to do, jump down with a parachute?”
                        Tovelo, my kitchen boy, announced one evening that his grandmother was in the
                        kitchen and wished to see me. She was a handsome and sensible Chagga woman who
                        brought sad news. Her little granddaughter had stumbled backwards into a large cooking
                        pot of almost boiling maize meal porridge and was ‘ngongwa sana’ (very ill). I grabbed
                        a large bottle of Picric Acid and a packet of gauze which we keep for these emergencies
                        and went with her, through coffee shambas and banana groves to her daughter’s house.
                        Inside the very neat thatched hut the mother sat with the naked child lying face
                        downwards on her knee. The child’s buttocks and the back of her legs were covered in
                        huge burst blisters from which a watery pus dripped. It appeared that the accident had
                        happened on the previous day.

                        I could see that it was absolutely necessary to clean up the damaged area, and I
                        suddenly remembered that there was a trained African hospital dresser on the station. I
                        sent the father to fetch him and whilst the dresser cleaned off the sloughed skin with
                        forceps and swabs saturated in Picric Acid, I cut the gauze into small squares which I
                        soaked in the lotion and laid on the cleaned area. I thought the small pieces would be
                        easier to change especially as the whole of the most tender parts, front and back, were
                        badly scalded. The child seemed dazed and neither the dresser nor I thought she would
                        live. I gave her half an aspirin and left three more half tablets to be given four hourly.
                        Next day she seemed much brighter. I poured more lotion on the gauze
                        disturbing as few pieces as possible and again the next day and the next. After a week
                        the skin was healing well and the child eating normally. I am sure she will be all right now.
                        The new skin is a brilliant red and very shiny but it is pale round the edges of the burnt
                        area and will I hope later turn brown. The mother never uttered a word of thanks, but the
                        granny is grateful and today brought the children a bunch of bananas.

                        Eleanor.

                        c/o Game Dept. P.O.Moshi. 29th September 1944

                        Dearest Mummy,

                        I am so glad that you so enjoyed my last letter with the description of our very
                        interesting and enjoyable safari through Masailand. You said you would like an even
                        fuller description of it to pass around amongst the relations, so, to please you, I have
                        written it out in detail and enclose the result.

                        We have spent a quiet week after our exertions and all are well here.

                        Very much love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Safari in Masailand

                        George and I were at tea with our three little boys on the front lawn of our house
                        in Lyamungu, Northern Tanganyika. It was John’s sixth birthday and he and Jim, a
                        happy sturdy three year old, and Henry, aged eleven months, were munching the
                        squares of plain chocolate which rounded off the party, when George said casually
                        across the table to me, “Could you be ready by the day after tomorrow to go on
                        safari?” “Me too?” enquired John anxiously, before I had time to reply, and “Me too?”
                        echoed Jim. “yes, of course I can”, said I to George and “of course you’re coming too”,
                        to the children who rate a day spent in the bush higher than any other pleasure.
                        So in the early morning two days later, we started out happily for Masailand in a
                        three ton Ford lorry loaded to capacity with the five Rushbys, the safari paraphernalia,
                        drums of petrol and quite a retinue of servants and Game Scouts. George travelling
                        alone on his monthly safaris, takes only the cook and a couple of Game Scouts, but this was to be a safari de luxe.

                        Henry and I shared the cab with George who was driving, whilst John and Jim
                        with the faithful orderly Mabemba beside them to point out the game animals, were
                        installed upon rolls of bedding in the body of the lorry. The lorry lumbered along, first
                        through coffee shambas, and then along the main road between Moshi and Arusha.
                        After half an hour or so, we turned South off the road into a track which crossed the
                        Sanya Plains and is the beginning of this part of Masailand. Though the dry season was
                        at its height, and the pasture dry and course, we were soon passing small groups of
                        game. This area is a Game Sanctuary and the antelope grazed quietly quite undisturbed
                        by the passing lorry. Here and there zebra stood bunched by the road, a few wild
                        ostriches stalked jerkily by, and in the distance some wildebeest cavorted around in their
                        crazy way.

                        Soon the grasslands gave way to thorn bush, and we saw six fantastically tall
                        giraffe standing motionless with their heads turned enquiringly towards us. George
                        stopped the lorry so the children could have a good view of them. John was enchanted
                        but Jim, alas, was asleep.

                        At mid day we reached the Kikoletwa River and turned aside to camp. Beside
                        the river, under huge leafy trees, there was a beautiful camping spot, but the river was
                        deep and reputed to be full of crocodiles so we passed it by and made our camp
                        some distance from the river under a tall thorn tree with a flat lacy canopy. All around the
                        camp lay uprooted trees of similar size that had been pushed over by elephants. As
                        soon as the lorry stopped a camp chair was set up for me and the Game Scouts quickly
                        slashed down grass and cleared the camp site of thorns. The same boys then pitched the tent whilst George himself set up the three camp beds and the folding cot for Henry,
                        and set up the safari table and the canvas wash bowl and bath.

                        The cook in the meantime had cleared a cool spot for the kitchen , opened up the
                        chop boxes and started a fire. The cook’s boy and the dhobi (laundry boy) brought
                        water from the rather muddy river and tea was served followed shortly afterward by an
                        excellent lunch. In a very short time the camp had a suprisingly homely look. Nappies
                        fluttered from a clothes line, Henry slept peacefully in his cot, John and Jim sprawled on
                        one bed looking at comics, and I dozed comfortably on another.

                        George, with the Game Scouts, drove off in the lorry about his work. As a Game
                        Ranger it is his business to be on a constant look out for poachers, both African and
                        European, and for disease in game which might infect the valuable herds of Masai cattle.
                        The lorry did not return until dusk by which time the children had bathed enthusiastically in
                        the canvas bath and were ready for supper and bed. George backed the lorry at right
                        angles to the tent, Henry’s cot and two camp beds were set up in the lorry, the tarpaulin
                        was lashed down and the children put to bed in their novel nursery.

                        When darkness fell a large fire was lit in front of the camp, the exited children at
                        last fell asleep and George and I sat on by the fire enjoying the cool and quiet night.
                        When the fire subsided into a bed of glowing coals, it was time for our bed. During the
                        night I was awakened by the sound of breaking branches and strange indescribable
                        noises.” Just elephant”, said George comfortably and instantly fell asleep once more. I
                        didn’t! We rose with the birds next morning, but breakfast was ready and in a
                        remarkably short time the lorry had been reloaded and we were once more on our way.
                        For about half a mile we made our own track across the plain and then we turned
                        into the earth road once more. Soon we had reached the river and were looking with
                        dismay at the suspension bridge which we had to cross. At the far side, one steel
                        hawser was missing and there the bridge tilted dangerously. There was no handrail but
                        only heavy wooden posts which marked the extremities of the bridge. WhenGeorge
                        measured the distance between the posts he found that there could be barely two
                        inches to spare on either side of the cumbersome lorry.

                        He decided to risk crossing, but the children and I and all the servants were told to
                        cross the bridge and go down the track out of sight. The Game Scouts remained on the
                        river bank on the far side of the bridge and stood ready for emergencies. As I walked
                        along anxiously listening, I was horrified to hear the lorry come to a stop on the bridge.
                        There was a loud creaking noise and I instantly visualised the lorry slowly toppling over
                        into the deep crocodile infested river. The engine restarted, the lorry crossed the bridge
                        and came slowly into sight around the bend. My heart slid back into its normal position.
                        George was as imperturbable as ever and simply remarked that it had been a near
                        thing and that we would return to Lyamungu by another route.

                        Beyond the green river belt the very rutted track ran through very uninteresting
                        thorn bush country. Henry was bored and tiresome, jumping up and down on my knee
                        and yelling furiously. “Teeth”, said I apologetically to George, rashly handing a match
                        box to Henry to keep him quiet. No use at all! With a fat finger he poked out the tray
                        spilling the matches all over me and the floor. Within seconds Henry had torn the
                        matchbox to pieces with his teeth and flung the battered remains through the window.
                        An empty cigarette box met with the same fate as the match box and the yells
                        continued unabated until Henry slept from sheer exhaustion. George gave me a smile,
                        half sympathetic and half sardonic, “Enjoying the safari, my love?” he enquired. On these
                        trying occasions George has the inestimable advantage of being able to go into a Yogilike
                        trance, whereas I become irritated to screaming point.

                        In an effort to prolong Henry’s slumber I braced my feet against the floor boards
                        and tried to turn myself into a human shock absorber as we lurched along the eroded
                        track. Several times my head made contact with the bolt of a rifle in the rack above, and
                        once I felt I had shattered my knee cap against the fire extinguisher in a bracket under the
                        dash board.

                        Strange as it may seem, I really was enjoying the trip in spite of these
                        discomforts. At last after three years I was once more on safari with George. This type of
                        country was new to me and there was so much to see We passed a family of giraffe
                        standing in complete immobility only a few yards from the track. Little dick-dick. one of the smallest of the antelope, scuttled in pairs across the road and that afternoon I had my first view of Gerenuk, curious red brown antelope with extremely elongated legs and giraffe-like necks.

                        Most interesting of all was my first sight of Masai at home. We could hear a tuneful
                        jangle of cattle bells and suddenly came across herds of humped cattle browsing upon
                        the thorn bushes. The herds were guarded by athletic,striking looking Masai youths and men.
                        Each had a calabash of water slung over his shoulder and a tall, highly polished spear in his
                        hand. These herdsmen were quite unselfconscious though they wore no clothing except for one carelessly draped blanket. Very few gave us any greeting but glanced indifferently at us from under fringes of clay-daubed plaited hair . The rest of their hair was drawn back behind the ears to display split earlobes stretched into slender loops by the weight of heavy brass or copper tribal ear rings.

                        Most of the villages were set well back in the bush out of sight of the road but we did pass one
                        typical village which looked most primitive indeed. It consisted simply of a few mound like mud huts which were entirely covered with a plaster of mud and cattle dung and the whole clutch of huts were surrounded by a ‘boma’ of thorn to keep the cattle in at night and the lions out. There was a gathering of women and children on the road at this point. The children of both sexes were naked and unadorned, but the women looked very fine indeed. This is not surprising for they have little to do but adorn themselves, unlike their counterparts of other tribes who have to work hard cultivating the fields. The Masai women, and others I saw on safari, were far more amiable and cheerful looking than the men and were well proportioned.

                        They wore skirts of dressed goat skin, knee length in front but ankle length behind. Their arms
                        from elbow to wrist, and legs from knee to ankle, were encased in tight coils of copper and
                        galvanised wire. All had their heads shaved and in some cases bound by a leather band
                        embroidered in red white and blue beads. Circular ear rings hung from slit earlobes and their
                        handsome throats were encircled by stiff wire necklaces strung with brightly coloured beads. These
                        necklaces were carefully graded in size and formed deep collars almost covering their breasts.
                        About a quarter of a mile further along the road we met eleven young braves in gala attire, obviously on their way to call on the girls. They formed a line across the road and danced up and down until the lorry was dangerously near when they parted and grinned cheerfully at us. These were the only cheerful
                        looking male Masai that I saw. Like the herdsmen these youths wore only a blanket, but their
                        blankets were ochre colour, and elegantly draped over their backs. Their naked bodies gleamed with oil. Several had painted white stripes on their faces, and two had whitewashed their faces entirely which I
                        thought a pity. All had their long hair elaborately dressed and some carried not only one,
                        but two gleaming spears.

                        By mid day George decided that we had driven far enough for that day. He
                        stopped the lorry and consulted a rather unreliable map. “Somewhere near here is a
                        place called Lolbeni,” he said. “The name means Sweet Water, I hear that the
                        government have piped spring water down from the mountain into a small dam at which
                        the Masai water their cattle.” Lolbeni sounded pleasant to me. Henry was dusty and
                        cross, the rubber sheet had long slipped from my lap to the floor and I was conscious of
                        a very damp lap. ‘Sweet Waters’ I felt, would put all that right. A few hundred yards
                        away a small herd of cattle was grazing, so George lit his pipe and relaxed at last, whilst
                        a Game Scout went off to find the herdsman. The scout soon returned with an ancient
                        and emaciated Masai who was thrilled at the prospect of his first ride in a lorry and
                        offered to direct us to Lolbeni which was off the main track and about four miles away.

                        Once Lolbeni had been a small administrative post and a good track had
                        led to it, but now the Post had been abandoned and the road is dotted with vigourous
                        thorn bushes and the branches of larger thorn trees encroach on the track The road had
                        deteriorated to a mere cattle track, deeply rutted and eroded by heavy rains over a
                        period of years. The great Ford truck, however, could take it. It lurched victoriously along,
                        mowing down the obstructions, tearing off branches from encroaching thorn trees with its
                        high railed sides, spanning gorges in the track, and climbing in and out of those too wide
                        to span. I felt an army tank could not have done better.

                        I had expected Lolbeni to be a green oasis in a desert of grey thorns, but I was
                        quickly disillusioned. To be sure the thorn trees were larger and more widely spaced and
                        provided welcome shade, but the ground under the trees had been trampled by thousands of cattle into a dreary expanse of dirty grey sand liberally dotted with cattle droppings and made still more uninviting by the bleached bones of dead beasts.

                        To the right of this waste rose a high green hill which gave the place its name and from which
                        the precious water was piped, but its slopes were too steep to provide a camping site.
                        Flies swarmed everywhere and I was most relieved when George said that we would
                        stay only long enough to fill our cans with water. Even the water was a disappointment!
                        The water in the small dam was low and covered by a revolting green scum, and though
                        the water in the feeding pipe was sweet, it trickled so feebly that it took simply ages to
                        fill a four gallon can.

                        However all these disappointments were soon forgotten for we drove away
                        from the flies and dirt and trampled sand and soon, with their quiet efficiency, George
                        and his men set up a comfortable camp. John and Jim immediately started digging
                        operations in the sandy soil whilst Henry and I rested. After tea George took his shot
                        gun and went off to shoot guinea fowl and partridges for the pot. The children and I went
                        walking, keeping well in site of camp, and soon we saw a very large flock of Vulturine
                        Guineafowl, running aimlessly about and looking as tame as barnyard fowls, but melting
                        away as soon as we moved in their direction.

                        We had our second quiet and lovely evening by the camp fire, followed by a
                        peaceful night.

                        We left Lolbeni very early next morning, which was a good thing, for as we left
                        camp the herds of thirsty cattle moved in from all directions. They were accompanied by
                        Masai herdsmen, their naked bodies and blankets now covered by volcanic dust which
                        was being stirred in rising clouds of stifling ash by the milling cattle, and also by grey
                        donkeys laden with panniers filled with corked calabashes for water.

                        Our next stop was Nabarera, a Masai cattle market and trading centre, where we
                        reluctantly stayed for two days in a pokey Goverment Resthouse because George had
                        a job to do in that area. The rest was good for Henry who promptly produced a tooth
                        and was consequently much better behaved for the rest of the trip. George was away in the bush most of the day but he returned for afternoon tea and later took the children out
                        walking. We had noticed curious white dumps about a quarter mile from the resthouse
                        and on the second afternoon we set out to investigate them. Behind the dumps we
                        found passages about six foot wide, cut through solid limestone. We explored two of
                        these and found that both passages led steeply down to circular wells about two and a
                        half feet in diameter.

                        At the very foot of each passage, beside each well, rough drinking troughs had
                        been cut in the stone. The herdsmen haul the water out of the well in home made hide
                        buckets, the troughs are filled and the cattle driven down the ramps to drink at the trough.
                        It was obvious that the wells were ancient and the sloping passages new. George tells
                        me that no one knows what ancient race dug the original wells. It seems incredible that
                        these deep and narrow shafts could have been sunk without machinery. I craned my
                        neck and looked above one well and could see an immensely long shaft reaching up to
                        ground level. Small footholds were cut in the solid rock as far as I could see.
                        It seems that the Masai are as ignorant as ourselves about the origin of these
                        wells. They do say however that when their forebears first occupied what is now known
                        as Masailand, they not only found the Wanderobo tribe in the area but also a light
                        skinned people and they think it possible that these light skinned people dug the wells.
                        These people disappeared. They may have been absorbed or, more likely, they were
                        liquidated.

                        The Masai had found the well impractical in their original form and had hired
                        labourers from neighbouring tribes to cut the passages to water level. Certainly the Masai are not responsible for the wells. They are a purely pastoral people and consider manual labour extremely degrading.

                        They live chiefly on milk from their herd which they allow to go sour, and mix with blood that has been skilfully tapped from the necks of living cattle. They do not eat game meat, nor do they cultivate any
                        land. They hunt with spears, but hunt only lions, to protect their herds, and to test the skill
                        and bravery of their young warriors. What little grain they do eat is transported into
                        Masailand by traders. The next stage of our journey took us to Ngassamet where
                        George was to pick up some elephant tusks. I had looked forward particularly to this
                        stretch of road for I had heard that there was a shallow lake at which game congregates,
                        and at which I had great hopes of seeing elephants. We had come too late in the
                        season though, the lake was dry and there were only piles of elephant droppings to
                        prove that elephant had recently been there in numbers. Ngassamet, though no beauty
                        spot, was interesting. We saw more elaborate editions of the wells already described, and as this area
                        is rich in cattle we saw the aristocrats of the Masai. You cannot conceive of a more arrogant looking male than a young Masai brave striding by on sandalled feet, unselfconscious in all his glory. All the young men wore the casually draped traditional ochre blanket and carried one or more spears. But here belts and long knife sheaths of scarlet leather seem to be the fashion. Here fringes do not seem to be the thing. Most of these young Masai had their hair drawn smoothly back and twisted in a pointed queue, the whole plastered with a smooth coating of red clay. Some tied their horn shaped queues over their heads
                        so that the tip formed a deep Satanic peak on the brow. All these young men wore the traditional
                        copper earrings and I saw one or two with copper bracelets and one with a necklace of brightly coloured
                        beads.

                        It so happened that, on the day of our visit to Ngassamet, there had been a
                        baraza (meeting) which was attended by all the local headmen and elders. These old
                        men came to pay their respects to George and a more shrewd and rascally looking
                        company I have never seen, George told me that some of these men own up to three
                        thousand head of cattle and more. The chief was as fat and Rabelasian as his second in
                        command was emaciated, bucktoothed and prim. The Chief shook hands with George
                        and greeted me and settled himself on the wall of the resthouse porch opposite
                        George. The lesser headmen, after politely greeting us, grouped themselves in a
                        semi circle below the steps with their ‘aides’ respectfully standing behind them. I
                        remained sitting in the only chair and watched the proceedings with interest and
                        amusement.

                        These old Masai, I noticed, cared nothing for adornment. They had proved
                        themselves as warriors in the past and were known to be wealthy and influential so did
                        not need to make any display. Most of them had their heads comfortably shaved and
                        wore only a drab blanket or goatskin cloak. Their only ornaments were earrings whose
                        effect was somewhat marred by the serviceable and homely large safety pin that
                        dangled from the lobe of one ear. All carried staves instead of spears and all, except for
                        Buckteeth and one blind old skeleton of a man, appeared to have a keenly developed
                        sense of humour.

                        “Mummy?” asked John in an urgent whisper, “Is that old blind man nearly dead?”
                        “Yes dear”, said I, “I expect he’ll soon die.” “What here?” breathed John in a tone of
                        keen anticipation and, until the meeting broke up and the old man left, he had John’s
                        undivided attention.

                        After local news and the game situation had been discussed, the talk turned to the
                        war. “When will the war end?” moaned the fat Chief. “We have made great gifts of cattle
                        to the War Funds, we are taxed out of existence.” George replied with the Ki-Swahili
                        equivalent of ‘Sez you!’. This sally was received with laughter and the old fellows rose to
                        go. They made their farewells and dignified exits, pausing on their way to stare at our
                        pink and white Henry, who sat undismayed in his push chair giving them stare for stare
                        from his striking grey eyes.

                        Towards evening some Masai, prompted no doubt by our native servants,
                        brought a sheep for sale. It was the last night of the fast of Ramadan and our
                        Mohammedan boys hoped to feast next day at our expense. Their faces fell when
                        George refused to buy the animal. “Why should I pay fifteen shillings for a sheep?” he
                        asked, “Am I not the Bwana Nyama and is not the bush full of my sheep?” (Bwana
                        Nyama is the native name for a Game Ranger, but means literally, ‘Master of the meat’)
                        George meant that he would shoot a buck for the men next day, but this incident was to
                        have a strange sequel. Ngassamet resthouse consists of one room so small we could
                        not put up all our camp beds and George and I slept on the cement floor which was
                        unkind to my curves. The night was bitterly cold and all night long hyaenas screeched
                        hideously outside. So we rose at dawn without reluctance and were on our way before it
                        was properly light.

                        George had decided that it would be foolhardy to return home by our outward
                        route as he did not care to risk another crossing of the suspension bridge. So we
                        returned to Nabarera and there turned onto a little used track which would eventually take
                        us to the Great North Road a few miles South of Arusha. There was not much game
                        about but I saw Oryx which I had not previously seen. Soon it grew intolerably hot and I
                        think all of us but George were dozing when he suddenly stopped the lorry and pointed
                        to the right. “Mpishi”, he called to the cook, “There’s your sheep!” True enough, on that
                        dreary thorn covered plain,with not another living thing in sight, stood a fat black sheep.

                        There was an incredulous babbling from the back of the lorry. Every native
                        jumped to the ground and in no time at all the wretched sheep was caught and
                        slaughtered. I felt sick. “Oh George”, I wailed, “The poor lost sheep! I shan’t eat a scrap
                        of it.” George said nothing but went and had a look at the sheep and called out to me,
                        “Come and look at it. It was kindness to kill the poor thing, the vultures have been at it
                        already and the hyaenas would have got it tonight.” I went reluctantly and saw one eye
                        horribly torn out, and small deep wounds on the sheep’s back where the beaks of the
                        vultures had cut through the heavy fleece. Poor thing! I went back to the lorry more
                        determined than ever not to eat mutton on that trip. The Scouts and servants had no
                        such scruples. The fine fat sheep had been sent by Allah for their feast day and that was
                        the end of it.

                        “ ‘Mpishi’ is more convinced than ever that I am a wizard”, said George in
                        amusement as he started the lorry. I knew what he meant. Several times before George
                        had foretold something which had later happened. Pure coincidence, but strange enough
                        to give rise to a legend that George had the power to arrange things. “What happened
                        of course”, explained George, “Is that a flock of Masai sheep was driven to market along
                        this track yesterday or the day before. This one strayed and was not missed.”

                        The day grew hotter and hotter and for long miles we looked out for a camping
                        spot but could find little shade and no trace of water anywhere. At last, in the early
                        afternoon we reached another pokey little rest house and asked for water. “There is no
                        water here,” said the native caretaker. “Early in the morning there is water in a well nearby
                        but we are allowed only one kerosene tin full and by ten o’clock the well is dry.” I looked
                        at George in dismay for we were all so tired and dusty. “Where do the Masai from the
                        village water their cattle then?” asked George. “About two miles away through the bush.
                        If you take me with you I shall show you”, replied the native.

                        So we turned off into the bush and followed a cattle track even more tortuous than
                        the one to Lolbeni. Two Scouts walked ahead to warn us of hazards and I stretched my
                        arm across the open window to fend off thorns. Henry screamed with fright and hunger.
                        But George’s efforts to reach water went unrewarded as we were brought to a stop by
                        a deep donga. The native from the resthouse was apologetic. He had mistaken the
                        path, perhaps if we turned back we might find it. George was beyond speech. We
                        lurched back the way we had come and made our camp under the first large tree we
                        could find. Then off went our camp boys on foot to return just before dark with the water.
                        However they were cheerful for there was an unlimited quantity of dry wood for their fires
                        and meat in plenty for their feast. Long after George and I left our campfire and had gone
                        to bed, we could see the cheerful fires of the boys and hear their chatter and laughter.
                        I woke in the small hours to hear the insane cackling of hyaenas gloating over a
                        find. Later I heard scuffling around the camp table, I peered over the tailboard of the lorry
                        and saw George come out of his tent. What are you doing?” I whispered. “Looking for
                        something to throw at those bloody hyaenas,” answered George for all the world as
                        though those big brutes were tomcats on the prowl. Though the hyaenas kept up their
                        concert all night the children never stirred, nor did any of them wake at night throughout
                        the safari.

                        Early next morning I walked across to the camp kitchen to enquire into the loud
                        lamentations coming from that quarter. “Oh Memsahib”, moaned the cook, “We could
                        not sleep last night for the bad hyaenas round our tents. They have taken every scrap of
                        meat we had left over from the feast., even the meat we had left to smoke over the fire.”
                        Jim, who of our three young sons is the cook’s favourite commiserated with him. He said
                        in Ki-Swahili, which he speaks with great fluency, “Truly those hyaenas are very bad
                        creatures. They also robbed us. They have taken my hat from the table and eaten the
                        new soap from the washbowl.

                        Our last day in the bush was a pleasantly lazy one. We drove through country
                        that grew more open and less dry as we approached Arusha. We pitched our camp
                        near a large dam, and the water was a blessed sight after a week of scorched country.
                        On the plains to the right of our camp was a vast herd of native cattle enjoying a brief
                        rest after their long day trek through Masailand. They were destined to walk many more
                        weary miles before reaching their destination, a meat canning factory in Kenya.
                        The ground to the left of the camp rose gently to form a long low hill and on the
                        grassy slopes we could see wild ostriches and herds of wildebeest, zebra and
                        antelope grazing amicably side by side. In the late afternoon I watched the groups of
                        zebra and wildebeest merge into one. Then with a wildebeest leading, they walked
                        down the slope in single file to drink at the vlei . When they were satisfied, a wildebeest
                        once more led the herd up the trail. The others followed in a long and orderly file, and
                        vanished over the hill to their evening pasture.

                        When they had gone, George took up his shotgun and invited John to
                        accompany him to the dam to shoot duck. This was the first time John had acted as
                        retriever but he did very well and proudly helped to carry a mixed bag of sand grouse
                        and duck back to camp.

                        Next morning we turned into the Great North Road and passed first through
                        carefully tended coffee shambas and then through the township of Arusha, nestling at
                        the foot of towering Mount Meru. Beyond Arusha we drove through the Usa River
                        settlement where again coffee shambas and European homesteads line the road, and
                        saw before us the magnificent spectacle of Kilimanjaro unveiled, its white snow cap
                        gleaming in the sunlight. Before mid day we were home. “Well was it worth it?” enquired
                        George at lunch. “Lovely,” I replied. ”Let’s go again soon.” Then thinking regretfully of
                        our absent children I sighed, “If only Ann, George, and Kate could have gone with us
                        too.”

                        Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                        Dearest Family.

                        Mummy wants to know how I fill in my time with George away on safari for weeks
                        on end. I do believe that you all picture me idling away my days, waited on hand and
                        foot by efficient servants! On the contrary, life is one rush and the days never long
                        enough.

                        To begin with, our servants are anything but efficient, apart from our cook, Hamisi
                        Issa, who really is competent. He suffers from frustration because our budget will not run
                        to elaborate dishes so there is little scope for his culinary art. There is one masterpiece
                        which is much appreciated by John and Jim. Hamisi makes a most realistic crocodile out
                        of pastry and stuffs its innards with minced meat. This revolting reptile is served on a
                        bed of parsley on my largest meat dish. The cook is a strict Mohammedan and
                        observes all the fasts and daily prayers and, like all Mohammedans he is very clean in
                        his person and, thank goodness, in the kitchen.

                        His wife is his pride and joy but not his helpmate. She does absolutely nothing
                        but sit in a chair in the sun all day, sipping tea and smoking cigarettes – a more
                        expensive brand than mine! It is Hamisi who sweeps out their quarters, cooks
                        delectable curries for her, and spends more than he can afford on clothing and trinkets for
                        his wife. She just sits there with her ‘Mona Lisa’ smile and her painted finger and toe
                        nails, doing absolutely nothing.

                        The thing is that natives despise women who do work and this applies especially
                        to their white employers. House servants much prefer a Memsahib who leaves
                        everything to them and is careless about locking up her pantry. When we first came to
                        Lyamungu I had great difficulty in employing a houseboy. A couple of rather efficient
                        ones did approach me but when they heard the wages I was prepared to pay and that
                        there was no number 2 boy, they simply were not interested. Eventually I took on a
                        local boy called Japhet who suits me very well except that his sight is not good and he
                        is extremely hard on the crockery. He tells me that he has lost face by working here
                        because his friends say that he works for a family that is too mean to employ a second
                        boy. I explained that with our large family we simply cannot afford to pay more, but this
                        didn’t register at all. Japhet says “But Wazungu (Europeans) all have money. They just
                        have to get it from the Bank.”

                        The third member of our staff is a strapping youth named Tovelo who helps both
                        cook and boy, and consequently works harder than either. What do I do? I chivvy the
                        servants, look after the children, supervise John’s lessons, and make all my clothing and
                        the children’s on that blessed old hand sewing machine.

                        The folk on this station entertain a good deal but we usually decline invitations
                        because we simply cannot afford to reciprocate. However, last Saturday night I invited
                        two couples to drinks and dinner. This was such an unusual event that the servants and I
                        were thrown into a flurry. In the end the dinner went off well though it ended in disaster. In
                        spite of my entreaties and exhortations to Japhet not to pile everything onto the tray at
                        once when clearing the table, he did just that. We were starting our desert and I was
                        congratulating myself that all had gone well when there was a frightful crash of breaking
                        china on the back verandah. I excused myself and got up to investigate. A large meat
                        dish, six dinner plates and four vegetable dishes lay shattered on the cement floor! I
                        controlled my tongue but what my eyes said to Japhet is another matter. What he said
                        was, “It is not my fault Memsahib. The handle of the tray came off.”

                        It is a curious thing about native servants that they never accept responsibility for
                        a mishap. If they cannot pin their misdeeds onto one of their fellow servants then the responsibility rests with God. ‘Shauri ya Mungu’, (an act of God) is a familiar cry. Fatalists
                        can be very exasperating employees.

                        The loss of my dinner service is a real tragedy because, being war time, one can
                        buy only china of the poorest quality made for the native trade. Nor was that the final
                        disaster of the evening. When we moved to the lounge for coffee I noticed that the
                        coffee had been served in the battered old safari coffee pot instead of the charming little
                        antique coffee pot which my Mother-in-law had sent for our tenth wedding anniversary.
                        As there had already been a disturbance I made no comment but resolved to give the
                        cook a piece of my mind in the morning. My instructions to the cook had been to warm
                        the coffee pot with hot water immediately before serving. On no account was he to put
                        the pewter pot on the hot iron stove. He did and the result was a small hole in the base
                        of the pot – or so he says. When I saw the pot next morning there was a two inch hole in
                        it.

                        Hamisi explained placidly how this had come about. He said he knew I would be
                        mad when I saw the little hole so he thought he would have it mended and I might not
                        notice it. Early in the morning he had taken the pewter pot to the mechanic who looks
                        after the Game Department vehicles and had asked him to repair it. The bright individual
                        got busy with the soldering iron with the most devastating result. “It’s his fault,” said
                        Hamisi, “He is a mechanic, he should have known what would happen.”
                        One thing is certain, there will be no more dinner parties in this house until the war
                        is ended.

                        The children are well and so am I, and so was George when he left on his safari
                        last Monday.

                        Much love,
                        Eleanor.

                         

                        #6078

                        “You really know your trade, Fuyi,” said Rukshan. “You’ve built the most exquisite and comfortable place. And I think the empty dishes speak aplenty about the quality of the food and the pleasure we took in this shared meal. Now, let us help you with the dishes,” said Rukshan.

                        “Ach! Don’t be so polite,” said Fuyi. “I’ll have plenty of time after yar departure tomorrow. It’s not like the inn is full. Just enjoy an evening together, discuss yar plans, and have some rest. I know that life. Take the chance when it presents itself!”

                        Rushan nodded and looked at Kumihimo. Fox sighed with relief. His belly was full and round, and he didn’t want to disturbed his digestion with some chore.

                        The Sinese food made by the innkeeper had been delicious and quite a first for most of them. Tak had particularly enjoyed the crunchy texture of the stir fried vegetables flavoured with the famous five spices sauce. Nesy had preferred the algae and chili dishes while Fox, who ate a red hot pepper thinking it was bell pepper, had stuffed himself with juicy pork buns to put out the fire in his mouth.

                        Gorrash, befuddled by the novelty, had been at a loss of labels, good or bad. He simply chose to welcome the new experiences and body reactions to flavours and textures. As for Olliver, he gave up the chopsticks when he saw how fast Fox made the food disappear from the dishes.

                        Now that the dishes were empty, the children and Gorrash had left the table and were playing near the fireplace. Olliver was looking at the trio with envy, split between the desire to play and enjoy the simplicity of the moment, and the desire to be taken more seriously which meant participate in the conversation with the adults.

                        “We have plenty to discuss, Fae,” said Kumihimo.

                        Fuyi looked at Olliver, recognising the conundrum. “That’s settled, then,” he said to the group. Then turning toward Olliver: “Boy! I’m sure the start of the conversation will be boring for a young mind. Let’s join the others for a story of my own. You can still come back later and they’ll fill you in on the details.”

                        Fuyi and Olliver moved to the fireplace. The innkeeper threw cushions on the floor and sat on a wooden rocking chair. At the mention of a story, Tak, Nesy and Gorrash couldn’t contain their exuberant joy and gathered all ears around Admirable Fuyi. As he rocked, the chair creaked. He waited until they all calmed down. And when he was satisfied he started.

                        “I was young and still a fresh recruit in the Sinese army,” started Fuyi. “We were stationed at the western frontier just below the high plateaus and I hadn’t participated in any battle yet. With the folly of youth I thought that our weapons and the bond we shared with my fellow soldiers were enough to defeat anything.”

                        #5671
                        AvatarJib
                        Participant

                          With her pink glove on and her lips apart, Liz passed her finger on the bookshelf. Making the most of the opportunity of Finnley’s excursion outside, Liz had pretexted she wanted to show Roberto how to check for dust. In truth, but she would never confess to it, except to Godfrey after a few drink and some cashew nuts later that day, in truth she had bought a new pink uniform for the gardener/handyman and wanted to see how it fitted him. Of course, she had ordered a few sizes under, so Roberto’s muscles bulged quite nicely under the fabric of the short sleeves, stretching the seam in a dangerously exciting way.

                          “What’s this book?” asked Roberto.

                          “What?” asked Liz who had been lost in one of the worst case scenario. Why would Roberto talk about something as undersexying as a book? Nonetheless, without wanting to, her eyes followed the gardener’s sexy arm down to his sexy finger pointing at the book spine and her brain froze on the title: “An Aesthetic of the Night Mare“, by Vanina Vain.

                          “What’s this book doing among my personal work?” she asked, all sexying forgotten.

                          “Don’t you remember?” asked Godfrey who happened to pass behind her. “Years ago when you still read your fanmail you answered one from a young girl wanting to follow in your footsteps. You sent her a handwritten copy of Rilke’s letter to a young poet. I wrote it myself and Finnley signed it for you. She’s so good at imitating your signature. Well anyway a few years later that girl finally published her first book and sent you a copy to thank you.”

                          “Have I read it?” Liz asked.

                          “You might have. But I’m not sure. It’s quite Gothic. The girl takes advantage of her sleep paralysis at night to do some crazy experiences.”

                          Liz had no recollection whatsoever of it, but that was not the point.

                          “Tsk. What’s it doing among my personal work bookshelves? Don’t we have somewhere else to put that kind of…”

                          “The trash you mean?” asked Finnley.

                          “Oh! You’re back”, said Liz.

                          “Tsk, tsk. Such disappointment in your voice. But I’m never far away, and luckily for some”, she added with a look at Roberto who was trying to stretch the sleeve without breaking the seam.

                          #4732

                          The day was young, and Mandrake was enjoying playing the cat in the Inn.
                          Besides the benefit of unrepentant naps, what best way to be undercover in a dimension where talking cats where unheard of. His boots had been a subject for a casual chat during the breakfast, but he managed to get away with them, thanks to Arona’s quick wits who had explained he had sensitive paws.
                          Some of the other guests at the Inn were a bit curious though, too curious.
                          He’d almost jumped to rip his face off, when the Canadian guy asked whether it wouldn’t be best to have him neutered. Luckily, years of dealing with humans and dragons had left him with a patience for these types of shenanigans, even tolerating a pat or two on the head.

                          The maid-who-wasn’t-a-maid was another story, she seemed to fear him, and chased him with a broom when he was wandering in the morning, looking for clues as to the key.
                          While he was napping in a corner of the main hall on a dusted shelf near a silly looking fish, he had spotted a suspicious old man who had sneaked in and had done some business in a locked hangar before leaving. Maybe the man knew about the three words engraved on Arona’s key.

                          doctor.experiences.funk

                          #4293

                          The night was almost there, the dwarf would come out of his heavy daysleep any minute now. Fox had been collecting mushrooms along with twigs and branches to make some fire. He hoped the constant drizzle of these last few days had not rendered them too wet.

                          The differences of his needs and cravings depending on his being a fox or a human had always amazed him. When he was a fox, he feared fire and would avoid it at all cost. When he was a human, he couldn’t spend a night out in the cold without a fire. His body was simply not good at keeping warmth inside when he had no fur. Today was no exception and Fox was certain the dwarf would also appreciate it to get rid of the cold of the stone.

                          After piling up the wood for the fire, Fox smelled his harvest of fresh mushrooms. He imagined them accompanying a good rabbit stew and felt saliva water his mouth. His diet as an animal was mostly meat, whereas as a human he was oddly attracted to vegetables, and even enjoyed the taste of mushrooms. He might not enjoy them so much had he not met a girl once, so long ago when he was a still a cub learning to transform into a human. He remembered the girl had said she was called Eleri, which he had found amusing because in French “Elle rit” means “she’s laughing”.

                          “How do you know French?” she had asked.
                          “Oh! My master Gibbon teaches me French, he says it would give me another way of thinking the world.”
                          “Your master must be fond of Romance stories,” she giggled.

                          Fox didn’t really understood what she meant by that, and he thought it was not so important because what she had in her bag smelt so funny.

                          “What’s that?” he asked.
                          “You want some?” She handed a bunch of butterstache fungi to the handsome redhead boy. “I realise I don’t know your name.”

                          “I’m Fox,” he said his eyes fixed on the strange looking things in her hands. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Is it safe?”

                          He remembered the look of incredulity in her eyes, her beautiful eyes. She was the first girl he had seen. He didn’t know much about humans except what Master Gibbon had told him in French, which didn’t really make sense at that time.

                          “It’s totally safe, you might only have some funny experiences if you take the wrong ones in the forest,” Eleri laughed and Fox remembered the meaning of her name in French. He thought the name suited her well. He accepted her gift, for her eyes, and for her sincere laugh.

                          Since that time, eating mushrooms was always coloured with joy and a sense of daring. The last rays of the Sun faded away.

                          “It smells like mushrooms, and butterstache if I’m not mistaken,” said the raspy voice of the dwarf.

                          #3890

                          In reply to: The Hosts of Mars

                          EricEric
                          Keymaster

                            Readjusting to Earth had not been as easy as John had thought.
                            At the beginning, everything seemed overwhelmingly bright and noisy. The huge blue sky was a wonder to behold, but his eyes couldn’t look at it for long time periods.

                            Within a few days, the shock was wearing out, and the gradual realization started to settle, that there was no going back to that place where they were. That moment in space and time was so eerily starting to dissolve in his memory, feeling more and more like a distant fairytale, some story of the past, nothing more than an illusion.
                            Yet, it was that place where all his experiences were had. Where he had forged his character, had played, laughed, dreamt, feared, loved.
                            It all was almost meaningless. People were looking already at making movies and more distorted illusions of it for pure entertainment.

                            So, readjusting himself wasn’t going to be easy, if at all possible.

                            They’d released them in the end, not without giving them new identities. Seemed to be a fad these days, not only for protection of international security secrets, but also as a way to escape your irrevocable internet trail. Everything that was documented since your birth, since before you could even give your consent, and realize what was done. More and more were those who wanted a fresh start. What better solution to recycle a bunch of Mars stranded migrants into the fray of life itself.

                            #3796

                            In reply to: The Hosts of Mars

                            EricEric
                            Keymaster

                              Finnley 21 only knew of embarrassed feeling from the central intelligence memory banks of Eb Ruide’s endless apologies to his boss, the inspiringly strong Finnley Morgan.
                              That was as close as she could compute when she realized the overdose of brainwaves had been too much on Mother Shirley.

                              Immediately after sending the realtime report to central intelligence, probabilities were evaluated. Control over the Covenant’s holy message had always been an important topic. In rules of maintaining a satisfactory and durable illusion, tests had shown that a good blend of hope shrouded in mysticism, as well as media distraction and controlled dissent were a holy trinity to be maintained.
                              Of course, it mattered less now that the final steps in the evacuation plan were in place. It could even be argued that it was an unexpected improvement on the original plan. But that was mere human fallacy and illogic rationalization. Sending Mother Shirley to MARS at her advanced age had been a calculated risk, and with no worthy head nun on the succession line, what was left to do?

                              Many scenarios were evaluated in 5.57 seconds. Finnley 3 to 15 had a strong preference for one of them, where they used Mother Shirley’s exoskeleton to pilot her like a marionette. Finnley 21 had to roll her eyes and beam them some of her inner experience of how ludicrous and ultimately self-destructive such idea would be. In the end, although their minds had recoiled at the flavour of her experiences, much more colourful and complex as they had known themselves in the other bodies, they all had to agree with her. Despite the technicalities, Finnley 21 was the most qualified successor of Mother Shirley, to carry on her holy duties.

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