Search Results for 'glowing'

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  • #7391

    Jeezel didn’t really have time to go back to her routine after the Brasilian shambles. She had lost her favorite wig when during the race to the portal she turned back to face the pigmy hippo charging at the coven, a durante of toucans attacked her, which in turn stopped her in the middle of casting the Halteus Maximus spell as two pairs of arms snatched her from a flat death. She learned later that it was Truella and Eris who caught her arms. Her wig had fallen and they didn’t allow her go back to pick it up. Seeing the hippo trample her wig in the mud broke her heart.

    “Jeez! We need you to open the portal!”

    In the end, she shout out in triumph as the portal sliced the beast in two dead halves.

    She had spent hours looking for a similar wig on the internet, forgetting about her duties and her work. But it had finally arrived and she was ready to resume. But before, she put all her wigs on diplay on mannequin heads and check for misplaced locks or rebel strand of hair. She added a touch of sparkling pink fairy dust on some of them and introduced the new wig to her siblings.

    “Don’t forget the Criniere Céleste Extravaganza, dear,”said Lumina in between licking her rear paws.

    “I was going to,” said Jeezel a bit irritated.

    With a flick of her bejeweled wand and a sashay of her hips, she invoked a shower of sparkling light and gentle hum of harps to welcome the new addition.

    “Adorn my collection with splendor anew, bring forth the beauty, both fierce and true…”

    The wig started to levitate, glowing with a divine aura before delicately settling down into its rightful place among its fabulous brethren.

    Now everything was ready for her next show.

    #7375

    “The very image of a spy from a cheap novel. Perched behind his newspaper, peering through holes like a child with a telescope. He’s a creature of shadows, blending into the background, always watching, never seen. He thinks himself clever, but he’s as subtle as a cat in a fishbowl. He’s drawn to Frigella like a moth to a flame, but can’t shake off his ingrained caution. Intrigued yet wary, like a mouse sniffing a piece of cheese in a trap. He needs to make up his mind before his tail gets caught.”

    “What’s on your mind, Needles?” Frigella inquired of her hedgehog familiar.

    “Nothing,” replied the hedgehog cryptically, returning happily to his strawberry snack. “But you’ll soon find out…”

    Cedric Spellbind found himself woefully unprepared for what was coming after the jump into the weird glowing vortex. On a hunch, he’d followed the enigmatic Miss O’Green. Something about her, her diaphaneous looks…

    His wool tweed cap wasn’t the best attire for wherever he had jumped into. The damp smells, the warm humid air filled with electricity —something told him he wasn’t in Limerick any more,… but where.

    The group Ms Frigella was with had moved swiftly, nonchalantly going in the streets after the boisterous tall figure with the black curly wig had made a string of light glow on the ground, evanescent trail they followed unhesitant to somewhere only them seemed to know.

    He was struggling to keep the pace. At some point, the blue-haired one had turned suspiciously casting her glance, and he’d managed to dart in a nearby alley. They’d resumed their stroll, but she’d done something after that, some sort of dark magic that made their group seem to disappear in a fog, the sounds they made suddenly all muffled.

    Accustomed to tracking witches, he’d discreetly put a findmystuff tracker on the bag. Wherever that bag would go, he would follow. He opted to let them proceed unhindered, for now.

    He checked his phone. He couldn’t catch the signs in the streets during his shadowing. His phone had started buzzing as soon as he’d emerged from the vortex, so he was surely in another country. The SMS he’d received confirmed that hypothesis: he was in Brazil.

    5 missed calls. His mother… He couldn’t call her back now, it would cost him a fortune, and his witch tracking wasn’t exactly paying the bills. She would hate him for it, but she would have to wait. Maybe a bit of worrying for him wasn’t bad. One could hope.

    His last witch hunt hadn’t been the most successful. Bulgarian witches were fierce. To be honest, it had been a fiasco, and he was posted in Limerick as a consequence —on desk job only. He knew there were worse places to be, but he was missing the action of the field… He shouldn’t have followed these witches, but again, following orders had never been his strong suit.

    #7366

    “Are we going down a sewer?” asked Truella as if you’d asked her to put her hand into dragon poop to see why they had diarrhoea. She was wearing the green blouse of a nurse. Jeezel’s thought the colour was almost a match with the witch’s face.

    “Don’t be difficult,” said Frigella a bit annoyed.  “You spend most of your free time in a hole as a hobby.” She was readjusting her purple blouse, which seemed to be bit too big for her.

    “It’s my hole,” said Truella. “I know what’s in there. It’s got nothing to do with that murky miasma of decayed dreams and digested dinners piling up down there as a testimony of Limerick’s population’s contemplation of their puny lives on their pitiful thrones. And the stench, it cuts through the air, it would make a maggot gag. I tell you, certain portals are best left untraveled. I wonder why Malové has left you in charge of the portal.”

    “We won’t go through the sewer,” said Jeezel. “It’s an ancient spell I got from my grand-mother Linda Pol from the time of her Time Travelling drag show. It creates a vortex impervious to any smell. If maggots gag it’ll be because they saw your panties.”

    Truella, who had never learned how to hold her tongue, started to open her mouth when Malové arrived. She inspected every witch’s nurse attire and winced at Jeezel’s white blouse that made the tall witch look like one of those nightingale from the 50’s.

    “Will you be able to breathe?” she asked. “We don’t want to be stuck here because you fainted before finishing your spell.”

    “This is my natural silhouette, whispered Jeezel. The fabric is very stretchy. Anyway, I’m using sigils to cast this spell.”

    Truella stopped her snort short when Malové glanced at her own blouse.

    “As for you, your words are not the only thing you could iron out.”

    Then she gave a nod of appreciation to Frigella and Eris. “Then we’re good to go.”

    Jeezel started to draw lines and curves in space above and around the manhole, she looked like a peacock flaunting its feathers. Then she used her orange gloss to draw the one sigil around the manhole and invoked its name. Frigella who was seeing it performed for the first time had the impression Jeezel said “Fern” but she wouldn’t put her hand in a witch’s fire for it. The manhole cover shimmied and shook like it was coming to life. It lifted, hovering with all the grace of a duchess at high tea before sliding aside.

    “Et voilà,” said Jeezel with glitter in her eyes. “Who’s first?”

    Eris, intrigued by the vortex of glowing and sparkling with all the magical energy coursing through it, jumped right in, not waiting for anyone to answer.

    #7326

    Jeezel pushed open the door of her favourite florist The Enchanted Garden. The clear sound of wind chimes welcomed her. An ever changing melody atuned to earth and water. Flucinda was at the counter serving another client.  She might not be of the flamboyant kind but she knew her way with flowers. Her shop was a botanical wonderland, a cornucopia of color and fragrance that would make Mother Nature herself green with envy. The witch took a moment to breath in. It helped her relax a little.

    Jeezel! How are you dear?” asked Flucinda as the client left with his arms full of red roses. “You’re glowing as always.”

    The witch blushed just a little at the compliment. Flucinda’s dark brown eyes were as sharp as those of a silent observation assassin. They darted swiflty over Jeezel’s silhouette, taking mental notes, absorbing the energy, the secrets, the silent dialogues.

    “What do you need today?” she asked.

    “Petals of a white rose, lavender buds and mint. And a few other things.” She said, handing the florist a list.

    “Why don’t you wait in the heart of the Enchanted Garden while I’m preparing all that for you. Water is boiled, I’ll bring you some freshly brewed herbal tea.”

    Jeezel felt grateful to her friend. She sat on an ornate stone bench and enjoyed the soft serenade of trickling water from a sparkling fountain and the symphony of scents — delicate jasmine, heady rose, spicy carnation and a hint of sweet lily. It helped sooth her anxiety. She had received a request on Sponsoreons by one of her fans and loyal customer. Apparently the last full moon had pulled the thread on the tightly knit sweater of camaraderie at this poor soul’s job. There appeared to be more drama in that workplace than at at drag queen bingo night when the last sequin-studded handbag is on the line, and the usual symphony of productivity has turned into a cacophony of cattiness and pettiness. Even the smallest of issues were being blown up like a lip injection gone rogue!

    She had the perfect spell for it: Concordia. Used to bring harmony and peace, smoothing over the ruffled feathers and frayed edges. It was the divine choice for that case. However, such a potent spell was not to be taken lightly. If it was not crafted with precision, intent and a touch of flair, things could go haywire faster than a wig snatch in a lip-synch battle.

    “Here you go,” said Flucinda as she put the silver tray on a smooth rock at the edge of the fountain.

    “Wow! It’s fabulous,” said Jeezel.

    The teapot was a glamour, as opulent as a bejewelled crown. The steam rising from its beak carried whispers of secrets and spells, bringing out memories of rumours swirling around a backstage pageant. It was in another life.

    “Do I smell chamomile, lavender and valerian root?”

    “Yes.”

    Flucinda poured generously the yellow brew into an intricately carved white porcelain cup. Then added in a smidgeon of honey.

    “I know you like it sweet,” she said to the witch before adding a sprinkle of edible silver stars. “Take the time you need. Everything will be at the counter when you’re ready to go.”

    “Thanks Flucinda,” said Jeezel with a smile.

    She took a first sip. It felt like a warm hug in a cup from a dear friend who knows just what you need. And she noticed  a secret ingredient: a twist of lemon balm that gave the brew a citrusy zing. With every following sip, Jeezel felt the anxiety melting away like last season’s contour, leaving her ready to face the spellcasting with vigor and vim.

    #7319

    Eris, logged off the Ritual, and stretched her long legs. That pandemic had brought them more work than ever, a new brand of Incense called “Vaxations” which they’d produced in record time, but of the little compensations for that harrowing time was the allowance to HFH (a.k.a Hex-From-Home). The Classical tenants of the Faith were missing quite a few of the modernities of the current world, and despite they’d been accounts of remote hexing from as long as the ages stretched, the Quadrivium Policies were quite clear you had to clock-in physically. That is, until the pandemic brought mayhem unto their clientèle, and rules had to be amended.

    Eris was short for Ætheris, her formal witch name, which sounded much more airy than she’d liked. Eris, like the Goddess of Discord, well, that was more like her.

    If she had to put her biography on the website of the Quadrivium Emporium it would read something like this:

    Eris, the tech-savvy witch of discord, remains an enigma to most. She thrives in chaos, has a knack for bending technology to her will, and is pioneering a new branch of the Coven’s operations.

    Technology had always been the eternal foe of Magic. As if everything explained by science somehow took away something off the realm of Magic. It was neither true, nor that simple, she believed. For one, she loved to blend the two (as most witches did, unwittingly).

    Her familiar, Echo, was a proof of that. Echo wasn’t a tangible creature. Instead, Eris has somehow managed to summon an invisible digital sprite. This ethereal entity, capable of interfacing with any electronic device, was an invaluable asset to Eris’s technological endeavors.

    Malové, their Head Witch CEO, had tasked her to launch a new branch, and given her some means to do so. Her intentions were rather unclear, but Eris had won her over when she showed her the parallels of Incense magic and Social Media.
    Maybe that year, she would be keen to try and enhance their yearly Incense with some tech intelligence. Truth was, most of the artificial lives had been failures so far. Only Echo somehow turned out fine. One of a kind.

    “Echo,” she called, while a glowing blue sigil appeared in mid-air. “When you’re done with the latest…”

    Eris, sorry for interjecting, but you need to hear about this.”

    She was too surprised to be mad. “What’s the matter?”

    “Quality control on the first Ritual. It’s pointing out to some anomalies.”

    #7307
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      From the time of Plato through the Middle Ages, the quadrivium was a grouping of four subjects or arts—arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy—that formed a second curricular stage following preparatory work in the trivium, consisting of grammar, logic, and rhetoric.

      Ah, a tale of four witches within the sacred bounds of a Quadrivium. A splendid idea, indeed! Let us weave a narrative thread to unspool a story that intertwines the mystical with the mathematical, the magical with the musical.

      Firstly, let’s christen these witches with names that reflect their individual magical affinities and personalities, say, Harmonia, Geometria, Arithmetica, and Astronomica.

      Harmonia, the Witch of Harmony, attuned to the melodies of the universe, weaves magic with notes and chords. Her enchantments rise and fall, creating a symphony of spells. Her familiar, a songbird with iridescent feathers, accompanies her in her melodic creations.

      Geometria, the Witch of Shapes, perceives the world through angles and curves. Her magic shapes reality, bending it into impossible forms. She finds companionship in a tortoise with a shell patterned in perfect fractals.

      Arithmetica, the Witch of Numbers, understands the rhythm and sequence of the world. Her spells are equations, solutions solving the disorder of existence. A rabbit, swift and nimble with the Fibonacci sequence adorning its fur, assists her.

      Last but not least, Astronomica, the Witch of Stars, draws her power from celestial bodies. Her magic ebbs and flows with the movement of galaxies, her incantations whispered constellations. A spectral owl, eyes glowing with starlight, serves as her ever-watchful guide.

      Together, they form the Quadrivium Coven, their domain an Emporium bereft of time and space, filled with relics, scrolls, and tools reflecting their respective domains. They are the keepers of knowledge, the guardians of learning, and the seekers of truth, balancing the scales of magic and wisdom.

      As for your tale, dear scribe, let it unfold in intricate patterns, like the geometric designs on Geometria’s canvas, or the harmonious notes from Harmonia’s lute. Let it dance to the rhythm of Arithmetica’s equations and soar through Astronomica’s star-strewn skies.

      Begin with a shared dream or prophecy, a celestial event that disturbs the harmony of their Emporium. Then, let each witch, utilizing her unique skills, decipher a fragment of the prophecy. Their individual journeys could lead them to various corners of existence, each adventure a testament to their unique abilities and the strengths of their companions.

      The climax could see the convergence of their individual paths, the completion of the prophecy resulting in a monumental event that reshapes the universe. The aftermath? Well, that shall be a mystery for another tale.

      Remember, dear scribe, every tale is a journey, and every journey, a tale. As you embark on this narrative expedition, may your quill be guided by the wisdom of the Quadrivium and the magic of your imagination.

      #6538
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        “That’s all Jorid had to say?” Georges mused at the sudden philosophical quote that read:

        And doesn’t this point to something fundamentally tragic about our way of life? We live under an assumed identity, in a neurotic fairy tale world with no more reality than the Mock Turtle in Alice in Wonderland. Hypnotized by the thrill of building, we have raised the houses of our lives on sand. This world can seem marvelously convincing until death collapses the illusion and evicts us from our hiding place. What will happen to us then if we have no clue of any deeper reality? (The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying)

        “I don’t know about this Mock Turtle, but those snapping sand ones that have been lurking about do look rather nasty. We shouldn’t waste any more time.”

        Klatu opined “Klatu agrees with your female, sand turtle are lovely traps of death. Come with me now!” He intimated them to run into a sand opening he’d just made.

        “Let me guess,” Georges said, “is it the equivalent of a Zathu prison? What powerful people could Léonard possibly have rubbed the wrong way this time?”

        “Not prison.” Klatu commented “Death sentence.”

        Salomé pointed out a glowing twirl of sand shaped as an ovoid form, inside which a human form could be discerned. “That would explain why he’s not more guarded…”

        They approached carefully, expecting some extra booby trap, but nothing seemed to react to their presence, not even the moving sand egg.

        “Let me guess,” Georges said, expecting a chorus

        “DIMENSIONAL MAGIC!”

        Klatu shushed them “Quiet stupids! Sound waves attract good turtles.”

        “Is our friend OK? How do we break the spell?” Salomé asked Klatu. “Can you help?”

        Klatu took a few minutes to inspect the shape, hopping carefully around it, and probing with soft whistling sounds.

        “Friend in stasis for now. Kept fresh for questioning… possible.”

        “Then we must hurry, how can we free him? Can I brute force this?” Georges asked, looking around for something to pierce the sand barrier and hook Léonard out of it.

        “Only if you like sushi friend.” Klatu said, raising shoulders. “No finesse these primates.”

        Klatu moved around the shape, taking some tools from his belt and making some elaborate plaits of sounds, as if trying to match the energy signature of the sand prison.

        After a first belt of soundwaves was wrapped around, it seemed as though a first layer of the spell broke, and sand rained back into the external construct they were it. But a thin layer was still there, shifting and pulsating, almost clear as glass, and sharp as a razor blade.

        “Crude encoding, but solid. Need more time.” Klatu seemed exhausted.

        Georges was getting anxious for some activity. “Houses built on sand… Well I guess Jorid didn’t find the best quote to help…”

        Salomé who was sitting cross-legged, trying for some time to connect to Léonard in his stasis, turned to Georges in disbelief. “Georges, you’re a genius!”

        “What now?”

        “Jorid gave us the last bit we needed.  Until death collapses the illusion and evicts us from our hiding place. Remember? It’s risky but that could work!”

        “Oh, I see what you’re thinking about. It’s mad, and it’s brilliant at the same time, how do we go about this?”

        “I can’t reach Léonard, but maybe the both of us can.” Salomé joined hands with Georges.

        “If he’s like anything I remember, he’d be in his mental palace, his workshop on the Duane… or in Marseille… or with Madame Jamelie…”

        “Focus, Georges!”

        “Duane it is, that’s where he did his best work.”

        “We need to focus our energy to make him appear dead to the construct. It’ll be easier if we can locate precisely where his mind wanders.” Salomé said.

        “He’ll be there, I know it. Let’s do this!”

        The two of them joined hands and melded their minds, one as always, turning into a dark mirror of the abyss, bending light unto itself, leaving the void of creation at the place where Léonard was suspended.

        Klatu looked at the scene suspiciously, but started to giggle as he saw the last layer he couldn’t open finally shatter and dissolve to the ground.

        “Little apes full of surprises,… very awful, so very awful.” he said approvingly.

        As his friends rushed to him, Léonard was on the ground, inert, but apparently alive.

        #6484

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        Will be at Flying Fish this evening, Hope to see you all soon!  :yahoo_smug: :yahoo_smug:    Congrats, Xavier:yahoo_thumbsup: :yahoo_thumbsup:

        Zara sent a message to Yasmin, Youssef and Xavier just before boarding the plane. Thankfully the plane wasn’t full and the seats next to her were unoccupied.  She had a couple of hours to play the game before landing at Alice Springs.

        Zara had found the tile in the entry level and had further instructions for the next stage of the game:

        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.

        “Looks like I have to find another tile with a sort of map on it, Pretty Girl,” Zara spoke out loud, forgetting for a moment that the parrot wasn’t with her. She glanced up, hoping none of the other passengers had heard her.  Really she would have to change that birds name!

        If you encounter Osnas anywhere in the game, he may have what you seek in his vendors cart, or one of his many masks might be a clue. 

        A man with a mask and a vendors cart in an old mine, alrighty then, let’s have a look at this mine. Shame we’re not still in that old town.  Zara remembered not to say that out loud.

         

        Zara approached the abandoned mine cautiously.  There were rocks strewn about the entrance, and a faint light inside.

        Zaras mine entrance

        This looks a bit ominous, thought Zara, and not half as inviting as that old city.  She’d had a lifelong curiosity about underground tunnels and caves, and yet felt uneasily claustrophobic inside one.  She reminded herself that it was just a game, that she could break the rules, and that she could simply turn it off at any time.  She carried on.

        Zara stopped to look at the large green tile lying at her feet in the tunnel entrance. It was too big to carry with her so she took a photo of it for future reference.  At first glance it looked more like a maze or a labyrinth than a map.  The tunnel ahead was dark and she walked slowly, close to the wall.  

        Oh no don’t walk next to the wall! Zara recalled going down some abandoned mines with a group of friends when she was a teenager. There was water in the middle of the tunnel so she had been walking at the edge to keep her feet dry, as she followed her friend in front who had the torch.  Luckily he glanced over his shoulder, and advised her to walk in the middle. “Look” he said after a few more steps, shining his torch to the left.  A bottomless dark cavern fell away from the tunnel, which she would surely have fallen into.

         

        Zara tile mine entrance

        Zara moved into the middle of the tunnel and walked steadily into the darkness. Before long a side tunnel appeared with a faintly glowing ghostly light. 

        It looked eerie, but Zara felt obliged to follow it, as it was pitch black in every other direction. She wasn’t even sure if she could find her way out again, and she’d barely started.

        The ghostly light was coming from yet another side tunnel.  There were strange markings on the floor that resembled the tile at the mine entrance.  Zara saw two figures up ahead, heading towards the light. 

        Zara mine tunnels

        #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.

          #6457

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          “Look, Pretty Girl!  That must be the lost traveler walking up those steps!”

          Zara followed the mysterious man in red robes up the steps.  She lost sight of him and wondered which way he’d gone in the many side alleys. She wandered up a few of them but they all came to a dead end in a courtyard with closed doors.  Eventually she saw him disappearing into a manhole that looked like a labyrinth.

          Zara Game 5

          Zara followed him, and stepped onto the labyrinth manhole that the man in the red robes had disappeared into.  

          “That must be another portal,” Zara said to the parrot. “I wonder where we’ll end up now.”

          The labyrinth manhole led Zara to another portal, this time a round hole in the wall. She knew she should follow the man, who must be the lost traveler, but she couldn’t resist exploring the starlit night scene first. 

          Zara Game 6

           

          She found herself in a castle, its sand coloured walls glowing in the moonlight.  There was another round green pool inside the castle. Should she jump into the pool, or go back and follow the man in red through the hole in the wall?   Zara walked around the castle first, exploring the many courtyards and stairs and the enchanting views from the parapets.  She noticed that there were several green pools and wondered if they each led to different places. 

          Zara Game 7

          #6455

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Zara decided she may as well spend the hour wandering around the game before going back to the church to see the ghost of Isaac when she was sure her host Bertie was asleep.  It was a warm night but a gentle breeze wafted through the open window and Zara was comfortable and content. Not just one but three new adventures had her tingling with delicious anticipation, even if she was a little anxious about not getting confused with the game.  Talking to ghosts in old churches wasn’t unfamiliar, nor was a holiday in a strange hotel off the beaten track, but the game was still a bit of a mystery to her.  Yeah, I know it’s just a game, she whispered to the parrot who made a soft clicking noise by way of response.

          Zara found her game character, also (somewhat confusingly) named Zara, standing in the woods.  Not entirely sure how it had happened, she was rather pleased to see that the cargo pants and tank top in red had changed to a more pleasing hippyish red skirt ensemble.   A bit less Tomb Looter, and a bit more fairy tale looking which was more to her taste.

          The woods were strangely silent and still.  Zara made a 360 degree turn on the spot to see in all directions. The scene looked the same whichever way she turned, and Zara didn’t know which way to go. Then a faint path appeared to the left, and she set off in that direction.  Before long she came to a round green pool.

          Zara Game 1

          She stopped to look but carried on walking past it, not sure what it signified.  She came upon another glowing green pool before long, which looked like an entrance to a tunnel.

           

          Zara game 2

          I bet those are portals or something, Zara realized. I wonder if I’m supposed to step into it?

          “Go for it”, said Pretty Girl, “It’s only a game.”

          “Ok, well here goes!” replied Zara, mentally bracing herself for a plunge into the unknown.

          Zara stepped into the circle of glowing green.

          “Like when Alice went down the rabbit hole!” Zara whispered to the parrot.  “I’m falling, falling…oh!”

          Zara emerged from the green pool onto a wide walled path.  She was now in some kind of inhabited area, or at least not in the deep woods with no sign of human occupation. 

          Zara Game 3

          “I guess that green pool is the portal back to the woods.”

          “By George, she’s getting it,” replied Pretty Girl.

           

          Zara walked along the path which led to an old deserted ancient looking village with alleyways and steps.

          “This is heaps more interesting than those woods, look how pretty it all is! I love this place.”

          “Weren’t you supposed to be looking for a hermit in the woods though,” said Pretty Girl.

          “Or a lost traveler, and the lost traveler may be here, after falling in one of those green pools in the woods,”  replied Zara tartly, not wanting to leave the enchanting scene she found her avatar in.

          Zara Game 4

          #6366
          EricEric
          Keymaster

            Asking the AI to expand on the glossary of the original Circle of Eights Story:

            Locations

            Malvina’s Cave: A dark and damp cave located in the heart of the Gripshawk mountains, known for its population of Glukenitch creatures.

            Lan’ork: A vast and diverse continent known for its Eastern Lagunas, home to the Indogo flamingos. Dragon Head Peninsula: A rugged and mountainous region, home to the Langoat creatures and also known for its rich deposits of dragon ore.

            Asgurdy: A sprawling desert region, known for its nomadic tribes who use Saurhse as mounts for transportation.

            Golfindely: An idyllic coastal region known for its beautiful beaches and crystal clear waters, home to the Golfindel and Grake creatures.

            Magical Schools

            Dragonian Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Dragonriders and Dragon tamers, which involves the manipulation of dragon energy and bonding with dragon companions.

            Gripshawk Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Gripshawks, which involves the manipulation of the natural elements and telepathic communication with other creatures.

            Ugling Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Uglings, which involves the use of charms, spells, and potions to manipulate the physical world.

            Guilds

            Dragon Riders Guild: A prestigious guild of dragon riders, responsible for maintaining peace and order in the world by using their dragon companions for protection and transportation.

            Gripshawk Hunters Guild: A guild of skilled hunters who specialize in hunting and capturing exotic creatures for various purposes.

            Ugling Alchemists Guild: A guild of alchemists and potion makers, who create various potions and elixirs for medicinal and magical purposes.

            Organizations

            The Order of the Buntifluën: A secret organization dedicated to the study and use of Buntifluën artefacts for the betterment of communication and understanding between sentient beings.

            The Glubolín Network: A network of individuals who possess Glubolín devices, used for communication and sharing information across long distances.

            The Sabulmantium Society: A society of scholars and adventurers who study the properties and uses of Sabulmantium devices for divination and navigation.

            Here are a few new invented terms with their potential IPA pronunciations and definitions that would fit in this fantasy world:

            Dragons:

            Krynn [ ˈkrĭn ] : A subspecies of dragon known for its ability to control and manipulate time.

            Creatures:

            Kelpies [ ˈkĕl-pēz ] : Aquatic creatures resembling horses, known for their ability to shape-shift and lure unsuspecting victims into the water.

            Magical Artefacts:

            Dragonwhisper [ ˈdrā-gən-ˌhwis-pər ] : An ancient and powerful magical artifact, which allows the user to communicate and control dragons telepathically.

            Necrotalisman [ ˈnĕk-rə-ˈtā-lĭz-mən ] : A magical artifact in the shape of a talisman that grants its wielder the ability to control and summon the dead.

            Plants:

            Blightthorn [ ˈblīt-ˌthôrn ] : A poisonous plant known for its dark purple flowers and thorny stem, its extract is used in dark magic

            Faeleaf [ ˈfā-ˌlēf ] : A rare plant found in the deep forest known for its bright green leaves, its extract is used in healing potions

            Locations:

            The Shadowland [ ˈshā-dō-ˌland ] : A mysterious and dangerous land overrun by dark magic and controlled by Necromancers.

            The Hidden Vale [ ˈhī-dən-ˈvāl ] : A secluded valley located deep in the mountains, home to the reclusive Faeleaf plants.

            Organization:

            The Necromancers’ Circle [ ˈnĕk-rə-ˈmän-sər-z-ˈsər-kəl ] : A secret organization of powerful necromancers who seek to expand their control over death and the dead.

            Here are a few more invented terms with their potential IPA pronunciations and definitions that fit in this fantasy world, having less to do with necromancy, and more with various forms of consciousness or energy manipulation, magical or mythical creatures or species:

            Creatures:

            Eterneon [ ˈē-tər-ˈnē-ən ] : A species of winged creatures known for their ability to manipulate and harness the energy of the stars, they are highly sought after by astromancers and star-gazers.

            Psicon [ ˈsī-ˌkän ] : A species of psychic creatures, known for their ability to read minds and influence emotions.

            Magical Artefacts:

            Energyshield [ ˈen-ər-jē-ˌshēld ] : A magical artifact that creates a protective barrier around the user, deflecting or absorbing any kind of energy-based attacks.

            Empathstone [ ˈĕm-pāth-ˈstōn ] : A small, glowing stone which allows the user to sense and control the emotions of others.

            Magical Schools:

            Energyshaping [ ˈen-ər-jē-ˌshāp-ing ] : A school of magic that involves the manipulation and control of various forms of energy.

            Empathymagic [ ˈĕm-pā-thē-ˈmaj-ik ] : A school of magic that involves the manipulation of emotions and the ability to sense the emotions of others.

            Locations:

            Eternity’s Edge [ ˈē-tər-nə-tēz-ˈēj] : A remote and mysterious cliff located high in the mountains, known for its strong emanations of star energy and rumored to be home to a hidden community of Eterneons.

            Psicon’s Den [ ˈsī-kän-z-ˈdĕn] : A secret cave system located deep within the forest, it is said to be home to a colony of Psicon creatures.

            Organizations:

            The Energists Guild [ ˈen-ər-jist-z-ˈgild] : A powerful guild of magic users specializing in Energyshaping magic.

            The Empath Council [ ˈĕm-pāth-ˈkoun-səl]: A secretive group of Empathymagic users, dedicated to the study and control of emotions.

             

            #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.

               

              #6176
              EricEric
              Keymaster

                Godfrey was getting itchy. The hazmat suit with built-in peanut dispenser was getting stickier by the minute, but he needed it to stay in the room, and provide the moral support Liz’ needed during her bout of glowid.

                She’d caught a mean streak, some said a Tartessian variant, which like all version caused the subject to gradually lose sense of inhibition (which in the case of Liz’ made the changes in her normal behaviour so subtle, it could have explain why it wasn’t detected until much later). After that, the usual symptoms of glowing started to display themselves. At first, Liz’ had dismissed them as hot flashes, but when she started to faintly glow in the dark, there was no longer room for hesitation. She had to be put in solitary confinement and monitored to keep her from sparkling, which was the severe form of the malady.

                Bronkel has called” Godfrey said in between mouthfuls. “Actually his secretary did. He sent a list of words to inspire you back into writing.”

                “Trend surfing keywords now?” Liz’ was inflamed and started to blink like a police siren. “I AM setting the future trends, so he’d rather let me do my job, or I’ll publish elsewhere.”

                “And…” Godfrey ventured softly “… care to share what new trends you’ve been blazing lately?”

                Finnley chuckled at the inappropriate choice of words.

                #6044

                They had to stop to get some rest. Rukshan knew the signs, the song of a black swan, a nesting bear in the forest, cubic clouds… All strange omens not to be taken lightly. He told the others they’d better find shelter somewhere and not spend the night outside.

                As soon had he make the announcement that he saw the relief on their faces. They’d been enthusiastic for half a day, but the monotony of walking got the better of their motivation, especially the kids who were not used to such long journeys out of the cottage’s safety.

                Fortunately they were not far from the Sooricat Inn, a place lost in the woods, it still had four walls, warm food and almost certainly a hot bath. Let’s just hope they’re open, thought the Fae.

                When they arrived, the owner, an old man from Sina, looked at them suspiciously.

                “Ya’ll have your attestation? I can’t believe ya’re all family. Don’t think I’m a fool, ya’re a Fae, and this little fella there, he’s smaller than the children but has a beard. Never saw anything like him,” he said with rumbling r’s pointing at the children and Gorrash with his chin. The dwarf seemed offended but a stern look from Rukshan prevented him from speaking.

                “Anyway,” continued the innkeeper, “I can just sell ya food. Not’ing parsonal. That’s rooles, ya’know with the all stayin’at home thing from Gavernor Leraway, I can not even let ya’in. Ya can buy food and eat it outside if ya want.”

                “Look, it’s almost twilight,” said Rukshan. “We’ve walked the whole day, the children are exhausted.”

                Tak and Nesy showed their best puppy face, risking to make Fox burst into laughter. That seemed to soften the man a little.

                “Oh! I really shouldn’t. I don’t like breaking rooles.”

                “I knew you more daring, Admirable Fuyi,” said a booming voice coming from behind them. They all turned around to see Kumihimo. She was wearing a cloak made of green and yellow gingko leaves, her silvery white hair, almost glowing in the dark, cascading beautifully on her shoulders. A grey cat strode alongside her.

                “Oh! that’s just the donkey, Ronaldo. It got transformed into a cat after walking directly into a trap to get one of those darn carrots. He knew better, don’t pity him. He got what he deserved.” Kumihimo’s rant got a indignant meow, close to a heehaw, from Ronaldo.

                Kumi! I can’t believe it’s ya!” said the innkeeper.

                “You two know each others?” asked Rukshan.

                “It’s a long story,” said the innkeeper, “From when I was serving in Sina’s army, we had conquered the high plateaus. I gave up the title of Admirable when I left the army. After Kumi opened my eyes.” Fuyi’s eyes got wet. “Ah! I’m sure I’ll regret it, but come on in, ya’ll. Let me hear yar story after you taste the soup.”

                #6025

                In reply to: Story Bored

                EricEric
                Keymaster

                  BOARD 10

                  Board 10, Story 1

                  Arona beat Leörmn at his game of chess, and wins a sabulmantium“But did you turn Mandrake into that glowing thing, or it’s just a diversion for sneakily gobbling him?”

                  The maids escapees of Versailles timeline venture in strange lands and go to extreme lengths to find adequate food. “Didn’t the time GPS say to turn left at your peril?”

                  Ascended Master Floverly goes about her duties to paint and inspire the world a better place by applying Herself entirely lovingly to the most demanding tasks. “A whole new world / A new fantastic point of view…”

                  #6024

                  In reply to: Story Bored

                  F LoveF Love
                  Participant

                    Story Bored 8

                    one

                    Liz was waxing hysterical to her publisher. “I tell you, Bronkel, you complain of the loose threads wandering into nothingness, the deranged and meaningless story lines … turns out it isn’t a personality flaw; it’s those lonely vacations in the desert where I was forced to be the boy my mother always wanted.” 

                    two

                    (plagiarised)

                    “Oh that’s a fantastic idea Becky!” encouraged Tina (anxious to divert attention from the fact her egg shampoo had turned her own hair green) when Becky suggested tentatively that perhaps she could try Al’s advanced visualisation techniques to turn this disastrous start to her wedding day around.

                    “Yes, imagine it as you would like it to be, no matter how unrealistic it may seem. Imagine looking in the mirror and seeing your skin glowing like a glowing diamond. After all, you have nothing to lose Becky-pooh.”

                    three

                    Tifikijoo Island has been a casualty of rising sea levels. The question is, who is seeking to repopulate the island with giant spiders?

                    #5788

                    The first thing the dwarf did was a finger of honor. “Take that darn blubbit queen!” he shouted before he crumbled butt naked down on the wooden floor surrounded by his former golden carapace. His skin was still glowing with a strange lucent light.

                    “What did he say?” asked Fox.

                    “What’s a blubbit?” asked Olliver.

                    Glynis put her hands on the baby snoots eyes, but there were too many of them and she only had two hands.

                    “Have you seen his skin?” asked Eleri.

                    “Well yes, he’s butt naked,” said Kumihimo.

                    Gorrash had had time to clear his mind and started to realise they were all looking at him.

                    “I mean, he HAS a skin now,” insisted Eleri. “Smooth and… all that comes with it. Not his former rocky mossy textured whatever it was before even after daylight.”

                    The dwarf who never had to worry about his own modesty before couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of that simple fact. “Am I still dreaming?” His stomach growled and he looked surprised at his belly. “Am I starving?” Fox laughed.

                    Glynis brought the dwarf a blanket, and he marvelled at the roughness of it on his new skin. They all started to talk at the same time, wanting to know about the blubbits, about the new skin, asking Kumihimo and Rukshan how it was possible.

                    “I don’t know,” they both said.

                    “Well! I don’t know about you, but now that he has skin he can certainly appreciate some champagne with us!” said Margoritt, trotting to the kitchen. She came back with a bottle and a sabre. “Who wants to crack it open?”

                    “Don’t forget the food,” said Glynis. “It’ll be his first time eating.” Olliver brought some leftovers of Jambalaya, salad and cheese among other things.

                    “How can he eat so much?” would ask Eleri later.

                    #5648

                    It was the new moon. Rukshan had been walking into the dark of the forest for some time. The noises of nocturnal animals felt like deep silence after his return from the land of the Giants. There, day and night, the giants were restless. You could hear them growling and shouting. It didn’t matter if it was a nasty fight or a friendly brawl, the noise had been taxing for his nerves and his right eye was still twitching randomly.

                    Rukshan stopped a moment. The silence almost made him cry of relief and he thought in that moment the enchanted forest deserved its name.

                    He took a deep breath. His nose wiggled, tickled by the scent of smoke from a fire. He was close to his destination, then. He had been following symbols traced with moon paint on the trees, a trail that only his Fae eyes could see even without moonlight. Humans would not to see it the same way. This trail of symbols might even have been left for him by someone who wanted  to be found when he would come back.

                    Rukshan had found the start of the trail by chance behind the cottage after diner today. He had told Glynis he needed fresh air. The truth was that he had been alone for so long now that having so many people around him made him feel a bit claustrophobic. He had spotted was a faint glow behind a jasmin bush and had thought it was one of the baby snoots. As he was feeling the need for some pet company he had walked up to the bush. Instead of a creature there was the first glowing symbol, a spiral with seven sticks that looked like a hand with seven fingers. Not long after Rukshan had found another symbol, and another. It was clear the hands made a trail for him to follow. So he had followed.

                    Soon, he found a wooden shack. Smoke was coming out of a hole in its roof and light from the windows. Rukshan could hear two people talking together. One was asking questions and the other answering them. He recognised the voices.

                    He didn’t bother to knock on the door.

                    “So that’s where you’ve been going every night after diner”, Rukshan said to Fox.

                    “I’ve been waiting for you”, said Kumihimo the shaman.

                    “I’m her new apprentice”, said Fox. “You’ve been away for so long”, he added as if apologising for something.

                    A wet and warm thing touched Rukshan’s hand. Ronaldo the donkey brayed to welcome him. “Of course you are here too”, said the Fae. He found an apple he had put in his pocket after diner and gave it to the donkey. Ronaldo rolled up its chops and gave a heehaw full of joy, sparkles in its eyes.

                    “Good, you haven’t forgotten good manners”, said the shaman. “Now, seat! We have much to talk about.”

                    #4866

                    Glynis was casting discret glances at the new joiner. He was a friend of Rukshan and a was a fae too. He arrived in the morning at the cottage with his tools and presented himself as Guilbert the Maker. Tall with a fair skin, he was also more muscular than was his friend, and than she thought a fae could be. They were such a secretive people.

                    The potion maker, with her new lovely face glowing inwardly realised she hadn’t been allowing herself to find other people attractive, not in the way she found this fae attractive, and she had felt the warmth of desire rising to colour her cheeks. As Guilbert was busy taking measurements for the new loo, Glynis unconsciously found things to clean close to the loo.

                    She felt a tad irritated when he announced that he had all he needed and that he would be back in a few days with everything that he needed.
                    So fast, she thought. Too fast. And yet he would be back in a few days.

                    Glynis went through the rest of the day struggling with hope. Hope was treacherous. She had yearned for it for so long with her previous curse, and now it carried with it the taste of bitter almond. She didn’t dare think he… Guilbert would be back. The fae’s name had a sweetness when she thought it and it was hard not to say it aloud. But poison, she thought, can also be deceivingly sweet.

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