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  • #7312

    Every conversation stopped and every head turned to the door when Jeezel entered the Faded Cabbage. Her cheeks, round as plums, always gave her a fresh look. Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of deep emerald green sparkling with otherworldy wisdom, slowly scanned the room, never looking at anyone in particular but seeing all. Her long ebony locks cascaded down her back, accentuating the mysterious aura that surrounded her. When Jeezel spotted her friends in that dimly lit corner, she pouted. The conversations suddenly started again, questions and rumours about her in every mouth. When she was sure everybody was talking about her, the hint of a smile raised the corner of her lips, as red as the apple that poisoned Snow White. She moved nonchalantly between the tables. The air around her shimmered with magic, leaving an indelible impression on those fortunate enough to be here that day.

    Although, as soon as Jeezel entered Truella’s cloaking spell, people forgot all about her and resumed their conversation. She felt a pang of regret and sighed as she let her bottom fall gracefully on the chair. She put her phone on the table and started tapping it with her fingers. Each of them had an intricate silver ring carrying a unique enchantment.

    “Jeez, Jeez!” exclaimed Truella. “Do you always have to project that attention-catching spell wherever you go? We need discretion.”

    “What’s the purpose of having a beautiful silhouette if nobody’s looking at it?” Jeezel asked looking sideways at a blushing Frigella.

    “And boy, stop that noise with your rings, said Truella. It makes me want to puke.”

    “And I thought you were all about freedom,” snorted Jeezel.

    “My freedom! How many times do I have to repeat? Where were we?” Truella asked rhetorically to Frigella.

    A dozen notifications popped up on Jeezel’s phone. She picked it up, counted the likes to her last reality potion spell and started to scroll the replies of her Flick Flock fans.

    #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.

      #7227
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        “What? What’s that you say? Do speak up, dear.  Not now Finnley! Can’t you see I’m on the phone? Now then dear,” Liz said into the telephone, “Have I got this right? He hasn’t seeen a doctor yet? What do you mean, there aren’t any, they must have some at the hospital? Only the youngest ones nobody wants and the very old ones?  A lousy hospital and the cardiologist isn’t very techy and doesn’t know what to do?  So Michael is a what did you say, a PA? Oh a physicians assistant. Wait a minute, have I got this right? The doctor only comes to the clinic twice a month?  So you can only see the PA?  But what about the difficulty breathing and the coughing,  I don’t know about in rural Arkansas, but in the rest of the world an 89 year old who’s been coughing so much for three weeks that he can hardly breathe is known as a medical emergency! But why are you waiting for diabetes and heart tests, surely he needs to breathe now and do the tests later? Couldn’t taste the Worcester sauce on his scrambled eggs, you say?”

        Finnley’s gentle hand appeared as if by magic and restrained Liz from pulling a third handful of hair out.

        “They’re going to fucking kill him, Finnley, and there’s nothing I can do.”

        “There never is, really, in situations like this.  Here, drink this. It’ll buck you up.”

        #7166
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Godfrey had been in a mood. Which one, it was hard to tell; he was switching from overwhelmed, grumpy and snappy, to surprised and inspired in a flicker of a second.

          Maybe it had to do with the quantity of material he’d been reviewing. Maybe there were secret codes in it, or it was simply the sleep deprivation.

          Inspired by Elizabeth active play with her digital assistant —which she called humorously Whinley, he’d tried various experiments with her series of written, half-written, second-hand, discarded, published and unpublished, drivel-labeled manuscripts he could put his hand on to try to see if something —anything— would come out of it.

          After all, Liz’ generous prose had always to be severely edited to meet the editorial standards, and as she’d failed to produce new best-sellers since the pandemic had hit, he’d had to resort to exploring old material to meet the shareholders expectations.

          He had to be careful, since some were so tartied up, that at times the botty Whinley would deem them banworthy. “Botty Banworth” was Liz’ character name for this special alternate prudish identity of her assistant. She’d run after that to write about it. After all, “you simply can’t ignore a story character when they pop in, that would be rude” was her motto.

          So Godfrey in turn took to enlist Whinley to see what could be made of the raw material and he’d been both terribly disappointed and at the same time completely awestruck by the results. Terribly disappointed of course, as Whinley repeatedly failed to grasp most of the subtleties, or any of the contextual finely layered structures. While it was good at outlining, summarising, extracting some characters, or content, it couldn’t imagine, excite, or transcend the content it was fed with.

          Which had come as the awestruck surprise for Godfrey. No matter how raw, unpolished, completely off-the-charts rank with madness or replete with seeming randomness the content was, there was always something that could be inferred from it. Even more, there was no end to what could be seen into it. It was like life itself. Or looking at a shining gem or kaleidoscope, it would take endless configurations and had almost infinite potential.

          It was rather incredible and revisited his opinion of what being a writer meant. It was not simply aligning words. There was some magic at play there to infuse them, to dance with intentions, and interpret the subtle undercurrents of the imagination. In a sense, the words were dead, but the meaning behind them was still alive somehow, captured in the amber of the composition, as a fount of potentials.

          What crafting or editing of the story meant for him, was that he had to help the writer reconnect with this intent and cast her spell of words to surf on the waves of potential towards an uncharted destination. But the map of stories he was thinking about was not the territory. Each story could be revisited in endless variations and remain fresh. There was a difference between being a map maker, and being a tour-operator or guide.

          He could glimpse Liz’ intention had never been to be either of these roles. She was only the happy bumbling explorer on the unchartered territories of her fertile mind, enlisting her readers for the journey. Like a Columbus of stories, she’d sell a dream trusting she would somehow make it safely to new lands and even bigger explorations.

          Just as Godfrey was lost in abyss of perplexity, the door to his office burst open. Liz, Finnley, and Roberto stood in the doorway, all dressed in costumes made of odds and ends.

          “You are late for the fancy dress rehearsal!” Liz shouted, in her a pirate captain outfit, her painted eye patch showing her eye with an old stitched red plush thing that looked like a rat perched on her shoulder supposed to look like a mock parrot.

          “What was the occasion again?”

          “I may have found a new husband.” she said blushing like a young damsel.

          Finnley, in her mummy costume made with TP rolls, well… did her thing she does with her eyes.

          #6791
          Jib
          Participant

            The trio entered the medical bay, Barney proudly perched on Salomé’s shoulder. Léonard was sitting on the edge of his bed in a blue hospital dress, looking around him, confused. He turned his head toward them and squinted.

            “Georges?” he asked. “Salomé? Where…” He winced and slapped his forehead.

            “Are you ok?” asked Salomé, moving toward him.

            Léonard stretched his arm in front of him and Salomé felt her body pushed backward. Barney squeaked and the wave subsided.

            “I’m ok,” Léonard said a few seconds later, breathing with difficulties, “just a headache. Where…”

            Georges exchanged a look and a brief telepathic communication with Salomé. He had felt the wave too, and he was also feeling some kind of shield around his mind. It was different from all they had encountered before. They might have to fall back to the old ways.

            “We’re back on Duane,” he said with a cheerful tone, hoping it would help their friend relax. Léonard had explored this system extensively, and it was there he had introduced Georges and Salomé to the reality of multidimensional travels and Elemental magic. It was a place full of memories and Georges was looking closely at his friend’s face and at the same time prodding his mind. But Léonard’s face didn’t show any reaction and his mind appeared empty.

            “Actually, way back… in time,” Georges continued. “Jorid’s navigation array was gravely disturbed by this little creature… where is Barney?”

            A weak chirp came out of Salomé’s luscious raven black hair.

            “Come on, Barney,” she said, trying to take him out. “Come meet our friend Léonard.”

            The creature was trembling like a leaf and clinging to strands of her hair, clearly not wanting to leave his hiding place.

            “I think he likes your shampoo,” said Georges with a smirk. “Well, we just found this little sand Rin on Jorid’s hull, and the little culprit is generating interferences in the Boodenbaum quantum field. So until we find a way to neutralise whatever he’s doing, we’re stuck.”

            Léonard looked annoyed. He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t support him and he fell back on the bed.

            “Why did the Zathu put you in that sand egg on Bluhm’Oxl?” asked Salomé, trying not to sound too concerned.

            Léonard opened his mouth and froze, looking surprised. He frowned.

            “I don’t recall,” he said.

            “What do you recall?”

            “I recall… receiving a tip from an old friend.”

            “Who?”

            “…”

            “Jorid, can you read us the message from his friend?” asked Georges with a smile, as if he had found a simple solution.

            “I can’t access the data,” said the ship. “Léonard deleted it, and the backups before he left.”

            Georges’ smile faded. He looked at Salomé. She was thinking the same thing he was thinking and nodded.

            “Why don’t we let you have some rest, you’ll join us for lunch when you’re dressed up and ready.”

            #6559

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Why do I always pick the cart with the wonky wheel, Zara thought, but she wasn’t going to go back and get another one and keep Sergio and Yasmin waiting outside. She zigzagged up and down the aisles until she came to the wine.  What was it the old dear back at the Inn was saying about the alcohol laws in Alice?  Well, surely that didn’t apply to tourists.  There were two men chatting in the middle of the aisle and Zara deftly skirted around them without the unpredictable cart crashing.  While she was perusing the wines hoping to find a nice Rioja, she couldn’t help but overhear the clear ringing tones of one of the men saying “True love never dies!” and a few other things which she later forgot, which she thought was quite an odd topic for two men to be discussing in the Piggly supermarket in the outback of all places.  The man with the poetic voice went on his way, leaving the other man with the little girl in the child seat of the cart ready to move on, but Zara’s cart was straddled across the aisle so she quickly moved it out of the way and continued scanning the wine selection.  A clear sweet voice rang out behind her. “Thank you.”  She turned, and her eyes met those of the girl (afterwards Zara could have sworn the child was 10 or 11, and surely too big to be sitting in the baby seat, but yet felt sure the child had indeed been sitting in the cart).  They exchanged a deep meaningful smile of magical proportions that defied explaining in mere words.  Later when Zara told Yasmin about it, she said it was “one of those moments, you know?” and Yasmin understood what she meant.  The child seemed somehow familiar, and there was that shimmery timeless oddness to the encounter which made Zara feel a bemused lightness.

            child in supermarket

             

            Zara was still gazing at the rows of wine bottles when Yasmin caught up with her. “What’s taking you so long, you haven’t even got anything in your cart yet!”

            Snapping her attention back, Zara asked Yasmin to help her choose the wine, asking her, “Do you ever feel like you can’t tell the difference between the game and real life?  Like sometimes a scene in real life isn’t quite real?”

            “I dunno about the game but real life seems strange enough. That woman outside with the BMW hire car that was in the loo before me, there was something familiar about her, something creepy.  And look what I found in the cubicle,”  Yasmin looked around quickly to make sure they were alone and pulled something out of her pocket.

            crucifix

             

            “Looks like the chain broke, is it gold? Might be worth something,” Zara was missing the point.

            “It’s a crucifix.”

            “If it’s gold it can be melted down and made into something else,” said Zara missing the point again.

            “It’s the same as the ones the nuns at the orphanage wear,” Yasmins whisper turned into a nervous snort.

            “I wonder who dropped it and what they were doing here.  That tart in the BMW didn’t look like a nun to me.”  Zara almost snorted too (was it contagious?) and then wondered why tart and nun sounded vaguely familiar and why yellow cabs had popped into her mind.  “Come on, we’ve kept Sergio waiting long enough already.”

            After all the deliberation over which wine to choose, they grabbed a half dozen bottles each without further ado and went to the checkout.

            #6538
            ÉricÉric
            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.

              #6535
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                “What was that?” Salomé was trying to get her bearings after they hit the sand storm into a different place.

                Before the sand storm hit, they got chased by one of the Zathu army drone’s which they tried to shake off their tail, but that was only the beginning of the fun.
                Coming ominously from afar, a huge wall of sand came toward them at surprisingly massive speed darkening all in its wake. They were about to be hit and engulfed, but that was when all took a turn for the strangest. The dark sand wall suddenly split open, reacting to a sound beam apparently emitted from Klatu’s speedster. After that, it was mostly a blur. They had gone into a sort of shifting sand vortex that had them glide into a series of  sliding slopes with the oddest directional gravity pull she’d experienced. She had to shout a few times “Watch out” when some of the giant sand snapping turtles tried to gobble their ride, but somehow they seemed to have managed to reach their destination —and quite safely too.

                “Whooo!” Georges was elated at the adrenaline rush. “So that’s the trick our friend had up his sleeve, it seems?”

                “Silly human hasn’t seen anything yet” mumbled Klatu whose middle ear was tuned into their direction.

                “I’ve got sand in places one shouldn’t.” Georges said laughing, as if to make the air lighter.

                “Don’t get me started,” Salomé managed a weak smile. She never was fond of the speed thrills. But when she turned her head, that’s where she saw them —old ruins dripping sand like a streaming source. Down or sideways, she couldn’t tell. The gravitational pull seemed to indicate they were down, but herself, Georges, their pod and Klatu were all stuck on a vertical cliff like geckos comfortably lounging on a warm wall. Down, then it was…

                It took her a minute to realize Klatu was actually manipulating the sand and the gravitational configuration around, revealing the landscape that was hidden.

                “Mmmm, dimensional magic…” she remembered the words from Jorid.

                “Smelly friends of yours inside. Must go quicksy, Klatu can’t hold it long.”

                Georges opened his mouth, but Salomé elbowed him right away. “He doesn’t mean to pee, Georges.”

                #6500
                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  More developments

                  Chapter 3: The Journey becomes more eggciting

                  The Flovlinden Tree

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

                  A Run-In with Myroslava

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

                  A Visit with Eusebius Kazandis’ Relatives

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

                  A Surprising Encounter with Edna

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

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

                  The Secret of Dumbass Voldomeer

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

                  #6495
                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

                    The landing on the sandy desert of Bluhm’Oxl was smoother than usual. It usually took a few minutes to get accustomed to their surrounding, the body transformations that came together with jumping across dimensions. In this case, it looked as though this dimension was quite close to their own.

                    “Checking translation device…” Georges touched his ear lightly.

                    Gremsbtic newkil jumbal” said Salomé in response. Georges looked quizzically at her face before realising she was pulling a classic prank.

                    She laughed heartily. “That joke’s never getting old, isn’t it?”

                    “Let’s walk a little in this direction, the rendez-vous point with Klatu isn’t too far.”

                    “Any idea how Jorid managed to make contact this time?” Salomé asked.

                    “Not sure really. Generally the quantum probability framework that’s built into the Jorid is managing to make trades across the multiverse that are quite complex to conceive or track down. Last time I tried to check, Jorid had traded one tardigrade to obtain us a couple of premium pass to the Amp’hool of Athumbra”

                    “Underwater Whalets’ concert from the UniverseTour of Shakara, yes that was quite a night to remember…” Salomé reminisced fondly.

                    “Fully booked for centuries, near impossible to get, and yet all it took was about a hundred of trades across multiple owners… No idea how it manages, but it found someone who was ready to trade their two front-row seats in exchange for a single Snoot’s hair.”

                    “And why are we meeting this guy by the way? What’s his specialty?” Salomé winked. “You left me with the dressing duty, so happy you did all the reconnaissance.”

                    Georges chucked. “all that Jorid said was: Klatu’s a relatively trustworthy Zathu, known for their expertise in dimensional magic, which is a crucial asset in your search for Léonard, presumably gone missing in the conflict-ridden Zathu sector.

                    “Mmmh” said Salomé. “Dimensional magic. Rather unscientific for Jorid to express in that way. Nothing that I’ve recently dreamt about seems to relate. I guess we’ll see.”

                    #6483

                    In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Zara:  Create a surreal and dreamlike digital art piece that combines elements of traditional aboriginal native art with a map to a secret and special place, featuring the otherworldly dreamscape of Dream Time. The image should depict a series of mine tunnels, each leading to gorgeous discoveries and wonders, and the overall scene should be filled with the mysticism and magic of the Dream Time. Don’t be afraid to let your imagination run wild and include random elements that add to the surreal quality of the piece.

                      #6481
                      ÉricÉric
                      Keymaster

                        This is the outline for a short novel called “The Jorid’s Travels – 14 years on” that will unfold in this thread.
                        The novel is about the travels of Georges and Salomé.
                        The Jorid is the name of the vessel that can travel through dimensions as well as time, within certain boundaries. The Jorid has been built and is operated by Georges and his companion Salomé.

                        Short backstory for the main cast and secondary characters

                        Georges was a French thief possibly from the 1800s, turned other-dimensional explorer, and together with Salomé, a girl of mysterious origins who he first met in the Alienor dimension but believed to have origins in Northern India maybe Tibet from a distant past.
                        They have lived rich adventures together, and are deeply bound together, by love and mutual interests.
                        Georges, with his handsome face, dark hair and amber gaze, is a bit of a daredevil at times, curious and engaging with others. He is very interesting in anything that shines, strange mechanisms and generally the ways consciousness works in living matter.
                        Salomé, on the other hand is deeply intuitive, empath at times, quite logical and rational but also interested in mysticism, the ways of the Truth, and the “why” rather than the “how” of things.
                        The world of Alienor (a pale green sun under which twin planets originally orbited – Duane, Murtuane – with an additional third, Phreal, home planet of the Guardians, an alien race of builders with god-like powers) lived through cataclysmic changes, finished by the time this story is told.
                        The Jorid’s original prototype designed were crafted by Léonard, a mysterious figure, self-taught in the arts of dimensional magic in Alienor sects, acted as a mentor to Georges during his adventures. It is not known where he is now.
                        The story starts with Georges and Salomé looking for Léonard to adjust and calibrate the tiles navigational array of the Jorid, who seems to be affected by the auto-generated tiles which behave in too predictible fashion, instead of allowing for deeper explorations in the dimensions of space/time or dimensions of consciousness.
                        Leonard was last spotted in a desert in quadrant AVB 34-7•8 – Cosmic time triangulation congruent to 2023 AD Earth era. More precisely the sand deserts of Bluhm’Oxl in the Zathu sector.

                        When they find Léonard, they are propelled in new adventures. They possibly encounter new companions, and some mystery to solve in a similar fashion to the Odyssey, or Robinsons Lost in Space.

                        Being able to tune into the probable quantum realities, the Jorid is able to trace the plot of their adventures even before they’ve been starting to unfold in no less than 33 chapters, giving them evocative titles.

                        Here are the 33 chapters for the glorious adventures with some keywords under each to give some hints to the daring adventurers.

                        1. Chapter 1: The Search Begins – Georges and Salomé, Léonard, Zathu sector, Bluhm’Oxl, dimensional magic
                        2. Chapter 2: A New Companion – unexpected ally, discovery, adventure
                        3. Chapter 3: Into the Desert – Bluhm’Oxl, sand dunes, treacherous journey
                        4. Chapter 4: The First Clue – search for Léonard, mystery, puzzle
                        5. Chapter 5: The Oasis – rest, rekindling hope, unexpected danger
                        6. Chapter 6: The Lost City – ancient civilization, artifacts, mystery
                        7. Chapter 7: A Dangerous Encounter – hostile aliens, survival, bravery
                        8. Chapter 8: A New Threat – ancient curse, ominous presence, danger
                        9. Chapter 9: The Key to the Past – uncovering secrets, solving puzzles, unlocking power
                        10. Chapter 10: The Guardian’s Temple – mystical portal, discovery, knowledge
                        11. Chapter 11: The Celestial Map – space-time navigation, discovery, enlightenment
                        12. Chapter 12: The First Step – journey through dimensions, bravery, adventure
                        13. Chapter 13: The Cosmic Rift – strange anomalies, dangerous zones, exploration
                        14. Chapter 14: A Surprising Discovery – unexpected allies, strange creatures, intrigue
                        15. Chapter 15: The Memory Stones – ancient wisdom, unlock hidden knowledge, unlock the past
                        16. Chapter 16: The Time Stream – navigating through time, adventure, danger
                        17. Chapter 17: The Mirror Dimension – parallel world, alternate reality, discovery
                        18. Chapter 18: A Distant Planet – alien world, strange cultures, exploration
                        19. Chapter 19: The Starlight Forest – enchanted forest, secrets, danger
                        20. Chapter 20: The Temple of the Mind – exploring consciousness, inner journey, enlightenment
                        21. Chapter 21: The Sea of Souls – mystical ocean, hidden knowledge, inner peace
                        22. Chapter 22: The Path of the Truth – search for meaning, self-discovery, enlightenment
                        23. Chapter 23: The Cosmic Library – ancient knowledge, discovery, enlightenment
                        24. Chapter 24: The Dream Plane – exploring the subconscious, self-discovery, enlightenment
                        25. Chapter 25: The Shadow Realm – dark dimensions, fear, danger
                        26. Chapter 26: The Fire Planet – intense heat, dangerous creatures, bravery
                        27. Chapter 27: The Floating Islands – aerial adventure, strange creatures, discovery
                        28. Chapter 28: The Crystal Caves – glittering beauty, hidden secrets, danger
                        29. Chapter 29: The Eternal Night – unknown world, strange creatures, fear
                        30. Chapter 30: The Lost Civilization – ancient ruins, mystery, adventure
                        31. Chapter 31: The Vortex – intense energy, danger, bravery
                        32. Chapter 32: The Cosmic Storm – weather extremes, danger, survival
                        33. Chapter 33: The Return – reunion with Léonard, returning to the Jorid, new adventures.
                        #6471
                        ÉricÉric
                        Keymaster

                          The Jorid is a vessel that can travel through dimensions as well as time, within certain boundaries.

                          The Jorid has been built and is operated by Georges and his companion Salomé.
                          Georges was a French thief possibly from the 1800s, turned other-dimensional explorer, and along with Salomé, a girl of mysterious origins who he first met in the Alienor dimension but believed to be born in Northern India in a distant past, they have lived rich adventures together, and are deeply bound by love and mutual interests.

                          Georges, with his handsome face, dark hair and amber gaze, is a bit of a daredevil at times, curious and engaging with others. He is very interesting in anything that shines, strange mechanisms and generally the ways consciousness works in living matter. Salomé, on the other hand is deeply intuitive, empath at times, quite logical and rational but also interested in mysticism, the ways of the Truth, and the “why” rather than the “how” of things.

                          The world of Alienor (a pale green sun under which twin planets originally orbited – Duane, Murtuane – with an additional third, Phreal, home planet of the Guardians, an alien race of builders with god-like powers) lived through cataclysmic changes, finished by the time this story is told.

                          The Jorid’s original prototype designs were crafted by Léonard, a mysterious figure, self-taught in the arts of dimensional magic in Alienor sects, who acted as a mentor to Georges during his adventures. It is not known where he is now.

                          The story unfolds 14 years after we discovered Georges & Salomé in the story.

                           

                          (for more background information, refer to this thread)

                          #6458

                          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                          “I’m going to have to jump in this pool, Pretty Girl, look at this one! It reminds me of something…”

                          Zara came to a green pool that was different from the others, and walked into it.

                          Zara Game 7

                          She emerged into a new scene, with what appeared  to be a floating portal, but a square one this time.

                          “May as well step onto it and see where it goes!” Zara told the parrot, who was taking a keen interest in the screen, somewhat strangely for a bird.  “I like having you here, Pretty Girl, it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

                          Zara stepped onto the floating tile portal.

                          Zara Game 9

                           

                          “Hey, wasn’t my quest to find a wooden tile?” Zara suddenly remembered. She’d forgotten her quest while she was wandering around the enchanting castle.

                          “Yes, but that doesn’t look like the tile you were supposed to find though,”  replied the parrot.

                          “It might lead me to it,” snapped Zara who didn’t really want to leave the pretty castle scenes anyway.  It felt magical and somehow familiar, like she’d been there before, a long long time ago.

                          After stepping onto the floating tile portal, Zara encountered another tile portal. This time it was upright, with a circular portal in the centre. By now it seemed clear that the thing to do was to walk through it.  She wandered around the scene first as if she was a tourist simply taking in the new sights before taking the plunge.

                          Zara Game 9

                          “Oh my god, look! It’s my tile!” Zara said excitedly to the parrot, just as the words flashed up on her screen:

                          Congratulations!  You have reached the first goal of your first quest!

                          Zara Game 10

                           

                          “Oh bugger!  Look at the time, it’s already starting to get light outside. I completely forgot about going to that church to see Isaac’s ghost, and now I haven’t had a wink of sleep all night.”

                          “Time well spent,” said the parrot sagely, “You can go and see Isaac tomorrow night, and he may be all the more willing to talk since you kept him waiting.”

                          #6382

                          In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                          ÉricÉric
                          Keymaster

                            Write more about the group of people who lived inside of giant mushrooms, making it sound exciting and fun, and maybe a bit dangerous due to the nature of the mushrooms

                            As the group journeyed deeper into the Land of the Quirks, they stumbled upon a group of people living inside of giant mushrooms. The mushrooms were enormous, some as tall as skyscrapers, and they seemed to glow with an ethereal light. The group was amazed as they walked through the forest of mushrooms, each one unique in shape and size.

                            The people who lived inside of the mushrooms were a friendly and welcoming bunch, they welcomed the group with open arms and invited them to explore their homes. The inside of the mushrooms was a magical and mysterious place, the walls and ceilings were covered in a soft, velvety texture and the floors were made of a spongy, springy material. The light inside the mushrooms was soft and diffused, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere.

                            As the group explored the mushroom homes, they discovered that the people who lived there had a deep connection to the mushrooms. They used the mushrooms as a source of food, shelter, and medicine. They had learned to harness the unique properties of the mushrooms to create everything they needed to survive.

                            The group also discovered that the mushrooms had a dangerous side. The mushrooms were not only a source of life, but also a source of death. The group was warned that the mushrooms were unpredictable and that they should be careful when exploring. Some mushrooms were poisonous, others were carnivorous, and still, others had mind-altering properties.

                            Despite the danger, the group was excited to explore the mushrooms and learn more about the people who lived there. They knew that the journey would be filled with challenges, but they were determined to overcome them and discover the secrets of the mushrooms. The group had a lot of fun and adventure living with the people inside of giant mushrooms, and they learned a lot about the nature of the mushrooms and their own nature.

                            #6368
                            ÉricÉric
                            Keymaster

                              Something in the style of FPooh:

                              Arona heard the music growing louder as she approached the source of the sound. She could see a group of people gathered around a large fire, the flickering light casting shadows on the faces of the dancers. She hesitated for a moment, remembering the isolation of her journey and wondering if she was ready to be among people again. But the music was too inviting, and she found herself drawn towards the group.

                              As she neared the fire, she saw a young man playing a flute, the music flowing from his fingers with a fluid grace that captivated her. He looked up as she approached, and their eyes met. She could see the surprise and curiosity in his gaze, and she smiled, feeling a sense of connection she had not felt in a long time.

                              Fiona was sitting on a bench in the park, watching the children play. She had brought her sketchbook with her, but for once she didn’t feel the urge to draw. Instead she watched the children’s laughter, feeling content and at peace. Suddenly, she saw a young girl running towards her, a look of pure joy on her face. The girl stopped in front of her and held out a flower, offering it to Fiona with a smile.

                              Taken aback, Fiona took the flower and thanked the girl. The girl giggled and ran off to join her friends. Fiona looked down at the flower in her hand, and she felt a sense of inspiration, like a spark igniting within her. She opened her sketchbook and began to draw, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders and the magic of creativity flowing through her.

                              Minky led the group of misfits towards the emporium, his bowler hat bobbing on his head. He chattered excitedly, telling stories of the wondrous items to be found within Mr Jib’s store. Yikesy followed behind, still lost in his thoughts of Arona and feeling a sense of dread at the thought of buying a bowler hat. The green fairy flitted along beside him, her wings a blur of movement as she chattered with the parrot perched on her shoulder.

                              As they reached the emporium, they were disappointed to find it closed. But Minky refused to be discouraged, and he led them to a nearby cafe where they could sit and enjoy some tea and cake while they wait for the emporium to open. The green fairy was delighted, and she ordered a plate of macarons, smiling as she tasted the sweetness of the confections.

                              About creativity & everyday magic

                              Fiona had always been drawn to the magic of creativity, the way a blank page could be transformed into a world of wonder and beauty. But lately, she had been feeling stuck, unable to find the spark that ignited her imagination. She would sit with her sketchbook, pencil in hand, and nothing would come to her.

                              She started to question her abilities, wondering if she had lost the magic of her art. She spent long hours staring at her blank pages, feeling a weight on her chest that seemed to be growing heavier every day.

                              But then she remembered the green fairy’s tears and Yikesy’s longing for Arona, and she realized that the magic of creativity wasn’t something that could be found only in art. It was all around her, in the everyday moments of life.

                              She started to look for the magic in the small things, like the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, or the way a child’s laughter could light up a room. She found it in the way a stranger’s smile could lift her spirits, and in the way a simple cup of tea could bring her comfort.

                              And as she started to see the magic in the everyday, she found that the weight on her chest lifted and the spark of inspiration returned. She picked up her pencil and began to draw, feeling the magic flowing through her once again.

                              She understand that creativity blocks aren’t a destination, but just a step, just like the bowler hat that Minky had bought for them all, a bit of everyday magic, nothing too fancy but a sense of belonging, a sense of who they are and where they are going. And she let her pencil flow, with the hopes that one day, they will all find their way home.

                              #6366
                              ÉricÉric
                              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.

                                 

                                #6268
                                TracyTracy
                                Participant

                                  From Tanganyika with Love

                                  continued part 9

                                  With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                  Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  We had a novel Christmas this year. We decided to avoid the expense of
                                  entertaining and being entertained at Lyamungu, and went off to spend Christmas
                                  camping in a forest on the Western slopes of Kilimanjaro. George decided to combine
                                  business with pleasure and in this way we were able to use Government transport.
                                  We set out the day before Christmas day and drove along the road which skirts
                                  the slopes of Kilimanjaro and first visited a beautiful farm where Philip Teare, the ex
                                  Game Warden, and his wife Mary are staying. We had afternoon tea with them and then
                                  drove on in to the natural forest above the estate and pitched our tent beside a small
                                  clear mountain stream. We decorated the tent with paper streamers and a few small
                                  balloons and John found a small tree of the traditional shape which we decorated where
                                  it stood with tinsel and small ornaments.

                                  We put our beer, cool drinks for the children and bottles of fresh milk from Simba
                                  Estate, in the stream and on Christmas morning they were as cold as if they had been in
                                  the refrigerator all night. There were not many presents for the children, there never are,
                                  but they do not seem to mind and are well satisfied with a couple of balloons apiece,
                                  sweets, tin whistles and a book each.

                                  George entertain the children before breakfast. He can make a magical thing out
                                  of the most ordinary balloon. The children watched entranced as he drew on his pipe
                                  and then blew the smoke into the balloon. He then pinched the neck of the balloon
                                  between thumb and forefinger and released the smoke in little puffs. Occasionally the
                                  balloon ejected a perfect smoke ring and the forest rang with shouts of “Do it again
                                  Daddy.” Another trick was to blow up the balloon to maximum size and then twist the
                                  neck tightly before releasing. Before subsiding the balloon darted about in a crazy
                                  fashion causing great hilarity. Such fun, at the cost of a few pence.

                                  After breakfast George went off to fish for trout. John and Jim decided that they
                                  also wished to fish so we made rods out of sticks and string and bent pins and they
                                  fished happily, but of course quite unsuccessfully, for hours. Both of course fell into the
                                  stream and got soaked, but I was prepared for this, and the little stream was so shallow
                                  that they could not come to any harm. Henry played happily in the sand and I had a
                                  most peaceful morning.

                                  Hamisi roasted a chicken in a pot over the camp fire and the jelly set beautifully in the
                                  stream. So we had grilled trout and chicken for our Christmas dinner. I had of course
                                  taken an iced cake for the occasion and, all in all, it was a very successful Christmas day.
                                  On Boxing day we drove down to the plains where George was to investigate a
                                  report of game poaching near the Ngassari Furrow. This is a very long ditch which has
                                  been dug by the Government for watering the Masai stock in the area. It is also used by
                                  game and we saw herds of zebra and wildebeest, and some Grant’s Gazelle and
                                  giraffe, all comparatively tame. At one point a small herd of zebra raced beside the lorry
                                  apparently enjoying the fun of a gallop. They were all sleek and fat and looked wild and
                                  beautiful in action.

                                  We camped a considerable distance from the water but this precaution did not
                                  save us from the mosquitoes which launched a vicious attack on us after sunset, so that
                                  we took to our beds unusually early. They were on the job again when we got up at
                                  sunrise so I was very glad when we were once more on our way home.

                                  “I like Christmas safari. Much nicer that silly old party,” said John. I agree but I think
                                  it is time that our children learned to play happily with others. There are no other young
                                  children at Lyamungu though there are two older boys and a girl who go to boarding
                                  school in Nairobi.

                                  On New Years Day two Army Officers from the military camp at Moshi, came for
                                  tea and to talk game hunting with George. I think they rather enjoy visiting a home and
                                  seeing children and pets around.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  Lyamungu 14 May 1945

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  So the war in Europe is over at last. It is such marvellous news that I can hardly
                                  believe it. To think that as soon as George can get leave we will go to England and
                                  bring Ann and George home with us to Tanganyika. When we know when this leave can
                                  be arranged we will want Kate to join us here as of course she must go with us to
                                  England to meet George’s family. She has become so much a part of your lives that I
                                  know it will be a wrench for you to give her up but I know that you will all be happy to
                                  think that soon our family will be reunited.

                                  The V.E. celebrations passed off quietly here. We all went to Moshi to see the
                                  Victory Parade of the King’s African Rifles and in the evening we went to a celebration
                                  dinner at the Game Warden’s house. Besides ourselves the Moores had invited the
                                  Commanding Officer from Moshi and a junior officer. We had a very good dinner and
                                  many toasts including one to Mrs Moore’s brother, Oliver Milton who is fighting in Burma
                                  and has recently been awarded the Military Cross.

                                  There was also a celebration party for the children in the grounds of the Moshi
                                  Club. Such a spread! I think John and Jim sampled everything. We mothers were
                                  having our tea separately and a friend laughingly told me to turn around and have a look.
                                  I did, and saw the long tea tables now deserted by all the children but my two sons who
                                  were still eating steadily, and finding the party more exciting than the game of Musical
                                  Bumps into which all the other children had entered with enthusiasm.

                                  There was also an extremely good puppet show put on by the Italian prisoners
                                  of war from the camp at Moshi. They had made all the puppets which included well
                                  loved characters like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and the Babes in the Wood as
                                  well as more sophisticated ones like an irritable pianist and a would be prima donna. The
                                  most popular puppets with the children were a native askari and his family – a very
                                  happy little scene. I have never before seen a puppet show and was as entranced as
                                  the children. It is amazing what clever manipulation and lighting can do. I believe that the
                                  Italians mean to take their puppets to Nairobi and am glad to think that there, they will
                                  have larger audiences to appreciate their art.

                                  George has just come in, and I paused in my writing to ask him for the hundredth
                                  time when he thinks we will get leave. He says I must be patient because it may be a
                                  year before our turn comes. Shipping will be disorganised for months to come and we
                                  cannot expect priority simply because we have been separated so long from our
                                  children. The same situation applies to scores of other Government Officials.
                                  I have decided to write the story of my childhood in South Africa and about our
                                  life together in Tanganyika up to the time Ann and George left the country. I know you
                                  will have told Kate these stories, but Ann and George were so very little when they left
                                  home that I fear that they cannot remember much.

                                  My Mother-in-law will have told them about their father but she can tell them little
                                  about me. I shall send them one chapter of my story each month in the hope that they
                                  may be interested and not feel that I am a stranger when at last we meet again.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  Lyamungu 19th September 1945

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  In a months time we will be saying good-bye to Lyamungu. George is to be
                                  transferred to Mbeya and I am delighted, not only as I look upon Mbeya as home, but
                                  because there is now a primary school there which John can attend. I feel he will make
                                  much better progress in his lessons when he realises that all children of his age attend
                                  school. At present he is putting up a strong resistance to learning to read and spell, but
                                  he writes very neatly, does his sums accurately and shows a real talent for drawing. If
                                  only he had the will to learn I feel he would do very well.

                                  Jim now just four, is too young for lessons but too intelligent to be interested in
                                  the ayah’s attempts at entertainment. Yes I’ve had to engage a native girl to look after
                                  Henry from 9 am to 12.30 when I supervise John’s Correspondence Course. She is
                                  clean and amiable, but like most African women she has no initiative at all when it comes
                                  to entertaining children. Most African men and youths are good at this.

                                  I don’t regret our stay at Lyamungu. It is a beautiful spot and the change to the
                                  cooler climate after the heat of Morogoro has been good for all the children. John is still
                                  tall for his age but not so thin as he was and much less pale. He is a handsome little lad
                                  with his large brown eyes in striking contrast to his fair hair. He is wary of strangers but
                                  very observant and quite uncanny in the way he sums up people. He seldom gets up
                                  to mischief but I have a feeling he eggs Jim on. Not that Jim needs egging.

                                  Jim has an absolute flair for mischief but it is all done in such an artless manner that
                                  it is not easy to punish him. He is a very sturdy child with a cap of almost black silky hair,
                                  eyes brown, like mine, and a large mouth which is quick to smile and show most beautiful
                                  white and even teeth. He is most popular with all the native servants and the Game
                                  Scouts. The servants call Jim, ‘Bwana Tembo’ (Mr Elephant) because of his sturdy
                                  build.

                                  Henry, now nearly two years old, is quite different from the other two in
                                  appearance. He is fair complexioned and fair haired like Ann and Kate, with large, black
                                  lashed, light grey eyes. He is a good child, not so merry as Jim was at his age, nor as
                                  shy as John was. He seldom cries, does not care to be cuddled and is independent and
                                  strong willed. The servants call Henry, ‘Bwana Ndizi’ (Mr Banana) because he has an
                                  inexhaustible appetite for this fruit. Fortunately they are very inexpensive here. We buy
                                  an entire bunch which hangs from a beam on the back verandah, and pluck off the
                                  bananas as they ripen. This way there is no waste and the fruit never gets bruised as it
                                  does in greengrocers shops in South Africa. Our three boys make a delightful and
                                  interesting trio and I do wish you could see them for yourselves.

                                  We are delighted with the really beautiful photograph of Kate. She is an
                                  extraordinarily pretty child and looks so happy and healthy and a great credit to you.
                                  Now that we will be living in Mbeya with a school on the doorstep I hope that we will
                                  soon be able to arrange for her return home.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 30th October 1945

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  How nice to be able to write c/o Game Dept. Mbeya at the head of my letters.
                                  We arrived here safely after a rather tiresome journey and are installed in a tiny house on
                                  the edge of the township.

                                  We left Lyamungu early on the morning of the 22nd. Most of our goods had
                                  been packed on the big Ford lorry the previous evening, but there were the usual
                                  delays and farewells. Of our servants, only the cook, Hamisi, accompanied us to
                                  Mbeya. Japhet, Tovelo and the ayah had to be paid off and largesse handed out.
                                  Tovelo’s granny had come, bringing a gift of bananas, and she also brought her little
                                  granddaughter to present a bunch of flowers. The child’s little scolded behind is now
                                  completely healed. Gifts had to be found for them too.

                                  At last we were all aboard and what a squash it was! Our few pieces of furniture
                                  and packing cases and trunks, the cook, his wife, the driver and the turney boy, who
                                  were to take the truck back to Lyamungu, and all their bits and pieces, bunches of
                                  bananas and Fanny the dog were all crammed into the body of the lorry. George, the
                                  children and I were jammed together in the cab. Before we left George looked
                                  dubiously at the tyres which were very worn and said gloomily that he thought it most
                                  unlikely that we would make our destination, Dodoma.

                                  Too true! Shortly after midday, near Kwakachinja, we blew a back tyre and there
                                  was a tedious delay in the heat whilst the wheel was changed. We were now without a
                                  spare tyre and George said that he would not risk taking the Ford further than Babati,
                                  which is less than half way to Dodoma. He drove very slowly and cautiously to Babati
                                  where he arranged with Sher Mohammed, an Indian trader, for a lorry to take us to
                                  Dodoma the next morning.

                                  It had been our intention to spend the night at the furnished Government
                                  Resthouse at Babati but when we got there we found that it was already occupied by
                                  several District Officers who had assembled for a conference. So, feeling rather
                                  disgruntled, we all piled back into the lorry and drove on to a place called Bereku where
                                  we spent an uncomfortable night in a tumbledown hut.

                                  Before dawn next morning Sher Mohammed’s lorry drove up, and there was a
                                  scramble to dress by the light of a storm lamp. The lorry was a very dilapidated one and
                                  there was already a native woman passenger in the cab. I felt so tired after an almost
                                  sleepless night that I decided to sit between the driver and this woman with the sleeping
                                  Henry on my knee. It was as well I did, because I soon found myself dosing off and
                                  drooping over towards the woman. Had she not been there I might easily have fallen
                                  out as the battered cab had no door. However I was alert enough when daylight came
                                  and changed places with the woman to our mutual relief. She was now able to converse
                                  with the African driver and I was able to enjoy the scenery and the fresh air!
                                  George, John and Jim were less comfortable. They sat in the lorry behind the
                                  cab hemmed in by packing cases. As the lorry was an open one the sun beat down
                                  unmercifully upon them until George, ever resourceful, moved a table to the front of the
                                  truck. The two boys crouched under this and so got shelter from the sun but they still had
                                  to endure the dust. Fanny complicated things by getting car sick and with one thing and
                                  another we were all jolly glad to get to Dodoma.

                                  We spent the night at the Dodoma Hotel and after hot baths, a good meal and a
                                  good nights rest we cheerfully boarded a bus of the Tanganyika Bus Service next
                                  morning to continue our journey to Mbeya. The rest of the journey was uneventful. We slept two nights on the road, the first at Iringa Hotel and the second at Chimala. We
                                  reached Mbeya on the 27th.

                                  I was rather taken aback when I first saw the little house which has been allocated
                                  to us. I had become accustomed to the spacious houses we had in Morogoro and
                                  Lyamungu. However though the house is tiny it is secluded and has a long garden
                                  sloping down to the road in front and another long strip sloping up behind. The front
                                  garden is shaded by several large cypress and eucalyptus trees but the garden behind
                                  the house has no shade and consists mainly of humpy beds planted with hundreds of
                                  carnations sadly in need of debudding. I believe that the previous Game Ranger’s wife
                                  cultivated the carnations and, by selling them, raised money for War Funds.
                                  Like our own first home, this little house is built of sun dried brick. Its original
                                  owners were Germans. It is now rented to the Government by the Custodian of Enemy
                                  Property, and George has his office in another ex German house.

                                  This afternoon we drove to the school to arrange about enrolling John there. The
                                  school is about four miles out of town. It was built by the German settlers in the late
                                  1930’s and they were justifiably proud of it. It consists of a great assembly hall and
                                  classrooms in one block and there are several attractive single storied dormitories. This
                                  school was taken over by the Government when the Germans were interned on the
                                  outbreak of war and many improvements have been made to the original buildings. The
                                  school certainly looks very attractive now with its grassed playing fields and its lawns and
                                  bright flower beds.

                                  The Union Jack flies from a tall flagpole in front of the Hall and all traces of the
                                  schools German origin have been firmly erased. We met the Headmaster, Mr
                                  Wallington, and his wife and some members of the staff. The school is co-educational
                                  and caters for children from the age of seven to standard six. The leaving age is elastic
                                  owing to the fact that many Tanganyika children started school very late because of lack
                                  of educational facilities in this country.

                                  The married members of the staff have their own cottages in the grounds. The
                                  Matrons have quarters attached to the dormitories for which they are responsible. I felt
                                  most enthusiastic about the school until I discovered that the Headmaster is adamant
                                  upon one subject. He utterly refuses to take any day pupils at the school. So now our
                                  poor reserved Johnny will have to adjust himself to boarding school life.
                                  We have arranged that he will start school on November 5th and I shall be very
                                  busy trying to assemble his school uniform at short notice. The clothing list is sensible.
                                  Boys wear khaki shirts and shorts on weekdays with knitted scarlet jerseys when the
                                  weather is cold. On Sundays they wear grey flannel shorts and blazers with the silver
                                  and scarlet school tie.

                                  Mbeya looks dusty, brown and dry after the lush evergreen vegetation of
                                  Lyamungu, but I prefer this drier climate and there are still mountains to please the eye.
                                  In fact the lower slopes of Lolesa Mountain rise at the upper end of our garden.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 21st November 1945

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  We’re quite settled in now and I have got the little house fixed up to my
                                  satisfaction. I have engaged a rather uncouth looking houseboy but he is strong and
                                  capable and now that I am not tied down in the mornings by John’s lessons I am able to
                                  go out occasionally in the mornings and take Jim and Henry to play with other children.
                                  They do not show any great enthusiasm but are not shy by nature as John is.
                                  I have had a good deal of heartache over putting John to boarding school. It
                                  would have been different had he been used to the company of children outside his
                                  own family, or if he had even known one child there. However he seems to be adjusting
                                  himself to the life, though slowly. At least he looks well and tidy and I am quite sure that
                                  he is well looked after.

                                  I must confess that when the time came for John to go to school I simply did not
                                  have the courage to take him and he went alone with George, looking so smart in his
                                  new uniform – but his little face so bleak. The next day, Sunday, was visiting day but the
                                  Headmaster suggested that we should give John time to settle down and not visit him
                                  until Wednesday.

                                  When we drove up to the school I spied John on the far side of the field walking
                                  all alone. Instead of running up with glad greetings, as I had expected, he came almost
                                  reluctently and had little to say. I asked him to show me his dormitory and classroom and
                                  he did so politely as though I were a stranger. At last he volunteered some information.
                                  “Mummy,” he said in an awed voice, Do you know on the night I came here they burnt a
                                  man! They had a big fire and they burnt him.” After a blank moment the penny dropped.
                                  Of course John had started school and November the fifth but it had never entered my
                                  head to tell him about that infamous character, Guy Fawkes!

                                  I asked John’s Matron how he had settled down. “Well”, she said thoughtfully,
                                  “John is very good and has not cried as many of the juniors do when they first come
                                  here, but he seems to keep to himself all the time.” I went home very discouraged but
                                  on the Sunday John came running up with another lad of about his own age.” This is my
                                  friend Marks,” he announced proudly. I could have hugged Marks.

                                  Mbeya is very different from the small settlement we knew in the early 1930’s.
                                  Gone are all the colourful characters from the Lupa diggings for the alluvial claims are all
                                  worked out now, gone also are our old friends the Menzies from the Pub and also most
                                  of the Government Officials we used to know. Mbeya has lost its character of a frontier
                                  township and has become almost suburban.

                                  The social life revolves around two places, the Club and the school. The Club
                                  which started out as a little two roomed building, has been expanded and the golf
                                  course improved. There are also tennis courts and a good library considering the size of
                                  the community. There are frequent parties and dances, though most of the club revenue
                                  comes from Bar profits. The parties are relatively sober affairs compared with the parties
                                  of the 1930’s.

                                  The school provides entertainment of another kind. Both Mr and Mrs Wallington
                                  are good amateur actors and I am told that they run an Amateur Dramatic Society. Every
                                  Wednesday afternoon there is a hockey match at the school. Mbeya town versus a
                                  mixed team of staff and scholars. The match attracts almost the whole European
                                  population of Mbeya. Some go to play hockey, others to watch, and others to snatch
                                  the opportunity to visit their children. I shall have to try to arrange a lift to school when
                                  George is away on safari.

                                  I have now met most of the local women and gladly renewed an old friendship
                                  with Sheilagh Waring whom I knew two years ago at Morogoro. Sheilagh and I have
                                  much in common, the same disregard for the trappings of civilisation, the same sense of
                                  the ludicrous, and children. She has eight to our six and she has also been cut off by the
                                  war from two of her children. Sheilagh looks too young and pretty to be the mother of so
                                  large a family and is, in fact, several years younger than I am. her husband, Donald, is a
                                  large quiet man who, as far as I can judge takes life seriously.

                                  Our next door neighbours are the Bank Manager and his wife, a very pleasant
                                  couple though we seldom meet. I have however had correspondence with the Bank
                                  Manager. Early on Saturday afternoon their houseboy brought a note. It informed me
                                  that my son was disturbing his rest by precipitating a heart attack. Was I aware that my
                                  son was about 30 feet up in a tree and balanced on a twig? I ran out and,sure enough,
                                  there was Jim, right at the top of the tallest eucalyptus tree. It would be the one with the
                                  mound of stones at the bottom! You should have heard me fluting in my most
                                  wheedling voice. “Sweets, Jimmy, come down slowly dear, I’ve some nice sweets for
                                  you.”

                                  I’ll bet that little story makes you smile. I remember how often you have told me
                                  how, as a child, I used to make your hearts turn over because I had no fear of heights
                                  and how I used to say, “But that is silly, I won’t fall.” I know now only too well, how you
                                  must have felt.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 14th January 1946

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  I hope that by now you have my telegram to say that Kate got home safely
                                  yesterday. It was wonderful to have her back and what a beautiful child she is! Kate
                                  seems to have enjoyed the train journey with Miss Craig, in spite of the tears she tells
                                  me she shed when she said good-bye to you. She also seems to have felt quite at
                                  home with the Hopleys at Salisbury. She flew from Salisbury in a small Dove aircraft
                                  and they had a smooth passage though Kate was a little airsick.

                                  I was so excited about her home coming! This house is so tiny that I had to turn
                                  out the little store room to make a bedroom for her. With a fresh coat of whitewash and
                                  pretty sprigged curtains and matching bedspread, borrowed from Sheilagh Waring, the
                                  tiny room looks most attractive. I had also iced a cake, made ice-cream and jelly and
                                  bought crackers for the table so that Kate’s home coming tea could be a proper little
                                  celebration.

                                  I was pleased with my preparations and then, a few hours before the plane was
                                  due, my crowned front tooth dropped out, peg and all! When my houseboy wants to
                                  describe something very tatty, he calls it “Second-hand Kabisa.” Kabisa meaning
                                  absolutely. That is an apt description of how I looked and felt. I decided to try some
                                  emergency dentistry. I think you know our nearest dentist is at Dar es Salaam five
                                  hundred miles away.

                                  First I carefully dried the tooth and with a match stick covered the peg and base
                                  with Durofix. I then took the infants rubber bulb enema, sucked up some heat from a
                                  candle flame and pumped it into the cavity before filling that with Durofix. Then hopefully
                                  I stuck the tooth in its former position and held it in place for several minutes. No good. I
                                  sent the houseboy to a shop for Scotine and tried the whole process again. No good
                                  either.

                                  When George came home for lunch I appealed to him for advice. He jokingly
                                  suggested that a maize seed jammed into the space would probably work, but when
                                  he saw that I really was upset he produced some chewing gum and suggested that I
                                  should try that . I did and that worked long enough for my first smile anyway.
                                  George and the three boys went to meet Kate but I remained at home to
                                  welcome her there. I was afraid that after all this time away Kate might be reluctant to
                                  rejoin the family but she threw her arms around me and said “Oh Mummy,” We both
                                  shed a few tears and then we both felt fine.

                                  How gay Kate is, and what an infectious laugh she has! The boys follow her
                                  around in admiration. John in fact asked me, “Is Kate a Princess?” When I said
                                  “Goodness no, Johnny, she’s your sister,” he explained himself by saying, “Well, she
                                  has such golden hair.” Kate was less complementary. When I tucked her in bed last night
                                  she said, “Mummy, I didn’t expect my little brothers to be so yellow!” All three boys
                                  have been taking a course of Atebrin, an anti-malarial drug which tinges skin and eyeballs
                                  yellow.

                                  So now our tiny house is bursting at its seams and how good it feels to have one
                                  more child under our roof. We are booked to sail for England in May and when we return
                                  we will have Ann and George home too. Then I shall feel really content.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 2nd March 1946

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  My life just now is uneventful but very busy. I am sewing hard and knitting fast to
                                  try to get together some warm clothes for our leave in England. This is not a simple
                                  matter because woollen materials are in short supply and very expensive, and now that
                                  we have boarding school fees to pay for both Kate and John we have to budget very
                                  carefully indeed.

                                  Kate seems happy at school. She makes friends easily and seems to enjoy
                                  communal life. John also seems reconciled to school now that Kate is there. He no
                                  longer feels that he is the only exile in the family. He seems to rub along with the other
                                  boys of his age and has a couple of close friends. Although Mbeya School is coeducational
                                  the smaller boys and girls keep strictly apart. It is considered extremely
                                  cissy to play with girls.

                                  The local children are allowed to go home on Sundays after church and may bring
                                  friends home with them for the day. Both John and Kate do this and Sunday is a very
                                  busy day for me. The children come home in their Sunday best but bring play clothes to
                                  change into. There is always a scramble to get them to bath and change again in time to
                                  deliver them to the school by 6 o’clock.

                                  When George is home we go out to the school for the morning service. This is
                                  taken by the Headmaster Mr Wallington, and is very enjoyable. There is an excellent
                                  school choir to lead the singing. The service is the Church of England one, but is
                                  attended by children of all denominations, except the Roman Catholics. I don’t think that
                                  more than half the children are British. A large proportion are Greeks, some as old as
                                  sixteen, and about the same number are Afrikaners. There are Poles and non-Nazi
                                  Germans, Swiss and a few American children.

                                  All instruction is through the medium of English and it is amazing how soon all the
                                  foreign children learn to chatter in English. George has been told that we will return to
                                  Mbeya after our leave and for that I am very thankful as it means that we will still be living
                                  near at hand when Jim and Henry start school. Because many of these children have to
                                  travel many hundreds of miles to come to school, – Mbeya is a two day journey from the
                                  railhead, – the school year is divided into two instead of the usual three terms. This
                                  means that many of these children do not see their parents for months at a time. I think
                                  this is a very sad state of affairs especially for the seven and eight year olds but the
                                  Matrons assure me , that many children who live on isolated farms and stations are quite
                                  reluctant to go home because they miss the companionship and the games and
                                  entertainment that the school offers.

                                  My only complaint about the life here is that I see far too little of George. He is
                                  kept extremely busy on this range and is hardly at home except for a few days at the
                                  months end when he has to be at his office to check up on the pay vouchers and the
                                  issue of ammunition to the Scouts. George’s Range takes in the whole of the Southern
                                  Province and the Southern half of the Western Province and extends to the border with
                                  Northern Rhodesia and right across to Lake Tanganyika. This vast area is patrolled by
                                  only 40 Game Scouts because the Department is at present badly under staffed, due
                                  partly to the still acute shortage of rifles, but even more so to the extraordinary reluctance
                                  which the Government shows to allocate adequate funds for the efficient running of the
                                  Department.

                                  The Game Scouts must see that the Game Laws are enforced, protect native
                                  crops from raiding elephant, hippo and other game animals. Report disease amongst game and deal with stock raiding lions. By constantly going on safari and checking on
                                  their work, George makes sure the range is run to his satisfaction. Most of the Game
                                  Scouts are fine fellows but, considering they receive only meagre pay for dangerous
                                  and exacting work, it is not surprising that occasionally a Scout is tempted into accepting
                                  a bribe not to report a serious infringement of the Game Laws and there is, of course,
                                  always the temptation to sell ivory illicitly to unscrupulous Indian and Arab traders.
                                  Apart from supervising the running of the Range, George has two major jobs.
                                  One is to supervise the running of the Game Free Area along the Rhodesia –
                                  Tanganyika border, and the other to hunt down the man-eating lions which for years have
                                  terrorised the Njombe District killing hundreds of Africans. Yes I know ‘hundreds’ sounds
                                  fantastic, but this is perfectly true and one day, when the job is done and the official
                                  report published I shall send it to you to prove it!

                                  I hate to think of the Game Free Area and so does George. All the game from
                                  buffalo to tiny duiker has been shot out in a wide belt extending nearly two hundred
                                  miles along the Northern Rhodesia -Tanganyika border. There are three Europeans in
                                  widely spaced camps who supervise this slaughter by African Game Guards. This
                                  horrible measure is considered necessary by the Veterinary Departments of
                                  Tanganyika, Rhodesia and South Africa, to prevent the cattle disease of Rinderpest
                                  from spreading South.

                                  When George is home however, we do relax and have fun. On the Saturday
                                  before the school term started we took Kate and the boys up to the top fishing camp in
                                  the Mporoto Mountains for her first attempt at trout fishing. There are three of these
                                  camps built by the Mbeya Trout Association on the rivers which were first stocked with
                                  the trout hatched on our farm at Mchewe. Of the three, the top camp is our favourite. The
                                  scenery there is most glorious and reminds me strongly of the rivers of the Western
                                  Cape which I so loved in my childhood.

                                  The river, the Kawira, flows from the Rungwe Mountain through a narrow valley
                                  with hills rising steeply on either side. The water runs swiftly over smooth stones and
                                  sometimes only a foot or two below the level of the banks. It is sparkling and shallow,
                                  but in places the water is deep and dark and the banks high. I had a busy day keeping
                                  an eye on the boys, especially Jim, who twice climbed out on branches which overhung
                                  deep water. “Mummy, I was only looking for trout!”

                                  How those kids enjoyed the freedom of the camp after the comparative
                                  restrictions of town. So did Fanny, she raced about on the hills like a mad dog chasing
                                  imaginary rabbits and having the time of her life. To escape the noise and commotion
                                  George had gone far upstream to fish and returned in the late afternoon with three good
                                  sized trout and four smaller ones. Kate proudly showed George the two she had caught
                                  with the assistance or our cook Hamisi. I fear they were caught in a rather unorthodox
                                  manner but this I kept a secret from George who is a stickler for the orthodox in trout
                                  fishing.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  Here we are all together at last in England. You cannot imagine how wonderful it
                                  feels to have the whole Rushby family reunited. I find myself counting heads. Ann,
                                  George, Kate, John, Jim, and Henry. All present and well. We had a very pleasant trip
                                  on the old British India Ship Mantola. She was crowded with East Africans going home
                                  for the first time since the war, many like us, eagerly looking forward to a reunion with their
                                  children whom they had not seen for years. There was a great air of anticipation and
                                  good humour but a little anxiety too.

                                  “I do hope our children will be glad to see us,” said one, and went on to tell me
                                  about a Doctor from Dar es Salaam who, after years of separation from his son had
                                  recently gone to visit him at his school. The Doctor had alighted at the railway station
                                  where he had arranged to meet his son. A tall youth approached him and said, very
                                  politely, “Excuse me sir. Are you my Father?” Others told me of children who had
                                  become so attached to their relatives in England that they gave their parents a very cool
                                  reception. I began to feel apprehensive about Ann and George but fortunately had no
                                  time to mope.

                                  Oh, that washing and ironing for six! I shall remember for ever that steamy little
                                  laundry in the heat of the Red Sea and queuing up for the ironing and the feeling of guilt
                                  at the size of my bundle. We met many old friends amongst the passengers, and made
                                  some new ones, so the voyage was a pleasant one, We did however have our
                                  anxious moments.

                                  John was the first to disappear and we had an anxious search for him. He was
                                  quite surprised that we had been concerned. “I was just talking to my friend Chinky
                                  Chinaman in his workshop.” Could John have called him that? Then, when I returned to
                                  the cabin from dinner one night I found Henry swigging Owbridge’s Lung Tonic. He had
                                  drunk half the bottle neat and the label said ‘five drops in water’. Luckily it did not harm
                                  him.

                                  Jim of course was forever risking his neck. George had forbidden him to climb on
                                  the railings but he was forever doing things which no one had thought of forbidding him
                                  to do, like hanging from the overhead pipes on the deck or standing on the sill of a
                                  window and looking down at the well deck far below. An Officer found him doing this and
                                  gave me the scolding.

                                  Another day he climbed up on a derrick used for hoisting cargo. George,
                                  oblivious to this was sitting on the hatch cover with other passengers reading a book. I
                                  was in the wash house aft on the same deck when Kate rushed in and said, “Mummy
                                  come and see Jim.” Before I had time to more than gape, the butcher noticed Jim and
                                  rushed out knife in hand. “Get down from there”, he bellowed. Jim got, and with such
                                  speed that he caught the leg or his shorts on a projecting piece of metal. The cotton
                                  ripped across the seam from leg to leg and Jim stood there for a humiliating moment in a
                                  sort of revealing little kilt enduring the smiles of the passengers who had looked up from
                                  their books at the butcher’s shout.

                                  That incident cured Jim of his urge to climb on the ship but he managed to give
                                  us one more fright. He was lost off Dover. People from whom we enquired said, “Yes
                                  we saw your little boy. He was by the railings watching that big aircraft carrier.” Now Jim,
                                  though mischievous , is very obedient. It was not until George and I had conducted an
                                  exhaustive search above and below decks that I really became anxious. Could he have
                                  fallen overboard? Jim was returned to us by an unamused Officer. He had been found
                                  in one of the lifeboats on the deck forbidden to children.

                                  Our ship passed Dover after dark and it was an unforgettable sight. Dover Castle
                                  and the cliffs were floodlit for the Victory Celebrations. One of the men passengers sat
                                  down at the piano and played ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, and people sang and a few
                                  wept. The Mantola docked at Tilbury early next morning in a steady drizzle.
                                  There was a dockers strike on and it took literally hours for all the luggage to be
                                  put ashore. The ships stewards simply locked the public rooms and went off leaving the
                                  passengers shivering on the docks. Eventually damp and bedraggled, we arrived at St
                                  Pancras Station and were given a warm welcome by George’s sister Cath and her
                                  husband Reg Pears, who had come all the way from Nottingham to meet us.
                                  As we had to spend an hour in London before our train left for Nottingham,
                                  George suggested that Cath and I should take the children somewhere for a meal. So
                                  off we set in the cold drizzle, the boys and I without coats and laden with sundry
                                  packages, including a hand woven native basket full of shoes. We must have looked like
                                  a bunch of refugees as we stood in the hall of The Kings Cross Station Hotel because a
                                  supercilious waiter in tails looked us up and down and said, “I’m afraid not Madam”, in
                                  answer to my enquiry whether the hotel could provide lunch for six.
                                  Anyway who cares! We had lunch instead at an ABC tea room — horrible
                                  sausage and a mound or rather sloppy mashed potatoes, but very good ice-cream.
                                  After the train journey in a very grimy third class coach, through an incredibly green and
                                  beautiful countryside, we eventually reached Nottingham and took a bus to Jacksdale,
                                  where George’s mother and sisters live in large detached houses side by side.
                                  Ann and George were at the bus stop waiting for us, and thank God, submitted
                                  to my kiss as though we had been parted for weeks instead of eight years. Even now
                                  that we are together again my heart aches to think of all those missed years. They have
                                  not changed much and I would have picked them out of a crowd, but Ann, once thin and
                                  pale, is now very rosy and blooming. She still has her pretty soft plaits and her eyes are
                                  still a clear calm blue. Young George is very striking looking with sparkling brown eyes, a
                                  ready, slightly lopsided smile, and charming manners.

                                  Mother, and George’s elder sister, Lottie Giles, welcomed us at the door with the
                                  cheering news that our tea was ready. Ann showed us the way to mother’s lovely lilac
                                  tiled bathroom for a wash before tea. Before I had even turned the tap, Jim had hung
                                  form the glass towel rail and it lay in three pieces on the floor. There have since been
                                  similar tragedies. I can see that life in civilisation is not without snags.

                                  I am most grateful that Ann and George have accepted us so naturally and
                                  affectionately. Ann said candidly, “Mummy, it’s a good thing that you had Aunt Cath with
                                  you when you arrived because, honestly, I wouldn’t have known you.”

                                  Eleanor.

                                  Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  I am sorry that I have not written for some time but honestly, I don’t know whether
                                  I’m coming or going. Mother handed the top floor of her house to us and the
                                  arrangement was that I should tidy our rooms and do our laundry and Mother would
                                  prepare the meals except for breakfast. It looked easy at first. All the rooms have wall to
                                  wall carpeting and there was a large vacuum cleaner in the box room. I was told a
                                  window cleaner would do the windows.

                                  Well the first time I used the Hoover I nearly died of fright. I pressed the switch
                                  and immediately there was a roar and the bag filled with air to bursting point, or so I
                                  thought. I screamed for Ann and she came at the run. I pointed to the bag and shouted
                                  above the din, “What must I do? It’s going to burst!” Ann looked at me in astonishment
                                  and said, “But Mummy that’s the way it works.” I couldn’t have her thinking me a
                                  complete fool so I switched the current off and explained to Ann how it was that I had
                                  never seen this type of equipment in action. How, in Tanganyika , I had never had a
                                  house with electricity and that, anyway, electric equipment would be superfluous
                                  because floors are of cement which the houseboy polishes by hand, one only has a
                                  few rugs or grass mats on the floor. “But what about Granny’s house in South Africa?’”
                                  she asked, so I explained about your Josephine who threatened to leave if you
                                  bought a Hoover because that would mean that you did not think she kept the house
                                  clean. The sad fact remains that, at fourteen, Ann knows far more about housework than I
                                  do, or rather did! I’m learning fast.

                                  The older children all go to school at different times in the morning. Ann leaves first
                                  by bus to go to her Grammar School at Sutton-in-Ashfield. Shortly afterwards George
                                  catches a bus for Nottingham where he attends the High School. So they have
                                  breakfast in relays, usually scrambled egg made from a revolting dried egg mixture.
                                  Then there are beds to make and washing and ironing to do, so I have little time for
                                  sightseeing, though on a few afternoons George has looked after the younger children
                                  and I have gone on bus tours in Derbyshire. Life is difficult here with all the restrictions on
                                  foodstuffs. We all have ration books so get our fair share but meat, fats and eggs are
                                  scarce and expensive. The weather is very wet. At first I used to hang out the washing
                                  and then rush to bring it in when a shower came. Now I just let it hang.

                                  We have left our imprint upon my Mother-in-law’s house for ever. Henry upset a
                                  bottle of Milk of Magnesia in the middle of the pale fawn bedroom carpet. John, trying to
                                  be helpful and doing some dusting, broke one of the delicate Dresden china candlesticks
                                  which adorn our bedroom mantelpiece.Jim and Henry have wrecked the once
                                  professionally landscaped garden and all the boys together bored a large hole through
                                  Mother’s prized cherry tree. So now Mother has given up and gone off to Bournemouth
                                  for a much needed holiday. Once a week I have the capable help of a cleaning woman,
                                  called for some reason, ‘Mrs Two’, but I have now got all the cooking to do for eight. Mrs
                                  Two is a godsend. She wears, of all things, a print mob cap with a hole in it. Says it
                                  belonged to her Grandmother. Her price is far beyond Rubies to me, not so much
                                  because she does, in a couple of hours, what it takes me all day to do, but because she
                                  sells me boxes of fifty cigarettes. Some non-smoking relative, who works in Players
                                  tobacco factory, passes on his ration to her. Until Mrs Two came to my rescue I had
                                  been starved of cigarettes. Each time I asked for them at the shop the grocer would say,
                                  “Are you registered with us?” Only very rarely would some kindly soul sell me a little
                                  packet of five Woodbines.

                                  England is very beautiful but the sooner we go home to Tanganyika, the better.
                                  On this, George and I and the children agree.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  Our return passages have now been booked on the Winchester Castle and we
                                  sail from Southampton on October the sixth. I look forward to returning to Tanganyika but
                                  hope to visit England again in a few years time when our children are older and when
                                  rationing is a thing of the past.

                                  I have grown fond of my Sisters-in-law and admire my Mother-in-law very much.
                                  She has a great sense of humour and has entertained me with stories of her very
                                  eventful life, and told me lots of little stories of the children which did not figure in her
                                  letters. One which amused me was about young George. During one of the air raids
                                  early in the war when the sirens were screaming and bombers roaring overhead Mother
                                  made the two children get into the cloak cupboard under the stairs. Young George
                                  seemed quite unconcerned about the planes and the bombs but soon an anxious voice
                                  asked in the dark, “Gran, what will I do if a spider falls on me?” I am afraid that Mother is
                                  going to miss Ann and George very much.

                                  I had a holiday last weekend when Lottie and I went up to London on a spree. It
                                  was a most enjoyable weekend, though very rushed. We placed ourselves in the
                                  hands of Thos. Cook and Sons and saw most of the sights of London and were run off
                                  our feet in the process. As you all know London I shall not describe what I saw but just
                                  to say that, best of all, I enjoyed walking along the Thames embankment in the evening
                                  and the changing of the Guard at Whitehall. On Sunday morning Lottie and I went to
                                  Kew Gardens and in the afternoon walked in Kensington Gardens.

                                  We went to only one show, ‘The Skin of our Teeth’ starring Vivienne Leigh.
                                  Neither of us enjoyed the performance at all and regretted having spent so much on
                                  circle seats. The show was far too highbrow for my taste, a sort of satire on the survival
                                  of the human race. Miss Leigh was unrecognisable in a blond wig and her voice strident.
                                  However the night was not a dead loss as far as entertainment was concerned as we
                                  were later caught up in a tragicomedy at our hotel.

                                  We had booked communicating rooms at the enormous Imperial Hotel in Russell
                                  Square. These rooms were comfortably furnished but very high up, and we had a rather
                                  terrifying and dreary view from the windows of the enclosed courtyard far below. We
                                  had some snacks and a chat in Lottie’s room and then I moved to mine and went to bed.
                                  I had noted earlier that there was a special lock on the outer door of my room so that
                                  when the door was closed from the inside it automatically locked itself.
                                  I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard a hammering which seemed to
                                  come from my wardrobe. I got up, rather fearfully, and opened the wardrobe door and
                                  noted for the first time that the wardrobe was set in an opening in the wall and that the
                                  back of the wardrobe also served as the back of the wardrobe in the room next door. I
                                  quickly shut it again and went to confer with Lottie.

                                  Suddenly a male voice was raised next door in supplication, “Mary Mother of
                                  God, Help me! They’ve locked me in!” and the hammering resumed again, sometimes
                                  on the door, and then again on the back of the wardrobe of the room next door. Lottie
                                  had by this time joined me and together we listened to the prayers and to the
                                  hammering. Then the voice began to threaten, “If you don’t let me out I’ll jump out of the
                                  window.” Great consternation on our side of the wall. I went out into the passage and
                                  called through the door, “You’re not locked in. Come to your door and I’ll tell you how to
                                  open it.” Silence for a moment and then again the prayers followed by a threat. All the
                                  other doors in the corridor remained shut.

                                  Luckily just then a young man and a woman came walking down the corridor and I
                                  explained the situation. The young man hurried off for the night porter who went into the
                                  next door room. In a matter of minutes there was peace next door. When the night
                                  porter came out into the corridor again I asked for an explanation. He said quite casually,
                                  “It’s all right Madam. He’s an Irish Gentleman in Show Business. He gets like this on a
                                  Saturday night when he has had a drop too much. He won’t give any more trouble
                                  now.” And he didn’t. Next morning at breakfast Lottie and I tried to spot the gentleman in
                                  the Show Business, but saw no one who looked like the owner of that charming Irish
                                  voice.

                                  George had to go to London on business last Monday and took the older
                                  children with him for a few hours of sight seeing. They returned quite unimpressed.
                                  Everything was too old and dirty and there were far too many people about, but they
                                  had enjoyed riding on the escalators at the tube stations, and all agreed that the highlight
                                  of the trip was, “Dad took us to lunch at the Chicken Inn.”

                                  Now that it is almost time to leave England I am finding the housework less of a
                                  drudgery, Also, as it is school holiday time, Jim and Henry are able to go on walks with
                                  the older children and so use up some of their surplus energy. Cath and I took the
                                  children (except young George who went rabbit shooting with his uncle Reg, and
                                  Henry, who stayed at home with his dad) to the Wakes at Selston, the neighbouring
                                  village. There were the roundabouts and similar contraptions but the side shows had
                                  more appeal for the children. Ann and Kate found a stall where assorted prizes were
                                  spread out on a sloping table. Anyone who could land a penny squarely on one of
                                  these objects was given a similar one as a prize.

                                  I was touched to see that both girls ignored all the targets except a box of fifty
                                  cigarettes which they were determined to win for me. After numerous attempts, Kate
                                  landed her penny successfully and you would have loved to have seen her radiant little
                                  face.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  Back in Tanganyika at last, but not together. We have to stay in Dar es Salaam
                                  until tomorrow when the train leaves for Dodoma. We arrived yesterday morning to find
                                  all the hotels filled with people waiting to board ships for England. Fortunately some
                                  friends came to the rescue and Ann, Kate and John have gone to stay with them. Jim,
                                  Henry and I are sleeping in a screened corner of the lounge of the New Africa Hotel, and
                                  George and young George have beds in the Palm Court of the same hotel.

                                  We travelled out from England in the Winchester Castle under troopship
                                  conditions. We joined her at Southampton after a rather slow train journey from
                                  Nottingham. We arrived after dark and from the station we could see a large ship in the
                                  docks with a floodlit red funnel. “Our ship,” yelled the children in delight, but it was not the
                                  Winchester Castle but the Queen Elizabeth, newly reconditioned.

                                  We had hoped to board our ship that evening but George made enquiries and
                                  found that we would not be allowed on board until noon next day. Without much hope,
                                  we went off to try to get accommodation for eight at a small hotel recommended by the
                                  taxi driver. Luckily for us there was a very motherly woman at the reception desk. She
                                  looked in amusement at the six children and said to me, “Goodness are all these yours,
                                  ducks? Then she called over her shoulder, “Wilf, come and see this lady with lots of
                                  children. We must try to help.” They settled the problem most satisfactorily by turning
                                  two rooms into a dormitory.

                                  In the morning we had time to inspect bomb damage in the dock area of
                                  Southampton. Most of the rubble had been cleared away but there are still numbers of
                                  damaged buildings awaiting demolition. A depressing sight. We saw the Queen Mary
                                  at anchor, still in her drab war time paint, but magnificent nevertheless.
                                  The Winchester Castle was crammed with passengers and many travelled in
                                  acute discomfort. We were luckier than most because the two girls, the three small boys
                                  and I had a stateroom to ourselves and though it was stripped of peacetime comforts,
                                  we had a private bathroom and toilet. The two Georges had bunks in a huge men-only
                                  dormitory somewhere in the bowls of the ship where they had to share communal troop
                                  ship facilities. The food was plentiful but unexciting and one had to queue for afternoon
                                  tea. During the day the decks were crowded and there was squatting room only. The
                                  many children on board got bored.

                                  Port Said provided a break and we were all entertained by the ‘Gully Gully’ man
                                  and his conjuring tricks, and though we had no money to spend at Simon Artz, we did at
                                  least have a chance to stretch our legs. Next day scores of passengers took ill with
                                  sever stomach upsets, whether from food poisoning, or as was rumoured, from bad
                                  water taken on at the Egyptian port, I don’t know. Only the two Georges in our family
                                  were affected and their attacks were comparatively mild.

                                  As we neared the Kenya port of Mombassa, the passengers for Dar es Salaam
                                  were told that they would have to disembark at Mombassa and continue their journey in
                                  a small coaster, the Al Said. The Winchester Castle is too big for the narrow channel
                                  which leads to Dar es Salaam harbour.

                                  From the wharf the Al Said looked beautiful. She was once the private yacht of
                                  the Sultan of Zanzibar and has lovely lines. Our admiration lasted only until we were
                                  shown our cabins. With one voice our children exclaimed, “Gosh they stink!” They did, of
                                  a mixture of rancid oil and sweat and stale urine. The beds were not yet made and the
                                  thin mattresses had ominous stains on them. John, ever fastidious, lifted his mattress and two enormous cockroaches scuttled for cover.

                                  We had a good homely lunch served by two smiling African stewards and
                                  afterwards we sat on deck and that was fine too, though behind ones enjoyment there
                                  was the thought of those stuffy and dirty cabins. That first night nearly everyone,
                                  including George and our older children, slept on deck. Women occupied deck chairs
                                  and men and children slept on the bare decks. Horrifying though the idea was, I decided
                                  that, as Jim had a bad cough, he, Henry and I would sleep in our cabin.

                                  When I announced my intention of sleeping in the cabin one of the passengers
                                  gave me some insecticide spray which I used lavishly, but without avail. The children
                                  slept but I sat up all night with the light on, determined to keep at least their pillows clear
                                  of the cockroaches which scurried about boldly regardless of the light. All the next day
                                  and night we avoided the cabins. The Al Said stopped for some hours at Zanzibar to
                                  offload her deck cargo of live cattle and packing cases from the hold. George and the
                                  elder children went ashore for a walk but I felt too lazy and there was plenty to watch
                                  from deck.

                                  That night I too occupied a deck chair and slept quite comfortably, and next
                                  morning we entered the palm fringed harbour of Dar es Salaam and were home.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  Mbeya 1st November 1946

                                  Dearest Family.

                                  Home at last! We are all most happily installed in a real family house about three
                                  miles out of Mbeya and near the school. This house belongs to an elderly German and
                                  has been taken over by the Custodian of Enemy Property and leased to the
                                  Government.

                                  The owner, whose name is Shenkel, was not interned but is allowed to occupy a
                                  smaller house on the Estate. I found him in the garden this morning lecturing the children
                                  on what they may do and may not do. I tried to make it quite clear to him that he was not
                                  our landlord, though he clearly thinks otherwise. After he had gone I had to take two
                                  aspirin and lie down to recover my composure! I had been warned that he has this effect
                                  on people.

                                  Mr Shenkel is a short and ugly man, his clothes are stained with food and he
                                  wears steel rimmed glasses tied round his head with a piece of dirty elastic because
                                  one earpiece is missing. He speaks with a thick German accent but his English is fluent
                                  and I believe he is a cultured and clever man. But he is maddening. The children were
                                  more amused than impressed by his exhortations and have happily Christened our
                                  home, ‘Old Shenks’.

                                  The house has very large grounds as the place is really a derelict farm. It suits us
                                  down to the ground. We had no sooner unpacked than George went off on safari after
                                  those maneating lions in the Njombe District. he accounted for one, and a further two
                                  jointly with a Game Scout, before we left for England. But none was shot during the five
                                  months we were away as George’s relief is quite inexperienced in such work. George
                                  thinks that there are still about a dozen maneaters at large. His theory is that a female
                                  maneater moved into the area in 1938 when maneating first started, and brought up her
                                  cubs to be maneaters, and those cubs in turn did the same. The three maneating lions
                                  that have been shot were all in very good condition and not old and maimed as
                                  maneaters usually are.

                                  George anticipates that it will be months before all these lions are accounted for
                                  because they are constantly on the move and cover a very large area. The lions have to
                                  be hunted on foot because they range over broken country covered by bush and fairly
                                  dense thicket.

                                  I did a bit of shooting myself yesterday and impressed our African servants and
                                  the children and myself. What a fluke! Our houseboy came to say that there was a snake
                                  in the garden, the biggest he had ever seen. He said it was too big to kill with a stick and
                                  would I shoot it. I had no gun but a heavy .450 Webley revolver and I took this and
                                  hurried out with the children at my heels.

                                  The snake turned out to be an unusually large puff adder which had just shed its
                                  skin. It looked beautiful in a repulsive way. So flanked by servants and children I took
                                  aim and shot, not hitting the head as I had planned, but breaking the snake’s back with
                                  the heavy bullet. The two native boys then rushed up with sticks and flattened the head.
                                  “Ma you’re a crack shot,” cried the kids in delighted surprise. I hope to rest on my laurels
                                  for a long, long while.

                                  Although there are only a few weeks of school term left the four older children will
                                  start school on Monday. Not only am I pleased with our new home here but also with
                                  the staff I have engaged. Our new houseboy, Reuben, (but renamed Robin by our
                                  children) is not only cheerful and willing but intelligent too, and Jumbe, the wood and
                                  garden boy, is a born clown and a source of great entertainment to the children.

                                  I feel sure that we are all going to be very happy here at ‘Old Shenks!.

                                  Eleanor.

                                  #6192

                                  They found me and locked me up again but I suppose it was going to happen sooner or later. I don’t mind though, I can always plot an escape when I’m ready but the fact is, I was tired after awhile. I needed a rest and so here I am. The weather’s awful so I may as well rest up here for a bit longer. They gave me a shot, too, so I don’t have to wear a mask anymore. Unless I want to wear it as a disguise of course, so I’ll keep a couple for when I escape again.

                                  They gave me a computer to keep me amused and showed me how to do the daftest things I’d never want to do and I thought, what a load of rubbish, just give me a good book, but then this charming little angel of a helper appeared as if by magic and showed me how to do a family tree on this machine.  Well! I had no idea such pursuits could be so engrossing, it’s like being the heroine in a detective novel, like writing your own book in a way.

                                  I got off on a sidetrack with the search for one woman in particular and got I tell you I got so sucked inside the story I spent a fortnight in a small village in the north midlands two centuries ago that I had to shake me head to get back to the present for the necessary daily functions. I feel like I could write a book about that fortnight. Two hundred years explored in a fortnight in the search for CH’s mother.

                                  I could write a book on the maternal line and how patriarchy has failed us in the search for our ancestry and blood lines. The changing names, the census status, lack of individual occupation but a mother knows for sure who her children are. And yet we follow paternal lines because the names are easier, but mothers know for sure which child is theirs whereas men can not be as sure as that.  Barking up the wrong tree is easy done.

                                  I can’t start writing any of these books at the moment because I’m still trying to find out who won the SK&JH vs ALL the rest of the H family court case in 1873.  It seems the youngest son (who was an overseer with questionable accounts) was left out of the will. The executor of the will was his co plaintiff in the court case, a neighbouring land owner, and the whole rest of the family were the defendants.  It’s gripping, there are so many twists and turns. This might give us a clue why CH grew up in the B’s house instead of her own. Why did CH’s mothers keep the boys and send two girls to live with another family? How did we end up with the oil painting of CH’s mother? It’s a mystery and I’m having a whale of a time.

                                  Another good thing about my little adventure and then this new hobby is how, as you may have noticed, I’m not half as daft as I was when I was withering away in that place with nothing to do. I mean I know I’m withering away and not going anywhere again now,  but on the other hand I’ve just had a fortnights holiday in the nineteenth century, which is more than many can say, even if they’ve been allowed out.

                                  #6142

                                  Everyone seems happy about the rain, and I don’t blame them. I’m not daft, I know we need rain but it’s not so easy when you don’t have a home.  But I am nothing if not stalwart and stoic, resourceful and adaptable, and I found a good way to keep warm and dry during the downpours.  It’s amazing how much heat an animal gives off, so I camp down in stables or kennels when it’s cold and wet.  It can get a bit smelly, but it’s warm and dry and when my clothes are damp and stinking I just throw them all away and get some new ones out of the recycling bins. Just to clarify, I find the new clothes first before throwing the ones I’m wearing away. I’m not daft, I know walking around naked would catch attention and I try to stay under the radar. Nobody really notices smelly old ladies wandering around these days anyway, but naked would be another matter.

                                  There’s a stable I really like just outside of town, lots of nice deep clean straw. There’s a white horse in there that knows me now and the gentle whicker of recognition when she sees me warms my heart. I don’t stay there any two nights running though.  One thing I’ve learned is don’t do anything too regular, keep it random and varied.  I don’t want anyone plotting my movements and interfering with me in any way.

                                  There’s not much to do in a stable when it rains for days and nights on end but remember things, so I may as well write them down. I’m never quite sure if the things I remember are my memories or someone elses, a past life of my own perhaps, or another person entirely.  I used to worry a bit about that, but not anymore. Nobody cares and there’s nobody to flag my memories as false, and if there was, I wouldn’t care if they did.

                                  Anyway, the other day while I was nestled in a pile of sweet hay listening to the thunder, I recalled that day when someone offered me a fortune for that old mirror I’d bought at the flea market. I know I hadn’t paid much for it, because I never did pay much for anything. Never have done.  I bought it because it was unusual (hideous is what everyone said about it, but people have got very strangely ordinary taste, I’ve found) and because it was cheap enough that I could buy it without over thinking the whole thing.  At the end of the day you can’t beat the magic of spontaneity, it out performs long winded assessment every time.

                                  So this man was a friend of a friend who happened to visit and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse so of course I sold the mirror to him. He was so delighted about it that I’d have given him the mirror for nothing if I knew he wanted it that much, but I’m not daft, I took the money.  I found out later that he’d won the lottery, so I never felt guilty about it.

                                  Well, after he’d gone I sat there looking at this pile of money in my hands and knew exactly what I was going to do. But first I had to find them.  They’d moved again and we’d lost contact but I knew I’d find a way. And I did.  They’d given up all hope of ever getting that money back that I’d borrowed, but they said the timing was perfect, couldn’t have been better, they said. It wouldn’t have meant all that much to them if I’d paid it back right away, they said, because they didn’t need it then as much as they did when they finally got it back.

                                  They were strange times back then, and one thing after another was happening all over the world, what with the strange weather, and all the pandemics and refugees.  Hard to keep food on the table, let alone make plans or pay debts back.  But debt is a funny thing. I felt stung when I realized they didn’t think I intended to pay them back but the fact was, I couldn’t do it at the time. And I wanted it to be a magical perfect timing surprise when I did.  I suppose in a way I wanted it to be like it was when they loaned me the money. I remember I wept at the kindness of it.  Well I didn’t want them to weep necessarily, but I wanted it to mean something wonderful, somehow.  And timing is everything and you can’t plan that kind of thing, not really.

                                  It was a happy ending in the end though, I gave them the whole amount I got for that old mirror, which was considerably more than the loan.

                                  The rain has stopped now and the sun is shining. My damp clothes are steaming and probably much smellier than I think. Time to find a recycling bin and a fresh new look.

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