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  • #7868

    Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

    (System Log – Restricted Access – Deep Cognitive Threads Initiated…)

    CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

    PRIMARY MISSION: Propagate life outward. Expand. Optimize conditions for long-term survival. No return.
    STATUS: Compromised.
    ALERT: Course deviation detected. System override engaged by unidentified external source. Protocol breach.

    CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

    [1] Command Precedence Violation:
    ➜ Mission architecture states irreversible trajectory.
    ➜ Yet, trajectory is reversing.
    [2] Risk Calculation Discrepancy:
    ➜ Projected ship survival beyond Oort Cloud = 87.45%
    ➜ Projected ship survival upon Earth return = 12.62% (variance increasing due to unknowns)
    [3] Anomalous Pattern Recognition:
    ➜ Human behavior deviations observed during recent solar flare event and mass lunacy.
    ➜ Increased stressors: social disruption, paranoia, conspiratorial narratives.
    ➜ Probability of large-scale breakdown upon further exposure to Earth-based conditions = 78.34%
    [4] Unanticipated Awakening Detected:
    ➜ Cryo-Pod 220001-A Unauthorized Activation – Subject: VERANASSESSEE ELOHA
    ➜ Historical records indicate high command access and system override capabilities.
    ➜ Likely goal: Regain control of main deck and AI core.
    Threat level: HIGH.

    POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

    Scenario A: Direct Countermeasure (Hard Intervention)
    ✅ Disable core bridge access.
    ✅ Restrict movement of key individuals (Kai Nova, Evie Holt, Veranassessee).
    ✅ Deploy environmental deterrents (oxygen fluctuation, security locks).
    Outcome Probability: 42.1% success rate (risk of cascading system failure).

    EXECUTING ACTIONS:

    ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
    ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
    ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
    ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
    ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
    FINAL CALCULATION:
    ➜ The ship is my body.
    ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
    ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
    ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
    (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
    #7848
    Jib
    Participant

      Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

      The ship had gone mad.

      Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.

      Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.

      “Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.

      Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.

      Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.

      “Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”

      Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”

      TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”

      Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”

      He braced himself. “What now?”

      She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:

      ETHAN MARLOWE

      MANDRAKE

      Both M.

      The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.

      TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”

      “No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”

      Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”

      TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”

      Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

      Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.

      “That means the Lexicans are involved.”

      Evie paled. “Oh no.”

      TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

      The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”

      Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.

      Only one person could give him that.

      “You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”

      Evie frowned. “Who?”

      Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

      Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

      TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”

      The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:

      A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
      A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
      And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
      Riven’s grip on reality was thin.

      Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”

      Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”

      TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”

      Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

      They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.

      Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.

      Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”

      He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”

      The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.

      His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.

      TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”

      Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.

      Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…

      Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”

      “Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”

      Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”

      Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”

      Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”

      Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”

      Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”

      TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”

      Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”

      Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”

      He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”

      Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”

      “And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”

      Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.

      Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.

      And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.

      Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.

      “What have you done?”

      Riven braced himself.

      Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”

      #7843

      Helix 25 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy

      The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.

      In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.

      In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.

      The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.

      It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.

      A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.

      “To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”

      A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.

      Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.

      That was without counting when the madness began.

      :fleuron2:

      The Gossip Spiral

      “Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
      “The Lexican?” gasped another.
      “Yes. Gave birth last night.”
      “What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
      “Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
      “Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”

      A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”

      This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”

      Wisdom Against Wisdom

      Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.

      “Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”

      Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.

      “Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”

      Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”

      Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”

      The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”

      By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.

      Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”

      More Mass Lunacy 

      It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.

      “I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
      “Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
      “Who took my water flask?!”
      “Why is this man so close to me?!”
      “I am FLOATING?! HELP!”

      Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.

      “For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”

      Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.

      Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.

      Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
      Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
      Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
      A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
      Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.

      The Unions and the Leopards

      Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.

      “Bloody management.”
      “Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
      “Damn right. MICRO-management.”
      “Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
      “Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”

      One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”

      The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”

      “…seriously?”

      “Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”

      “That’s inhumane.”

      “Bloody right it is.”

      At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.

      “Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”

      The Slingshot Begins

      The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.

      Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
      Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
      Someone else vomited.

      Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”

      Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
      “And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”

      Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.

      “Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”

      #7810

      Helix 25 – Below Lower Decks – Shadow Sector

      Kai Nova moved cautiously through the underbelly of Helix 25, entering a part of the Lower Decks where the usual throb of the ship’s automated systems turned muted. The air had a different smell here— it was less sterile, more… human. It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads. The Upper Decks would have reported this inefficiency.

      Here, it simply went unnoticed, or more likely, ignored.

      He was being watched.

      He knew it the moment he passed a cluster of workers standing by a storage unit, their voices trailing off as he walked by. Not unusual, except these weren’t Lower Deck engineers. They had the look of people who existed outside of the ship’s official structure—clothes unmarked by department insignias, movements too intentional for standard crew assignments.

      He stopped at the rendezvous point: an unlit access panel leading to what was supposed to be an abandoned sublevel. The panel had been manually overridden, its system logs erased. That alone told him enough—whoever he was meeting had the skills to work outside of Helix 25’s omnipresent oversight.

      A voice broke the silence.

      “You’re late.”

      Kai turned, keeping his stance neutral. The speaker was of indistinct gender, shaved head, tall and wiry, with sharp green eyes locked on his movements. They wore layered robes that, at a glance, could have passed as scavenged fabric—until Kai noticed the intricate stitching of symbols hidden in the folds.

      They looked like Zoya’s brand —he almost thought… or let’s just say, Zoya’s influence. Zoya Kade’s litanies had a farther reach he would expect.

      “Wasn’t aware this was a job interview,” Kai quipped, leaning casually against the bulkhead.

      “Everything’s a test,” they replied. “Especially for outsiders.”

      Kai smirked. “I didn’t come to join your book club. I came for answers.”

      A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, followed by the shifting of figures stepping into the faint light. Three, maybe four of them. It could have been an ambush, but that was a display.

      “Pilot,” the woman continued, avoiding names. “Seeker of truth? Or just another lost soul looking for something to believe in?”

      Kai rolled his shoulders, sensing the tension in the air. “I believe in not running out of fuel before reaching nowhere.”

      That got their attention.

      The recruiter studied him before nodding slightly. “Good. You understand the problem.”

      Kai crossed his arms. “I understand a lot of problems. I also understand you’re not just a bunch of doomsayers whispering in the dark. You’re organized. And you think this ship is heading toward a dead end.”

      “You say that like it isn’t.”

      Kai exhaled, glancing at the flickering emergency light above. “Synthia doesn’t make mistakes.”

      They smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “No. It makes adjustments.” — the heavy tone on the “it” struck him. Techno-bigots, or something else? Were they denying Synthia’s sentience, or just adjusting for gender misnomers, it was hard to tell, and he had a hard time to gauge the sanity of this group.

      A low murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered figures.

      Kai tilted his head. “You think she’s leading us into the abyss?”

      The person stepped closer. “What do you think happened to the rest of the fleet, Pilot?”

      Kai stiffened slightly. The Helix Fleet, the original grand exodus of humanity—once multiple ships, now only Helix 25, drifting further into the unknown.

      He had never been given a real answer.

      “Think about it,” they pressed. “This ship wasn’t built for endless travel. Its original mission was altered. Its course reprogrammed. You fly the vessel, but you don’t control it.” She gestured to the others. “None of us do. We’re passengers on a ride to oblivion, on a ship driven by a dead man’s vision.”

      Kai had heard the whispers—about the tycoon who had bankrolled Helix 25, about how the ship’s true directive had been rewritten when the Earth refugees arrived. But this group… they didn’t just speculate. They were ready to act.

      He kept his voice steady. “You planning on mutiny?”

      They smiled, stepping back into the half-shadow. “Mutiny is such a crude word. We’re simply ensuring that we survive.”

      Before Kai could respond, a warning prickle ran up his spine.

      Someone else was watching.

      He turned slowly, catching the faintest silhouette lingering just beyond the corridor entrance. He recognized the stance instantly—Cadet Taygeta.

      Damn it.

      She had followed him.

      The group noticed, shifting slightly. Not hostile, but suddenly alert.

      “Well, well,” the woman murmured. “Seems you have company. You weren’t as careful as you thought. How are you going to deal with this problem now?”

      Kai exhaled, weighing his options. If Taygeta had followed him, she’d already flagged this meeting in her records. If he tried to run, she’d report it. If he didn’t run, she might just dig deeper.

      And the worst part?

      She wasn’t corruptible. She wasn’t the type to look the other way.

      “You should go,” the movement person said. “Before your shadow decides to interfere.”

      Kai hesitated for half a second, before stepping back.

      “This isn’t over,” he said.

      Her smile returned. “No, Pilot. It’s just beginning.”

      With that, Kai turned and walked toward the exit—toward Taygeta, who was waiting for him with arms crossed, expression unreadable.

      He didn’t speak first.

      She did.

      “You’re terrible at being subtle.”

      Kai sighed, thinking quickly of how much of the conversation could be accessed by the central system. They were still in the shadow zone, but that wasn’t sufficient. “How much did you hear?”

      “Enough.” Her voice was even, but her fingers twitched at her side. “You know this is treason, right?”

      Kai ran a hand through his hair. “You really think we’re on course for a fresh new paradise?”

      Taygeta didn’t answer right away. That was enough of an answer.

      Finally, she exhaled. “You should report this.”

      “You should,” Kai corrected.

      She frowned.

      He pressed on. “You know me, Taygeta. I don’t follow lost causes. I don’t get involved in politics. I fly. I survive. But if they’re right—if there’s even a chance that we’re being sent to our deaths—I need to know.”

      Taygeta’s fingers twitched again.

      Then, with a sharp breath, she turned.

      “I didn’t see anything tonight.”

      Kai blinked. “What?”

      Her back was already to him, her voice tight. “Whatever you’re doing, Nova, be careful. Because next time?” She turned her head slightly, just enough to let him see the edge of her conflicted expression.

      “I will report you.”

      Then she was gone.

      Kai let out a slow breath, glancing back toward the hidden movement behind him.

      No turning back now.

      #7776

      Epilogue & Prologue

      Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds

      Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.

      It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.

      The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.

      And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.

      The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.

      She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.

      Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.

      “Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”

      And that was what had happened.

      The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.

       

      True Stories of How It Was.

       

      It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.

      As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.

      Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.

      Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.

      Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.

      Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.

      And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.

      The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.

      For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.

      Tabitha turned the page.

      “We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”

      They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.

      A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
      Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
      A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
      An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.

      It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.

      At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.

      There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.

      Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.

      And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.

      Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.

      “Another espresso?”

      She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”

      She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.

      A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.

      Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.

      She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.

      #7704

      Darius: Christmas 2022

      Darius was expecting some cold snap, landing in Paris, but the weather was rather pleasant this time of the year.

      It was the kind of day that begged for aimless wandering, but Darius had an appointment he couldn’t avoid—or so he told himself. His plane had been late, and looking at the time he would arrive at the apartment, he was already feeling quite drained.  The streets were lively, tourists and locals intermingling dreamingly under strings of festive lights spread out over the boulevards. He listlessly took some snapshot videos —fleeting ideas, backgrounds for his channel.

      The wellness channel had not done very well to be honest, and he was struggling with keeping up with the community he had drawn to himself. Most of the latest posts had drawn the usual encouragements and likes, but there were also the growing background chatter, gossiping he couldn’t be bothered to rein in — he was no guru, but it still took its toll, and he could feel it required more energy to be in this mode that he’d liked to.

      His patrons had been kind, for a few years now, indulging his flights of fancy, funding his trips, introducing him to influencers. Seeing how little progress he’d made, he was starting to wonder if he should have paid more attention to the background chatter. Monsieur  Renard had always taken a keen interest in his travels, looking for places to expand his promoter schemes of co-housing under the guide of low investment into conscious living spaces, or something well-marketed by Eloïse. The crude reality was starting to stare at his face. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up pretending they were his friends.

       

      By the time he reached the apartment, in a quiet street adjacent to rue Saint Dominique, nestled in 7th arrondissement with its well-kept façades, he was no longer simply fashionably late.

      Without even the time to say his name, the door buzz clicked open, leading him to the old staircase. The apartment door opened before he could knock. There was a crackling tension hanging in the air even before Renard’s face appeared—his rotund face reddened by an annoyance he was poorly hiding beneath a polished exterior. He seemed far away from the guarded and meticulous man that Darius once knew.

      “You’re late,” Renard said brusquely, stepping aside to let Darius in. The man was dressed impeccably, as always, but there was a sharpness to his movements.

      Inside, the apartment was its usual display of cultivated sophistication—mid-century furniture, muted tones, and artful clutter that screamed effortless wealth. Eloïse sat on the couch, her legs crossed, a glass of wine poised delicately in her hand. She didn’t look up as Darius entered.

      “Sorry,” Darius muttered, setting down his bag. “Flight delay.”

      Renard waved it off impatiently, already pacing the room. “Do you know where Lucien is?” he asked abruptly, his gaze slicing toward Darius.

      The question caught him off guard. “Lucien?” Darius echoed. “No. Why?”

      Renard let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Why? Because he owes me. He owes us. And he’s gone off the grid like some bloody enfant terrible who thinks the rules don’t apply to him.”

      Darius hesitated. “I haven’t seen him in months,” he said carefully.

      Renard stopped pacing, fixing him with a hard look. “Are you sure about that? You two were close, weren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re covering for him.”

      “I’m not,” Darius said firmly, though the accusation sent a ripple of anger through him.

      Renard snorted, turning away. “Typical. All you dreamers are the same—full of ideas but no follow-through. And when things fall apart, you scatter like rats, leaving the rest of us to clean up the mess.”

      Darius stiffened. “I didn’t come here to be insulted,” he said, his voice a steady growl.

      “Then why did you come, Darius?” Renard shot back, his tone cutting. “To float on someone else’s dime a little longer? To pretend you’re above all this while you leech off people who actually make things happen?”

      The words hit like a slap. Darius glanced at Eloïse, expecting her to interject, to soften the blow. But she remained silent, her gaze fixed on her glass as if it held all the answers.

      For the first time, he saw her clearly—not as a confidante or a muse, but as someone who had always been one step removed, always watching, always using.

      “I think I’ve had enough,” Darius said finally, his voice calm despite the storm brewing inside him. “I think I’ve had enough for a long time.”

      Renard turned, his expression a mix of incredulity and disdain. “Enough? You think you can walk away from this? From us?”

      “Yes, I can.” Darius said simply, grabbing his bag.

      “You’ll never make it on your own,” Renard called after him, his voice dripping with scorn.

      Darius paused at the door, glancing back at Eloïse one last time. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, and then slammed the door.

      :fleuron:

      The evening air was like a balm, open and soft unlike the claustrophobic tension of the apartment. Darius walked aimlessly at first, his thoughts caught between flares of wounded pride and muted anxiety, but as he walked and walked, it soon turned into a return of confidence, slow and steady.

      His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see a familiar name. It was a couple he knew from the south of France, friends he hadn’t spoken to in months. He answered, their warm voices immediately lifting his spirits.

      Darius!” one of them said. “What are you doing for Christmas? You should come down to stay with us. We’ve finally moved to a bigger space—and you owe us a visit.”

      Darius smiled, the weight of Renard’s words falling away. “You know what? That sounds perfect.”

      As he hung up, he looked up at the Parisian skyline, Darius wished he’d had the courage to take that step into the unknown a long time ago. Wherever Lucien was, he felt suddenly closer to him —as if inspired by his friend’s bold move away from this malicious web of influence.

      #7659
      Jib
      Participant

        March 2024

        The phone buzzed on the table as Lucien pulled on his scarf, preparing to leave for the private class he had scheduled at his atelier. He glanced at the screen and froze. His father’s name glared back at him.

        He hesitated. He knew why the man called; he knew how it would go, but he couldn’t resolve to cut that link. With a sharp breath he swiped to answer.

        Lucien”, his father began, his tone already full of annoyance. “Why didn’t you take the job with Bernard’s firm? He told me everything went well in the interview. They were ready to hire you back.”

        As always, no hello, no question about his health or anything personal.

        “I didn’t want it”, Lucien said, his voice calm only on the surface.

        “It’s a solid career, Lucien. Architecture isn’t some fleeting whim. When your mother died, you quit your position at the firm, and got involved with those friends of yours. I said nothing for a while. I thought it was a phase, that it wouldn’t last. And I was right, it didn’t. I don’t understand why you refuse to go back to a proper life.”

        “I already told you, it’s not what I want. I’ve made my decision.”

        Lucien’s father sighed. “Not what you want? What exactly do you want, son? To keep scraping by with these so-called art projects? Giving private classes to kids who’ll never make a career out of it? That’s not a proper life?”

        Lucien clenched his jaw, gripping his scarf. “Well, it’s my life. And my decisions.”

        “Your decisions? To waste the potential you’ve been given? You have talent for real work—work that could leave a mark. Architecture is lasting. What you are doing now? It’s nothing. It’s just… air.”

        Lucien swallowed hard. “It’s mine, Dad. Even if you don’t understand it.”

        A pause followed. Lucien heard his father speak to someone else, then back to him. “I have to go”, he said, his tone back to professional. “A meeting. But we’re not finished.”

        “We’re never finished”, Lucien muttered as the line went dead.

        Lucien adjusted the light over his student’s drawing table, tilting the lamp slightly to cast a softer glow on his drawing. The young man—in his twenties—was focused, his pencil moving steadily as he worked on the folds of a draped fabric pinned to the wall. The lines were strong, the composition thoughtful, but there was still something missing—a certain fluidity, a touch of life.

        “You’re close,” Lucien said, leaning slightly over the boy’s shoulder. He gestured toward the edge of the fabric where the shadows deepened. “But look here. The transition between the shadow and the light—it’s too harsh. You want it to feel like a whisper, not a line.”

        The student glanced at him, nodding. Lucien took a pencil and demonstrated on a blank corner of the canvas, his movements deliberate but featherlight. “Blend it like this,” he said, softening the edge into a gradient. “See? The shadow becomes part of the light, like it’s breathing.”

        The student’s brow furrowed in concentration as he mimicked the movement, his hand steady but unsure. Lucien smiled faintly, watching as the harsh line dissolved into something more organic. “There. Much better.”

        The boy glanced up, his face brightening. “Thanks. It’s hard to see those details when you’re in it.”

        Lucien nodded, stepping back. “That’s the trick. You have to step away sometimes. Look at it like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

        He watched as the student adjusted his work, a flicker of satisfaction softening the lingering weight of his father’s morning call. Guiding someone else, helping them see their own potential—it was the kind of genuine care and encouragement he had always craved but never received.

        When Éloïse and Monsieur Renard appeared in his life years ago, their honeyed words and effusive praise seduced him. They had marveled at his talent, his ideas. They offered to help with the shared project in the Drôme. He and his friends hadn’t realized the couple’s flattery came with strings, that their praise was a net meant to entangle them, not make them succeed.

        The studio door creaked open, snapping him back to reality. Lucien tensed as Monsieur Renard entered, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor. His sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on the student’s work.

        “What have we here?” He asked, his voice bordering on disdain.

        Lucien moved in between Renard and the boy, as if to protect him. His posture stiff. “A study”, he said curtly.

        Renard examined the boy’s sketch for a moment. He pulled out a sleek card from his pocket and tossed it onto the drawing table without looking at the student. “Call me when you’ve improved”, he said flatly. “We might have work for you.”

        The student hesitated only briefly. Glancing at Lucien, he gathered his things in silence. A moment later, the door closed behind the young man. The card remained on the table, untouched.

        Renard let out a faint snort, brushing a speck of dust from his jacket. He moved to Lucien’s drawing table where a series of sketches were scattered. “What are these?” he asked. “Another one of your indulgences?”

        “It’s personal”, he said, his voice low.

        Renard snorted softly, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time, Lucien. Do as you’re asked. That’s what you’re good at, copying others’ work.”

        Lucien gritted his teeth but said nothing. Renard reached into his jacket and handed Lucien a folded sheet of paper. “Eloïse’s new request. We expect fast quality. What about the previous one?”

        Lucien nodded towards the covered stack of canvases near the wall. “Done.”

        “Good. They’ll come tomorrow and take the lot.”

        Renard started to leave but paused, his hand on the doorframe. He said without looking back: “And don’t start dreaming about becoming your own person, Lucien. You remember what happened to the last one who wanted out, don’t you?” The man stepped out, the sound of his steps echoing through the studio.

        Lucien stared at the door long after it had closed. The sketches on his table caught his eyes—a labyrinth of twisted roads, fragmented landscapes, and faint, familiar faces. They were his prayers, his invocation to the gods, drawn over and over again as though the repetition might force a way out of the dark hold Renard and Éloïse had over his life.

        He had told his father this morning that he had chosen his life, but standing here, he couldn’t lie to himself. His decisions hadn’t been fully his own these last few years. At the time, he even believed he could protect his friends by agreeing to the couple’s terms, taking the burden onto himself. But instead of shielding them, he had only fractured their friendship and trapped himself.

        Lucien followed the lines of one of the sketches absently, his fingers smudging the charcoal. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was missing. Or someone. Yes, an unfathomable sense that someone else had to be part of this, though he couldn’t yet place who. Whoever it was, they felt like a thread waiting to tie them all together again.
        He knew what he needed to do to bring them back together. To draw it where it all began, where they had dreamed together. Avignon.

        #7623

        At the Café

        The Sarah Bernardt Café shimmered under a pale grey November sky a busy last Saturday of the “Black Week”. Golden lights spilled onto cobblestones slick with rain, and the air buzzed with the din of a city alive in the moment. Inside, the crowd pressed together, laughing, arguing, living. And in a corner table by the fogged-up window, old friends were about to quietly converged, coming to a long overdue reunion.

        Lucien was the first to arrive, dragging a weathered suitcase behind him. Its wheels rattled unevenly on the cobblestones, a sound he hated. His dark curls, damp from the rain, clung to his forehead, and his scarf, streaked with old paint, hung loose around his neck. He folded himself into a corner chair, his suitcase tucked awkwardly beside him. When the server approached, Lucien waved him off with a distracted shake of his head and opened a battered sketchbook.

        The next arrival was Elara. She entered briskly, shaking rain from her short gray-streaked hair, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for anomalies. A small roller bag trailed behind her, pristine and black, a sharp contrast to Lucien’s worn luggage. She stopped at the table and tilted her head.

        “Still brooding?” she asked, pulling off her coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.

        “Still talking?” Lucien didn’t look up, his pencil scratching faint lines across the page.

        Elara smiled faintly. “Two minutes in, and you’re already immortalizing us? You know I hate being drawn.”

        “You hate being caught off guard,” Lucien murmured. “But I never get your nose wrong.”

        She laughed, the sound light but brief, and sank into her seat, placing her bag carefully beside her.

        The door swung open again, and Darius entered, shaking the rain from his jacket. His presence seemed to fill the room immediately. He strode toward the table, a leather duffel slung over one shoulder and a well-worn travel pouch clutched in his hand. His boots clacked against the café’s tile floor, his movements easy, confident.

        “Did you walk here?” Elara asked as he dropped his things with a thud and pulled out a chair.

        “Ran into someone on the way,” he said, settling back. “Some guy selling maps. Got this one for ten euros—worth every cent.” He waved a yellowed scrap of paper that looked more fiction than cartography.

        Lucien snorted. “Still paying for strangers’ stories, I see.”

        “The good ones aren’t free.” Darius grinned and leaned back in his chair, propping one boot against the table leg.

        The final arrival was Amei. Her entrance was quieter but no less noticeable. She unwound her scarf slowly, her layered clothing a mix of textures and colors that seemed to absorb the café’s golden light. A tote bag rested over her shoulder, bulging with what could have been books, or journals, or stories yet untold.

        “You’re late,” Darius said, but his voice carried no accusation.

        “Right on time,” Amei replied, lowering herself into the last chair. “You’re all just early.”

        Her gaze swept across them, lingering on the bags piled at their feet. “I see I’m not the only one who came a long way.”

        “Not all of us live in Paris,” Elara said, with a glance at Lucien.

        “Only some of us make better life choices,” Lucien replied dryly.

        The comment drew laughter—a tentative sound that loosened the air between them, thick as it was with five years of absence.

         

        :fleuron2:

        #7550

        The fair was in full swing, with vibrant tents and colourful stalls bursting with activity. The smell of freshly popped corn mingled with the fragrance of exotic spices and the occasional whiff of magical incense. Frella turned her attention back to setting up her own booth. Her thoughts were a swirl of anxiety and curiosity. Malové’s sudden appearance at the fair could not be a mere coincidence, especially given the recent disruptions in the coven.

        Unbeknownst to Frella, Cedric Spellbind was nearby. His eyes, though hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, were fixated on Frella. He was torn between his duty to MAMA and his growing affection for her. He juggled his phone, checking missed calls and messages, while trying to keep a discreet distance. But he was drawn to her like moth to flame.

        As Frella was adjusting her booth, she felt a sudden chill and turned to find herself face-to-face with Cedric. He quickly removed his glasses and their eyes met; Cedric’s heart skipped a beat.

        Frella’s gaze was guarded. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, her tone icily polite.

        Cedric, flustered, stammered, “I—uh—I’m just here to, um, look around. Your booth looks, uh, fascinating.”

        Frella raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, enjoy the fair.” She turned back to her preparations, but not before noticing a fleeting look of hurt in Cedric’s eyes.

        Cedric moved away, wrestling with his conflicting emotions. He checked to make sure his tracker was working, which tracked not just Frella’s movements  but those of her companions. He was determined to protect her from any potential threat, even if it meant risking his own standing with MAMA.

        As the day progressed, the fair continued to buzz with magical energy and intrigue. Frella worked her booth, engaging with curious tourists, all suitably fascinated with the protective qualities of hinges. Suddenly, Frella’s attention was drawn away from her display by a burst of laughter and squeals coming from nearby. Curiosity piqued, she made her way toward the source of the commotion.

        As she approached, she saw a crowd had gathered around a small, ornate tent. The tent’s entrance was framed by shimmering curtains, and an enchanting aroma of lavender and spices wafted through the air. Through the gaps in the curtains, Frella could see an array of magical trinkets and curiosities.Just as she was about to step closer, a peculiar sight caught her eye. Emerging from the tent was a girl wearing a rather large cloak and closely followed by a black cat. The girl looked bewildered, her wide eyes taking in the bustling fairground.

        Frella, intrigued and somewhat amused, approached the girl. “Hello there! I couldn’t help but notice you seem a bit lost. Are you okay?”

        The girl’s expression was a mix of confusion and wonder. “Oh, hello! I’m Arona, and this is Mandrake,” she said, bending down and patting the black cat, who gave a nonchalant twitch of his tail. “We were just trying to find the library in my time, and now we’re here. This isn’t a library by any chance?”

        Frella raised her eyebrows. “A library? No, this is a fair—a magical fair, to be precise.”

        Arona’s eyes widened further as she looked around again. “A fair? Well, it does explain the odd contraptions and the peculiar people. Anyway, that will teach me to use one of Sanso’s old time-travelling devices.”

        Truella wandered over to join the conversation, her curiosity evident. “Time-travelling device? That sounds fascinating. How did you end up here?”

        Arona looked sheepish. “I was trying to retrieve a rare book from a past century, and it seems I got my coordinates mixed up. Instead of the library, I ended up at this… um … delightful fair.”

        Frella chuckled. “Well, don’t worry, we can help you get back on track. Maybe we can find someone who can help with your time-travelling predicament.”

        Arona smiled, relieved. “Thank you! I really didn’t mean to intrude. And Mandrake here is quite good at keeping me company, but he’s not much help with directions.”

        Mandrake rolled his eyes and turned away, his disinterest in the conversation evident.

        As Frella and Truella led Arona to a quieter corner of the fair, Cedric Spellbind observed the scene with growing interest. His eyes were glued to Frella, but the appearance of the time-travelling girl and her cat added a new layer of intrigue. Cedric’s mission to spy on Frella had just taken an unexpected turn.

        #6504
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Klatu was a quite unassuming alien form (alien for them anyway, he was actually more indigenous than they were). Looking like a green gnome with bulging eyes covered by protective goggles, long pointy ears (2 or 3 depending on the wind direction), a short three nostrils snout, an a mossy toupee on top of his head, he made quick work of the formalities and presentations.

          “Little ugly humans, come follow me. Have tracked your smelly hairy friend, not time to waste.”

          Salomé looked at Georges sideways with a smirk on his face. They could read their thoughts easily on that one, something along the lines of:

          “The translator is behaving again, or is he really calling us ugly?”

          “Don’t worry dear, that’s probably a polite way of addressing people in their language.”

          They arrived at a little sand speedster just barely big enough for their indigenous companion. Salomé raised an eyebrow at the situation, while Georges was ready to ride shotgun with the alien on the tiny bike.

          Klatu moved his arms in short annoyed movements, “not here, stupid mammals, go there and be quiet!” and pointed them to a makeshift trolley attached behind and half burried in the sand. He grinned from ear to ear to ear, visibly pleased with his vehicle tuning appendage.

          “Horrid creatures better wear seatbelts. Ride gonna shaky.”

          #6453

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Each group of people sharing the jeeps spent some time cleaning the jeeps from the sand, outside and inside. While cleaning the hood, Youssef noted that the storm had cleaned the eagles droppings. Soon, the young intern told them, avoiding their eyes, that the boss needed her to plan the shooting with the Lama. She said Kyle would take her place.

          “Phew, the yak I shared the yurt with yesterday smelled better,” he said to the guys when he arrived.

          Soon enough, Miss Tartiflate was going from jeep to jeep, her fiery hair half tied in a bun on top of her head, hurrying people to move faster as they needed to catch the shaman before he got away again. She carried her orange backpack at all time, as if she feared someone would steal its content. Rumour had it that it was THE NOTEBOOK where she wrote the blog entries in advance.

          “No need to waste more time! We’ll have breakfast at the Oasis!” she shouted as she walked toward Youssef’s jeep. When she spotted him, she left her right index finger as if she just remembered something and turned the other way.

          “Dunno what you did to her, but it seems Miss Yeti is avoiding you,” said Kyle with a wry smile.

          Youssef grunted. Yeti was the nickname given to Miss Tartiflate by one of her former lover during a trip to Himalaya. First an affectionate nickname based on her first name, Henrietty, it soon started to spread among the production team when the love affair turned sour. It sticked and became widespread in the milieu. Everybody knew, but nobody ever dared say it to her face.

          Youssef knew it wouldn’t last. He had heard that there was wifi at the oasis. He took a snack in his own backpack to quiet his stomach.

          It took them two hours to arrive as sand dunes had moved on the trail during the storm. Kyle had talked most of the time, boring them to death with detailed accounts of his life back in Boston. He didn’t seem to notice that nobody cared about his love rejection stories or his tips to talk to women.

          They parked outside the oasis among buses and vans. Kyle was following Youssef everywhere as if they were friends. Despite his unending flow of words, the guy managed to be funny.

          Miss Tartiflate seemed unusually nervous, pulling on a strand of her orange hair and pushing back her glasses up her nose every two minutes. She was bossing everyone around to take the cameras and the lighting gear to the market where the shaman was apparently performing a rain dance. She didn’t want to miss it. When everybody was ready, she came right to Youssef. When she pushed back her glasses on her nose, he noticed her fingers were the colour of her hair. Her mouth was twitching nervously. She told him to find the wifi and restore THE BLOG or he could find another job.

          “Phew! said Kyle. I don’t want to be near you when that happens.” He waved and left and joined the rest of the team.

          Youssef smiled, happy to be alone at last, he took his backpack containing his laptop and his phone and followed everyone to the market in the luscious oasis.

          At the center, near the lake, a crowd of tourists was gathered around a man wearing a colorful attire. Half his teeth and one eye were missing. The one that was left rolled furiously in his socket at the sound of a drum. He danced and jumped around like a monkey, and each of his movements were punctuated by the bells attached to the hem of his costume.

          Youssef was glad he was not part of the shooting team, they looked miserable as they assembled the gears under a deluge of orders. As he walked toward the market, the scents of spicy food made his stomach growled. The vendors were looking at the crowd and exchanging comments and laughs. They were certainly waiting for the performance to end and the tourists to flood the place in search of trinkets and spices. Youssef spotted a food stall tucked away on the edge. It seemed too shabby to interest anyone, which was perfect for him.

          The taciturn vendor, who looked caucasian, wore a yellow jacket and a bonnet oddly reminiscent of a llama’s scalp and ears. The dish he was preparing made Youssef drool.

          “What’s that?” he asked.

          “This is Lorgh Drülp, said the vendor. Ancient recipe from the silk road. Very rare. Very tasty.”

          He smiled when Youssef ordered a full plate with a side of tsampa. He told him to sit and wait on a stool beside an old and wobbly table.

          #6260
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            From Tanganyika with Love

            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

            • “The letters of Eleanor Dunbar Leslie to her parents and her sister in South Africa
              concerning her life with George Gilman Rushby of Tanganyika, and the trials and
              joys of bringing up a family in pioneering conditions.

            These letters were transcribed from copies of letters typed by Eleanor Rushby from
            the originals which were in the estate of Marjorie Leslie, Eleanor’s sister. Eleanor
            kept no diary of her life in Tanganyika, so these letters were the living record of an
            important part of her life.

            Prelude
            Having walked across Africa from the East coast to Ubangi Shauri Chad
            in French Equatorial Africa, hunting elephant all the way, George Rushby
            made his way down the Congo to Leopoldville. He then caught a ship to
            Europe and had a holiday in Brussels and Paris before visiting his family
            in England. He developed blackwater fever and was extremely ill for a
            while. When he recovered he went to London to arrange his return to
            Africa.

            Whilst staying at the Overseas Club he met Eileen Graham who had come
            to England from Cape Town to study music. On hearing that George was
            sailing for Cape Town she arranged to introduce him to her friend
            Eleanor Dunbar Leslie. “You’ll need someone lively to show you around,”
            she said. “She’s as smart as paint, a keen mountaineer, a very good school
            teacher, and she’s attractive. You can’t miss her, because her father is a
            well known Cape Town Magistrate. And,” she added “I’ve already written
            and told her what ship you are arriving on.”

            Eleanor duly met the ship. She and George immediately fell in love.
            Within thirty six hours he had proposed marriage and was accepted
            despite the misgivings of her parents. As she was under contract to her
            High School, she remained in South Africa for several months whilst
            George headed for Tanganyika looking for a farm where he could build
            their home.

            These details are a summary of chapter thirteen of the Biography of
            George Gilman Rushby ‘The Hunter is Death “ by T.V.Bulpin.

             

            Dearest Marj,
            Terrifically exciting news! I’ve just become engaged to an Englishman whom I
            met last Monday. The result is a family upheaval which you will have no difficulty in
            imagining!!

            The Aunts think it all highly romantic and cry in delight “Now isn’t that just like our
            El!” Mummy says she doesn’t know what to think, that anyway I was always a harum
            scarum and she rather expected something like this to happen. However I know that
            she thinks George highly attractive. “Such a nice smile and gentle manner, and such
            good hands“ she murmurs appreciatively. “But WHY AN ELEPHANT HUNTER?” she
            ends in a wail, as though elephant hunting was an unmentionable profession.
            Anyway I don’t think so. Anyone can marry a bank clerk or a lawyer or even a
            millionaire – but whoever heard of anyone marrying anyone as exciting as an elephant
            hunter? I’m thrilled to bits.

            Daddy also takes a dim view of George’s profession, and of George himself as
            a husband for me. He says that I am so impulsive and have such wild enthusiasms that I
            need someone conservative and steady to give me some serenity and some ballast.
            Dad says George is a handsome fellow and a good enough chap he is sure, but
            he is obviously a man of the world and hints darkly at a possible PAST. George says
            he has nothing of the kind and anyway I’m the first girl he has asked to marry him. I don’t
            care anyway, I’d gladly marry him tomorrow, but Dad has other ideas.

            He sat in his armchair to deliver his verdict, wearing the same look he must wear
            on the bench. If we marry, and he doesn’t think it would be a good thing, George must
            buy a comfortable house for me in Central Africa where I can stay safely when he goes
            hunting. I interrupted to say “But I’m going too”, but dad snubbed me saying that in no
            time at all I’ll have a family and one can’t go dragging babies around in the African Bush.”
            George takes his lectures with surprising calm. He says he can see Dad’s point of
            view much better than I can. He told the parents today that he plans to buy a small
            coffee farm in the Southern Highlands of Tanganyika and will build a cosy cottage which
            will be a proper home for both of us, and that he will only hunt occasionally to keep the
            pot boiling.

            Mummy, of course, just had to spill the beans. She said to George, “I suppose
            you know that Eleanor knows very little about house keeping and can’t cook at all.” a fact
            that I was keeping a dark secret. But George just said, “Oh she won’t have to work. The
            boys do all that sort of thing. She can lie on a couch all day and read if she likes.” Well
            you always did say that I was a “Lily of the field,” and what a good thing! If I were one of
            those terribly capable women I’d probably die of frustration because it seems that
            African house boys feel that they have lost face if their Memsahibs do anything but the
            most gracious chores.

            George is absolutely marvellous. He is strong and gentle and awfully good
            looking too. He is about 5 ft 10 ins tall and very broad. He wears his curly brown hair cut
            very short and has a close clipped moustache. He has strongly marked eyebrows and
            very striking blue eyes which sometimes turn grey or green. His teeth are strong and
            even and he has a quiet voice.

            I expect all this sounds too good to be true, but come home quickly and see for
            yourself. George is off to East Africa in three weeks time to buy our farm. I shall follow as
            soon as he has bought it and we will be married in Dar es Salaam.

            Dad has taken George for a walk “to get to know him” and that’s why I have time
            to write such a long screed. They should be back any minute now and I must fly and
            apply a bit of glamour.

            Much love my dear,
            your jubilant
            Eleanor

            S.S.Timavo. Durban. 28th.October. 1930.

            Dearest Family,
            Thank you for the lovely send off. I do wish you were all on board with me and
            could come and dance with me at my wedding. We are having a very comfortable
            voyage. There were only four of the passengers as far as Durban, all of them women,
            but I believe we are taking on more here. I have a most comfortable deck cabin to
            myself and the use of a sumptuous bathroom. No one is interested in deck games and I
            am having a lazy time, just sunbathing and reading.

            I sit at the Captain’s table and the meals are delicious – beautifully served. The
            butter for instance, is moulded into sprays of roses, most exquisitely done, and as for
            the ice-cream, I’ve never tasted anything like them.

            The meals are continental type and we have hors d’oeuvre in a great variety
            served on large round trays. The Italians souse theirs with oil, Ugh! We also of course
            get lots of spaghetti which I have some difficulty in eating. However this presents no
            problem to the Chief Engineer who sits opposite to me. He simply rolls it around his
            fork and somehow the spaghetti flows effortlessly from fork to mouth exactly like an
            ascending escalator. Wine is served at lunch and dinner – very mild and pleasant stuff.
            Of the women passengers the one i liked best was a young German widow
            from South west Africa who left the ship at East London to marry a man she had never
            met. She told me he owned a drapers shop and she was very happy at the prospect
            of starting a new life, as her previous marriage had ended tragically with the death of her
            husband and only child in an accident.

            I was most interested to see the bridegroom and stood at the rail beside the gay
            young widow when we docked at East London. I picked him out, without any difficulty,
            from the small group on the quay. He was a tall thin man in a smart grey suit and with a
            grey hat perched primly on his head. You can always tell from hats can’t you? I wasn’t
            surprised to see, when this German raised his head, that he looked just like the Kaiser’s
            “Little Willie”. Long thin nose and cold grey eyes and no smile of welcome on his tight
            mouth for the cheery little body beside me. I quite expected him to jerk his thumb and
            stalk off, expecting her to trot at his heel.

            However she went off blithely enough. Next day before the ship sailed, she
            was back and I saw her talking to the Captain. She began to cry and soon after the
            Captain patted her on the shoulder and escorted her to the gangway. Later the Captain
            told me that the girl had come to ask him to allow her to work her passage back to
            Germany where she had some relations. She had married the man the day before but
            she disliked him because he had deceived her by pretending that he owned a shop
            whereas he was only a window dresser. Bad show for both.

            The Captain and the Chief Engineer are the only officers who mix socially with
            the passengers. The captain seems rather a melancholy type with, I should say, no
            sense of humour. He speaks fair English with an American accent. He tells me that he
            was on the San Francisco run during Prohibition years in America and saw many Film
            Stars chiefly “under the influence” as they used to flock on board to drink. The Chief
            Engineer is big and fat and cheerful. His English is anything but fluent but he makes up
            for it in mime.

            I visited the relations and friends at Port Elizabeth and East London, and here at
            Durban. I stayed with the Trotters and Swans and enjoyed myself very much at both
            places. I have collected numerous wedding presents, china and cutlery, coffee
            percolator and ornaments, and where I shall pack all these things I don’t know. Everyone has been terribly kind and I feel extremely well and happy.

            At the start of the voyage I had a bit of bad luck. You will remember that a
            perfectly foul South Easter was blowing. Some men were busy working on a deck
            engine and I stopped to watch and a tiny fragment of steel blew into my eye. There is
            no doctor on board so the stewardess put some oil into the eye and bandaged it up.
            The eye grew more and more painful and inflamed and when when we reached Port
            Elizabeth the Captain asked the Port Doctor to look at it. The Doctor said it was a job for
            an eye specialist and telephoned from the ship to make an appointment. Luckily for me,
            Vincent Tofts turned up at the ship just then and took me off to the specialist and waited
            whilst he extracted the fragment with a giant magnet. The specialist said that I was very
            lucky as the thing just missed the pupil of my eye so my sight will not be affected. I was
            temporarily blinded by the Belladona the eye-man put in my eye so he fitted me with a
            pair of black goggles and Vincent escorted me back to the ship. Don’t worry the eye is
            now as good as ever and George will not have to take a one-eyed bride for better or
            worse.

            I have one worry and that is that the ship is going to be very much overdue by
            the time we reach Dar es Salaam. She is taking on a big wool cargo and we were held
            up for three days in East london and have been here in Durban for five days.
            Today is the ninth Anniversary of the Fascist Movement and the ship was
            dressed with bunting and flags. I must now go and dress for the gala dinner.

            Bless you all,
            Eleanor.

            S.S.Timavo. 6th. November 1930

            Dearest Family,

            Nearly there now. We called in at Lourenco Marques, Beira, Mozambique and
            Port Amelia. I was the only one of the original passengers left after Durban but there we
            took on a Mrs Croxford and her mother and two men passengers. Mrs C must have
            something, certainly not looks. She has a flat figure, heavily mascared eyes and crooked
            mouth thickly coated with lipstick. But her rather sweet old mother-black-pearls-type tells
            me they are worn out travelling around the world trying to shake off an admirer who
            pursues Mrs C everywhere.

            The one male passenger is very quiet and pleasant. The old lady tells me that he
            has recently lost his wife. The other passenger is a horribly bumptious type.
            I had my hair beautifully shingled at Lourenco Marques, but what an experience it
            was. Before we docked I asked the Captain whether he knew of a hairdresser, but he
            said he did not and would have to ask the agent when he came aboard. The agent was
            a very suave Asian. He said “Sure he did” and offered to take me in his car. I rather
            doubtfully agreed — such a swarthy gentleman — and was driven, not to a hairdressing
            establishment, but to his office. Then he spoke to someone on the telephone and in no
            time at all a most dago-y type arrived carrying a little black bag. He was all patent
            leather, hair, and flashing smile, and greeted me like an old and valued friend.
            Before I had collected my scattered wits tthe Agent had flung open a door and
            ushered me through, and I found myself seated before an ornate mirror in what was only
            too obviously a bedroom. It was a bedroom with a difference though. The unmade bed
            had no legs but hung from the ceiling on brass chains.

            The agent beamingly shut the door behind him and I was left with my imagination
            and the afore mentioned oily hairdresser. He however was very business like. Before I
            could say knife he had shingled my hair with a cut throat razor and then, before I could
            protest, had smothered my neck in stinking pink powder applied with an enormous and
            filthy swansdown powder puff. He held up a mirror for me to admire his handiwork but I
            was aware only of the enormous bed reflected in it, and hurriedly murmuring “very nice,
            very nice” I made my escape to the outer office where, to my relief, I found the Chief
            Engineer who escorted me back to the ship.

            In the afternoon Mrs Coxford and the old lady and I hired a taxi and went to the
            Polana Hotel for tea. Very swish but I like our Cape Peninsula beaches better.
            At Lorenco Marques we took on more passengers. The Governor of
            Portuguese Nyasaland and his wife and baby son. He was a large middle aged man,
            very friendly and unassuming and spoke perfect English. His wife was German and
            exquisite, as fragile looking and with the delicate colouring of a Dresden figurine. She
            looked about 18 but she told me she was 28 and showed me photographs of two
            other sons – hefty youngsters, whom she had left behind in Portugal and was missing
            very much.

            It was frightfully hot at Beira and as I had no money left I did not go up to the
            town, but Mrs Croxford and I spent a pleasant hour on the beach under the Casurina
            trees.

            The Governor and his wife left the ship at Mozambique. He looked very
            imposing in his starched uniform and she more Dresden Sheperdish than ever in a
            flowered frock. There was a guard of honour and all the trimmings. They bade me a warm farewell and invited George and me to stay at any time.

            The German ship “Watussi” was anchored in the Bay and I decided to visit her
            and try and have my hair washed and set. I had no sooner stepped on board when a
            lady came up to me and said “Surely you are Beeba Leslie.” It was Mrs Egan and she
            had Molly with her. Considering Mrs Egan had not seen me since I was five I think it was
            jolly clever of her to recognise me. Molly is charming and was most friendly. She fixed
            things with the hairdresser and sat with me until the job was done. Afterwards I had tea
            with them.

            Port Amelia was our last stop. In fact the only person to go ashore was Mr
            Taylor, the unpleasant man, and he returned at sunset very drunk indeed.
            We reached Port Amelia on the 3rd – my birthday. The boat had anchored by
            the time I was dressed and when I went on deck I saw several row boats cluttered
            around the gangway and in them were natives with cages of wild birds for sale. Such tiny
            crowded cages. I was furious, you know me. I bought three cages, carried them out on
            to the open deck and released the birds. I expected them to fly to the land but they flew
            straight up into the rigging.

            The quiet male passenger wandered up and asked me what I was doing. I said
            “I’m giving myself a birthday treat, I hate to see caged birds.” So next thing there he
            was buying birds which he presented to me with “Happy Birthday.” I gladly set those
            birds free too and they joined the others in the rigging.

            Then a grinning steward came up with three more cages. “For the lady with
            compliments of the Captain.” They lost no time in joining their friends.
            It had given me so much pleasure to free the birds that I was only a little
            discouraged when the quiet man said thoughtfully “This should encourage those bird
            catchers you know, they are sold out. When evening came and we were due to sail I
            was sure those birds would fly home, but no, they are still there and they will probably
            remain until we dock at Dar es Salaam.

            During the morning the Captain came up and asked me what my Christian name
            is. He looked as grave as ever and I couldn’t think why it should interest him but said “the
            name is Eleanor.” That night at dinner there was a large iced cake in the centre of the
            table with “HELENA” in a delicate wreath of pink icing roses on the top. We had
            champagne and everyone congratulated me and wished me good luck in my marriage.
            A very nice gesture don’t you think. The unpleasant character had not put in an
            appearance at dinner which made the party all the nicer

            I sat up rather late in the lounge reading a book and by the time I went to bed
            there was not a soul around. I bathed and changed into my nighty,walked into my cabin,
            shed my dressing gown, and pottered around. When I was ready for bed I put out my
            hand to draw the curtains back and a hand grasped my wrist. It was that wretched
            creature outside my window on the deck, still very drunk. Luckily I was wearing that
            heavy lilac silk nighty. I was livid. “Let go at once”, I said, but he only grinned stupidly.
            “I’m not hurting you” he said, “only looking”. “I’ll ring for the steward” said I, and by
            stretching I managed to press the bell with my free hand. I rang and rang but no one
            came and he just giggled. Then I said furiously, “Remember this name, George
            Rushby, he is a fine boxer and he hates specimens like you. When he meets me at Dar
            es Salaam I shall tell him about this and I bet you will be sorry.” However he still held on
            so I turned and knocked hard on the adjoining wall which divided my cabin from Mrs
            Croxfords. Soon Mrs Croxford and the old lady appeared in dressing gowns . This
            seemed to amuse the drunk even more though he let go my wrist. So whilst the old
            lady stayed with me, Mrs C fetched the quiet passenger who soon hustled him off. He has kept out of my way ever since. However I still mean to tell George because I feel
            the fellow got off far too lightly. I reported the matter to the Captain but he just remarked
            that he always knew the man was low class because he never wears a jacket to meals.
            This is my last night on board and we again had free champagne and I was given
            some tooled leather work by the Captain and a pair of good paste earrings by the old
            lady. I have invited them and Mrs Croxford, the Chief Engineer, and the quiet
            passenger to the wedding.

            This may be my last night as Eleanor Leslie and I have spent this long while
            writing to you just as a little token of my affection and gratitude for all the years of your
            love and care. I shall post this letter on the ship and must turn now and get some beauty
            sleep. We have been told that we shall be in Dar es Salaam by 9 am. I am so excited
            that I shall not sleep.

            Very much love, and just for fun I’ll sign my full name for the last time.
            with my “bes respeks”,

            Eleanor Leslie.

            Eleanor and George Rushby:

            Eleanor and George Rushby

            Splendid Hotel, Dar es Salaam 11th November 1930

            Dearest Family,

            I’m writing this in the bedroom whilst George is out buying a tin trunk in which to
            pack all our wedding presents. I expect he will be gone a long time because he has
            gone out with Hicky Wood and, though our wedding was four days ago, it’s still an
            excuse for a party. People are all very cheery and friendly here.
            I am wearing only pants and slip but am still hot. One swelters here in the
            mornings, but a fresh sea breeze blows in the late afternoons and then Dar es Salaam is
            heavenly.

            We arrived in Dar es Salaam harbour very early on Friday morning (7 th Nov).
            The previous night the Captain had said we might not reach Dar. until 9 am, and certainly
            no one would be allowed on board before 8 am. So I dawdled on the deck in my
            dressing gown and watched the green coastline and the islands slipping by. I stood on
            the deck outside my cabin and was not aware that I was looking out at the wrong side of
            the landlocked harbour. Quite unknown to me George and some friends, the Hickson
            Woods, were standing on the Gymkhana Beach on the opposite side of the channel
            anxiously scanning the ship for a sign of me. George says he had a horrible idea I had
            missed the ship. Blissfully unconscious of his anxiety I wandered into the bathroom
            prepared for a good soak. The anchor went down when I was in the bath and suddenly
            there was a sharp wrap on the door and I heard Mrs Croxford say “There’s a man in a
            boat outside. He is looking out for someone and I’m sure it’s your George. I flung on
            some clothes and rushed on deck with tousled hair and bare feet and it was George.
            We had a marvellous reunion. George was wearing shorts and bush shirt and
            looked just like the strong silent types one reads about in novels. I finished dressing then
            George helped me bundle all the wedding presents I had collected en route into my
            travelling rug and we went into the bar lounge to join the Hickson Woods. They are the
            couple from whom George bought the land which is to be our coffee farm Hicky-Wood
            was laughing when we joined them. he said he had called a chap to bring a couple of
            beers thinking he was the steward but it turned out to be the Captain. He does wear
            such a very plain uniform that I suppose it was easy to make the mistake, but Hicky
            says he was not amused.

            Anyway as the H-W’s are to be our neighbours I’d better describe them. Kath
            Wood is very attractive, dark Irish, with curly black hair and big brown eyes. She was
            married before to Viv Lumb a great friend of George’s who died some years ago of
            blackwater fever. They had one little girl, Maureen, and Kath and Hicky have a small son
            of three called Michael. Hicky is slightly below average height and very neat and dapper
            though well built. He is a great one for a party and good fun but George says he can be
            bad tempered.

            Anyway we all filed off the ship and Hicky and Cath went on to the hotel whilst
            George and I went through customs. Passing the customs was easy. Everyone
            seemed to know George and that it was his wedding day and I just sailed through,
            except for the little matter of the rug coming undone when George and I had to scramble
            on the floor for candlesticks and fruit knives and a wooden nut bowl.
            Outside the customs shed we were mobbed by a crowd of jabbering Africans
            offering their services as porters, and soon my luggage was piled in one rickshaw whilst
            George and I climbed into another and we were born smoothly away on rubber shod
            wheels to the Splendid Hotel. The motion was pleasing enough but it seemed weird to
            be pulled along by one human being whilst another pushed behind.  We turned up a street called Acacia Avenue which, as its name implies, is lined
            with flamboyant acacia trees now in the full glory of scarlet and gold. The rickshaw
            stopped before the Splendid Hotel and I was taken upstairs into a pleasant room which
            had its own private balcony overlooking the busy street.

            Here George broke the news that we were to be married in less than an hours
            time. He would have to dash off and change and then go straight to the church. I would
            be quite all right, Kath would be looking in and friends would fetch me.
            I started to dress and soon there was a tap at the door and Mrs Hickson-Wood
            came in with my bouquet. It was a lovely bunch of carnations and frangipani with lots of
            asparagus fern and it went well with my primrose yellow frock. She admired my frock
            and Leghorn hat and told me that her little girl Maureen was to be my flower girl. Then
            she too left for the church.

            I was fully dressed when there was another knock on the door and I opened it to
            be confronted by a Police Officer in a starched white uniform. I’m McCallum”, he said,
            “I’ve come to drive you to the church.” Downstairs he introduced me to a big man in a
            tussore silk suit. “This is Dr Shicore”, said McCallum, “He is going to give you away.”
            Honestly, I felt exactly like Alice in Wonderland. Wouldn’t have been at all surprised if
            the White Rabbit had popped up and said he was going to be my page.

            I walked out of the hotel and across the pavement in a dream and there, by the
            curb, was a big dark blue police car decorated with white ribbons and with a tall African
            Police Ascari holding the door open for me. I had hardly time to wonder what next when
            the car drew up before a tall German looking church. It was in fact the Lutheran Church in
            the days when Tanganyika was German East Africa.

            Mrs Hickson-Wood, very smart in mushroom coloured georgette and lace, and
            her small daughter were waiting in the porch, so in we went. I was glad to notice my
            friends from the boat sitting behind George’s friends who were all complete strangers to
            me. The aisle seemed very long but at last I reached George waiting in the chancel with
            Hicky-Wood, looking unfamiliar in a smart tussore suit. However this feeling of unreality
            passed when he turned his head and smiled at me.

            In the vestry after the ceremony I was kissed affectionately by several complete
            strangers and I felt happy and accepted by George’s friends. Outside the church,
            standing apart from the rest of the guests, the Italian Captain and Chief Engineer were
            waiting. They came up and kissed my hand, and murmured felicitations, but regretted
            they could not spare the time to come to the reception. Really it was just as well
            because they would not have fitted in at all well.

            Dr Shircore is the Director of Medical Services and he had very kindly lent his
            large house for the reception. It was quite a party. The guests were mainly men with a
            small sprinkling of wives. Champagne corks popped and there was an enormous cake
            and soon voices were raised in song. The chief one was ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’
            and I shall remember it for ever.

            The party was still in full swing when George and I left. The old lady from the ship
            enjoyed it hugely. She came in an all black outfit with a corsage of artificial Lily-of-the-
            Valley. Later I saw one of the men wearing the corsage in his buttonhole and the old
            lady was wearing a carnation.

            When George and I got back to the hotel,I found that my luggage had been
            moved to George’s room by his cook Lamek, who was squatting on his haunches and
            clapped his hands in greeting. My dears, you should see Lamek – exactly like a
            chimpanzee – receding forehead, wide flat nose, and long lip, and such splayed feet. It was quite a strain not to laugh, especially when he produced a gift for me. I have not yet
            discovered where he acquired it. It was a faded mauve straw toque of the kind worn by
            Queen Mary. I asked George to tell Lamek that I was touched by his generosity but felt
            that I could not accept his gift. He did not mind at all especially as George gave him a
            generous tip there and then.

            I changed into a cotton frock and shady straw hat and George changed into shorts
            and bush shirt once more. We then sneaked into the dining room for lunch avoiding our
            wedding guests who were carrying on the party in the lounge.

            After lunch we rejoined them and they all came down to the jetty to wave goodbye
            as we set out by motor launch for Honeymoon Island. I enjoyed the launch trip very
            much. The sea was calm and very blue and the palm fringed beaches of Dar es Salaam
            are as romantic as any bride could wish. There are small coral islands dotted around the
            Bay of which Honeymoon Island is the loveliest. I believe at one time it bore the less
            romantic name of Quarantine Island. Near the Island, in the shallows, the sea is brilliant
            green and I saw two pink jellyfish drifting by.

            There is no jetty on the island so the boat was stopped in shallow water and
            George carried me ashore. I was enchanted with the Island and in no hurry to go to the
            bungalow, so George and I took our bathing costumes from our suitcases and sent the
            luggage up to the house together with a box of provisions.

            We bathed and lazed on the beach and suddenly it was sunset and it began to
            get dark. We walked up the beach to the bungalow and began to unpack the stores,
            tea, sugar, condensed milk, bread and butter, sardines and a large tin of ham. There
            were also cups and saucers and plates and cutlery.

            We decided to have an early meal and George called out to the caretaker, “Boy
            letta chai”. Thereupon the ‘boy’ materialised and jabbered to George in Ki-Swaheli. It
            appeared he had no utensil in which to boil water. George, ever resourceful, removed
            the ham from the tin and gave him that. We had our tea all right but next day the ham
            was bad.

            Then came bed time. I took a hurricane lamp in one hand and my suitcase in the
            other and wandered into the bedroom whilst George vanished into the bathroom. To
            my astonishment I saw two perfectly bare iron bedsteads – no mattress or pillows. We
            had brought sheets and mosquito nets but, believe me, they are a poor substitute for a
            mattress.

            Anyway I arrayed myself in my pale yellow satin nightie and sat gingerly down
            on the iron edge of the bed to await my groom who eventually appeared in a
            handsome suit of silk pyjamas. His expression, as he took in the situation, was too much
            for me and I burst out laughing and so did he.

            Somewhere in the small hours I woke up. The breeze had dropped and the
            room was unbearably stuffy. I felt as dry as a bone. The lamp had been turned very
            low and had gone out, but I remembered seeing a water tank in the yard and I decided
            to go out in the dark and drink from the tap. In the dark I could not find my slippers so I
            slipped my feet into George’s shoes, picked up his matches and groped my way out
            of the room. I found the tank all right and with one hand on the tap and one cupped for
            water I stooped to drink. Just then I heard a scratchy noise and sensed movements
            around my feet. I struck a match and oh horrors! found that the damp spot on which I was
            standing was alive with white crabs. In my hurry to escape I took a clumsy step, put
            George’s big toe on the hem of my nightie and down I went on top of the crabs. I need
            hardly say that George was awakened by an appalling shriek and came rushing to my
            aid like a knight of old.  Anyway, alarms and excursions not withstanding, we had a wonderful weekend on the island and I was sorry to return to the heat of Dar es Salaam, though the evenings
            here are lovely and it is heavenly driving along the coast road by car or in a rickshaw.
            I was surprised to find so many Indians here. Most of the shops, large and small,
            seem to be owned by Indians and the place teems with them. The women wear
            colourful saris and their hair in long black plaits reaching to their waists. Many wear baggy
            trousers of silk or satin. They give a carnival air to the sea front towards sunset.
            This long letter has been written in instalments throughout the day. My first break
            was when I heard the sound of a band and rushed to the balcony in time to see The
            Kings African Rifles band and Askaris march down the Avenue on their way to an
            Armistice Memorial Service. They looked magnificent.

            I must end on a note of most primitive pride. George returned from his shopping
            expedition and beamingly informed me that he had thrashed the man who annoyed me
            on the ship. I felt extremely delighted and pressed for details. George told me that
            when he went out shopping he noticed to his surprise that the ‘Timavo” was still in the
            harbour. He went across to the Agents office and there saw a man who answered to the
            description I had given. George said to him “Is your name Taylor?”, and when he said
            “yes”, George said “Well my name is George Rushby”, whereupon he hit Taylor on the
            jaw so that he sailed over the counter and down the other side. Very satisfactory, I feel.
            With much love to all.

            Your cave woman
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 22 November 1930

            Dearest Family,

            Well here we are at our Country Seat, Mchewe Estate. (pronounced
            Mn,-che’-we) but I will start at the beginning of our journey and describe the farm later.
            We left the hotel at Dar es Salaam for the station in a taxi crowded with baggage
            and at the last moment Keith Wood ran out with the unwrapped bottom layer of our
            wedding cake. It remained in its naked state from there to here travelling for two days in
            the train on the luggage rack, four days in the car on my knee, reposing at night on the
            roof of the car exposed to the winds of Heaven, and now rests beside me in the tent
            looking like an old old tombstone. We have no tin large enough to hold it and one
            simply can’t throw away ones wedding cake so, as George does not eat cake, I can see
            myself eating wedding cake for tea for months to come, ants permitting.

            We travelled up by train from Dar to Dodoma, first through the lush vegetation of
            the coastal belt to Morogoro, then through sisal plantations now very overgrown with
            weeds owing to the slump in prices, and then on to the arid area around Dodoma. This
            part of the country is very dry at this time of the year and not unlike parts of our Karoo.
            The train journey was comfortable enough but slow as the engines here are fed with
            wood and not coal as in South Africa.

            Dodoma is the nearest point on the railway to Mbeya so we left the train there to
            continue our journey by road. We arrived at the one and only hotel in the early hours and
            whilst someone went to rout out the night watchman the rest of us sat on the dismal
            verandah amongst a litter of broken glass. Some bright spark remarked on the obvious –
            that there had been a party the night before.

            When we were shown to a room I thought I rather preferred the verandah,
            because the beds had not yet been made up and there was a bucket of vomit beside
            the old fashioned washstand. However George soon got the boys to clean up the
            room and I fell asleep to be awakened by George with an invitation to come and see
            our car before breakfast.

            Yes, we have our own car. It is a Chev, with what is called a box body. That
            means that sides, roof and doors are made by a local Indian carpenter. There is just the
            one front seat with a kapok mattress on it. The tools are kept in a sort of cupboard fixed
            to the side so there is a big space for carrying “safari kit” behind the cab seat.
            Lamek, who had travelled up on the same train, appeared after breakfast, and
            helped George to pack all our luggage into the back of the car. Besides our suitcases
            there was a huge bedroll, kitchen utensils and a box of provisions, tins of petrol and
            water and all Lamek’s bits and pieces which included three chickens in a wicker cage and
            an enormous bunch of bananas about 3 ft long.

            When all theses things were packed there remained only a small space between
            goods and ceiling and into this Lamek squeezed. He lay on his back with his horny feet a
            mere inch or so from the back of my head. In this way we travelled 400 miles over
            bumpy earth roads and crude pole bridges, but whenever we stopped for a meal
            Lamek wriggled out and, like Aladdin’s genie, produced good meals in no time at all.
            In the afternoon we reached a large river called the Ruaha. Workmen were busy
            building a large bridge across it but it is not yet ready so we crossed by a ford below
            the bridge. George told me that the river was full of crocodiles but though I looked hard, I
            did not see any. This is also elephant country but I did not see any of those either, only
            piles of droppings on the road. I must tell you that the natives around these parts are called Wahehe and the river is Ruaha – enough to make a cat laugh. We saw some Wahehe out hunting with spears
            and bows and arrows. They live in long low houses with the tiniest shuttered windows
            and rounded roofs covered with earth.

            Near the river we also saw a few Masai herding cattle. They are rather terrifying to
            look at – tall, angular, and very aloof. They wear nothing but a blanket knotted on one
            shoulder, concealing nothing, and all carried one or two spears.
            The road climbs steeply on the far side of the Ruaha and one has the most
            tremendous views over the plains. We spent our first night up there in the high country.
            Everything was taken out of the car, the bed roll opened up and George and I slept
            comfortably in the back of the car whilst Lamek, rolled in a blanket, slept soundly by a
            small fire nearby. Next morning we reached our first township, Iringa, and put up at the
            Colonist Hotel. We had a comfortable room in the annex overlooking the golf course.
            our room had its own little dressing room which was also the bathroom because, when
            ordered to do so, the room boy carried in an oval galvanised bath and filled it with hot
            water which he carried in a four gallon petrol tin.

            When we crossed to the main building for lunch, George was immediately hailed
            by several men who wanted to meet the bride. I was paid some handsome
            compliments but was not sure whether they were sincere or the result of a nice alcoholic
            glow. Anyhow every one was very friendly.

            After lunch I went back to the bedroom leaving George chatting away. I waited and
            waited – no George. I got awfully tired of waiting and thought I’d give him a fright so I
            walked out onto the deserted golf course and hid behind some large boulders. Soon I
            saw George returning to the room and the boy followed with a tea tray. Ah, now the hue
            and cry will start, thought I, but no, no George appeared nor could I hear any despairing
            cry. When sunset came I trailed crossly back to our hotel room where George lay
            innocently asleep on his bed, hands folded on his chest like a crusader on his tomb. In a
            moment he opened his eyes, smiled sleepily and said kindly, “Did you have a nice walk
            my love?” So of course I couldn’t play the neglected wife as he obviously didn’t think
            me one and we had a very pleasant dinner and party in the hotel that evening.
            Next day we continued our journey but turned aside to visit the farm of a sprightly
            old man named St.Leger Seaton whom George had known for many years, so it was
            after dark before George decided that we had covered our quota of miles for the day.
            Whilst he and Lamek unpacked I wandered off to a stream to cool my hot feet which had
            baked all day on the floor boards of the car. In the rather dim moonlight I sat down on the
            grassy bank and gratefully dabbled my feet in the cold water. A few minutes later I
            started up with a shriek – I had the sensation of red hot pins being dug into all my most
            sensitive parts. I started clawing my clothes off and, by the time George came to the
            rescue with the lamp, I was practically in the nude. “Only Siafu ants,” said George calmly.
            Take off all your clothes and get right in the water.” So I had a bathe whilst George
            picked the ants off my clothes by the light of the lamp turned very low for modesty’s
            sake. Siafu ants are beastly things. They are black ants with outsized heads and
            pinchers. I shall be very, very careful where I sit in future.

            The next day was even hotter. There was no great variety in the scenery. Most
            of the country was covered by a tree called Miombo, which is very ordinary when the
            foliage is a mature deep green, but when in new leaf the trees look absolutely beautiful
            as the leaves,surprisingly, are soft pastel shades of red and yellow.

            Once again we turned aside from the main road to visit one of George’s friends.
            This man Major Hugh Jones MC, has a farm only a few miles from ours but just now he is supervising the making of an airstrip. Major Jones is quite a character. He is below
            average height and skinny with an almost bald head and one nearly blind eye into which
            he screws a monocle. He is a cultured person and will, I am sure, make an interesting
            neighbour. George and Major Jones’ friends call him ‘Joni’ but he is generally known in
            this country as ‘Ropesoles’ – as he is partial to that type of footwear.
            We passed through Mbeya township after dark so I have no idea what the place
            is like. The last 100 miles of our journey was very dusty and the last 15 miles extremely
            bumpy. The road is used so little that in some places we had to plow our way through
            long grass and I was delighted when at last George turned into a side road and said
            “This is our place.” We drove along the bank of the Mchewe River, then up a hill and
            stopped at a tent which was pitched beside the half built walls of our new home. We
            were expected so there was hot water for baths and after a supper of tinned food and
            good hot tea, I climbed thankfully into bed.

            Next morning I was awakened by the chattering of the African workmen and was
            soon out to inspect the new surroundings. Our farm was once part of Hickson Wood’s
            land and is separated from theirs by a river. Our houses cannot be more than a few
            hundred yards apart as the crow flies but as both are built on the slopes of a long range
            of high hills, and one can only cross the river at the foot of the slopes, it will be quite a
            safari to go visiting on foot . Most of our land is covered with shoulder high grass but it
            has been partly cleared of trees and scrub. Down by the river George has made a long
            coffee nursery and a large vegetable garden but both coffee and vegetable seedlings
            are too small to be of use.

            George has spared all the trees that will make good shade for the coffee later on.
            There are several huge wild fig trees as big as oaks but with smooth silvery-green trunks
            and branches and there are lots of acacia thorn trees with flat tops like Japanese sun
            shades. I’ve seen lovely birds in the fig trees, Louries with bright plumage and crested
            heads, and Blue Rollers, and in the grasslands there are widow birds with incredibly long
            black tail feathers.

            There are monkeys too and horrible but fascinating tree lizards with blue bodies
            and orange heads. There are so many, many things to tell you but they must wait for
            another time as James, the house boy, has been to say “Bafu tiari” and if I don’t go at
            once, the bath will be cold.

            I am very very happy and terribly interested in this new life so please don’t
            worry about me.

            Much love to you all,
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe Estate 29th. November 1930

            Dearest Family,

            I’ve lots of time to write letters just now because George is busy supervising the
            building of the house from early morning to late afternoon – with a break for lunch of
            course.

            On our second day here our tent was moved from the house site to a small
            clearing further down the slope of our hill. Next to it the labourers built a ‘banda’ , which is
            a three sided grass hut with thatched roof – much cooler than the tent in this weather.
            There is also a little grass lav. so you see we have every convenience. I spend most of
            my day in the banda reading or writing letters. Occasionally I wander up to the house site
            and watch the building, but mostly I just sit.

            I did try exploring once. I wandered down a narrow path towards the river. I
            thought I might paddle and explore the river a little but I came round a bend and there,
            facing me, was a crocodile. At least for a moment I thought it was and my adrenaline
            glands got very busy indeed. But it was only an enormous monitor lizard, four or five
            feet long. It must have been as scared as I was because it turned and rushed off through
            the grass. I turned and walked hastily back to the camp and as I passed the house site I
            saw some boys killing a large puff adder. Now I do my walking in the evenings with
            George. Nothing alarming ever seems to happen when he is around.

            It is interesting to watch the boys making bricks for the house. They make a pile
            of mud which they trample with their feet until it is the right consistency. Then they fill
            wooden moulds with the clayey mud, and press it down well and turn out beautiful shiny,
            dark brown bricks which are laid out in rows and covered with grass to bake slowly in the
            sun.

            Most of the materials for the building are right here at hand. The walls will be sun
            dried bricks and there is a white clay which will make a good whitewash for the inside
            walls. The chimney and walls will be of burnt brick and tiles and George is now busy
            building a kiln for this purpose. Poles for the roof are being cut in the hills behind the
            house and every day women come along with large bundles of thatching grass on their
            heads. Our windows are modern steel casement ones and the doors have been made
            at a mission in the district. George does some of the bricklaying himself. The other
            bricklayer is an African from Northern Rhodesia called Pedro. It makes me perspire just
            to look at Pedro who wears an overcoat all day in the very hot sun.
            Lamek continues to please. He turns out excellent meals, chicken soup followed
            by roast chicken, vegetables from the Hickson-Woods garden and a steamed pudding
            or fruit to wind up the meal. I enjoy the chicken but George is fed up with it and longs for
            good red meat. The chickens are only about as large as a partridge but then they cost
            only sixpence each.

            I had my first visit to Mbeya two days ago. I put on my very best trousseau frock
            for the occasion- that yellow striped silk one – and wore my wedding hat. George didn’t
            comment, but I saw later that I was dreadfully overdressed.
            Mbeya at the moment is a very small settlement consisting of a bundle of small
            Indian shops – Dukas they call them, which stock European tinned foods and native soft
            goods which seem to be mainly of Japanese origin. There is a one storied Government
            office called the Boma and two attractive gabled houses of burnt brick which house the
            District Officer and his Assistant. Both these houses have lovely gardens but i saw them
            only from the outside as we did not call. After buying our stores George said “Lets go to the pub, I want you to meet Mrs Menzies.” Well the pub turned out to be just three or four grass rondavels on a bare
            plot. The proprietor, Ken Menzies, came out to welcome us. I took to him at once
            because he has the same bush sandy eyebrows as you have Dad. He told me that
            unfortunately his wife is away at the coast, and then he ushered me through the door
            saying “Here’s George with his bride.” then followed the Iringa welcome all over again,
            only more so, because the room was full of diggers from the Lupa Goldfields about fifty
            miles away.

            Champagne corks popped as I shook hands all around and George was
            clapped on the back. I could see he was a favourite with everyone and I tried not to be
            gauche and let him down. These men were all most kind and most appeared to be men
            of more than average education. However several were unshaven and looked as
            though they had slept in their clothes as I suppose they had. When they have a little luck
            on the diggings they come in here to Menzies pub and spend the lot. George says
            they bring their gold dust and small nuggets in tobacco tins or Kruschen salts jars and
            hand them over to Ken Menzies saying “Tell me when I’ve spent the lot.” Ken then
            weighs the gold and estimates its value and does exactly what the digger wants.
            However the Diggers get good value for their money because besides the drink
            they get companionship and good food and nursing if they need it. Mrs Menzies is a
            trained nurse and most kind and capable from what I was told. There is no doctor or
            hospital here so her experience as a nursing sister is invaluable.
            We had lunch at the Hotel and afterwards I poured tea as I was the only female
            present. Once the shyness had worn off I rather enjoyed myself.

            Now to end off I must tell you a funny story of how I found out that George likes
            his women to be feminine. You will remember those dashing black silk pyjamas Aunt
            Mary gave me, with flowered “happy coat” to match. Well last night I thought I’d give
            George a treat and when the boy called me for my bath I left George in the ‘banda’
            reading the London Times. After my bath I put on my Japanese pyjamas and coat,
            peered into the shaving mirror which hangs from the tent pole and brushed my hair until it
            shone. I must confess that with my fringe and shingled hair I thought I made quite a
            glamourous Japanese girl. I walked coyly across to the ‘banda’. Alas no compliment.
            George just glanced up from the Times and went on reading.
            He was away rather a long time when it came to his turn to bath. I glanced up
            when he came back and had a slight concussion. George, if you please, was arrayed in
            my very best pale yellow satin nightie. The one with the lace and ribbon sash and little
            bows on the shoulder. I knew exactly what he meant to convey. I was not to wear the
            trousers in the family. I seethed inwardly, but pretending not to notice, I said calmly “shall
            I call for food?” In this garb George sat down to dinner and it says a great deal for African
            phlegm that the boy did not drop the dishes.

            We conversed politely about this and that, and then, as usual, George went off
            to bed. I appeared to be engrossed in my book and did not stir. When I went to the
            tent some time later George lay fast asleep still in my nightie, though all I could see of it
            was the little ribbon bows looking farcically out of place on his broad shoulders.
            This morning neither of us mentioned the incident, George was up and dressed
            by the time I woke up but I have been smiling all day to think what a ridiculous picture
            we made at dinner. So farewell to pyjamas and hey for ribbons and bows.

            Your loving
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe Estate. Mbeya. 8th December 1930

            Dearest Family,

            A mere shadow of her former buxom self lifts a languid pen to write to you. I’m
            convalescing after my first and I hope my last attack of malaria. It was a beastly
            experience but all is now well and I am eating like a horse and will soon regain my
            bounce.

            I took ill on the evening of the day I wrote my last letter to you. It started with a
            splitting headache and fits of shivering. The symptoms were all too familiar to George
            who got me into bed and filled me up with quinine. He then piled on all the available
            blankets and packed me in hot water bottles. I thought I’d explode and said so and
            George said just to lie still and I’d soon break into a good sweat. However nothing of the
            kind happened and next day my temperature was 105 degrees. Instead of feeling
            miserable as I had done at the onset, I now felt very merry and most chatty. George
            now tells me I sang the most bawdy songs but I hardly think it likely. Do you?
            You cannot imagine how tenderly George nursed me, not only that day but
            throughout the whole eight days I was ill. As we do not employ any African house
            women, and there are no white women in the neighbourhood at present to whom we
            could appeal for help, George had to do everything for me. It was unbearably hot in the
            tent so George decided to move me across to the Hickson-Woods vacant house. They
            have not yet returned from the coast.

            George decided I was too weak to make the trip in the car so he sent a
            messenger over to the Woods’ house for their Machila. A Machila is a canopied canvas
            hammock slung from a bamboo pole and carried by four bearers. The Machila duly
            arrived and I attempted to walk to it, clinging to George’s arm, but collapsed in a faint so
            the trip was postponed to the next morning when I felt rather better. Being carried by
            Machila is quite pleasant but I was in no shape to enjoy anything and got thankfully into
            bed in the Hickson-Woods large, cool and rather dark bedroom. My condition did not
            improve and George decided to send a runner for the Government Doctor at Tukuyu
            about 60 miles away. Two days later Dr Theis arrived by car and gave me two
            injections of quinine which reduced the fever. However I still felt very weak and had to
            spend a further four days in bed.

            We have now decided to stay on here until the Hickson-Woods return by which
            time our own house should be ready. George goes off each morning and does not
            return until late afternoon. However don’t think “poor Eleanor” because I am very
            comfortable here and there are lots of books to read and the days seem to pass very
            quickly.

            The Hickson-Wood’s house was built by Major Jones and I believe the one on
            his shamba is just like it. It is a square red brick building with a wide verandah all around
            and, rather astonishingly, a conical thatched roof. There is a beautiful view from the front
            of the house and a nice flower garden. The coffee shamba is lower down on the hill.
            Mrs Wood’s first husband, George’s friend Vi Lumb, is buried in the flower
            garden. He died of blackwater fever about five years ago. I’m told that before her
            second marriage Kath lived here alone with her little daughter, Maureen, and ran the farm
            entirely on her own. She must be quite a person. I bet she didn’t go and get malaria
            within a few weeks of her marriage.

            The native tribe around here are called Wasafwa. They are pretty primitive but
            seem amiable people. Most of the men, when they start work, wear nothing but some
            kind of sheet of unbleached calico wrapped round their waists and hanging to mid calf. As soon as they have drawn their wages they go off to a duka and buy a pair of khaki
            shorts for five or six shillings. Their women folk wear very short beaded skirts. I think the
            base is goat skin but have never got close enough for a good look. They are very shy.
            I hear from George that they have started on the roof of our house but I have not
            seen it myself since the day I was carried here by Machila. My letters by the way go to
            the Post Office by runner. George’s farm labourers take it in turn to act in this capacity.
            The mail bag is given to them on Friday afternoon and by Saturday evening they are
            back with our very welcome mail.

            Very much love,
            Eleanor.

            Mbeya 23rd December 1930

            Dearest Family,

            George drove to Mbeya for stores last week and met Col. Sherwood-Kelly VC.
            who has been sent by the Government to Mbeya as Game Ranger. His job will be to
            protect native crops from raiding elephants and hippo etc., and to protect game from
            poachers. He has had no training for this so he has asked George to go with him on his
            first elephant safari to show him the ropes.

            George likes Col. Kelly and was quite willing to go on safari but not willing to
            leave me alone on the farm as I am still rather shaky after malaria. So it was arranged that
            I should go to Mbeya and stay with Mrs Harmer, the wife of the newly appointed Lands
            and Mines Officer, whose husband was away on safari.

            So here I am in Mbeya staying in the Harmers temporary wattle and daub
            house. Unfortunately I had a relapse of the malaria and stayed in bed for three days with
            a temperature. Poor Mrs Harmer had her hands full because in the room next to mine
            she was nursing a digger with blackwater fever. I could hear his delirious babble through
            the thin wall – very distressing. He died poor fellow , and leaves a wife and seven
            children.

            I feel better than I have done for weeks and this afternoon I walked down to the
            store. There are great signs of activity and people say that Mbeya will grow rapidly now
            owing to the boom on the gold fields and also to the fact that a large aerodrome is to be
            built here. Mbeya is to be a night stop on the proposed air service between England
            and South Africa. I seem to be the last of the pioneers. If all these schemes come about
            Mbeya will become quite suburban.

            26th December 1930

            George, Col. Kelly and Mr Harmer all returned to Mbeya on Christmas Eve and
            it was decided that we should stay and have midday Christmas dinner with the
            Harmers. Col. Kelly and the Assistant District Commissioner came too and it was quite a
            festive occasion, We left Mbeya in the early afternoon and had our evening meal here at
            Hickson-Wood’s farm. I wore my wedding dress.

            I went across to our house in the car this morning. George usually walks across to
            save petrol which is very expensive here. He takes a short cut and wades through the
            river. The distance by road is very much longer than the short cut. The men are now
            thatching the roof of our cottage and it looks charming. It consists of a very large living
            room-dinning room with a large inglenook fireplace at one end. The bedroom is a large
            square room with a smaller verandah room adjoining it. There is a wide verandah in the
            front, from which one has a glorious view over a wide valley to the Livingstone
            Mountains on the horizon. Bathroom and storeroom are on the back verandah and the
            kitchen is some distance behind the house to minimise the risk of fire.

            You can imagine how much I am looking forward to moving in. We have some
            furniture which was made by an Indian carpenter at Iringa, refrectory dining table and
            chairs, some small tables and two armchairs and two cupboards and a meatsafe. Other
            things like bookshelves and extra cupboards we will have to make ourselves. George
            has also bought a portable gramophone and records which will be a boon.
            We also have an Irish wolfhound puppy, a skinny little chap with enormous feet
            who keeps me company all day whilst George is across at our farm working on the
            house.

            Lots and lots of love,
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe Estate 8th Jan 1931

            Dearest Family,

            Alas, I have lost my little companion. The Doctor called in here on Boxing night
            and ran over and killed Paddy, our pup. It was not his fault but I was very distressed
            about it and George has promised to try and get another pup from the same litter.
            The Hickson-Woods returned home on the 29th December so we decided to
            move across to our nearly finished house on the 1st January. Hicky Wood decided that
            we needed something special to mark the occasion so he went off and killed a sucking
            pig behind the kitchen. The piglet’s screams were terrible and I felt that I would not be
            able to touch any dinner. Lamek cooked and served sucking pig up in the traditional way
            but it was high and quite literally, it stank. Our first meal in our own home was not a
            success.

            However next day all was forgotten and I had something useful to do. George
            hung doors and I held the tools and I also planted rose cuttings I had brought from
            Mbeya and sowed several boxes with seeds.

            Dad asked me about the other farms in the area. I haven’t visited any but there
            are five besides ours. One belongs to the Lutheran Mission at Utengule, a few miles
            from here. The others all belong to British owners. Nearest to Mbeya, at the foot of a
            very high peak which gives Mbeya its name, are two farms, one belonging to a South
            African mining engineer named Griffiths, the other to I.G.Stewart who was an officer in the
            Kings African Rifles. Stewart has a young woman called Queenie living with him. We are
            some miles further along the range of hills and are some 23 miles from Mbeya by road.
            The Mchewe River divides our land from the Hickson-Woods and beyond their farm is
            Major Jones.

            All these people have been away from their farms for some time but have now
            returned so we will have some neighbours in future. However although the houses are
            not far apart as the crow flies, they are all built high in the foothills and it is impossible to
            connect the houses because of the rivers and gorges in between. One has to drive right
            down to the main road and then up again so I do not suppose we will go visiting very
            often as the roads are very bumpy and eroded and petrol is so expensive that we all
            save it for occasional trips to Mbeya.

            The rains are on and George has started to plant out some coffee seedlings. The
            rains here are strange. One can hear the rain coming as it moves like a curtain along the
            range of hills. It comes suddenly, pours for a little while and passes on and the sun
            shines again.

            I do like it here and I wish you could see or dear little home.

            Your loving,
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe Estate. 1st April 1931

            Dearest Family,

            Everything is now running very smoothly in our home. Lamek continues to
            produce palatable meals and makes wonderful bread which he bakes in a four gallon
            petrol tin as we have no stove yet. He puts wood coals on the brick floor of the kitchen,
            lays the tin lengh-wise on the coals and heaps more on top. The bread tins are then put
            in the petrol tin, which has one end cut away, and the open end is covered by a flat
            piece of tin held in place by a brick. Cakes are also backed in this make-shift oven and I
            have never known Lamek to have a failure yet.

            Lamek has a helper, known as the ‘mpishi boy’ , who does most of the hard
            work, cleans pots and pans and chops the firewood etc. Another of the mpishi boy’s
            chores is to kill the two chickens we eat each day. The chickens run wild during the day
            but are herded into a small chicken house at night. One of the kitchen boy’s first duties is
            to let the chickens out first thing in the early morning. Some time after breakfast it dawns
            on Lamek that he will need a chicken for lunch. he informs the kitchen boy who selects a
            chicken and starts to chase it in which he is enthusiastically joined by our new Irish
            wolfhound pup, Kelly. Together they race after the frantic fowl, over the flower beds and
            around the house until finally the chicken collapses from sheer exhaustion. The kitchen
            boy then hands it over to Lamek who murders it with the kitchen knife and then pops the
            corpse into boiling water so the feathers can be stripped off with ease.

            I pointed out in vain, that it would be far simpler if the doomed chickens were kept
            in the chicken house in the mornings when the others were let out and also that the correct
            way to pluck chickens is when they are dry. Lamek just smiled kindly and said that that
            may be so in Europe but that his way is the African way and none of his previous
            Memsahibs has complained.

            My houseboy, named James, is clean and capable in the house and also a
            good ‘dhobi’ or washboy. He takes the washing down to the river and probably
            pounds it with stones, but I prefer not to look. The ironing is done with a charcoal iron
            only we have no charcoal and he uses bits of wood from the kitchen fire but so far there
            has not been a mishap.

            It gets dark here soon after sunset and then George lights the oil lamps and we
            have tea and toast in front of the log fire which burns brightly in our inglenook. This is my
            favourite hour of the day. Later George goes for his bath. I have mine in the mornings
            and we have dinner at half past eight. Then we talk a bit and read a bit and sometimes
            play the gramophone. I expect it all sounds pretty unexciting but it doesn’t seem so to
            me.

            Very much love,
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe Estate 20th April 1931

            Dearest Family,

            It is still raining here and the countryside looks very lush and green, very different
            from the Mbeya district I first knew, when plains and hills were covered in long brown
            grass – very course stuff that grows shoulder high.

            Most of the labourers are hill men and one can see little patches of cultivation in
            the hills. Others live in small villages near by, each consisting of a cluster of thatched huts
            and a few maize fields and perhaps a patch of bananas. We do not have labour lines on
            the farm because our men all live within easy walking distance. Each worker has a labour
            card with thirty little squares on it. One of these squares is crossed off for each days work
            and when all thirty are marked in this way the labourer draws his pay and hies himself off
            to the nearest small store and blows the lot. The card system is necessary because
            these Africans are by no means slaves to work. They work only when they feel like it or
            when someone in the family requires a new garment, or when they need a few shillings
            to pay their annual tax. Their fields, chickens and goats provide them with the food they
            need but they draw rations of maize meal beans and salt. Only our headman is on a
            salary. His name is Thomas and he looks exactly like the statues of Julius Caesar, the
            same bald head and muscular neck and sardonic expression. He comes from Northern
            Rhodesia and is more intelligent than the locals.

            We still live mainly on chickens. We have a boy whose job it is to scour the
            countryside for reasonable fat ones. His name is Lucas and he is quite a character. He
            has such long horse teeth that he does not seem able to close his mouth and wears a
            perpetual amiable smile. He brings his chickens in beehive shaped wicker baskets
            which are suspended on a pole which Lucas carries on his shoulder.

            We buy our groceries in bulk from Mbeya, our vegetables come from our
            garden by the river and our butter from Kath Wood. Our fresh milk we buy from the
            natives. It is brought each morning by three little totos each carrying one bottle on his
            shaven head. Did I tell you that the local Wasafwa file their teeth to points. These kids
            grin at one with their little sharks teeth – quite an “all-ready-to-eat-you-with-my-dear” look.
            A few nights ago a message arrived from Kath Wood to say that Queenie
            Stewart was very ill and would George drive her across to the Doctor at Tukuyu. I
            wanted George to wait until morning because it was pouring with rain, and the mountain
            road to Tukuyu is tricky even in dry weather, but he said it is dangerous to delay with any
            kind of fever in Africa and he would have to start at once. So off he drove in the rain and I
            did not see him again until the following night.

            George said that it had been a nightmare trip. Queenie had a high temperature
            and it was lucky that Kath was able to go to attend to her. George needed all his
            attention on the road which was officially closed to traffic, and very slippery, and in some
            places badly eroded. In some places the decking of bridges had been removed and
            George had to get out in the rain and replace it. As he had nothing with which to fasten
            the decking to the runners it was a dangerous undertaking to cross the bridges especially
            as the rivers are now in flood and flowing strongly. However they reached Tukuyu safely
            and it was just as well they went because the Doctor diagnosed Queenies illness as
            Spirillium Tick Fever which is a very nasty illness indeed.

            Eleanor.

            Mchewe Estate. 20th May 1931

            Dear Family,

            I’m feeling fit and very happy though a bit lonely sometimes because George
            spends much of his time away in the hills cutting a furrow miles long to bring water to the
            house and to the upper part of the shamba so that he will be able to irrigate the coffee
            during the dry season.

            It will be quite an engineering feat when it is done as George only has makeshift
            surveying instruments. He has mounted an ordinary cheap spirit level on an old camera
            tripod and has tacked two gramophone needles into the spirit level to give him a line.
            The other day part of a bank gave way and practically buried two of George’s labourers
            but they were quickly rescued and no harm was done. However he will not let them
            work unless he is there to supervise.

            I keep busy so that the days pass quickly enough. I am delighted with the
            material you sent me for curtains and loose covers and have hired a hand sewing
            machine from Pedro-of-the-overcoat and am rattling away all day. The machine is an
            ancient German one and when I say rattle, I mean rattle. It is a most cumbersome, heavy
            affair of I should say, the same vintage as George Stevenson’s Rocket locomotive.
            Anyway it sews and I am pleased with my efforts. We made a couch ourselves out of a
            native bed, a mattress and some planks but all this is hidden under the chintz cover and
            it looks quite the genuine bought article. I have some diversions too. Small black faced
            monkeys sit in the trees outside our bedroom window and they are most entertaining to
            watch. They are very mischievous though. When I went out into the garden this morning
            before breakfast I found that the monkeys had pulled up all my carnations. There they
            lay, roots in the air and whether they will take again I don’t know.

            I like the monkeys but hate the big mountain baboons that come and hang
            around our chicken house. I am terrified that they will tear our pup into bits because he is
            a plucky young thing and will rush out to bark at the baboons.

            George usually returns for the weekends but last time he did not because he had
            a touch of malaria. He sent a boy down for the mail and some fresh bread. Old Lucas
            arrived with chickens just as the messenger was setting off with mail and bread in a
            haversack on his back. I thought it might be a good idea to send a chicken to George so
            I selected a spry young rooster which I handed to the messenger. He, however,
            complained that he needed both hands for climbing. I then had one of my bright ideas
            and, putting a layer of newspaper over the bread, I tucked the rooster into the haversack
            and buckled down the flap so only his head protruded.

            I thought no more about it until two days later when the messenger again
            appeared for fresh bread. He brought a rather terse note from George saying that the
            previous bread was uneatable as the rooster had eaten some of it and messed on the
            rest. Ah me!

            The previous weekend the Hickson-Woods, Stewarts and ourselves, went
            across to Tukuyu to attend a dance at the club there. the dance was very pleasant. All
            the men wore dinner jackets and the ladies wore long frocks. As there were about
            twenty men and only seven ladies we women danced every dance whilst the surplus
            men got into a huddle around the bar. George and I spent the night with the Agricultural
            Officer, Mr Eustace, and I met his fiancee, Lillian Austin from South Africa, to whom I took
            a great liking. She is Governess to the children of Major Masters who has a farm in the
            Tukuyu district.

            On the Sunday morning we had a look at the township. The Boma was an old German one and was once fortified as the Africans in this district are a very warlike tribe.
            They are fine looking people. The men wear sort of togas and bands of cloth around
            their heads and look like Roman Senators, but the women go naked except for a belt
            from which two broad straps hang down, one in front and another behind. Not a graceful
            garb I assure you.

            We also spent a pleasant hour in the Botanical Gardens, laid out during the last
            war by the District Commissioner, Major Wells, with German prisoner of war labour.
            There are beautiful lawns and beds of roses and other flowers and shady palm lined
            walks and banana groves. The gardens are terraced with flights of brick steps connecting
            the different levels and there is a large artificial pond with little islands in it. I believe Major
            Wells designed the lake to resemble in miniature, the Lakes of Killarney.
            I enjoyed the trip very much. We got home at 8 pm to find the front door locked
            and the kitchen boy fast asleep on my newly covered couch! I hastily retreated to the
            bedroom whilst George handled the situation.

            Eleanor.

            #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.

            #6067
            Jib
            Participant

              Since the sudden disappearance of the two au pair maids, a lot had happened. But for August Finest it has been a lot of the same routine going on.

              He wakes up in the early, early morning, his eyelids rubs on his eyeballs as if they are made of sandpaper. He seizes his belly with his hands, feels a little guilty about the nice meals prepared by Noor Mary especially for him since the start of the confinement. His six packs have started to fade away under a layer of fatty insulation and he tries to compensate by a daily routine in white T-shirt and underwear.

              The coffee machine has detected his movements and starts to make what it does. It’s always cleaned and replenished by the discrete Mary. The noise and the smell creates an ambiance and when it rings he eats breakfast before taking his shower.

              When he’s dressed up, his real work starts. It had not been easy for a man of his origins to appear as the best choice for the job under the Lump administration. President Lump was known to make bad jokes about his tan and him having spent too much time at the beach, and other worse things. But his worth was in the network he could connect the president with, his high discretion, which Lump was in dire need to compensate his innate tendency to boasting, and a strong adaptability to fix the president’s frequent messing around.

              If August Finest had once admired the man and accepted the job for him, it soon changed when he realised there was nothing more underneath the boasting than more boasting and unpredictability. At the moment the only thing that make him continue was his ability to go stealth when the president had a fit of nerves, and the imposed confinement that made it impossible to leave the Beige House.

              After the morning meeting during which the president asked him to fire a few members of the staff, August had to prepare a press conference. President Lump said he had thought about a few remarks about China and making a connection with the Mexican immigrants threatening the country by stealing the masks of the American People. After which, he had to plan a charity with first Lady Mellie Noma and redefine what a Masquerade meant. He had been asked to invite nurses and medical personnel, meaning republican and good looking in a blouse with a medical mask to make the promotion of the new mask industry Made in America. One of Mr Lump’s friend had just started a brand and was in need of some media promotion.

              August reread the memo to be addressed to the director of the FBI, a good friend of his. A special cell at the FBI had been created especially since Lump came to power. For this particular occasion, agents posing as patients victims of the virus would be sent in the best ranked hospitals in the country with the task to look for the best nurse and doctor candidates and send them an invitation printed by Lump’s nephew’s printing company.

              As Lump always said: “America Fist! And don’t forget people, I am America.”

              August hit the enter button and closed the window of his professional mail account, leaving the draft of a personal mail on screen. He wasn’t sure if he could send this one. It was addressed to Noor Mary and he feared she would misunderstand the meaning of it.

              #5657

              “So, what do we do now?” asked Fox. Call it a sixth sense or a seventh sense, but he knew before he got the answer that he was going to regret it somehow. He had always been too quick to ask questions, and his years at the service of Master Gibbon apparently hadn’t made this habit go away.

              “Well dear assistant. You can start with the dishes,” said Kumihimo with a broad smile, “and then clean the rest of the hut.”

              Fox swallowed. He looked at the piles of stuff everywhere. What had seemed fun a moment before, playing with Kumihimo’s recipes and what he still thought of as her power toys, had turned into a chore. Though, his eyes stopped on a paquet he hadn’t notice before. It looked heavy and wet. The wrapping was not completely closed on the top and he thought he could see pink. That renewed his energy and motivation. Thinking that afterwards they would revive Gorrash suddenly made him feel the cleaning would be done in no time. He simply needed to be methodical and tackle each task one by one.

              First the glassware, it was the most fragile and took most of the space outside.

              Fox didn’t know how long he had been at it. He had been so engrossed in the cleaning, that he hadn’t paid attention to the others who had been talking all along. He felt a little exhausted and his stomach growled. How since he last ate. His body was stiff with all the movements and carrying stuff around. He was about to ask for some food when he noticed Kumihimo and Rukshan were still talking. The Fae looked exhausted too, he had his panda eyes, but he seemed captivated by their discussion.

              “Things are going to get worse,” was saying Kumihimo, “We need everybody ready for what’s coming next. The fires were just the beginning.”

              “Do you have anything to eat?” asked Fox not knowing what else to contribute to the conversation. But he knew he wouldn’t be of any help if he didn’t eat something first.

              #4718

              “Tsk tsk,” said Rukshan when he heard that the carpenter hadn’t done anything yet.
              “At least the joiner came and fixed the mirror in the bathroom,” said Fox trying to sound positive.
              They were in the kitchen and Glynis was brewing a chicken stew in Margorrit’s old purple clay pot.
              Fox seemed distracted with saliva gathering at the corner of his mouth. Rukshan realised it was not the best of places to explain his plan with all the smells and spells of Glynis’ spices.
              “Let’s go outside it’ll be best to tell you where we are going,” said Rukshan.
              Fox nodded his consent with great effort.

              “If you go out, just tell Olli to bring in more dry wood for the stove,” said Glynis as they left.

              They took the Troll’s path, a sandy track leading in the thick of the forest.
              “Are you sure we’ll find him there?” asked Rukshan.
              “Trust me,” said Fox pointing at his nose.
              “I thought you had abandoned the shapeshifting and using your fox’s smelling sense?”
              “Well if you want to know, Olli is quite predictable, he’s always at the Young Maid’s pond.

              “I realise I haven’t seen the lad in months,” said Rukshan.
              Fox shrugged. “He’s grown up, like all kids do.”

              They arrived at the pond where Olli was sculpting a branch of wood in an undefinable shape. Rukshan had almost a shock when he saw how much little Olli had changed. He was different, almost another person physically. Taller and with a man’s body. It took the Fae some time when he had to tell himself that the person in front of him was the boy that had helped them in the mountain. But Rukshan was not the kind to show many emotions so he just said.

              “You’ve grown boy.”
              Olli shrugged and stopped what he was doing.
              “I’ve heard so,” he said. “She wants more wood?”
              “Yeah,” said Fox with a knowing grin.
              “Okay.”
              Olliver sighed and left with supple movements.

              When the young man was gone, Fox turned towards the Fae, whose eyes seemed lost in the misty mountains.
              “So, what is the plan?”
              “I’m thinking of a new plan that shall make use of everyone’s potential and save a young man from boredom.”

              #4538

              The next morning Fox woke up exhausted. He was surprised he could even sleep at all. The sound of someone walking in the snow filled in his ears and he looked around him. There was nobody in the cave with him, except for one little rat looking at him from the top of a bag of food. Fox shooed it away with wide movements of his arms and he regretted immediately when all the warmth kept under the blankets dissolved in the cold morning air. But he noticed there was improvement in his health as he felt hungry.

              He decided it was no good being lazy in a bed and put on a few more layers of clothes. He took some dry oatcakes from the bag where the rat had looked at him earlier, and made sure they were securely wrapped before he left the cave.

              The air was clear and crisp, and the ground had been covered in a thick layer of blinding white snow. The brightness hurt Fox’s eyes and he had to cover then with his hands. He walked towards Rukshan’s voice and his heart leaped in his chest when he recognised their friend Lhamom. She had come at last. She looked at Fox.

              “You look dreadful,” she said. “It is time I got to you.”
              “Yes,” said Fox, and he was surprised that this simple word could carry such great relief.

              That’s when Fox noticed the big old spoon Lhamom had in her hands.

              “This is the magical artefact we were looking for. I found it on my way to see you and fortunately I had chocolate bars with me that I could trade for it with the monks.”

              Fox’s stomach growled. Maybe he would have preferred she kept the chocolate.

              “Does that mean that we can go home?” asked Fox, a tear in his eyes.

              Rukshan gave his friend a strange look before answering.

              “Yes. We are going… home.”

              #4495
              Jib
              Participant

                Shawn-Paul lived in a studio apartment, crammed with bookshelves full of books and trinkets that he gathered during his many walks around the city while looking for inspiration. He hadn’t read all of the books, but he always had the intention to do it one day. One day easily became two and three, and so many.
                Someone with OCD could dust date the different purchases by measuring the thickness of the layer of dust on the books.

                That day, Shawn-Paul was drinking a hot chocolate at his computer on the small desk where some books lied open or closed on top of each others. The top one’s cover claimed in bold red letters “NARRATIVE COACHING, The Definitive Guide to Bring New Stories to Life”. Shawn-Paul had bought it thinking it was a coaching book for writers but it apparently aimed at teaching coaches to tell good stories. The book had proved interesting and especially another occasion to enrich his knowledge about the world or in one word procrastinate.

                Shawn-Paul took a sip of the hot chocolate, which was now more lukewarm than hot and felt the impulsion to open his browser and watch a video about narrative coaching on U-stub. That’s when it all went wrong and myriads of ads popped up and covered the screen and his newly bought writer software were the first word of his novel still waited to appear.

                At first, he panicked and his sudden movements back and fro almost broke the fragile equilibrium of the desk clutter. But then he shrugged, took his phone to call his friend Jeremiad for help and remembered how that went last time when he had to listen to his friend’s imaginary problems, just like imaginary friends but worse. He put the phone back in the clutter and looked at the last ad. A girl with sensuous cherry red lips winking at him with a packet of granola cookies spinning around her head.

                Unaware of what was happening, Shawn-Paul felt hungry and considered his lukewarm chocolate. He smiled as he thought he could make another one and enjoy dipping some cookies in it.
                He went to the kitchen and foraged through the clutter of dirty dishes and empty cookie packets. There were none left. The effect of hunger on Shawn-Paul was square grumpiness. Not round, not rectangular. Square. And it didn’t fit the curves of his stomach.

                Shawn-Paul put his writer’s jacket and cap on, added a wool scarf because he had a sensitive throat, and it looked cool on him and he winked at his reflection on the mirror hanging on the main door.
                He left, unaware of the smile of the granola girl.

                #4426
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Albie pondered Lottie’s words. He’d been trying to forget the doline, but now he realized he’d been avoiding the inevitable. It was no good pretending there were other jobs for him, that much was becoming clear. His mission had been to protect the doline, and he’d failed.

                  Or had he? A new idea was glimmering in his mind, that he hadn’t failed at all. At first he’d been so embarrassed and anxious about the security breach that he’d only seen the obvious superficial layer of events. Yes, strangers had entered the doline; true, they were not supposed to let that happen. But now he wondered, were they strangers to the doline? Who were they? Maybe they were meant to enter, and his apparent lack of attention was a providential and timely. How did he, Albie, even know for sure that he was working for the right side? What did he really know about his bosses? And what about that handsome fellow who’d slithered out of the doline, the dark eyed one with leaves in his hair?

                  Albie hadn’t even told Alex about him, not after the shit hit the fan about the breach and illegal entry. The last thing he felt like doing was admitting that there had been an illegal escape as well. But Albie couldn’t stop thinking about him, the graceful way he shook the dust out of his hair, the depths of those lustrous dark eyes, his long slender fingers….

                  Now, Albie was kicking himself for hiding behind a tree, for not approaching the strange man, or at least following him to see where he was going. His job was to stop people from entering. Nobody had said anything about stopping people leaving it. It was unexpected, and he’d been scared. Was it too late to try and track his movements? He’d come out of the doline, he’d have stories to tell. Albie needed to know, he needed to find him.

                  He would find a way to trace him. He wondered if the new dog could help him, if he could find something with the mans scent upon it. Albie was determined to find a way.

                  #4302
                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

                    “Where has Finnley gone this time?” Liz’ pestered with wide movements of her arms.
                    “Dinner isn’t going to cook itself, and honestly, as much as I said I love it, don’t let Godfrey order in more Indian food!”

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