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  • #6494

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    Although not one to remember dreams very often, Zara awoke the next morning with vivid and colourful dream recall.  She wondered if it was something to do with the dreamtime mural on the wall of her room.  If this turned out to be the case, she considered painting some murals on her bedroom wall back at the Bungwalley Valley animal rescue centre when she got home.

    Zara and Idle had hit it off immediately, chatting and laughing on the verandah after supper.   Idle told her a bit about the local area and the mines.  Despite Bert’s warnings, she wanted to see them. They were only an hour away from the inn.

    When she retired to her room for the night, she looked on the internet for more information. The more she read online about the mines, the more intrigued she became.

    “Interestingly there are no actual houses left from the original township. The common explanation is that a rumour spread that there was gold hidden in the walls of the houses and consequently they were knocked down by people believing there was ‘gold in them there walls”. Of course it was only a rumour. No gold was found.”

    “Miners attracted to the area originally by the garnets, found alluvial and reef gold at Arltunga…”

    Garnets!  Zara recalled the story her friend had told her about finding a cursed garnet near a fort in St Augustine in Florida.  Apparently there were a number of mines that one could visit:

    “the MacDonnell Range Reef Mine, the Christmas Reef Mine, the Golden Chance Mine, the Joker Mine and the Great Western Mine all of which are worth a visit.”

    Zara imagined Xavier making a crack about the Joker Mine, and wondered why it had been named that.

    “The whole area is preserved as though the inhabitants simply walked away from it only yesterday. The curious visitor who walks just a little way off the paths will see signs of previous habitation. Old pieces of meat safes, pieces of rusted wire, rusted cans, and pieces of broken glass litter the ground. There is nothing of great importance but each little shard is reminder of the people who once lived and worked here.”

    I wonder if Bert will take me there, Zara wondered. If not, maybe one of the others can pick up a hire car when they arrive at Alice.   Might even be best not to tell anyone at the inn where they were going.  Funny coincidence the nearest town was called Alice ~ it was already beginning to seem like some kind of rabbit hole she was falling into.

    Undecided whether to play some more of the game which had ended abruptly upon encountering the blue robed vendor, Zara decided not to and picked up the book on Dreamtime that was on the bedside table.

    “Some of the ancestors or spirit beings inhabiting the Dreamtime become one with parts of the landscape, such as rocks or trees…”  Flicking through the book, she read random excerpts.   “A mythic map of Australia would show thousands of characters, varying in their importance, but all in some way connected with the land. Some emerged at their specific sites and stayed spiritually in that vicinity. Others came from somewhere else and went somewhere else. Many were shape changing, transformed from or into human beings or natural species, or into natural features such as rocks but all left something of their spiritual essence at the places noted in their stories….”

    Thousands of characters. Zara smiled sleepily, recalling the many stories she and her friends had written together over the years.

    “People come and go but the Land, and stories about the Land, stay. This is a wisdom that takes lifetimes of listening, observing and experiencing … There is a deep understanding of human nature and the environment… sites hold ‘feelings’ which cannot be described in physical terms… subtle feelings that resonate through the bodies of these people… It is only when talking and being with these people that these ‘feelings’ can truly be appreciated. This is… the intangible reality of these people…..”

    With such strong ancestral connections to the land, Zara couldn’t help but wonder what the aboriginal people felt about all the mines.   If one of their ancestors had shape changed into rocks, and then some foreignors came along and hacked and blasted their way through, what would they think of that?

    “….many Aboriginal groups widely distributed across the Australian continent all appeared to share variations of a single (common) myth telling of an unusually powerful, often creative, often dangerous snake or serpent of sometimes enormous size closely associated with the rainbows, rain, rivers, and deep waterholes…..”

    She drifted off to sleep thinking of water holes in red rocky gorges, the book laying open in her hand.

    When she awoke the next morning with the slatted morning sun shining through the venetian blinds,  the dream image of the water hole was bright and clear in her minds eye.  But what was that strange character from the game doing in her dream?

    Osnas dreamtime waterhole

     

    She closed her eyes, remembering more of the strange dream.  Deeply orange red boulders and rocky outcrops, shivering gum trees, and green pools ~ it was coming back to her now, that creature in the blue robes had appeared more than once.  In one scene he appeared with a blue diamond lantern with what looked like a compass inside.

    Osnas lantern compass

    I’ll ask about the hiking trails today, Zara decided, and go for a walk in that gorge I read about yesterday. Bert said there were good hiking trails.   You came here early so you could play the game, she reminded herself.

    “It’s all a game,” she heard the parrot outside her window.

    “I’d forgotten about the bloody parrot!” Zara said under her breath. “Pretty Girl!” she said, opening the blinds. “We’re going out for a walk today.”

    #6490

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    Youssef gave his passport and ticket to the woman at gate 11. He was followed closely by Kyle and other members of the team. The flight attendant looked at him and gave him his passport and ticket back without scanning them with her machine.

    “I’m sorry, you’re at the wrong gate. Your flight is at gate 8,” she said.

    “But I’m going to Boston. My ticket says gate 11.”

    Youssef showed his ticket to the hostess, and she pointed the destination and the gate to him. She was right.

    “Your ticket is for flight AL357 to Sydney. It’s currently boarding at gate 8. Next person please.”

    Kyle patted him on the shoulder.

    “You should have double checked your ticket, he said.”

    “What’s wrong? asked Miss Tartiflate. Why are you going to Australia?”

    “I’m not.”

    “Well, it says you are,” she said pointing at the ticket. He didn’t understand the dark intensity of her gaze and her clenched fist, until he remembered that Botty Banworth lived there.

    “I’m not… I mean…”

    “You better not. If I hear you were in with that…”

    The words got lost as they broadcasted a call for flight AL357 to Sydney at Gate 8.

    “You’d better get that f…ing BLOG running during your little vacation or you can stay there and forget about your job,” she said before bumping into the border of the gate.

    Youssef moved on the side and looked at his ticket to Sydney, puzzled. When he passed security his ticket was to Boston. He recalled a message from Zara saying she would meet them in Australia soon. But how could she have managed to change his ticket without his knowing.

    Sure there was that moment when he had left his passport with his ticket on the table at the Starmoose when going back to the counter pick his second slice of cinnamon apple tart. But he was looking away only for a few seconds.

    “This is the last call for flight AL357 to Sydney. Youssef Ali is requested at Gate 8 before we close the gate.”

    Let’s just hope whomever made the change thought about transferring my luggage to the right plane,” he said as he started walking to Gate 8 with his bag.

    #6487
    DevanDevan
    Participant

      I’ve always felt like the odd one out in my family. Growing up at the Flying Fish Inn, I’ve always felt like I was on the outside looking in. My mother left when I was young, and my father disappeared not long after. I’ve always felt like I was the only one who didn’t fit in with the craziness of my family.

      I’ve always tried to keep my distance with the others. I didn’t want to get too involved, take sides about petty things, like growing weed in the backyard, making psychedelic termite honey, or trying to influence the twins to buy proper clothes. But truth is, you can’t get too far away. Town’s too small. Family always get back to you, and manage to get you involved in their shit, one way or another, even if you don’t say anything. That’s how it works. They don’t need my participation to use me as an argument.

      So I stopped paying attention, almost stopped caring. I lived my life working at the gas station, and drinking beers with my buddies Joe and Jasper, living in a semi-comatose state. I learned that word today when I came bringing little honey buns to mater. I know she secretly likes them, even if she pretend she doesn’t in front of Idle. But I can see the breadcrumbs on her cardigan when I come say hi at the end of the day. This morning, Idle was rocking in her favourite chair on the porch, looking at the clouds behind her mirrored sunglasses. Prune was talking to her, I saw she was angry because of the contraction of the muscles of her jaw and her eyes were darker than usual. She was saying to Idle that she was always in a semi-comatose state and doing nothing useful for the Inn when we had a bunch of tourists arriving. And something about the twins redecorating the rooms without proper design knowledge. Idle did what she usually does. She ignored the comment and kept on looking at the clouds. I’m not even sure she heard or understood that word that Prune said. Semi-comatose. It sounds like glucose. That’s how I’m spending my life between the Inn, the gas station and my buddies.

      But things changed today when I got back to my apartment for lunch. You can call it a hunch or a coincidence. But as we talked with Joe about that time when my dad left, making me think we were doing hide and seek, and he left me a note saying he would be back someday. I don’t know why I felt the need to go search that note afterwards. So I went back to the apartment and opened the mailbox. Among the bills and ads, I found a postcard with a few words written on the image and nothing except my address on the back. I knew it was from my dad.

      It was not signed or anything, but still I was sure it was his handwriting. I would recognise it anywhere. I went and took the shoebox I keep hidden on top of the kitchen closet, because I saw people do that in movies. That’s not very original, I know, but I’m not too bright either. I opened the box and took the note my dad left me when he disappeared.

      I put the card on the desk near the note. The handwritings matched. I felt so excited, and confused.

      A few words at the bottom of the card said : “Memories from the coldest place on Earth…”

      Why would dad go to such a place to send me a postcard after all those years ? Just to say that.

      That’s when I recalled what Prune had told me once as we were watching a detective movie : “Read everything with care and always double check your information.”

      On the back, it said that the image was from a scientific station in Antartica, but the stamp indicated it had been posted from a floating post office in the North Pole. I turned the card and looked at the text again. Above the station, a few words were written that sounded like a riddle.

      > A mine, a tile, dust piled high,
      Together they rest, yet always outside.
      One misstep, and you’ll surely fall,
      Into the depths, where danger lies all.

      It sure sounds like a warning. But I’m not too good with riddles. No need to worry Mater about that, in case of false hope and all that. Idle ? Don’t even think about it. She won’t believe me when I say it’s from dad. She never does believe me. And she’ll keep playing with the words trying to find her answer in the shape of smoke. The twins, they are a riddle on their own.

      No. It’s Prune’s help I need.

      #6484

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       

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

      Zaras mine entrance

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

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

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

       

      Zara tile mine entrance

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

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

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

      Zara mine tunnels

      #6468

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

      “But the boarding is only in one hour!”

      “Well I can’t wait one hour.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      He opened the second message.

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

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

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

      “Need help? Contact me 👉”

      Sands_of_time is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓
      #6334
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        The House on Penn Common

        Toi Fang and the Duke of Sutherland

         

        Tomlinsons

         

         

        Penn Common

        Grassholme

         

        Charles Tomlinson (1873-1929) my great grandfather, was born in Wolverhampton in 1873. His father Charles Tomlinson (1847-1907) was a licensed victualler or publican, or alternatively a vet/castrator. He married Emma Grattidge (1853-1911) in 1872. On the 1881 census they were living at The Wheel in Wolverhampton.

        Charles married Nellie Fisher (1877-1956) in Wolverhampton in 1896. In 1901 they were living next to the post office in Upper Penn, with children (Charles) Sidney Tomlinson (1896-1955), and Hilda Tomlinson (1898-1977) . Charles was a vet/castrator working on his own account.

        In 1911 their address was 4, Wakely Hill, Penn, and living with them were their children Hilda, Frank Tomlinson (1901-1975), (Dorothy) Phyllis Tomlinson (1905-1982), Nellie Tomlinson (1906-1978) and May Tomlinson (1910-1983). Charles was a castrator working on his own account.

        Charles and Nellie had a further four children: Charles Fisher Tomlinson (1911-1977), Margaret Tomlinson (1913-1989) (my grandmother Peggy), Major Tomlinson (1916-1984) and Norah Mary Tomlinson (1919-2010).

        My father told me that my grandmother had fallen down the well at the house on Penn Common in 1915 when she was two years old, and sent me a photo of her standing next to the well when she revisted the house at a much later date.

        Peggy next to the well on Penn Common:

        Peggy well Penn

         

        My grandmother Peggy told me that her father had had a racehorse called Toi Fang. She remembered the racing colours were sky blue and orange, and had a set of racing silks made which she sent to my father.
        Through a DNA match, I met Ian Tomlinson. Ian is the son of my fathers favourite cousin Roger, Frank’s son. Ian found some racing silks and sent a photo to my father (they are now in contact with each other as a result of my DNA match with Ian), wondering what they were.

        Toi Fang

         

        When Ian sent a photo of these racing silks, I had a look in the newspaper archives. In 1920 there are a number of mentions in the racing news of Mr C Tomlinson’s horse TOI FANG. I have not found any mention of Toi Fang in the newspapers in the following years.

        The Scotsman – Monday 12 July 1920:

        Toi Fang

         

         

        The other story that Ian Tomlinson recalled was about the house on Penn Common. Ian said he’d heard that the local titled person took Charles Tomlinson to court over building the house but that Tomlinson won the case because it was built on common land and was the first case of it’s kind.

        Penn Common

         

        Penn Common Right of Way Case:
        Staffordshire Advertiser March 9, 1912

        In the chancery division, on Tuesday, before Mr Justice Joyce, it was announced that a settlement had been arrived at of the Penn Common Right of Way case, the hearing of which occupied several days last month. The action was brought by the Duke of Sutherland (as Lord of the Manor of Penn) and Mr Harry Sydney Pitt (on behalf of himself and other freeholders of the manor having a right to pasturage on Penn Common) to restrain Mr James Lakin, Carlton House, Penn; Mr Charles Tomlinson, Mayfield Villa, Wakely Hill, Penn; and Mr Joseph Harold Simpkin, Dudley Road, Wolverhampton, from drawing building materials across the common, or otherwise causing injury to the soil.

        The real point in dispute was whether there was a public highway for all purposes running by the side of the defendants land from the Turf Tavern past the golf club to the Barley Mow.
        Mr Hughes, KC for the plaintiffs, now stated that the parties had been in consultation, and had come to terms, the substance of which was that the defendants admitted that there was no public right of way, and that they were granted a private way. This, he thought, would involve the granting of some deed or deeds to express the rights of the parties, and he suggested that the documents should be be settled by some counsel to be mutually agreed upon.

        His lordship observed that the question of coal was probably the important point. Mr Younger said Mr Tomlinson was a freeholder, and the plaintiffs could not mine under him. Mr Hughes: The coal actually under his house is his, and, of course, subsidence might be produced by taking away coal some distance away. I think some document is required to determine his actual rights.
        Mr Younger said he wanted to avoid anything that would increase the costs, but, after further discussion, it was agreed that Mr John Dixon (an expert on mineral rights), or failing him, another counsel satisfactory to both parties, should be invited to settle the terms scheduled in the agreement, in order to prevent any further dispute.

         

        Penn Common case

         

        The name of the house is Grassholme.  The address of Mayfield Villas is the house they were living in while building Grassholme, which I assume they had not yet moved in to at the time of the newspaper article in March 1912.

         

         

        What my grandmother didn’t tell anyone was how her father died in 1929:

         

        1929 Charles Tomlinson

         

         

        On the 1921 census, Charles, Nellie and eight of their children were living at 269 Coleman Street, Wolverhampton.

        1921 census Tomlinson

         

         

        They were living on Coleman Street in 1915 when Charles was fined for staying open late.

        Staffordshire Advertiser – Saturday 13 February 1915:

         

        1915 butcher fined

         

        What is not yet clear is why they moved from the house on Penn Common sometime between 1912 and 1915. And why did he have a racehorse in 1920?

        #6266
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          From Tanganyika with Love

          continued part 7

          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

          Oldeani Hospital. 19th September 1938

          Dearest Family,

          George arrived today to take us home to Mbulu but Sister Marianne will not allow
          me to travel for another week as I had a bit of a set back after baby’s birth. At first I was
          very fit and on the third day Sister stripped the bed and, dictionary in hand, started me
          off on ante natal exercises. “Now make a bridge Mrs Rushby. So. Up down, up down,’
          whilst I obediently hoisted myself aloft on heels and head. By the sixth day she
          considered it was time for me to be up and about but alas, I soon had to return to bed
          with a temperature and a haemorrhage. I got up and walked outside for the first time this
          morning.

          I have had lots of visitors because the local German settlers seem keen to see
          the first British baby born in the hospital. They have been most kind, sending flowers
          and little German cards of congratulations festooned with cherubs and rather sweet. Most
          of the women, besides being pleasant, are very smart indeed, shattering my illusion that
          German matrons are invariably fat and dowdy. They are all much concerned about the
          Czecko-Slovakian situation, especially Sister Marianne whose home is right on the
          border and has several relations who are Sudentan Germans. She is ant-Nazi and
          keeps on asking me whether I think England will declare war if Hitler invades Czecko-
          Slovakia, as though I had inside information.

          George tells me that he has had a grass ‘banda’ put up for us at Mbulu as we are
          both determined not to return to those prison-like quarters in the Fort. Sister Marianne is
          horrified at the idea of taking a new baby to live in a grass hut. She told George,
          “No,No,Mr Rushby. I find that is not to be allowed!” She is an excellent Sister but rather
          prim and George enjoys teasing her. This morning he asked with mock seriousness,
          “Sister, why has my wife not received her medal?” Sister fluttered her dictionary before
          asking. “What medal Mr Rushby”. “Why,” said George, “The medal that Hitler gives to
          women who have borne four children.” Sister started a long and involved explanation
          about the medal being only for German mothers whilst George looked at me and
          grinned.

          Later. Great Jubilation here. By the noise in Sister Marianne’s sitting room last night it
          sounded as though the whole German population had gathered to listen to the wireless
          news. I heard loud exclamations of joy and then my bedroom door burst open and
          several women rushed in. “Thank God “, they cried, “for Neville Chamberlain. Now there
          will be no war.” They pumped me by the hand as though I were personally responsible
          for the whole thing.

          George on the other hand is disgusted by Chamberlain’s lack of guts. Doesn’t
          know what England is coming to these days. I feel too content to concern myself with
          world affairs. I have a fine husband and four wonderful children and am happy, happy,
          happy.

          Eleanor.

          Mbulu. 30th September 1938

          Dearest Family,

          Here we are, comfortably installed in our little green house made of poles and
          rushes from a nearby swamp. The house has of course, no doors or windows, but
          there are rush blinds which roll up in the day time. There are two rooms and a little porch
          and out at the back there is a small grass kitchen.

          Here we have the privacy which we prize so highly as we are screened on one
          side by a Forest Department plantation and on the other three sides there is nothing but
          the rolling countryside cropped bare by the far too large herds of cattle and goats of the
          Wambulu. I have a lovely lazy time. I still have Kesho-Kutwa and the cook we brought
          with us from the farm. They are both faithful and willing souls though not very good at
          their respective jobs. As one of these Mbeya boys goes on safari with George whose
          job takes him from home for three weeks out of four, I have taken on a local boy to cut
          firewood and heat my bath water and generally make himself useful. His name is Saa,
          which means ‘Clock’

          We had an uneventful but very dusty trip from Oldeani. Johnny Jo travelled in his
          pram in the back of the boxbody and got covered in dust but seems none the worst for
          it. As the baby now takes up much of my time and Kate was showing signs of
          boredom, I have engaged a little African girl to come and play with Kate every morning.
          She is the daughter of the head police Askari and a very attractive and dignified little
          person she is. Her name is Kajyah. She is scrupulously clean, as all Mohammedan
          Africans seem to be. Alas, Kajyah, though beautiful, is a bore. She simply does not
          know how to play, so they just wander around hand in hand.

          There are only two drawbacks to this little house. Mbulu is a very windy spot so
          our little reed house is very draughty. I have made a little tent of sheets in one corner of
          the ‘bedroom’ into which I can retire with Johnny when I wish to bathe or sponge him.
          The other drawback is that many insects are attracted at night by the lamp and make it
          almost impossible to read or sew and they have a revolting habit of falling into the soup.
          There are no dangerous wild animals in this area so I am not at all nervous in this
          flimsy little house when George is on safari. Most nights hyaenas come around looking
          for scraps but our dogs, Fanny and Paddy, soon see them off.

          Eleanor.

          Mbulu. 25th October 1938

          Dearest Family,

          Great news! a vacancy has occurred in the Game Department. George is to
          transfer to it next month. There will be an increase in salary and a brighter prospect for
          the future. It will mean a change of scene and I shall be glad of that. We like Mbulu and
          the people here but the rains have started and our little reed hut is anything but water
          tight.

          Before the rain came we had very unpleasant dust storms. I think I told you that
          this is a treeless area and the grass which normally covers the veldt has been cropped
          to the roots by the hungry native cattle and goats. When the wind blows the dust
          collects in tall black columns which sweep across the country in a most spectacular
          fashion. One such dust devil struck our hut one day whilst we were at lunch. George
          swept Kate up in a second and held her face against his chest whilst I rushed to Johnny
          Jo who was asleep in his pram, and stooped over the pram to protect him. The hut
          groaned and creaked and clouds of dust blew in through the windows and walls covering
          our persons, food, and belongings in a black pall. The dogs food bowls and an empty
          petrol tin outside the hut were whirled up and away. It was all over in a moment but you
          should have seen what a family of sweeps we looked. George looked at our blackened
          Johnny and mimicked in Sister Marianne’s primmest tones, “I find that this is not to be
          allowed.”

          The first rain storm caught me unprepared when George was away on safari. It
          was a terrific thunderstorm. The quite violent thunder and lightening were followed by a
          real tropical downpour. As the hut is on a slight slope, the storm water poured through
          the hut like a river, covering the entire floor, and the roof leaked like a lawn sprinkler.
          Johnny Jo was snug enough in the pram with the hood raised, but Kate and I had a
          damp miserable night. Next morning I had deep drains dug around the hut and when
          George returned from safari he managed to borrow an enormous tarpaulin which is now
          lashed down over the roof.

          It did not rain during the next few days George was home but the very next night
          we were in trouble again. I was awakened by screams from Kate and hurriedly turned up
          the lamp to see that we were in the midst of an invasion of siafu ants. Kate’s bed was
          covered in them. Others appeared to be raining down from the thatch. I quickly stripped
          Kate and carried her across to my bed, whilst I rushed to the pram to see whether
          Johnny Jo was all right. He was fast asleep, bless him, and slept on through all the
          commotion, whilst I struggled to pick all the ants out of Kate’s hair, stopping now and
          again to attend to my own discomfort. These ants have a painful bite and seem to
          choose all the most tender spots. Kate fell asleep eventually but I sat up for the rest of
          the night to make sure that the siafu kept clear of the children. Next morning the servants
          dispersed them by laying hot ash.

          In spite of the dampness of the hut both children are blooming. Kate has rosy
          cheeks and Johnny Jo now has a fuzz of fair hair and has lost his ‘old man’ look. He
          reminds me of Ann at his age.

          Eleanor.

          Iringa. 30th November 1938

          Dearest Family,

          Here we are back in the Southern Highlands and installed on the second floor of
          another German Fort. This one has been modernised however and though not so
          romantic as the Mbulu Fort from the outside, it is much more comfortable.We are all well
          and I am really proud of our two safari babies who stood up splendidly to a most trying
          journey North from Mbulu to Arusha and then South down the Great North Road to
          Iringa where we expect to stay for a month.

          At Arusha George reported to the headquarters of the Game Department and
          was instructed to come on down here on Rinderpest Control. There is a great flap on in
          case the rinderpest spread to Northern Rhodesia and possibly onwards to Southern
          Rhodesia and South Africa. Extra veterinary officers have been sent to this area to
          inoculate all the cattle against the disease whilst George and his African game Scouts will
          comb the bush looking for and destroying diseased game. If the rinderpest spreads,
          George says it may be necessary to shoot out all the game in a wide belt along the
          border between the Southern Highlands of Tanganyika and Northern Rhodesia, to
          prevent the disease spreading South. The very idea of all this destruction sickens us
          both.

          George left on a foot safari the day after our arrival and I expect I shall be lucky if I
          see him occasionally at weekends until this job is over. When rinderpest is under control
          George is to be stationed at a place called Nzassa in the Eastern Province about 18
          miles from Dar es Salaam. George’s orderly, who is a tall, cheerful Game Scout called
          Juma, tells me that he has been stationed at Nzassa and it is a frightful place! However I
          refuse to be depressed. I now have the cheering prospect of leave to England in thirty
          months time when we will be able to fetch Ann and George and be a proper family
          again. Both Ann and George look happy in the snapshots which mother-in-law sends
          frequently. Ann is doing very well at school and loves it.

          To get back to our journey from Mbulu. It really was quite an experience. It
          poured with rain most of the way and the road was very slippery and treacherous the
          120 miles between Mbulu and Arusha. This is a little used earth road and the drains are
          so blocked with silt as to be practically non existent. As usual we started our move with
          the V8 loaded to capacity. I held Johnny on my knee and Kate squeezed in between
          George and me. All our goods and chattels were in wooden boxes stowed in the back
          and the two houseboys and the two dogs had to adjust themselves to the space that
          remained. We soon ran into trouble and it took us all day to travel 47 miles. We stuck
          several times in deep mud and had some most nasty skids. I simply clutched Kate in
          one hand and Johnny Jo in the other and put my trust in George who never, under any
          circumstances, loses his head. Poor Johnny only got his meals when circumstances
          permitted. Unfortunately I had put him on a bottle only a few days before we left Mbulu
          and, as I was unable to buy either a primus stove or Thermos flask there we had to
          make a fire and boil water for each meal. Twice George sat out in the drizzle with a rain
          coat rapped over his head to protect a miserable little fire of wet sticks drenched with
          paraffin. Whilst we waited for the water to boil I pacified John by letting him suck a cube
          of Tate and Lyles sugar held between my rather grubby fingers. Not at all according to
          the book.

          That night George, the children and I slept in the car having dumped our boxes
          and the two servants in a deserted native hut. The rain poured down relentlessly all night
          and by morning the road was more of a morass than ever. We swerved and skidded
          alarmingly till eventually one of the wheel chains broke and had to be tied together with
          string which constantly needed replacing. George was so patient though he was wet
          and muddy and tired and both children were very good. Shortly before reaching the Great North Road we came upon Jack Gowan, the Stock Inspector from Mbulu. His car
          was bogged down to its axles in black mud. He refused George’s offer of help saying
          that he had sent his messenger to a nearby village for help.

          I hoped that conditions would be better on the Great North Road but how over
          optimistic I was. For miles the road runs through a belt of ‘black cotton soil’. which was
          churned up into the consistency of chocolate blancmange by the heavy lorry traffic which
          runs between Dodoma and Arusha. Soon the car was skidding more fantastically than
          ever. Once it skidded around in a complete semi circle so George decided that it would
          be safer for us all to walk whilst he negotiated the very bad patches. You should have
          seen me plodding along in the mud and drizzle with the baby in one arm and Kate
          clinging to the other. I was terrified of slipping with Johnny. Each time George reached
          firm ground he would return on foot to carry Kate and in this way we covered many bad
          patches.We were more fortunate than many other travellers. We passed several lorries
          ditched on the side of the road and one car load of German men, all elegantly dressed in
          lounge suits. One was busy with his camera so will have a record of their plight to laugh
          over in the years to come. We spent another night camping on the road and next day
          set out on the last lap of the journey. That also was tiresome but much better than the
          previous day and we made the haven of the Arusha Hotel before dark. What a picture
          we made as we walked through the hall in our mud splattered clothes! Even Johnny was
          well splashed with mud but no harm was done and both he and Kate are blooming.
          We rested for two days at Arusha and then came South to Iringa. Luckily the sun
          came out and though for the first day the road was muddy it was no longer so slippery
          and the second day found us driving through parched country and along badly
          corrugated roads. The further South we came, the warmer the sun which at times blazed
          through the windscreen and made us all uncomfortably hot. I have described the country
          between Arusha and Dodoma before so I shan’t do it again. We reached Iringa without
          mishap and after a good nights rest all felt full of beans.

          Eleanor.

          Mchewe Estate, Mbeya. 7th January 1939.

          Dearest Family,

          You will be surprised to note that we are back on the farm! At least the children
          and I are here. George is away near the Rhodesian border somewhere, still on
          Rinderpest control.

          I had a pleasant time at Iringa, lots of invitations to morning tea and Kate had a
          wonderful time enjoying the novelty of playing with children of her own age. She is not
          shy but nevertheless likes me to be within call if not within sight. It was all very suburban
          but pleasant enough. A few days before Christmas George turned up at Iringa and
          suggested that, as he would be working in the Mbeya area, it might be a good idea for
          the children and me to move to the farm. I agreed enthusiastically, completely forgetting
          that after my previous trouble with the leopard I had vowed to myself that I would never
          again live alone on the farm.

          Alas no sooner had we arrived when Thomas, our farm headman, brought the
          news that there were now two leopards terrorising the neighbourhood, and taking dogs,
          goats and sheep and chickens. Traps and poisoned bait had been tried in vain and he
          was sure that the female was the same leopard which had besieged our home before.
          Other leopards said Thomas, came by stealth but this one advertised her whereabouts
          in the most brazen manner.

          George stayed with us on the farm over Christmas and all was quiet at night so I
          cheered up and took the children for walks along the overgrown farm paths. However on
          New Years Eve that darned leopard advertised her presence again with the most blood
          chilling grunts and snarls. Horrible! Fanny and Paddy barked and growled and woke up
          both children. Kate wept and kept saying, “Send it away mummy. I don’t like it.” Johnny
          Jo howled in sympathy. What a picnic. So now the whole performance of bodyguards
          has started again and ‘till George returns we confine our exercise to the garden.
          Our little house is still cosy and sweet but the coffee plantation looks very
          neglected. I wish to goodness we could sell it.

          Eleanor.

          Nzassa 14th February 1939.

          Dearest Family,

          After three months of moving around with two small children it is heavenly to be
          settled in our own home, even though Nzassa is an isolated spot and has the reputation
          of being unhealthy.

          We travelled by car from Mbeya to Dodoma by now a very familiar stretch of
          country, but from Dodoma to Dar es Salaam by train which made a nice change. We
          spent two nights and a day in the Splendid Hotel in Dar es Salaam, George had some
          official visits to make and I did some shopping and we took the children to the beach.
          The bay is so sheltered that the sea is as calm as a pond and the water warm. It is
          wonderful to see the sea once more and to hear tugs hooting and to watch the Arab
          dhows putting out to sea with their oddly shaped sails billowing. I do love the bush, but
          I love the sea best of all, as you know.

          We made an early start for Nzassa on the 3rd. For about four miles we bowled
          along a good road. This brought us to a place called Temeke where George called on
          the District Officer. His house appears to be the only European type house there. The
          road between Temeke and the turn off to Nzassa is quite good, but the six mile stretch
          from the turn off to Nzassa is a very neglected bush road. There is nothing to be seen
          but the impenetrable bush on both sides with here and there a patch of swampy
          ground where rice is planted in the wet season.

          After about six miles of bumpy road we reached Nzassa which is nothing more
          than a sandy clearing in the bush. Our house however is a fine one. It was originally built
          for the District Officer and there is a small court house which is now George’s office. The
          District Officer died of blackwater fever so Nzassa was abandoned as an administrative
          station being considered too unhealthy for Administrative Officers but suitable as
          Headquarters for a Game Ranger. Later a bachelor Game Ranger was stationed here
          but his health also broke down and he has been invalided to England. So now the
          healthy Rushbys are here and we don’t mean to let the place get us down. So don’t
          worry.

          The house consists of three very large and airy rooms with their doors opening
          on to a wide front verandah which we shall use as a living room. There is also a wide
          back verandah with a store room at one end and a bathroom at the other. Both
          verandahs and the end windows of the house are screened my mosquito gauze wire
          and further protected by a trellis work of heavy expanded metal. Hasmani, the Game
          Scout, who has been acting as caretaker, tells me that the expanded metal is very
          necessary because lions often come out of the bush at night and roam around the
          house. Such a comforting thought!

          On our very first evening we discovered how necessary the mosquito gauze is.
          After sunset the air outside is thick with mosquitos from the swamps. About an acre of
          land has been cleared around the house. This is a sandy waste because there is no
          water laid on here and absolutely nothing grows here except a rather revolting milky
          desert bush called ‘Manyara’, and a few acacia trees. A little way from the house there is
          a patch of citrus trees, grape fruit, I think, but whether they ever bear fruit I don’t know.
          The clearing is bordered on three sides by dense dusty thorn bush which is
          ‘lousy with buffalo’ according to George. The open side is the road which leads down to
          George’s office and the huts for the Game Scouts. Only Hasmani and George’s orderly
          Juma and their wives and families live there, and the other huts provide shelter for the
          Game Scouts from the bush who come to Nzassa to collect their pay and for a short
          rest. I can see that my daily walk will always be the same, down the road to the huts and
          back! However I don’t mind because it is far too hot to take much exercise.

          The climate here is really tropical and worse than on the coast because the thick
          bush cuts us off from any sea breeze. George says it will be cooler when the rains start
          but just now we literally drip all day. Kate wears nothing but a cotton sun suit, and Johnny
          a napkin only, but still their little bodies are always moist. I have shorn off all Kate’s lovely
          shoulder length curls and got George to cut my hair very short too.

          We simply must buy a refrigerator. The butter, and even the cheese we bought
          in Dar. simply melted into pools of oil overnight, and all our meat went bad, so we are
          living out of tins. However once we get organised I shall be quite happy here. I like this
          spacious house and I have good servants. The cook, Hamisi Issa, is a Swahili from Lindi
          whom we engaged in Dar es Salaam. He is a very dignified person, and like most
          devout Mohammedan Cooks, keeps both his person and the kitchen spotless. I
          engaged the house boy here. He is rather a timid little body but is very willing and quite
          capable. He has an excessively plain but cheerful wife whom I have taken on as ayah. I
          do not really need help with the children but feel I must have a woman around just in
          case I go down with malaria when George is away on safari.

          Eleanor.

          Nzassa 28th February 1939.

          Dearest Family,

          George’s birthday and we had a special tea party this afternoon which the
          children much enjoyed. We have our frig now so I am able to make jellies and provide
          them with really cool drinks.

          Our very first visitor left this morning after spending only one night here. He is Mr
          Ionides, the Game Ranger from the Southern Province. He acted as stand in here for a
          short while after George’s predecessor left for England on sick leave, and where he has
          since died. Mr Ionides returned here to hand over the range and office formally to
          George. He seems a strange man and is from all accounts a bit of a hermit. He was at
          one time an Officer in the Regular Army but does not look like a soldier, he wears the
          most extraordinary clothes but nevertheless contrives to look top-drawer. He was
          educated at Rugby and Sandhurst and is, I should say, well read. Ionides told us that he
          hated Nzassa, particularly the house which he thinks sinister and says he always slept
          down in the office.

          The house, or at least one bedroom, seems to have the same effect on Kate.
          She has been very nervous at night ever since we arrived. At first the children occupied
          the bedroom which is now George’s. One night, soon after our arrival, Kate woke up
          screaming to say that ‘something’ had looked at her through the mosquito net. She was
          in such a hysterical state that inspite of the heat and discomfort I was obliged to crawl into
          her little bed with her and remained there for the rest of the night.

          Next night I left a night lamp burning but even so I had to sit by her bed until she
          dropped off to sleep. Again I was awakened by ear-splitting screams and this time
          found Kate standing rigid on her bed. I lifted her out and carried her to a chair meaning to
          comfort her but she screeched louder than ever, “Look Mummy it’s under the bed. It’s
          looking at us.” In vain I pointed out that there was nothing at all there. By this time
          George had joined us and he carried Kate off to his bed in the other room whilst I got into
          Kate’s bed thinking she might have been frightened by a rat which might also disturb
          Johnny.

          Next morning our houseboy remarked that he had heard Kate screaming in the
          night from his room behind the kitchen. I explained what had happened and he must
          have told the old Scout Hasmani who waylaid me that afternoon and informed me quite
          seriously that that particular room was haunted by a ‘sheitani’ (devil) who hates children.
          He told me that whilst he was acting as caretaker before our arrival he one night had his
          wife and small daughter in the room to keep him company. He said that his small
          daughter woke up and screamed exactly as Kate had done! Silly coincidence I
          suppose, but such strange things happen in Africa that I decided to move the children
          into our room and George sleeps in solitary state in the haunted room! Kate now sleeps
          peacefully once she goes to sleep but I have to stay with her until she does.

          I like this house and it does not seem at all sinister to me. As I mentioned before,
          the rooms are high ceilinged and airy, and have cool cement floors. We have made one
          end of the enclosed verandah into the living room and the other end is the playroom for
          the children. The space in between is a sort of no-mans land taken over by the dogs as
          their special territory.

          Eleanor.

          Nzassa 25th March 1939.

          Dearest Family,

          George is on safari down in the Rufigi River area. He is away for about three
          weeks in the month on this job. I do hate to see him go and just manage to tick over until
          he comes back. But what fun and excitement when he does come home.
          Usually he returns after dark by which time the children are in bed and I have
          settled down on the verandah with a book. The first warning is usually given by the
          dogs, Fanny and her son Paddy. They stir, sit up, look at each other and then go and sit
          side by side by the door with their noses practically pressed to the mosquito gauze and
          ears pricked. Soon I can hear the hum of the car, and so can Hasmani, the old Game
          Scout who sleeps on the back verandah with rifle and ammunition by his side when
          George is away. When he hears the car he turns up his lamp and hurries out to rouse
          Juma, the houseboy. Juma pokes up the fire and prepares tea which George always
          drinks whist a hot meal is being prepared. In the meantime I hurriedly comb my hair and
          powder my nose so that when the car stops I am ready to rush out and welcome
          George home. The boy and Hasmani and the garden boy appear to help with the
          luggage and to greet George and the cook, who always accompanies George on
          Safari. The home coming is always a lively time with much shouting of greetings.
          ‘Jambo’, and ‘Habari ya safari’, whilst the dogs, beside themselves with excitement,
          rush around like lunatics.

          As though his return were not happiness enough, George usually collects the
          mail on his way home so there is news of Ann and young George and letters from you
          and bundles of newspapers and magazines. On the day following his return home,
          George has to deal with official mail in the office but if the following day is a weekday we
          all, the house servants as well as ourselves, pile into the boxbody and go to Dar es
          Salaam. To us this means a mornings shopping followed by an afternoon on the beach.
          It is a bit cooler now that the rains are on but still very humid. Kate keeps chubby
          and rosy in spite of the climate but Johnny is too pale though sturdy enough. He is such
          a good baby which is just as well because Kate is a very demanding little girl though
          sunny tempered and sweet. I appreciate her company very much when George is
          away because we are so far off the beaten track that no one ever calls.

          Eleanor.

          Nzassa 28th April 1939.

          Dearest Family,

          You all seem to wonder how I can stand the loneliness and monotony of living at
          Nzassa when George is on safari, but really and truly I do not mind. Hamisi the cook
          always goes on safari with George and then the houseboy Juma takes over the cooking
          and I do the lighter housework. the children are great company during the day, and when
          they are settled for the night I sit on the verandah and read or write letters or I just dream.
          The verandah is entirely enclosed with both wire mosquito gauze and a trellis
          work of heavy expanded metal, so I am safe from all intruders be they human, animal, or
          insect. Outside the air is alive with mosquitos and the cicadas keep up their monotonous
          singing all night long. My only companions on the verandah are the pale ghecco lizards
          on the wall and the two dogs. Fanny the white bull terrier, lies always near my feet
          dozing happily, but her son Paddy, who is half Airedale has a less phlegmatic
          disposition. He sits alert and on guard by the metal trellis work door. Often a lion grunts
          from the surrounding bush and then his hackles rise and he stands up stiffly with his nose
          pressed to the door. Old Hasmani from his bedroll on the back verandah, gives a little
          cough just to show he is awake. Sometimes the lions are very close and then I hear the
          click of a rifle bolt as Hasmani loads his rifle – but this is usually much later at night when
          the lights are out. One morning I saw large pug marks between the wall of my bedroom
          and the garage but I do not fear lions like I did that beastly leopard on the farm.
          A great deal of witchcraft is still practiced in the bush villages in the
          neighbourhood. I must tell you about old Hasmani’s baby in connection with this. Last
          week Hasmani came to me in great distress to say that his baby was ‘Ngongwa sana ‘
          (very ill) and he thought it would die. I hurried down to the Game Scouts quarters to see
          whether I could do anything for the child and found the mother squatting in the sun
          outside her hut with the baby on her lap. The mother was a young woman but not an
          attractive one. She appeared sullen and indifferent compared with old Hasmani who
          was very distressed. The child was very feverish and breathing with difficulty and
          seemed to me to be suffering from bronchitis if not pneumonia. I rubbed his back and
          chest with camphorated oil and dosed him with aspirin and liquid quinine. I repeated the
          treatment every four hours, but next day there was no apparent improvement.
          In the afternoon Hasmani begged me to give him that night off duty and asked for
          a loan of ten shillings. He explained to me that it seemed to him that the white man’s
          medicine had failed to cure his child and now he wished to take the child to the local witch
          doctor. “For ten shillings” said Hasmani, “the Maganga will drive the devil out of my
          child.” “How?” asked I. “With drums”, said Hasmani confidently. I did not know what to
          do. I thought the child was too ill to be exposed to the night air, yet I knew that if I
          refused his request and the child were to die, Hasmani and all the other locals would hold
          me responsible. I very reluctantly granted his request. I was so troubled by the matter
          that I sent for George’s office clerk. Daniel, and asked him to accompany Hasmani to the
          ceremony and to report to me the next morning. It started to rain after dark and all night
          long I lay awake in bed listening to the drums and the light rain. Next morning when I
          went out to the kitchen to order breakfast I found a beaming Hasmani awaiting me.
          “Memsahib”, he said. “My child is well, the fever is now quite gone, the Maganga drove
          out the devil just as I told you.” Believe it or not, when I hurried to his quarters after
          breakfast I found the mother suckling a perfectly healthy child! It may be my imagination
          but I thought the mother looked pretty smug.The clerk Daniel told me that after Hasmani
          had presented gifts of money and food to the ‘Maganga’, the naked baby was placed
          on a goat skin near the drums. Most of the time he just lay there but sometimes the witch
          doctor picked him up and danced with the child in his arms. Daniel seemed reluctant to
          talk about it. Whatever mumbo jumbo was used all this happened a week ago and the
          baby has never looked back.

          Eleanor.

          Nzassa 3rd July 1939.

          Dearest Family,

          Did I tell you that one of George’s Game Scouts was murdered last month in the
          Maneromango area towards the Rufigi border. He was on routine patrol, with a porter
          carrying his bedding and food, when they suddenly came across a group of African
          hunters who were busy cutting up a giraffe which they had just killed. These hunters were
          all armed with muzzle loaders, spears and pangas, but as it is illegal to kill giraffe without
          a permit, the Scout went up to the group to take their names. Some argument ensued
          and the Scout was stabbed.

          The District Officer went to the area to investigate and decided to call in the Police
          from Dar es Salaam. A party of police went out to search for the murderers but after
          some days returned without making any arrests. George was on an elephant control
          safari in the Bagamoyo District and on his return through Dar es Salaam he heard of the
          murder. George was furious and distressed to hear the news and called in here for an
          hour on his way to Maneromango to search for the murderers himself.

          After a great deal of strenuous investigation he arrested three poachers, put them
          in jail for the night at Maneromango and then brought them to Dar es Salaam where they
          are all now behind bars. George will now have to prosecute in the Magistrate’s Court
          and try and ‘make a case’ so that the prisoners may be committed to the High Court to
          be tried for murder. George is convinced of their guilt and justifiably proud to have
          succeeded where the police failed.

          George had to borrow handcuffs for the prisoners from the Chief at
          Maneromango and these he brought back to Nzassa after delivering the prisoners to
          Dar es Salaam so that he may return them to the Chief when he revisits the area next
          week.

          I had not seen handcuffs before and picked up a pair to examine them. I said to
          George, engrossed in ‘The Times’, “I bet if you were arrested they’d never get
          handcuffs on your wrist. Not these anyway, they look too small.” “Standard pattern,”
          said George still concentrating on the newspaper, but extending an enormous relaxed
          left wrist. So, my dears, I put a bracelet round his wrist and as there was a wide gap I
          gave a hard squeeze with both hands. There was a sharp click as the handcuff engaged
          in the first notch. George dropped the paper and said, “Now you’ve done it, my love,
          one set of keys are in the Dar es Salaam Police Station, and the others with the Chief at
          Maneromango.” You can imagine how utterly silly I felt but George was an angel about it
          and said as he would have to go to Dar es Salaam we might as well all go.

          So we all piled into the car, George, the children and I in the front, and the cook
          and houseboy, immaculate in snowy khanzus and embroidered white caps, a Game
          Scout and the ayah in the back. George never once complain of the discomfort of the
          handcuff but I was uncomfortably aware that it was much too tight because his arm
          above the cuff looked red and swollen and the hand unnaturally pale. As the road is so
          bad George had to use both hands on the wheel and all the time the dangling handcuff
          clanked against the dashboard in an accusing way.

          We drove straight to the Police Station and I could hear the roars of laughter as
          George explained his predicament. Later I had to put up with a good deal of chaffing
          and congratulations upon putting the handcuffs on George.

          Eleanor.

          Nzassa 5th August 1939

          Dearest Family,

          George made a point of being here for Kate’s fourth birthday last week. Just
          because our children have no playmates George and I always do all we can to make
          birthdays very special occasions. We went to Dar es Salaam the day before the
          birthday and bought Kate a very sturdy tricycle with which she is absolutely delighted.
          You will be glad to know that your parcels arrived just in time and Kate loved all your
          gifts especially the little shop from Dad with all the miniature tins and packets of
          groceries. The tea set was also a great success and is much in use.

          We had a lively party which ended with George and me singing ‘Happy
          Birthday to you’, and ended with a wild game with balloons. Kate wore her frilly white net
          party frock and looked so pretty that it seemed a shame that there was no one but us to
          see her. Anyway it was a good party. I wish so much that you could see the children.
          Kate keeps rosy and has not yet had malaria. Johnny Jo is sturdy but pale. He
          runs a temperature now and again but I am not sure whether this is due to teething or
          malaria. Both children of course take quinine every day as George and I do. George
          quite frequently has malaria in spite of prophylactic quinine but this is not surprising as he
          got the germ thoroughly established in his system in his early elephant hunting days. I
          get it too occasionally but have not been really ill since that first time a month after my
          arrival in the country.

          Johnny is such a good baby. His chief claim to beauty is his head of soft golden
          curls but these are due to come off on his first birthday as George considers them too
          girlish. George left on safari the day after the party and the very next morning our wood
          boy had a most unfortunate accident. He was chopping a rather tough log when a chip
          flew up and split his upper lip clean through from mouth to nostril exposing teeth and
          gums. A truly horrible sight and very bloody. I cleaned up the wound as best I could
          and sent him off to the hospital at Dar es Salaam on the office bicycle. He wobbled
          away wretchedly down the road with a white cloth tied over his mouth to keep off the
          dust. He returned next day with his lip stitched and very swollen and bearing a
          resemblance to my lip that time I used the hair remover.

          Eleanor.

          Splendid Hotel. Dar es Salaam 7th September 1939

          Dearest Family,

          So now another war has started and it has disrupted even our lives. We have left
          Nzassa for good. George is now a Lieutenant in the King’s African Rifles and the children
          and I are to go to a place called Morogoro to await further developments.
          I was glad to read in today’s paper that South Africa has declared war on
          Germany. I would have felt pretty small otherwise in this hotel which is crammed full of
          men who have been called up for service in the Army. George seems exhilarated by
          the prospect of active service. He is bursting out of his uniform ( at the shoulders only!)
          and all too ready for the fray.

          The war came as a complete surprise to me stuck out in the bush as I was without
          wireless or mail. George had been away for a fortnight so you can imagine how
          surprised I was when a messenger arrived on a bicycle with a note from George. The
          note informed me that war had been declared and that George, as a Reserve Officer in
          the KAR had been called up. I was to start packing immediately and be ready by noon
          next day when George would arrive with a lorry for our goods and chattels. I started to
          pack immediately with the help of the houseboy and by the time George arrived with
          the lorry only the frig remained to be packed and this was soon done.

          Throughout the morning Game Scouts had been arriving from outlying parts of
          the District. I don’t think they had the least idea where they were supposed to go or
          whom they were to fight but were ready to fight anybody, anywhere, with George.
          They all looked very smart in well pressed uniforms hung about with water bottles and
          ammunition pouches. The large buffalo badge on their round pill box hats absolutely
          glittered with polish. All of course carried rifles and when George arrived they all lined up
          and they looked most impressive. I took some snaps but unfortunately it was drizzling
          and they may not come out well.

          We left Nzassa without a backward glance. We were pretty fed up with it by
          then. The children and I are spending a few days here with George but our luggage, the
          dogs, and the houseboys have already left by train for Morogoro where a small house
          has been found for the children and me.

          George tells me that all the German males in this Territory were interned without a
          hitch. The whole affair must have been very well organised. In every town and
          settlement special constables were sworn in to do the job. It must have been a rather
          unpleasant one but seems to have gone without incident. There is a big transit camp
          here at Dar for the German men. Later they are to be sent out of the country, possibly to
          Rhodesia.

          The Indian tailors in the town are all terribly busy making Army uniforms, shorts
          and tunics in khaki drill. George swears that they have muddled their orders and he has
          been given the wrong things. Certainly the tunic is far too tight. His hat, a khaki slouch hat
          like you saw the Australians wearing in the last war, is also too small though it is the
          largest they have in stock. We had a laugh over his other equipment which includes a
          small canvas haversack and a whistle on a black cord. George says he feels like he is
          back in his Boy Scouting boyhood.

          George has just come in to say the we will be leaving for Morogoro tomorrow
          afternoon.

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 14th September 1939

          Dearest Family,

          Morogoro is a complete change from Nzassa. This is a large and sprawling
          township. The native town and all the shops are down on the flat land by the railway but
          all the European houses are away up the slope of the high Uluguru Mountains.
          Morogoro was a flourishing town in the German days and all the streets are lined with
          trees for coolness as is the case in other German towns. These trees are the flamboyant
          acacia which has an umbrella top and throws a wide but light shade.

          Most of the houses have large gardens so they cover a considerable area and it
          is quite a safari for me to visit friends on foot as our house is on the edge of this area and
          the furthest away from the town. Here ones house is in accordance with ones seniority in
          Government service. Ours is a simple affair, just three lofty square rooms opening on to
          a wide enclosed verandah. Mosquitoes are bad here so all doors and windows are
          screened and we will have to carry on with our daily doses of quinine.

          George came up to Morogoro with us on the train. This was fortunate because I
          went down with a sharp attack of malaria at the hotel on the afternoon of our departure
          from Dar es Salaam. George’s drastic cure of vast doses of quinine, a pillow over my
          head, and the bed heaped with blankets soon brought down the temperature so I was
          fit enough to board the train but felt pretty poorly on the trip. However next day I felt
          much better which was a good thing as George had to return to Dar es Salaam after two
          days. His train left late at night so I did not see him off but said good-bye at home
          feeling dreadful but trying to keep the traditional stiff upper lip of the wife seeing her
          husband off to the wars. He hopes to go off to Abyssinia but wrote from Dar es Salaam
          to say that he is being sent down to Rhodesia by road via Mbeya to escort the first
          detachment of Rhodesian white troops.

          First he will have to select suitable camping sites for night stops and arrange for
          supplies of food. I am very pleased as it means he will be safe for a while anyway. We
          are both worried about Ann and George in England and wonder if it would be safer to
          have them sent out.

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 4th November 1939

          Dearest Family,

          My big news is that George has been released from the Army. He is very
          indignant and disappointed because he hoped to go to Abyssinia but I am terribly,
          terribly glad. The Chief Secretary wrote a very nice letter to George pointing out that he
          would be doing a greater service to his country by his work of elephant control, giving
          crop protection during the war years when foodstuffs are such a vital necessity, than by
          doing a soldiers job. The Government plan to start a huge rice scheme in the Rufiji area,
          and want George to control the elephant and hippo there. First of all though. he must go
          to the Southern Highlands Province where there is another outbreak of Rinderpest, to
          shoot out diseased game especially buffalo, which might spread the disease.

          So off we go again on our travels but this time we are leaving the two dogs
          behind in the care of Daniel, the Game Clerk. Fanny is very pregnant and I hate leaving
          her behind but the clerk has promised to look after her well. We are taking Hamisi, our
          dignified Swahili cook and the houseboy Juma and his wife whom we brought with us
          from Nzassa. The boy is not very good but his wife makes a cheerful and placid ayah
          and adores Johnny.

          Eleanor.

          Iringa 8th December 1939

          Dearest Family,

          The children and I are staying in a small German house leased from the
          Custodian of Enemy Property. I can’t help feeling sorry for the owners who must be in
          concentration camps somewhere.George is away in the bush dealing with the
          Rinderpest emergency and the cook has gone with him. Now I have sent the houseboy
          and the ayah away too. Two days ago my houseboy came and told me that he felt
          very ill and asked me to write a ‘chit’ to the Indian Doctor. In the note I asked the Doctor
          to let me know the nature of his complaint and to my horror I got a note from him to say
          that the houseboy had a bad case of Venereal Disease. Was I horrified! I took it for
          granted that his wife must be infected too and told them both that they would have to
          return to their home in Nzassa. The boy shouted and the ayah wept but I paid them in
          lieu of notice and gave them money for the journey home. So there I was left servant
          less with firewood to chop, a smokey wood burning stove to control, and of course, the
          two children.

          To add to my troubles Johnny had a temperature so I sent for the European
          Doctor. He diagnosed malaria and was astonished at the size of Johnny’s spleen. He
          said that he must have had suppressed malaria over a long period and the poor child
          must now be fed maximum doses of quinine for a long time. The Doctor is a fatherly
          soul, he has been recalled from retirement to do this job as so many of the young
          doctors have been called up for service with the army.

          I told him about my houseboy’s complaint and the way I had sent him off
          immediately, and he was very amused at my haste, saying that it is most unlikely that
          they would have passed the disease onto their employers. Anyway I hated the idea. I
          mean to engage a houseboy locally, but will do without an ayah until we return to
          Morogoro in February.

          Something happened today to cheer me up. A telegram came from Daniel which
          read, “FLANNEL HAS FIVE CUBS.”

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 10th March 1940

          Dearest Family,

          We are having very heavy rain and the countryside is a most beautiful green. In
          spite of the weather George is away on safari though it must be very wet and
          unpleasant. He does work so hard at his elephant hunting job and has got very thin. I
          suppose this is partly due to those stomach pains he gets and the doctors don’t seem
          to diagnose the trouble.

          Living in Morogoro is much like living in a country town in South Africa, particularly
          as there are several South African women here. I go out quite often to morning teas. We
          all take our war effort knitting, and natter, and are completely suburban.
          I sometimes go and see an elderly couple who have been interred here. They
          are cold shouldered by almost everyone else but I cannot help feeling sorry for them.
          Usually I go by invitation because I know Mrs Ruppel prefers to be prepared and
          always has sandwiches and cake. They both speak English but not fluently and
          conversation is confined to talking about my children and theirs. Their two sons were
          students in Germany when war broke out but are now of course in the German Army.
          Such nice looking chaps from their photographs but I suppose thorough Nazis. As our
          conversation is limited I usually ask to hear a gramophone record or two. They have a
          large collection.

          Janet, the ayah whom I engaged at Mbeya, is proving a great treasure. She is a
          trained hospital ayah and is most dependable and capable. She is, perhaps, a little strict
          but the great thing is that I can trust her with the children out of my sight.
          Last week I went out at night for the first time without George. The occasion was
          a farewell sundowner given by the Commissioner of Prisoners and his wife. I was driven
          home by the District Officer and he stopped his car by the back door in a large puddle.
          Ayah came to the back door, storm lamp in hand, to greet me. My escort prepared to
          drive off but the car stuck. I thought a push from me might help, so without informing the
          driver, I pushed as hard as I could on the back of the car. Unfortunately the driver
          decided on other tactics. He put the engine in reverse and I was knocked flat on my back
          in the puddle. The car drove forward and away without the driver having the least idea of
          what happened. The ayah was in quite a state, lifting me up and scolding me for my
          stupidity as though I were Kate. I was a bit shaken but non the worse and will know
          better next time.

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 14th July 1940

          Dearest Family,

          How good it was of Dad to send that cable to Mother offering to have Ann and
          George to live with you if they are accepted for inclusion in the list of children to be
          evacuated to South Africa. It would be wonderful to know that they are safely out of the
          war zone and so much nearer to us but I do dread the thought of the long sea voyage
          particularly since we heard the news of the sinking of that liner carrying child evacuees to
          Canada. I worry about them so much particularly as George is so often away on safari.
          He is so comforting and calm and I feel brave and confident when he is home.
          We have had no news from England for five weeks but, when she last wrote,
          mother said the children were very well and that she was sure they would be safe in the
          country with her.

          Kate and John are growing fast. Kate is such a pretty little girl, rosy in spite of the
          rather trying climate. I have allowed her hair to grow again and it hangs on her shoulders
          in shiny waves. John is a more slightly built little boy than young George was, and quite
          different in looks. He has Dad’s high forehead and cleft chin, widely spaced brown eyes
          that are not so dark as mine and hair that is still fair and curly though ayah likes to smooth it
          down with water every time she dresses him. He is a shy child, and although he plays
          happily with Kate, he does not care to play with other children who go in the late
          afternoons to a lawn by the old German ‘boma’.

          Kate has playmates of her own age but still rather clings to me. Whilst she loves
          to have friends here to play with her, she will not go to play at their houses unless I go
          too and stay. She always insists on accompanying me when I go out to morning tea
          and always calls JanetJohn’s ayah”. One morning I went to a knitting session at a
          neighbours house. We are all knitting madly for the troops. As there were several other
          women in the lounge and no other children, I installed Kate in the dining room with a
          colouring book and crayons. My hostess’ black dog was chained to the dining room
          table leg, but as he and Kate are on friendly terms I was not bothered by this.
          Some time afterwards, during a lull in conversation, I heard a strange drumming
          noise coming from the dining room. I went quickly to investigate and, to my horror, found
          Kate lying on her back with the dog chain looped around her neck. The frightened dog
          was straining away from her as far as he could get and the chain was pulled so tightly
          around her throat that she could not scream. The drumming noise came from her heels
          kicking in a panic on the carpet.

          Even now I do not know how Kate got herself into this predicament. Luckily no
          great harm was done but I think I shall do my knitting at home in future.

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 16th November 1940

          Dearest Family,

          I much prefer our little house on the hillside to the larger one we had down below.
          The only disadvantage is that the garden is on three levels and both children have had
          some tumbles down the steps on the tricycle. John is an extremely stoical child. He
          never cries when he hurts himself.

          I think I have mentioned ‘Morningside’ before. It is a kind of Resthouse high up in
          the Uluguru Mountains above Morogoro. Jess Howe-Browne, who runs the large
          house as a Guest House, is a wonderful woman. Besides running the boarding house
          she also grows vegetables, flowers and fruit for sale in Morogoro and Dar es Salaam.
          Her guests are usually women and children from Dar es Salaam who come in the hot
          season to escape the humidity on the coast. Often the mothers leave their children for
          long periods in Jess Howe-Browne’s care. There is a road of sorts up the mountain side
          to Morningside, but this is so bad that cars do not attempt it and guests are carried up
          the mountain in wicker chairs lashed to poles. Four men carry an adult, and two a child,
          and there are of course always spare bearers and they work in shifts.

          Last week the children and I went to Morningside for the day as guests. John
          rode on my lap in one chair and Kate in a small chair on her own. This did not please
          Kate at all. The poles are carried on the bearers shoulders and one is perched quite high.
          The motion is a peculiar rocking one. The bearers chant as they go and do not seem
          worried by shortness of breath! They are all hillmen of course and are, I suppose, used
          to trotting up and down to the town.

          Morningside is well worth visiting and we spent a delightful day there. The fresh
          cool air is a great change from the heavy air of the valley. A river rushes down the
          mountain in a series of cascades, and the gardens are shady and beautiful. Behind the
          property is a thick indigenous forest which stretches from Morningside to the top of the
          mountain. The house is an old German one, rather in need of repair, but Jess has made
          it comfortable and attractive, with some of her old family treasures including a fine old
          Grandfather clock. We had a wonderful lunch which included large fresh strawberries and
          cream. We made the return journey again in the basket chairs and got home before dark.
          George returned home at the weekend with a baby elephant whom we have
          called Winnie. She was rescued from a mud hole by some African villagers and, as her
          mother had abandoned her, they took her home and George was informed. He went in
          the truck to fetch her having first made arrangements to have her housed in a shed on the
          Agriculture Department Experimental Farm here. He has written to the Game Dept
          Headquarters to inform the Game Warden and I do not know what her future will be, but
          in the meantime she is our pet. George is afraid she will not survive because she has
          had a very trying time. She stands about waist high and is a delightful creature and quite
          docile. Asian and African children as well as Europeans gather to watch her and George
          encourages them to bring fruit for her – especially pawpaws which she loves.
          Whilst we were there yesterday one of the local ladies came, very smartly
          dressed in a linen frock, silk stockings, and high heeled shoes. She watched fascinated
          whilst Winnie neatly split a pawpaw and removed the seeds with her trunk, before
          scooping out the pulp and putting it in her mouth. It was a particularly nice ripe pawpaw
          and Winnie enjoyed it so much that she stretched out her trunk for more. The lady took
          fright and started to run with Winnie after her, sticky trunk outstretched. Quite an
          entertaining sight. George managed to stop Winnie but not before she had left a gooey
          smear down the back of the immaculate frock.

          Eleanor.

           

          #6236
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            The Liverpool Fires

            Catherine Housley had two older sisters, Elizabeth 1845-1883 and Mary Anne 1846-1935.  Both Elizabeth and Mary Anne grew up in the Belper workhouse after their mother died, and their father was jailed for failing to maintain his three children.  Mary Anne married Samuel Gilman and they had a grocers shop in Buxton.  Elizabeth married in Liverpool in 1873.

            What was she doing in Liverpool? How did she meet William George Stafford?

            According to the census, Elizabeth Housley was in Belper workhouse in 1851. In 1861, aged 16,  she was a servant in the household of Peter Lyon, a baker in Derby St Peters.  We noticed that the Lyon’s were friends of the family and were mentioned in the letters to George in Pennsylvania.

            No record of Elizabeth can be found on the 1871 census, but in 1872 the birth and death was registered of Elizabeth and William’s child, Elizabeth Jane Stafford. The parents are registered as William and Elizabeth Stafford, although they were not yet married. William’s occupation is a “refiner”.

            In April, 1873, a Fatal Fire is reported in the Liverpool Mercury. Fearful Termination of a Saturday Night Debauch. Seven Persons Burnt To Death.  Interesting to note in the article that “the middle room being let off to a coloured man named William Stafford and his wife”.

            Fatal Fire Liverpool

             

            We had noted on the census that William Stafford place of birth was “Africa, British subject” but it had not occurred to us that he was “coloured”.  A register of birth has not yet been found for William and it is not known where in Africa he was born.

            Liverpool fire

             

            Elizabeth and William survived the fire on Gay Street, and were still living on Gay Street in October 1873 when they got married.

            William’s occupation on the marriage register is sugar refiner, and his father is Peter Stafford, farmer. Elizabeth’s father is Samuel Housley, plumber. It does not say Samuel Housley deceased, so perhaps we can assume that Samuel is still alive in 1873.

            Eliza Florence Stafford, their second daughter, was born in 1876.

            William’s occupation on the 1881 census is “fireman”, in his case, a fire stoker at the sugar refinery, an unpleasant and dangerous job for which they were paid slightly more. William, Elizabeth and Eliza were living in Byrom Terrace.

            Byrom Terrace, Liverpool, in 1933

            Byrom Terrace

             

            Elizabeth died of heart problems in 1883, when Eliza was six years old, and in 1891 her father died, scalded to death in a tragic accident at the sugar refinery.

            Scalded to Death

             

            Eliza, aged 15, was living as an inmate at the Walton on the Hill Institution in 1891. It’s not clear when she was admitted to the workhouse, perhaps after her mother died in 1883.

            In 1901 Eliza Florence Stafford is a 24 year old live in laundrymaid, according to the census, living in West Derby  (a part of Liverpool, and not actually in Derby).  On the 1911 census there is a Florence Stafford listed  as an unnmarried laundress, with a daughter called Florence.  In 1901 census she was a laundrymaid in West Derby, Liverpool, and the daughter Florence Stafford was born in 1904 West Derby.  It’s likely that this is Eliza Florence, but nothing further has been found so far.

             

            The questions remaining are the location of William’s birth, the name of his mother and his family background, what happened to Eliza and her daughter after 1911, and how did Elizabeth meet William in the first place.

            William Stafford was a seaman prior to working in the sugar refinery, and he appears on several ship’s crew lists.  Nothing so far has indicated where he might have been born, or where his father came from.

            Some months after finding the newspaper article about the fire on Gay Street, I saw an unusual request for information on the Liverpool genealogy group. Someone asked if anyone knew of a fire in Liverpool in the 1870’s.  She had watched a programme about children recalling past lives, in this case a memory of a fire. The child recalled pushing her sister into a burning straw mattress by accident, as she attempted to save her from a falling beam.  I watched the episode in question hoping for more information to confirm if this was the same fire, but details were scant and it’s impossible to say for sure.

            #6222
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              George Gilman Rushby: The Cousin Who Went To Africa

              The portrait of the woman has “mother of Catherine Housley, Smalley” written on the back, and one of the family photographs has “Francis Purdy” written on the back. My first internet search was “Catherine Housley Smalley Francis Purdy”. Easily found was the family tree of George (Mike) Rushby, on one of the genealogy websites. It seemed that it must be our family, but the African lion hunter seemed unlikely until my mother recalled her father had said that he had a cousin who went to Africa. I also noticed that the lion hunter’s middle name was Gilman ~ the name that Catherine Housley’s daughter ~ my great grandmother, Mary Ann Gilman Purdy ~ adopted, from her aunt and uncle who brought her up.

              I tried to contact George (Mike) Rushby via the ancestry website, but got no reply. I searched for his name on Facebook and found a photo of a wildfire in a place called Wardell, in Australia, and he was credited with taking the photograph. A comment on the photo, which was a few years old, got no response, so I found a Wardell Community group on Facebook, and joined it. A very small place, population some 700 or so, and I had an immediate response on the group to my question. They knew Mike, exchanged messages, and we were able to start emailing. I was in the chair at the dentist having an exceptionally long canine root canal at the time that I got the message with his email address, and at that moment the song Down in Africa started playing.

              Mike said it was clever of me to track him down which amused me, coming from the son of an elephant and lion hunter.  He didn’t know why his father’s middle name was Gilman, and was not aware that Catherine Housley’s sister married a Gilman.

              Mike Rushby kindly gave me permission to include his family history research in my book.  This is the story of my grandfather George Marshall’s cousin.  A detailed account of George Gilman Rushby’s years in Africa can be found in another chapter called From Tanganyika With Love; the letters Eleanor wrote to her family.

              George Gilman Rushby:

              George Gilman Rushby

               

              The story of George Gilman Rushby 1900-1969, as told by his son Mike:

              George Gilman Rushby:
              Elephant hunter,poacher, prospector, farmer, forestry officer, game ranger, husband to Eleanor, and father of 6 children who now live around the world.

              George Gilman Rushby was born in Nottingham on 28 Feb 1900 the son of Catherine Purdy and John Henry Payling Rushby. But John Henry died when his son was only one and a half years old, and George shunned his drunken bullying stepfather Frank Freer and was brought up by Gypsies who taught him how to fight and took him on regular poaching trips. His love of adventure and his ability to hunt were nurtured at an early stage of his life.
              The family moved to Eastwood, where his mother Catherine owned and managed The Three Tuns Inn, but when his stepfather died in mysterious circumstances, his mother married a wealthy bookmaker named Gregory Simpson. He could afford to send George to Worksop College and to Rugby School. This was excellent schooling for George, but the boarding school environment, and the lack of a stable home life, contributed to his desire to go out in the world and do his own thing. When he finished school his first job was as a trainee electrician with Oaks & Co at Pye Bridge. He also worked part time as a motor cycle mechanic and as a professional boxer to raise the money for a voyage to South Africa.

              In May 1920 George arrived in Durban destitute and, like many others, living on the beach and dependant upon the Salvation Army for a daily meal. However he soon got work as an electrical mechanic, and after a couple of months had earned enough money to make the next move North. He went to Lourenco Marques where he was appointed shift engineer for the town’s power station. However he was still restless and left the comfort of Lourenco Marques for Beira in August 1921.

              Beira was the start point of the new railway being built from the coast to Nyasaland. George became a professional hunter providing essential meat for the gangs of construction workers building the railway. He was a self employed contractor with his own support crew of African men and began to build up a satisfactory business. However, following an incident where he had to shoot and kill a man who attacked him with a spear in middle of the night whilst he was sleeping, George left the lower Zambezi and took a paddle steamer to Nyasaland (Malawi). On his arrival in Karongo he was encouraged to shoot elephant which had reached plague proportions in the area – wrecking African homes and crops, and threatening the lives of those who opposed them.

              His next move was to travel by canoe the five hundred kilometre length of Lake Nyasa to Tanganyika, where he hunted for a while in the Lake Rukwa area, before walking through Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) to the Congo. Hunting his way he overachieved his quota of ivory resulting in his being charged with trespass, the confiscation of his rifles, and a fine of one thousand francs. He hunted his way through the Congo to Leopoldville then on to the Portuguese enclave, near the mouth of the mighty river, where he worked as a barman in a rough and tough bar until he received a message that his old friend Lumb had found gold at Lupa near Chunya. George set sail on the next boat for Antwerp in Belgium, then crossed to England and spent a few weeks with his family in Jacksdale before returning by sea to Dar es Salaam. Arriving at the gold fields he pegged his claim and almost immediately went down with blackwater fever – an illness that used to kill three out of four within a week.

              When he recovered from his fever, George exchanged his gold lease for a double barrelled .577 elephant rifle and took out a special elephant control licence with the Tanganyika Government. He then headed for the Congo again and poached elephant in Northern Rhodesia from a base in the Congo. He was known by the Africans as “iNyathi”, or the Buffalo, because he was the most dangerous in the long grass. After a profitable hunting expedition in his favourite hunting ground of the Kilombera River he returned to the Congo via Dar es Salaam and Mombassa. He was after the Kabalo district elephant, but hunting was restricted, so he set up his base in The Central African Republic at a place called Obo on the Congo tributary named the M’bomu River. From there he could make poaching raids into the Congo and the Upper Nile regions of the Sudan. He hunted there for two and a half years. He seldom came across other Europeans; hunters kept their own districts and guarded their own territories. But they respected one another and he made good and lasting friendships with members of that small select band of adventurers.

              Leaving for Europe via the Congo, George enjoyed a short holiday in Jacksdale with his mother. On his return trip to East Africa he met his future bride in Cape Town. She was 24 year old Eleanor Dunbar Leslie; a high school teacher and daughter of a magistrate who spent her spare time mountaineering, racing ocean yachts, and riding horses. After a whirlwind romance, they were betrothed within 36 hours.

              On 25 July 1930 George landed back in Dar es Salaam. He went directly to the Mbeya district to find a home. For one hundred pounds he purchased the Waizneker’s farm on the banks of the Mntshewe Stream. Eleanor, who had been delayed due to her contract as a teacher, followed in November. Her ship docked in Dar es Salaam on 7 Nov 1930, and they were married that day. At Mchewe Estate, their newly acquired farm, they lived in a tent whilst George with some help built their first home – a lovely mud-brick cottage with a thatched roof. George and Eleanor set about developing a coffee plantation out of a bush block. It was a very happy time for them. There was no electricity, no radio, and no telephone. Newspapers came from London every two months. There were a couple of neighbours within twenty miles, but visitors were seldom seen. The farm was a haven for wild life including snakes, monkeys and leopards. Eleanor had to go South all the way to Capetown for the birth of her first child Ann, but with the onset of civilisation, their first son George was born at a new German Mission hospital that had opened in Mbeya.

              Occasionally George had to leave the farm in Eleanor’s care whilst he went off hunting to make his living. Having run the coffee plantation for five years with considerable establishment costs and as yet no return, George reluctantly started taking paying clients on hunting safaris as a “white hunter”. This was an occupation George didn’t enjoy. but it brought him an income in the days when social security didn’t exist. Taking wealthy clients on hunting trips to kill animals for trophies and for pleasure didn’t amuse George who hunted for a business and for a way of life. When one of George’s trackers was killed by a leopard that had been wounded by a careless client, George was particularly upset.
              The coffee plantation was approaching the time of its first harvest when it was suddenly attacked by plagues of borer beetles and ring barking snails. At the same time severe hail storms shredded the crop. The pressure of the need for an income forced George back to the Lupa gold fields. He was unlucky in his gold discoveries, but luck came in a different form when he was offered a job with the Forestry Department. The offer had been made in recognition of his initiation and management of Tanganyika’s rainbow trout project. George spent most of his short time with the Forestry Department encouraging the indigenous people to conserve their native forests.

              In November 1938 he transferred to the Game Department as Ranger for the Eastern Province of Tanganyika, and over several years was based at Nzasa near Dar es Salaam, at the old German town of Morogoro, and at lovely Lyamungu on the slopes of Kilimanjaro. Then the call came for him to be transferred to Mbeya in the Southern Province for there was a serious problem in the Njombe district, and George was selected by the Department as the only man who could possibly fix the problem.

              Over a period of several years, people were being attacked and killed by marauding man-eating lions. In the Wagingombe area alone 230 people were listed as having been killed. In the Njombe district, which covered an area about 200 km by 300 km some 1500 people had been killed. Not only was the rural population being decimated, but the morale of the survivors was so low, that many of them believed that the lions were not real. Many thought that evil witch doctors were controlling the lions, or that lion-men were changing form to kill their enemies. Indeed some wichdoctors took advantage of the disarray to settle scores and to kill for reward.

              By hunting down and killing the man-eaters, and by showing the flesh and blood to the doubting tribes people, George was able to instil some confidence into the villagers. However the Africans attributed the return of peace and safety, not to the efforts of George Rushby, but to the reinstallation of their deposed chief Matamula Mangera who had previously been stood down for corruption. It was Matamula , in their eyes, who had called off the lions.

              Soon after this adventure, George was appointed Deputy Game Warden for Tanganyika, and was based in Arusha. He retired in 1956 to the Njombe district where he developed a coffee plantation, and was one of the first in Tanganyika to plant tea as a major crop. However he sensed a swing in the political fortunes of his beloved Tanganyika, and so sold the plantation and settled in a cottage high on a hill overlooking the Navel Base at Simonstown in the Cape. It was whilst he was there that TV Bulpin wrote his biography “The Hunter is Death” and George wrote his book “No More The Tusker”. He died in the Cape, and his youngest son Henry scattered his ashes at the Southern most tip of Africa where the currents of the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet .

              George Gilman Rushby:

              #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.

              #6096
              F LoveF Love
              Participant

                Liz!” shouted Finnley, without pausing from her writing. “Liz, be a love and make me a cup of tea. The organic green tea in the second drawer down.” There was a crash and some unintelligible screaming from the next room. Fortunately, Finnley was used to unintelligible noises coming from Liz’s mouth. “Oh for the … what do you mean you don’t know where the kitchen is?”

                Finnley took a deep breath. She recalled the words of Lemon Tzu:

                Tension is who you think you are, relaxation is who you are.

                “Okay, okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I will interrupt my important writing for a few minutes to elucidate you on the mysteries of the kitchen.”

                A duster came flying into the room, closely followed by a red-faced Liz. “There is really no need for sarcasm, Finnley. I trust you remember it is all down to MY goodness that you have this opportunity.”

                #4861

                “Typical of Eleri to leave us hanging there like that.” Fox said between his teeth.
                “Oh you know, I wouldn’t have hold my breath for a promise of whatever’s been happening.” tittered Glynis.

                “Oh, by the way,” Fox suddenly recalled “I’ve received a message from Rukshan. He’s been sailing through the dodlums…”

                Glynis giggled “Doldrums, you mean doldrums…”

                “Yeah, something like that.” Fox became somber, he always felt rebuked when he had interesting news to share.
                “Anyway, I’m off to my teleportation course. Olliver’s been trading me courses for shapeshifting mentorship.”

                “Oh, good. With a bit of practice, you’ll be able to be at multiple places at once. Like doing the chores at the cottage, while chopping wood at the same time.”

                “Way to kill the mood lady!” Fox, said leaving a dust trail in his wake.

                #4837
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Liz was not pleased about the latest insubordinate action of those plotting against her. Fashion choices indeed! She had been sorting out her wardrobe, having to do it all herself because of Finnley’s latest scam to take time off, putting away the summery things and bringing out the clothes for the coming cooler weather.

                  She’d had the usual little thrill at seeing familiar old favourites, clothes that she’d felt comfortable and happy in for many years. It would be unthinkable to throw them out, like tossing out an old friend just because they were getting wrinkled and saggy, or fat in the wrong places.

                  Liz prided herself on her thoughtfulness about the environment when making her “fashion” choices, always choosing second hand items. She liked to think they already had a little of their own history, and that they appreciated being rescued. She abhorred the trends that the gullible lapped up when she saw them looking ridiculous in unflattering unsuitable clothes that would be clearly out of fashion just as they were starting to look pleasantly worn in.

                  Warming to the theme, Liz recalled some of the particularly useless garments she’d seen over the years. Woolly polo neck sweaters that were sleeveless, for example. In what possible weather would one wear such a thing, without either suffering from a stifling hot neck, or goose flesh arms? High heeled shoes was another thing. The evidence was clear, judging by the amount of high heeled shoes in immaculate only worn once condition that littered the second hand markets. Nobody could walk in them, and nobody wanted them. Oddly enough though, people were still somehow persuaded to buy more and more new ones. Maybe one day in the future, collectors would have glass fronted cabinets, full of antique high heeled shoes. Or perhaps it would baffle future archaeologists, and they would guess they had been for religious or ritual purposes.

                  Liz decided to turn the tables on this new character, Alessandro. She would give him a lesson or two on dress sense. The first thing she would tell him was that labels are supposed to be worn on the inside, not the outside.

                  “One doesn’t write “Avon” in orange make up on one’s face, dear, even if it’s been seen in one of those shiny colourful publications,” Liz said it kindly so as not to rile him too much. “One doesn’t write “Pepto Dismal” in pink marker pen upon ones stomach.”

                  Alessandro glanced at Finnley, who avoided catching his eye. He cleared his throat and said brightly, “I’ve organized a shopping trip, Liz! Come on, let’s go!”

                  “While you’re out, I’ll see what Liz has thrown out, so I can cut it up for dolls clothes,” Fnnley said, to which Liz retorted, “I have thrown nothing out.” Liz cut Finnley short as she protested that Liz didn’t wear most of it anyway. “Yes, but I might, one day.”

                  Turning to Alessandro, she said “Although I’m a busy woman, I will come shopping with you, my boy. You clearly need some pointers,” she added, looking at his shoes.

                  #4785
                  EricEric
                  Keymaster

                    Not knowing what to do with the powder, Jerk pondered for a moment, then recalled a tradition from India that he’d seen on a documentary or in a magazine; taking the blue sand, he started to pour it on the ground to draw a rangoli in the shape of a feather. He clearly wasn’t very experienced at sandpainting, and the drawing looked more like a stick in an old worn sock, but he was glad that it could illuminate somehow the bland and cold fake marble at the entrance of the mall.

                    :fleuron2:

                    Granola was starting to get anxious in her red crystal. It wasn’t very comfortable. She thought she could just adjust her mental size to make it more spacious, but it was automatically adjusting. She was starting to feel desperate when she noticed a blue thing with the shape of a deflated condom glowing on one of the sides of the crystal.
                    The imprint of a magical act of grace she could hear vibrating. The vibration was slow and steady. She could guess she needed two, or maybe three, more of these symbols to resonate properly and break the crystal open.

                    #4575
                    AvatarJib
                    Participant

                      The garden was a mess. Roberto was emerging slowly out of the blissful haze of his stone elixirs where nothing really mattered into the harsh reality of the aftermath of the all out characters party.

                      He found cocktail glasses, plastic cups and even toilet paper scattered under and on the bushes, hidden behind the marble statues that had been dressed with scarves, blond and red wigs and false moustaches.

                      He looked clueless at a dirty muddy bubbly pond. He wondered what it could have been for a moment. Images of half naked guests throwing buckets of champagne at each others, of firemen extinguishing the barbecue appeared in front of his eyes, but it wasn’t quite right. Then he recalled the ice sculpture fountain he was so proud of. It was completely melted, like his motivation to clean everything.
                      A noise alerted him that the cleaning team was also emerging from their slumber. They arrived before the guests left and it soon had become a foam party, hence the bubbly pond.

                      Well, he thought, at least we had fun.

                      #4537

                      Fox’s stomach growled and resonated on the cave’s walls. He feared it would awaken the others. It was cold and he curled up inside his ten blankets made of yak wool, tempted to turn into a fox to get extra fur.

                      After being caught in a snowstorm, they had found a cave with a frozen toothless body. Rukshan had used incense and chanting to perform a commummycation spell, and to everyone’s surprise, Lhamom’s voice came out of the toothless frozen mouth. It was feeble and was full of sharp crystalline harmonics that made Fox’s grind his teeth. Because the commummycation was bad, Rukshan had to lean closer, almost touching its face. Fox shivered incontrollably, unable to know if it was of disgust or of cold.
                      Rukshan told them that Lhamom had been rescued by a hellishcopter from the underworld and was on her way to extract them from the ice. He seemed as puzzled as Fox, but their guide seemed to know the strange beast and assumed their friend was blessed because hellishcopters were not known to help strangers.

                      Dogs barked in the distance. Fox winced and wondered why he came to the mountain. He wished he could be back to simple cottage life in the enchanted forest. Then he recalled it was not that simple at the moment and he wondered how their friends were dealing with their own problems.

                      He couldn’t sleep, like the previous nights and he didn’t dare go to far from the camp to relieve his bowels by fear of the hungry dogs.
                      He also had had dreams. Strange dreams of master Gibbon’s home in the forest threatened by dozens of bulls with bright red eyes running angrily toward his unaware master. Each time Fox woke up when the bulls were about to crush the hut and master Gibbons opened his eyes, his face hurling towards Fox. Afterwards he never could go back to sleep. So he waited. He waited for their friend Lhamom to arrive as she promised.

                      #4496
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        Lucinda could hear the neighbours dog whining through the thin walls between the apartments, but she liked the dog, and she liked her neighbour Maeve, so the noise was a comfort rather than a bother. Moments earlier a movement from the window had caught her eye: fleetingly it looked like some sort of dust devil or whirlwind of dry leaves. Perhaps that was what had upset Caspar.

                        She went out onto the kitchen balcony and looked across at Maeve’s identical balcony and called softly to the dog. He came sidling out looking guilty, with a lowered head and nervous tail wag. Lucinda noticed that her neighbours tomato plants were ripening nicely, while her own were still hard shiny green, thanks to the shade of the big oak tree. A blessing in some ways, keeping the hot afternoon sun off the kitchen, but not so good for the tomatoes. Not that it was particularly hot so far this summer: glancing down she noticed the guy from the apartment on the other side of Maeve was wearing a scarf as he sauntered out onto the sidewalk. Surely it’s not cold enough for a scarf, though, thought Lucinda. Still, perhaps he’s just wearing it because it matches his socks. A trifle vain, that one, but a nice enough fellow. Always a ready friendly smile, and Maeve said he was quiet enough, and never complained about her dog.

                        Lucinda had been passing by one day as Shawn-Paul had opened his door, and she couldn’t help but notice all his bookcases. He’d noticed her looking ~ she hadn’t been subtle about her interest and was trying to peer round him for a better look inside ~ and he’d invited her to come round any time to borrow a book, but that he was late for an appointment, and didn’t have time to invite her inside that day. Lucinda wondered why she’d never gone back, and thought perhaps she would. One day. One of those things that for some reason gets put off and delayed.

                        There was nothing Lucinda liked more than to find a new ~ or a newly found old ~ book, and to randomly open it. The synchronicities invariably delighted her, so she did know a thing or two about the benefits of timing ~ otherwise often known as procrastination. When she did decide to visit Shawn-Paul and look at his books, she knew the timing would be right.

                        “Don’t lean on me man, la la la la, synchronicity city…” she started singing an old Bowie song that popped into her head from nowhere, barely aware that she was changing the words from suffragette to synchronicity.

                        Meanwhile unbeknown to Lucinda, Shawn-Paul had just rounded the corner and bumped into the gardener, Stan, who was on his way to the apartments to mow the lawns. They exchanged pleasantries, and patted each others shoulders in the usual familiar friendly way as they parted. The two guys were not friends per se, they never socialized together, but always enjoyed a brief encounter outside with an easy pleasant greeting and a few words. Shawn-Paul always inquired about Stan’s family and so on, and Stan often complemented Shawn-Paul’s scarves.

                        Granola, temporarily rustling around in the big oak tree, noticed all of this and immediately recognized the connecting links, and peered eagerly at the three people in turn to see if they had noticed. They hadn’t. Not one of them recalled the time when they were all three suffragettes chained to the railings near an old oak tree.

                        #4270

                        Yorath led the way down the forest path. Eleri followed, feeling no urge to rush, despite the sense of urgency. Rather, she felt a sense of urgency to linger, perhaps even to sit awhile on a rock beneath an old oak tree, to stop the pell mell rush of thoughts and suppositions and just sit, staring blankly, listening to the forest sounds and sniffing the mushroomy mulch beneath her feet.

                        The compulsion to be alone increased. Unable to ignore it any longer, Eleri told Yorath that she would catch him up, she needed to go behind a bush for a moment, knowing quite well that there was no need for the excuse, but still, she didn’t feel like explaining. Talking, even thinking, had become tiring, exhausting even. She needed to sit, just sit.

                        She watched his retreating back and breathed a sigh of relief when his form disappeared from view. Much as she loved her dear old friend, the absence of other humans was like a breath of air to the drowning. The rustlings of the living forest, the dappling shadows and busy missions of the insects was a different kind of busyness, far from still and never silent, not always slow or sedate, not even serene or pleasant always, but there was a restful coherence to the movements of the living forest.

                        Leaning back into the tree trunk, her foot dislodged a rotten log from its resting place among the leaves ~ crisp and crunchy on the top, damp and decomposing beneath the surface ~ revealing the long slim ivory of bone contrasting sharply with the shades of brown.

                        Bones. Eleri paused before leaning over to touch it gently at first, then gently smooth away the composting detritus covering it.

                        Bones. She held it, feeling the hard dry texture peculiar to bones, loving the white colour which was more than white, a richer white than white, not bleached of colour, but full of the colours of white, and holding all of the colours of the story of it.

                        The story of the bone, the bones. She knelt, carefully brushing the leaves aside. Bones never rested alone, she knew that. Close by she knew she would find more. She knew she would take them home with her, although she knew not why. Just that she always did. A smile flitted across her face as she recalled the horse bones she’d found once ~ an entire, perfect skeleton of a horse. What she wouldn’t have given to take the whole thing home with her, but it was impossible. Perfectly assembled, picked clean and sun bleached, resplendent in the morning sun, it was a thing of unimaginable beauty that morning, reclining on the hilltop. So she took as much of the spine as she could carry, and later wished she’d taken the skull instead. And never really wondered why she didn’t go back for more.

                        But that was the thing with bones. You don’t go back. You take what you want, what you can carry, and leave the rest. But Eleri had to admit that she didn’t know why this was so.

                        #4254

                        Eleri shivered. The cold had descended quickly once the rain had stopped. If only the rain had stopped a little sooner, she could have made her way back home, but as it was, Eleri had allowed Jolly to persuade her to spend the night in Trustinghampton.

                        Pulling the goat wool blankets closer, Eleri gazed at the nearly full moon framed in the attic window, the crumbling castle ramparts faintly visible in the silver light. The scene reminded her of another moonlit night many years ago, not long after she had first arrived here with Alexandria and Lobbocks.

                        It had been a summer night, and long before Leroway had improvised a cooling system with ventilation shafts constructed with old drainage pipes, a particularly molten sweltering night, and Eleri had risen from her crumpled sweaty bed to find a breath of cooler air. Quietly she slipped through the door willing it not to creak too much and awaken anyone. The cobblestones felt deliciously cool on her bare feet and she climbed the winding street towards the castle, her senses swathed in the scents of night flowering dama de noche. Lady of the Night, she whispered. Perhaps there would be a breeze up there.

                        She paused at the castle gate archway and turned to view the sleeping village below. A light glimmered from the window of Leroway’s workshop, but otherwise the village houses were the still dark quiet of the dreaming night.

                        Eleri wandered through the castle grounds, alternately focused on watching her step, and pausing for a few moments, lost in thoughts. It was good, this community, there was a promising feeling about it. It wasn’t always easy, but the hardships seemed lighter with the spirit of adventure and enthusiasm. And it was much better up here than it had been in the Lowlands, there was no doubt about that.

                        Her brow furrowed when she recalled her last days down there, when leaving had become the only possible course of action. Don’t dwell on that, she admonished herself silently. She resumed her aimless strolling.

                        Behind the castle, on the opposite side to the village, the ground fell away in series of small plateaus. At certain times of the years when the rains came, these plateaus were green meadows sprinkled with daisies and grazing goats, but now they were crisply browned and dry underfoot. Striking rock formations loomed in the darkness, looking like gun metal where the moonlight shone on them. One of them was shaped like a chair, a flat stone seat with an upright stone wedged behind it. Eleri sat, appreciating the feel of the cool rock through her thin dress and on her bare legs.

                        It feels like a throne, she thought, just before slipping into a half sleep. The dreams came immediately, as if they had already started and she only needed to shift her attention away from the hot night in the castle to another world. Her cotton shift became a long heavy coarsely woven gown, and her head was weighed down somehow. She had to move her head very slowly and only from side to side. She knew not to look down because of the weight of the thing on her head.

                        Looking to her right, she saw him. “Micawber Minn, at your service,” he said with a cheeky grin. “At last, you have returned.”

                        Eleri awoke with a start. Touching her head, she realized the weighty head dress was gone, although there was a ring of indentation in her hair. Her heavy gown was gone too, although she could still feel the places where the prickly cloth had scratched her.

                        Suddenly aware of the thin material of her dress, she glanced to her right. He was still there!

                        Spellbound, Eleri gazed at the magnificent man beside her. Surely she was still dreaming! Such an arresting face, finely chiseled features and penetrating but amused eyes. Broad shoulders, flowing platinum locks, really there was not much to fault. What a stroke of luck to find such a man, and on such a romantic night. And what a perfect setting!

                        And yet, although she knew she had never met him before, he seemed familiar. Eleri shifted her position on the stone throne and inched closer to him. He leaned towards her, opening his arms. And she fell into the rapture.

                        #4228

                        “You can see for miles and miles and miles and miles…” Eleri wondered briefly why it would never do to use the word kilometers in this case, despite that she rarely used the word miles these days. “Look at all those enormous birds, Yorath! Are they eagles or vultures?”

                        The whitewashed walls were dazzlingly bright in the crisp rain washed air, and the distant blueberry mountains looked close enough to reach out and touch. The easterly wind whipped around the castle walls as they strolled around, playing the part of tourists for the day, decked out in woolly scarves and sunglasses, taking snapshots.

                        It was disconcerting at times to see the crumbling stone walls where once had stood magnificent rooms, where they both recalled times long since past, times of intrigue and danger, and times of pastoral simplicity too. Many the lifetimes they had shared in this place over the centuries. Not for the first time, Eleri wondered why she felt a crumbling ruin was the natural state, the most beautiful state, for a man made structure. A point of interest in the wild landscape, softened with encroaching greenery, rather than the right angles and solid obstruction of a newly built edifice.

                        Peering over the wall at the chasm below, Yorath exclaimed, “Look! Look at the goats sheltering in the crannies of the cliff wall!” Eleri smiled a trifle smugly. She felt an affinity with goats and their ability to traverse and utilize the places no one else could reach.

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