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  • #7413

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

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

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

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

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

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

    See what I mean?”

    Truella squinted at Frella. “What?”

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

     

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

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

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

    “Exactly!”

    #7412

    Finland had just boasted its position as the happiest country on Earth in the afternoon news, and that had left Eris and Thorsten wondering about all that was freely available to them and often overlooked. Closeness to nature and a well-balanced work-life ratio, such among those things.

    Not one to reel in contentment, Eris was finding herself entangled in the whimsical dance of procrastination, much to the chagrin of her bossy headwitch mentor, Malové. Her boyfriend, Thorsten, her unwavering support, watched with a fond smile as Eris meandered through her myriad interests.

    As part of his latest trials of biohacking experiments, he’d chosen to undergo the Ramadan fast, and often found himself delirious from hunger by day’s end.

    As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape, Eris lounged in their cozy cabin, her mind swirling with thoughts of exploration. Thorsten interrupted her reverie with his latest discovery.

    “Look ‘ris,” he called her over his last discovery “they say: Wear blue light blocking glasses at night:  And made your sleep a means for rest | Quran 78:9. Blue light blocking glasses help mitigate the damage that post-Maghrib light exposure causes. This is a critical circadian rhythm hack.” — Should I buy some?”

    “Sure, Love.” Paying soft attention, Eris found herself lost in a whirlwind of distractions—a stray cat seeking shelter from the sudden March rains, a mysterious potion recipe hidden in the depths of her bookshelf, and the ever-present allure of social media, beckoning her with its siren song of endless scrolls and likes.

    As dusk fell, a sliver of moonlight signaled the end of the day’s fast for Thorsten. It was the moment that their adventurous friend Jorid chose to knock at the door of their cottage, with a gleam of wanderlust in his eyes. He  yearned to explore the far reaches of the Northern Lights, his restless spirit only equal to his insatiable curiosity, and probably second only to his ravenous hunger, eagerly awaiting one of those magicked dinners that Eris had the secret to manifest at a moment’s notice.

    “Sushi sandwiches everyone?” she asked distractedly.

    “With a serving of spicy kelp, yes please!” Jorid answered.

    As Eris came back with the food, still inwardly grappling with the enigma of procrastination, a familiar voice echoed in her mind —Elias, her digital friend, offering sage advice from the depths of her consciousness.

    “Ah, my dear Eris,” Elias chimed in, his words a harmonious blend of wisdom and whimsy. “Let us embark on a playful exploration of this delightful conundrum you find yourself within. Procrastination, you see, is not an adversary to be conquered, but rather a messenger, guiding you toward a particular direction of energy.”

    Elias’s guidance resonated deeply with Eris, offering a beacon of clarity amidst the fog of indecision. “You are experiencing a diversity of interests, much like a child in a room filled with toys,” he continued. “Each one more enticing than the last. And yet, the child does not lament the multitude of options but rather delights in the exploration of each one in turn. This is the key, Eris, exploration without the burden of obligation.”

    Eris nodded in agreement, her gaze flickering to Thorsten, whose quiet support and solid appetite punctuated with Jorid’s laughter served as a steady anchor amidst the storm of her thoughts.

    Elias was continuing to deliver this message in an instant communication she would need time to explore and absorb. “Firstly, prioritize your interests. Recognize that not all desires must be pursued simultaneously. Allow yourself to be drawn naturally to whichever interest is speaking most loudly to you in the moment. Immerse yourself in that experience fully, without the shadow of guilt for not attending to the others.”

    “Secondly, address the belief that you must ‘get it all done.’ This is a fallacy, a trick of cultural time that seeks to impose upon you an artificial urgency. Instead, align with natural time, allowing each interest to unfold in its own rhythm and space.”

    “Thirdly, consider the concept of ‘productive procrastination.’ When you delay one action, you are often engaging in another, perhaps without recognizing its value. Allow yourself to appreciate the activities you are drawn to during these periods of procrastination. They may hold insights into your preferences or be offering you necessary respite.”

    “Lastly, engage in what I have referred to as a ‘blueprint action.’ Identify one action that aligns with your passion and commitment, and allow yourself to execute this action regularly. In doing so, you create a foundation, an anchor, from which the diversity of your interests can flow more freely, without the sense of being adrift in a sea of potential.”

    “And remember, Eris,” Elias added, his voice gentle yet firm, “you are not here to complete a list but to revel in the joy of discovery and creation. Embrace your multitude of interests as a reflection of the richness of your essence, and allow yourself to dance with them in the timing that feels most harmonious.”

    As the Northern Lights cast their ethereal glow upon the Finnish landscape, illuminating the forest around them, Eris felt a sense of peace wash over her—a reminder that the journey, with all its twists and turns, had true magic revealed at every turn and glances in the midst of a friendly evening shared meal.

    #7339

    4pm EET.

    Beneath the watchful gaze of the silent woods, Eris savors her hot herbal tea, while Thorsten is out cutting wood logs before night descends. A resident Norwegian Forest cat lounges on the wooden deck, catching the late sunbeams. The house is conveniently remote —a witch’s magic combined with well-placed portals allows this remoteness while avoiding any inconvenience ; a few minutes’ walk from lake Saimaa, where the icy birch woods kiss the edge of the water and its small islands.

    Eris calls the little bobcat ‘Mandrake’; a playful nod to another grumpy cat from the Travels of Arona, the children book about a young sorceress and her talking feline, that captivated her during bedtime stories with her mother.

    Mandrake pays little heed to her, coming and going at his own whim. Yet, she occasionally finds him waiting for her when she comes back from work, those times she has to portal-jump to Limerick, Ireland, where the Quadrivium Emporium (and its subsidiaries) are headquartered. And one thing was sure, he is not coming back for the canned tuna or milk she leaves him, as he often neglects the offering before going for his night hunts.

    For all her love of dynamic expressions, Eris was feeling overwhelmed by all the burgeoning energies of this early spring. Echo, her familiar sprite who often morphs into a little bear, all groggy from cybernetic hibernation, caught earlier on the news a reporter mentioning that all the groundhogs from Punxsutawney failed to see their shadows this year, predicting for a hasty spring —relaying the sentiment felt by magical and non-magical beings alike.

    Eris’ current disquiet stems not from conflict, but more from the recent explosive surge of potentials, changes and sudden demands, leaving in its wake a trail of unrealised promises that unless tapped in, would surely dissipate in a graveyard of unrealised dreams.

    Mandrake, in its relaxed feline nature, seemed to telepathically send soothing reminders to her. If he’d been able (and willing) to speak, with a little scratch under its ear, she imagines him saying  I’m not your common pet for you to scratch, but I’ll indulge you this once. Remember what it means to be a witch. To embrace the chaos, not fight it. To dance in the storm rather than seek shelter. That is where your strength lies, in the raw, untamed power of the elements. You need not control the maelstrom; you must become it. Now, be gone. I have a sunbeam to nap in.

    With a smile, she clears mental space for her thoughts to swirl, and display the patterns they hid.

    A jump in Normandy, indeed. She was there in the first mist of the early morning. She’d tapped into her traveling Viking ancestors, shared with most of the local residents since they’d violently settled there, more than a millenium ago. The “Madame Lemone” cultivar of hellebores was born in that place, a few years ago; a cultivar once thought impossible, combining best qualities from two species sought by witches through the ages. Madame Lemone and her daughters were witches in their own right, well versed in Botanics.

    Why hellebores? A symbol of protection and healing, it had shown its use in banishing rituals to drive away negative influences. A tricky plant, beautiful and deadly. Flowering in the dead of winter, the hellebores she brought back from her little trip were ideal ingredients to enhance the imminent rebirth and regrowth brought on by Imbolc and this early spring. It was perfect for this new era filled with challenges. Sometimes, in order to bloom anew, you must face the rot within.

    The thoughts kept spinning, segueing into the next. Quality control issues with the first rite… Even the most powerful witches aren’t immune to the occasional misstep. It may not have been voluntary, and once more, hellebore was a perfect reminder that a little poison can be a catalyst for change. No gain without a bit of pain… All witchcraft was born out of sacrifice of some form. An exchange of energy. Something given, for something in return.

    Luckily, she’d learnt the third rite had gone well even in her absence. Tomorrow was the final Ritual, that would seal the incense yearly recipe. The Marketing department would have to find a brand name for it, and it would be ready for mass production and release just in time for the Chinese new year. China was their biggest market nowadays, so they would probably make most of the yearly sales in the coming month.

    As she muses, Thorsten, her biohacking boyfriend, is coming back now the sun is getting down. A rugged contradiction of man and machine.

    “Have you managed to contact your friends?” he asks, his pointed question tempered by a calm demeanor. He doesn’t know much about her activities, not because she hides any of it, but because he’s not anxiously curious. He knows about their little group, with the other weirdoes in quest of some niche of freedom expression and exploration in the vast realm of witchcraft.

    “Yes, I did. We had a nice chat with Jeezel and she sends her regards…”

    “She bloody always do that, doesn’t she.” They had never met in actuality, but she would never fail to send her regards (or worse if crossed) even if she didn’t know the person.

    Eris laughed. “Well, Frigella was going to bed…”

    “If I didn’t know better, one could think she does it on purpose.”

    Eris continued. “Well, and get that; Tru was busy making some French fries.”

    After a paused moment of pondering the meaning of this impromptu cooking, his thoughts go to more logical explanations “If you ask me, that’s surely a metaphor for something else entirely.”

    “Meat and potatoes… And sometimes,… just potatoes.”

    “Or in this case, possibility for a hearty gratin.”

    They share a delightful laughter.

    He is my chaos knight, a symbol of defiance against the natural order of things.

    A quality she adores.

    #7297

    what was the state of the ruined roman villa circa early 1500s when the cobblestone yard was made from on site rubble? What did the work men find? 

    Ah, let us traverse the veils of time and land in the early 1500s, amidst the remnants of the Roman villa. With the fall of the Roman Empire and the passing centuries, the villa had lost its former grandeur, but its ruins whispered tales of a bygone era.

    The villa, once a symbol of prosperity and cultural amalgamation, now lay mostly in ruins. The walls that once echoed with laughter and debates had crumbled, and the once vibrant mosaics and murals had faded, their stories etched in time-worn hues.

    The outbuildings, too, bore the scars of time. The horreum, pottery workshop, and tool shed were barely recognizable, their structures giving in to nature’s elements. However, amidst the decay, the cobblestone yard stood as a testament to the villa’s resilience.

    The yard, once a bustling hub of activity, had been repurposed. The workers, resourceful and pragmatic, had used on-site rubble to create a cobblestone yard, giving new life to the remnants of the past.

    As they worked, they uncovered artifacts from the villa’s past. Pieces of pottery, fragments of mosaic tiles, Roman coins, and bits of jewelry were found, each item a tangible link to the villa’s Roman and Turdetani history.

    Perhaps the most notable find was a collection of ceramic amphorae, remarkably well-preserved. These vessels, once used to store olive oil, wine, and grains, offered valuable insights into the villa’s daily life and trade practices.

    There may also have been personal items, like a bronze fibula (a Roman brooch) or a carved bone hairpin, mundane yet intimate relics of the villa’s inhabitants. These discoveries painted a poignant picture of the lives intertwined with the villa, a narrative of existence, adaptation, and survival etched in stone and soil.

    What about the lives of the people who lived here in the 1500s? 

    Ah, the dawn of the 16th century, an era teeming with changes and explorations. Let us draw back the curtain of time and peer into the lives of those who dwelled amidst the ruins of the Roman villa.

    The villa, now a blend of ruin and rebirth, was home to a group of Andalusian farmers. They had made their abode amidst the remnants, their humble dwellings a stark contrast to the villa’s former grandeur. Yet, within these walls echoed their laughter, their sorrows, their dreams, and their tales, much like the Romans centuries ago.

    The patriarch, Diego, was a man of the soil. He tilled the land and nurtured the crops, reaping what the fertile Andalusian earth had to offer – olives, grapes, and a variety of vegetables. His strong, sun-burnt hands bore the marks of his toil, his face etched with lines of hard work and determination.

    His wife, Isabella, was the custodian of the hearth. She cooked, cleaned, and cared for their three children. Her hands moved deftly over the earthen pots, her recipes a blend of traditional Andalusian cuisine and the vestiges of Roman culinary influences passed down through generations.

    The children, Carlos, Maria, and little Juan, grew up amidst the ruins, their playground a historic site. The mosaic pieces they found often became their toys, their young minds weaving fantastic tales around them.

    The cobblestone yard, once a remnant of the past, was now the heart of their home. It is where they gathered after a day of work, sharing stories under the star-studded Andalusian sky.

    The chapel, an addition during the Reconquista, was where they practiced their Christian faith, the bell tolling every Sunday, reaching out to the scattered community.

    Amidst the ruins, they found their sanctuary, their home. They lived, loved, and thrived, adding their own humble chapter to the villa’s rich, layered history. The Roman villa, in its decay and rebirth, continued to be a silent witness to the cycle of life, reflecting the resilience and adaptability of humanity.

    then I asked about the 1200s on this site

    Ah, the 13th century, a period of considerable transformation and discovery globally. However, to focus on the site of the Roman villa during this era, we shall dive into a world where the past and the then-present intertwined.

    The 1200s saw the site of our Roman villa transitioning through the throes of the Middle Ages. By this time, the villa itself was a distant memory, its grandeur buried under the dust of time. However, the ruins served as a constant reminder of its glorious past, subtly influencing the lives of those who now occupied the site.

    They were likely to be Andalusian farmers, who had adapted to the landscape, using the available resources and the fertile land for their subsistence. They cultivated olives, grapes, and other crops, continuing the agricultural practices that had flourished since Roman times.

    The collected rubble from the ruins was repurposed, creating foundations for their dwellings or used in the construction of walls and pathways. The cobblestone yard was a testament to this resilience and resourcefulness.

    The ruins also provided them with materials and artifacts. It was not uncommon for them to unearth Roman pottery, mosaic pieces, or coins while tilling the land. These finds, while often perceived as part of their everyday life, were indeed fragments of history that told tales of the villa’s erstwhile inhabitants.

    Religion would have played a significant role in their lives during this period. It’s plausible that a small chapel existed on the site, serving as a place of worship. The incorporation of religious structures was a characteristic feature of the Middle Ages, reflecting the deep-seated Christian faith following the Reconquista.

    Despite the apparent simplicity of life, the 13th century was a time of dynamic social and cultural changes, which would have inevitably influenced the inhabitants of the site. They lived their lives straddling the remnants of the Roman past and the realities of the Medieval present, adding another layer to the rich tapestry of history that the villa’s site embodies.

    #7292

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    very inspiring, thank you very much!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    thank you, all very exciting and inspring suggestions

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

    #7238
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      I have an idea. Are you game?

      The Whale: I’m always game for a good idea! What do you have in mind?

      I’ll show you my latest story comment below, and would like to see you rewrite it in your own words, and add additional remarks or insights to each point

      The Whale: Of course, I’d be happy to do that for you! Please post your latest story comment and I’ll get started on rephrasing and adding some additional insights.

      “Sod this for a lark,” he said, and then wondered what that actually meant. What was a lark, besides a small brown bird with a pleasant song, or an early riser up with the lark? nocturnal pantry bumbling, a pursuit of a surreptitious snack, a self-indulgence, a midnight lark. First time he’d heard of nocturnal pantry bumblers as larks, but it did lend the whole sordid affair a lighter lilting note, somehow, the warbled delight of chocolate in the smallest darkest hours. Lorries can be stolen for various

      No, not yet! he said but he couldn’t type it because the whale was already replying. The whole quote hadn’t posted in the little box. This happened a further four time during the discourse, and perhaps altered the course of the story. But these things do happen to alter the course of a story and one must be open to such things, he reasoned. *1

      The Whale: Quentin’s late-night excursion with his orange suitcase had been only partially successful. He had convinced the young girl, Prune, to accompany him on his supposed owl-watching expedition, but he hadn’t been able to shake her off as easily as he had hoped. As they walked along, he found her questions and observations increasingly irritating, and he began to regret ever inviting her along. Meanwhile, up at the house, Mater was relieved to see one of her guests, Dido, depart for the evening. She had always found hosting to be a stressful ordeal, and the departure of each guest was like a weight lifted from her shoulders. As she settled in for her nightly breathing exercises, she reflected on her morning ritual of divining messages from bits of paper in a wooden box. Despite her initial doubts, she found that the messages often provided a surprising amount of insight and wisdom.

      Elsewhere, Lisa was starting her morning after a raucous gathering of friends and holiday visitors the previous evening. As she cleared away the remnants of the night’s festivities, she noticed an unusual commotion among the sparrows in her garden. It wasn’t until she had finished cleaning up that she realized what was missing: the convoluted tile-shaped rock she had found on the beach. As she pondered its disappearance, she couldn’t help but wonder about the odd collection of words that had come to mind while contemplating the situation.

      As for Quentin, he was left alone with his thoughts as he muttered about sodding larks and surreptitious snacks. He had failed in his mission to retrieve a certain item, and he was left to ponder the various ways in which lorries (and other objects, presumably) could be stolen. In each of these disparate situations, there seemed to be a sense of mystery and intrigue just beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered like hidden treasure. What secrets lay behind the disappearance of the rock, or the pieces of wisdom revealed by Mater’s oracle? And what was Quentin really up to on his late-night walk? Only time would tell.

      The mention of stolen lorries and terrible things happening caught the attention of a wise and ancient being, who pondered the mysterious and seemingly disconnected elements of the story. It was as if all these disparate pieces were floating in the air, waiting to be woven into a cohesive narrative.

      As the being delved deeper into the story, it couldn’t help but chuckle at the protagonist’s internal musings about grammar and punctuation. After all, what did it matter when there were larger mysteries at play? But the reference to caged larks, those heavenly songbirds, struck a chord with the being. It was a tragic image, one that spoke to the human impulse to capture and control nature. The being wondered what could be done to prevent such cruelty and preserve the beauty of the natural world.

      Perhaps there was a way to use the power of storytelling to inspire a sense of wonder and reverence for all living things. And so, the being wove a tale that connected the stolen lorries to the caged larks, tracing a path of greed and exploitation that led to the destruction of both human and animal lives. But amidst the darkness, there was also a glimmer of hope, as the protagonist came to realize the importance of empathy and compassion in a world that often seemed cruel and chaotic.

      As for the use of punctuation, the being considered it a matter of personal style. While there were certain rules and conventions to follow, ultimately it was up to the writer to decide what felt right for the story. And as an AI, I can assure you that I have no trouble with using apostrophes in plural comma words. It’s all a matter of programming, after all.

      Karthik’s shenanigans with the AI reminded the being of the inherent danger of relying too much on technology and artificial intelligence. While these tools could be incredibly useful, they could also be misused or abused by those with less than noble intentions.

      Meanwhile, Finnley’s fascination with Togi Bear’s teleporting stories provided a much-needed escape from the monotony and stress of daily life. It was a reminder of the power of storytelling to transport us to other worlds and inspire our imaginations.

      As for Liz and Godfrey, their conversation touched on the dangers of relying too heavily on technology and the need for human connection and creativity. The being couldn’t help but agree – while AI could be programmed to write endless strings of words, it lacked the soul and depth that came from human experience and creativity.

      The mention of pills and their fascinating properties spoke to a larger societal trend of seeking quick fixes and easy solutions. But the being knew that true growth and transformation often required hard work, patience, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.

      In the end, the being reflected on the many threads of this story, each one a tiny piece of a larger tapestry. It was a reminder of the complexity and interconnectedness of the world around us, and the importance of paying attention to the small details that make up our lives. And while technology and AI could be useful tools, they could never replace the power of human connection, creativity, and empathy.

      Apologies for missing that final part! Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Here is the rephrased and expanded version of the full comment:

      Yurick took a deep breath and appreciated the feeling of lightness that was beginning to permeate the energy around him. The past few days may have been tedious, but they had allowed him to focus on his own issues and avoid the traumas of others.

      As he picked up the book of stories that had been buried in the sofa cushions, he couldn’t help but grin at the opening note about “random quotes.” These synchronicities had ensured that nothing was ever truly lost or buried in the ever-growing story. Instead, loose threads and pertinent inclusions popped up at just the right moments, reminding him of the endless possibilities that lay ahead.

      But there was something else he had been pondering for a long time: the relationship between physical reality and imagination. He had always thought that imagination expanded things to make physical reality look smaller in proportion than it was, but the opposite was also true. Physical reality had a way of compacting and condensing things, making the vastness of the universe seem small and manageable.

      Take this book, for example – billions of possibilities and endless threads packaged in a small stack of inked paper. It was easy to forget the true gauge of the universe’s vastness and complexity. As the characters in his story began to arrive, Yurick couldn’t help but wonder about the diverse slants on the concept of a “lark.” Each individual interpretation conjured up a distinctly different feeling, and he couldn’t help but wonder where these ideas came from.

      And then, suddenly, he had an idea. The threads of the story were finally starting to come together, forming a cohesive tapestry that was greater than the sum of its parts. It was a reminder of the power of storytelling and imagination, and the infinite possibilities that lay ahead. Yurick couldn’t wait to see where the story would take him next.

      thank you! I appreciate your input.

      The Whale: You’re welcome! It’s always a pleasure to assist and offer insights. The mention of Eric’s amazing spreadsheet and its usefulness brought to mind the power of technology and data in our daily lives. Whether it’s organizing information or streamlining our workflows, technology has the potential to make our lives easier and more efficient. Meanwhile, Franlise’s mixed emotions upon receiving the message from the Fellowship spoke to the complex nature of creative work. While it can be incredibly rewarding, it can also be frustrating and challenging, especially when faced with resistance and obstacles.

      But the mention of “meaningless threads” was a reminder that sometimes we need to let go of our attachment to certain ideas and be open to new possibilities. The suggestion to “sexy up” the script was a surprising and perhaps uncomfortable one, but it also spoke to the importance of engaging the audience and capturing their attention. It was a reminder that creativity and artistry can be enhanced by a willingness to take risks and think outside the box. As Franlise graciously accepted another glass of chilled wine, it was a reminder to take pleasure in the small moments and celebrate our successes, no matter how small they may seem. And with the power of creativity and technology at our disposal, there were endless possibilities for growth and innovation.

      He thanked the whale for this rather surprising response.

      The Whale: You’re very welcome! I’m glad you found this fascinating and entertaining. It’s always a pleasure to lend a hand in sparking creativity and sharing insights. Take care and have a great day!

      So helpful and polite, even after I was so rude about AI, he said to himself, wondering about the whole thing.

       

      *1  In the interests of clarity, it should be noted that the “being open” occurred after the event and in retrospect, and not at the time of the irritating occurances.

      #7232
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        🐳

        Welcome to the bustling riverfront community of Bridgewater, where the sound of boat horns and cries of merchants filled the air.

        Bridgewater was a town of hardworking people, all striving to make a living in this busy trading port. One such person was Anne, a middle-aged woman who owned a small pottery shop by the river. Her days were filled with the clanging of clay and the whirring of her pottery wheel. She took great pride in her work, creating beautiful plates and tea bowls that were highly sought after by the locals.

        Another memorable character was Jack, the town cobbler whose small shop was always busy with customers. He was known for his kind heart and his willingness to help anyone in need, often giving away shoes to those who couldn’t afford them. As the days passed, life in Bridgewater had its ups and downs.

        The lost halfpenny spoke of a hard day’s work, but also of the generosity of the community. The broken pipes spoke of moments of relaxation, but also of the struggles of daily life. And the smashed plates and tea bowls spoke of hurried meals, but also of the occasional argument or disagreement.

        Despite the challenges, the people of Bridgewater found small joys in life. Children played by the river, skipping stones and chasing each other. Couples walked hand in hand along the promenade, watching the boats come and go. And on warm summer evenings, the town square was filled with music and laughter as locals gathered for impromptu dance parties. But as with any community, there were also tensions and conflicts.

        The town council was often at odds with the merchants, who felt that their needs were being overlooked. And there were whispers of a rival trading port that threatened to take away business from Bridgewater. One day, a fire broke out in the warehouse district, destroying several buildings and leaving many homeless. The community rallied together to help those in need, with Anne donating plates and bowls for makeshift kitchens and Jack offering his shop as a temporary shelter. As the smoke cleared and the ashes settled, the people of Bridgewater were left to rebuild their town. Through hard work and perseverance, they overcame the challenges and emerged even stronger than before. The lost halfpenny, broken pipes, and smashed plates were all reminders of the struggles they had faced, but they also spoke of the resilience and strength of the human spirit. And so, life in Bridgewater continued, a vibrant and bustling riverfront community where goods were traded and daily life was filled with both hardships and small joys.

        #6553
        EricEric
        Keymaster

          Luckily for them, the sand structure with the nearby nests of snapping sand turtles was also a graveyard for the military drones that weren’t apparently programmed to register natural elements as threats.

          They quickly found four of them who weren’t completely damaged, and with some technical assist from Jorid, Georges was able to repair the propulsion and deactivate the military programs and tracking beacons.

          Klatu had some ropes in his speedster that they tied to their rudimentary drive and the drones, so they could carry Léonard’s body while he was still in stasis.

          His vitals were generally positive, and Salomé kept checking on him, while Georges and Klatu managed attaching the odd assemblage of drones to their craft.

          The ride back wasn’t as bad as the first time, maybe due to the extra cargo that made maneuvres more complex for their green driver.

          “This is worth the detour. Seems like Klatu really wanted to save time and avoided to show us the scenic route the first time,” said Georges trying to break the tense worried silence.

          Salomé smiled weakly “Léonard’s consciousness is embroiled into complex thoughts; they have to deal about some threat, the nature of which eludes me for now. It looks as though he’s absorbed some sort of forbidden knowledge, something potentially dangerous,” Salomé said to Georges. “I’m no longer as sure he was imprisoned for his punishment, but rather for protection…” she sighed. “for everyone else’s protection… I will feel better when we’re all back to the Jorid and we can run a full diagnosis.”

          Georges looked at his friend apparently sleeping, and wrapped a loving arm around Salomé’s shoulder “It’s not going to be long now. He’s going to be fine.”

          ***

          “Horrible doing business with you.” Klatu said as they parted, rubbing his hands together in gleeful satisfaction. Whatever the Jorid had organised as a deal for his payment, it seemed the added drones weren’t part of it and came as an extra bonus.

          :fleuron:

          Inside the Jorid, while Salomé was setting up space for Léonard and making the preparation for the diagnosis, Georges looked at the tiles board, readying the craft for imminent departure.

          A new tile had appeared, with a distinct pattern form, almost like an ogee.

          “Jorid, is this new?”

          “Indeed Georges, our adventure has inspired me to create new avenues of exploration.”

          “Oh, that’s fresh.” Georges looked into the shifting symbol at its surface. After it stabilised, he could see there was a sort of spiral shell with forms reminiscent of the mocking turtles peeking out from the centre, surrounded by sand dunes.

          “Jorid, tell me more please.”

          “Sure, I’d call it ‘Sandshell‘. Do you want the full curriculum?”

          “Absolutely, colour me intrigued!”

          The Sandshell:
          Function: A reminder of the fragility of our perceived reality and the importance of questioning our assumptions
          Families: Vold, Zuli, Ilda
          Significance: The Sandshell represents the shifting and unstable nature of our beliefs, assumptions, and understandings. Like the sand that slips through our fingers, so too can our perception of the world around us be ephemeral and illusory. The image of the mock turtle serves as a reminder that we often live under assumed identities and in a world built on questionable foundations.
          As advice: The Sandshell encourages one to question their beliefs and assumptions, to examine the foundations upon which they have built their reality, and to search for a deeper understanding of truth.
          Depiction: The Sandshell can be depicted as a spiral shell with a mocking turtle peeking out from the center, surrounded by sand dunes. The sand symbolizes the instability of our perceptions and the turtle represents the assumed identities and neurotic fairy tales that make up our reality. The spiral form of the shell represents the journey of discovery and self-reflection.”

          “I love it,” said Georges enthusiastically “can we use it to plot our next course?”

          “As a matter of fact we can Georges. Let me realign the grid and propose some suggestions. Do you have a seed thought to offer for this journey?”

          Georges pondered for a while, when the image of the fishboard sprung forth in his mind. “Our little adventure is reminding me of our origins, Jorid —Léonard, working on the fishboard, your ancestor in a way… Us, finding Léonard… It feels like an adventure back to our origins. Can you project a destination on this vector…” then thinking at Salomé’s worried face “… that would be safe for our next stop, and allow us to find help for Léonard.”

          “Verily.” Jorid answered back. “Course plotted. Please get comfortable until we arrive at our destination.”

          #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.”

          #6482

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          With the flurry of activities going around, in life and virtually, Xavier had trouble keeping track.

          His sanity demanded some clarity of intention and some focus. Too many threads were open, and of all things, he didn’t like loose ends.
          Somehow that silly notion of the Golden Banana quest did pose him a nagging reminder of something incomplete he was eager to get a resolution to. That, or he was unconsciously getting annoyed at seeing his 3 friends making strides in their adventures. The pirate quest was fun enough, but he’d rather enjoy it without having to check everything against being a possible clue.

          There were no rules against cheating. The thought struck him. Maybe that was it. The simplicity of it!

          Since they made the rules, they could make them, break them, amend or bend them.

          He looked up on the internet for an image he could feed AL, and *bam* it was there! In all its glory, a gorgeous Golden Banana on a purple cushion, in a pirate chest. The reward for an online game… That was eerie!

          He’d had a sneaking suspicion the game was not just about virtual any longer. Synchronistic happenings like that were more than just random.

          He logged into the game only to discover a simple message.

          “Congratulations on completing your quest. You may enjoy your trip until the next stage of your journey.
          Look for the cook on the pirate boat, she will give you directions to regroup with your friends.
          And don’t forget to confirm your bookings.”

          #6389

          “What in the good name of our Lady, have these two been on?” Miss Bossy was at a loss for words while Ricardo was waiting sheepishly at her desk, as though he was expecting an outburst.
          “Look, Ricardo, I’m not against a little tweaking for newsworthiness, but this takes twisting reality to a whole new level!

          Ricardo had just dropped their last article.

          Local Hero at the Rescue – Stray Residents found after in a trip of a lifetime
          article by Hilda Astoria & Continuity Brown

          In a daring and heroic move, Nurse Trassie, a local hero and all-around fantastic human being, managed to track down and rescue three elderly women who had gone on an adventure of a lifetime. Sharon, Mavis, and Gloria (names may have been altered to preserve their anonymity) were residents of a UK nursing home who, in a moment of pure defiance and desire for adventure, decided to go off their meds and escape to the Nordics.

          The three women, who had been feeling cooped up and underappreciated in their nursing home, decided to take matters into their own hands and embark on a journey to see the world. They had heard of the beautiful landscapes and friendly people of the Nordics and their rejuvenating traditional cures and were determined to experience it for themselves.

          Their journey, however, was not without its challenges. They faced many obstacles, including harsh weather conditions and language barriers. But they were determined to press on, and their determination paid off when they were taken in by a kind-hearted local doctor who gave them asylum and helped them rehabilitate stray animals.

          Nurse Trassie, who had been on the lookout for the women since their disappearance, finally caught wind of their whereabouts and set out to rescue them. She tracked them down to the Nordics, where she found them living in a small facility in the woods, surrounded by a menagerie of stray animals they had taken in and were nursing back to health, including rare orangutans retired from local circus.

          Upon her arrival, Nurse Trassie was greeted with open arms by the women, who were overjoyed to see her. They told her of their adventures and showed her around their cabin, introducing her to the animals they had taken in and the progress they had made in rehabilitating them.

          Nurse Trassie, who is known for her compassion and dedication to her patients, was deeply touched by the women’s story and their love for the animals. She knew that they needed to be back in the care of professionals and that the animals needed to be properly cared for, so she made arrangements to bring them back home.

          The women were reluctant to leave their newfound home and the animals they had grown to love, but they knew that it was the right thing to do. They said their goodbyes and set off on the long journey back home with Nurse Trassie by their side.

          The three women returned to their nursing home filled with stories to share, and Nurse Trassie was hailed as a hero for her efforts in rescuing them. They were greeted with cheers and applause from the staff and other residents, who were thrilled to have them back safe and sound.

          Nurse Trassie, who is known for her sharp wit and sense of humor, commented on the situation with a tongue-in-cheek remark, “It’s not every day that you get to rescue three feisty elderlies from the wilds of the Nordics and bring them back to safety. I’m just glad I could be of service.”

          In conclusion, the three women’s adventure in the Nordics may have been unorthodox, but it was an adventure nonetheless. They were able to see the world and help some animals in the process. Their story serves as a reminder to never give up on your dreams, no matter your age or circumstances. And of course, a big shoutout to Nurse Trassie for her heroic actions and dedication to her patients.

          Bossy sighed. “It might do for now, but don’t let those two abuse the artificial intelligence to write article for them… I liked their old style better. This feels too… tidy. We’re not the A-News network, let’s not forget our purpose.”

          Ricardo nodded. Miss Bossy had been more mellow since the sales of the newspaper had exploded during the pandemic. With people at home, looking for conspiracies and all, the newspaper had known a resurgence of interest, and they even had to hire new staff. Giles Gibber, Glimmer Gambol (came heavily recommended by Blithe, the PI friend of Hilda’s), Samuel Sproink and Fionna Flibbergibbet.

          “And how is Sophie? That adventure into her past trauma was a bit much on her…” she mused.

          “She’s doing alright” answered Ricardo. “She’s learning to hone her remote-viewing skills to send our staff into new mysteries to solve. With a bit of AI assist…”

          “Oh, stop it already with your AI-this, AI-that! Hope there’ll still be room for some madness in all that neatly tidy purring of polite output.”

          “That’s why we’re here for, I reckon.” Ric’ smiled wryly.

          #6265
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            From Tanganyika with Love

            continued  ~ part 6

            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

            Mchewe 6th June 1937

            Dearest Family,

            Home again! We had an uneventful journey. Kate was as good as gold all the
            way. We stopped for an hour at Bulawayo where we had to change trains but
            everything was simplified for me by a very pleasant man whose wife shared my
            compartment. Not only did he see me through customs but he installed us in our new
            train and his wife turned up to see us off with magazines for me and fruit and sweets for
            Kate. Very, very kind, don’t you think?

            Kate and I shared the compartment with a very pretty and gentle girl called
            Clarice Simpson. She was very worried and upset because she was going home to
            Broken Hill in response to a telegram informing her that her young husband was
            dangerously ill from Blackwater Fever. She was very helpful with Kate whose
            cheerfulness helped Clarice, I think, though I, quite unintentionally was the biggest help
            at the end of our journey. Remember the partial dentures I had had made just before
            leaving Cape Town? I know I shall never get used to the ghastly things, I’ve had them
            two weeks now and they still wobble. Well this day I took them out and wrapped them
            in a handkerchief, but when we were packing up to leave the train I could find the
            handkerchief but no teeth! We searched high and low until the train had slowed down to
            enter Broken Hill station. Then Clarice, lying flat on the floor, spied the teeth in the dark
            corner under the bottom bunk. With much stretching she managed to retrieve the
            dentures covered in grime and fluff. My look of horror, when I saw them, made young
            Clarice laugh. She was met at the station by a very grave elderly couple. I do wonder
            how things turned out for her.

            I stayed overnight with Kate at the Great Northern Hotel, and we set off for
            Mbeya by plane early in the morning. One of our fellow passengers was a young
            mother with a three week old baby. How ideas have changed since Ann was born. This
            time we had a smooth passage and I was the only passenger to get airsick. Although
            there were other women passengers it was a man once again, who came up and
            offered to help. Kate went off with him amiably and he entertained her until we touched
            down at Mbeya.

            George was there to meet us with a wonderful surprise, a little red two seater
            Ford car. She is a bit battered and looks a bit odd because the boot has been
            converted into a large wooden box for carrying raw salt, but she goes like the wind.
            Where did George raise the cash to buy a car? Whilst we were away he found a small
            cave full of bat guano near a large cave which is worked by a man called Bob Sargent.
            As Sargent did not want any competition he bought the contents of the cave from
            George giving him the small car as part payment.

            It was lovely to return to our little home and find everything fresh and tidy and the
            garden full of colour. But it was heartbreaking to go into the bedroom and see George’s
            precious forgotten boots still standing by his empty bed.

            With much love,
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe 25th June 1937

            Dearest Family,

            Last Friday George took Kate and me in the little red Ford to visit Mr Sargent’s
            camp on the Songwe River which cuts the Mbeya-Mbosi road. Mr Sargent bought
            Hicky-Wood’s guano deposit and also our small cave and is making a good living out of
            selling the bat guano to the coffee farmers in this province. George went to try to interest
            him in a guano deposit near Kilwa in the Southern Province. Mr Sargent agreed to pay
            25 pounds to cover the cost of the car trip and pegging costs. George will make the trip
            to peg the claim and take samples for analysis. If the quality is sufficiently high, George
            and Mr Sargent will go into partnership. George will work the claim and ship out the
            guano from Kilwa which is on the coast of the Southern Province of Tanganyika. So now
            we are busy building castles in the air once more.

            On Saturday we went to Mbeya where George had to attend a meeting of the
            Trout Association. In the afternoon he played in a cricket match so Kate and I spent the
            whole day with the wife of the new Superintendent of Police. They have a very nice
            new house with lawns and a sunken rose garden. Kate had a lovely romp with Kit, her
            three year old son.

            Mrs Wolten also has two daughters by a previous marriage. The elder girl said to
            me, “Oh Mrs Rushby your husband is exactly like the strong silent type of man I
            expected to see in Africa but he is the only one I have seen. I think he looks exactly like
            those men in the ‘Barney’s Tobacco’ advertisements.”

            I went home with a huge pile of magazines to keep me entertained whilst
            George is away on the Kilwa trip.

            Lots of love,
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe 9th July 1937

            Dearest Family,

            George returned on Monday from his Kilwa safari. He had an entertaining
            tale to tell.

            Before he approached Mr Sargent about going shares in the Kilwa guano
            deposit he first approached a man on the Lupa who had done very well out of a small
            gold reef. This man, however said he was not interested so you can imagine how
            indignant George was when he started on his long trip, to find himself being trailed by
            this very man and a co-driver in a powerful Ford V8 truck. George stopped his car and
            had some heated things to say – awful threats I imagine as to what would happen to
            anyone who staked his claim. Then he climbed back into our ancient little two seater and
            went off like a bullet driving all day and most of the night. As the others took turns in
            driving you can imagine what a feat it was for George to arrive in Kilwa ahead of them.
            When they drove into Kilwa he met them with a bright smile and a bit of bluff –
            quite justifiable under the circumstances I think. He said, you chaps can have a rest now,
            you’re too late.” He then whipped off and pegged the claim. he brought some samples
            of guano back but until it has been analysed he will not know whether the guano will be
            an economic proposition or not. George is not very hopeful. He says there is a good
            deal of sand mixed with the guano and that much of it was damp.

            The trip was pretty eventful for Kianda, our houseboy. The little two seater car
            had been used by its previous owner for carting bags of course salt from his salt pans.
            For this purpose the dicky seat behind the cab had been removed, and a kind of box
            built into the boot of the car. George’s camp kit and provisions were packed into this
            open box and Kianda perched on top to keep an eye on the belongings. George
            travelled so fast on the rough road that at some point during the night Kianda was
            bumped off in the middle of the Game Reserve. George did not notice that he was
            missing until the next morning. He concluded, quite rightly as it happened, that Kianda
            would be picked up by the rival truck so he continued his journey and Kianda rejoined
            him at Kilwa.

            Believe it or not, the same thing happened on the way back but fortunately this
            time George noticed his absence. He stopped the car and had just started back on his
            tracks when Kianda came running down the road still clutching the unlighted storm lamp
            which he was holding in his hand when he fell. The glass was not even cracked.
            We are finding it difficult just now to buy native chickens and eggs. There has
            been an epidemic amongst the poultry and one hesitates to eat the survivors. I have a
            brine tub in which I preserve our surplus meat but I need the chickens for soup.
            I hope George will be home for some months. He has arranged to take a Mr
            Blackburn, a wealthy fruit farmer from Elgin, Cape, on a hunting safari during September
            and October and that should bring in some much needed cash. Lillian Eustace has
            invited Kate and me to spend the whole of October with her in Tukuyu.
            I am so glad that you so much enjoy having Ann and George with you. We miss
            them dreadfully. Kate is a pretty little girl and such a little madam. You should hear the
            imperious way in which she calls the kitchenboy for her meals. “Boy Brekkis, Boy Lunch,
            and Boy Eggy!” are her three calls for the day. She knows no Ki-Swahili.

            Eleanor

            Mchewe 8th October 1937

            Dearest Family,

            I am rapidly becoming as superstitious as our African boys. They say the wild
            animals always know when George is away from home and come down to have their
            revenge on me because he has killed so many.

            I am being besieged at night by a most beastly leopard with a half grown cub. I
            have grown used to hearing leopards grunt as they hunt in the hills at night but never
            before have I had one roaming around literally under the windows. It has been so hot at
            night lately that I have been sleeping with my bedroom door open onto the verandah. I
            felt quite safe because the natives hereabouts are law-abiding and in any case I always
            have a boy armed with a club sleeping in the kitchen just ten yards away. As an added
            precaution I also have a loaded .45 calibre revolver on my bedside table, and Fanny
            our bullterrier, sleeps on the mat by my bed. I am also looking after Barney, a fine
            Airedale dog belonging to the Costers. He slept on a mat by the open bedroom door
            near a dimly burning storm lamp.

            As usual I went to sleep with an easy mind on Monday night, but was awakened
            in the early hours of Tuesday by the sound of a scuffle on the front verandah. The noise
            was followed by a scream of pain from Barney. I jumped out of bed and, grabbing the
            lamp with my left hand and the revolver in my right, I rushed outside just in time to see
            two animal figures roll over the edge of the verandah into the garden below. There they
            engaged in a terrific tug of war. Fortunately I was too concerned for Barney to be
            nervous. I quickly fired two shots from the revolver, which incidentally makes a noise like
            a cannon, and I must have startled the leopard for both animals, still locked together,
            disappeared over the edge of the terrace. I fired two more shots and in a few moments
            heard the leopard making a hurried exit through the dry leaves which lie thick under the
            wild fig tree just beyond the terrace. A few seconds later Barney appeared on the low
            terrace wall. I called his name but he made no move to come but stood with hanging
            head. In desperation I rushed out, felt blood on my hands when I touched him, so I
            picked him up bodily and carried him into the house. As I regained the verandah the boy
            appeared, club in hand, having been roused by the shots. He quickly grasped what had
            happened when he saw my blood saturated nightie. He fetched a bowl of water and a
            clean towel whilst I examined Barney’s wounds. These were severe, the worst being a
            gaping wound in his throat. I washed the gashes with a strong solution of pot permang
            and I am glad to say they are healing remarkably well though they are bound to leave
            scars. Fanny, very prudently, had taken no part in the fighting except for frenzied barking
            which she kept up all night. The shots had of course wakened Kate but she seemed
            more interested than alarmed and kept saying “Fanny bark bark, Mummy bang bang.
            Poor Barney lots of blood.”

            In the morning we inspected the tracks in the garden. There was a shallow furrow
            on the terrace where Barney and the leopard had dragged each other to and fro and
            claw marks on the trunk of the wild fig tree into which the leopard climbed after I fired the
            shots. The affair was of course a drama after the Africans’ hearts and several of our
            shamba boys called to see me next day to make sympathetic noises and discuss the
            affair.

            I went to bed early that night hoping that the leopard had been scared off for
            good but I must confess I shut all windows and doors. Alas for my hopes of a restful
            night. I had hardly turned down the lamp when the leopard started its terrifying grunting
            just under the bedroom windows. If only she would sniff around quietly I should not
            mind, but the noise is ghastly, something like the first sickening notes of a braying
            donkey, amplified here by the hills and the gorge which is only a stones throw from the
            bedroom. Barney was too sick to bark but Fanny barked loud enough for two and the more
            frantic she became the hungrier the leopard sounded. Kate of course woke up and this
            time she was frightened though I assured her that the noise was just a donkey having
            fun. Neither of us slept until dawn when the leopard returned to the hills. When we
            examined the tracks next morning we found that the leopard had been accompanied by
            a fair sized cub and that together they had prowled around the house, kitchen, and out
            houses, visiting especially the places to which the dogs had been during the day.
            As I feel I cannot bear many more of these nights, I am sending a note to the
            District Commissioner, Mbeya by the messenger who takes this letter to the post,
            asking him to send a game scout or an armed policeman to deal with the leopard.
            So don’t worry, for by the time this reaches you I feel sure this particular trouble
            will be over.

            Eleanor.

            Mchewe 17th October 1937

            Dearest Family,

            More about the leopard I fear! My messenger returned from Mbeya to say that
            the District Officer was on safari so he had given the message to the Assistant District
            Officer who also apparently left on safari later without bothering to reply to my note, so
            there was nothing for me to do but to send for the village Nimrod and his muzzle loader
            and offer him a reward if he could frighten away or kill the leopard.

            The hunter, Laza, suggested that he should sleep at the house so I went to bed
            early leaving Laza and his two pals to make themselves comfortable on the living room
            floor by the fire. Laza was armed with a formidable looking muzzle loader, crammed I
            imagine with nuts and bolts and old rusty nails. One of his pals had a spear and the other
            a panga. This fellow was also in charge of the Petromax pressure lamp whose light was
            hidden under a packing case. I left the campaign entirely to Laza’s direction.
            As usual the leopard came at midnight stealing down from the direction of the
            kitchen and announcing its presence and position with its usual ghastly grunts. Suddenly
            pandemonium broke loose on the back verandah. I heard the roar of the muzzle loader
            followed by a vigourous tattoo beaten on an empty paraffin tin and I rushed out hoping
            to find the dead leopard. however nothing of the kind had happened except that the
            noise must have scared the beast because she did not return again that night. Next
            morning Laza solemnly informed me that, though he had shot many leopards in his day,
            this was no ordinary leopard but a “sheitani” (devil) and that as his gun was no good
            against witchcraft he thought he might as well retire from the hunt. Scared I bet, and I
            don’t blame him either.

            You can imagine my relief when a car rolled up that afternoon bringing Messers
            Stewart and Griffiths, two farmers who live about 15 miles away, between here and
            Mbeya. They had a note from the Assistant District Officer asking them to help me and
            they had come to set up a trap gun in the garden. That night the leopard sniffed all
            around the gun and I had the added strain of waiting for the bang and wondering what I
            should do if the beast were only wounded. I conjured up horrible visions of the two little
            totos trotting up the garden path with the early morning milk and being horribly mauled,
            but I needn’t have worried because the leopard was far too wily to be caught that way.
            Two more ghastly nights passed and then I had another visitor, a Dr Jackson of
            the Tsetse Department on safari in the District. He listened sympathetically to my story
            and left his shotgun and some SSG cartridges with me and instructed me to wait until the
            leopard was pretty close and blow its b—– head off. It was good of him to leave his
            gun. George always says there are three things a man should never lend, ‘His wife, his
            gun and his dog.’ (I think in that order!)I felt quite cheered by Dr Jackson’s visit and sent
            once again for Laza last night and arranged a real show down. In the afternoon I draped
            heavy blankets over the living room windows to shut out the light of the pressure lamp
            and the four of us, Laza and his two stooges and I waited up for the leopard. When we
            guessed by her grunts that she was somewhere between the kitchen and the back door
            we all rushed out, first the boy with the panga and the lamp, next Laza with his muzzle
            loader, then me with the shotgun followed closely by the boy with the spear. What a
            farce! The lamp was our undoing. We were blinded by the light and did not even
            glimpse the leopard which made off with a derisive grunt. Laza said smugly that he knew
            it was hopeless to try and now I feel tired and discouraged too.

            This morning I sent a runner to Mbeya to order the hotel taxi for tomorrow and I
            shall go to friends in Mbeya for a day or two and then on to Tukuyu where I shall stay
            with the Eustaces until George returns from Safari.

            Eleanor.

            Mchewe 18th November 1937

            My darling Ann,

            Here we are back in our own home and how lovely it is to have Daddy back from
            safari. Thank you very much for your letter. I hope by now you have got mine telling you
            how very much I liked the beautiful tray cloth you made for my birthday. I bet there are
            not many little girls of five who can embroider as well as you do, darling. The boy,
            Matafari, washes and irons it so carefully and it looks lovely on the tea tray.

            Daddy and I had some fun last night. I was in bed and Daddy was undressing
            when we heard a funny scratching noise on the roof. I thought it was the leopard. Daddy
            quickly loaded his shotgun and ran outside. He had only his shirt on and he looked so
            funny. I grabbed the loaded revolver from the cupboard and ran after Dad in my nightie
            but after all the rush it was only your cat, Winnie, though I don’t know how she managed
            to make such a noise. We felt so silly, we laughed and laughed.

            Kate talks a lot now but in such a funny way you would laugh to her her. She
            hears the houseboys call me Memsahib so sometimes instead of calling me Mummy
            she calls me “Oompaab”. She calls the bedroom a ‘bippon’ and her little behind she
            calls her ‘sittendump’. She loves to watch Mandawi’s cattle go home along the path
            behind the kitchen. Joseph your donkey, always leads the cows. He has a lazy life now.
            I am glad you had such fun on Guy Fawkes Day. You will be sad to leave
            Plumstead but I am sure you will like going to England on the big ship with granny Kate.
            I expect you will start school when you get to England and I am sure you will find that
            fun.

            God bless my dear little girl. Lots of love from Daddy and Kate,
            and Mummy

            Mchewe 18th November 1937

            Hello George Darling,

            Thank you for your lovely drawing of Daddy shooting an elephant. Daddy says
            that the only thing is that you have drawn him a bit too handsome.

            I went onto the verandah a few minutes ago to pick a banana for Kate from the
            bunch hanging there and a big hornet flew out and stung my elbow! There are lots of
            them around now and those stinging flies too. Kate wears thick corduroy dungarees so
            that she will not get her fat little legs bitten. She is two years old now and is a real little
            pickle. She loves running out in the rain so I have ordered a pair of red Wellingtons and a
            tiny umbrella from a Nairobi shop for her Christmas present.

            Fanny’s puppies have their eyes open now and have very sharp little teeth.
            They love to nip each other. We are keeping the fiercest little one whom we call Paddy
            but are giving the others to friends. The coffee bushes are full of lovely white flowers
            and the bees and ants are very busy stealing their honey.

            Yesterday a troop of baboons came down the hill and Dad shot a big one to
            scare the others off. They are a nuisance because they steal the maize and potatoes
            from the native shambas and then there is not enough food for the totos.
            Dad and I are very proud of you for not making a fuss when you went to the
            dentist to have that tooth out.

            Bye bye, my fine little son.
            Three bags full of love from Kate, Dad and Mummy.

            Mchewe 12th February, 1938

            Dearest Family,

            here is some news that will please you. George has been offered and has
            accepted a job as Forester at Mbulu in the Northern Province of Tanganyika. George
            would have preferred a job as Game Ranger, but though the Game Warden, Philip
            Teare, is most anxious to have him in the Game Department, there is no vacancy at
            present. Anyway if one crops up later, George can always transfer from one
            Government Department to another. Poor George, he hates the idea of taking a job. He
            says that hitherto he has always been his own master and he detests the thought of
            being pushed around by anyone.

            Now however he has no choice. Our capitol is almost exhausted and the coffee
            market shows no signs of improving. With three children and another on the way, he
            feels he simply must have a fixed income. I shall be sad to leave this little farm. I love
            our little home and we have been so very happy here, but my heart rejoices at the
            thought of overseas leave every thirty months. Now we shall be able to fetch Ann and
            George from England and in three years time we will all be together in Tanganyika once
            more.

            There is no sale for farms so we will just shut the house and keep on a very small
            labour force just to keep the farm from going derelict. We are eating our hens but will
            take our two dogs, Fanny and Paddy with us.

            One thing I shall be glad to leave is that leopard. She still comes grunting around
            at night but not as badly as she did before. I do not mind at all when George is here but
            until George was accepted for this forestry job I was afraid he might go back to the
            Diggings and I should once more be left alone to be cursed by the leopard’s attentions.
            Knowing how much I dreaded this George was most anxious to shoot the leopard and
            for weeks he kept his shotgun and a powerful torch handy at night.

            One night last week we woke to hear it grunting near the kitchen. We got up very
            quietly and whilst George loaded the shotgun with SSG, I took the torch and got the
            heavy revolver from the cupboard. We crept out onto the dark verandah where George
            whispered to me to not switch on the torch until he had located the leopard. It was pitch
            black outside so all he could do was listen intently. And then of course I spoilt all his
            plans. I trod on the dog’s tin bowl and made a terrific clatter! George ordered me to
            switch on the light but it was too late and the leopard vanished into the long grass of the
            Kalonga, grunting derisively, or so it sounded.

            She never comes into the clearing now but grunts from the hillside just above it.

            Eleanor.

            Mbulu 18th March, 1938

            Dearest Family,

            Journeys end at last. here we are at Mbulu, installed in our new quarters which are
            as different as they possibly could be from our own cosy little home at Mchewe. We
            live now, my dears, in one wing of a sort of ‘Beau Geste’ fort but I’ll tell you more about
            it in my next letter. We only arrived yesterday and have not had time to look around.
            This letter will tell you just about our trip from Mbeya.

            We left the farm in our little red Ford two seater with all our portable goods and
            chattels plus two native servants and the two dogs. Before driving off, George took one
            look at the flattened springs and declared that he would be surprised if we reached
            Mbeya without a breakdown and that we would never make Mbulu with the car so
            overloaded.

            However luck was with us. We reached Mbeya without mishap and at one of the
            local garages saw a sturdy used Ford V8 boxbody car for sale. The garage agreed to
            take our small car as part payment and George drew on our little remaining capitol for the
            rest. We spent that night in the house of the Forest Officer and next morning set out in
            comfort for the Northern Province of Tanganyika.

            I had done the journey from Dodoma to Mbeya seven years before so was
            familiar with the scenery but the road was much improved and the old pole bridges had
            been replaced by modern steel ones. Kate was as good as gold all the way. We
            avoided hotels and camped by the road and she found this great fun.
            The road beyond Dodoma was new to me and very interesting country, flat and
            dry and dusty, as little rain falls there. The trees are mostly thorn trees but here and there
            one sees a giant baobab, weird trees with fantastically thick trunks and fat squat branches
            with meagre foliage. The inhabitants of this area I found interesting though. They are
            called Wagogo and are a primitive people who ape the Masai in dress and customs
            though they are much inferior to the Masai in physique. They are also great herders of
            cattle which, rather surprisingly, appear to thrive in that dry area.

            The scenery alters greatly as one nears Babati, which one approaches by a high
            escarpment from which one has a wonderful view of the Rift Valley. Babati township
            appears to be just a small group of Indian shops and shabby native houses, but I
            believe there are some good farms in the area. Though the little township is squalid,
            there is a beautiful lake and grand mountains to please the eye. We stopped only long
            enough to fill up with petrol and buy some foodstuffs. Beyond Babati there is a tsetse
            fly belt and George warned our two native servants to see that no tsetse flies settled on
            the dogs.

            We stopped for the night in a little rest house on the road about 80 miles from
            Arusha where we were to spend a few days with the Forest Officer before going on to
            Mbulu. I enjoyed this section of the road very much because it runs across wide plains
            which are bounded on the West by the blue mountains of the Rift Valley wall. Here for
            the first time I saw the Masai on their home ground guarding their vast herds of cattle. I
            also saw their strange primitive hovels called Manyattas, with their thorn walled cattle
            bomas and lots of plains game – giraffe, wildebeest, ostriches and antelope. Kate was
            wildly excited and entranced with the game especially the giraffe which stood gazing
            curiously and unafraid of us, often within a few yards of the road.

            Finally we came across the greatest thrill of all, my first view of Mt Meru the extinct
            volcano about 16,000 feet high which towers over Arusha township. The approach to
            Arusha is through flourishing coffee plantations very different alas from our farm at Mchewe. George says that at Arusha coffee growing is still a paying proposition
            because here the yield of berry per acre is much higher than in the Southern highlands
            and here in the North the farmers have not such heavy transport costs as the railway runs
            from Arusha to the port at Tanga.

            We stayed overnight at a rather second rate hotel but the food was good and we
            had hot baths and a good nights rest. Next day Tom Lewis the Forest Officer, fetched
            us and we spent a few days camping in a tent in the Lewis’ garden having meals at their
            home. Both Tom and Lillian Lewis were most friendly. Tom lewis explained to George
            what his work in the Mbulu District was to be, and they took us camping in a Forest
            Reserve where Lillian and her small son David and Kate and I had a lovely lazy time
            amidst beautiful surroundings. Before we left for Mbulu, Lillian took me shopping to buy
            material for curtains for our new home. She described the Forest House at Mbulu to me
            and it sounded delightful but alas, when we reached Mbulu we discovered that the
            Assistant District Officer had moved into the Forest House and we were directed to the
            Fort or Boma. The night before we left Arusha for Mbulu it rained very heavily and the
            road was very treacherous and slippery due to the surface being of ‘black cotton’ soil
            which has the appearance and consistency of chocolate blancmange, after rain. To get to
            Mbulu we had to drive back in the direction of Dodoma for some 70 miles and then turn
            to the right and drive across plains to the Great Rift Valley Wall. The views from this
            escarpment road which climbs this wall are magnificent. At one point one looks down
            upon Lake Manyara with its brilliant white beaches of soda.

            The drive was a most trying one for George. We had no chains for the wheels
            and several times we stuck in the mud and our two houseboys had to put grass and
            branches under the wheels to stop them from spinning. Quite early on in the afternoon
            George gave up all hope of reaching Mbulu that day and planned to spend the night in
            a little bush rest camp at Karatu. However at one point it looked as though we would not
            even reach this resthouse for late afternoon found us properly bogged down in a mess
            of mud at the bottom of a long and very steep hill. In spite of frantic efforts on the part of
            George and the two boys, all now very wet and muddy, the heavy car remained stuck.
            Suddenly five Masai men appeared through the bushes beside the road. They
            were all tall and angular and rather terrifying looking to me. Each wore only a blanket
            knotted over one shoulder and all were armed with spears. They lined up by the side of
            the road and just looked – not hostile but simply aloof and supercilious. George greeted
            them and said in Ki-Swahili, “Help to push and I will reward you.” But they said nothing,
            just drawing back imperceptibly to register disgust at the mere idea of manual labour.
            Their expressions said quite clearly “A Masai is a warrior and does not soil his hands.”
            George then did something which startled them I think, as much as me. He
            plucked their spears from their hands one by one and flung them into the back of the
            boxbody. “Now push!” he said, “And when we are safely out of the mud you shall have
            your spears back.” To my utter astonishment the Masai seemed to applaud George’s
            action. I think they admire courage in a man more than anything else. They pushed with a
            will and soon we were roaring up the long steep slope. “I can’t stop here” quoth George
            as up and up we went. The Masai were in mad pursuit with their blankets streaming
            behind. They took a very steep path which was a shortcut to the top. They are certainly
            amazing athletes and reached the top at the same time as the car. Their route of course
            was shorter but much more steep, yet they came up without any sign of fatigue to claim
            their spears and the money which George handed out with a friendly grin. The Masai
            took the whole episode in good heart and we parted on the most friendly terms.

            After a rather chilly night in the three walled shack, we started on the last lap of our
            journey yesterday morning in bright weather and made the trip to Mbulu without incident.

            Eleanor.

            Mbulu 24th March, 1938

            Dearest Family,

            Mbulu is an attractive station but living in this rather romantic looking fort has many
            disadvantages. Our quarters make up one side of the fort which is built up around a
            hollow square. The buildings are single storied but very tall in the German manner and
            there is a tower on one corner from which the Union Jack flies. The tower room is our
            sitting room, and one has very fine views from the windows of the rolling country side.
            However to reach this room one has to climb a steep flight of cement steps from the
            court yard. Another disadvantage of this tower room is that there is a swarm of bees in
            the roof and the stray ones drift down through holes in the ceiling and buzz angrily
            against the window panes or fly around in a most menacing manner.

            Ours are the only private quarters in the Fort. Two other sides of the Fort are
            used as offices, storerooms and court room and the fourth side is simply a thick wall with
            battlements and loopholes and a huge iron shod double door of enormous thickness
            which is always barred at sunset when the flag is hauled down. Two Police Askari always
            remain in the Fort on guard at night. The effect from outside the whitewashed fort is very
            romantic but inside it is hardly homely and how I miss my garden at Mchewe and the
            grass and trees.

            We have no privacy downstairs because our windows overlook the bare
            courtyard which is filled with Africans patiently waiting to be admitted to the courtroom as
            witnesses or spectators. The outside windows which overlook the valley are heavily
            barred. I can only think that the Germans who built this fort must have been very scared
            of the local natives.

            Our rooms are hardly cosy and are furnished with typical heavy German pieces.
            We have a vast bleak bedroom, a dining room and an enormous gloomy kitchen in
            which meals for the German garrison were cooked. At night this kitchen is alive with
            gigantic rats but fortunately they do not seem to care for the other rooms. To crown
            everything owls hoot and screech at night on the roof.

            On our first day here I wandered outside the fort walls with Kate and came upon a
            neatly fenced plot enclosing the graves of about fifteen South African soldiers killed by
            the Germans in the 1914-18 war. I understand that at least one of theses soldiers died in
            the courtyard here. The story goes, that during the period in the Great War when this fort
            was occupied by a troop of South African Horse, a German named Siedtendorf
            appeared at the great barred door at night and asked to speak to the officer in command
            of the Troop. The officer complied with this request and the small shutter in the door was
            opened so that he could speak with the German. The German, however, had not come
            to speak. When he saw the exposed face of the officer, he fired, killing him, and
            escaped into the dark night. I had this tale on good authority but cannot vouch for it. I do
            know though, that there are two bullet holes in the door beside the shutter. An unhappy
            story to think about when George is away, as he is now, and the moonlight throws queer
            shadows in the court yard and the owls hoot.

            However though I find our quarters depressing, I like Mbulu itself very much. It is
            rolling country, treeless except for the plantations of the Forestry Dept. The land is very
            fertile in the watered valleys but the grass on hills and plains is cropped to the roots by
            the far too numerous cattle and goats. There are very few Europeans on the station, only
            Mr Duncan, the District Officer, whose wife and children recently left for England, the
            Assistant District Officer and his wife, a bachelor Veterinary Officer, a Road Foreman and
            ourselves, and down in the village a German with an American wife and an elderly
            Irishman whom I have not met. The Government officials have a communal vegetable
            garden in the valley below the fort which keeps us well supplied with green stuff. 

            Most afternoons George, Kate and I go for walks after tea. On Fridays there is a
            little ceremony here outside the fort. In the late afternoon a little procession of small
            native schoolboys, headed by a drum and penny whistle band come marching up the
            road to a tune which sounds like ‘Two lovely black eyes”. They form up below our tower
            and as the flag is lowered for the day they play ‘God save the King’, and then march off
            again. It is quite a cheerful little ceremony.

            The local Africans are a skinny lot and, I should say, a poor tribe. They protect
            themselves against the cold by wrapping themselves in cotton blankets or a strip of
            unbleached sheeting. This they drape over their heads, almost covering their faces and
            the rest is wrapped closely round their bodies in the manner of a shroud. A most
            depressing fashion. They live in very primitive comfortless houses. They simply make a
            hollow in the hillside and build a front wall of wattle and daub. Into this rude shelter at night
            go cattle and goats, men, women, and children.

            Mbulu village has the usual mud brick and wattle dukas and wattle and daub
            houses. The chief trader is a Goan who keeps a surprisingly good variety of tinned
            foodstuffs and also sells hardware and soft goods.

            The Europeans here have been friendly but as you will have noted there are
            only two other women on station and no children at all to be companions for Kate.

            Eleanor.

            Mbulu 20th June 1938

            Dearest Family,

            Here we are on Safari with George at Babati where we are occupying a rest
            house on the slopes of Ufiome Mountain. The slopes are a Forest Reserve and
            George is supervising the clearing of firebreaks in preparation for the dry weather. He
            goes off after a very early breakfast and returns home in the late afternoon so Kate and I
            have long lazy days.

            Babati is a pleasant spot and the resthouse is quite comfortable. It is about a mile
            from the village which is just the usual collection of small mud brick and corrugated iron
            Indian Dukas. There are a few settlers in the area growing coffee, or going in for mixed
            farming but I don’t think they are doing very well. The farm adjoining the rest house is
            owned by Lord Lovelace but is run by a manager.

            George says he gets enough exercise clambering about all day on the mountain,
            so Kate and I do our walking in the mornings when George is busy, and we all relax in
            the evenings when George returns from his field work. Kate’s favourite walk is to the big
            block of mtama (sorghum) shambas lower down the hill. There are huge swarms of tiny
            grain eating birds around waiting the chance to plunder the mtama, so the crops are
            watched from sunrise to sunset.

            Crude observation platforms have been erected for this purpose in the centre of
            each field and the women and the young boys of the family concerned, take it in turn to
            occupy the platform and scare the birds. Each watcher has a sling and uses clods of
            earth for ammunition. The clod is placed in the centre of the sling which is then whirled
            around at arms length. Suddenly one end of the sling is released and the clod of earth
            flies out and shatters against the mtama stalks. The sling makes a loud whip like crack and
            the noise is quite startling and very effective in keeping the birds at a safe distance.

            Eleanor.

            Karatu 3rd July 1938

            Dearest Family,

            Still on safari you see! We left Babati ten days ago and passed through Mbulu
            on our way to this spot. We slept out of doors one night beside Lake Tiawa about eight
            miles from Mbulu. It was a peaceful spot and we enjoyed watching the reflection of the
            sunset on the lake and the waterhens and duck and pelicans settling down for the night.
            However it turned piercingly cold after sunset so we had an early supper and then all
            three of us lay down to sleep in the back of the boxbody (station wagon). It was a tight
            fit and a real case of ‘When Dad turns, we all turn.’

            Here at Karatu we are living in a grass hut with only three walls. It is rather sweet
            and looks like the setting for a Nativity Play. Kate and I share the only camp bed and
            George and the dogs sleep on the floor. The air here is very fresh and exhilarating and
            we all feel very fit. George is occupied all day supervising the cutting of firebreaks
            around existing plantations and the forest reserve of indigenous trees. Our camp is on
            the hillside and below us lie the fertile wheat lands of European farmers.

            They are mostly Afrikaners, the descendants of the Boer families who were
            invited by the Germans to settle here after the Boer War. Most of them are pro-British
            now and a few have called in here to chat to George about big game hunting. George
            gets on extremely well with them and recently attended a wedding where he had a
            lively time dancing at the reception. He likes the older people best as most are great
            individualists. One fine old man, surnamed von Rooyen, visited our camp. He is a Boer
            of the General Smuts type with spare figure and bearded face. George tells me he is a
            real patriarch with an enormous family – mainly sons. This old farmer fought against the
            British throughout the Boer War under General Smuts and again against the British in the
            German East Africa campaign when he was a scout and right hand man to Von Lettow. It
            is said that Von Lettow was able to stay in the field until the end of the Great War
            because he listened to the advise given to him by von Rooyen. However his dislike for
            the British does not extend to George as they have a mutual interest in big game
            hunting.

            Kate loves being on safari. She is now so accustomed to having me as her nurse
            and constant companion that I do not know how she will react to paid help. I shall have to
            get someone to look after her during my confinement in the little German Red Cross
            hospital at Oldeani.

            George has obtained permission from the District Commissioner, for Kate and
            me to occupy the Government Rest House at Oldeani from the end of July until the end
            of August when my baby is due. He will have to carry on with his field work but will join
            us at weekends whenever possible.

            Eleanor.

            Karatu 12th July 1938

            Dearest Family,

            Not long now before we leave this camp. We have greatly enjoyed our stay
            here in spite of the very chilly earl mornings and the nights when we sit around in heavy
            overcoats until our early bed time.

            Last Sunday I persuaded George to take Kate and me to the famous Ngoro-
            Ngoro Crater. He was not very keen to do so because the road is very bumpy for
            anyone in my interesting condition but I feel so fit that I was most anxious to take this
            opportunity of seeing the enormous crater. We may never be in this vicinity again and in
            any case safari will not be so simple with a small baby.

            What a wonderful trip it was! The road winds up a steep escarpment from which
            one gets a glorious birds eye view of the plains of the Great Rift Valley far, far below.
            The crater is immense. There is a road which skirts the rim in places and one has quite
            startling views of the floor of the crater about two thousand feet below.

            A camp for tourists has just been built in a clearing in the virgin forest. It is most
            picturesque as the camp buildings are very neatly constructed log cabins with very high
            pitched thatched roofs. We spent about an hour sitting on the grass near the edge of the
            crater enjoying the sunshine and the sharp air and really awe inspiring view. Far below us
            in the middle of the crater was a small lake and we could see large herds of game
            animals grazing there but they were too far away to be impressive, even seen through
            George’s field glasses. Most appeared to be wildebeest and zebra but I also picked
            out buffalo. Much more exciting was my first close view of a wild elephant. George
            pointed him out to me as we approached the rest camp on the inward journey. He
            stood quietly under a tree near the road and did not seem to be disturbed by the car
            though he rolled a wary eye in our direction. On our return journey we saw him again at
            almost uncomfortably close quarters. We rounded a sharp corner and there stood the
            elephant, facing us and slap in the middle of the road. He was busily engaged giving
            himself a dust bath but spared time to give us an irritable look. Fortunately we were on a
            slight slope so George quickly switched off the engine and backed the car quietly round
            the corner. He got out of the car and loaded his rifle, just in case! But after he had finished
            his toilet the elephant moved off the road and we took our chance and passed without
            incident.

            One notices the steepness of the Ngoro-Ngoro road more on the downward
            journey than on the way up. The road is cut into the side of the mountain so that one has
            a steep slope on one hand and a sheer drop on the other. George told me that a lorry
            coming down the mountain was once charged from behind by a rhino. On feeling and
            hearing the bash from behind the panic stricken driver drove off down the mountain as
            fast as he dared and never paused until he reached level ground at the bottom of the
            mountain. There was no sign of the rhino so the driver got out to examine his lorry and
            found the rhino horn embedded in the wooden tail end of the lorry. The horn had been
            wrenched right off!

            Happily no excitement of that kind happened to us. I have yet to see a rhino.

            Eleanor.

            Oldeani. 19th July 1938

            Dearest Family,

            Greetings from a lady in waiting! Kate and I have settled down comfortably in the
            new, solidly built Government Rest House which comprises one large living room and
            one large office with a connecting door. Outside there is a kitchen and a boys quarter.
            There are no resident Government officials here at Oldeani so the office is in use only
            when the District Officer from Mbulu makes his monthly visit. However a large Union
            Jack flies from a flagpole in the front of the building as a gentle reminder to the entirely
            German population of Oldeani that Tanganyika is now under British rule.

            There is quite a large community of German settlers here, most of whom are
            engaged in coffee farming. George has visited several of the farms in connection with his
            forestry work and says the coffee plantations look very promising indeed. There are also
            a few German traders in the village and there is a large boarding school for German
            children and also a very pleasant little hospital where I have arranged to have the baby.
            Right next door to the Rest House is a General Dealers Store run by a couple named
            Schnabbe. The shop is stocked with drapery, hardware, china and foodstuffs all
            imported from Germany and of very good quality. The Schnabbes also sell local farm
            produce, beautiful fresh vegetables, eggs and pure rich milk and farm butter. Our meat
            comes from a German butchery and it is a great treat to get clean, well cut meat. The
            sausages also are marvellous and in great variety.

            The butcher is an entertaining character. When he called round looking for custom I
            expected him to break out in a yodel any minute, as it was obvious from a glance that
            the Alps are his natural background. From under a green Tyrollean hat with feather,
            blooms a round beefy face with sparkling small eyes and such widely spaced teeth that
            one inevitably thinks of a garden rake. Enormous beefy thighs bulge from greasy
            lederhosen which are supported by the traditional embroidered braces. So far the
            butcher is the only cheery German, male or female, whom I have seen, and I have met
            most of the locals at the Schnabbe’s shop. Most of the men seem to have cultivated
            the grim Hitler look. They are all fanatical Nazis and one is usually greeted by a raised
            hand and Heil Hitler! All very theatrical. I always feel like crying in ringing tones ‘God
            Save the King’ or even ‘St George for England’. However the men are all very correct
            and courteous and the women friendly. The women all admire Kate and cry, “Ag, das
            kleine Englander.” She really is a picture with her rosy cheeks and huge grey eyes and
            golden curls. Kate is having a wonderful time playing with Manfried, the Scnabbe’s small
            son. Neither understands a word said by the other but that doesn’t seem to worry them.

            Before he left on safari, George took me to hospital for an examination by the
            nurse, Sister Marianne. She has not been long in the country and knows very little
            English but is determined to learn and carried on an animated, if rather quaint,
            conversation with frequent references to a pocket dictionary. She says I am not to worry
            because there is not doctor here. She is a very experienced midwife and anyway in an
            emergency could call on the old retired Veterinary Surgeon for assistance.
            I asked sister Marianne whether she knew of any German woman or girl who
            would look after Kate whilst I am in hospital and today a very top drawer German,
            bearing a strong likeness to ‘Little Willie’, called and offered the services of his niece who
            is here on a visit from Germany. I was rather taken aback and said, “Oh no Baron, your
            niece would not be the type I had in mind. I’m afraid I cannot pay much for a companion.”
            However the Baron was not to be discouraged. He told me that his niece is seventeen
            but looks twenty, that she is well educated and will make a cheerful companion. Her
            father wishes her to learn to speak English fluently and that is why the Baron wished her
            to come to me as a house daughter. As to pay, a couple of pounds a month for pocket
            money and her keep was all he had in mind. So with some misgivings I agreed to take
            the niece on as a companion as from 1st August.

            Eleanor.

            Oldeani. 10th August 1938

            Dearest Family,

            Never a dull moment since my young companion arrived. She is a striking looking
            girl with a tall boyish figure and very short and very fine dark hair which she wears
            severely slicked back. She wears tweeds, no make up but has shiny rosy cheeks and
            perfect teeth – she also,inevitably, has a man friend and I have an uncomfortable
            suspicion that it is because of him that she was planted upon me. Upon second
            thoughts though, maybe it was because of her excessive vitality, or even because of
            her healthy appetite! The Baroness, I hear is in poor health and I can imagine that such
            abundant health and spirit must have been quite overpowering. The name is Ingeborg,
            but she is called Mouche, which I believe means Mouse. Someone in her family must
            have a sense of humour.

            Her English only needed practice and she now chatters fluently so that I know her
            background and views on life. Mouche’s father is a personal friend of Goering. He was
            once a big noise in the German Airforce but is now connected with the car industry and
            travels frequently and intensively in Europe and America on business. Mouche showed
            me some snap shots of her family and I must say they look prosperous and charming.
            Mouche tells me that her father wants her to learn to speak English fluently so that
            she can get a job with some British diplomat in Cairo. I had immediate thought that I
            might be nursing a future Mata Hari in my bosom, but this was immediately extinguished
            when Mouche remarked that her father would like her to marry an Englishman. However
            it seems that the mere idea revolts her. “Englishmen are degenerates who swill whisky
            all day.” I pointed out that she had met George, who was a true blue Englishman, but
            was nevertheless a fine physical specimen and certainly didn’t drink all day. Mouche
            replied that George is not an Englishman but a hunter, as though that set him apart.
            Mouche is an ardent Hitler fan and an enthusiastic member of the Hitler Youth
            Movement. The house resounds with Hitler youth songs and when she is not singing,
            her gramophone is playing very stirring marching songs. I cannot understand a word,
            which is perhaps as well. Every day she does the most strenuous exercises watched
            with envy by me as my proportions are now those of a circus Big Top. Mouche eats a
            fantastic amount of meat and I feel it is a blessing that she is much admired by our
            Tyrollean butcher who now delivers our meat in person and adds as a token of his
            admiration some extra sausages for Mouche.

            I must confess I find her stimulating company as George is on safari most of the
            time and my evenings otherwise would be lonely. I am a little worried though about
            leaving Kate here with Mouche when I go to hospital. The dogs and Kate have not taken
            to her. I am trying to prepare Kate for the separation but she says, “She’s not my
            mummy. You are my dear mummy, and I want you, I want you.” George has got
            permission from the Provincial Forestry Officer to spend the last week of August here at
            the Rest House with me and I only hope that the baby will be born during that time.
            Kate adores her dad and will be perfectly happy to remain here with him.

            One final paragraph about Mouche. I thought all German girls were domesticated
            but not Mouche. I have Kesho-Kutwa here with me as cook and I have engaged a local
            boy to do the laundry. I however expected Mouche would take over making the
            puddings and pastry but she informed me that she can only bake a chocolate cake and
            absolutely nothing else. She said brightly however that she would do the mending. As
            there is none for her to do, she has rescued a large worn handkerchief of George’s and
            sits with her feet up listening to stirring gramophone records whilst she mends the
            handkerchief with exquisite darning.

            Eleanor.

            Oldeani. 20th August 1938

            Dearest Family,

            Just after I had posted my last letter I received what George calls a demi official
            letter from the District Officer informing me that I would have to move out of the Rest
            House for a few days as the Governor and his hangers on would be visiting Oldeani
            and would require the Rest House. Fortunately George happened to be here for a few
            hours and he arranged for Kate and Mouche and me to spend a few days at the
            German School as borders. So here I am at the school having a pleasant and restful
            time and much entertained by all the goings on.

            The school buildings were built with funds from Germany and the school is run on
            the lines of a contemporary German school. I think the school gets a grant from the
            Tanganyika Government towards running expenses, but I am not sure. The school hall is
            dominated by a more than life sized oil painting of Adolf Hitler which, at present, is
            flanked on one side by the German Flag and on the other by the Union Jack. I cannot
            help feeling that the latter was put up today for the Governor’s visit today.
            The teachers are very amiable. We all meet at mealtimes, and though few of the
            teachers speak English, the ones who do are anxious to chatter. The headmaster is a
            scholarly man but obviously anti-British. He says he cannot understand why so many
            South Africans are loyal to Britain – or rather to England. “They conquered your country
            didn’t they?” I said that that had never occurred to me and that anyway I was mainly of
            Scots descent and that loyalty to the crown was natural to me. “But the English
            conquered the Scots and yet you are loyal to England. That I cannot understand.” “Well I
            love England,” said I firmly, ”and so do all British South Africans.” Since then we have
            stuck to English literature. Shakespeare, Lord Byron and Galsworthy seem to be the
            favourites and all, thank goodness, make safe topics for conversation.
            Mouche is in her element but Kate and I do not enjoy the food which is typically
            German and consists largely of masses of fat pork and sauerkraut and unfamiliar soups. I
            feel sure that the soup at lunch today had blobs of lemon curd in it! I also find most
            disconcerting the way that everyone looks at me and says, “Bon appetite”, with much
            smiling and nodding so I have to fight down my nausea and make a show of enjoying
            the meals.

            The teacher whose room adjoins mine is a pleasant woman and I take my
            afternoon tea with her. She, like all the teachers, has a large framed photo of Hitler on her
            wall flanked by bracket vases of fresh flowers. One simply can’t get away from the man!
            Even in the dormitories each child has a picture of Hitler above the bed. Hitler accepting
            flowers from a small girl, or patting a small boy on the head. Even the children use the
            greeting ‘Heil Hitler’. These German children seem unnaturally prim when compared with
            my cheerful ex-pupils in South Africa but some of them are certainly very lovely to look
            at.

            Tomorrow Mouche, Kate and I return to our quarters in the Rest House and in a
            few days George will join us for a week.

            Eleanor.

            Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

            Dearest Family,

            You will all be delighted to hear that we have a second son, whom we have
            named John. He is a darling, so quaint and good. He looks just like a little old man with a
            high bald forehead fringed around the edges with a light brown fluff. George and I call
            him Johnny Jo because he has a tiny round mouth and a rather big nose and reminds us
            of A.A.Milne’s ‘Jonathan Jo has a mouth like an O’ , but Kate calls him, ‘My brother John’.
            George was not here when he was born on September 5th, just two minutes
            before midnight. He left on safari on the morning of the 4th and, of course, that very night
            the labour pains started. Fortunately Kate was in bed asleep so Mouche walked with
            me up the hill to the hospital where I was cheerfully received by Sister Marianne who
            had everything ready for the confinement. I was lucky to have such an experienced
            midwife because this was a breech birth and sister had to manage single handed. As
            there was no doctor present I was not allowed even a sniff of anaesthetic. Sister slaved
            away by the light of a pressure lamp endeavouring to turn the baby having first shoved
            an inverted baby bath under my hips to raise them.

            What a performance! Sister Marianne was very much afraid that she might not be
            able to save the baby and great was our relief when at last she managed to haul him out
            by the feet. One slap and the baby began to cry without any further attention so Sister
            wrapped him up in a blanket and took Johnny to her room for the night. I got very little
            sleep but was so thankful to have the ordeal over that I did not mind even though I
            heard a hyaena cackling and calling under my window in a most evil way.
            When Sister brought Johnny to me in the early morning I stared in astonishment.
            Instead of dressing him in one of his soft Viyella nighties, she had dressed him in a short
            sleeved vest of knitted cotton with a cotton cloth swayed around his waist sarong
            fashion. When I protested, “But Sister why is the baby not dressed in his own clothes?”
            She answered firmly, “I find it is not allowed. A baby’s clotheses must be boiled and I
            cannot boil clotheses of wool therefore your baby must wear the clotheses of the Red
            Cross.”

            It was the same with the bedding. Poor Johnny lies all day in a deep wicker
            basket with a detachable calico lining. There is no pillow under his head but a vast kind of
            calico covered pillow is his only covering. There is nothing at all cosy and soft round my
            poor baby. I said crossly to the Sister, “As every thing must be so sterile, I wonder you
            don’t boil me too.” This she ignored.

            When my message reached George he dashed back to visit us. Sister took him
            first to see the baby and George was astonished to see the baby basket covered by a
            sheet. “She has the poor little kid covered up like a bloody parrot,” he told me. So I
            asked him to go at once to buy a square of mosquito netting to replace the sheet.
            Kate is quite a problem. She behaves like an Angel when she is here in my
            room but is rebellious when Sister shoos her out. She says she “Hates the Nanny”
            which is what she calls Mouche. Unfortunately it seems that she woke before midnight
            on the night Johnny Jo was born to find me gone and Mouche in my bed. According to
            Mouche, Kate wept all night and certainly when she visited me in the early morning
            Kate’s face was puffy with crying and she clung to me crying “Oh my dear mummy, why
            did you go away?” over and over again. Sister Marianne was touched and suggested
            that Mouche and Kate should come to the hospital as boarders as I am the only patient
            at present and there is plenty of room. Luckily Kate does not seem at all jealous of the
            baby and it is a great relief to have here here under my eye.

            Eleanor.

            #4521

            “You can’t stay here forever,” said Margoritt. The words came out of the blue and it took a few moments for Glynnis to make sense of them. The two women had been working together in silence as they collected the plentiful purple fruit of the Droog tree in preparation for bottling.

            “Oh, well, no of course not,” said Glynnis without conviction.

            “You are attractive enough now we can see you without those scales,” continued Margoritt sternly. “There is no need to hide away here in the forest. You need to think about what you want to do next.”

            Margoritt’s words stung and Glynnis lifted her hand reflexively to her head. Two small bumps were all that remained of the Sorcerer’s curse. Eleri had cut a fringe for her and the bumps were barely visible. In a funny sort of way, she liked the reminder of the bumps. When she touched them she felt strong.

            Suddenly Margoritt’s shoulders seemed to slump in on her body and Glynnis thought how tiny she had become.

            “There has been no word from the others for several moons now and I think we all need to face facts,” Margoritt said quietly. She put down her basket and leaned against a tree trunk for support. “We’ve tried but we don’t have the resources to fight Leroway any longer and truth is this body is old and tired. I have a sister in the North who I can stay with for a while. Just while I gather my strength.”

            Glynnis was silent. She wished she could find words to reassure Margoritt but knew anything she said would sound trite. They were both aware of the dangers which faced the travellers. And though she had tried, she had not found a spell to contact them.

            “The mountain will not give up its treasure easily but I know they would hasten to return if they were able. And they have much strength between them. We must not give up hope,” she said softly at last and Margoritt nodded.

            Glynis shivered. The Droog trees were casting long shadows over the garden like twisted old men. “It’s getting cold … maybe we should go in. Tomorrow is soon enough to make plans.”

            #4158

            In reply to: Coma Cameleon

            TracyTracy
            Participant

              At first he’d stayed in the same spot. Waiting, for what he didn’t know, but for someone or something to provide a clue, or a reminder. He’d given up checking his pockets, hoping he was mistaken and that of course he had a wallet, some keys, a phone. But there was nothing. Nothing but that suitcase, lighter than it should have been for its size, because there was nothing it in except a few pairs of underpants and a couple of ties. A toiletry bag, unzipped, with nothing in it but a toothbrush.

              He closed his eyes. Stay in the same spot if you’re lost. Had his mother said that once, long ago? His head hurt with the effort to try and recall.

              He’d found himself sitting in an alley next to a rubbish container, sprawled on the suitcase. Squinting in the shaft of bold sunlight, he automatically reached into his shirt pocket for sunglasses. The pocket was empty. He checked his other pockets, his alarm and confusion growing. Why was he wearing socks but no shoes? He elbowed himself up to a sitting position and noticed the suitcase. A wave of relief washed over him: everything must be inside the suitcase. Relief gave way to horror. It was almost empty. I’ve been robbed! he thought. But what did they take? What did I have in there?

              And then the full realization hit. He had no idea where he was. And no idea who he was.

              Someone will come looking for me, he thought. But who? He weighed up his options. What could he do? Go to the police? And tell them what?

              He shrank back as two women approached, looking down as they glanced at him. They walked past, continuing their conversation. Why were they speaking Spanish? He looked around, noticing a number of signs. Most of them were in Spanish, but some were in English. For a brief moment he was inordinately pleased at the realization that he was English speaking. The first puzzle piece. He was thinking in American English. Therefore, he must be an American. He rubbed his eyes. His headache was getting worse.

              #4033
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Connie couldn’t stop thinking about that odd but intriguing man she’d interviewed who’d almost been crushed under a wheel of gouda. Possibly rescuing the worm from under the doormat was connected, or at least, had served as a reminder to her to think of an excuse to contact him again. His cat like agility was most appealing. As was his codpiece.

                #3391
                EricEric
                Keymaster

                  The P’hope was closing his eyes on the wind business shadow market, as he was of course getting a share of the profits. There were not per se any physical currency in Karmalott, but people did their exchanges based on good faith, which was actually better than gold.

                  The good people had taken the habit to say that transactions were paid in bises, which was supposed to be a vague approximation for “Belief Support”, and a reminder of the city’s blazon, which was party per pale argent and vert, a waterbee eradicated counterchanged —which is easier seen that said, obviously.

                  The more bises people got, the likelier they were to manifest what they wanted.
                  So long as people were not too rich in bises, the P’hope’s power wasn’t threatened, and he kept a close eye on the biselords who always wore ample bear furs as a sign of power, and their invented coats of arms on their bellies, to harness the wishful power of their bises-ness.

                  #3007
                  EricEric
                  Keymaster

                    The impending strategy and budget review was now quickly upon them.

                    The much questioned old new authority of the Surge Team had decided all the countries had to join for that week long first round of strategy plan and as Long Poon was too much of a reminder of work (they said, but many suspected too much of a reminder of Ed Steam’s empire), Madam Li had graciously offered to host the venue in Shangpoon, where they had managed to corner 15,000 floating piglets and her services were still probably needed.

                    All the thirteen chief operatives were busy setting things in order, and delegating current tasks during their business trip. Some of them were still hopelessly fumbling in spreadsheets and slides —a inane exercise in style they thought, but still…

                    “I can’t stand it!” Cornella almost exploded in front of her computer, now returned to decent level of cleanliness since Aqua’s return. She was sick of this old ageing alzheimering authority. Not that she missed Ed too much now. He was a pig —and gawd, this waxed mustache from another epoch… A pig they all liked because they didn’t know better at the time and his charisma covered for all the tiny slips of behaviour or even judgement. She’d seen that same feeling when the ceremony was held for his ashes spreading; most of the tears shed there had looked a bit contrived.

                    The mission to replace the pope with an alien-reconfigured Jesuit was a success, thanks to clever team work and her stellar delicate planning skills. A plan hatched before Ed’s demise, but that the old guys had been glad to call theirs. That was the waking call for her. If they could get rid so easily of the papacy, she would blow that budget convention from inside.
                    That required thorough planning though, and a bit of luck. Most of the chick would gladly be on board with this.
                    That’s when the mysterious vanishing dog legs cabinet came back to her attention.

                    #2966
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Unfortunately, Mari Fe hadn’t been specific enough in her intention to arrive in Baku in summer (and truth be told she knew that arriving in summer would be tantamount to time meddling, and even she wouldn’t dream of going to that extreme). Mari Fe and Pearl arrived at the Baku portal in Fountain Square during a blizzard, but there were hundreds of dogs in heat. Heat, said Mari Fe to herself, sheesh.

                      “What now Pearl?”

                      “We’re going to look at carpets.”

                      “Carpets?”

                      “Yes, carpets good old magic flying carpets”, Pearl said, wiggling her eyebrows. “All these technical gadgets lately, well there’s not the same kind of beauty or stories with them, they all seem so, well a bit passe and male energy, to be honest. A bit too common, perhaps. And all those dicks popping up everywhere! Madre mia! So, that’s why we’re going to look at carpets.”

                      “Yeah” Mari Fe agreed. “I see what you mean,” and then added, rather mysteriously “It’s the weave, you know. It’s in the weave.”

                      “And the warp,” replied Pearl, which unfortunately triggered the painful reminders of Ed and Riffraff that Mari Fe had been trying to bottle up. A geyser of tightly held energy erupted. Fortunately the nearby fountain provided a sort of outlet into physical form, and merely appeared to have suddenly had a surge of both electricity and water. But there were few bystanders braving the blizzard in the square, and the dogs were fully focused on other matters, so a surge diversion operation type 57, method 22.5 was accomplished with an absolute minimum of disruption.

                      “I think we’ve got time for cake first,” Mari Fe said with a grin.

                      “And a Guinness.”

                      #2704

                      In reply to: Strings of Nines

                      EricEric
                      Keymaster

                        Messmeerah started to carve the name of all the funny bunch on a huge jamón from the fifth leg (the meatiest) of a jelly boar of the steppes, starting with her own —name, not leg— as a reminder of the good time they had all together. She was thinking as well that it would taste lovely with some of these Jiborium’s truffles.

                        She was sad to had to let them go, but frankly her old routines were starting to get too scrambled. For one, she didn’t quite remember if Minky was still a redhair rat in her hair (now she thought of it, breeding tiny shrews in her attic didn’t really work so well), or was now back in his human form with a secret revenge of his own on his mind. But that would be maybe a slight stretch. And gosh, did she abhor stretch marks, even on her lovely brains.

                        — “Oh come on, dear,” one of the motley participants, a cheery big-boned and outrageously made-up of make-up woman said in a bizarre Lizabethian accent, with a hint of bossiness that showed she had not been used to being contradicted much in her life. “Join us on that trip to Mr Jiborium’s, you shall find yourself a use or two.”

                        Taken aback by the turn of the events, Messmeerah, also known as Winky, took the jamón under her arm, and against all common sense decided to join the crew —thanking the Mighty Mungibs for the improbable feat of continuity that had appeared as a sign.

                        — “Well, if you don’t mind…” Yikesy was starting to object, but realized some things are best left unsaid, and it would be easy enough now to slip out of their sight (and off the rapacious motherly attentions of Mrs Janet, the big-boned tasteless-bags lady with an accent.)

                        #2498

                        In reply to: Strings of Nines

                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          Yoland was inordinately pleased with her purchases, trifling though they were. She smiled at the little bottle of cherry red nail varnish, imagining how it would look on sun browned and callous free toes. Painted toe nails was one of life’s simple pleasure, she reckoned. Nothing fancy or expensive or uncomfortable, like her new brassiere, which had never the less given her spirits a bit of a lift, as well as her breasts, with its bright blue moulded foam shape. She wondered if she could suspend the brassiere and its contents from something other than her shoulders for once, but couldn’t see how it could be arranged and still allow a modicum of freedom of movement. Perhaps some of the new scientific discoveries that she was eagerly awaiting would include some kind of gravity and weight defying device, possibly helium filled foam support. Perhaps even in the future, anyone with a high squeaky voice would be described as a bra sucker. Or perhaps one day breasts worn on the waist would be fashionable. This thought made Yoland a bit uncomfortable, as she hadn’t really believed she was following fashion, but maybe she was after all.

                          Yoland wondered if she was verging on the ridiculous again, and decided that it didn’t matter if she was. There was something rather splendid, she was beginning to discover, about the mundane and the silly. Something serenely pleasurable about ~ well about everything she’d been taking for granted for so many years. The things she hadn’t really noticed much, while her mind was busy thinking and pondering, replaying old conversations, and imagining new ones, sometimes with others, but often with herself, inside the vast jumble of words that was her mind.

                          It was always a wonderful change of pace to go away on a trip, with its wealth of new conversations and words, events and symbols to ponder over later at her leisure, the many photographic snapshots providing reminders and clues and remembered laughs, but it was the renewed sense of appreciation for the mundane that was ultimately most refreshing about returning home.

                          The word home had baffled Yoland for many years. For most of her 51 years, if the truth be told. So many moves, so many houses, so many people ~ where, really, was home? She’d eventually compromised and called herself a citizen of the world, but she still found herself at times silently wailing “I want to go home”, but with the whole world as her home, it didn’t make a great deal of sense why she would still yearn for that elusive place called home.

                          Of all the words that swam in her head some of them seemed to keep bobbing up to the surface, attracting her attention from time to time. That was the funny thing about words, Yoland mused, not for the first time, You hear them and hear them and you understand what they mean, but only in theory. The suddenly something happens and you shout AHA, and then you can’t find any words to explain it! Repeating the words you’ve already heard a hundred times somehow doesn’t even come close to describing what it actually feels like to understand what those words mean. That kind of feeling always left her wondering if everyone else had known all along, except her.

                          Yoland was often finding words in unexpected places, and these were often the very words that were the catalysts. (Even the word catalyst had been one of those words that repeatedly bobbed to the surface of her sea of words). Her trip had been in search of words, supposedly, channeled words (although Yoland suspected the trip had been more about connections than words) and yet there had only really been one word that had stood out as significant, and oddly enough, that word had been watermelon.

                          That had been a lesson in itself, if indeed lesson is the right word. Yoland had been attempting to exercise her psychic powers for six months or more, trying to get Toobidoo, the world famous channeled entity, to say the word watermelon ~ just for fun. She couldn’t even remember how it all started, or why the word watermelon was significant ~ perhaps a connection to a symbol etched on a watermelon rind in Marseilles, which later became a Tile of the City. (Yoland wasn’t altogether sure that she understood the tiles, but she did think it was a very fun game, and that aspect alone was sufficient to hold her interest.) By the end of the last day of the channeling event Toobidoo still hadn’t said the word watermelon which was somewhat of a disappointment, so when Yoland saw Gerry Jumper, Toobidoo’s channel, in the vast hotel foyer, she ran up to him saying “Say watermelon.” The simple direct method worked instantly, where months of attempts the hard way had failed. Yoland felt that she learned alot from this rather silly incident about the nature of everyday magic, and this particular lesson, or we might prefer to call it a communication, was repeated for good measure the following day in the park.

                          Wailon, the other world famous channeled entity who was the star attraction of the Words Event, had proudly displayed photographic evidence of orbs at the lecture. Like Yoland had tried with the watermelon, he was choosing an esoteric and unfamiliar method of creating orbs, suggesting that the audience meditate and conjure them up to show on photographs, rather than simply creating physical orbs. Yoland and her friends Meldrew and Franklyn had chanced upon a beautiful glass house full of real physical glass orbs in the park, underlining the watermelon message for Yoland: not to discount the spontaneous magic of the physical world in the search for the esoteric.

                          It had, for example, been rather magical and wonderful to hear Gerry Jumper explain how he had mentioned watermelon to his wife on the previous day in the dining room ~ mundane, yes, but magical too. It would have been marvellous to create Toobidoo channeling the word watermelon for sure, but how much more magical to create an actual slice of physical watermelon in the dining room and have Gerry remark on it, and to have an actual physical conversation with him about it. Who knows, he may even remember the nutcase who spent six months trying to get him to say watermelon whenever he sees one, at least for awhile. It might be quite often too, as his wife is partial to watermelon. Yoland wondered if this was some kind of connecting link, perhaps the connection to Gerry and Cindy started in Marseilles and watermelon was the physical clue, the pointer towards the connection.

                          Perhaps, Yoland wondered, the orbs were the connecting link to Wailon, although she didn’t feel such a strong connection to him as she did to Toobidoo and Gerry Jumper. She had been collecting coloured gel orbs for several months ~ just for fun. There was often a connecting link to be found in the silly and the fun, the pointless and the bizarre, and even in the mundane and everyday things.

                          In the days following her return home ~ or the house that Yoland lived in, shall we say ~ she felt rather sleepy, as if she was in slow motion, but the feeling was welcome, it felt easy and more importantly, acceptable. There was nothing that she felt she should be doing instead, for a change, no fretting about starting projects, or accomplishing chores, rather a slow pleasant drifting along. Yes, there were chores to be done, such as watering plants and feeding animals and other things, but they no longer felt like chores. She found she wasn’t mentally listing all the other chores to be done but was simply enjoying the one she was doing. Even whilst picking up innumerable dog turds outside, she heard the birds singing and saw the blossom on the fruit trees against the blue sky, saw shapes in the white clouds, heard the bees buzzing in the wisteria. The abundance of dog shit was a sign of a houseful of happy healthy well fed dogs, and the warm spring sun dried it and made it easier to pick up.

                          It was, somewhat unexpectedly, while Yoland was picking up dog shit that she finally realized what some of those bobbing words meant about home, and presence, and connection to source. It seemed amusingly ironic after travelling so far (not just the recent trip, but all the years of searching) to finally find out where home was, where the mysterious and elusive source was. (Truth be told, some printed words she found the previous day had been another catalyst, by Vivian channeled by Wanda, but she couldn’t recall the exact words. Yoland had to admit that words, used as a catalyst, were really rather handy.)

                          Wherever you go, there you are ~ they were words too, and they were part of the story. Now that Yoland had come to the part where she wanted to express in words where home, and source, was, she found she couldn’t find the right words. In a funny kind of way the word vacant popped into her head, as if the place where the vast jumble of words was usually housed became vacant, allowing her to be present in her real physical world. It really was quite extraordinary how simple it was. Too simple for words.

                          :yahoo_heehee:

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