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  • #7906

    “Do you like the new pamphlets?” Ricardo asked Miss Bossy Pants.


    “Thought we needed a bit of building awareness to the readership” he said struggling hard not to try to justify himself.

    After a moment of reflection, she answered “I can’t say I’m completely hating it, the whole foray into quote-unquote serious journalism, with a tint of eco-consciousness. Even more so it’s starting to look more rebellious nowadays than the fad that it was. But I digress. I mean, apart from the obvious AI showing, tell me Ric… Where are the interviews? the wrangling emotions of the interviews… Have we stopped doing investigative journalism?”

    #7904

    “What were you saying already?” Thiram asked “I must have zoned out, it happens at times.” He chuckled looking embarrassed. “Not to worry.”

    As the silence settled, Thiram started to blink vigorously to get things back into focus —a trick he’d seen in the Lucid Dreamer 101 manual for beginners. You could never be too sure if this was all a dream. And if it was, then you’d better pay attention to your thoughts in case they’d attract trouble – generally your thoughts were the trouble-makers, but in some cases, also other Lucid Dreamers were.

    Here and now, trouble wasn’t coming, to the contrary. It was all unusually foggy.

    “Well, by the look of it, Amy is not biting into the whole father drama, and prefers to have a self-induced personality crisis…” Carob shrugged. “We can all clearly see what she looks like, obviously. Whether she likes it or not, and I won’t comment further despite how tempting it is.”

    “You’re one to speak.” Amy replied. “Should I give you some drama? Would certainly make things more interesting.”

    Thiram had a thought he needed to share “And I just remember that Chico isn’t probably coming – he still wasn’t over our last fight with Amy bossying and messing the team’s plans because she can’t keep up with modern tech, had to dig a hole, or overcome a ratmaggeddon; something he’d said that had seemed quite final at the time: ‘I’d rather be turned into a donkey than follow you guys around.’ I wouldn’t count on him showing up just yet.”

    “Me? bossying?” Amy did feel enticed to catch that bait this time, and like a familiar trope see it reel out, or like a burning match in front of a dry hay bale, she could almost see the old patterns of getting incensed, and were it would lead.

    “Can we at least agree on a few things about the where, what, why, or shall we all play this one by ear?”

    “Obviously we know. But all the observing essences, do they?” Carob was doing a great impersonation of Chico.

    #7763
    Jib
    Participant

      The corridor outside Mr. Herbert’s suite was pristine, polished white and gold, designed to impress, like most of the ship. Soft recessed lighting reflected off gilded fixtures and delicate, unnecessary embellishments.

      It was all Riven had ever known.

      His grandfather, Victor Holt, now in cryo sleep, had been among the paying elite, those who had boarded Helix 25, expecting a decadent, interstellar retreat. Riven, however had not been one of them. He had been two years old when Earth fell, sent with his aunt Seren Vega on the last shuttle to ever reach the ship, crammed in with refugees who had fought for a place among the stars. His father had stayed behind, to look for his mother.

      Whatever had happened after that—the chaos, the desperation, the cataclysm that had forced this ship to become one of humanity’s last refuges—Riven had no memory of it. He only knew what he had been told. And, like everything else on Helix 25, history depended on who was telling it.

      For the first time in his life, someone had been murdered inside this floating palace of glass and gold. And Riven, inspired by his grandfather’s legacy and the immense collection of murder stories and mysteries in the ship’s database, expected to keep things under control.

      He stood straight in front of the suite’s sealed sliding door, arms crossed on a sleek uniform that belonged to Victor Holt. He was blocking entry with the full height of his young authority. As if standing there could stop the chaos from seeping in.

      A holographic Do Not Enter warning scrolled diagonally across the door in Effin Muck’s signature font—because even crimes on this ship came branded.

      People hovered in the corridor, coming and going. Most were just curious, drawn by the sheer absurdity of a murder happening here.

      Riven scanned their faces, his muscles coiled with tension. Everyone was a potential suspect. Even the ones who usually didn’t care about ship politics.

      Because on Helix 25, death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.

      Someone broke away from the crowd and tried to push past him.

      “You’re wasting time. Young man.”

      Zoya Kade. Half scientist, half mad Prophet, all irritation. Her gold-green eyes bore into him, sharp beneath the deep lines of her face. Her mismatched layered robes shifting as she moved. Riven had no difficulty keeping the tall and wiry 83 years old woman at a distance.

      Her silver-white braid was woven with tiny artifacts—bits of old circuits, beads, a fragment of a key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A collector of lost things. But not just trinkets—stories, knowledge, genetic whispers of the past. And now, she wanted access to this room like it was another artifact to be uncovered.

      “No one is going in.” Riven said slowly, “until we finish securing the area.”

      Zoya exhaled sharply, turning her head toward Evie, who had just emerged from the crowd, tablet in hand, TP flickering at her side.

      Evie, tell him.”

      Evie did not look pleased to be associated with the old woman. “Riven, we need access to his room. I just need…”

      Riven hesitated.

      Not for long, barely a second, but long enough for someone to notice. And of course, it was Anuí Naskó.

      They had been waiting, standing slightly apart from the others, their tall, androgynous frame wrapped in the deep-colored robes of the Lexicans, fingers lightly tapping the surface of their handheld lexicon. Observing. Listening. Their presence was a constant challenge. When Zoya collected knowledge like artifacts, Anuí broke it apart, reshaped it. To them, history was a wound still open, and it was the Lexicans duty to rewrite the truth that had been stolen.

      “Ah,” Anuí murmured, smiling slightly, “I see.”

      Riven started to tap his belt buckle. His spine stiffened. He didn’t like that tone.

      “See what, exactly?”

      Anuí turned their sharp, angular gaze on him. “That this is about control.”

      Riven locked his jaw. “This is about security.”

      “Is it?” Anuí tapped a finger against their chin. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re just as inexperienced in murder investigation as the rest of us.”

      The words cut sharp in Riven’s pride. Rendering him speechless for a moment.

      “Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.

      Riven felt heat rise to his face, but he didn’t let it show. He had been preparing himself for challenges, just not from every direction at once.

      His grip tightened on his belt, but he forced himself to stay calm.

      Zoya, clearly enjoying herself now, gestured toward Evie. “And what about them?” She nodded toward TP, whose holographic form flickered slightly under the corridor’s ligthing. “Evie and her self proclaimed detective machine here have no real authority either, yet you hesitate.”

      TP puffed up indignantly. “I beg your pardon, madame. I am an advanced deductive intelligence, programmed with the finest investigative minds in history! Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Marshall Pee Stoll…”

      Zoya lifted a hand. “Yes, yes. And I am a boar.”

      TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”

      Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”

      But Zoya wasn’t finished. She looked directly at Riven now. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust Anuí. But you trust her.” She gave a node toward Evie. “Why?

      Riven felt his stomach twist. He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which he could say out loud. Because he did trust Evie. Because she was brilliant, meticulous, practical. Because… he wanted her to trust him back. But admitting that, showing favoritism, expecially here in front of everyone, was impossible.

      So he forced his voice into neutrality. “She has technical expertise and no political agenda about it.”

      Anuí left out a soft hmm, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but filing the information away for later.

      Evie took the moment to press forward. “Riven, we need access to the room. We have to check his logs before anything gets wiped or overwritten. If there’s something there, we’re losing valuable time just standing there arguing.”

      She was right. Damn it, she was right. Riven exhaled slowly.

      “Fine. But only you.”

      Anuí’s lips curved but just slightly. “How predictable.”

      Zoya snorted.

      Evie didn’t waste time. She brushed past him, keying in a security override on her tablet. The suite doors slid open with a quiet hiss.

      #7661
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        Early May 2022

        “You don’t look like a physicist,” Florian said on their first evening together. Most of the day since his arrival that morning had been taken up with Elara showing him around the farmhouse and a stroll outside after he’d unpacked and showered.

        It was early May, Elara’s favourite time of the year, and the pandemic restrictions were largely over. An enthusiastic hiker and ardent lover of the countryside, Florian found his hosts running commentary as they walked the blossomy lanes a tonic after the grim scenesand mental anguish he’d left behind. Elara beamed at his evident interest and perspicacious questions, warming to him and realising how much she’d missed company and conversation during the lockdowns and subsequent limiting of social interactions.  It’s so nice to have a conversation in English, she couldn’t help thinking.

        Laughing, Elara replied that she’d never felt like a physicist either. “As soon as I started my first post after qualifying, I realised it wasn’t for me. I hadn’t really thought about the jobs, you know?”

        Happy to have such an attentive listener, the convivial glow of red wine warming her veins, Elara explained that she’d resorted to short term teaching contracts mostly, enabling her to travel. She learned Spanish when she moved with her father to Spain 30 years ago, working in an English school for expats, improved her French while working in Paris, moved to Warwick to be near her sister Vanessa thinking she would settle there, “Big mistake that was, best forgotten.”

        “I always wanted to travel a bit, but the wife always wanted to go to a resort to sunbathe,” Florian said, adding pensively, “I think the kids would have liked to travel though.”

        “I think you’ll enjoy your stay here,” Elara smiled, not wanting the pleasant evening to take a despondant turn. Florian was here to get over it, not dwell on it.

        #7647

        Darius: A Map of People

        June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe

        The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.

        It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.

        Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.

        “Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”

        It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.

        Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.

        Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.

        “Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

        He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.

        But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.

        A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.

        He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.

        Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.

        Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.

        Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.

        Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.

        When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.

        But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.

        Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.

        One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.

        “Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”

        He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.

        The Market —  The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.

        “Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”

        “Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”

        She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”

        Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”

        As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.

        The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.

        “Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.

        The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”

        Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”

        Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”

        The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”

        A Letter to Amei —  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.

        He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.

        “Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”

        He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.

        As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.

        #7642
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          It was the chalkapocalypse, which in actual fact occurred so close to Elara’s coming retirement that it hardly need have bothered her in the slightest, that had sparked her interest. She, like many of her colleagues, had quickly stockpiled the Japanese chalk, and she had more than enough to see out the remaining term of her employment at the university.  Not that she wanted to stay at Warwick, she’d had enough of university politics and funding cuts, not to mention the dreary midlands weather.

          When at last the day had come, she’d sold her mediocre semi detached suburban house with its, more often than not, dripping shrubbery and rarely if ever used white metal patio table and chairs, and made the move, with the intention of pursuing her research at her leisure. In the warmth of a Tuscan sun.

          Often the words of her friend and colleague Tom came to her, as she settled into the farmhouse and familiarised herself with the land and the locals.

          Physics is a process of getting stuck. Blackboards are the best tool for getting unstuck. You do most of your calculations on paper. Then, when you reach a dead end, you go to the blackboard and share the problem with a colleague. But here’s the funny thing. You often solve the problem yourself in the process of writing it out.  You don’t imagine something first and then write it down. It’s through the act of writing that ideas make themselves known. Scientists at blackboards have thoughts that wouldn’t come if they just stood there, with their arms folded.

          It was entirely down to Tom’s words that Elara had painted the walls of the barn with blackboard paint, and stocked it with the remains of her Hagoromo chalk hoard, as well as samples of every other available chalk.  She had also purchased a number of books on the history of chalk. She’d had no intention of rushing, and retirement provided a relaxed environment for going at her own pace, unfettered by the relentless demands of students and classes.  It was a project to savour, luxuriate in, amuse herself with.

          When Florian had arrived, she was occupied with showing him around, and before long setting him to tasks that needed doing, and her chalk project had remained on a back burner. He’d asked her about the blackboards in the barn, and wondered if she was planning on giving lectures.

          Laughing, Elara said no, that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again. She shared with him what Tom had said, about the ideas flowing during the process of writing.

          “And while that makes perfect sense in any medium, not just chalk, it’s the chalk itself ….” Elara smiled. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the technical details. And I wouldn’t want to spill the beans before I’m sure.”

          “It does make sense,” Florian replied, “To just write and then the ideas will flow. I’ve been wanting to write a book, but I never know how to start, and I’m not even sure what I want to write about. But perhaps I should just start writing.” Grinning, he added, “Probably not with chalk, though.”

          “That’s the spirit, just make a start. You never know what may come of it. And it can be fun, you know, and illuminating in ways you didn’t expect. I used to write stories with a few friends….” Elara’s voice trailed off uncomfortably, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.

          Florian noticed her unexpected discomfiture, and tactfully changed the subject.  We all have pasts we don’t want to talk about.  “Is the sun sufficiently past the yard arm for a glass of wine?” he asked.  “What is a yard arm, anyway?”

          “A yard is a spar on a mast from which sails are set. It may be constructed of timber or steel or from more modern materials such as aluminium or carbon fibre. Although some types of fore and aft rigs have yards, the term is usually used to describe the horizontal spars used on square rigged sails…”

          “Once a lecturer, always a lecturer, eh?” Florian teased.

          “Sorry!” Elara said with a rueful look. ” I’d love a glass of wine.”

          #7607

          Jeezel tilted her head, scrutinizing the frame with the practiced eye of a social media sorceress. The lighting was perfect—each flickering hue of orange and blue cast an ethereal glow over the witches’ relaxed forms. It was the kind of aesthetic her followers adored: ancient mysticism meets futuristic chic. The “techno-witch” hashtag would trend for weeks.

          She whispered a quick spell under her breath—just a touch of glamour magic to ensure the shadows curved flatteringly across their faces. Never leave it all to filters, she reminded herself. Technology might be powerful, but spells were eternal.

          As the camera hovered over Eris, Jeezel panned dramatically, emphasizing the stiff pose that made her friend look like an extra from an undead fashion campaign. “Timeless and terrifying,” Jeezel murmured approvingly. Frella’s melancholic pout came next, her expression so perfectly tragic it might summon a thousand sympathetic comments. #WitchSadGirlAesthetic.

          And Truella—oh, Truella. Jeezel stifled a laugh as she zoomed in on the haphazard limbs sprawled across the pod, her fingers angled like she was trying to signal something in a forgotten language. Maybe a plea for help from the gods of symmetry.

          “Goddess-tier content,” Jeezel whispered as she adjusted the selfie stick for the final shot: a dramatic sweep across the room, showing the full ambiance of their enchanted retreat. The subtle hum of spells harmonizing with the VR pods’ whirring was audible in the background. She imagined the caption now:

          “Modern coven vibes; Ancient spells, virtual worlds, and one unforgettable vacation. #TechnoWitchLife #VacationMagic #TimeTravelGoals”

          Perfect. Another masterpiece to feed the algorithm.

          With a satisfied smirk, she hit “post” and leaned back into her own pod. Her followers would marvel at the blend of mystique and modernity—and probably try to copy the look themselves. As the first comments rolled in, Jeezel couldn’t help but think, The real magic these days isn’t just in the spells we cast—it’s in the stories we tell.

          #7558

          Malove surveyed the room, her piercing gaze sweeping over each witch, causing them to cower. “I trust you’re not letting the weather distract you from your duties,” she said, her voice crisp. “I won’t have the coven slacking because of a little drizzle.”

          Jeezel straightened, flustered. “It’s not the weather! It’s the postcards! They’re showing up out of nowhere, and no one knows who’s sending them!”

          Malove raised an eyebrow. “Postcards? How quaint. And you think this warrants my attention?”

          “Absolutely!” Truella interjected, surprising even herself with her boldness. “It could be a warning—or worse, a challenge.”

          A flicker of ethereal light indicated Eris’s presence. “Or perhaps someone just has a twisted sense of humor.”

          Frella crossed her arms, frowning. “I agree with Tru. This could be serious.”

          Malove stepped closer, her demeanor sharpening. “Enough. I care not for your trifles unless they threaten the coven. What precisely have you discovered”

          Jeezel pulled out one of her postcards. “This one shows a twisted tree… and a symbol I don’t recognize.”

          Frella bit her lip and revealed her own card. “Mine has a raven on a crooked branch. Its gaze feels… unsettling.”

          Truella’s heart raced. “Jeezel, let me look at that! I think I’ve seen that symbol before—in the book that fell off my shelf!”

          Malove’s interest was piqued. “Elaborate.”

          “Well, old books practically leap off the shelves at me,” Truella explained, excitement building. “And Frella had a dream that seemed connected. The really odd part?” She paused dramatically until she was sure she had their full attention.  “I noticed that the book was written in the FIRST PERSON.” She gestured to the postcard with the twisted tree. “Maybe these cards are connected.”

          Eris chimed in lightly. “Or they could be a distraction. Perhaps you’re sending yourself messages?”

          Truella frowned, glancing at the shimmering light of Eris. “But why do you get to do distance while the rest of us are stuck here in this rain? Can’t you join us physically for once?”

          Eris laughed, her voice echoing. “Someone has to keep an eye on the chaos you’re about to unleash.”

          #7510

          After everyone got the program for the six rituals, they dispersed. Jeezel observed groups reform and the whereabouts of people. Eris walked alone toward the dark corridors. Truella, Sandra and Sassafras went to the gardens. Rufus followed shortly after, his dark moody eyes showing intense reflections. Jeezel noticed that Bartolo from the convent had been observing the mortician and hurried to catch up with him. Mother Lorena stood as stern as ever in the center of the lobby. She kept cupping her hands around her ears to check if her earpieces were working. Which they weren’t from the irritated look on her face. Silas was in an animated discussion with Austreberthe and the remaining nuns were laughing heartily and running around as if they had overindulged in Sister Sassafras’ hallucinogenic mushroom canapés.

          Jeezel decided to go back to the lounge and explore the antiques, maybe see if there were hidden passageways behind those tapestries. She found Garrett waiting for her in the corridor as if he knew what she intended to do. His deep blue eyes seemed to embrace her whole silhouette in a myriad of unspoken emotions, and when they settle on her emerald green eyes, a subtle grin showed his appreciation.

          “Don’t look back,” he said, his voice a deep velvet baritone. “Old Silas and Austreberthe are looking at us with a very disapproving look.”

          Jeezel couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “And what if they do? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

          Garrett’s grin widened. He took a step closer, the scent of his cologne– a tantalizing mix of cedarwood and bergamot– mingling with the faint aroma of her own enchanting perfume.

          “You intrigue me, Jeezel. More than the rituals, more than any relic or spell.”

          Jeezel laughed heartily. Don’t they say keep your enemy close? I have questions for him. And I wouldn’t mind the company while I’m exploring the area? she thought.

          “I was about to check for secret passages in the old lounge,” she said. “Would you join me?”

          She let him take her hand and guide her toward the lounge. As they entered the heavy scent of aged wood and old books greeted them. Jeezel’s eyes darted to the tapestries lining the walls, each depicting scenes of ancient rituals and forgotten histories.

          “Where do you think we should start?” Garrett asked, his deep voice barely above a whisper, adding to the mysterious ambiance of the room.

          Jeezel tilted her head, considering the possibilities. “That one,” she said, pointing to a particularly intricate tapestry depicting a moonlit garden. “It looks like it could hide something.” She reached out to the fabric and pulled it aside, revealing a wooden door. She tensed when she noticed lingering traces of cedarwood and bergamot. “Or someone,” she added, turning toward him. “You’ve been here recently, have you not?”

          “Direct as ever. Very well. I’m here to protect and help you. You need to be careful with Silas. He has hidden motives.”

          Jeezel narrowed her eyes. “And why should I trust you?”

          Garrett pulled out his crimson handkerchief from his pocket, revealing a symbol embroidered in gold. Her eyes widened as identical to the one on the key Malové had given her.

          “How did you get that?” she asked.

          “Malové entrusted me with this,” Garret explained, “to show her chosen allies. I was told to seek you out and offer you my assistance. This symbol matches the one on your key, doesn’t it?”

          Jeezel felt the weight of the key in her purse. She hadn’t shown it to anyone, not even to her friends. She felt even more confused than before. It was possible that Silas would try to divert her attention from him if he was against the merger. And what better way to do than alert her to unknown enemies. The fact that Garrett knew about the key just added a layer of complexity to the situation, but also a layer of excitement. She wondered what game was being played here, and who were the true players.

          “Alright, Garrett,” she said, her voice steadying as she added, “I’ll hear you out. But if you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”

          He nodded. “Faire enough. Silas isn’t just interested in the failure of the merger; he’s got his own agenda. Something to do with ancient punic artifacts and power that could rival even the Crimson Opus. And he’s not the only one. There are some ancient Punic families that are looking for the same things.”

          Jeezel’s heart skipped a beat. If Silas was after the same kind of power, it could jeopardize everything—the merger, her mission, and possibly the balance of power in their world. Jeezle felt she was in way over her head. She had to breathe and connect to her inner Queen’s innate knowledge in order to slide into her role of leader.

          “Then, I accept your assistance,” she conceded with a slight node. “But this doesn’t mean I trust you, Garrett. You’ll have to prove your loyalty.”

          Garrett folded the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. For now, let’s just say our interests align. And if we work together, we might just come out of this with everything we need—and more.”

          “Then show me where this hidden door lead!”

          #7490

          Garrett 2

          Adjusting the crimson silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, Garrett swanned into the reception hall, his piercing pale blue eyes scanning the room.  The walls were hung with colourful but faded tapestries, shabby enough to be genuinely ancient.  The furniture was heavy and blackened with age, but it was the floor that caught his critical eye. In the centre of the old terracotta tiles floor was a mosaic, mostly hidden under a large conference table.  Garret was no expert on Roman mosaics but it looked like the real deal. He would return to this room later for a closer inspection, he could hardly go crawling under the table now.  It was a mercy, at least, that the ancient building hadn’t been decked out in ghastly modern furnishings as so many charming old hotels were these days.

          He turned his attention to the few occupants.  A ravishing raven haired beauty had just wafted in from the covered cloister beyond the open doors.  Her silver mantilla shone in the sunlight slanting down into the courtyard for a moment, for all the world looking like an angelic medieval halo.  As she slippped into the shadows the halo vanished, her ebony tresses showing beneath the gauzy lace.  She settled herself in a low armchair, smoothing the burgundy folds of her gown. Garrett watched, spellbound. What an enchantress!  Perhaps this weekend wouldn’t be such a bore, after all.

          #7464

          “The world is vast, and we are not alone in our quest for magical mastery. We will forge new partnerships!” Malove’s voice had reached fever pitch. She had expanded her map, showing potential allies and strategic locations across the globe. Reactions in the audience varied, but there was an overwhelming unspoken consensus of a growing rebellion towards the unsettling increase in Malove’s dictatorial ways.

          Perhaps nobody will ever know for sure whose private spell did the trick, or whether it was the combined effort that brought about such an unexpected chain of events. Maybe it was none of those things, and just the way things worked out.

          The vast world that Malove had cried out heard her call and sucked her forthwith into the steamy depths of a hitherto unknown equatorial location in search of potential allies.  An unexpected invitation from a long lost cousin, it was said, although nobody in the coven knew for sure.  There was more lively interest in the coven and more communication between the witches during those days when Malove disappeared without trace than ever before.

          On the twelfth day after her disappearance, the cryptic messages started arriving. On the 15th day, experts were examining the selfies for signs of tampering and pronouncing them to be be true images.

          It wasn’t easy to imagine Malove swooning in her tropical lovers arms under parrot filled jungle trees, sheathed in gauzy crumpled linen and with a vapid expression of a Cartland character, but the photos kept coming.

          It seemed too bizarre, too good to be true, when Malove sent a voice message  in her unmistakable voice, but with an uncharacteristic lazy, sultry tone.

          “Darlings, you won’t beleive it. I’ve fallen in love!  I’m taking an indefinite leave of absence.”

          #7461

          Once again, the Quadrivium headquarters buzzed with an undercurrent of tension and anticipation. Malové stood at the helm, her gaze as steely and unwavering as ever. The coven’s regular meetings had taken on a new urgency in the face of mounting market pressures and the ever-accelerating pace of competition.

          The witches assembled in the grand hall, each carrying the weight of their individual concerns and collective anxieties. A large screen was projecting the agenda in flashy neon colours with a glamourous photo of their leader. The event was broadcast across many locations, not all witches able to join physically as the ongoing Worldwide Roman Games preparation and the 333th celebration of the Treaty of Limerick ending the Williamite War, had made the city impenetrable due to the convergence of world leaders.

          Not only for those present, all of them seated in-person, or remotely connected had felt the tremors of change, the subtle yet insistent push towards transformation. Yet despite their best efforts, a cohesive vision for the coven’s future remained elusive.

          As the last witch took her seat and the various technical glitches got sorted, Malové stepped forward, her presence commanding immediate silence. With a flick of her wrist, a spectral map materialized before them, shimmering with points of light that represented their past achievements and future challenges.

          “Listen well,” Malové began, her voice echoing through the hall with the gravity of an ancient spell. “We stand at a crossroads, a juncture where our past accomplishments meet the demands of an unforgiving future. Our strength has always been in our unity and our mastery of the arcane, but now, we must also master the art of transformation.”

          She paused, allowing her words to sink in. The witches leaned forward, their eyes locked onto their formidable leader.

          “Transformation,” she continued, “is not merely a matter of adapting to external pressures. It requires a boldness of spirit and a willingness to steer the deepest currents of our inner selves. It demands that we break free from the confines of tradition without losing our core essence.”

          Malové waved her hand, and the map shifted to reveal a complex network of interconnected pathways. “Our path forward will not be linear. It will be a labyrinth, requiring both cunning and courage. But fear not, for I have charted a course that will lead us through.”

          She pointed to three glowing nodes on the map. “First, we shall innovate. Our magical incense blends have always been our hallmark, but we must go beyond. We will delve into new realms of magic, combining our ancient practices with cutting-edge techniques. Each of you will be tasked with researching and developing a new blend that can transform not just our coven, but the world.”

          The witches exchanged glances, a mixture of excitement and apprehension flickering in their eyes.

          “Second,” Malové continued, “we must strengthen our alliances. The world is vast, and we are not alone in our quest for magical mastery. We will forge new partnerships with other covens, magical beings, and even those who walk the line between the mundane and the mystical. Together, we will create a network of power and influence that none can rival.”

          The map expanded, showing potential allies and strategic locations across the globe. The witches nodded, recognizing the necessity of this bold move.

          “Lastly,” Malové said, her voice softening yet losing none of its intensity, “we must look within. Inner transformation is the crucible in which true power is forged. Each of you will undergo a rigorous process of self-examination and growth. You will face your fears, confront your weaknesses, and emerge stronger and more resilient. Only then can we hope to lead others through their own transformations.”

          She paused, meeting the eyes of each witch in turn. “I will be with you every step of the way. My role is not just to lead, but to guide and support you. We will hold workshops, retreats, and one-on-one sessions to ensure that every member of the Quadrivium is prepared for the journey ahead.”

          Truella, who had tuned in remotely, winced softly behind her screen – she quickly checked. Phew, she had been on mute the whole time.

          Malové’s voice grew softer still, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of an ancient prophecy. “We are the Quadrivium. We are woven together by threads of magic and destiny. Our future is not written in stone, but in the stars. Together, we will reach for those stars and make them our own.”

          The hall was silent, the witches absorbing the magnitude of Malové’s words. Slowly, a sense of resolve began to build, a collective determination to embrace the path laid out before them.

          As the meeting drew to a close, Malové turned back to the spectral map, her eyes reflecting the myriad possibilities that lay ahead. “Remember this day, for it marks the beginning of our grand transformation. We will not be merely a coven. We will be a force of nature, a symphony of magic that weaves through time and space.”

          With a final wave of her hand, the map vanished, leaving only the echoes of her words and the indomitable spirit of the Quadrivium, and throngs of witches left more confused as they exited the halls in hushed tones.

          #7236

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Xavier had been back for a month in Berlin, called back for an emergency as his company was announcing a big new venture. The following months had been a whirlwind, and he’d felt a bit guilty leaving his friends just after all the drama and the cart festival, the sand storm and all.

          Truth is, the sands of Australia weren’t much to his taste, and he couldn’t dedicate enough of his attention to all the distraction going on. What was Zara saying already? Like trucks in the night? Something like that, they’d gone, all of them their own way. Even AL and the game had stayed silent for while, not sending any new challenges.

          It was ironic in a sense, considering his company was all abuzz with AI news, new human interfaces, threat of job loses by the million, data privacy concerns etc. It was already a matter of fact for him, and frankly, he was a bit bored by it now, even though the craze was showing no sign of abating.

          “Illusion of depth of knowledge” or rather illusion of explanatory depth — that was was got him to think. All of this automatically generated expressions would be giving huge knowledge at everybody’s fingertips, but with either no willingness to truly understand, or always a nagging doubt it was just a neat narrative that could be completely imagined.

          The quest for the elusive spark of creativity was still on. If one thing was sure, it wasn’t to be found in AI.

          Suddenly, his phone rang, jolting him out of his daydreams. It was Youssef.

          “Hey man, how’s it going?” Xavier asked, pleasantly surprised at the call.

          “Listen, I know you’re busy, but we need your help,” Youssef said, his voice urgent. “Yasmin’s gone missing.”

          “What do you mean she’s gone missing?”

          “We don’t know. We haven’t heard back from her since weeks. Zara’s been trying to reach her, but she’s not answering her phone. We’re all getting worried,” Youssef explained.

          Xavier felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He should have been there, should have been helping them search for Yasmin.

          There was a silence on the line.

          “Look, we had a crazy idea. Can’t your AL or the game give us any clues?” Youssef asked.

          “Well, we’ve set boundaries on the system for ethical reasons Youssef. We can’t just spy on people. And who’s to tell she doesn’t just need the space? It wouldn’t have been unheard of. I’m sure she’ll come back in no time, with a smile and a song.”

          “I hope so…” Youssef sounded disappointed. “So you won’t help?”

          Xavier took a breathe. “Not this time my friend, I’m afraid. But I tell you what. You can go an post an advertisement at the Faded Cabbage pub, in the game’s Old District. Someone who knows someone may be able to help.”

          “Thanks for the tip, man… It’s was good to talk to you.” Youssef hanged up.

          #7166
          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “What was the occasion again?”

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

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

            #6740
            Jib
            Participant

              When Salomé got closer to examine the creature, it jumped towards her. She caught it by reflex.

              “Wow!” said Georges. “Sand Rin clearly has a death wish.”

              “Thank you,” said Salomé. “Again.”

              “I didn’t mean…”

              She smiled. He was so easy to tease.

              “Why did you call it Sand Rin?” she asked.

              “I think our little friend has telepathic abilities. She showed this scene to me and I heard myself call her that.”

              “You might want to revise your diagnostic concerning its gender. It seems he’s got balls.”

              “Does that necessarily make it a male ?” asked Georges with a grumpf.

              Salomé looked at her friend and raised one eyebrow.

              “Does it indeed,” she said.

              Georges snorted. Salomé’s attention moved back to the creature. The fur was soft, and produced little blue sparks when she stroke it with her hands. It wasn’t static electricity because Salomé didn’t feel anything except a desire to stroke it again.

              “Interesting,” she said. “You clearly want us to like you. What’s your name little guy?”

              “I told you, it’s Sand Rin,” said Georges.

              “You told me you saw a scene in which you called it Sand Rin. That doesn’t make it his name. It might just have shown you your own mistake.”

              Salomé looked into the eyes of the creature. It wiggled its nose.

              “Hello, Barney,” she said.

              “What? I can’t believe I find an alien creature on Jorid’s hull, and it’s called Barney,” said Georges.

              “Rectification,” said Jorid, “The creature found you. He jumped onto your helmet and licked it. It’s most probable if you had tried to catch him, you’d still be tickling my hull with your boots.”

              Salomé grinned.

              “You told me SHE liked me,” said Georges.

              “I also told you the creature was causing interferences with my sensors and navigational arrays.”

              “Why do you always have to take her side?”

              “She’s most often…”

              “Nope, I don’t need that answer.”

              “…right.”

              Salomé laughed as Georges rolled his eyes. She turned her attention to Barney when he started squiggling like he was talking.

              “He’s agitated,” she said. “Something foreboding, urgent.”

              “You’ll be happy to know Léonard’s vitals are showing he’s about to wake up,” said Jorid.

              “Wehoo! At last”, said Georges. “He’ll be able to tell us what the Zathu did to him.”

              “I’m more curious about what he did to them to deserve being treated like that,” said Salomé with a frown.

              #6634

              In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                The next quest is going to be a group quest for Zara, Yasmin, Xavier and Youssef. It will require active support and close collaboration to focus on a single mystery at first not necessarily showing connection or interest to all members of the group, but completing it will show how all things are interconnected. It may start inside the game at the hidden library underground the Flying Fish Inn.

                Quirk offered for this: getting lost in the mines of creativity, and struggle to complete the chapters of the book of Story to a satisfactory conclusion.

                Quirk accepted.

                The group finds themselves in the hidden library underground the Flying Fish Inn, surrounded by books and manuscripts. They come across a particularly old and mysterious book titled “The Lost Pages of Creativity.” The book contains scattered chapters, each written by a different author, but the group soon realizes that they are all interconnected and must be completed in order to unlock the mystery of the book’s true purpose.

                Each chapter presents a different challenge related to creativity, ranging from writing a poem to creating a piece of art. The group must work together to solve each challenge, bringing their individual skills and perspectives to the table. As they complete each chapter, they will uncover clues that lead them deeper into the mystery.

                Their ultimate goal is to find the missing pages of the book, which are scattered throughout the inn and surrounding areas. They will need to use their problem-solving skills and work together to find and piece together the missing pages in the correct order to unlock the true purpose of the book.

                To begin, the group is given a clue to start their search for the first missing page: “In the quietest place, the loudest secrets are kept.” They must work together to decipher the clue and find the missing page. Once found, they must insert the corresponding tile into the game to progress to the next chapter. Proof of the insert should be provided in real life.

                Each of the four characters are provided with a personal clue:

                Zara: “Amidst the foliage and bark, A feather and a beak in the dark 🌳🍃🐦🕯️🌑”

                Yasmin: “In the depths of the ocean blue, A key lies waiting just for you 🌊🔑🧜‍♀️🐚🕰️”

                Xavier: “Seeking knowledge both new and old, Find the owl with eyes of gold 📚🦉💡🔍🕰️”

                Youssef: “Amongst the sands and rocky dunes, A lantern flickers, a key it looms 🏜️🪔🔍🔑🕯️”

                Each of these clues hints at a specific location or object that the character needs to find in order to progress in the game.

                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  Some background information on The Sexy Wooden Leg and potential plot developments.

                  Setting

                  (nearby Duckailingtown in Dumbass, Oocrane)
                  The Rootians (a fictitious nationality) invaded Oocrane (a fictitious country) under the guise of freeing the Dumbass region from Lazies. They burned crops and buildings, including the home of a man named Dumbass Voldomeer who was known for his wooden leg and carpenter skills. After the war, Voldomeer was hungry and saw a nest of swan eggs. He went back to his home, carved nine wooden eggs, and replaced the real eggs with the wooden ones so he could eat the eggs for food. The swans still appeared to be brooding on their eggs by the end of summer.

                  Note: There seem to be a bird thematic at play.
                  The swans’ eggs introduce the plot. The mysterious virus is likely a swan flu. Town in Oocrane often have reminiscing tones of birds’ species.
                  Bird To(w)nes: (Oocrane/crane, Keav/kea, Spovlar/shoveler, Dilove/dove…)
                  Also the town’s nursing home/hotel’s name is Vyriy from a mythical place in Slavic mythology (also Iriy, Vyrai, or Irij) where “birds fly for winter and souls go after death” which is sometimes identified with paradise. It is believed that spring has come to Earth from Vyrai.

                  At the Keav Headquarters

                  (🗺️ Capital of Oocrane)

                  General Rudechenko and Major Myroslava Kovalev are discussing the incapacitation of President Voldomeer who is suffering from a mysterious virus. The President had told Major Kovalev about a man in the Dumbass region who looked similar to him and could be used as a replacement. The Major volunteers to bring the man to the General, but the General fears it is a suicide mission. He grants her permission but orders his aide to ensure she gets lost behind enemy lines.

                  Myroslava, the ambitious Major goes undercover as a former war reporter, is now traveling on her own after leaving a group of journalists. She is being followed but tries to lose her pursuers by hunting and making fire in bombed areas. She is frustrated and curses her lack of alcohol.

                  The Shrine of the Flovlinden Tree

                  (🗺️ Shpovlar, geographical center of Oocrane)

                  Olek is the caretaker of the shrine of Saint Edigna and lives near the sacred linden tree. People have been flocking to the shrine due to the miraculous flow of oil from the tree. Olek had retired to this place after a long career, but now a pilgrim family has brought a message of a plan acceleration, which upsets Olek. He reflects on his life and the chaos of people always rushing around and preparing for the wrong things. He thinks about his father’s approach to life, which was carefree and resulted in the same ups and downs as others, but with less suffering. Olek may consider adopting this approach until he can find a way to hide from the enemy.

                  Rosa and the Cauldron Maker

                  (young Oocranian wiccan travelling to Innsbruck, Austria)

                  Eusebius Kazandis is selling black cauldrons at the summer fair of Innsbruck, Austria. He is watching Rosa, a woman selling massage oils, fragrant oils, and polishing oils. Rosa notices Eusebius is sad and thinks he is not where he needs to be. She waves at him, but he looks away as if caught doing something wrong. Rosa is on a journey across Europe, following the wind, and is hoping for a gust to tell her where to go next. However, the branches of the tree she is under remain still.

                  The Nursing Home

                  (Nearby the town of Dilove, Oocrane, on Roomhen border somewhere in Transcarpetya)

                  Egna, who has lived for almost a millennium, initially thinks the recent miracle at the Flovlinden Tree is just another con. She has performed many miracles in her life, but mostly goes unnoticed. She has a book full of records of the lives of many people she has tracked, and reminisces that she has a connection to the President Voldomeer. She decides to go and see the Flovlinden Tree for herself.

                  🗺️ (the Vyriy hotel at Dilove, Oocrane, on Roomhen border)

                  Ursula, the owner of a hotel on the outskirts of town, is experiencing a surge in business from the increased number of pilgrims visiting the linden tree. She plans to refurbish the hotel to charge more per night and plans to get a business loan from her nephew Boris, the bank manager. However, she must first evict the old residents of the hotel, which she is dreading. To avoid confrontation, she decides to send letters signed by a fake business manager.

                  Egbert Gofindlevsky, Olga Herringbonevsky and Obadiah Sproutwinklov are elderly residents of an old hotel turned nursing home who receive a letter informing them that they must leave. Egbert goes to see Obadiah about the letter, but finds a bad odor in his room and decides to see Olga instead.
                  Maryechka, Obadiah’s granddaughter, goes back home after getting medicine for her sick mother and finds her home empty. She decides to visit her grandfather and his friends at the old people’s home, since the schools are closed and she’s not interested in online activities.
                  Olga and Egbert have a conversation about their current situation and decide to leave the nursing home and visit Rosa, Olga’s distant relative. Maryechka encounters Egbert and Olga on the stairs and overhears them talking about leaving their friends behind. Olga realizes that it is important to hold onto their hearts and have faith in the kindness of strangers. They then go to see Obadiah, with Olga showing a burst of energy and Egbert with a weak smile.

                  Thus starts their escape and unfolding adventure on the roads of war-torn Oocrane.

                  Character Keyword Characteristics Sentiment
                  Egbert old man, sharp tone sad, fragile
                  Maryechka Obadiah’s granddaughter, shy innocent
                  Olga old woman, knobbly fingers conflicted, determined
                  Obadiah stubborn as a mule, old friend of Egbert unyielding, possibly deaf
                  #6396

                  In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                  Youssef woke up with a hangover. The guy from the restaurant had put fermented horse milk in his yak butter tea and he was already drunk before he could realize it. Apparently it had been a joke played on him by some of the team members he suspected didn’t quite like the humour of his real life shirt collection. Especially the one with the man shouting at his newspaper on his toilets.
                  As soon as he had gotten out of the yurt, before he could go have some breakfast, his boss, Miss Tartiflate, pounced on him because there was something wrong with THE BLOG. And Youssef was the one in charge of it. And it was important because people in the world were expecting her posts about the shooting everyday. Truth is, since they couldn’t find the last Mongolian shaman, who apparently called himself Lama Yoneze, and the views had dropped dramatically. Youssef suspected Miss Tartiflate was not as ignorante as she wanted him to believe and had broken the blog on purpose so that her own boss wouldn’t accuse her of being lazy.

                  “I have a reputation, you know!”

                  She had said that looking like he didn’t have one, and nobody cared anyway.

                  Youssef looked at the clock on his phone. They were supposed to meet with Zara, Xavier and Yasmine in thirty minutes. He had tried to sort out THE BLOG problem, but nothing seemed to work, and time was running out. Despite all being ok on the admin console, nothing was showing up on the page. He had called Gang Thi, the Nepalese company in charge of the blog, three times. Each time the receptionist hang up on him while attempting to put him on hold, or so she said. Now, nobody even bother to answer the damn phone.

                  Miss Tartiflate passed her head between the curtains of the yurt.

                  “Are you finished yet ?” she asked that as if he was on the throne.

                  “Nope!”

                  “What!? How? Do you have sausage fingers? My 5 years old daughter is more nimble than you with computers.”

                  “Well, you should have brought her with us then,” said Youssef with an irritated smile, fed up by her constant useless interruptions.

                  She grunted and closed the curtains angrily. Youssef growled like a bear, showing his bare teeth. Everybody knew why she jumped on the occasion for this trip: needed some fresh air from her nimble daughter and her husband.

                  An alert showed up on his phone : “You’ve got a message from 💣Gang Thi💣”. The bomb in the title looked suspicious, and his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten this morning. He clicked to open it.

                  The face of a mummy looking like Darth Vader and laughing like the Joker jumped on his screen. After a few seconds a message started to appear in a tongue he couldn’t decipher.

                  Youssef looked at the clock and almost threw his phone on the ground as the mummy started to laugh again.
                  He would definitely have to miss the meeting with his friends.

                  #6298

                  The Rootians invaded Oocrane when everybody was busy looking elsewhere. They entered through the Dumbass region under the pretense of freeing it from Lazies who had infiltrated administrations and media. They often cited a recent short movie from president Voldomeer Zumbaskee in which he appeared in purple leather panties adorned with diamonds, showing unashamedly his wooden leg. The same wooden leg that gave him the status of sexiest man of Oocrane and got him elected. In one of his famous discourses, he accused the Rootian president, Valdamir Potomsky of wanting to help himself to their crops of turnip and weed of which the world depended. And he told him if he expected Lazies he would be surprised by their resolution to defend their country.

                  By a simple game of chance that reality is so fond of, the man who made the president’s very wooden leg was also called Voldomeer Zumbasky. They might share a common ancestor, but many times in the past population records were destroyed and it was difficult to tell. That man lived in the small city of Duckailingtown in Dumbass, near the Rootian border. He was renowned to be a great carpenter and sculptor and before the war people would come from the neighbooring countries to buy his work.

                  During the invasion, crops and forests were burnt, buildings were destroyed and Dumbass Voldomeer lost one leg. There were no more trees or beams that hadn’t been turned to ashes, and he had only one block of wood left. Enough to make another wooden leg for himself. But he wondered: wasn’t there something more useful he could do with that block of wood ?

                  One morning of spring, one year after the war started. Food was scarce in Duckailingtown and Voldomeer’s belly growled as he walked past the nest of a couple of swans. He counted nine beautiful eggs that the parents were arranging with their beaks before lying on top to keep them warm. He found it so touching to see life in this place that he couldn’t bear the idea of simply stealing the eggs.

                  He went back home, a shelter made of bricks, his stomach aching from starvation. Looking at the block of wood on the floor, he got an idea. He spent the rest of the day and night to carve nine beautiful eggs so smooth that they appeared warm to the touch. He put so much care and love in his work that the swans would see no difference.

                  The next morning he went back to the nest with a leather bag, hopping heartily on his lone leg. The eggs were still there and by chance both the parents were missing. He didn’t care why. He took the eggs and replaced them with the wooden ones.

                  That day, he ate the best omelet with his friend Rooby, and as far as one could tell the swans were still brooding by the end of summer.

                  #6267
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    From Tanganyika with Love

                    continued part 8

                    With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                    Morogoro 20th January 1941

                    Dearest Family,

                    It is all arranged for us to go on three months leave to Cape Town next month so
                    get out your flags. How I shall love showing off Kate and John to you and this time
                    George will be with us and you’ll be able to get to know him properly. You can’t think
                    what a comfort it will be to leave all the worries of baggage and tipping to him. We will all
                    be travelling by ship to Durban and from there to Cape Town by train. I rather dread the
                    journey because there is a fifth little Rushby on the way and, as always, I am very
                    queasy.

                    Kate has become such a little companion to me that I dread the thought of leaving
                    her behind with you to start schooling. I miss Ann and George so much now and must
                    face separation from Kate as well. There does not seem to be any alternative though.
                    There is a boarding school in Arusha and another has recently been started in Mbeya,
                    but both places are so far away and I know she would be very unhappy as a boarder at
                    this stage. Living happily with you and attending a day school might wean her of her
                    dependance upon me. As soon as this wretched war ends we mean to get Ann and
                    George back home and Kate too and they can then all go to boarding school together.
                    If I were a more methodical person I would try to teach Kate myself, but being a
                    muddler I will have my hands full with Johnny and the new baby. Life passes pleasantly
                    but quietly here. Much of my time is taken up with entertaining the children and sewing
                    for them and just waiting for George to come home.

                    George works so hard on these safaris and this endless elephant hunting to
                    protect native crops entails so much foot safari, that he has lost a good deal of weight. it
                    is more than ten years since he had a holiday so he is greatly looking forward to this one.
                    Four whole months together!

                    I should like to keep the ayah, Janet, for the new baby, but she says she wants
                    to return to her home in the Southern Highlands Province and take a job there. She is
                    unusually efficient and so clean, and the houseboy and cook are quite scared of her. She
                    bawls at them if the children’s meals are served a few minutes late but she is always
                    respectful towards me and practically creeps around on tiptoe when George is home.
                    She has a room next to the outside kitchen. One night thieves broke into the kitchen and
                    stole a few things, also a canvas chair and mat from the verandah. Ayah heard them, and
                    grabbing a bit of firewood, she gave chase. Her shouts so alarmed the thieves that they
                    ran off up the hill jettisoning their loot as they ran. She is a great character.

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro 30th July 1941

                    Dearest Family,

                    Safely back in Morogoro after a rather grim voyage from Durban. Our ship was
                    completely blacked out at night and we had to sleep with warm clothing and life belts
                    handy and had so many tedious boat drills. It was a nuisance being held up for a whole
                    month in Durban, because I was so very pregnant when we did embark. In fact George
                    suggested that I had better hide in the ‘Ladies’ until the ship sailed for fear the Captain
                    might refuse to take me. It seems that the ship, on which we were originally booked to
                    travel, was torpedoed somewhere off the Cape.

                    We have been given a very large house this tour with a mosquito netted
                    sleeping porch which will be fine for the new baby. The only disadvantage is that the
                    house is on the very edge of the residential part of Morogoro and Johnny will have to
                    go quite a distance to find playmates.

                    I still miss Kate terribly. She is a loving little person. I had prepared for a scene
                    when we said good-bye but I never expected that she would be the comforter. It
                    nearly broke my heart when she put her arms around me and said, “I’m so sorry
                    Mummy, please don’t cry. I’ll be good. Please don’t cry.” I’m afraid it was all very
                    harrowing for you also. It is a great comfort to hear that she has settled down so happily.
                    I try not to think consciously of my absent children and remind myself that there are
                    thousands of mothers in the same boat, but they are always there at the back of my
                    mind.

                    Mother writes that Ann and George are perfectly happy and well, and that though
                    German bombers do fly over fairly frequently, they are unlikely to drop their bombs on
                    a small place like Jacksdale.

                    George has already left on safari to the Rufiji. There was no replacement for his
                    job while he was away so he is anxious to get things moving again. Johnny and I are
                    going to move in with friends until he returns, just in case all the travelling around brings
                    the new baby on earlier than expected.

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro 26th August 1941

                    Dearest Family,

                    Our new son, James Caleb. was born at 3.30 pm yesterday afternoon, with a
                    minimum of fuss, in the hospital here. The Doctor was out so my friend, Sister Murray,
                    delivered the baby. The Sister is a Scots girl, very efficient and calm and encouraging,
                    and an ideal person to have around at such a time.

                    Everything, this time, went without a hitch and I feel fine and proud of my
                    bouncing son. He weighs nine pounds and ten ounces and is a big boned fellow with
                    dark hair and unusually strongly marked eyebrows. His eyes are strong too and already
                    seem to focus. George is delighted with him and brought Hugh Nelson to see him this
                    morning. Hugh took one look, and, astonished I suppose by the baby’s apparent
                    awareness, said, “Gosh, this one has been here before.” The baby’s cot is beside my
                    bed so I can admire him as much as I please. He has large strong hands and George
                    reckons he’ll make a good boxer some day.

                    Another of my early visitors was Mabemba, George’s orderly. He is a very big
                    African and looks impressive in his Game Scouts uniform. George met him years ago at
                    Mahenge when he was a young elephant hunter and Mabemba was an Askari in the
                    Police. Mabemba takes quite a proprietary interest in the family.

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro 25th December 1941

                    Dearest Family,

                    Christmas Day today, but not a gay one. I have Johnny in bed with a poisoned
                    leg so he missed the children’s party at the Club. To make things a little festive I have
                    put up a little Christmas tree in the children’s room and have hung up streamers and
                    balloons above the beds. Johnny demands a lot of attention so it is fortunate that little
                    James is such a very good baby. He sleeps all night until 6 am when his feed is due.
                    One morning last week I got up as usual to feed him but I felt so dopey that I
                    thought I’d better have a cold wash first. I went into the bathroom and had a hurried
                    splash and then grabbed a towel to dry my face. Immediately I felt an agonising pain in
                    my nose. Reason? There was a scorpion in the towel! In no time at all my nose looked
                    like a pear and felt burning hot. The baby screamed with frustration whilst I feverishly
                    bathed my nose and applied this and that in an effort to cool it.

                    For three days my nose was very red and tender,”A real boozer nose”, said
                    George. But now, thank goodness, it is back to normal.

                    Some of the younger marrieds and a couple of bachelors came around,
                    complete with portable harmonium, to sing carols in the early hours. No sooner had we
                    settled down again to woo sleep when we were disturbed by shouts and screams from
                    our nearest neighbour’s house. “Just celebrating Christmas”, grunted George, but we
                    heard this morning that the neighbour had fallen down his verandah steps and broken his
                    leg.

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                    Dearest Family,

                    Well now we are eight! Our new son, Henry, was born on the night of the 28th.
                    He is a beautiful baby, weighing ten pounds three and a half ounces. This baby is very
                    well developed, handsome, and rather superior looking, and not at all amusing to look at
                    as the other boys were.George was born with a moustache, John had a large nose and
                    looked like a little old man, and Jim, bless his heart, looked rather like a baby
                    chimpanzee. Henry is different. One of my visitors said, “Heaven he’ll have to be a
                    Bishop!” I expect the lawn sleeves of his nightie really gave her that idea, but the baby
                    does look like ‘Someone’. He is very good and George, John, and Jim are delighted
                    with him, so is Mabemba.

                    We have a dear little nurse looking after us. She is very petite and childish
                    looking. When the baby was born and she brought him for me to see, the nurse asked
                    his name. I said jokingly, “His name is Benjamin – the last of the family.” She is now very
                    peeved to discover that his real name is Henry William and persists in calling him
                    ‘Benjie’.I am longing to get home and into my pleasant rut. I have been away for two
                    whole weeks and George is managing so well that I shall feel quite expendable if I don’t
                    get home soon. As our home is a couple of miles from the hospital, I arranged to move
                    in and stay with the nursing sister on the day the baby was due. There I remained for ten
                    whole days before the baby was born. Each afternoon George came and took me for a
                    ride in the bumpy Bedford lorry and the Doctor tried this and that but the baby refused
                    to be hurried.

                    On the tenth day I had the offer of a lift and decided to go home for tea and
                    surprise George. It was a surprise too, because George was entertaining a young
                    Game Ranger for tea and my arrival, looking like a perambulating big top, must have
                    been rather embarrassing.Henry was born at the exact moment that celebrations started
                    in the Township for the end of the Muslim religious festival of Ramadan. As the Doctor
                    held him up by his ankles, there was the sound of hooters and firecrackers from the town.
                    The baby has a birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon above his left eyebrow.

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro 26th January 1944

                    Dearest Family,

                    We have just heard that we are to be transferred to the Headquarters of the
                    Game Department at a place called Lyamungu in the Northern Province. George is not
                    at all pleased because he feels that the new job will entail a good deal of office work and
                    that his beloved but endless elephant hunting will be considerably curtailed. I am glad of
                    that and I am looking forward to seeing a new part of Tanganyika and particularly
                    Kilimanjaro which dominates Lyamungu.

                    Thank goodness our menagerie is now much smaller. We found a home for the
                    guinea pigs last December and Susie, our mischievous guinea-fowl, has flown off to find
                    a mate.Last week I went down to Dar es Salaam for a check up by Doctor John, a
                    woman doctor, leaving George to cope with the three boys. I was away two nights and
                    a day and returned early in the morning just as George was giving Henry his six o’clock
                    bottle. It always amazes me that so very masculine a man can do my chores with no
                    effort and I have a horrible suspicion that he does them better than I do. I enjoyed the
                    short break at the coast very much. I stayed with friends and we bathed in the warm sea
                    and saw a good film.

                    Now I suppose there will be a round of farewell parties. People in this country
                    are most kind and hospitable.

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                    Dearest Family,

                    We left Morogoro after the round of farewell parties I had anticipated. The final
                    one was at the Club on Saturday night. George made a most amusing speech and the
                    party was a very pleasant occasion though I was rather tired after all the packing.
                    Several friends gathered to wave us off on Monday morning. We had two lorries
                    loaded with our goods. I rode in the cab of the first one with Henry on my knee. George
                    with John and Jim rode in the second one. As there was no room for them in the cab,
                    they sat on our couch which was placed across the width of the lorry behind the cab. This
                    seat was not as comfortable as it sounds, because the space behind the couch was
                    taken up with packing cases which were not lashed in place and these kept moving
                    forward as the lorry bumped its way over the bad road.

                    Soon there was hardly any leg room and George had constantly to stand up and
                    push the second layer of packing cases back to prevent them from toppling over onto
                    the children and himself. As it is now the rainy season the road was very muddy and
                    treacherous and the lorries travelled so slowly it was dark by the time we reached
                    Karogwe from where we were booked to take the train next morning to Moshi.
                    Next morning we heard that there had been a washaway on the line and that the
                    train would be delayed for at least twelve hours. I was not feeling well and certainly did
                    not enjoy my day. Early in the afternoon Jimmy ran into a wall and blackened both his
                    eyes. What a child! As the day wore on I felt worse and worse and when at last the train
                    did arrive I simply crawled into my bunk whilst George coped nobly with the luggage
                    and the children.

                    We arrived at Moshi at breakfast time and went straight to the Lion Cub Hotel
                    where I took to my bed with a high temperature. It was, of course, malaria. I always have
                    my attacks at the most inopportune times. Fortunately George ran into some friends
                    called Eccles and the wife Mollie came to my room and bathed Henry and prepared his
                    bottle and fed him. George looked after John and Jim. Next day I felt much better and
                    we drove out to Lyamungu the day after. There we had tea with the Game Warden and
                    his wife before moving into our new home nearby.

                    The Game Warden is Captain Monty Moore VC. He came out to Africa
                    originally as an Officer in the King’s African Rifles and liked the country so much he left the
                    Army and joined the Game Department. He was stationed at Banagi in the Serengetti
                    Game Reserve and is well known for his work with the lions there. He particularly tamed
                    some of the lions by feeding them so that they would come out into the open and could
                    readily be photographed by tourists. His wife Audrey, has written a book about their
                    experiences at Banagi. It is called “Serengetti”

                    Our cook, Hamisi, soon had a meal ready for us and we all went to bed early.
                    This is a very pleasant house and I know we will be happy here. I still feel a little shaky
                    but that is the result of all the quinine I have taken. I expect I shall feel fine in a day or two.

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                    Dearest Family,

                    Well, here we are settled comfortably in our very nice house. The house is
                    modern and roomy, and there is a large enclosed verandah, which will be a Godsend in
                    the wet weather as a playroom for the children. The only drawback is that there are so
                    many windows to be curtained and cleaned. The grounds consist of a very large lawn
                    and a few beds of roses and shrubs. It is an ideal garden for children, unlike our steeply
                    terraced garden at Morogoro.

                    Lyamungu is really the Government Coffee Research Station. It is about sixteen
                    miles from the town of Moshi which is the centre of the Tanganyika coffee growing
                    industry. Lyamungu, which means ‘place of God’ is in the foothills of Mt Kilimanjaro and
                    we have a beautiful view of Kilimanjaro. Kibo, the more spectacular of the two mountain
                    peaks, towers above us, looking from this angle, like a giant frosted plum pudding. Often the mountain is veiled by cloud and mist which sometimes comes down to
                    our level so that visibility is practically nil. George dislikes both mist and mountain but I
                    like both and so does John. He in fact saw Kibo before I did. On our first day here, the
                    peak was completely hidden by cloud. In the late afternoon when the children were
                    playing on the lawn outside I was indoors hanging curtains. I heard John call out, “Oh
                    Mummy, isn’t it beautiful!” I ran outside and there, above a scarf of cloud, I saw the
                    showy dome of Kibo with the setting sun shining on it tingeing the snow pink. It was an
                    unforgettable experience.

                    As this is the rainy season, the surrounding country side is very lush and green.
                    Everywhere one sees the rich green of the coffee plantations and the lighter green of
                    the banana groves. Unfortunately our walks are rather circumscribed. Except for the main road to Moshi, there is nowhere to walk except through the Government coffee
                    plantation. Paddy, our dog, thinks life is pretty boring as there is no bush here and
                    nothing to hunt. There are only half a dozen European families here and half of those are
                    on very distant terms with the other half which makes the station a rather uncomfortable
                    one.

                    The coffee expert who runs this station is annoyed because his European staff
                    has been cut down owing to the war, and three of the vacant houses and some office
                    buildings have been taken over temporarily by the Game Department. Another house
                    has been taken over by the head of the Labour Department. However I don’t suppose
                    the ill feeling will effect us much. We are so used to living in the bush that we are not
                    socially inclined any way.

                    Our cook, Hamisi, came with us from Morogoro but I had to engage a new
                    houseboy and kitchenboy. I first engaged a houseboy who produced a wonderful ‘chit’
                    in which his previous employer describes him as his “friend and confidant”. I felt rather
                    dubious about engaging him and how right I was. On his second day with us I produced
                    some of Henry’s napkins, previously rinsed by me, and asked this boy to wash them.
                    He looked most offended and told me that it was beneath his dignity to do women’s
                    work. We parted immediately with mutual relief.

                    Now I have a good natured fellow named Japhet who, though hard on crockery,
                    is prepared to do anything and loves playing with the children. He is a local boy, a
                    member of the Chagga tribe. These Chagga are most intelligent and, on the whole, well
                    to do as they all have their own small coffee shambas. Japhet tells me that his son is at
                    the Uganda University College studying medicine.The kitchen boy is a tall youth called
                    Tovelo, who helps both Hamisi, the cook, and the houseboy and also keeps an eye on
                    Henry when I am sewing. I still make all the children’s clothes and my own. Life is
                    pleasant but dull. George promises that he will take the whole family on safari when
                    Henry is a little older.

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                    Dearest Family,

                    Life drifts quietly by at Lyamungu with each day much like the one before – or
                    they would be, except that the children provide the sort of excitement that prohibits
                    boredom. Of the three boys our Jim is the best at this. Last week Jim wandered into the
                    coffee plantation beside our house and chewed some newly spayed berries. Result?
                    A high temperature and nasty, bloody diarrhoea, so we had to rush him to the hospital at
                    Moshi for treatment. however he was well again next day and George went off on safari.
                    That night there was another crisis. As the nights are now very cold, at this high
                    altitude, we have a large fire lit in the living room and the boy leaves a pile of logs
                    beside the hearth so that I can replenish the fire when necessary. Well that night I took
                    Henry off to bed, leaving John and Jim playing in the living room. When their bedtime
                    came, I called them without leaving the bedroom. When I had tucked John and Jim into
                    bed, I sat reading a bedtime story as I always do. Suddenly I saw smoke drifting
                    through the door, and heard a frightening rumbling noise. Japhet rushed in to say that the
                    lounge chimney was on fire! Picture me, panic on the inside and sweet smile on the
                    outside, as I picked Henry up and said to the other two, “There’s nothing to be
                    frightened about chaps, but get up and come outside for a bit.” Stupid of me to be so
                    heroic because John and Jim were not at all scared but only too delighted at the chance
                    of rushing about outside in the dark. The fire to them was just a bit of extra fun.

                    We hurried out to find one boy already on the roof and the other passing up a
                    brimming bucket of water. Other boys appeared from nowhere and soon cascades of
                    water were pouring down the chimney. The result was a mountain of smouldering soot
                    on the hearth and a pool of black water on the living room floor. However the fire was out
                    and no serious harm done because all the floors here are cement and another stain on
                    the old rug will hardly be noticed. As the children reluctantly returned to bed John
                    remarked smugly, “I told Jim not to put all the wood on the fire at once but he wouldn’t
                    listen.” I might have guessed!

                    However it was not Jim but John who gave me the worst turn of all this week. As
                    a treat I decided to take the boys to the river for a picnic tea. The river is not far from our
                    house but we had never been there before so I took the kitchen boy, Tovelo, to show
                    us the way. The path is on the level until one is in sight of the river when the bank slopes
                    steeply down. I decided that it was too steep for the pram so I stopped to lift Henry out
                    and carry him. When I looked around I saw John running down the slope towards the
                    river. The stream is not wide but flows swiftly and I had no idea how deep it was. All I
                    knew was that it was a trout stream. I called for John, “Stop, wait for me!” but he ran on
                    and made for a rude pole bridge which spanned the river. He started to cross and then,
                    to my horror, I saw John slip. There was a splash and he disappeared under the water. I
                    just dumped the baby on the ground, screamed to the boy to mind him and ran madly
                    down the slope to the river. Suddenly I saw John’s tight fitting felt hat emerge, then his
                    eyes and nose. I dashed into the water and found, to my intense relief, that it only
                    reached up to my shoulders but, thank heaven no further. John’s steady eyes watched
                    me trustingly as I approached him and carried him safely to the bank. He had been
                    standing on a rock and had not panicked at all though he had to stand up very straight
                    and tall to keep his nose out of water. I was too proud of him to scold him for
                    disobedience and too wet anyway.

                    I made John undress and put on two spare pullovers and wrapped Henry’s
                    baby blanket round his waist like a sarong. We made a small fire over which I crouched
                    with literally chattering teeth whilst Tovelo ran home to fetch a coat for me and dry clothes
                    for John.

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                    Dearest Family,

                    We have a new bull terrier bitch pup whom we have named Fanny III . So once
                    more we have a menagerie , the two dogs, two cats Susie and Winnie, and
                    some pet hens who live in the garage and are a real nuisance.

                    As John is nearly six I thought it time that he started lessons and wrote off to Dar
                    es Salaam for the correspondence course. We have had one week of lessons and I am
                    already in a state of physical and mental exhaustion. John is a most reluctant scholar.
                    “Why should I learn to read, when you can read to me?” he asks, and “Anyway why
                    should I read such stupid stuff, ‘Run Rover Run’, and ‘Mother play with baby’ . Who
                    wants to read about things like that? I don’t.”

                    He rather likes sums, but the only subject about which he is enthusiastic is
                    prehistoric history. He laps up information about ‘The Tree Dwellers’, though he is very
                    sceptical about the existence of such people. “God couldn’t be so silly to make people
                    so stupid. Fancy living in trees when it is easy to make huts like the natives.” ‘The Tree
                    Dwellers is a highly imaginative story about a revolting female called Sharptooth and her
                    offspring called Bodo. I have a very clear mental image of Sharptooth, so it came as a
                    shock to me and highly amused George when John looked at me reflectively across the
                    tea table and said, “Mummy I expect Sharptooth looked like you. You have a sharp
                    tooth too!” I have, my eye teeth are rather sharp, but I hope the resemblance stops
                    there.

                    John has an uncomfortably logical mind for a small boy. The other day he was
                    lying on the lawn staring up at the clouds when he suddenly muttered “I don’t believe it.”
                    “Believe what?” I asked. “That Jesus is coming on a cloud one day. How can he? The
                    thick ones always stay high up. What’s he going to do, jump down with a parachute?”
                    Tovelo, my kitchen boy, announced one evening that his grandmother was in the
                    kitchen and wished to see me. She was a handsome and sensible Chagga woman who
                    brought sad news. Her little granddaughter had stumbled backwards into a large cooking
                    pot of almost boiling maize meal porridge and was ‘ngongwa sana’ (very ill). I grabbed
                    a large bottle of Picric Acid and a packet of gauze which we keep for these emergencies
                    and went with her, through coffee shambas and banana groves to her daughter’s house.
                    Inside the very neat thatched hut the mother sat with the naked child lying face
                    downwards on her knee. The child’s buttocks and the back of her legs were covered in
                    huge burst blisters from which a watery pus dripped. It appeared that the accident had
                    happened on the previous day.

                    I could see that it was absolutely necessary to clean up the damaged area, and I
                    suddenly remembered that there was a trained African hospital dresser on the station. I
                    sent the father to fetch him and whilst the dresser cleaned off the sloughed skin with
                    forceps and swabs saturated in Picric Acid, I cut the gauze into small squares which I
                    soaked in the lotion and laid on the cleaned area. I thought the small pieces would be
                    easier to change especially as the whole of the most tender parts, front and back, were
                    badly scalded. The child seemed dazed and neither the dresser nor I thought she would
                    live. I gave her half an aspirin and left three more half tablets to be given four hourly.
                    Next day she seemed much brighter. I poured more lotion on the gauze
                    disturbing as few pieces as possible and again the next day and the next. After a week
                    the skin was healing well and the child eating normally. I am sure she will be all right now.
                    The new skin is a brilliant red and very shiny but it is pale round the edges of the burnt
                    area and will I hope later turn brown. The mother never uttered a word of thanks, but the
                    granny is grateful and today brought the children a bunch of bananas.

                    Eleanor.

                    c/o Game Dept. P.O.Moshi. 29th September 1944

                    Dearest Mummy,

                    I am so glad that you so enjoyed my last letter with the description of our very
                    interesting and enjoyable safari through Masailand. You said you would like an even
                    fuller description of it to pass around amongst the relations, so, to please you, I have
                    written it out in detail and enclose the result.

                    We have spent a quiet week after our exertions and all are well here.

                    Very much love,
                    Eleanor.

                    Safari in Masailand

                    George and I were at tea with our three little boys on the front lawn of our house
                    in Lyamungu, Northern Tanganyika. It was John’s sixth birthday and he and Jim, a
                    happy sturdy three year old, and Henry, aged eleven months, were munching the
                    squares of plain chocolate which rounded off the party, when George said casually
                    across the table to me, “Could you be ready by the day after tomorrow to go on
                    safari?” “Me too?” enquired John anxiously, before I had time to reply, and “Me too?”
                    echoed Jim. “yes, of course I can”, said I to George and “of course you’re coming too”,
                    to the children who rate a day spent in the bush higher than any other pleasure.
                    So in the early morning two days later, we started out happily for Masailand in a
                    three ton Ford lorry loaded to capacity with the five Rushbys, the safari paraphernalia,
                    drums of petrol and quite a retinue of servants and Game Scouts. George travelling
                    alone on his monthly safaris, takes only the cook and a couple of Game Scouts, but this was to be a safari de luxe.

                    Henry and I shared the cab with George who was driving, whilst John and Jim
                    with the faithful orderly Mabemba beside them to point out the game animals, were
                    installed upon rolls of bedding in the body of the lorry. The lorry lumbered along, first
                    through coffee shambas, and then along the main road between Moshi and Arusha.
                    After half an hour or so, we turned South off the road into a track which crossed the
                    Sanya Plains and is the beginning of this part of Masailand. Though the dry season was
                    at its height, and the pasture dry and course, we were soon passing small groups of
                    game. This area is a Game Sanctuary and the antelope grazed quietly quite undisturbed
                    by the passing lorry. Here and there zebra stood bunched by the road, a few wild
                    ostriches stalked jerkily by, and in the distance some wildebeest cavorted around in their
                    crazy way.

                    Soon the grasslands gave way to thorn bush, and we saw six fantastically tall
                    giraffe standing motionless with their heads turned enquiringly towards us. George
                    stopped the lorry so the children could have a good view of them. John was enchanted
                    but Jim, alas, was asleep.

                    At mid day we reached the Kikoletwa River and turned aside to camp. Beside
                    the river, under huge leafy trees, there was a beautiful camping spot, but the river was
                    deep and reputed to be full of crocodiles so we passed it by and made our camp
                    some distance from the river under a tall thorn tree with a flat lacy canopy. All around the
                    camp lay uprooted trees of similar size that had been pushed over by elephants. As
                    soon as the lorry stopped a camp chair was set up for me and the Game Scouts quickly
                    slashed down grass and cleared the camp site of thorns. The same boys then pitched the tent whilst George himself set up the three camp beds and the folding cot for Henry,
                    and set up the safari table and the canvas wash bowl and bath.

                    The cook in the meantime had cleared a cool spot for the kitchen , opened up the
                    chop boxes and started a fire. The cook’s boy and the dhobi (laundry boy) brought
                    water from the rather muddy river and tea was served followed shortly afterward by an
                    excellent lunch. In a very short time the camp had a suprisingly homely look. Nappies
                    fluttered from a clothes line, Henry slept peacefully in his cot, John and Jim sprawled on
                    one bed looking at comics, and I dozed comfortably on another.

                    George, with the Game Scouts, drove off in the lorry about his work. As a Game
                    Ranger it is his business to be on a constant look out for poachers, both African and
                    European, and for disease in game which might infect the valuable herds of Masai cattle.
                    The lorry did not return until dusk by which time the children had bathed enthusiastically in
                    the canvas bath and were ready for supper and bed. George backed the lorry at right
                    angles to the tent, Henry’s cot and two camp beds were set up in the lorry, the tarpaulin
                    was lashed down and the children put to bed in their novel nursery.

                    When darkness fell a large fire was lit in front of the camp, the exited children at
                    last fell asleep and George and I sat on by the fire enjoying the cool and quiet night.
                    When the fire subsided into a bed of glowing coals, it was time for our bed. During the
                    night I was awakened by the sound of breaking branches and strange indescribable
                    noises.” Just elephant”, said George comfortably and instantly fell asleep once more. I
                    didn’t! We rose with the birds next morning, but breakfast was ready and in a
                    remarkably short time the lorry had been reloaded and we were once more on our way.
                    For about half a mile we made our own track across the plain and then we turned
                    into the earth road once more. Soon we had reached the river and were looking with
                    dismay at the suspension bridge which we had to cross. At the far side, one steel
                    hawser was missing and there the bridge tilted dangerously. There was no handrail but
                    only heavy wooden posts which marked the extremities of the bridge. WhenGeorge
                    measured the distance between the posts he found that there could be barely two
                    inches to spare on either side of the cumbersome lorry.

                    He decided to risk crossing, but the children and I and all the servants were told to
                    cross the bridge and go down the track out of sight. The Game Scouts remained on the
                    river bank on the far side of the bridge and stood ready for emergencies. As I walked
                    along anxiously listening, I was horrified to hear the lorry come to a stop on the bridge.
                    There was a loud creaking noise and I instantly visualised the lorry slowly toppling over
                    into the deep crocodile infested river. The engine restarted, the lorry crossed the bridge
                    and came slowly into sight around the bend. My heart slid back into its normal position.
                    George was as imperturbable as ever and simply remarked that it had been a near
                    thing and that we would return to Lyamungu by another route.

                    Beyond the green river belt the very rutted track ran through very uninteresting
                    thorn bush country. Henry was bored and tiresome, jumping up and down on my knee
                    and yelling furiously. “Teeth”, said I apologetically to George, rashly handing a match
                    box to Henry to keep him quiet. No use at all! With a fat finger he poked out the tray
                    spilling the matches all over me and the floor. Within seconds Henry had torn the
                    matchbox to pieces with his teeth and flung the battered remains through the window.
                    An empty cigarette box met with the same fate as the match box and the yells
                    continued unabated until Henry slept from sheer exhaustion. George gave me a smile,
                    half sympathetic and half sardonic, “Enjoying the safari, my love?” he enquired. On these
                    trying occasions George has the inestimable advantage of being able to go into a Yogilike
                    trance, whereas I become irritated to screaming point.

                    In an effort to prolong Henry’s slumber I braced my feet against the floor boards
                    and tried to turn myself into a human shock absorber as we lurched along the eroded
                    track. Several times my head made contact with the bolt of a rifle in the rack above, and
                    once I felt I had shattered my knee cap against the fire extinguisher in a bracket under the
                    dash board.

                    Strange as it may seem, I really was enjoying the trip in spite of these
                    discomforts. At last after three years I was once more on safari with George. This type of
                    country was new to me and there was so much to see We passed a family of giraffe
                    standing in complete immobility only a few yards from the track. Little dick-dick. one of the smallest of the antelope, scuttled in pairs across the road and that afternoon I had my first view of Gerenuk, curious red brown antelope with extremely elongated legs and giraffe-like necks.

                    Most interesting of all was my first sight of Masai at home. We could hear a tuneful
                    jangle of cattle bells and suddenly came across herds of humped cattle browsing upon
                    the thorn bushes. The herds were guarded by athletic,striking looking Masai youths and men.
                    Each had a calabash of water slung over his shoulder and a tall, highly polished spear in his
                    hand. These herdsmen were quite unselfconscious though they wore no clothing except for one carelessly draped blanket. Very few gave us any greeting but glanced indifferently at us from under fringes of clay-daubed plaited hair . The rest of their hair was drawn back behind the ears to display split earlobes stretched into slender loops by the weight of heavy brass or copper tribal ear rings.

                    Most of the villages were set well back in the bush out of sight of the road but we did pass one
                    typical village which looked most primitive indeed. It consisted simply of a few mound like mud huts which were entirely covered with a plaster of mud and cattle dung and the whole clutch of huts were surrounded by a ‘boma’ of thorn to keep the cattle in at night and the lions out. There was a gathering of women and children on the road at this point. The children of both sexes were naked and unadorned, but the women looked very fine indeed. This is not surprising for they have little to do but adorn themselves, unlike their counterparts of other tribes who have to work hard cultivating the fields. The Masai women, and others I saw on safari, were far more amiable and cheerful looking than the men and were well proportioned.

                    They wore skirts of dressed goat skin, knee length in front but ankle length behind. Their arms
                    from elbow to wrist, and legs from knee to ankle, were encased in tight coils of copper and
                    galvanised wire. All had their heads shaved and in some cases bound by a leather band
                    embroidered in red white and blue beads. Circular ear rings hung from slit earlobes and their
                    handsome throats were encircled by stiff wire necklaces strung with brightly coloured beads. These
                    necklaces were carefully graded in size and formed deep collars almost covering their breasts.
                    About a quarter of a mile further along the road we met eleven young braves in gala attire, obviously on their way to call on the girls. They formed a line across the road and danced up and down until the lorry was dangerously near when they parted and grinned cheerfully at us. These were the only cheerful
                    looking male Masai that I saw. Like the herdsmen these youths wore only a blanket, but their
                    blankets were ochre colour, and elegantly draped over their backs. Their naked bodies gleamed with oil. Several had painted white stripes on their faces, and two had whitewashed their faces entirely which I
                    thought a pity. All had their long hair elaborately dressed and some carried not only one,
                    but two gleaming spears.

                    By mid day George decided that we had driven far enough for that day. He
                    stopped the lorry and consulted a rather unreliable map. “Somewhere near here is a
                    place called Lolbeni,” he said. “The name means Sweet Water, I hear that the
                    government have piped spring water down from the mountain into a small dam at which
                    the Masai water their cattle.” Lolbeni sounded pleasant to me. Henry was dusty and
                    cross, the rubber sheet had long slipped from my lap to the floor and I was conscious of
                    a very damp lap. ‘Sweet Waters’ I felt, would put all that right. A few hundred yards
                    away a small herd of cattle was grazing, so George lit his pipe and relaxed at last, whilst
                    a Game Scout went off to find the herdsman. The scout soon returned with an ancient
                    and emaciated Masai who was thrilled at the prospect of his first ride in a lorry and
                    offered to direct us to Lolbeni which was off the main track and about four miles away.

                    Once Lolbeni had been a small administrative post and a good track had
                    led to it, but now the Post had been abandoned and the road is dotted with vigourous
                    thorn bushes and the branches of larger thorn trees encroach on the track The road had
                    deteriorated to a mere cattle track, deeply rutted and eroded by heavy rains over a
                    period of years. The great Ford truck, however, could take it. It lurched victoriously along,
                    mowing down the obstructions, tearing off branches from encroaching thorn trees with its
                    high railed sides, spanning gorges in the track, and climbing in and out of those too wide
                    to span. I felt an army tank could not have done better.

                    I had expected Lolbeni to be a green oasis in a desert of grey thorns, but I was
                    quickly disillusioned. To be sure the thorn trees were larger and more widely spaced and
                    provided welcome shade, but the ground under the trees had been trampled by thousands of cattle into a dreary expanse of dirty grey sand liberally dotted with cattle droppings and made still more uninviting by the bleached bones of dead beasts.

                    To the right of this waste rose a high green hill which gave the place its name and from which
                    the precious water was piped, but its slopes were too steep to provide a camping site.
                    Flies swarmed everywhere and I was most relieved when George said that we would
                    stay only long enough to fill our cans with water. Even the water was a disappointment!
                    The water in the small dam was low and covered by a revolting green scum, and though
                    the water in the feeding pipe was sweet, it trickled so feebly that it took simply ages to
                    fill a four gallon can.

                    However all these disappointments were soon forgotten for we drove away
                    from the flies and dirt and trampled sand and soon, with their quiet efficiency, George
                    and his men set up a comfortable camp. John and Jim immediately started digging
                    operations in the sandy soil whilst Henry and I rested. After tea George took his shot
                    gun and went off to shoot guinea fowl and partridges for the pot. The children and I went
                    walking, keeping well in site of camp, and soon we saw a very large flock of Vulturine
                    Guineafowl, running aimlessly about and looking as tame as barnyard fowls, but melting
                    away as soon as we moved in their direction.

                    We had our second quiet and lovely evening by the camp fire, followed by a
                    peaceful night.

                    We left Lolbeni very early next morning, which was a good thing, for as we left
                    camp the herds of thirsty cattle moved in from all directions. They were accompanied by
                    Masai herdsmen, their naked bodies and blankets now covered by volcanic dust which
                    was being stirred in rising clouds of stifling ash by the milling cattle, and also by grey
                    donkeys laden with panniers filled with corked calabashes for water.

                    Our next stop was Nabarera, a Masai cattle market and trading centre, where we
                    reluctantly stayed for two days in a pokey Goverment Resthouse because George had
                    a job to do in that area. The rest was good for Henry who promptly produced a tooth
                    and was consequently much better behaved for the rest of the trip. George was away in the bush most of the day but he returned for afternoon tea and later took the children out
                    walking. We had noticed curious white dumps about a quarter mile from the resthouse
                    and on the second afternoon we set out to investigate them. Behind the dumps we
                    found passages about six foot wide, cut through solid limestone. We explored two of
                    these and found that both passages led steeply down to circular wells about two and a
                    half feet in diameter.

                    At the very foot of each passage, beside each well, rough drinking troughs had
                    been cut in the stone. The herdsmen haul the water out of the well in home made hide
                    buckets, the troughs are filled and the cattle driven down the ramps to drink at the trough.
                    It was obvious that the wells were ancient and the sloping passages new. George tells
                    me that no one knows what ancient race dug the original wells. It seems incredible that
                    these deep and narrow shafts could have been sunk without machinery. I craned my
                    neck and looked above one well and could see an immensely long shaft reaching up to
                    ground level. Small footholds were cut in the solid rock as far as I could see.
                    It seems that the Masai are as ignorant as ourselves about the origin of these
                    wells. They do say however that when their forebears first occupied what is now known
                    as Masailand, they not only found the Wanderobo tribe in the area but also a light
                    skinned people and they think it possible that these light skinned people dug the wells.
                    These people disappeared. They may have been absorbed or, more likely, they were
                    liquidated.

                    The Masai had found the well impractical in their original form and had hired
                    labourers from neighbouring tribes to cut the passages to water level. Certainly the Masai are not responsible for the wells. They are a purely pastoral people and consider manual labour extremely degrading.

                    They live chiefly on milk from their herd which they allow to go sour, and mix with blood that has been skilfully tapped from the necks of living cattle. They do not eat game meat, nor do they cultivate any
                    land. They hunt with spears, but hunt only lions, to protect their herds, and to test the skill
                    and bravery of their young warriors. What little grain they do eat is transported into
                    Masailand by traders. The next stage of our journey took us to Ngassamet where
                    George was to pick up some elephant tusks. I had looked forward particularly to this
                    stretch of road for I had heard that there was a shallow lake at which game congregates,
                    and at which I had great hopes of seeing elephants. We had come too late in the
                    season though, the lake was dry and there were only piles of elephant droppings to
                    prove that elephant had recently been there in numbers. Ngassamet, though no beauty
                    spot, was interesting. We saw more elaborate editions of the wells already described, and as this area
                    is rich in cattle we saw the aristocrats of the Masai. You cannot conceive of a more arrogant looking male than a young Masai brave striding by on sandalled feet, unselfconscious in all his glory. All the young men wore the casually draped traditional ochre blanket and carried one or more spears. But here belts and long knife sheaths of scarlet leather seem to be the fashion. Here fringes do not seem to be the thing. Most of these young Masai had their hair drawn smoothly back and twisted in a pointed queue, the whole plastered with a smooth coating of red clay. Some tied their horn shaped queues over their heads
                    so that the tip formed a deep Satanic peak on the brow. All these young men wore the traditional
                    copper earrings and I saw one or two with copper bracelets and one with a necklace of brightly coloured
                    beads.

                    It so happened that, on the day of our visit to Ngassamet, there had been a
                    baraza (meeting) which was attended by all the local headmen and elders. These old
                    men came to pay their respects to George and a more shrewd and rascally looking
                    company I have never seen, George told me that some of these men own up to three
                    thousand head of cattle and more. The chief was as fat and Rabelasian as his second in
                    command was emaciated, bucktoothed and prim. The Chief shook hands with George
                    and greeted me and settled himself on the wall of the resthouse porch opposite
                    George. The lesser headmen, after politely greeting us, grouped themselves in a
                    semi circle below the steps with their ‘aides’ respectfully standing behind them. I
                    remained sitting in the only chair and watched the proceedings with interest and
                    amusement.

                    These old Masai, I noticed, cared nothing for adornment. They had proved
                    themselves as warriors in the past and were known to be wealthy and influential so did
                    not need to make any display. Most of them had their heads comfortably shaved and
                    wore only a drab blanket or goatskin cloak. Their only ornaments were earrings whose
                    effect was somewhat marred by the serviceable and homely large safety pin that
                    dangled from the lobe of one ear. All carried staves instead of spears and all, except for
                    Buckteeth and one blind old skeleton of a man, appeared to have a keenly developed
                    sense of humour.

                    “Mummy?” asked John in an urgent whisper, “Is that old blind man nearly dead?”
                    “Yes dear”, said I, “I expect he’ll soon die.” “What here?” breathed John in a tone of
                    keen anticipation and, until the meeting broke up and the old man left, he had John’s
                    undivided attention.

                    After local news and the game situation had been discussed, the talk turned to the
                    war. “When will the war end?” moaned the fat Chief. “We have made great gifts of cattle
                    to the War Funds, we are taxed out of existence.” George replied with the Ki-Swahili
                    equivalent of ‘Sez you!’. This sally was received with laughter and the old fellows rose to
                    go. They made their farewells and dignified exits, pausing on their way to stare at our
                    pink and white Henry, who sat undismayed in his push chair giving them stare for stare
                    from his striking grey eyes.

                    Towards evening some Masai, prompted no doubt by our native servants,
                    brought a sheep for sale. It was the last night of the fast of Ramadan and our
                    Mohammedan boys hoped to feast next day at our expense. Their faces fell when
                    George refused to buy the animal. “Why should I pay fifteen shillings for a sheep?” he
                    asked, “Am I not the Bwana Nyama and is not the bush full of my sheep?” (Bwana
                    Nyama is the native name for a Game Ranger, but means literally, ‘Master of the meat’)
                    George meant that he would shoot a buck for the men next day, but this incident was to
                    have a strange sequel. Ngassamet resthouse consists of one room so small we could
                    not put up all our camp beds and George and I slept on the cement floor which was
                    unkind to my curves. The night was bitterly cold and all night long hyaenas screeched
                    hideously outside. So we rose at dawn without reluctance and were on our way before it
                    was properly light.

                    George had decided that it would be foolhardy to return home by our outward
                    route as he did not care to risk another crossing of the suspension bridge. So we
                    returned to Nabarera and there turned onto a little used track which would eventually take
                    us to the Great North Road a few miles South of Arusha. There was not much game
                    about but I saw Oryx which I had not previously seen. Soon it grew intolerably hot and I
                    think all of us but George were dozing when he suddenly stopped the lorry and pointed
                    to the right. “Mpishi”, he called to the cook, “There’s your sheep!” True enough, on that
                    dreary thorn covered plain,with not another living thing in sight, stood a fat black sheep.

                    There was an incredulous babbling from the back of the lorry. Every native
                    jumped to the ground and in no time at all the wretched sheep was caught and
                    slaughtered. I felt sick. “Oh George”, I wailed, “The poor lost sheep! I shan’t eat a scrap
                    of it.” George said nothing but went and had a look at the sheep and called out to me,
                    “Come and look at it. It was kindness to kill the poor thing, the vultures have been at it
                    already and the hyaenas would have got it tonight.” I went reluctantly and saw one eye
                    horribly torn out, and small deep wounds on the sheep’s back where the beaks of the
                    vultures had cut through the heavy fleece. Poor thing! I went back to the lorry more
                    determined than ever not to eat mutton on that trip. The Scouts and servants had no
                    such scruples. The fine fat sheep had been sent by Allah for their feast day and that was
                    the end of it.

                    “ ‘Mpishi’ is more convinced than ever that I am a wizard”, said George in
                    amusement as he started the lorry. I knew what he meant. Several times before George
                    had foretold something which had later happened. Pure coincidence, but strange enough
                    to give rise to a legend that George had the power to arrange things. “What happened
                    of course”, explained George, “Is that a flock of Masai sheep was driven to market along
                    this track yesterday or the day before. This one strayed and was not missed.”

                    The day grew hotter and hotter and for long miles we looked out for a camping
                    spot but could find little shade and no trace of water anywhere. At last, in the early
                    afternoon we reached another pokey little rest house and asked for water. “There is no
                    water here,” said the native caretaker. “Early in the morning there is water in a well nearby
                    but we are allowed only one kerosene tin full and by ten o’clock the well is dry.” I looked
                    at George in dismay for we were all so tired and dusty. “Where do the Masai from the
                    village water their cattle then?” asked George. “About two miles away through the bush.
                    If you take me with you I shall show you”, replied the native.

                    So we turned off into the bush and followed a cattle track even more tortuous than
                    the one to Lolbeni. Two Scouts walked ahead to warn us of hazards and I stretched my
                    arm across the open window to fend off thorns. Henry screamed with fright and hunger.
                    But George’s efforts to reach water went unrewarded as we were brought to a stop by
                    a deep donga. The native from the resthouse was apologetic. He had mistaken the
                    path, perhaps if we turned back we might find it. George was beyond speech. We
                    lurched back the way we had come and made our camp under the first large tree we
                    could find. Then off went our camp boys on foot to return just before dark with the water.
                    However they were cheerful for there was an unlimited quantity of dry wood for their fires
                    and meat in plenty for their feast. Long after George and I left our campfire and had gone
                    to bed, we could see the cheerful fires of the boys and hear their chatter and laughter.
                    I woke in the small hours to hear the insane cackling of hyaenas gloating over a
                    find. Later I heard scuffling around the camp table, I peered over the tailboard of the lorry
                    and saw George come out of his tent. What are you doing?” I whispered. “Looking for
                    something to throw at those bloody hyaenas,” answered George for all the world as
                    though those big brutes were tomcats on the prowl. Though the hyaenas kept up their
                    concert all night the children never stirred, nor did any of them wake at night throughout
                    the safari.

                    Early next morning I walked across to the camp kitchen to enquire into the loud
                    lamentations coming from that quarter. “Oh Memsahib”, moaned the cook, “We could
                    not sleep last night for the bad hyaenas round our tents. They have taken every scrap of
                    meat we had left over from the feast., even the meat we had left to smoke over the fire.”
                    Jim, who of our three young sons is the cook’s favourite commiserated with him. He said
                    in Ki-Swahili, which he speaks with great fluency, “Truly those hyaenas are very bad
                    creatures. They also robbed us. They have taken my hat from the table and eaten the
                    new soap from the washbowl.

                    Our last day in the bush was a pleasantly lazy one. We drove through country
                    that grew more open and less dry as we approached Arusha. We pitched our camp
                    near a large dam, and the water was a blessed sight after a week of scorched country.
                    On the plains to the right of our camp was a vast herd of native cattle enjoying a brief
                    rest after their long day trek through Masailand. They were destined to walk many more
                    weary miles before reaching their destination, a meat canning factory in Kenya.
                    The ground to the left of the camp rose gently to form a long low hill and on the
                    grassy slopes we could see wild ostriches and herds of wildebeest, zebra and
                    antelope grazing amicably side by side. In the late afternoon I watched the groups of
                    zebra and wildebeest merge into one. Then with a wildebeest leading, they walked
                    down the slope in single file to drink at the vlei . When they were satisfied, a wildebeest
                    once more led the herd up the trail. The others followed in a long and orderly file, and
                    vanished over the hill to their evening pasture.

                    When they had gone, George took up his shotgun and invited John to
                    accompany him to the dam to shoot duck. This was the first time John had acted as
                    retriever but he did very well and proudly helped to carry a mixed bag of sand grouse
                    and duck back to camp.

                    Next morning we turned into the Great North Road and passed first through
                    carefully tended coffee shambas and then through the township of Arusha, nestling at
                    the foot of towering Mount Meru. Beyond Arusha we drove through the Usa River
                    settlement where again coffee shambas and European homesteads line the road, and
                    saw before us the magnificent spectacle of Kilimanjaro unveiled, its white snow cap
                    gleaming in the sunlight. Before mid day we were home. “Well was it worth it?” enquired
                    George at lunch. “Lovely,” I replied. ”Let’s go again soon.” Then thinking regretfully of
                    our absent children I sighed, “If only Ann, George, and Kate could have gone with us
                    too.”

                    Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                    Dearest Family.

                    Mummy wants to know how I fill in my time with George away on safari for weeks
                    on end. I do believe that you all picture me idling away my days, waited on hand and
                    foot by efficient servants! On the contrary, life is one rush and the days never long
                    enough.

                    To begin with, our servants are anything but efficient, apart from our cook, Hamisi
                    Issa, who really is competent. He suffers from frustration because our budget will not run
                    to elaborate dishes so there is little scope for his culinary art. There is one masterpiece
                    which is much appreciated by John and Jim. Hamisi makes a most realistic crocodile out
                    of pastry and stuffs its innards with minced meat. This revolting reptile is served on a
                    bed of parsley on my largest meat dish. The cook is a strict Mohammedan and
                    observes all the fasts and daily prayers and, like all Mohammedans he is very clean in
                    his person and, thank goodness, in the kitchen.

                    His wife is his pride and joy but not his helpmate. She does absolutely nothing
                    but sit in a chair in the sun all day, sipping tea and smoking cigarettes – a more
                    expensive brand than mine! It is Hamisi who sweeps out their quarters, cooks
                    delectable curries for her, and spends more than he can afford on clothing and trinkets for
                    his wife. She just sits there with her ‘Mona Lisa’ smile and her painted finger and toe
                    nails, doing absolutely nothing.

                    The thing is that natives despise women who do work and this applies especially
                    to their white employers. House servants much prefer a Memsahib who leaves
                    everything to them and is careless about locking up her pantry. When we first came to
                    Lyamungu I had great difficulty in employing a houseboy. A couple of rather efficient
                    ones did approach me but when they heard the wages I was prepared to pay and that
                    there was no number 2 boy, they simply were not interested. Eventually I took on a
                    local boy called Japhet who suits me very well except that his sight is not good and he
                    is extremely hard on the crockery. He tells me that he has lost face by working here
                    because his friends say that he works for a family that is too mean to employ a second
                    boy. I explained that with our large family we simply cannot afford to pay more, but this
                    didn’t register at all. Japhet says “But Wazungu (Europeans) all have money. They just
                    have to get it from the Bank.”

                    The third member of our staff is a strapping youth named Tovelo who helps both
                    cook and boy, and consequently works harder than either. What do I do? I chivvy the
                    servants, look after the children, supervise John’s lessons, and make all my clothing and
                    the children’s on that blessed old hand sewing machine.

                    The folk on this station entertain a good deal but we usually decline invitations
                    because we simply cannot afford to reciprocate. However, last Saturday night I invited
                    two couples to drinks and dinner. This was such an unusual event that the servants and I
                    were thrown into a flurry. In the end the dinner went off well though it ended in disaster. In
                    spite of my entreaties and exhortations to Japhet not to pile everything onto the tray at
                    once when clearing the table, he did just that. We were starting our desert and I was
                    congratulating myself that all had gone well when there was a frightful crash of breaking
                    china on the back verandah. I excused myself and got up to investigate. A large meat
                    dish, six dinner plates and four vegetable dishes lay shattered on the cement floor! I
                    controlled my tongue but what my eyes said to Japhet is another matter. What he said
                    was, “It is not my fault Memsahib. The handle of the tray came off.”

                    It is a curious thing about native servants that they never accept responsibility for
                    a mishap. If they cannot pin their misdeeds onto one of their fellow servants then the responsibility rests with God. ‘Shauri ya Mungu’, (an act of God) is a familiar cry. Fatalists
                    can be very exasperating employees.

                    The loss of my dinner service is a real tragedy because, being war time, one can
                    buy only china of the poorest quality made for the native trade. Nor was that the final
                    disaster of the evening. When we moved to the lounge for coffee I noticed that the
                    coffee had been served in the battered old safari coffee pot instead of the charming little
                    antique coffee pot which my Mother-in-law had sent for our tenth wedding anniversary.
                    As there had already been a disturbance I made no comment but resolved to give the
                    cook a piece of my mind in the morning. My instructions to the cook had been to warm
                    the coffee pot with hot water immediately before serving. On no account was he to put
                    the pewter pot on the hot iron stove. He did and the result was a small hole in the base
                    of the pot – or so he says. When I saw the pot next morning there was a two inch hole in
                    it.

                    Hamisi explained placidly how this had come about. He said he knew I would be
                    mad when I saw the little hole so he thought he would have it mended and I might not
                    notice it. Early in the morning he had taken the pewter pot to the mechanic who looks
                    after the Game Department vehicles and had asked him to repair it. The bright individual
                    got busy with the soldering iron with the most devastating result. “It’s his fault,” said
                    Hamisi, “He is a mechanic, he should have known what would happen.”
                    One thing is certain, there will be no more dinner parties in this house until the war
                    is ended.

                    The children are well and so am I, and so was George when he left on his safari
                    last Monday.

                    Much love,
                    Eleanor.

                     

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