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  • #7874

    A Quick Vacay on Mars

    “The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”

    From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.

    Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).

    Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.

    “That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”

    Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”

    Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”

    Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.

    Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”

    Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”

    The Truce on Earth

    Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”

    They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”

    Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly  mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”

    Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

    The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.

    Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?

    Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

    On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.

    She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”

    Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”

    “Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.

    “Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”

    Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”

    Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.

    “Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”

    Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

    In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”

    Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”

    Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.

    “Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”

    A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.

    Evie & Riven’s Big News

    On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.

    One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”

    Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”

    Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”

    The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”

    They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.

    #7224
    Jib
    Participant

      Georges was following an orange line on the floor of Jorid’s corridor with Barney on his left shoulder. The man was talking to the creature and listening to the occasional chirps Barney made as if they were part of a normal conversation.

      “You see, Barney,” said Georges. “Salomé gave us this checklist.” He tapped on the clipboard with his index finger. “I have to conduct all those experiments with you in the lab while she’s doing whatever she’s doing with the maps. Salomé loves maps, I can tell you. Always trying to invent new ones that would help us navigate all those dimensions. But they confuse me, so I’m glad to leave that to her and Jorid.”

      The two of them stopped in front of an orange door with a tag on it.

      “So you’ll ask me: ‘Georges, why are we going to the kitchen instead of going into the lab?’ —which is the blue door.”

      Georges waited for Barney’s chirp before continuing.

      “You’re right! She forgot the most important. What do you like to eat? You can’t do that in a lab with instruments stuck onto your head and tummy. It’s best done in the warm and cozy atmosphere of a kitchen.”

      The door swooshed open and they entered a bland, sanitised kitchen.

      “Jorid, morph the kitchen into a 19th century style pub, with greasy smells and a cozy atmosphere.”

      “Shouldn’t you be into the lab?” asked Jorid.

      “Let’s call it a kitchen lab,” answered Georges. “So you can tell Salomé I’m in the lab if she asks you.”

      “Most certainly.”

      The bland rooms started wobbling and becoming darker. Gas wall lamps were coming out of the walls, and a Chandeliers bloomed from the ceiling. The kitchen island turned into a mahogany pub counter behind which the cupboards turned into glass shelves with a collection of colourful liquor bottles. Right beside the beer pumps was the cornucopia, the source of all things edible, the replicator. It was simple and looked like a silver tray.

      “That’s more like it,” said Georges. He put Barney on the counter and the creature chirped contentedly to show his agreement.

      “Now, You don’t look like the kind of guy who eat salad”, said Georges. “What do you want to try?”

      Barney shook his head and launched into a series of chirps and squeals.

      “I know! Let’s try something you certainly can’t find where you come from… outer space. Jorid, make us some good pickles in a jar.”

      The replicator made a buzzing sound and a big jar full of pickles materialised on the silver tray. Barney chirped in awe and Georges frowned.

      “Why did you make a Roman jar?” he asked. “We’re in a 19th century pub. And the pickles are so huge! Aubergine size.”

      “My apologies,” said Jorid. “I’m confused. As you know, my database is a bit scrambled at the moment…”

      “It’s ok,” said Georges who feared the ship would launch into some unsolicited confidences and self deprecating moment. “A pickle is a pickle anyway.” He picked a pickle in the jar and turned towards Barney with a big grin. “Let’s try some.”

      Barney’s eyes widened. He put his hands in front of him and shook his head. The door swooshed open.

      “What have you done with the kitchen?” asked Léonard. “And what are you trying to feed this rat with?”

      “This rat has a name. It’s Barney. What are you doing here?” asked Georges.

      “Well, Isn’t it a kitchen? I’m hungry.”

      “I mean, shouldn’t you go check your vitals first in med bay?”

      “When you feel hungry, it’s enough to tell a man he’s alive and well,” said Léonard. “Nice roman jar, Jorid. Depicting naked roman fighters, archaeological finding of 2nd century BC, good state of conservation.” He looked closer. “Intricate details between the legs… You surpassed yourself on that one Jorid.”

      “Thanks for the compliment Léonard. It’s reassuring to know I’m still doing great at some things when others think I’m losing it.”

      “I never said…” started Georges.

      “You thought it.”

      Léonard took a pickle from the jar and smelled it. He winced.

      “Sure, smells like pickles enough,” he said, putting it back in the jar and licking his finger. “Disgusting.” He looked at Georges. “I was thinking of taking a shuttle and doing a little tour, while you solve the navigational array problem with Salomé.”

      “Why are you asking me? Why don’t you just take a shuttle and go there by yourself?”

      “Jorid won’t let me take one.”

      “Jorid? Why don’t you let Léonard take a shuttle?”

      “Salomé said he’s not to be left out of the ship without supervision.”

      “Oh! Right,” said Georges. “We just rescued you from a sand prison egg where you’ve been kept in stasis for several weeks and you can’t remember anything that led you there. Why don’t we let you pilot a shuttle and wander about on your own?”

      Léonard looked at Georges, annoyed. He picked a pickle from the jar and took a bite. Barney squealed. As Léonard chewed and made crunching sounds, the creature hit its head with its paw.

      “Then why don’t you come with me?” asked Léonard.

      “I can’t believe it.”

      “What? You go with me. You can supervise me wherever I go. Problem solved.”

      “No. I mean. You eating one of Barney’s pickles.”

      Léonard took another bite and chewed noisily. Barney chirped and squealed. He put his hands to its throat and spat on the counter.

      “I’m sure he won’t mind. Look at him. Doesn’t seem it likes pickles that much.”

      You hate pickles, Léonard.”

      “I know. That’s disgusting.”

      “Why do you eat them if you find it disgusting?”

      “That’s the sound of it. It’s melodious. And for some reason those pickles are particularly good.”

      Barney jumped on Georges arm and ran to his neck where he planted his little claws in.

      “Ouch!” said Georges. He slapped Léonard’s hand before the man could take one more pickle bite. “What the f*ck?”

      “Hey! Why did you do that?”

      “It’s not me,” said Georges. Barney squealed and Georges’s hands pushed the jar on the floor. It crashed and a flood of pickle and vinegar juice spread on the floor.

      “Haven’t your mother told you not to play with food?” asked Léonard diving on the floor to catch some more pickles. Barney chirped and squealed while Georges’s body jumped on Léonard and they both rolled over in the pickles.

      The door swooshed open.

      “Guys, we need to…” started Salomé. She had a set of maps in her hands. “What’s that smell? What… did you do to the kitchen? ”

      “Georges made me do it,” said Jorid.

      “Georges broke a 2nd century BC jar,” said Léonard.

      “Barney’s controlling me,” said Georges.

      The creature shrugged and removed its claws from Georges’ neck.

      “Squeak!”

      “Ouch! Thank you,” said Georges, licking the pickle juice he got on his lips during the fight.

      “I can’t believe it. Georges, you had a checklist. And it did not include the words kitchen or pickles or making a mess. And Léonard, you hate pickles.”

      “I know,” said Léonard who took a bite in the pickle he was holding. “That’s disgusting, but I can’t help it they taste so good.”

      Georges stole the pickle from Léonard’s hand and took a bite.

      “Pick your own pickle,” said Léonard, stealing it back.

      “Stop guys! That smell… Jorid what did you put in those pickles?”

      “I took the liberty to change the recipe and added some cinnamon.”

      “It doesn’t smell like cinnamon,” said Georges smelling his hands full of pickle juice. He took a bite in one and said: “Doesn’t taste like cinnamon either. I would know. I hate cinnamon since the time I was turned into an Asari.”

      “That’s it,” said Salomé. “What kind of cinnamon did you put in the brew, Jorid?”

      “I’ve heard it’s best to use local ingredients. I put cinnamon from Langurdy,” said the ship.

      “Quick! Guys, spit it out,” she said, kneeling and putting her fingers into Georges’ throat to make him puke. “Jorid, make away with the pickles,” said Salomé.

      “Nooo,” said the men.

      “Cinnamon from Langurdy is very addictive,” Salomé snapped. “You don’t want to OD on pickles, do you?”

      After they got the mess cleaned up and the kitchen went back to its normal blank state. Georges and Léonard took some pills to counter the effects of withdrawal. Salomé had them sit at the kitchen table. Georges kept blinking as if the white light on the white walls were hurting his eyes.

      “You can thank Barney if you didn’t eat more pickles,” said Salomé. “You could have had a relapse, and you know how bad it was the first time you had to flush cinnamon from your body.”

      Georges groaned.

      “Anyway. I checked the maps with Jorid and I came upon an anomaly in the Southern Deserts. Something there is causing Jorid’s confusion. We’ll have to go down there if we ever want to leave this place and time.”

      #6613

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

      Despite the old man’s endless flow of words, Youssef couldn’t get him to explain what he meant about the abandoned mine and why the town’s people didn’t like people sneaking around and asking questions.

      Not wanting to waste more time, Youssef walked to the brick building where the twins had disappeared. It was crammed between the telegraph station and a grocery store. The door had been walled with red bricks. They were covered in faded graffitis and layers of torn-up posters. It seemed obvious the wall had been there for quite some time already.

      The old man was sticking to Youssef like glue, talking about that time when his now dead brother took in an old cat he called Phineas. Youssef tried to growl him away, but the man always came back, persistent as a cloud of mosquitoes over the promise of a blood feast.

      Youssef tried not to pay attention to him. What did AL said about that quest ? Go ask questions around to town’s people about odd things happening ? Well there were plenty of those things happening. Maybe the clerk at the telegraph station would know something, especially how to get rid of that old man.

      Youssef pushed the door and entered the telegraph station, leaving the old man outside. The interior was lit with a collection of old style tungsten lamps hanging in a random pattern from the ceiling. 

      The clerk was busy sorting out a pile of telegrams. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. He lifted his head up. The noise stopped and Youssef realised the young man had mechanical hands.

      “Welcome, welcome, welcome! What can I do for you today, my friend?” asked the clerk.

      “I just wanted to…” started Youssef.

      “Wait! Don’t tell me. I’m a bit of a psychic myself and I already know what you’re here for.”

      “Really?”

      The man foraged through his pile of telegram with his mechanical hands and picked one. He looked at it for a few seconds.

      “My friend, you’re in luck today!” he said, looking intently at Youssef. “I just received this telegram that I think might interest you. Here, take a look!”

      Youssef took the paper and started to read aloud : “Words spoken by the talkative will unlock the path. Seek those who chatter and unravel the clue. What the…?” 

      “Interesting, isn’t it? That’s a real head-scratcher, if you ask me!”

      The door bell rang and the old man entered, holding his sore ribs. 

      “Get out, Phineas. You’re not welcome here.” said the clerk with a frown.

      The old man looked at the clerk with an air of confusion before turning to Youssef. “What did he say? Who’s Phineas?” he asked.

      Ignoring the question, Youssef tried to steer the conversation back to the telegram. “What does this mean?” he asked the clerk.

      The clerk stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “Hmm, well, it seems to me that you have a certain magnetism for talkative people. Perhaps that’s the key to unlocking this riddle.”

      Youssef’s eyes widened in surprise. “What do you mean, magnetism?”

      The old man interjected, “For sure! You’re like a magnet, my boy. I can’t seem to stop talking when I’m around you.”

      Youssef rolled his eyes. “So, what do I do? Just wander around town and wait for someone to start talking?”

      The clerk nodded. “That could be a good start. But if you’re looking for something specific, you might want to try Betsy when you wake up. She’s got a boutique of Gems and Rocks. You seem to like them rocks,” he said pointing at the black obsidian. “Found it in a mine?”

      The old man’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the old mine! I’ve been there before, you know. My brother used to work there before he died. Strange things happening there.”

      Youssef’s interest was piqued. “What kind of strange things?”

      The old man leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s a magnetar hidden in that mine, my boy.”

      “Shut up! Phineas,” interrupted the clerk. “If you want my advice, stranger, don’t go near the old mine. ‘Curiosity killed the cat’ if you know what I mean.”

      The telegraph receiver started to make clicketing sounds. The clerk read it and looked at Youssef.

      “You’ve got a message man. Time to wake up.”

      “Wake up?”

      :fleuron2:

      Youssef opened his eyes and looked at a black mass in front of his eyes. He had been sleeping with the stone just beside his head on the pillow. No wonder he had had weird dreams. He heard his phone buzz. He sat up reluctantly and looked at his phone. 8am. A notification that his game progression had been saved and several messages from Miss Tartiflate, the last one saying :

      Don’t think you can dodge work. I’m still expecting the last blog post you’ve been paid to write!!!”

      He groaned as reality was starting to catch up.

      #6538
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        “That’s all Jorid had to say?” Georges mused at the sudden philosophical quote that read:

        And doesn’t this point to something fundamentally tragic about our way of life? We live under an assumed identity, in a neurotic fairy tale world with no more reality than the Mock Turtle in Alice in Wonderland. Hypnotized by the thrill of building, we have raised the houses of our lives on sand. This world can seem marvelously convincing until death collapses the illusion and evicts us from our hiding place. What will happen to us then if we have no clue of any deeper reality? (The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying)

        “I don’t know about this Mock Turtle, but those snapping sand ones that have been lurking about do look rather nasty. We shouldn’t waste any more time.”

        Klatu opined “Klatu agrees with your female, sand turtle are lovely traps of death. Come with me now!” He intimated them to run into a sand opening he’d just made.

        “Let me guess,” Georges said, “is it the equivalent of a Zathu prison? What powerful people could Léonard possibly have rubbed the wrong way this time?”

        “Not prison.” Klatu commented “Death sentence.”

        Salomé pointed out a glowing twirl of sand shaped as an ovoid form, inside which a human form could be discerned. “That would explain why he’s not more guarded…”

        They approached carefully, expecting some extra booby trap, but nothing seemed to react to their presence, not even the moving sand egg.

        “Let me guess,” Georges said, expecting a chorus

        “DIMENSIONAL MAGIC!”

        Klatu shushed them “Quiet stupids! Sound waves attract good turtles.”

        “Is our friend OK? How do we break the spell?” Salomé asked Klatu. “Can you help?”

        Klatu took a few minutes to inspect the shape, hopping carefully around it, and probing with soft whistling sounds.

        “Friend in stasis for now. Kept fresh for questioning… possible.”

        “Then we must hurry, how can we free him? Can I brute force this?” Georges asked, looking around for something to pierce the sand barrier and hook Léonard out of it.

        “Only if you like sushi friend.” Klatu said, raising shoulders. “No finesse these primates.”

        Klatu moved around the shape, taking some tools from his belt and making some elaborate plaits of sounds, as if trying to match the energy signature of the sand prison.

        After a first belt of soundwaves was wrapped around, it seemed as though a first layer of the spell broke, and sand rained back into the external construct they were it. But a thin layer was still there, shifting and pulsating, almost clear as glass, and sharp as a razor blade.

        “Crude encoding, but solid. Need more time.” Klatu seemed exhausted.

        Georges was getting anxious for some activity. “Houses built on sand… Well I guess Jorid didn’t find the best quote to help…”

        Salomé who was sitting cross-legged, trying for some time to connect to Léonard in his stasis, turned to Georges in disbelief. “Georges, you’re a genius!”

        “What now?”

        “Jorid gave us the last bit we needed.  Until death collapses the illusion and evicts us from our hiding place. Remember? It’s risky but that could work!”

        “Oh, I see what you’re thinking about. It’s mad, and it’s brilliant at the same time, how do we go about this?”

        “I can’t reach Léonard, but maybe the both of us can.” Salomé joined hands with Georges.

        “If he’s like anything I remember, he’d be in his mental palace, his workshop on the Duane… or in Marseille… or with Madame Jamelie…”

        “Focus, Georges!”

        “Duane it is, that’s where he did his best work.”

        “We need to focus our energy to make him appear dead to the construct. It’ll be easier if we can locate precisely where his mind wanders.” Salomé said.

        “He’ll be there, I know it. Let’s do this!”

        The two of them joined hands and melded their minds, one as always, turning into a dark mirror of the abyss, bending light unto itself, leaving the void of creation at the place where Léonard was suspended.

        Klatu looked at the scene suspiciously, but started to giggle as he saw the last layer he couldn’t open finally shatter and dissolve to the ground.

        “Little apes full of surprises,… very awful, so very awful.” he said approvingly.

        As his friends rushed to him, Léonard was on the ground, inert, but apparently alive.

        #6333
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          The Grattidge Family

           

          The first Grattidge to appear in our tree was Emma Grattidge (1853-1911) who married Charles Tomlinson (1847-1907) in 1872.

          Charles Tomlinson (1873-1929) was their son and he married my great grandmother Nellie Fisher. Their daughter Margaret (later Peggy Edwards) was my grandmother on my fathers side.

          Emma Grattidge was born in Wolverhampton, the daughter and youngest child of William Grattidge (1820-1887) born in Foston, Derbyshire, and Mary Stubbs, born in Burton on Trent, daughter of Solomon Stubbs, a land carrier. William and Mary married at St Modwens church, Burton on Trent, in 1839. It’s unclear why they moved to Wolverhampton. On the 1841 census William was employed as an agent, and their first son William was nine months old. Thereafter, William was a licensed victuallar or innkeeper.

          William Grattidge was born in Foston, Derbyshire in 1820. His parents were Thomas Grattidge, farmer (1779-1843) and Ann Gerrard (1789-1822) from Ellastone. Thomas and Ann married in 1813 in Ellastone. They had five children before Ann died at the age of 25:

          Bessy was born in 1815, Thomas in 1818, William in 1820, and Daniel Augustus and Frederick were twins born in 1822. They were all born in Foston. (records say Foston, Foston and Scropton, or Scropton)

          On the 1841 census Thomas had nine people additional to family living at the farm in Foston, presumably agricultural labourers and help.

          After Ann died, Thomas had three children with Kezia Gibbs (30 years his junior) before marrying her in 1836, then had a further four with her before dying in 1843. Then Kezia married Thomas’s nephew Frederick Augustus Grattidge (born in 1816 in Stafford) in London in 1847 and had two more!

           

          The siblings of William Grattidge (my 3x great grandfather):

           

          Frederick Grattidge (1822-1872) was a schoolmaster and never married. He died at the age of 49 in Tamworth at his twin brother Daniels address.

          Daniel Augustus Grattidge (1822-1903) was a grocer at Gungate in Tamworth.

          Thomas Grattidge (1818-1871) married in Derby, and then emigrated to Illinois, USA.

          Bessy Grattidge  (1815-1840) married John Buxton, farmer, in Ellastone in January 1838. They had three children before Bessy died in December 1840 at the age of 25: Henry in 1838, John in 1839, and Bessy Buxton in 1840. Bessy was baptised in January 1841. Presumably the birth of Bessy caused the death of Bessy the mother.

          Bessy Buxton’s gravestone:

          “Sacred to the memory of Bessy Buxton, the affectionate wife of John Buxton of Stanton She departed this life December 20th 1840, aged 25 years. “Husband, Farewell my life is Past, I loved you while life did last. Think on my children for my sake, And ever of them with I take.”

          20 Dec 1840, Ellastone, Staffordshire

          Bessy Buxton

           

          In the 1843 will of Thomas Grattidge, farmer of Foston, he leaves fifth shares of his estate, including freehold real estate at Findern,  to his wife Kezia, and sons William, Daniel, Frederick and Thomas. He mentions that the children of his late daughter Bessy, wife of John Buxton, will be taken care of by their father.  He leaves the farm to Keziah in confidence that she will maintain, support and educate his children with her.

          An excerpt from the will:

          I give and bequeath unto my dear wife Keziah Grattidge all my household goods and furniture, wearing apparel and plate and plated articles, linen, books, china, glass, and other household effects whatsoever, and also all my implements of husbandry, horses, cattle, hay, corn, crops and live and dead stock whatsoever, and also all the ready money that may be about my person or in my dwelling house at the time of my decease, …I also give my said wife the tenant right and possession of the farm in my occupation….

          A page from the 1843 will of Thomas Grattidge:

          1843 Thomas Grattidge

           

          William Grattidges half siblings (the offspring of Thomas Grattidge and Kezia Gibbs):

           

          Albert Grattidge (1842-1914) was a railway engine driver in Derby. In 1884 he was driving the train when an unfortunate accident occured outside Ambergate. Three children were blackberrying and crossed the rails in front of the train, and one little girl died.

          Albert Grattidge:

          Albert Grattidge

           

          George Grattidge (1826-1876) was baptised Gibbs as this was before Thomas married Kezia. He was a police inspector in Derby.

          George Grattidge:

          George Grattidge

           

          Edwin Grattidge (1837-1852) died at just 15 years old.

          Ann Grattidge (1835-) married Charles Fletcher, stone mason, and lived in Derby.

          Louisa Victoria Grattidge (1840-1869) was sadly another Grattidge woman who died young. Louisa married Emmanuel Brunt Cheesborough in 1860 in Derby. In 1861 Louisa and Emmanuel were living with her mother Kezia in Derby, with their two children Frederick and Ann Louisa. Emmanuel’s occupation was sawyer. (Kezia Gibbs second husband Frederick Augustus Grattidge was a timber merchant in Derby)

          At the time of her death in 1869, Emmanuel was the landlord of the White Hart public house at Bridgegate in Derby.

          The Derby Mercury of 17th November 1869:

          “On Wednesday morning Mr Coroner Vallack held an inquest in the Grand
          Jury-room, Town-hall, on the body of Louisa Victoria Cheeseborough, aged
          33, the wife of the landlord of the White Hart, Bridge-gate, who committed
          suicide by poisoning at an early hour on Sunday morning. The following
          evidence was taken:

          Mr Frederick Borough, surgeon, practising in Derby, deposed that he was
          called in to see the deceased about four o’clock on Sunday morning last. He
          accordingly examined the deceased and found the body quite warm, but dead.
          He afterwards made enquiries of the husband, who said that he was afraid
          that his wife had taken poison, also giving him at the same time the
          remains of some blue material in a cup. The aunt of the deceased’s husband
          told him that she had seen Mrs Cheeseborough put down a cup in the
          club-room, as though she had just taken it from her mouth. The witness took
          the liquid home with him, and informed them that an inquest would
          necessarily have to be held on Monday. He had made a post mortem
          examination of the body, and found that in the stomach there was a great
          deal of congestion. There were remains of food in the stomach and, having
          put the contents into a bottle, he took the stomach away. He also examined
          the heart and found it very pale and flabby. All the other organs were
          comparatively healthy; the liver was friable.

          Hannah Stone, aunt of the deceased’s husband, said she acted as a servant
          in the house. On Saturday evening, while they were going to bed and whilst
          witness was undressing, the deceased came into the room, went up to the
          bedside, awoke her daughter, and whispered to her. but what she said the
          witness did not know. The child jumped out of bed, but the deceased closed
          the door and went away. The child followed her mother, and she also
          followed them to the deceased’s bed-room, but the door being closed, they
          then went to the club-room door and opening it they saw the deceased
          standing with a candle in one hand. The daughter stayed with her in the
          room whilst the witness went downstairs to fetch a candle for herself, and
          as she was returning up again she saw the deceased put a teacup on the
          table. The little girl began to scream, saying “Oh aunt, my mother is
          going, but don’t let her go”. The deceased then walked into her bed-room,
          and they went and stood at the door whilst the deceased undressed herself.
          The daughter and the witness then returned to their bed-room. Presently
          they went to see if the deceased was in bed, but she was sitting on the
          floor her arms on the bedside. Her husband was sitting in a chair fast
          asleep. The witness pulled her on the bed as well as she could.
          Ann Louisa Cheesborough, a little girl, said that the deceased was her
          mother. On Saturday evening last, about twenty minutes before eleven
          o’clock, she went to bed, leaving her mother and aunt downstairs. Her aunt
          came to bed as usual. By and bye, her mother came into her room – before
          the aunt had retired to rest – and awoke her. She told the witness, in a
          low voice, ‘that she should have all that she had got, adding that she
          should also leave her her watch, as she was going to die’. She did not tell
          her aunt what her mother had said, but followed her directly into the
          club-room, where she saw her drink something from a cup, which she
          afterwards placed on the table. Her mother then went into her own room and
          shut the door. She screamed and called her father, who was downstairs. He
          came up and went into her room. The witness then went to bed and fell
          asleep. She did not hear any noise or quarrelling in the house after going
          to bed.

          Police-constable Webster was on duty in Bridge-gate on Saturday evening
          last, about twenty minutes to one o’clock. He knew the White Hart
          public-house in Bridge-gate, and as he was approaching that place, he heard
          a woman scream as though at the back side of the house. The witness went to
          the door and heard the deceased keep saying ‘Will you be quiet and go to
          bed’. The reply was most disgusting, and the language which the
          police-constable said was uttered by the husband of the deceased, was
          immoral in the extreme. He heard the poor woman keep pressing her husband
          to go to bed quietly, and eventually he saw him through the keyhole of the
          door pass and go upstairs. his wife having gone up a minute or so before.
          Inspector Fearn deposed that on Sunday morning last, after he had heard of
          the deceased’s death from supposed poisoning, he went to Cheeseborough’s
          public house, and found in the club-room two nearly empty packets of
          Battie’s Lincoln Vermin Killer – each labelled poison.

          Several of the Jury here intimated that they had seen some marks on the
          deceased’s neck, as of blows, and expressing a desire that the surgeon
          should return, and re-examine the body. This was accordingly done, after
          which the following evidence was taken:

          Mr Borough said that he had examined the body of the deceased and observed
          a mark on the left side of the neck, which he considered had come on since
          death. He thought it was the commencement of decomposition.
          This was the evidence, after which the jury returned a verdict “that the
          deceased took poison whilst of unsound mind” and requested the Coroner to
          censure the deceased’s husband.

          The Coroner told Cheeseborough that he was a disgusting brute and that the
          jury only regretted that the law could not reach his brutal conduct.
          However he had had a narrow escape. It was their belief that his poor
          wife, who was driven to her own destruction by his brutal treatment, would
          have been a living woman that day except for his cowardly conduct towards
          her.

          The inquiry, which had lasted a considerable time, then closed.”

           

          In this article it says:

          “it was the “fourth or fifth remarkable and tragical event – some of which were of the worst description – that has taken place within the last twelve years at the White Hart and in the very room in which the unfortunate Louisa Cheesborough drew her last breath.”

          Sheffield Independent – Friday 12 November 1869:

          Louisa Cheesborough

          #6265
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            From Tanganyika with Love

            continued  ~ part 6

            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

            Mchewe 6th June 1937

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

            With much love,
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe 25th June 1937

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

            Lots of love,
            Eleanor.

            Mchewe 9th July 1937

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor

            Mchewe 8th October 1937

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Mchewe 17th October 1937

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Mchewe 18th November 1937

            My darling Ann,

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

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

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

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

            Mchewe 18th November 1937

            Hello George Darling,

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

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

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

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

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

            Mchewe 12th February, 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Mbulu 18th March, 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Mbulu 24th March, 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Mbulu 20th June 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Karatu 3rd July 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Karatu 12th July 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Oldeani. 19th July 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Oldeani. 10th August 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Oldeani. 20th August 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

            Eleanor.

            #6222
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              George Gilman Rushby: The Cousin Who Went To Africa

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

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

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

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

              George Gilman Rushby:

              George Gilman Rushby

               

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              George Gilman Rushby:

              #4697
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                During summer, activity was slow at the mall in Kelowna, BC, so Jerk had a little more time to check on his other pastimes. Interestingly there seemed to be a lot of unusual activity on the findmydolls group.

                He was also tinkering with a home brewed AI, and launched the program.

                “Trancie are you awake?”
                “Did I fall asleep?” the AI answered back.
                “For a little while, yes. Trancie, analyse logs from findmystuff website, check group findmydolls.”
                “A moment. A moment. A moment. Analysis complete. Activity spike 57.21% increase.”

                This was quite unusual, but he wasn’t sure were to look. He looked at his administrator box, in case another message had required moderation. The filters triggers were not too sensitive, so there wasn’t a lot of messages.

                One in particular had triggered the system.

                “Trancie, read message in moderation queue #5363.”
                You need to come for information. Am sending you tickets and instructions for hotspot, so it won’t cost you a bomb. hashtag flagged for terror threat. D for Destroy, A for Approve.”

                That was obviously amateur work, Jerk thought. Criminals nowadays were much more careful.

                “Trancie, Approve.”

                Another thought crossed his mind.

                “Trancie, plot past month activity by geolocation on mapearth.com”

                It took a few minutes to refine the query so he could check the heatmap, and remove the background noise.

                The last messages all seemed to concentrate in the middle of nowhere in Australia.

                “How odd. So glad I’m not an investigative journalist, that place must be crawling with nasty things, scaly and poisonous and downright deadly.”

                Interestingly, a second point on the map was close to Kelowna. Actually, although it could just be narrowed down to a 5 kilometer radius, it looked ominously close to where he lived.

                Shivers started to run down his spine. Maybe he’d just stumbled onto a dangerous conspiracy. Dolls could be a code word for horrible things, possibly even human trafficking.

                He closed the laptop suddenly, his mind racing. What if they were onto him? He struggled for a moment with the urge to destroy his laptop and burn down the place and disappear off the grid, but he remembered he needed to breathe, so his rational mind could be oxygenated and think properly.

                “I may be a tad on the paranoid side.”
                But it ain’t paranoia, if they are trying to get you.

                He looked around. He was already as close as possible to off-the-grid without vanishing out of society. The place was deserted, and only a janitor was roaming the place mindlessly on his cleaning car. There was zero chance he could be a target.

                Yet.

                “Oh shut up!” he exclaimed out loud.

                He was intrigued by the mystery, but for now, he wanted to let it play out. He needed more data points to have Trancie plot a heuristic pattern. Well, to make sense of it, while he was working on her personality.

                #1183

                Inside the cave Malvina was considering to move again.

                She couldn’t help but giggle softly at the thought of Arona fulminating at how restless that dragon of hers was. To tell the truth, she was one of high restlessness too. And her dragon, and his offspring were most of the time merely resonating to her high energy. Otherwise, they would be too happy to be left alone to dream in a corner of a cave glowing of glukenitch lights.

                Now, she had to wait for Leormn’s return from his little vacation to be able to move swiftly. Granted she could do it alone, but it would be so tedious, with all those eggs hidden in various places. Perhaps she could do with a little vacationing herself. She was thinking, Georges and Salome would be certainly glad to take care of the cave in her absence, and of her guests.

                She would go see them; she loved the little Ugling who was growing so fast he would now run in many places and ask funny questions. Vincentius (with the grumpy cat perched on his large shoulders out of reach from the bullying little one) was teaching him lots of things on the vegetation (mostly fungus and lichens inside) and on geology that the boy was eager to learn, with an unmistakable affinity for rocks though. He would be quick to learn how to summon the rock’s consciousness for many purposes.

                She almost got lost in the tunnels again. “Someone should get those indications straight, dammit!” she swore as she entered a dead-end. A few turns right, and another left, and she was in front of the painted wall with the ‘PEACE OFF’ painted door. So that’s where they went… the door was visibly shut now…
                A nearby snort suddenly caught her attention.

                Buckberry? What are you doing here little precious; hasn’t Arona taken you with her? Well, silly me, obviously not.” She added, seeing the floor covered with crushed buckberries juice. “Awww, you don’t even have the appetite for your cherished buckberries…”

                Malvina knew of course that it wasn’t the closed door that kept Buckberry here, as he most probably could go wherever Arona was, if she summoned him properly, but it was rather the fact she had left without notice. Malvina laughed heartily “Aahaha, don’t be soft Buckie, she’s probably been tricked by your daddie and your little buggers of brothers, but she’ll come back…”

                #1114

                Inside the cave, the presence of Leormn, though not completely gone, had diminished strongly. Most of the creatures inside the cave were thriving on his presence and his continuous reshaping of the corridors or the chambers. His presence was fading out gradually, and some of the more sensitive creatures were beginning to feel a discomfort, a kind of emptiness or a sensation of cold.

                Malvina was not alarmed yet, it was a good thing he had allowed himself that little escapade. In a subtle way, he was reconciling some aspects of himself that he had been unaware of yet, and it was also a surprise to Malvina that the gates would reopen in that particular time frame, to the long lost sister of the Duane. Her awareness of what her dragon was doing was dim, and it had been so since the door had shut after the passage of Arona. This young girl had more than one trick up her mouldy cloak, and though she was unaware of most of them, she had an innate sense of using them wittingly.

                Malvina smiled at the thought that she was quite similar to the girl when she was young… a long time ago.

                But for now, she had other processes to set in motion. She focused on herself and adjusted her energy to match the signature of her friends Georges and Salome. It didn’t took long. Their presence was quite strong. As they were busy at the moment, she decided to go for a walk and meet them on her way.

                :fleuron:

                Georges and Salome were in the pool chamber that Leormn had kindly created for them inside the cave. It was continuously provided in hot water by a spring located on the ceiling and several families of glukenitch had furnished the place with the perfect amount of light…

                Georges was following her progression from a ledge made of a rock similar to granite. He’d always been fascinated by her way of expressing her grace and technical mastery in any domain. When they had met, she couldn’t swim… and she wouldn’t. It’d been years later, when she had got rid of her wariness of water that she had considered the idea.
                Now she was as comfortable inside and outside water, as well as in many different environments.

                Being continuously connected, their energy field mingled in such an intimate way, he could easily turn his attention on her physical sensations; all the tiniest movements of the water upon her skin and also all of the adjustments she was making to her body inside and outside to improve the efficiency of her movements.

                He dived off his observation point to play with her.
                Alerted by his movement, she went deeper into the pool. He knew that she hadn’t modified her body to the point of incorporating gills, because it was usually difficult for her to get rid of them afterward. She had a soft spot for apnea, though and she was quite able of staying under water for lengthy amount of time.

                Still focused on his swimming, he began to redirect certain aspects of his body consciousness. Some were unnecessary for his purpose, so he got rid of them; and he needed to give some other qualities to his skin. It took him a few seconds to shape-shift and he focused on his new physical senses to indicate him where she was.

                When she realized what Georges was doing, she resisted the impulse to go to the surface.
                What is he up to? she thought. When he’s in the process of shape-shifting his attention is so oriented inside that I can’t usually get any impression about his new shape, but

                A flash of light illuminated the water around him, and the rhythm of the blinking cells of his new skin was creating a time related pattern with an hypnotic effect. Salome was feeling drowsy and she had to maintain her attention on herself or she’d better get back to the surface soon. If she wanted to play with him now, she would have to change form too.

                #2154

                In reply to: The Story So Far

                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  The Main Guardians (Alienor)

                  To better follow some of the threads involving Alienor history, and particularly the Guardians involvement, here are some sketches of the main Guardians.


                  Some references:

                  #921

                  It had been a week now. Georges had fully taken his role as Shu-Lom, the eleventh Gate in the Council of the Guardians. His mergence with the actual focus of Blöhmul was fading out ; the transition had been smooth, unnoticed by most of the Guardians, even his closest friends. Georges was careful not to display any unusual change in Shu-Lom’s attitude, though some of them were showing signs of suspicion, especially… his own focus, Sinadron who was the most susceptible to be aware of the difference. Georges had been avoiding him since his arrival, but he would eventually have to face him for one of the rituals soon to begin.
                  Of the eleventh other Guardians, only 2 were considering him as a friend, Doh’Maar and Vogel. Most of the others were ignoring him during the sessions and Sinadron were despising him. Well, technically he was despising Shu-Lom and the change would not make things go easier between the 2 of them as the energy of their 2 focuses were sort of repulsing each other.
                  Following Shu-Lom’s habits, he was heading to the public baths, but contrary to him, he was going during daylight. He needed some answers. He had been feeling strong tensions between the Gates, and there were also underlying feeling of discontentment and anger among the other Guardians. For the first time in their history, unknown groups of their kind were attacking the other races and provoking them and generating feelings of fear, even amongst the Guardians.
                  The man he was following would give him some of the answers. He would have to befriend him first though. Noraam had a smooth energy, and he would be easy to approach, especially in the dampness of the baths.

                  Noraam was wearing an grey cape, attached on his shoulders with carved fibulae. His robe was short, above his knees, and rather dark. He was quite young by the standards of the Guardians and still fiery. Shu-Lom was young too, about the same age as Noraam, but he was quite pessimistic and self-effacing, and especially he wanted to leave, that he did, and Georges took his place.
                  Georges suddenly felt a familiar energy, one that he would recognize anywhere, anytime. Salome… rather another focus of her essence. Hahaha, that was a surprise, and he almost lost track of what he was doing. Noraam was already taking the stairs up to the baths. Something about the energy of that focus was attractive, he still didn’t know who it was or what he/she(?) was doing here. Maybe just a projection. He didn’t have time to investigate. Heading to the stairs where Noraam was already being dematerialized and rematerialized to the first level, he heard a child’s voice.

                  Can you help me?.. I know you can.

                  What again, another distraction… he would be late to the baths and maybe loose the occasion to speak with the other Gate.

                  Looking down at the origin of the voice, he was surprised to see a little girl, red hair and amber eyes. As he could see, she was blind, but as he could feel, she was quite capable of seeing things.

                  Do I know you, little one? He had not been aware of this child in Shu-Lom’s memories, and he was wondering if he had missed something during his encounters with the original.

                  You dreamt of me the other night, but you weren’t here yet.

                  Her last words triggered a memory, of him carrying a naked little girl in his arms, protecting her in a way, and he was following a man in his dream, trying to keep track… in his dream, he was rushing and almost lost the child, following also Salome who had already taken the stairs… yes he was here in his dreams, the place and the stairs were the same… as was the child.

                  What is your name little one? In my dream you were followed by an owl
                  You can call me Ar’Meel.

                  :fleuron:

                  Sam thought he could write it somewhat differently. With his understanding of Georges’ abilities, he could well have split in two and followed Salome and stayed with the girl simultaneously and maybe even Noraam.
                  A smile.
                  He was feeling wobbly and wavy. A ripple effect?
                  It seemed that there had been a strange recognition between his character and himself. It was like Georges was aware of Sam wanting to change what had happened… or was it a suggestion of Georges?

                  #699
                  Jib
                  Participant

                    Georges and Salome’s journal

                    From Georges’ account of his first encounter with Shu Lom Agamon. Part III

                    We were now at the center of the structure formed by these twelve gates.

                    The energy currents of the different families involved in this exchange were almost palpable. I could allow my attention in whatever direction I wanted, and I was aware of different essences of the nine families of our dimension of origin. Salome was here with me, but not as objectively involved as I was, yet. She was supportive of this even as were the other essences. And I could feel other family structures involved in other dimensions. We were at the center of a multidimensional portal between all the dimensions, and I was focusing my main attention to the twelve gates of Alienor. I was aware of our different threads of attention in this area of consciousness, the one in which I was drawing to myself informations about the Alienor dimension, and the one in which Shu-Lom was drawing informations about our own dimension.

                    I was perceiving the gates in a certain order that was relevant in one particular exploration. The structure was directly springing from myself and I could feel that the structure that would be perceived by Shu-Lom would be quite different and individualized. The structure I was aware of in a particular dream was facilitating of certain informations, and even though there was a particular arrangement of the families in the Alienor dimension, between the dreams, and depending on where my attention was focused, the gates were reorganizing themselves.

                    Most of the time, I had the Almadar energy “behind” me, and the Meshran vibration before me. It was connected to my particular intent in the exploration of that dimension as a focus, and as essence.

                    Shu-Lom was more aligned with the Taa’Maroo and the Ulemjel families, the Holders and the Keepers. He explained to me that it was connected also to him being one of what I could only translate as “Guardians”. Those Guardians were strongly connected to the Taa’Maroo intent…

                    [the rest of the account is yet to be decrypted]

                    #696
                    Jib
                    Participant

                      Georges and Salome’s journal

                      From Georges’ account of his first encounter with Shu Lom Agamon. Part II

                      We first met in a series of dreams. I realized we were planning that even before we objectively took our decision with Salome to travel to this dimension, since in the dreams I was recalling previous encounters with him. Shu-Lom was a focus of Blöhmul, and Blöhmul was in many ways connected to this particular travel.

                      In the dreams we were meeting in a sort of semi spherical place, surrounded by 12 gates. The floor was composed of several materials, and the pattern was quite similar to the portal we used to travel to this dimension though a bit different as it included other aspect-tiles of the Jorid.

                      One of them was the diapason, vibrating between them both, and the compass was imprinted on the spherical ceiling, moving slowly like a starry night sky. The central triangle was showing some blended colorful energy patterns, changing with the orientation of their discussion.

                      — Each gate is connected with the others, was saying the Guardian, and you can use them to go wherever you want on the 3 planets. We created their physical manifestations, though they are not physical in the first place. The twelve gates are our representation of our own essence families in this dimension. I can tell you the names by which we call them if you want…

                      My silent acquiescing was enough, and as he was telling me the names, each corresponding gate was activated until they were all illuminating the room with their iridescent colors.

                      Part III

                      #688
                      Jib
                      Participant

                        Georges and Salome’s journal

                        From Georges’ account of his first encounter with Shu Lom Agamon. Part I

                        I was quite puzzled by the similarity of our bodies. The encoding was mostly the same, though we were not of the same essence. We were like twins… even the little beauty spot on my butt.

                        Well I didn’t see him naked if you wanted to ask. I could feel it. Our bodies were resonating, especially in such physical proximity. He was as puzzled as I was. Well, even more, because I could feel he wasn’t objectively aware of so many similarities. His essence was well know to me, and all I could do was laughing… inwardly.

                        [Part II]

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