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  • #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.”

      #7222

      In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        Very well, let us focus a bit on an overarching mystery.

        So, Xavier is working on this program he calls AL (for Alternate Life), for a company we know little about.

        Meanwhile, the game they’re playing on, Orbs of Madjourneys seems to direct them to certain quests which subtly influence their activities. For instance, after playing the game, a succession of events got the four of them booking a trip to the Flying fish Inn in the middle of Australian outback (Zara is living in Australia unlike the others).

        Let’s assume the Game had somehow detected some unlawful or immoral activities being conducted, and has started to drop clues to influence these 4 gamers, selected because of their unique connexions and some of their special skills to get to reveal and bring the mystery to light.

        Zara has an explorer mind, free-spirited, jumping right in. It’s suggested she was assigned group leadership for this round of game, while taking care of a group doesn’t come naturally for her. Yasmin is talented and it is said she is the brains of the team and also a competent actress, which may come in play at some point. Youssef is a journalist, and works for Miss Tartiflate, owner of THE Blog, a blog with a soul – unlike rival blog from Botty Banworth, the lady millionaire, who is sponsoring the Carts & Lager festival at the town of the Flying Fish Inn, next to the mines. Xavier has a bit of a monkey mind, but is also good at drawing connections; he’s a programmer for AL.

        Which brings us to the group quest. The current hunch is that there is some shenanigan at play in the old collapsed mines of the town, where some key characters were lost in the past. One of them being Fred, a sci-fi writer who disappeared to Fiji to protect his family (the owners of the Flying Fish Inn) a decade or so ago. It’s suggested by the last poem found in the game that it may have something to do with illegal underground water drilling —possibly for frivolous usages of a select few elite, like maintaining a golf green nearby or other things.

        If that is on the right track, we need to accelerate the path of discovery of these mysteries for our 4 characters. The game will suggest additional clues to their quests, so that they can use their skills during the Carts & Lager Festival to discover the truth, while remaining out of harm’s way.

        Here are some additional clues that the game will suggest to our four characters:

        Zara:

        “To find the truth, you must first seek the light.” 🌞🔍🕯️💡🔦
        “The answer lies beneath the surface.” 🕳️🔍👀🌊💧

        Yasmin:

        “All the world’s a stage, and we are merely players.” 🌍🎭🤹‍♀️👥🕺
        “Sometimes, the truth is hidden in plain sight.” 👀🔍🤫🧐🕵️‍♀️

        Youssef:

        “Words have power, and the pen is mightier than the sword.” 📝🗡️💪📚👨‍💻
        “The truth may be hidden in the most unexpected of places.” 🤔🕵️‍♂️🔍🧩🕰️

        Xavier:

        “The truth is a puzzle waiting to be solved.” 🧩🔍🤔🕵️‍♂️💡
        “Sometimes, the smallest details can lead to the biggest discoveries.” 🔍👀🔬🧐🔎

        What are potential outcomes for our 4 characters in game and in real life.
        How are they going to work together to unravel the mystery and discover the truth.

        There are several potential outcomes for our 4 characters as they work together to unravel the truth about the collapsed mines and the illegal underground water drilling.

        In the game, they may encounter various obstacles and puzzles to solve, such as deciphering codes and finding hidden passages. They will need to work together and use their unique skills to uncover the truth and prevent any further harm.

        In real life, they may need to conduct research and gather information about the history of the town and its residents. They may also need to interview locals and investigate any suspicious activity related to the water drilling. They will need to be careful not to draw too much attention to themselves, as the perpetrators may try to silence them.

        If they are successful in their quest, they may uncover a conspiracy involving powerful people in the town and beyond who are profiting from the illegal water drilling. They may also discover the fate of Fred, the missing writer, and other key characters. The truth may have a significant impact on the future of the town and its residents.

        To work together effectively, each of the characters will need to utilize their unique skills and strengths. Zara’s exploratory nature may help them discover hidden clues and passages, while Yasmin’s intellect and acting abilities may allow her to gain access to key information and people. Youssef’s journalistic skills and connection to Miss Tartiflate may provide them with insider knowledge and resources, and Xavier’s ability to draw connections and work with technology may help them piece together the puzzle.

        Overall, by working together and using their skills in both the game and real life, our 4 characters may uncover a significant truth and make a positive impact on the town and its residents.

        #7214

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        “Bossy, isn’t she?” muttered Yasmin, not quite out of earshot of Finly. “I haven’t even had a shower yet,” she added, picking up her phone and sandals.

        Yasmin, Youssef and Zara left the maid to her cleaning and walked down towards Xaviers room.   “I’d go and get coffee from the kitchen, but…” Youssef said, turning pleading eyes towards Zara, “Idle might be in there.”

        Smiling, Zara told him not to risk it, she would go.

        “Come in,” Xavier called when Yasmin knocked on the door. “God, what a dream,” he said when they piled in to his room.  “It was awful. I was dreaming that Idle was threading an enormous long needle with baler twine saying she was going to sew us all together in a tailored story cut in a cloth of continuity.”  He rubbed his eyes and then shook his head, trying to erase the image in his mind.  “What are you two up so early for?”

        “Zara’s gone to get the coffee,” Youssef told him, likewise trying to shake off the image of Idle that Xavier had conjured up. “We’re going to have a couple of hours on the game before the cart race ~ or the dust storm, whichever happens first I guess. There are some wierd looking vans and campers and oddballs milling around outside already.”

        Zara pushed the door open with her shoulder, four mugs in her hands.  “You should see the wierdos outside, going to be a great photo opportunity out there later.”

        “Come on then,” said Xavier, “The game will get that awful dream out of my head.  Let’s go!”

        “You’re supposed to be the leader, you start the game,” Yasmin said to Zara. Zara rolled her eyes good naturedly and opened the game. “Let’s ask for some clues first then. I still don’t know why I’m the so called leader when you,” she looked pointedly as Xavier and Youssef, “Know much more about games than I do. Ok here goes:”

        “The riddle “In the quietest place, the loudest secrets are kept” is a clue to help the group find the first missing page of the book “The Lost Pages of Creativity,” which is an integral part of the group quest. The riddle suggests that the missing page is hidden in a quiet place where secrets are kept, meaning that it’s likely to be somewhere in the hidden library underground the Flying Fish Inn where the group is currently situated.”

        “Is there a cellar here do you think?” Zara mused. “Imagine finding a real underground library!” The idea of a grand all encompassing library had first been suggested to Zara many years ago in a series of old books by a channeler, and many a time she had imagined visiting it. The idea of leaving paper records and books for future generations had always appealed to her. She often thought of the old sepia portrait photographs of her ancestors, still intact after a hundred years ~ and yet her own photos taken ten years ago had been lost in a computer hard drive incident. What would the current generation leave for future anthropologists? Piles of plastic unreadable gadgets, she suspected.

        “Youssef can ask Idle later,” Xavier said with a cheeky grin. “Maybe she’ll take him down there.” Youssef snorted, and Yasmin said “Hey! Don’t you start snorting too! Right then, Zara, so we find the cellar in the game then and go down and find the library? Then what?”

        “The phrase “quietest place” can refer to a secluded spot or a place with minimal noise, which could be a hint at a specific location within the library. The phrase “loudest secrets” implies that there is something important to be discovered, but it’s hidden in plain sight.”

        Hidden in plain sight reminded Yasmin of the parcel under her mattress, but she thrust it from her mind and focused on the game. She made up her mind to discuss it with everyone later, including the whacky suppositions that Zara had come up with. They couldn’t possibly confront Idle with it, they had absolutely no proof. I mean, you can’t go round saying to people, hey, that’s your abandoned child over there maybe. But they could include Xavier and Youssef in the mystery.

        “The riddle is relevant to the game of quirks because it challenges the group to think creatively and work together to solve the puzzle. This requires them to communicate effectively and use their problem-solving skills to interpret the clues and find the missing page. It’s an opportunity to demonstrate their individual strengths and also learn from each other in the process.”

        “Work together, communicate effectively” Yasmin repeated, as if to underline her resolution to discuss the parcel and Sister Finli a.k.a. Liana with the boys and Zara later. “A problem shared is a problem hopelessly convoluted, probably.”

        The others looked up and said “What?” in unison, and Yasmin snorted nervously and said “Never mind, tell you later.”

        #6790

        In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

        Star and Tara were seating at their usual table in the Star Frites Alliance Café, sipping their coffee and reflecting on the strange case of the wardrobe. They had managed to find Uncle Basil, and Vince had been able to change his will just in time. They had also discovered that the wardrobe was being used to smuggle illegal drugs, which they promptly reported to the authorities.

        As they sat there, they saw Finton, the waitress from the café where they last met Vince French, walking towards them with a big smile on her face. “Hello there, ladies! I just wanted to thank you for helping Vince find his uncle. He’s been so much happier since then.”

        “It was all in a day’s work,” said Star with a grin. “And we also managed to solve the mystery of the wardrobe.”  she couldn’t help boasting.

        “Did we now?” Tara raised an eyebrow.

        Finton’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh my! That’s quite the accomplishment. What did you find?”

        “It was being used to smuggle drugs,” explained Star. “We reported it to the authorities.”

        “Well, I never! You two are quite the detectives,” said Finton, impressed.

        “Sure, we could be proud, but there are more mysteries calling for our help. Now if you don’t mind, Finton, we have important business to talk about.” Star said.

        “And it’s rather hush-hush.” Tara added, to clue in the poor waitress.

        Star’s knack for finding clues in all the wrong places, and Tara’s slight nudges towards the path of logical deduction and reason had made them quite famous now around the corner. Well, slightly more famous than before, meaning they were featured in a tiny article in the local neswpaper, page 8, near the weekly crosswords. But somehow, that they’d accomplished their missions did advocate in their favour. And new clients had been pouring in.

        “Do we have a new case you haven’t told me about?” wondered Tara.

        “Nah.” retorted Star. “Just wanted to get rid of the nosy brat and enjoy my coffee while it’s hot. I hate tepid coffee. Tastes like cat piss.”

        “How would you know… Never mind…” Tara replied distractedly as handsome and well-dressed man approached their table. “Excuse me, are you Star and Tara, the private investigators?”

        “Well, as a matter of fact, we are,” said Star, propping her goods forward, and batting a few eyelids. “Who’s asking?”

        “My name is Thomas, and I have a rather unusual case for you.”

        Tara pushed Star to the back of the cushioned banquet bench to make room for the easy on the eyes stranger, while Star repressed a Oof and a fookoof..

        “It involves a missing pineapple.” Thomas said after taking the offered seat.

        “A missing pineapple?” repeated Star incredulously.

        Tara had an irrepressible fit of titter “So long as it’s not for a pizza…”

        “Yes, you see, I am a collector of exotic fruits, and I had a rare pineapple in my collection that has gone missing. It’s worth quite a lot of money, and I can’t seem to find it anywhere.”

        Star and Tara exchanged a look. They were both thinking the same thing. Was “exotic fruit” code for something else? Otherwise, this was not even remotely bizarre by their standard, and they’d seen some strange cases already.

        “We’ll have to think over it.” for once Star didn’t want to sound too eager. “Do you have any leads?” asked Tara.

        “Well, I did hear a rumor that it was spotted in the hands of a local street performer, but I can’t be sure.”

        “Alright, we’ll consider it,” said Star decisively. She fumbled into her hairy bag —some smart upcycling made by Rosamund with the old patchy mink coats. She handed a torn namecard to the young Thomas. “We’ll call you.”

        Thomas looked at her surprised. “Do you mean, should I write my number?”

        Tara rolled her eyes and sighed. “Obvie.” Somehow the good-looking ones didn’t seem to be the brightest tools in the picnic box.

        “But first, we need to finish our coffee.” She took a long sip and grinned at Tara. “Looks like we may have another mysterman on our hands.”

        #6786

        In reply to: Coma Cameleon

        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Tibu looked up at her, surprised by the offer. He hadn’t expected anyone to offer him anything more than spare change or a half-eaten sandwich. “That’s very kind of you,” he said with a small smile, “I’d like that very much.”

          The young woman returned his smile and disappeared for a while. She came back a few minutes later, with two cups of steaming hot tea. Handing one to Tibu, she started sipping her own while they stood in silence for a moment looking at the last drops of dripping water from the eaves overhead, as the rain had started to subside.

          Tibu couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. Here he was, a man with no memory of his past, selling books on the street for spare change, and yet this stranger was treating him with kindness and respect.

          “Thank you,” he said softly his voice barely audible, “I really appreciate this.”

          The woman shrugged and smiled again. “It’s no trouble at all. I think it’s nice to just take a break and chat with someone for a while. It can get lonely in this city sometimes.”

          Tibu nodded in agreement. “I know what you mean. I feel like a stranger in my own life sometimes.”

          The woman’s expression softened. “That must be hard. But you know, sometimes it’s good to start over. You can be whoever you want to be, do whatever you want to do. It’s like a second chance.”

          As they continued their conversation, a crumpled torn piece of newspaper caught Tibu’s eye, lodged in a nearby gutter. The headline mentioned a job fair happening the next day, an opportunity for people to find new careers. An idea began to form in his mind – attending the job fair could be his first step in creating a new life.

          Tibu looked at the woman, still struck by her earlier words. It was a new way of thinking for him. Maybe he didn’t have to be defined by his past or his amnesia. Maybe he could create a new life for himself, with new people and new experiences.

          “Thank you,” he said again, feeling a newfound sense of hope. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

          The woman smiled and finished her tea. “Well, I should probably get back to work. But it was nice talking to you. Maybe I’ll see you around. I’m Lorena, by the way.”

          Tibu nodded and watched her walk away, feeling a warmth in his chest. Maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all. Maybe he could create a new life for himself; he checked the crumbled paper; his decision was made; armed with renewed purpose, he’d resolved to attend the job fair.

          Of course, he’d need to prepare, sort out stuff…

          He looked down at the book in his hand and smiled. For now, he had Lord Gustard Willoughby Fergusson to keep him company and inspire him about acts of bravery and embrace with gusto the great leap into the unknown.

          #6634

          In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

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

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

            Quirk accepted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            #6539

            In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              Zara is the main protagonist, and also the reluctant leader of the game. In RL, she is wandering off the trail nearby Arltunga, Australia, where she is visiting, staying at the small family run inn the Flying Fish Inn. Bert, the local handyman drove her there, told her specifically not to wander off, yet in search of where a mysterious compass she collected on the trail is leading, and egged on by her talking smart parrot “Beautiful Girl”, she goes off the trail to explore. The sun is still high, and she already started to hallucinate some hooded figures with blue frog-faces with jelly-bean carts.
              Meanwhile, her friends Youssef and Xavier, just landed from abroad, are driving toward the rendez-vous spot at the Flying Fish Inn. The owners Mater and Idle don’t have any idea where Zara is.
              Yasmin, the fourth friend in the group is still on her way from Fiji, bearing a message written in red on an envelope from a mysterious Fred, who we don’t know yet, but seems to be linked to Mater & Idle’s family.
              What’s going to happen next to Zara? The game is encouraging her to explore her rudeness in a playful manner, in a medieval setting.
              Provide a series of playful and fun actions for Zara, linking these contexts. You may incorporate Tiku, a wise and no-nonsense Aboriginal woman who may guide her though the Dreamtime challenges. Provide random keywords to each action in the list.

              Here is a list of playful and fun actions for Zara in the game:

              1. “Follow the Compass”: Zara can follow the mysterious compass she collected on the trail, as it leads her to new locations and challenges. Keywords: Adventure, Exploration, Mystery.
              2. “Converse with Beautiful Girl”: Zara’s talking smart parrot “Beautiful Girl” may provide humorous commentary and encouragement throughout her journey. Keywords: Humor, Personality, Support.
              3. “Solve Riddles with Tiku”: Tiku, the wise and no-nonsense Aboriginal woman, can guide Zara through the Dreamtime challenges. To do this, Tiku may present her with riddles or puzzles that she must solve to progress. Keywords: Wisdom, Intelligence, Spirituality.
              4. “Collect Items”: Zara can collect items along the way, such as artifacts or treasures that may help her in her journey or lead her to new discoveries. Keywords: Collection, Discovery, Help.
              5. “Play Music with Beautiful Girl”: Zara can play musical instruments with Beautiful Girl, creating an entertaining and musical interlude in her journey. Keywords: Music, Joy, Creativity.
              6. “Cook with Mater and Idle”: At the Flying Fish Inn, Zara can join Mater and Idle in the kitchen and help them cook traditional dishes from the region. Keywords: Cooking, Culture, Community.
              7. “Race with Youssef and Xavier”: Zara can engage in friendly races with Youssef and Xavier, such as foot races or cart races, as a way to pass the time and have fun. Keywords: Competition, Speed, Excitement.

              These playful and fun actions can add variety and excitement to Zara’s journey and provide an opportunity for players to interact with the world and characters in new and unique ways.

               🔁 Regenerate response

              #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.

                #6505
                prUneprUne
                Participant

                  I told Devan in no ambiguous terms to solve his own funny riddle.

                  I did try to make an effort, but that seemed a rather desperate way to catch our attention after not really caring about the family for so long.
                  It was good to see him though.

                  With all the activity around the coming guests at the Inn, it’s easy getting lost in the wind of activities, like the motes of dust hiding in Dido’s hair.
                  The twins did a good effort though, with all the decorating and stuff. I was sincerely impressed. Been a long time since I’ve been impressed by them. Seems they may actually grow up fine. Who would have known really.

                  Hormonal growth be damned, I’m feeling all sort of contradictory feelings about this.

                  Like, what about hearing about our funny father after all this time.

                  And Devan, who’d shut us all off, now back for a little make-over time… Or something else maybe. He doesn’t seem to realize the emotional landscape and baggage here. He’s a nice brother though.

                  It’s horrible. So much contradiction – I feel some rage on the surface, lots of… and underneath so much caring it’s painful.

                  So what happened to our father? Still alive? Quite possibly. I’ve had my suspicious when this strange guy posed as a friend to the twins on the social network some years back.
                  I was young when he left without a note; hadn’t started to write my journals yet, so my memories of him are very little. But I remember the chaos left after him; Mater wasn’t really the same after. I think she’s burned all pictures of him, and somehow pretends they never existed.
                  Idle plays it as if she doesn’t care, but I’m sure she does. She doesn’t want to let it be known, but she probably doesn’t want to hurt Mater more with this.

                  God, what a family drama. Why would Devan want to unearth all of this now, at a moment we were all quiet and settled like a decent respectable family.

                  It was maybe just keeping up with appearances, and the veneer was thin to start with.

                  That’s in the middle of all this angst mixed with puberty that it hit me.

                  Acrostic. Or ἀκροστιχίς in Greek. First verse, or first letter.

                  My dad was a writer, so he liked word riddles. And the little sign was a pointer.

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

                  ATOI didn’t seem to make much sense, but I remembered how small “l” sometimes looked like a capital “I”.
                  Atoll was the clue I’m sure of it. Where to disappear if not to islands.
                  The letters at the end of the verses are spelling HELL. So it’s opposite.

                  Basically, Atoll Paradise.

                  A little Gugu search with AI, and that was it. That was our father here, with a number to call.

                  Atoll Paradise
                  Boat rentals – Island tours
                  Copywriter, biographer
                  Call FRED @ (+679) 215-7644

                  Now it’ll be fair if Devan is calling me crazy. We’ll have to call and check before saying anything to Idle or even Mater for now.

                  #6481
                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

                    This is the outline for a short novel called “The Jorid’s Travels – 14 years on” that will unfold in this thread.
                    The novel is about the travels of Georges and Salomé.
                    The Jorid is the name of the vessel that can travel through dimensions as well as time, within certain boundaries. The Jorid has been built and is operated by Georges and his companion Salomé.

                    Short backstory for the main cast and secondary characters

                    Georges was a French thief possibly from the 1800s, turned other-dimensional explorer, and together with Salomé, a girl of mysterious origins who he first met in the Alienor dimension but believed to have origins in Northern India maybe Tibet from a distant past.
                    They have lived rich adventures together, and are deeply bound together, by love and mutual interests.
                    Georges, with his handsome face, dark hair and amber gaze, is a bit of a daredevil at times, curious and engaging with others. He is very interesting in anything that shines, strange mechanisms and generally the ways consciousness works in living matter.
                    Salomé, on the other hand is deeply intuitive, empath at times, quite logical and rational but also interested in mysticism, the ways of the Truth, and the “why” rather than the “how” of things.
                    The world of Alienor (a pale green sun under which twin planets originally orbited – Duane, Murtuane – with an additional third, Phreal, home planet of the Guardians, an alien race of builders with god-like powers) lived through cataclysmic changes, finished by the time this story is told.
                    The Jorid’s original prototype designed were crafted by Léonard, a mysterious figure, self-taught in the arts of dimensional magic in Alienor sects, acted as a mentor to Georges during his adventures. It is not known where he is now.
                    The story starts with Georges and Salomé looking for Léonard to adjust and calibrate the tiles navigational array of the Jorid, who seems to be affected by the auto-generated tiles which behave in too predictible fashion, instead of allowing for deeper explorations in the dimensions of space/time or dimensions of consciousness.
                    Leonard was last spotted in a desert in quadrant AVB 34-7•8 – Cosmic time triangulation congruent to 2023 AD Earth era. More precisely the sand deserts of Bluhm’Oxl in the Zathu sector.

                    When they find Léonard, they are propelled in new adventures. They possibly encounter new companions, and some mystery to solve in a similar fashion to the Odyssey, or Robinsons Lost in Space.

                    Being able to tune into the probable quantum realities, the Jorid is able to trace the plot of their adventures even before they’ve been starting to unfold in no less than 33 chapters, giving them evocative titles.

                    Here are the 33 chapters for the glorious adventures with some keywords under each to give some hints to the daring adventurers.

                    1. Chapter 1: The Search Begins – Georges and Salomé, Léonard, Zathu sector, Bluhm’Oxl, dimensional magic
                    2. Chapter 2: A New Companion – unexpected ally, discovery, adventure
                    3. Chapter 3: Into the Desert – Bluhm’Oxl, sand dunes, treacherous journey
                    4. Chapter 4: The First Clue – search for Léonard, mystery, puzzle
                    5. Chapter 5: The Oasis – rest, rekindling hope, unexpected danger
                    6. Chapter 6: The Lost City – ancient civilization, artifacts, mystery
                    7. Chapter 7: A Dangerous Encounter – hostile aliens, survival, bravery
                    8. Chapter 8: A New Threat – ancient curse, ominous presence, danger
                    9. Chapter 9: The Key to the Past – uncovering secrets, solving puzzles, unlocking power
                    10. Chapter 10: The Guardian’s Temple – mystical portal, discovery, knowledge
                    11. Chapter 11: The Celestial Map – space-time navigation, discovery, enlightenment
                    12. Chapter 12: The First Step – journey through dimensions, bravery, adventure
                    13. Chapter 13: The Cosmic Rift – strange anomalies, dangerous zones, exploration
                    14. Chapter 14: A Surprising Discovery – unexpected allies, strange creatures, intrigue
                    15. Chapter 15: The Memory Stones – ancient wisdom, unlock hidden knowledge, unlock the past
                    16. Chapter 16: The Time Stream – navigating through time, adventure, danger
                    17. Chapter 17: The Mirror Dimension – parallel world, alternate reality, discovery
                    18. Chapter 18: A Distant Planet – alien world, strange cultures, exploration
                    19. Chapter 19: The Starlight Forest – enchanted forest, secrets, danger
                    20. Chapter 20: The Temple of the Mind – exploring consciousness, inner journey, enlightenment
                    21. Chapter 21: The Sea of Souls – mystical ocean, hidden knowledge, inner peace
                    22. Chapter 22: The Path of the Truth – search for meaning, self-discovery, enlightenment
                    23. Chapter 23: The Cosmic Library – ancient knowledge, discovery, enlightenment
                    24. Chapter 24: The Dream Plane – exploring the subconscious, self-discovery, enlightenment
                    25. Chapter 25: The Shadow Realm – dark dimensions, fear, danger
                    26. Chapter 26: The Fire Planet – intense heat, dangerous creatures, bravery
                    27. Chapter 27: The Floating Islands – aerial adventure, strange creatures, discovery
                    28. Chapter 28: The Crystal Caves – glittering beauty, hidden secrets, danger
                    29. Chapter 29: The Eternal Night – unknown world, strange creatures, fear
                    30. Chapter 30: The Lost Civilization – ancient ruins, mystery, adventure
                    31. Chapter 31: The Vortex – intense energy, danger, bravery
                    32. Chapter 32: The Cosmic Storm – weather extremes, danger, survival
                    33. Chapter 33: The Return – reunion with Léonard, returning to the Jorid, new adventures.
                    #6479
                    Jib
                    Participant

                       

                      Chapter 1: The Search Begins

                       

                      Georges was sitting more or less comfortably in the command chair on the control deck of the Jorid, slowly drinking his tea. The temperature of the beverage seemed to be determined randomly since the interference patterns in the navigation array weren’t totally fixed when they removed those low quality tiles. Drinking cold or hot tea was not the worse of it, and it was even kind of a challenge to swallow it and not get burned by ice. The deck kept changing shape and colours, reconfiguring along with the quantum variations of the Boodenbaum field variation due to some leakage of information between dimensions. Salomé had preferred resting in her travelpod where the effects were not as strongly felt.

                      “The worse is not as much seeing your face morph into a soul-insect and turn inside down, although those greenish hues usually make me feel nauseous, but feeling two probable realities where my organs grow and shrink at the same time is more than I can bear.”

                      After a few freakish experiences, where his legs cross-merged with the chair, or a third eye grow behind his head, or that time when dissolved into a poof of greasy smoke, Georges got used to the fluid nature of reality during the trips. You just had to get along with it and not resist. He thought it gave some spice and colours to their journey across dimensions. He enjoyed the differences of perceptions generated by the fluctuations of the Boodenbaum field, as it allowed his tea to taste like chardonnay or bœuf bourguignon, and was glad when he discovered a taste that he had never experienced before.

                      During the last few trips, he had attempted to talk with Jorid, but their voices were so garbled and transformed so quickly that he lost interest. He couldn’t make the difference with the other noises, like honking trucks passing by on a motorway, or the cry of agony of a mating Irdvark. He felt a pang of nostalgia as the memories of Duane, Murtuane and Phréal merged into the deck around him. He wondered if he could get physically lost during one of the trips as he started to feel his limbs move away from his body, one hairy foot brushing by his left ear while he drank a sip of tea with the mouth that had grown on his middle finger. Salomé had warned him about fractured perception and losing a piece of his mind… It seemed it hadn’t happened yet. But would he notice?

                      Already he felt the deceleration he had come to notice when they neared their destination. The deck stabilized into a shape adapted to this quadrant of the dimensional universes. The large command screen displayed images of several ruins lost in the sand desert of Bluhm’Oxl.

                      Georges looked at his hands, and touched his legs. His reflection  on the command screen looked back at him. Handsome as usual. He grinned. Salomé wouldn’t refrain from telling him if something was off anyway.

                      Jorid: “I have woken up Salomé.”

                      She won’t be long now. Georges ordered a hot meklah, one of her favorites drink that usually helped her refocus when getting out of her pod.

                      A blip caught Georges’ attention.

                      Jorid: “This is Tlal Klatl’Oxl, better know as Klatu. Your potential contact on Bluhm’Oxl and a Zathu. He’ll guide and protect you as you enter the conflict zone to look for Léonard.”

                      #6468

                      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

                      “But the boarding is only in one hour!”

                      “Well I can’t wait one hour.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      He opened the second message.

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

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

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

                      “Need help? Contact me 👉”

                      Sands_of_time is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓
                      #6412

                      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                      Youssef was talking with Xavier in a personal chat. He had called his friend for help, because he felt out of his league with the Thi Gang thing. Notifications from the other chat room where Zara and Yasmine were in an eye roll asking questions about the game kept distracting him from his work. There were currently 820 messages of backlog. That was insane. How could he ever catch up with that. He wondered how Xavier could manage the personal chat room with him, trying to solve techy problems, answer Zaraloon and Yasminowl’s questions, and god knows what else from his work at his tech company!

                      “I got an anonymous tip, said Miss Tartiflate dashing into the yurt, almost tearing the curtains off the top of the entrance. Lama Yoneze is in the Gobi dessert! We have to move quick if we want to catch him.”

                      “You mean desert…”

                      “What ?”

                      “Doesn’t matter. But what about THE BLOG? I can’t fix anything if I don’t have an internet connection. I have to stay at the camp.”

                      “In your dreams! I’ve got us jeeps with satellite internet connection. It’s expensive, but I’m worth it. You’ll do it on our way to the deezert.”

                      Youssef rolled his eyes, a trick he learned from Yasmin during one or their online meetings.

                      “Are you sick?” asked Miss Tartiflate.

                      For all answers, Youssef snapped the laptop close and sent a message to Xavier.

                      “We found the Llama. Moving to the desert now. Jeep ride 🤮
                      Getting 😤 but feeling lucky I didn’t have time to eat any
                      Won’t barf up on the laptop. Not done with you yet!”

                      #6410

                      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                      Real-life Xavier was marveling at the new AL (Artificial Life) developments on this project he’d been working on. It’s been great at tidying the plot, confusing as the plot started to become with Real-life characters named the same as their Quirky counterparts ones.

                      Real-life Zara had not managed to remain off the computer for very long, despite her grand claims to the contrary. She’d made quick work of introducing a new player in the game, a reporter in an obscure newspaper, who’d seemed quirky enough to be their guide in the new game indeed. It was difficult to see if hers was a nickname or nom de plume, but strangely enough, she also named her own character the same as her name in the papers. Interestingly, Zara and Glimmer had some friends in common in Australia, where RL Zara was living at the moment.

                      Anyways… “Clever ALXavier smiled when he saw the output on the screen. “Yasmin will love a little tidiness; even if she is the brains of the group, she has always loved the help.”

                      Meanwhile, in the real world, Youssef was on his own adventure in Mongolia, trying to uncover the mystery of the Thi Gang. He had been hearing whispers and rumors about the ancient and powerful group, and he was determined to find out the truth. He had been traveling through the desert for weeks, following leads and piecing together clues, and he was getting closer to the truth.

                      Zara, Xavier, and Yasmin, on the other hand, were scattered around the world. Zara was in Australia, working on a conservation project and trying to save a group of endangered animals. Xavier was in Europe, working on a new project for a technology company. And Yasmin was in Asia, volunteering at a children’s hospital.

                      Despite being physically separated, the four friends kept in touch through video calls and messages. They were all excited about the upcoming adventure in the Land of the Quirks and the possibility of discovering their inner quirks. They were also looking forward to their trip to the Flying Fish Inn, where they hoped to find some clues about the game and their characters.

                      In the game, Glimmer Gambol’s interactions with the other characters will be taking place in the confines of the Land of the Quirks. As she is the one who has been playing the longest and has the most experience, she will probably be the one to lead the group and guide them through the game. She also has some information that the others don’t know about yet, and she will probably reveal it at the right time.

                      As the game and the real-world adventures are intertwined, the characters will have to navigate both worlds and find a way to balance them. They will have to use their unique skills and personalities to overcome challenges and solve puzzles, both in the game and in the real world. It will be an exciting and unpredictable journey, full of surprises and twists.

                      #6391
                      ÉricÉric
                      Keymaster

                        write the plot of an absurd non-linear novel, featuring 4 characters

                        The novel begins with the introduction of four characters: a retired archaeologist named Harold, a struggling musician named Samantha, a disillusioned corporate drone named Tim, and a reclusive inventor named Claire.

                        Harold, who is obsessed with ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, discovers a mysterious underground chamber beneath a pyramid in Egypt. Inside, he finds a strange device that he believes is a time machine. Harold decides to use the device to travel back in time to ancient Egypt in order to decipher the hieroglyphs.

                        Samantha, who is trying to make a name for herself as a musician, is struggling to come up with new material for her music. One day, she discovers that she can create beautiful music by communicating with plants telepathically. She becomes obsessed with this new form of music-making and decides to quit her day job and pursue it full-time.

                        Tim, who is stuck in a dead-end job, is feeling unfulfilled and uninspired. One day, he stumbles upon a robotic mime performance art show. The performance inspires him to quit his job and pursue his dream of becoming a mime artist.

                        Claire, who is a reclusive inventor, has been working on a project to create a type of artificial intelligence that can communicate with humans using calligraphic body language. She finally succeeds and creates an AI that she names “Calli”.

                        As the story progresses, the characters’ paths begin to intersect in unexpected ways. Harold gets stuck in ancient Egypt and has to rely on Samantha’s telepathic plant communication skills to find a way back to the present. Tim’s robotic mime art becomes a hit and he starts working with Claire to integrate Calli into his performances.

                        As the story reaches its climax, all four characters come together to use their unique skills and abilities to solve a problem that threatens the fate of the world.

                        Throughout the novel, the plot unfolds in a non-linear fashion, jumping back and forth in time and between the different character’s perspectives. The story is filled with absurdity and unexpected twists and turns, leaving the reader guessing until the very end.

                        What sort of problem that threatens the fate of the world will be resolved by their combined skills?

                        As the story progresses, the characters begin to uncover a sinister plot by a group of powerful individuals who are intent on using the time machine to alter the course of history for their own gain. They plan to use the time machine to go back in time and change key events that would give them immense wealth and power in the present. Harold and Samantha, with the help of Tim and Claire, must race against time to stop the villains from carrying out their plan.

                        Harold’s expertise in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs plays a crucial role in deciphering the clues that lead to the location of the time machine. Samantha’s telepathic plant communication skills are used to locate the hidden underground chamber where the time machine is kept. Tim’s robotic mime art and Claire’s AI Calli are used to infiltrate the villains’ hideout and gather intelligence on their plans.

                        In the final act, the four characters come together to use their unique skills and abilities to stop the villains from altering history. Harold uses his knowledge of ancient Egypt to navigate the time machine and travel back in time to stop the villains from changing key events. Samantha uses her telepathic plant communication skills to communicate with the plants in the past and gather information on the villains’ whereabouts. Tim and Claire use their robotic mime and AI skills to create a diversion and distract the villains while Harold and Samantha complete their mission.

                        In the end, the four characters succeed in stopping the villains and saving the fate of the world. The novel ends with the four characters going their separate ways, but they all know that they will always have each other to rely on in the face of any challenge that comes their way.

                        #6389

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

                        Ricardo had just dropped their last article.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        #6381

                        In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                        ÉricÉric
                        Keymaster

                          Tell me more about the clues that Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin will find on their journeys to discover their inner quirky natures

                          As Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin journeyed through the Land of the Quirks to discover their inner quirky natures, they encountered various clues that helped them on their journey.

                          One of the clues they found was a mysterious map that led them to different locations, each one representing a different aspect of their personalities. The map also had various riddles and puzzles that they had to solve in order to progress to the next location.

                          Another clue they found was a series of journal entries written by a previous explorer who had also journeyed through the Land of the Quirks. The journal entries provided insight and wisdom on how to navigate the land and how to understand and accept one’s quirks.

                          They also encountered a group of strange and eccentric characters who each represented a different aspect of their personalities. These characters provided guidance and helped them understand different parts of themselves. They also helped them understand the importance of accepting and embracing their quirks.

                          They also found a series of symbols and artifacts that represented different parts of their personalities. These symbols and artifacts were like puzzle pieces that, when put together, helped them understand the bigger picture of their inner quirky natures.

                          As they continued their journey, they also learned that the key to discovering their inner quirky natures was not only about finding the physical “Key of Quirks”, but also about understanding and accepting themselves, their faults and their strengths, and learning to embrace their unique quirks.

                           

                          Finding their inner quirks sounds quite definitive. how would you make the ending more open-ended, open to multiple series and iterations of the story without sounding repetitive

                          As Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin journeyed through the Land of the Quirks, they discovered their inner quirky natures, but the journey was far from over. They found that their inner quirks were constantly evolving and changing, and that the Land of the Quirks was a vast and mysterious place with many more secrets to uncover.

                          The group found that the “Key of Quirks” was not just a physical object but a symbol of self-discovery and self-acceptance. They learned that understanding and accepting oneself is a lifelong journey that never truly ends.

                          As they returned to their own world, they realized that they had gained a new perspective on life and that they would continue to carry the lessons they learned in the Land of the Quirks with them. They knew that they would always be on the lookout for new adventures and opportunities to continue exploring themselves and the world around them.

                          The group’s journey in the Land of the Quirks had come to an end but the story was not over. The characters would continue to grow, evolve and change as they experienced new adventures, challenges and self-discoveries. The ending was open-ended and leaves the possibility for multiple series and iterations of the story, each one exploring new aspects of the characters and the Land of the Quirks, without being repetitive.

                          Will they go a try to travel through another of the orbs?

                          It is possible that the group will want to explore other orbs and realms in the Land of the Quirks. The Land of the Quirks is described as a vast and mysterious place with many secrets to uncover, so the possibility of traveling through other orbs or realms is open. They may be tempted to see what other adventures and discoveries await them in these new places.

                          Alternatively, they might decide to take a break from their adventures, and reflect on what they’ve learned, applying it to their daily life, and maybe in the future, they will decide to come back to the Land of the Quirks and explore other orbs, or they may find other means of self-discovery and self-acceptance. In any case, the story leaves it open-ended and the characters have the freedom to choose what they want to do next.

                          How did they discover the orb in the first place?

                          It is not specified how the group discovered the orb in the first place. It could be that they stumbled upon it while on a hike or a camping trip, or it could be that they were on a mission to find it specifically. It could also be that the orb was something that had always been there but had gone unnoticed until one of the group members stumbled upon it.

                          Perhaps it was passed down from generation to generation as a legend, or maybe they found it while they were searching for something else. The story leaves it open-ended and it’s up to the reader’s imagination. The main focus of the story is on the journey and the lessons learned along the way, rather than the specifics of how the orb was discovered.

                          #6267
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            From Tanganyika with Love

                            continued part 8

                            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                            Morogoro 20th January 1941

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 30th July 1941

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 26th August 1941

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 25th December 1941

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 26th January 1944

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

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

                            Dearest Mummy,

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

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

                            Very much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Much love,
                            Eleanor.

                             

                            #6227
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              The Scottish Connection

                              My grandfather always used to say we had some Scottish blood because his “mother was a Purdy”, and that they were from the low counties of Scotland near to the English border.

                              My mother had a Scottish hat in among the boxes of souvenirs and old photographs. In one of her recent house moves, she finally threw it away, not knowing why we had it or where it came from, and of course has since regretted it!  It probably came from one of her aunts, either Phyllis or Dorothy. Neither of them had children, and they both died in 1983. My grandfather was executor of the estate in both cases, and it’s assumed that the portraits, the many photographs, the booklet on Primitive Methodists, and the Scottish hat, all relating to his mother’s side of the family, came into his possession then. His sister Phyllis never married and was living in her parents home until she died, and is the likeliest candidate for the keeper of the family souvenirs.

                              Catherine Housley married George Purdy, and his father was Francis Purdy, the Primitive Methodist preacher.  William Purdy was the father of Francis.

                              Record searches find William Purdy was born on 16 July 1767 in Carluke, Lanarkshire, near Glasgow in Scotland. He worked for James Watt, the inventor of the steam engine, and moved to Derbyshire for the purpose of installing steam driven pumps to remove the water from the collieries in the area.

                              Another descendant of Francis Purdy found the following in a book in a library in Eastwood:

                              William Purdy

                              William married a local girl, Ruth Clarke, in Duffield in Derbyshire in 1786.  William and Ruth had nine children, and the seventh was Francis who was born at West Hallam in 1795.

                              Perhaps the Scottish hat came from William Purdy, but there is another story of Scottish connections in Smalley:  Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745.  Although the Purdy’s were not from Smalley, Catherine Housley was.

                              From an article on the Heanor and District Local History Society website:

                              The Jacobites in Smalley

                              Few people would readily associate the village of Smalley, situated about two miles west of Heanor, with Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 – but there is a clear link.

                              During the winter of 1745, Charles Edward Stuart, the “Bonnie Prince” or “The Young Pretender”, marched south from Scotland. His troops reached Derby on 4 December, and looted the town, staying for two days before they commenced a fateful retreat as the Duke of Cumberland’s army approached.

                              While staying in Derby, or during the retreat, some of the Jacobites are said to have visited some of the nearby villages, including Smalley.

                              A history of the local aspects of this escapade was written in 1933 by L. Eardley-Simpson, entitled “Derby and the ‘45,” from which the following is an extract:

                              “The presence of a party at Smalley is attested by several local traditions and relics. Not long ago there were people living who remember to have seen at least a dozen old pikes in a room adjoining the stables at Smalley Hall, and these were stated to have been left by a party of Highlanders who came to exchange their ponies for horses belonging to the then owner, Mrs Richardson; in 1907, one of these pikes still remained. Another resident of Smalley had a claymore which was alleged to have been found on Drumhill, Breadsall Moor, while the writer of the History of Smalley himself (Reverend C. Kerry) had a magnificent Andrew Ferrara, with a guard of finely wrought iron, engraved with two heads in Tudor helmets, of the same style, he states, as the one left at Wingfield Manor, though why the outlying bands of Army should have gone so far afield, he omits to mention. Smalley is also mentioned in another strange story as to the origin of the family of Woolley of Collingham who attained more wealth and a better position in the world than some of their relatives. The story is to the effect that when the Scots who had visited Mrs Richardson’s stables were returning to Derby, they fell in with one Woolley of Smalley, a coal carrier, and impressed him with horse and cart for the conveyance of certain heavy baggage. On the retreat, the party with Woolley was surprised by some of the Elector’s troopers (the Royal army) who pursued the Scots, leaving Woolley to shift for himself. This he did, and, his suspicion that the baggage he was carrying was part of the Prince’s treasure turning out to be correct, he retired to Collingham, and spent the rest of his life there in the enjoyment of his luckily acquired gains. Another story of a similar sort was designed to explain the rise of the well-known Derbyshire family of Cox of Brailsford, but the dates by no means agree with the family pedigree, and in any event the suggestion – for it is little more – is entirely at variance with the views as to the rights of the Royal House of Stuart which were expressed by certain members of the Cox family who were alive not many years ago.”

                              A letter from Charles Kerry, dated 30 July 1903, narrates another strange twist to the tale. When the Highlanders turned up in Smalley, a large crowd, mainly women, gathered. “On a command in Gaelic, the regiment stooped, and throwing their kilts over their backs revealed to the astonished ladies and all what modesty is careful to conceal. Father, who told me, said they were not any more troubled with crowds of women.”

                              Folklore or fact? We are unlikely to know, but the Scottish artefacts in the Smalley area certainly suggest that some of the story is based on fact.

                              We are unlikely to know where that Scottish hat came from, but we did find the Scottish connection.  William Purdy’s mother was Grizel Gibson, and her mother was Grizel Murray, both of Lanarkshire in Scotland.  The name Grizel is a Scottish form of the name Griselda, and means “grey battle maiden”.  But with the exception of the name Murray, The Purdy and Gibson names are not traditionally Scottish, so there is not much of a Scottish connection after all.  But the mystery of the Scottish hat remains unsolved.

                              #6219
                              TracyTracy
                              Participant

                                The following stories started with a single question.

                                Who was Catherine Housley’s mother?

                                But one question leads to another, and another, and so this book will never be finished.  This is the first in a collection of stories of a family history research project, not a complete family history.  There will always be more questions and more searches, and each new find presents more questions.

                                A list of names and dates is only moderately interesting, and doesn’t mean much unless you get to know the characters along the way.   For example, a cousin on my fathers side has already done a great deal of thorough and accurate family research. I copied one branch of the family onto my tree, going back to the 1500’s, but lost interest in it after about an hour or so, because I didn’t feel I knew any of the individuals.

                                Parish registers, the census every ten years, birth, death and marriage certificates can tell you so much, but they can’t tell you why.  They don’t tell you why parents chose the names they did for their children, or why they moved, or why they married in another town.  They don’t tell you why a person lived in another household, or for how long. The census every ten years doesn’t tell you what people were doing in the intervening years, and in the case of the UK and the hundred year privacy rule, we can’t even use those for the past century.  The first census was in 1831 in England, prior to that all we have are parish registers. An astonishing amount of them have survived and have been transcribed and are one way or another available to see, both transcriptions and microfiche images.  Not all of them survived, however. Sometimes the writing has faded to white, sometimes pages are missing, and in some case the entire register is lost or damaged.

                                Sometimes if you are lucky, you may find mention of an ancestor in an obscure little local history book or a journal or diary.  Wills, court cases, and newspaper archives often provide interesting information. Town memories and history groups on social media are another excellent source of information, from old photographs of the area, old maps, local history, and of course, distantly related relatives still living in the area.  Local history societies can be useful, and some if not all are very helpful.

                                If you’re very lucky indeed, you might find a distant relative in another country whose grandparents saved and transcribed bundles of old letters found in the attic, from the family in England to the brother who emigrated, written in the 1800s.  More on this later, as it merits its own chapter as the most exciting find so far.

                                The social history of the time and place is important and provides many clues as to why people moved and why the family professions and occupations changed over generations.  The Enclosures Act and the Industrial Revolution in England created difficulties for rural farmers, factories replaced cottage industries, and the sons of land owning farmers became shop keepers and miners in the local towns.  For the most part (at least in my own research) people didn’t move around much unless there was a reason.  There are no reasons mentioned in the various registers, records and documents, but with a little reading of social history you can sometimes make a good guess.  Samuel Housley, for example, a plumber, probably moved from rural Derbyshire to urban Wolverhampton, when there was a big project to install indoor plumbing to areas of the city in the early 1800s.  Derbyshire nailmakers were offered a job and a house if they moved to Wolverhampton a generation earlier.

                                Occasionally a couple would marry in another parish, although usually they married in their own. Again, there was often a reason.  William Housley and Ellen Carrington married in Ashbourne, not in Smalley.  In this case, William’s first wife was Mary Carrington, Ellen’s sister.  It was not uncommon for a man to marry a deceased wife’s sister, but it wasn’t strictly speaking legal.  This caused some problems later when William died, as the children of the first wife contested the will, on the grounds of the second marriage being illegal.

                                Needless to say, there are always questions remaining, and often a fresh pair of eyes can help find a vital piece of information that has escaped you.  In one case, I’d been looking for the death of a widow, Mary Anne Gilman, and had failed to notice that she remarried at a late age. Her death was easy to find, once I searched for it with her second husbands name.

                                This brings me to the topic of maternal family lines. One tends to think of their lineage with the focus on paternal surnames, but very quickly the number of surnames increases, and all of the maternal lines are directly related as much as the paternal name.  This is of course obvious, if you start from the beginning with yourself and work back.  In other words, there is not much point in simply looking for your fathers name hundreds of years ago because there are hundreds of other names that are equally your own family ancestors. And in my case, although not intentionally, I’ve investigated far more maternal lines than paternal.

                                This book, which I hope will be the first of several, will concentrate on my mothers family: The story so far that started with the portrait of Catherine Housley’s mother.

                                Elizabeth Brookes

                                 

                                This painting, now in my mothers house, used to hang over the piano in the home of her grandparents.   It says on the back “Catherine Housley’s mother, Smalley”.

                                The portrait of Catherine Housley’s mother can be seen above the piano. Back row Ronald Marshall, my grandfathers brother, William Marshall, my great grandfather, Mary Ann Gilman Purdy Marshall in the middle, my great grandmother, with her daughters Dorothy on the left and Phyllis on the right, at the Marshall’s house on Love Lane in Stourbridge.

                                Marshalls

                                 

                                 

                                The Search for Samuel Housley

                                As soon as the search for Catherine Housley’s mother was resolved, achieved by ordering a paper copy of her birth certificate, the search for Catherine Housley’s father commenced. We know he was born in Smalley in 1816, son of William Housley and Ellen Carrington, and that he married Elizabeth Brookes in Wolverhampton in 1844. He was a plumber and glazier. His three daughters born between 1845 and 1849 were born in Smalley. Elizabeth died in 1849 of consumption, but Samuel didn’t register her death. A 20 year old neighbour called Aaron Wadkinson did.

                                Elizabeth death

                                 

                                Where was Samuel?

                                On the 1851 census, two of Samuel’s daughters were listed as inmates in the Belper Workhouse, and the third, 2 year old Catherine, was listed as living with John Benniston and his family in nearby Heanor.  Benniston was a framework knitter.

                                Where was Samuel?

                                A long search through the microfiche workhouse registers provided an answer. The reason for Elizabeth and Mary Anne’s admission in June 1850 was given as “father in prison”. In May 1850, Samuel Housley was sentenced to one month hard labour at Derby Gaol for failing to maintain his three children. What happened to those little girls in the year after their mothers death, before their father was sentenced, and they entered the workhouse? Where did Catherine go, a six week old baby? We have yet to find out.

                                Samuel Housley 1850

                                 

                                And where was Samuel Housley in 1851? He hasn’t appeared on any census.

                                According to the Belper workhouse registers, Mary Anne was discharged on trial as a servant February 1860. She was readmitted a month later in March 1860, the reason given: unwell.

                                Belper Workhouse:

                                Belper Workhouse

                                Eventually, Mary Anne and Elizabeth were discharged, in April 1860, with an aunt and uncle. The workhouse register doesn’t name the aunt and uncle. One can only wonder why it took them so long.
                                On the 1861 census, Elizabeth, 16 years old, is a servant in St Peters, Derby, and Mary Anne, 15 years old, is a servant in St Werburghs, Derby.

                                But where was Samuel?

                                After some considerable searching, we found him, despite a mistranscription of his name, on the 1861 census, living as a lodger and plumber in Darlaston, Walsall.
                                Eventually we found him on a 1871 census living as a lodger at the George and Dragon in Henley in Arden. The age is not exactly right, but close enough, he is listed as an unmarried painter, also close enough, and his birth is listed as Kidsley, Derbyshire. He was born at Kidsley Grange Farm. We can assume that he was probably alive in 1872, the year his mother died, and the following year, 1873, during the Kerry vs Housley court case.

                                Samuel Housley 1871

                                 

                                I found some living Housley descendants in USA. Samuel Housley’s brother George emigrated there in 1851. The Housley’s in USA found letters in the attic, from the family in Smalley ~ written between 1851 and 1870s. They sent me a “Narrative on the Letters” with many letter excerpts.

                                The Housley family were embroiled in a complicated will and court case in the early 1870s. In December 15, 1872, Joseph (Samuel’s brother) wrote to George:

                                “I think we have now found all out now that is concerned in the matter for there was only Sam that we did not know his whereabouts but I was informed a week ago that he is dead–died about three years ago in Birmingham Union. Poor Sam. He ought to have come to a better end than that….His daughter and her husband went to Birmingham and also to Sutton Coldfield that is where he married his wife from and found out his wife’s brother. It appears he has been there and at Birmingham ever since he went away but ever fond of drink.”

                                No record of Samuel Housley’s death can be found for the Birmingham Union in 1869 or thereabouts.

                                But if he was alive in 1871 in Henley In Arden…..
                                Did Samuel tell his wife’s brother to tell them he was dead? Or did the brothers say he was dead so they could have his share?

                                We still haven’t found a death for Samuel Housley.

                                 

                                 

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