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  • #7874

    A Quick Vacay on Mars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The Truce on Earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

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

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

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

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

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

    Evie & Riven’s Big News

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

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

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

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

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

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

    #7849

    Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

    Amara’s Lab – Data Now Aggregated
    (Discrepancies Never Addressed)

    On the screen in front of Dr. Amara Voss, lines upon lines of genetic code were cascading and making her sleepy. While the rest of the ship was running amok, she was barricaded into her lab, content to have been staring at the sequences for the most part of the day —too long actually.

    She took a sip of her long-cold tea and exhaled sharply.

    Even if data was patchy from the records she had access to, there was a solid database of genetic materials, all dutifully collected for all passengers, or crew before embarkment, as was mandated by company policy. The official reason being to detect potential risks for deep space survival. Before the ship’s take-over, systematic recording of new-borns had been neglected, and after the ship’s takeover, population’s new born had drastically reduced, with the birth control program everyone had agreed on, as was suggested by Synthia. So not everyone’s DNA was accounted for, but in theory, anybody on the ship could be traced back and matched by less than 2 or 3 generations to the original data records.

    The Marlowe lineage was the one that kept resurfacing. At first, she thought it was coincidence—tracing the bloodlines of the ship’s inhabitants was messy, a tangled net of survivors, refugees, and engineered populations. But Marlowe wasn’t alone.

    Another name pulsed in the data. Forgelot. Then Holt. Old names of Earth, unlike the new star-birthed. There were others, too.

    Families that had been aboard Helix 25 for some generations. But more importantly, bloodlines that could be traced back to Earth’s distant past.

    But beyond just analysing their origins, there was something else that caught her attention. It was what was happening to them now.

    Amara leaned forward, pulling up the mutation activation models she had been building. In normal conditions, these dormant genetic markers would remain just that—latent. Passed through generations like forgotten heirlooms, meaningless until triggered.

    Except in this case, there was evidence that something had triggered them.

    The human body, subjected to long-term exposure to deep space radiation, artificial gravity shifts, and cosmic phenomena, and had there not been a fair dose of shielding from the hull, should have mutated chaotically, randomly. But this was different. The genetic sequences weren’t just mutating—they were activating.

    And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

    Something—or someone—had inherited an old mechanism that allowed them to access knowledge, instincts, memories from generations long past.

    The ancient Templars had believed in a ritualistic process to recover ancestral skills and knowledge. What Amara was seeing now…

    She rubbed her forehead.

    “Impossible.”

    And yet—here was the data.

    On Earth, the past was written in stories and fading ink. In space, the past was still alive—hiding inside their cells, waiting.

    Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

    The Golden Trowel, Hungary

    The candlelit warmth of The Golden Trowel buzzed with newfound energy. The survivors sat in a loose circle, drinks in hand, at this unplanned but much-needed evening of levity.

    Once the postcards shared, everyone was listening as Tala addressed the group.

    “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard,” she said. “If not, pass it on. No wrong answers, but the best story wins.”

    Molly felt the weight of her own selection, the Giralda’s spire sharp and unmistakable. Something about it stirred her—an itch in the back of her mind, a thread tugging at long-buried memories.

    She turned toward Vera, who was already inspecting her own card with keen interest.

    “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

    Vera arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips curving in amusement.

    Molly Darling,” she drawled, “I can tell you lots, I know more about dead people’s families than most people know about their living ones, and London is surely a place of abundance of stories. But do you even know about your own name Marlowe?”

    She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

    “Not sure, really, I only know about Philip Marlowe, the fictional detective from Lady in the Lake novel… Never really thought about the name before.”

    “Marlowe,” Vera smiled. “That’s an old name. Very old. Derived from an Old English phrase meaning ‘remnants of a lake.’

    Molly inhaled sharply.

    Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

    Her pulse thrummed. Beyond the historical curiosity she’d felt a deep old connection.

    If her family had left behind records, they would have been on the ship… The thought came with unwanted feelings she’d rather have buried. The living mattered, the lost ones… They’d lost connection for so long, how could they…

    Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

    Unless there was something behind her ravings?

    Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and met Vera’s gaze. “I need to talk to Finja.”

    :fleuron2:

    Finja had spent most of the evening pretending not to exist.

    But after the fifth time Molly nudged her, eyes bright with silent pleas, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

    “Alright,” she muttered. “But just one.”

    Molly exhaled in relief.

    The once-raucous Golden Trowel had dimmed into something softer—the edges of the night blurred with expectation.

    Because it wasn’t just Molly who wanted to ask.

    Maybe it was the effect of the postcards game, a shared psychic connection, or maybe like someone had muttered, caused by the new Moon’s sickness… A dozen others had realized, all at once, that they too had names to whisper.

    Somehow, a whole population was still alive, in space, after all this time. There was no time for disbelief now, Finja’s knowledge of stuff was incontrovertible. Molly was cued by the care-taking of Ellis Marlowe by Finkley, she knew things about her softie of a son, only his mother and close people would know.

    So Finja had relented. And agreed to use all means to establish a connection, to reignite a spark of hope she was worried could just be the last straw before being thrown into despair once again.

    Finja closed her eyes.

    The link had always been there, an immediate vivid presence beneath her skull, pristine and comfortable but tonight it felt louder, crowdier.

    The moons had shifted, in syzygy, with a gravity pull in their orbits tugging at things unseen.

    She reached out—

    And the voices crashed into her.

    Too much. Too many.

    Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

    “Where is my brother?”
    “Did my wife make it aboard?”
    “My son—please—he was supposed to be on Helix 23—”
    “Tell them I’m still here!”

    Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

    The crowd held its breath.

    A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

    Finja clenched her fists. She had to shut it down. She had to—

    And then—

    Something else.

    A presence. Watching.

    Synthia.

    Her chest seized.

    There was no logical way for an AI to interfere with telepathic frequencies.

    And yet—

    She felt it.

    A subtle distortion. A foreign hand pressing against the link, observing.

    The ship knew.

    Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

    The bar erupted into chaos.

    “FINJA?! What did you see?”
    “Was someone there?”
    “Did you find anyone?!”

    Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

    She had never thought about the consequences of calling out across space.

    But now…

    Now she knew.

    They were not the last survivors. Other lived and thrived beyond Earth.

    And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

    Yet, Finja and Finkley had both simultaneously caught something.
    It would take the ship time, but they were coming back. Synthia was not pleased about it, but had not been able to override the response to the beacon.

    They were coming back.

    #7846

    Helix 25 — The Captain’s Awakening

    The beacon’s pulse cut through the void like a sharpened arrowhead of ancient memory.

    Far from Merdhyn’s remote island refuge, deep within the Hold’s bowels of Helix 25, something—someone—stirred.

    Inside an unlisted cryo-chamber, the frozen stasis cracked. Veins of light slithered across the pod’s surface like Northern lights dancing on an old age screensaver. Systems whirred, data blipped and streamed in strings of unknown characters. The ship, Synthia, whispered in its infinite omniscience, but the moment was already beyond her control.

    A breath. A slow, drawn-out breath.

    The cryo-pod released its lock with a soft hiss, and through the dispersing mist, Veranassessee stepped forward— awakened.

    She blinked once, twice, as her senses rushed back with the sudden sense of gravity’s return. It was not the disorienting shock of the newly thawed. No—this was a return long overdue. Her mind, trained to absorb and adapt, locked onto the now, cataloging every change, every discrepancy as her mind had remained awake during the whole session —equipoise and open, as a true master of her senses she was.

    She was older than when she had first stepped inside. Older, but not old. Age, after all, was a trick of perception, and if anyone had mastered perception, it was her.

    But now, crises called. Plural indeed. And she, once more, was called to carry out her divine duty, with skills forged in Earthly battles with mad scientists, genetically modified spiders bent on world domination, and otherworldly crystal skulls thiefs. That was far in her past. Since then, she’d used her skills in the private sector, climbing the ranks as her efficient cold-as-steel talents were recognized at every step. She was the true Captain. She had earned it. That was how Victor Holt fell in love. She hated that people could think it was depotism that gave her the title. If anything, she helped make Victor the man he was.

    The ship thrummed beneath her bare feet. A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed since she last walked these halls, something was off. The ship’s course? Its command structure?

    And, most importantly—
    Who had sent the signal?

    :fleuron2:

    Ellis Marlowe Sr. had moved swiftly for a man his age. It wasn’t that he feared the unknown. It wasn’t even the mystery of the murder that pushed him forward. It was something deeper, more personal.

    The moment the solar flare alert had passed, whispers had spread—faint, half-muttered rumors that the Restricted Cryo-Chambers had been breached.

    By the time he reached it, the pod was already empty.

    The remnants of thawing frost still clung to the edges of the chamber. A faint imprint of a body, long at rest, now gone.

    He swore under his breath, then turned to the ship’s log panel,  reaching for a battered postcard. Scribbled on it were cheatcodes. His hands moved with a careful expertise of someone who had spent too many years filing things that others had forgotten. A postman he was, and registers he knew well.

    Access Denied.

    That wasn’t right. The codes should have given Ellis clearance for everything.

    He scowled, adjusting his glasses. It was always the same names, always the same people tied to these inexplicable gaps in knowledge.

    The Holts. The Forgelots. The Marlowes.
    And now, an unlisted cryopod with no official records.

    Ellis exhaled slowly.

    She was back. And with her, more history with this ship, like pieces of old broken potteries in an old dig would be unearthed.

    He turned, already making his way toward the Murder Board.

    Evie needed to see this.

    :fleuron2:

    The corridor stretched out before her, familiar in its dimensions yet strange in its silence. She had managed to switch the awkward hospital gown to a non-descript uniform that was hanging in the Hold.

    How long have I been gone?

    She exhaled. Irrelevant.

    Her body moved with the precise economy of someone whose training never dulled. Her every motion were simple yet calculated, and her every breath controlled.

    Unlike in the crypod, her mind started to bubbled with long forgotten emotions. It flickered over past decisions, past betrayals.

    Victor Holt.

    The name of her ex-husband settled into her consciousness. Once her greatest ally, then her most carefully avoided adversary.

    And now?

    Veranassessee smiled, stretching her limbs as though shrugging off the stiffness of years.

    Outside, strange cries and howling in the corridors sounded like a mess was in progress. Who was in charge now? They were clearly doing a shit job.

    Now, it was time to reclaim her ship.

    She had questions.
    And someone had better start providing answers.

    #7777

    The Survivors:

    “Well, I’ll be damned,” Gregor said, his face cracking into another toothless grin. “Beginning to think we might be the last ones.”

    “So did we.” Molly glanced nervously around at the odd assortment of people staring at her and Tundra. “I’m Molly. This is Tundra.”

    “Tundra? Like the frozen wasteland?” Yulia asked.

    Tundra nodded. “It’s because I’m strong and tough.”

    “Would you like to join us?” Tala motioned toward the fire.

    “Yes, yes, of course, ” Anya said. “Are you hungry?”

    Molly hesitated, glancing toward the edge of the clearing, where their horses stood tethered to a low branch. “We have food,” she said. “We foraged.”

    “I’d have foraged if someone didn’t keep going on about food poisoning,” Yulia muttered.

    Finja sniffed. “Forgive me for trying to keep you alive.”

    Molly watched the exchange with interest. It had been years since she’d seen people bicker over something so trivial. It was oddly comforting.

    She lowered herself slowly onto the log next to Vera. “Alright, tell me—who exactly are you lot?”

    Petro chuckled. “We’ve escaped from the asylum.”

    Molly’s face remained impassive. “Asylum?”

    “It’s okay,” Tala said quickly. “We’re mostly sane.”

    “Not completely crazy, anyway,” Yulia added cheerfully.

    “We were left behind years ago,” Anya said simply. “So we built our own kind of life.”

    A pause. Molly gave a slow nod, considering this. Vera leaned towards her eagerly.

    “Where are you from? Any noble blood?”

    Molly frowned. “Does it matter?”

    “Oh, not really,” Vera said dejectedly. “I just like knowing.”

    Tundra, warming her hands by the fire, looked at Vera. “We came from Spain.”

    Vera perked up. “Spain? Fascinating! And tell me, dear girl, have you ever traced your lineage?”

    “Just back to Molly. She’s ninety-three,” Tundra said proudly.

    Mikhail, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. “You travelled all the way from Spain?”

    Molly nodded. “A long time ago. There were more of us then… ” Her voice wavered. “We were looking for other survivors.”

    “And?”Mikhail asked.

    Molly sighed, glancing at Tundra. “We never found any.”

    ________________________________________

    That night, they took turns keeping watch, though Molly tried to reassure them there was no need.

    “At first, we did too,” she had said, shaking her head. “But there was no one…”

    By dawn, the fire had burned to embers, and the camp stirred reluctantly to life.

    They finished off the last of their cooked vegetables from the night before, while Molly and Tundra laid out a handful of foraged berries and mushrooms. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start the day.

    “Right,” Anya said, stretching. “I suppose we should get moving.” She looked at Molly and Tundra. “You’re coming with us, then? To the city?”

    Molly nodded. “If you’ll have us.”

    “We kept going and going, hoping to find people. Now we have,” Tundra said.

    “Then it’s settled,” Anya said. “We head to the city.”

    “And what exactly are we looking for?” Molly asked.

    Mikhail shrugged. “Anything that keeps us alive.”

    ________________________________________________

    It was late morning when they saw it.

    A vehicle—an old, battered truck, crawling slowly toward them.

    The sight was so absurd, so impossible, that for a moment, no one spoke.

    “That can’t be,” Molly murmured.

    The truck bounced over the uneven ground, its engine a dull, sluggish rattle. It wasn’t in good shape, but it was moving.

    #7776

    Epilogue & Prologue

    Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds

    Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.

    It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.

    The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.

    And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.

    The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.

    She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.

    Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.

    “Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”

    And that was what had happened.

    The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.

     

    True Stories of How It Was.

     

    It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.

    As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.

    Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.

    Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.

    Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.

    Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.

    And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.

    The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.

    For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.

    Tabitha turned the page.

    “We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”

    They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.

    A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
    Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
    A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
    An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.

    It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.

    At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.

    There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.

    Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.

    And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.

    Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.

    “Another espresso?”

    She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”

    She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.

    A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.

    Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.

    She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.

    #7711

    Matteo — December 2022

    Juliette leaned in, her phone screen glowing faintly between them. “Come on, pick something. It’s supposed to know everything—or at least sound like it does.”

    Juliette was the one who’d introduced him to the app the whole world was abuzz talking about. MeowGPT.

    At the New Year’s eve family dinner at Juliette’s parents, the whole house was alive with her sisters, nephews, and cousins. She entered a discussion with one of the kids, and they all seemed to know well about it. It was fun to see the adults were oblivious, himself included. He liked it about Juliette that she had such insatiable curiosity.

    “It’s a life-changer, you know” she’d said “There’ll be a time, we won’t know about how we did without it. The kids born now will not know a world without it. Look, I’m sure my nephews are already cheating at their exams with it, or finding new ways to learn…”

    “New ways to learn, that sounds like a mirage…. Bit of a drastic view to think we won’t live without; I’d like to think like with the mobile phones, we can still choose to live without.”

    “And lose your way all the time with worn-out paper maps instead of GPS? That’s a grandpa mindset darling! I can see quite a few reasons not to choose!” she laughed.
    “Anyway, we’ll see. What would you like to know about? A crazy recipe to grow hair? A fancy trip to a little known place? Write a technical instruction in the style of Elizabeth Tattler?”

    “Let me see…”

    Matteo smirked, swirling the last sip of crémant in his glass. The lively discussions of Juliette’s family around them made the moment feel oddly private. “Alright, let’s try something practical. How about early signs of Alzheimer’s? You know, for Ma.”

    Juliette’s smile softened as she tapped the query into the app. Matteo watched, half curious, half detached.

    The app processed for a moment before responding in its overly chipper tone:
    “Early signs of Alzheimer’s can include memory loss, difficulty planning or solving problems, and confusion with time or place. For personalized insights, understanding specific triggers, like stress or diet, can help manage early symptoms.”

    Matteo frowned. “That’s… general. I thought it was supposed to be revolutionary?”

    “Wait for it,” Juliette said, tapping again, her tone teasing. “What if we ask it about long-term memory triggers? Something for nostalgia. Your Ma’s been into her old photos, right?”

    The app spun its virtual gears and spat out a more detailed suggestion.
    “Consider discussing familiar stories, music, or scents. Interestingly, recent studies on Alzheimer’s patients show a strong response to tactile memories. For example, one groundbreaking case involved genetic ancestry research coupled with personalized sensory cues.

    Juliette tilted her head, reading the screen aloud. “Huh, look at this—Dr. Elara V., a retired physicist, designed a patented method combining ancestral genetic research with soundwaves sensory stimuli to enhance attention and preserve memory function. Her work has been cited in connection with several studies on Alzheimer’s.”

    “Elara?” Matteo’s brow furrowed. “Uncommon name… Where have I heard it before?”

    Juliette shrugged. “Says here she retired to Tuscany after the pandemic. Fancy that.” She tapped the screen again, scrolling. “Apparently, she was a physicist with some quirky ideas. Had a side hustle on patents, one of which actually turned out useful. Something about genetic resonance? Sounds like a sci-fi movie.”

    Matteo stared at the screen, a strange feeling tugging at him. “Genetic resonance…? It’s like these apps read your mind, huh? Do they just make this stuff up?”

    Juliette laughed, nudging him. “Maybe! The system is far from foolproof, it may just have blurted out a completely imagined story, although it’s probably got it from somewhere on the internet. You better do your fact-checking. This woman would have published papers back when we were kids, and now the AI’s connecting dots.”

    The name lingered with him, though. Elara. It felt distant yet oddly familiar, like the shadow of a memory just out of reach.

    “You think she’s got more work like that?” he asked, more to himself than to Juliette.

    Juliette handed him the phone. “You’re the one with the questions. Go ahead.”

    Matteo hesitated before typing, almost without thinking: Elara Tuscany memory research.

    The app processed again, and the next response was less clinical, more anecdotal.
    “Elara V., known for her unconventional methods, retired to Tuscany where she invested in rural revitalization. A small village farmhouse became her retreat, and she occasionally supported artistic projects. Her most cited breakthrough involved pairing sensory stimuli with genetic lineage insights to enhance memory preservation.”

    Matteo tilted the phone towards Juliette. “She supports artists? Sounds like a soft spot for the dreamers.”

    “Maybe she’s your type,” Juliette teased, grinning.

    Matteo laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, if she wasn’t old enough to be my mother.”

    The conversation shifted, but Matteo couldn’t shake the feeling the name had stirred. As Juliette’s family called them back to the table, he pocketed his phone, a strange warmth lingering—part curiosity, part recognition.

    To think that months before, all that technologie to connect dots together didn’t exist. People would spend years of research, now accessible in a matter of seconds.

    Later that night, as they were waiting for the new year countdown, he found himself wondering: What kind of person would spend their retirement investing in forgotten villages and forgotten dreams? Someone who believed in second chances, maybe. Someone who, like him, was drawn to the idea of piecing together a life from scattered connections.

    #7645
    F LoveF Love
    Participant

      Amei sat cross-legged on the floor in what had once been the study, its emptiness amplified by the packed boxes stacked along the walls. The bookshelves were mostly bare now, save for a few piles of books she was donating to goodwill.

      The window was open, and a soft breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the faint chime of church bells in the distance. Ten o’clock. Tomorrow was moving day.

      Her notebooks were heaped beside her on the floor—a chaotic mix of battered leather covers, spiral-bound pads, and sleek journals bought in fleeting fits of optimism. She ran a hand over the stack, wondering if it was time to let them go. A fresh start meant travelling lighter, didn’t it?

      She hesitated, then picked up the top notebook. Flipping it open, she skimmed the pages—lists, sketches, fragments of thoughts and poems. As she turned another page, a postcard slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

      She picked it up. The faded image showed a winding mountain road, curling into mist. On the back, Darius had written:

      “Found this place by accident. You’d love it. Or maybe hate it. Either way, it made me think of you. D.”

      Amei stared at the card. She’d forgotten about these postcards, scattered through her notebooks like breadcrumbs to another time. Sliding it back into place, she set the notebook aside and reached for another, older one. Its edges were frayed, its cover softened by time.

      She flicked through the pages until an entry caught her eye, scrawled as though written in haste:

      Lucien found the map at a flea market. He thought it was just a novelty, but the seller was asking too much. L was ready to leave it when Elara saw the embossed bell in the corner. LIKE THE OTHER BELL. Darius was sure it wasn’t a coincidence, but of course wouldn’t say why. Typical. He insisted we buy it, and somehow the map ended up with me. “You’ll keep it safe,” he said. Safe from what? He wouldn’t say.

      The map! Where was the map now? How had she forgotten it entirely? It had just been another one of their games back then, following whatever random clues they stumbled across. Fun at the time, but nothing she’d taken seriously. Maybe Darius had, though—especially in light of what happened later. She flipped the page, but the next entry was mundane—a note about Elara’s birthday. She read through to the end of the notebook, but there was no follow-up.

      She glanced at the boxes. Could the map still be here, buried among her things? Stuffed into one of her notebooks? Or, most likely, had it been lost long ago?

      She closed the notebook and sighed. Throwing them out would have been easier if they hadn’t started whispering to her again, pulling at fragments of a past she thought she had left behind.

      #7505

      It was a good thing that Mother Lorena, who was notoriously hard of hearing was not within earshot.

      She would have been horrified at the mention of conduction of “six rituals” in those hallowed grounds.

      Luckily, she was busy reviewing and stoking fireplaces around the convent, due to the unexpected cold snap due to the Sahara sands painting the skies in a somber reddish darkly dark.

      :fleuron:

      Meanwhile, Eris who has followed Echo’s instructions after the sprite had LiDAR’d the underground spaces, had quickly found herself in the underground ways thanks to its instructions, close to the telluric surges origins. She could see there were pockets of magma softly bubbling underground. The upstairs agitation seemed to have stirred the currents.

      A little spell, used wisely, would do just fine – as an omen, or as a threat, all sorts of motivations tactics which had the best of intentions in order to dispel tensions, with just the right alignment of energies… as touching the earth’s core, needed summoning of both respect and precision.

      Ignis Draconis, come to form, Through the earth, through the storm, Guided by my whispered call, Rise, smoke dragons, one and all.

      #7457

      Jeezel was stirred awake by the unsettling sound of someone throwing up. Her phone said it was 3am.

      “Luminia? Are you ok?” she croaked, her throat so sore she wondered if vocal fry was that painful.

      “That’s nothing,” said Luminia licking her muzzle. “You can go back to sleep.”

      “Nothing, it didn’t sound like nothing.”

      She got up and stepped into a warm, wet puddle.

      “I’m shedding,” said Luminia as if it explained everything. “I didn’t want to bother you after your bouts of fever. I would have cleaned it before you noticed.”

      “Well now I’m awake and my foot noticed. At least I didn’t dream of Concordia potion and missing willow wand.”

      Jeezel hopped on one foot to the bathroom, gracefully avoiding any slip on the sleek, newly refinished hardwood floor. She washed her feet and consulted her phone while relieving herself of her evening herbal tea. She smiled at the 557 messages she got from her fellow witches. She didn’t recall where they had been but they seemed to be having fun. She was a bit sad she couldn’t join, but still glad to be able to enjoy it by proxy.

      She particularly enjoyed the video tour Truella had made of the ruins she’d discovered in the garden where they were staying. And she sneezed when she saw a picture of Frella with that other woman. Did she just smelled camphor? Eris had written “Frella and Herma” under it. Jeezel wondered who that Herma was. She would have enjoyed meeting new people for real. Her cough reminded her it would have to wait. And she had some cleaning to do. At least she had a renewed sense of being alive.

      #7329

      The soft candle light on the altar created moving patterns on the walls draped with velvets and satins. The boudoir was the sanctuary where Jeezel weaved her magic. The patterns on the tapestries changed with her mood, and that night they were a blend of light and dark, electricity made them crackle like lightning in a mid afternoon summer storm.

      The altar was a beautifully crafted mahogany table with each legs like a spindle from Sleeping Beauty’s own spinning wheel, but there was no sleeping done here. On her left, her vanity with her collection of wigs, each one a masterpiece styled to perfection, in every shade you could imagine. Tonight, she had chosen the red one. It was a fiery cascade of passion and power, the kind of red that stops traffic. Jeezel needed the confidence and boldness imbued in it to cast the potent Concordia spell.

      The air was thick with the perfume of white sage. Lumina, Jeezel’s nine tailed fox familiar, was curled-up on a couch adorned with mystical silver runes pulsating with magic, her muzzle buried in the fur of her nine tails. Her eyes half closed, she was observing Jeezel’s preparation on the altar. The witch had lit a magical fire to heat a cauldron that’s seen more spells than a dictionary.

      Jeezel had carefully selected a playlist as harmonious and uplifting as the spell itself, to make a symphony of sounds that would weave together like the most exquisite lace front on a show-stopping wig. She wanted it to be an auditory journey to the highest peaks of harmony that would support her during the casting.

      As the precious moon water began to simmer, Jeezel creased the rose petals and the lavender in her hands before she delicately dropped them in the cauldron. The scent rose to her nose and she stirred clockwise with a wand made of the finest willow, while invoking thoughts of unity and shared purpose. The jittery patterns on the walls started to form temporary clusters. A change of colour in the liquid informed the witch it was time to add a drizzle of honey. Jeezel watched as it swirled into the potion, casting a golden glow that promised to mend fences and build bridges. The walls were full of harmonious ripples undulating gently in a soothing manner.

      Once the honey was completely melted, Jeezel dropped in an amethyst crystal, whose radiating power would purify the concoction. The potion started to bubble and the glow on the tapestries turned an ugly dark red. Jeezel frowned, wondering if she had done something wrong.

      “Stay focused,” said the fox in a brisk voice. “Good. The team energy is fighting back. Plant your stiletto heels firmly into the catwalk, and remember the pageant.”

      The familiar’s tawny eyes glowed and the music changed to the emergency song. Jeezel felt an infusion of warm and steady energy from Lumina and started humming in sync with The Ride of the Valkyries. She stirred and chanted, every gesture filled with fiery confidence. The walls glowed darker and the potion hissed. But in the end, it was tamed. The original playlist had resumed to the grand finale. A gentle yet powerful orchestral swell that encapsulated the essence of unity and understanding, wrapping the boudoir and the potion in a sonic embrace that would banish drama and pettiness to the back of the chorus.

      Jeezel released the dove feather into the brew, then finished with a sprinkle of glitter with a flourish. And it was done.

      “Was the glitter necessary?” asked Lumina.

      “Why not? It can’t do any harm.”

      The fox jumped from the couch and looked at the potion.

      “It’s sparkling like the twinkle in your eye when you hit the stage. It’s ready. Well done.”

      Jeezel strained it with grace and poured it into the most fabulous vial she could find, and she sealed it with a kiss.

      :fleuron:

      Jeezel opened Flick Flock and started typing a message to Roland.

      The potion is ready. I’m sending it to you through the usual way.

      […]

      As you use the potion, you’ll have to perform a kind of team building ritual that will help channel the potion’s power and bring your team together like sequins on a gown, darling.

      Fist, dim the lights and set the stage with a circle of candles. Then gather around in the circle with your team, each of you holding a small vial of the potion. Next, take turns sharing something positive, a compliment or an expression of gratitude about the person to your left. It’s about building up that positive energy, getting the good vibes flowing like champagne at a gala.

      Once the air is thick with love and camaraderie, each team member will add a drop of the Concordia potion to a communal bowl placed in the center of the circle as a symbol of unity, like a magical melting pot of harmony and shared intentions.

      With the power of the potion pooling together, join hands (even if they’re not the touchy-feely types) and my familiar will guide you in an enchanting and rhythmic chant.

      Finally with a climactic “clink” of glass of crystal, you’ll all seal the deal, the potion will be activated, and the spell cast.

      I can affirm you, your team will be tighter than my corset after Thanksgiving dinner, ready to slay the day with peace and productivity.

      Let’s get this done. And don’t forget to add a testimony and click the thumb up.

      xoxox Jeezel.

      #7243
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        Using a random generator for the next challenge with 5 objects.

        • straw
        • pop can
        • pencil holder
        • Christmas ornament
        • turtle

        🐋

        In the dreary town of Ravenwood, where shadows loomed and the wind howled through the empty streets, there was one house that stood out above the rest. It was the old mansion at the end of the road, shrouded in mystery and secrets. No one had lived there for years, but whispers of strange happenings and eerie lights could be heard wafting through the air.

        One stormy night, a young writer named Edgar arrived in Ravenwood seeking inspiration for his latest story. Drawn to the mansion by a strange force, he ventured inside, and found himself face to face with a peculiar sight. A straw sat on the table, next to a pop can and a pencil holder, and a Christmas ornament hung from a cobweb in the corner. But it was the turtle, a giant terrapin that seemed to be staring back at him with knowing eyes, that caught his attention.

        Edgar couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss, that the objects in the room were connected in some strange way. As he looked closer, he noticed that a thick layer of dust had settled on everything, as if no one had been there in years. And yet, the pop can still seemed to be fizzing, the straw stirred as if someone had just taken a sip, and the turtle’s eyes seemed to glow in the dim light.

        Suddenly, a voice from behind him made Edgar jump. It was the ghost of the previous owner, who had died under mysterious circumstances years ago. The ghost revealed that the objects in the room had been cursed by a vengeful witch who had once lived in the nearby forest. Each object was imbued with a terrible power, and whoever possessed them would be consumed by darkness.

        Edgar knew he had to escape, but as he turned to run, he felt a strange force pulling him towards the turtle. He tried to resist, but the turtle’s eyes seemed to hypnotize him, drawing him in closer and closer. Just as he was about to touch it, the turtle suddenly snapped its jaws shut, and Edgar woke up back in his own bed, drenched in sweat.

        He realized it had all been a nightmare, but as he looked down at his feet, he saw the turtle from his dream, sitting innocently at the end of his bed. Suddenly, he remembered the words of the ghost, and knew he had to destroy the cursed objects before it was too late. With trembling hands, he picked up the turtle, and opened his window to cast it out into the night. But as he did so, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass, and saw that his eyes had turned a bright shade of red. The curse had already taken hold, and Edgar knew he was doomed to a life of darkness and despair.

        Bit dark, Whale!
        :yahoo_worried: :yahoo_nailbiting: :yahoo_dontwannasee:   :yahoo_rofl:

        #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.

           

          #6174

          Clara breathed a sigh of relief when she saw VanGogh running towards her; in the moonlight he looked like a pale ghost.

          “Where’ve you been eh?” she asked as he nuzzled her excitedly. She crouched down to pat him. “And what’s this?” A piece of paper folded into quarters had been tucked into VanGogh’s collar. Clara stood upright and looked uneasily around the garden; a small wind made the leaves rustle and the deep shadows stirred. Clara shivered.

          Clara?” called Bob from the door.

          “It’s okay Grandpa, I found him. We’re coming in now.”

          In the warm light of the kitchen, Clara showed Bob the piece of paper. “It’s a map, but I don’t know those place names.”

          “And it was stuffed into his collar you say?” Bob frowned. “That’s very strange indeed. Who’d of done that?”

          Clara shook her head. “It wasn’t Mr Willets because I saw him drive off. But why didn’t VanGogh bark? He always barks when someone comes on the property.”

          “You really should tell her about the note,” said Jane. She was perched on the kitchen bench. VanGogh pricked his ears up and wagged his tail as he looked towards her. Bob couldn’t figure out if the dog could see Jane or just somehow sensed her there. He nodded.

          “What?” asked Clara.

          “There’s something I should tell you, Clara. It’s about that box you found.”

          #4603

          Leörmn was hiding tranquil at the bottom of a watery hollow deep inside the Doline.
          His sleep was stirred slightly when Mandrake had swum past him, without noticing the large pale water dragon lying at the bottom.
          Mandrake didn’t know, but the pearls he’d found were excretions of the dragon who had a hard time digesting the mistletoe’s fruits that dropped in the pond from the large oak trees hanging over inside the Doline; the seeds were coated in magical dragon mucus, that dried and crystallized, giving the pearls… interesting properties.

          #4543

          In the white silence of the mountains, Rukshan was on his knees on a yakult wool rug pouring blue sand from a small pouch on a tricky part of the mandala that looked like a small person lifting his arms upwards. Rukshan was just in the right state of mind, peaceful and intensely focused, in the moment.
          It was more instinct than intellect that guided his hands, and when he felt inside him something click, he stopped pouring the sand. He didn’t take the time to check if it was right, he trusted his guts.
          He held the pouch to his right and said: “White”. Olliver took the pouch of blue and replaced it with another. Rukshan resumed pouring and white sand flew in a thin stream on the next part of the mandala.

          After a few hours of the same routine, only broken by the occasional refreshments and drinks that Olliver brought him, the mandala was finished and Rukshan stood up to look at the result. He moved his shoulders to help relieve the tensions accumulated during the hard day of labor. He felt like an old man. His throat was dry with thirst but his eyes gleamed with joy at the result of hours of hard concentration.

          “It’s beautiful,” said Olliver with awe in his voice.
          “It is, isn’t it?” said Rukshan. He accepted a cup of warm and steaming yakult tea that Olliver handed him and looked at the boy. It was the first time that Olliver had spoken during the whole process.
          “Thanks, Olli,” said Rukshan, “you’ve been very helpful the whole time. I’m a little bit ashamed to have taken your whole time like that and make you stand in the cold without rest.”
          “Oh! Don’t worry,” said the boy, “I enjoyed watching you. Maybe one day you can teach me how to do this.”
          Rukshan looked thoughtfully at the boy. The mandala drew its power from the fae’s nature. There could certainly be no danger in showing the technique to the boy. It could be a nice piece of art.
          “Sure!” he said. “Once we are back. I promise to show you.”
          A smile bloomed on Olliver’s face.

          :fleuron:

          In the white silence of the mountain, Lhamom sat on a thick rug of yakult wool in front of a makeshift fireplace. She had finished packing their belongings, which were now securely loaded on the hellishcarpet, and decided it was cooking time. For that she had enrolled the young lad, Olliver, to keep her company instead of running around and disturbing Rukshan. The poor man… the poor manfae, Lhamom corrected, had such a difficult task that he needed all his concentration and peace of mind.

          Lhamom stirred the content of the cauldron in a slow and regular motion. She smiled because she was also proud of her idea of a screen made of yakult wool and bamboo poles, cut from the haunted bamboo forest. It was as much to protect from the wind as it was for the fae’s privacy and peace of mind.

          “It smells good,” said Olliver, looking with hungry eyes at what Lhamom was doing.
          “I know,” she said with pride. “It’s a specialty I learned during the ice trek.”
          “Can you teach me?” ask Olliver.
          “Yes, sure.” She winked. “You need a special blend of spiced roots, and use pootatoes and crabbage. The secret is to make them melt in yakult salted butter for ten minutes before adding the meat and a bucket of fresh snow.”

          They continued to cook and talk far all the afternoon, and when dusk came Lhamom heard Rukshan talk behind his screen. He must have finished the mandala, she thought. She smiled at Olliver, and she felt very pleased that she had kept the boy out of the manfae’s way.

          :fleuron:

          Fox listened to the white silence of the mountain during that brief moment, just after the dogs had made it clear, despite all the promises of food, that they would not help the two-leggeds with their plan.

          Fox sighed. For an instant, all felt still and quiet, all was perfectly where it ought to be.

          The instant was brief, quickly interrupted by a first growl, joined by a second and a third, and soon the entire pack of mountain dogs walked, all teeth out, towards a surrounded Fox. He looked around. There was no escape route. He had no escape plan. His stomach reminded him that instant that he was still sick. He looked at the mad eyes of the dogs. They hadn’t even left the bones from the meat he gave them earlier. He gulped in an attempt to remove the lump of anguish stuck in his throat. There would be no trace of him left either. Just maybe some red on the snow.

          He suddenly felt full of resolve and camped himself on his four legs; he would not go without a fight. His only regret was that he couldn’t help his friends go home.
          We’ll meet in another life, he thought. Feeling wolfish he howled in defiance to the dogs.
          They had stopped and were looking uncertain of what to do next. Fox couldn’t believe he had impressed them.

          “Come,” said a voice behind him. Fox turned surprised. On the pile of his clothes stood Olliver.
          How did you,” he yelped before remembering the boy could not understand him.
          “Hurry! I can teleport us back to the camp,” said the boy with his arms opened.

          Without a second thought Fox jumped in Olliver’s arms and the next thing he knew was that they were back at the camp. But something was off. Fox could see Rukshan busy making his mandala and Olliver was helping him with the sand. Then he could see Lhamom cooking with the help of another Olliver.
          Fox thought it might be some case of post teleportation confusion. He looked at the Olliver who helped him escape an imminent death, the fox head slightly tilted on the side, the question obvious in its eyes.
          “Please don’t tell them,” said Olliver, his eyes pleading. “It just happened. I felt a little forgotten and wanted so much to be useful.”

          Fox turned back into a human, too surprised to feel the bite of the cold air.
          “Oh! Your clothes,” said Olliver before he disappeared. Fox didn’t have time to clear his mind before the boy was back with the clothes.

          #4065
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            It was with undisguised delight that Liz realized that Finnley wasn’t right after all. A glimmer of hope had whistled in with the wind, stirring the dust laden cobwebs festooned across the threads. The clouds parted, sending shafts of sunlight to spear the dark recesses, illuminating the aimless floating of dust motes and dislodged detritus.

            Godfrey stirred, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and called for Finnley.

            #3877
            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              Yalnnif was stirred from her meditation by the sound of the ezapper soft buzz which signaled the end of the 21 minutes of conscious breathing.

              Obviously Yalnnif was not her real name, just the one she got when she’d came to the Bureau of New Identities. Some uninspired pencil pusher had obviously pushed it the opposite way, and found the result funny.
              Do your worst, I can always fix it up” had always been her secret mantra. For once, she was served. She still could apply a second time, but she had her share of bureaucracy for a year, and she wanted to allow this one a try.

              Yalnnif Yanit from Yorknew.

              She could have sworn the clerk had smirked at her when he’d handed her the card with the name, a sort of unspoken “now, fix that one up”.

              She had thanked him with a proper “peace off.” After all, propriety was her secret super-power.

              #3814
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                A raucous explosion of laughter cackled in the neighbourhood, waking up Bea from her afternoon siesta.
                SHUT UP!” she bawled covering her ears with a cushion, and looked desperately at something she could throw at the window. Alas, save for a manikin’s leg that looked like she owned a pegleg, and a piece of half-eaten banana, there was nothing she could find.

                She resigned herself to waking up, and pried open her little wrinkled eyes in the late afternoon purple light.

                Every time she woke up, she had to reacquaint herself with her reality. Not that she was such a junkie on computer duster, as that rat had rudely implied, it wasn’t only that.
                A few months before, she had an epiphany. Many years of meditation, guided, in groups, alone, with zen masters and copious reading had amounted to nothing but the occasional nice fluffy feeling. It was when she had decided to drop it all of sheer frustration, and burn all the stupid self-help books that something had chanced upon herself.
                She’d lost her ego. Poof, disappeared, like that.

                Before that, she was completely adverse to endings, and to any form of deleting.
                But now, she understood the words she’d read many years ago that had infuriated her profoundly at the time : “Everything must be scrutinised and the unnecessary ruthlessly destroyed. Believe me, there cannot be too much destruction. For, in reality, nothing is of value.”

                She was. And every waking up was a wake up to her eternal self.
                So obviously, the external appearances left a bit to be desired, now that desire was not. Continuity was never there in the first place.

                But to live, she had to find again what new reality she had just awoken to, as she did every morning, and after every siesta.
                Truth is, she kind of liked it, the non-continuity of it. Before, she would have gloated to whoever that name of an old friend of hers, that she was right about it, the unnecessary of that continuity babble. Now there was no need of it.

                A loud cackle outside stirred her back to reality.

                #3623
                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  Finnley’s tirade stirred something in Godfrey.

                  He may not have completely given voice of the thought in his head, but it made him realize that the thought of quitting for something different had been here all along.
                  He liked Elizabeth well enough. To be honest, such caring for an ungrateful and volatile lady was borderline devotion, but still, it wasn’t about that.

                  I wanted to change the world, and Elizabeth vision of greatness and madness alike was, for a time, something he could fall in line behind and support with passion.

                  Through visionary books, to open the minds of the pleb to the realms of possibilities, ah! no matter how deliciously delirious and quaint such possibilities seemed. That was a grand epic in budding.

                  And then, after so many years of relentless editing, copy-writing, and of course maid after maid interviews, all there was left? Unbridled madness and tyranny from the well of grandiose ideas that Elizabeth had been, and to some extent still, was.

                  In fact, Godfrey had stifled his own creativity by falling in line behind the writing giantess. There were timid attempts at writing his own story, and only piles of old notebook to account for it.

                  Purpose, Truth, Action those were the magic words…

                  “Oh, bugger it Liz’. I quit.”

                  How’s that for action? Another thread would do me good. Like to see what life’s brewing on Mars.

                  #3400

                  If the sabulmantium was to be trusted, the beanstalk was a tangle of many paths, and the main and easiest accesses down its dangling twirly greenish tentacles were all outside of the city walls, in a zone where some lords managed to rule pockets of mass beliefs and a bunch of unattractive mongrel mobsters.

                  “Sounds potential adventure material” Mandrake had had the nerve to say when they’d packed.
                  “No it isn’t” Arona had said.
                  Then with more gusto “NO IT ISN’T” as though to convince all the sleepy tarts of the nymphouse below her rented room.

                  More doubts had sunken their claws in her tender heart, and a gulp of whatever astral cup didn’t seem in hindsight a worthy deal for all her troubles. Nonetheless, she was a woman of her word, which was probably why she wasn’t of many. Too much trouble being of all of them, whatever that meant.

                  “Honestly Mandrake, keeping you on track is worse than herding… dragons.”
                  She would have said sheep, but she wasn’t so rude yet. Mandrake could have taken that too badly, and he would again prove useful to distract the guards of the Southern Post. That’s where she decided to go, as with all the heat, it had to be the one less guarded.

                  Indeed, when she arrived, as planned, the gate was badly manned, and sleepy soldiers where reaching for the rare spots of shadow.
                  She decided to make a run for it. The soldiers didn’t look very fit. She started to go, thinking about zigzagging between the air bottles littering the plaza, when she felt a tug pulling her back by the cloak, almost sending her flying off her butt.

                  FUCK!” she shouted as silently as she could. “You again! I thought I told you not to follow me! Mandrake, attack! Go for the balls!”

                  She was in a fury, but Mandrake licked his paw with a disgusted look on his face that meant “Hnhn, not going for that, sweetie. You’re on you own to herd that dragon, my lovely pooh.”

                  “Shhht!” the guy said with a bit smile.
                  “Don’t shush me, you… ninnyhammer!”
                  She didn’t know where the last word came from, but they sure felt good, although not quite rude enough.
                  “Oh, the lady is a pirate who knows her insults.” he answered with his cocky smile.
                  “Don’t mock me, you mooncalf”
                  “You were trying to sneak out, were you?”
                  “Why do you care, hobbledehoy?”
                  “The guards have aircon chain-mail and armours, see, look at those bottles on their backs… How could you beat them running with your heavy cloak?”
                  “Maybe Mr Snollygoster has a better suggestion?”
                  “Of course I have, if you care to follow me, Ms Mumpsimus.”

                  Arona was almost speechless. Not keen on following any stranger, she asked her guts, and they seemed to have a liking for the handsome fellow. It stirred old remembrance of going with the flow tactics, and when she did actually follow him, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he and Mandrake were already ahead in one of the alleys.

                  “Oh, no, let him have the keys to some secret tunnel, I won’t go for another sewer escape!”
                  As if her guardien angel has heard her secret prayer, it happened that the stranger had some strange stone key in his bag, opening a secret wall entrance.

                  “Oh.” was all she conceded to the stranger.
                  Nonplussed he offered her his hand “George” he presented himself still with the same broad smile.
                  She took his hand haughtily, and entered the vaulted tunnel, not telling him yet her name, in case she felt like choosing a sexy and mysterious code name. She could trust no one…

                  “Traitor” she hissed at Mandrake who was purringly looking at the strangers’ boots.

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