Part of life, so true, so strong,
Heed the words of Kakuri.
The daughter of Suru calls,
The air, the wind, the breeze, the storm,
Transport us to Onisha City,
Heed the words of Kakuri.
The sky darkened; storm clouds, gathering apace, grew larger and larger and darker and darker. The gentle breeze turned into a gale, thrashing the forest hard in a wild, excited frenzy. Within the circle of stones, though, the air remained peculiarly still. Staring at the hurricane conditions, so close and yet do far from them, Nott wondered how Kakuri had produced such a phenomenon – and so easily. “Hold on, it might get a bit bumpy from here on,” she warned.
“It might get a bit bumpy, you tell us,” Nott answered. “How on earth do you know thaaaaaatttttttt?”
Engulfed within a funnel of spiralling air, Wot, Nott and Kakuri, rising from the ground, shot through the tree canopy, high into the sky. Then they were gone. Apart from few shredded leaves falling onto the ground, the forest was silent.
CONTD
Where Have You Gone?
Father Christmas where have you gone?
Will I never be able to tell my son,
Of times gone by, simpler days,
When you reigned supreme each Christmas day?
Santa came; he took your place,
And he does your job with greater haste,
In colours chosen by market men,
To sell more drinks in bottles and cans.
The buzzwords now are buy, buy, buy,
Spend your money; don‘t wonder why,
‘Cos Santa Claus, in red and white,
Drinks his coca cola, so he must be right
A Time of Dark
A time of dark, a time of night,
A time of sadness devoid of light,
November skulks, it burns with pain,
For nothing‘s left, no life remains.
And yet within this month, so cold,
I feel a spark, a beam of hope,
Though it be small, so small to see,
It is still there, for you for me.
So next November, when you‘re feeling low,
Recall these words, there is a glow,
Although it‘s hidden so far from view,
When December comes Christmas will come too.
Horrible Horace and the Chair
One day, on his way to school, Horrible Horace said, “I’m fed up with having to go to school, it’s so boring. I want to do something interesting, something exciting with my life, like fishing, or sailing – or exploring, not sums, reading and geometry, and all that other boring old stuff that Miss Battle-Scars tries to drum into us.”
Despite having such strong feelings on the subject – how boring school was – Horrible Horace continued on his way there, walking, trundling along the same, tired old path he had used since he was five. When he arrived at school, he stopped at the gates and looking through them, he said, “There must be more to life than just going to school – there must!” Just then, he heard the sound of the bell ringing, telling him and all of the other schoolchildren that it was time to get into line before they went inside. Dragging his feet, Horrible Horace reluctantly slipped through the gate and into line, behind his friends, Barmy Bernard and Tinkering Tommy...
“Watcha, Horace,” said Barmy Bernard, “Do you want to know what I have in my satchel?” he asked, his eyes gleaming wild with excitement.
“No, not really,” Horrible Horace replied, his eyes on the ground along with his spirits.
“What’s wrong with you, Horrible?” asked Tinkering Tommy. “Anyone would think you had lost your marbles, or ever worse – your conkers.”
“Conkers bonkers,” the two boys chortled cheerfully.
Horrible Horace, however, did not hear them; he did not join in with their amusement, for his thoughts, like his spirits and eyes, were on the ground, forlorn.
Nudging him, Barmy Bernard said, “Well, Horrible, do you want to see what I have in my satchel?”
“Let me take a look,” said Tinkering Tommy,” and if it’s what I think it is, I’ll show it to him.”
Opening his satchel, Barmy Bernard showed his second best friend (Horrible Horace being his first) the object he had secreted within it.
Sticking his hands in (without looking, first), Tinkering Tommy cried out, “No! Get it away from me!” Withdrawing his hands as fast as he could, he said, “I thought it was a frog, but it’s not! It’s a tarantula spider, all fat and hairy!” he gasped. “I could have been bitten to death!”
Laughing at his innocence, Barmy Bernard said, “It won’t bite you, it’s my pet.”
Unconvinced by his argument, Tinkering Tommy, checking his fingers, to be sure the spider had not bitten him, edged away from the satchel, saying, “Why on earth did you bring a tarantula into school?”
Smiling mischievously Barmy Bernard said, “Because I’m a little bit barmy, maybe?”
“A little bit?” he snapped. “More like a whole lot – and then some!”
“Stop talking, you two,” Miss Battle-Scars called out, pointing her bell at the two errant children. “And get into line!”
“But we are in line,” Tinkering Tommy protested, wiping his hands in his blazer (in case any poison from the spider happened to be on them).
“Well, make it a little less messy,” she ordered. “And as for you, Horrible Horace,” she quipped, “You look so gloomy anyone would be forgiven for thinking you were going to a funeral.” After ringing her bell for a second time, she waved the first line of children into the school.
On his way into his classroom, Horrible Horace, passing Miss Battle-Scars, cast a sneaky glance up at her. He usually had something to say, be it cheerful or cheeky (depending on his mood), but today he said nothing, the words simply failed him.
Inside, sitting quietly at his desk, Horrible Horace took out his study book and opened it. It was their geography lesson, the only subject that he actually liked. The reason why he liked it – and so much – was because of all the wonderful, exotic places they read about, places like Ecuador (where the best coffee came from), Ceylon (where the finest teas came from), and Africa (where man-eating lions came from), yes he always enjoyed geography lessons. However, he still hated school; he hated it so much.
After the geography lesson was over, Horrible Horace’s mood had lightened. You see, they had been reading about the South Pacific, wild and exotic places such as Tonga, Tahiti, and the ever so far away Pitcairn Island, where the mutiny on the Bounty sailors had settled. Leaning across to his best friend sitting at the desk beside him, he whispered, “Well?”
“Well what?” Barmy Bernard replied.
“What have you got in your satchel that had Tinkering Tommy in such a flap?”
Grinning, leaning down to his satchel resting on the floor next to his desk, his Barmy friend opened it, and said, “This!”
“Wow! Wow! Wow!” said Horrible Horace. “I’d never in a thousand years have imagined you would have brought your pet tarantula into school!”
Still grinning, his best friend replied, “Wait until you see what I am going to do with it...”
“What? What? What?” said Horrible Horace. “Are you really going to do that with it? And do you truly want ME to help you to do it?
“Yes,” Barmy Bernard replied, “unless you want me to ask Lousy Linda, instead?”
“No, not her!” Horrible Horace protested. You see, last Christmas, during the performance of the nativity play (with Lousy Linda playing the part of Mary, and Horrible Horace, Joseph), when the three wise men entered the stable, presenting gifts, she had sneakily kissed him. Ever since that dastardly trick, he had avoided her like the plague.)
“So, you will help me?”
Yes, yes of course I will,” Horrible Horace, replied, “on condition that you tell no one.”
“But how will they know it was us, how will we get the credit for doing
it, if we don’t tell anyone?” his Barmy friend interjected.
“You and I will know,” he replied. “That’s how spies do business, and if it’s good enough for spies its good enough for us. Now where is your satchel?”
During their dinner break, standing in the doorway of the classroom, on guard for anyone who might happen to pass by, Barmy Bernard felt decidedly jumpy. “What’s taking you so long?” he asked his Horrible friend.
“Almost finished,” Horrible Horace replied, pushing Miss Battle-Scars chair carefully back into position under her desk. “There,” he declared, “it’s all done!”
“Someone’s coming!” Barmy Bernard cried out. “Get out!” With that, the two boys dashed across to the window, where after quickly opening it they bailed out of the classroom, into the playground.
“What have you two been up to?” asked Lousy Linda, when she saw them bailing of the window, falling hard to the ground.
“Ow! That hurt!” said Barmy Bernard, rubbing his soreness, searching for blood (he was sure he had cut something, but he was unable to find any blood, not even one tiny drop).
“Belt up, you berk,” Horrible Horace quipped, handing him back his satchel. “Like spies, remember?”
“Oh, yes, spies it is.”
Without answering Lousy Linda’s question, the two boys began walking away from her, and the scene of their crime.
“I’m going to tell Miss Battle-Scars,” she warned.
Stopping, knowing that she was all too capable of doing such a dastardly deed, Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard turned and stared into the eyes of the girl of their nightmares.
“So, that got your attention,” she gloated.
His voice croaky with suspicion, Barmy Bernard asked, “What do you want...to say nothing?”
Raising an eyebrow, Horrible Horace