‘My,’ he said. ‘How is someone so beautiful going to be impressed with what exists outside of these walls?’
‘Am I so beautiful?’
‘Words would be wasted, indeed insulting. But please come and join me so I can bask in the radiance that shines from your face.’
The lad smiles at Eddie. ‘Yeah that’s how this Raymond speaks. I’m not making it up. Right posh and weird right, but it adds to the tale, like.’
‘This Raymond, he drops the ladder to the ground and holds out his hand for the girl to clutch as she climbs to the top of the wall. While she marvels at the dark green depths of the forest Raymond basks in the glow of her beauty.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Rebecca.’
‘Rebecca,’ he repeated. ‘Rebecca, so what do you think of the world.’
‘It is beyond what I imagined. For so long I had heard the wind in the trees, the rain on the leaves. At night the cry of the animals and the patter of their feet had me intrigued. But this is wondrous. The trees are so tall and strong. The leaves shine, but it is so dark. I thought it was the wall causing my dark moods, but looking into the forest I feel fear, magic and adventure.’
‘Come.’ Raymond lifted the ladder to the outside and helped Rebecca to the ground. Together they ran through the forest. Rebecca’s light cloth garment billowed out as she ran through the undergrowth. She hugged the trees and picked at the purple wild flowers. Finally she fell down and rested against the bark of a tall ash tree. The sun filtered through the leaves and splashed on the color in her cheeks.
Raymond sat with the girl and she rested her head on his shoulder, chewing on a handful of foliage. ‘What is that you eat?’
‘The herb my mother sells to the village. You should try some. It makes you feel funny, all tingly in your legs and tummy.’
‘Raymond accepted a leaf and sucked at the herb. It wasn’t long before the Zing took effect and Raymond and Rebecca were locked in an embrace bordering on wild and rampant.
‘Raymond returned each day, each week and month, taking off the herb and rolling in the soft forest floor with Rebecca. But one day he arrives with his ladder and the sound of her voice cannot be heard. The heavy silence dominates the area around the wall. His Rebecca is not waiting.
He calls for his love, but receives no reply. With haste he climbs the ladder and is shocked to see an old hag waiting where Rebecca should be standing.
‘She is gone so be off with you.’
The sound of a babies cry broke the deep dark quiet in the garden.
‘Where has she gone?’
‘I have banished her to the forest to be eaten by the wolves.’
‘But why?’
‘Because she has disobeyed me.
And the witch and her black cat turned and hobbled back inside the cottage, the door slamming shut. Of course Raymond was devastated. He sat on the wall looking out over the forest as the daylight waned and the chill from the deep dark woods encouraged the night to fall and the moon to rise.
‘The wind picked up while he sat on the wall. Leaves rustled and forest litter twirled about the foot of his ladder. The forest called to him. He heard a song playing on the wind, wafting faint, melancholic but beautiful to his ear. He looked to the cottage, hoping the old crone couldn’t hear the song. He leapt from the wall and ran deep into the woods. The path took him on a windy path into gorse and briars. A deep mist smothers the pale light of the moon. Beasts rustle and snicker. A lone howl far to his left is taken up by an accompanying lament dead ahead.
The path dips and a fallen tree blocks his path. After climbing the trunk he hesitates, holding onto the foliage as the song, stronger, drifts clear in the night. He jumps from the tree and finds himself wading through an ankle deep creek. He climbs out of the water, crawls up the bank and follows the song into a clearing. Here the mist hangs low and the moon shines on a mossy square and the girl in her thin gardening coat and threadbare shoes sits on the stump of a fallen tree.
She looks up as he approaches. ‘Your singing is beautiful, but so sad. You should be happy that you have escaped.’
‘Come, with me and I will take you home. My folks will welcome you into our home.’
***
Raymond introduced the girl to his parents. He told how he’d fallen for the girl with the pretty voice, how she had enchanted him and that they were to be married in the Spring, but first they needed to get the child, their child, from the old hag in the rickety cottage deep in the dark wood.
His father stormed from the building, vowing to seek justice from the woman. Raymond didn’t understand his father’s reaction, but promised his mother he would give chase and make sure no harm came to his father.
Back at the cottage the air smelt heavy of petrol and flames could be seen flickering in the night behind the brick wall. He climbed the ladder and found the garden on fire and witnessed his father, flaming torch in hand entering the cottage.
‘No,’ Raymond cried.
‘He ran for the building, desperate to rescue his child. Fire raged and the witch fought with his father. Upstairs Raymond found the child sleeping in a small wooden cot. He picked it up and held the wee life form to his breast. With a blanket over his head he headed back for the stairs. Flames burnt brightly and thick smoke billowed up the stairs. Raymond secured the wee tot inside his coat and climbed out of the front window. The building was ablaze. Glass smashes and beams of wood fell. He eased down to the ground, utilizing a gnarled wisteria plant to descend. He called to his father, pleading for him to exit the building.
‘A distressed shriek sounded and the old crone stumbled from the front door, her body a ball of bright flame. She ran about the small courtyard waving at the flames trying to extinguish their hunger. Brighter they burnt and she dropped to her knees, the arms falling to her side as her body melted into the dirt. A black spitting oily mass spread across the ground spewing a foul smelling thick black cloud.
‘Raymond, clutching the child to his chest ran for the back of the property. His mother and Rebecca appeared from the wood. He passed the child to Rebecca and scaled the wall. Smoke clouded the back yard. Flames spurt from the back door and Raymond was beaten back to the wall. From the top of the wall he looked down on his mother.
‘He is gone,’ Raymond said. ‘But with death there is life.’
The baby gurgled and sucked at Rebecca’s finger. His mother’s distress was sated at the sight of the wee chubby face swaddled in Rebecca’s clothing.
‘It is yours?’
Raymond nodded. ‘It is ours and we will name him Rufus.’
***
Eddie looked at his little friend. ‘Brother and sister, had a child and lived happily ever after. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Cool huh!’
Eddie removed a small leather purse from his waistcoat and counted out ten gold shekels. A small grubby hand reached for the coins, the eyes large as the lad gawped at the money.
‘I’s rich,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do with your new found wealth?’
‘Get me some more pig. Do you want some?’
‘No, but thank you. The presses have stopped and I need to get back to work.’
‘You going to publish my story.’
Eddie turned to the dying crowd in the square. The juggler had gone home. The music was winding down and P-Porky Pete was scuffing at the coals toasting his hog. ‘I don’t know. It’s a grand tale, but I’m not sure folk are going to want to hear a happy ever after story about incest, however naïve it might be. But thanks for the tale.’
Eddie stood and stretched. ‘Look after yourself, young man, and you best get in line because Pete’s looking to be off.
The lad remained on the seat, kicking his legs back and forth, his hood covering his head and his hands beneath his thighs.
‘What’s your name?’ Eddie said. He stood at the door to the Ostere Gazette, his key in the lock.
‘W
hat you wanting to know that for?’
‘If I use the story I’ll need to name my source. I can’t just say some random child I found in the town square told me. And if we meet again, it would be nice to say hi, not hey you. Master urchin how you doing. I don’t need your whole bloody name or your damn life story. Buy hey, its’ not crucial. I can make one up.’
‘Rufus,’ the lad said. He stood and ambled across to P-Porky Pete’s stall. ‘You can call me Rufus.’
// // //
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No More Heroes
By Roo I MacLeod
#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Story
Available to buy here
Chapter One
Of Snow, Christmas and Trouble
At three pm the clock in our town square chimed four deep tolls. Festive faces turned to the town hall looking at the clock in confusion. The juggler dropped his blades. The vendors quietened their sales pitch and Santa's Ho became a Ha as his bell fell silent.
I retreated into the frigid dark of Smelly Alley and collided with old Fred the fishmonger. His keys fell with a sharp clatter to the worn cobbles as he stumbled against his shop window. I grabbed his arm and steadied his gait. He shrugged free of my grip and hauled a gold watch from his waistcoat, shook the time piece and placed it to his ear.
‘Yer making me late, you good for nothing pup.’
Seriously? Pup? Late? How could he possibly know? The silly old bugger walked with a white tap-tap-tap stick and the town hall clock was arse up.
The wind rattled at the drawn shutters. Litter cavorted with the folk heading for the celebrations in the square. I stooped to retrieve his keys and he snatched them from my hand. We exchanged glares, before he and his tapping cane tottered toward the square.
I pulled my coat tight and brushed at my hair. I was eager to enter the town square and chance a meeting with the bar maid from the Old Poet public house. The butcher’s boy blocked my path. He carried a dead pig across his narrow shoulders and seemed intent on sharing his burden with me.
‘Easy, eh?’ I said. ‘You closing early?’
I sidestepped his blood stained apron, alarmed by the manic look in the dead pig’s eyes.
‘It’s anniversary, isn’t it,’ he grunted. As he turned into his shop he tried to smack me with the dead pig’s trotters.
What bloody anniversary?
A shout greeted the fish monger’s entrance into the square, causing me to flinch, jump even. Man I hated random noises. My nerves were pretty crap to be honest. My mate Tommy said it was my diet being inadequate. He reckoned living on cigarettes and vodka had to play havoc with your nerves. Tommy was no intellectual but my diet did lack fiber for sure.
I pulled the hood over my head and followed the old boy’s steps. Fairy lights shone in the afternoon gloom. Sad droopy loops of tinsel glittered between the stalls. Vendors in Santa hats called out their wares and folk traipsed the frozen dirt bartering for a deal. Beneath the video screen a group of carol singers shared their festive bliss. Faces beamed with Yuletide cheer, welcoming the snow bloated clouds lumbering across the sky. The weatherman had promised all good citizens a merry and white Christmas.
‘Bugger their perfect bloody Christmas,’ I muttered. I was well aware my tatty coat and I stood no chance of surviving the festive season if snow dumped on our town.
Sam the snake charmer pushed past me rushing to book his pitch by the sad old tree outside the Ostere Gazette. I kept to the awnings of the trader’s shops watching for trouble and a glimpse of the girl.
The large video screen preached of ‘good times for hard working citizens.’
I laughed at the message as a Slotvak girl smiled and winked at me as her petite hand relieved a tourist of his wares.
A band of soldiers sat at the tables outside the Drunken Duck Hostelry. Their songs sounded loud and lewd. Ale mugs clinked, bodies embraced, but the boisterous play set the world on edge. Soldiers ruled and they liked to shoot stuff. A glass broke, a curse followed and a punch inspired a melee of drunken proportions.
I kept my head low, dodging the ruckus and the camera trained on the Duck’s tables. Me and the army had issue with my role in life. On my eighteenth birthday conscription called and I ran. I chose to live rough on the streets rather than fight the Man’s war on terror. The army and the Man have long memories and zero tolerance with recruits not willing to front a bullet. And drunken soldiers tend to shoot, badly for sure, but I didn’t want to be testing their aim.
A hand reached out and clutched at my arm. I swiveled on my right foot and buried my left knee deep inside my assailant’s gut. A loud oomph sounded as he doubled over and dropped to the ground. I walked on, ducking ahead of a line of girls, curious, but no way keen to learn my assailant’s identity.
‘Good times indeed,’ I muttered.
‘Ben,’ a voice called out. It sounded strained and urgent, yet familiar. I quickened my pace, keeping clear of the main camera and stopped by the first aid tent. Marvin sat leaning against the town hall clutching at his stomach.
‘I hope it hurt,’ I mouthed as he found my face through the crowd.
I hadn’t seen Marvin, my mongrel childhood mate, since he married the love of my life. Two years ago, the same day the army called, I ran from her rejection. For two long years I cursed the girl’s indifference to my passion. I buried my pain in the gutters of Ostere and wished plague and pestilence on the happy couple.
Serious.
Over the top for sure and dead bitter, but it helped me sleep at nights. On bad days, with the alcohol flowing, I dreamed the sad, lonely dream of what if? And that scenario always turned out well for me. The wedding made the social pages and her father shook my hand. Marvin stood beside me holding the rings as my best man. There was a three tiered cake, speeches and we danced close to a waltz type tune.
A family crossed my path and I used the two children as cover. Marvin struggled to stand, his back stooped as he searched for my sorry arse. The smaller child dropped her floppy eared rabbit in a mucky puddle. I stepped forward and retrieved the toy, brushing the dirt from its ears and tucked it beneath her arm.
I crept along Church Lane, my head turned from the town hall camera. A gaggle of coffee addicts sat at the tables outside Sylvia’s Coffee House. Tilly, the young lady I sought, stepped onto the sidewalk. She held the door for customers and the deep, rich aroma of coffee wafted into the square. She sat next to Sylvia and warmed her hands on her steaming brew. On special occasions me and Tilly shared the odd bottle of wine. I broke bread at her dining table. Many times I dreamt of breaching her inner sanctum, climbing the rickety stairs and surviving the night, waking tousle haired and hungry for the fry up in the morning.
Tilly liked me, but she harped on the prospect of her little Harry having a stable influence in his life. By stable she meant a man with a job, a roof over his head, a car and maybe a dog. I struggled with her criteria, but my mate Blacky owned a dog and I walked it on occasions.
The large cup dwarfed her petite face. She pushed her dark curls behind her ears and smiled at the festivities in the square. As her gaze approached my position I turned my back and blended into the crowd. A half-naked man juggling flaming sticks blocked my path. His child assistant shook a hat in my face. The scattering of gold shekels jingled and taunted me. I had no money and the little shite understood there
was no jingle to my pockets. He continued to hound me, stamping his foot and pretending to cry when I patted his head.
No one listened to, or cared about my protestations. I cut across the square and collapsed on the seat between the undertakers and the Ostere Gazette. Above my head camera three, yes I’d numbered them all, craned forward into the square. Its lens panned the populace relaying images to the large screen. I pushed the black hood off my head and released the vodka from my pack. I took a quick slug of the cheap liquor, lit a cigarette and kicked back against the cold brick wall.
My life wasn’t too tragic, I reasoned. I’d dodged the past, leaving Marvin crippled in the dirt. I’d witnessed the future, spying young Tilly sitting by the Coffee House. And my present status found me with a pouch full of tobacco and a chilled bottle of vodka.
Marvin broke through a crowd of folk gazing at the large video screen. He tugged a large black carryall as if it were a reluctant child. His grubby trousers stuck to his ankles and his thin summer jacket froze to his body. Raw fingers clawed at his trouser pocket and mucous seeped from his nose.
I pulled the hood back over my head, took a quick sip on the bottle and bunkered low in my seat.
Walk on by.
Chapter Two
One big old Bag labelled with a T
Marvin ignored my thoughts and fell onto the warped plank, kicking the bag beneath our seat. Chains rattled as it rested against the wall.
‘I need your help,’ he said.
He didn’t greet me, or apologize for crapping on my life and not a word concerning my assault two minutes back. I’d have made my anger known and offered my assailant a right slap for the offense.
‘I’m in big trouble,’ he said. Clouds of vapor and spit followed each word. The voice sounded a pitch too high, a degree too desperate and loud enough for the Mayor in the town hall to hear. I had no wish to spend time with the boy, but to witness his distress succored my spirit. I offered him the vodka.
‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Trouble,’ he said.
He pushed the vodka away and leant forward, glancing left and right before focusing on my nose. I didn’t like him looking at my nose. I sniffed and twitched before offering it a good wipe with my coat sleeve.