Around the World in 80 Pages

  Billy Edwards gathered his pensioner’s blouse and dignity about him as he was pitched out of yet another London pub. ‘T ‘weren’t right, he thought. All he’d asked of the landlord was a pint, for which he’d gladly show the Victoria Cross in his pocket.

  ‘T ‘weren’t right. He’d lost everything as it was, haring off to Kitchener’s South African folly. He’d lost his dignity, standing guard over starving Boertrekkers. And he’d lost his Bessie.

  At least, she’d been plain Bessie Allen when he’d left for the war. Now, her father had told him, she was Isabeau.

  Bessie had always longed for more than a quiet life as a Kentish farmer’s wife. Billy had hoped to make his fortune and come back for her.

  “Bessie, there are diamonds just lyin’ there for the takin’. You wait and see; I’ll do right by you.”

  Bessie’s blue eyes were troubled.

  “William, I don’t want you to go. I think things will be very different there.”

  Billy had kissed her and promised to return. She snipped a lock of his golden hair with her embroidery scissors and vowed never to forget him.

  Bessie’d been right, of course. There weren’t any diamonds scattered around for the taking. But there was dysentery. And hunger. And hate the likes of which he’d never seen. There was no valor and honor to write about from the concentration camp at Bloemfontein. But he tried.

  After a while, Billy didn’t want to write to Bessie about the horrors he was seeing. The people he guarded were dying of starvation. So, he stopped writing all together.

  “Broke her damned heart is what you done,” Bessie’s father huffed at Billy when he’d come home.

  Billy took off his spectacles and wiped them on his blouse.

  “I told her I’d be back, sir.’ He put the glasses back on and his green eyes were better able to focus.

  “After a while she stopped believing that. Took up with some fancy man from London and gone up to the stage.”

  Billy swiped a hand through his hair, which early threads of grey had begun to show during the war.

  “Did she leave an address?” Perhaps it wasn’t too late.

  “Nah. She moves ‘round a lot, near’s I can tell. Calls herself Isabeau now. Ask around the theatres, boy. She’s dead to me.’

  Ask around the theatres, indeed. That had been months ago.

  No, sir. She’s gone on to Blackpool. To Manchester. To France. To Brighton. Everyone seemed to know her, but no one could say when she’d be back.

  Billy took to drink, and to staying in the meanest of hostelries. His pension was little, but he found many who would stand him a pint in honor of his “bravery” under Kitchener. He’d half a mind to pitch the damned medal into the gutter.

  He had no money for a hotel, and it was cold. At least he could sleep in the alleyway, out of the wind. Maybe tomorrow he’d find her.

  Or find another drink.

  This brand-new century, just three years old, sure as hell made him wish he’d never left Kent. He should have stayed home and married Bessie instead of trying to make a hero of himself.

  ~~

  Isabeau could hardly believe her eyes. Surely that was William Edwards, sleeping in the alley without so much as a cloak to cover him. She’d thought he was dead in South Africa. She must be mistaken.

  She drew nearer, her black silk dress barely swishing around her high-heeled boots. These new hobble skirts were hell to walk in, much less kneel, so she squatted as best she could next to the exhausted soldier and touched his cheek with her gloved hand.

  “William?” she whispered. She stroked his hair gently. His cheek was stubbled, and his face bore the signs of heavy drink, but it was indeed her William.

  He barely stirred.

  “William, you need to get up.”

  “Bessie,” he muttered.

  “Yes, it’s me. Get up, darling.”

  She stood up as he woke and struggled to his feet.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Bessie ... Isabeau.” He coughed a little.

  “I’m here now, William.”

  He took in her appearance; the long auburn curls were pinned up under a fashionable hat. Her walking suit was the latest cut and made from heavy moiré voile. A jet pin adorned the throat of her white blouse. These were costly clothes of the sort he could never give her.

  “Oh, Bessie. I am so sorry.” He would not weep in front of her. ‘T ‘weren’t right. If he was weak, he wouldn’t have a chance with her.

  “My home is nearby, William. Please come in with me, out of the cold.”

  “What about your gentleman? Your father said ...”

  “Never mind about that,” she interrupted. “Just come with me.”

  Billy trailed after her to a nearby house. The outside was modest, in keeping with the quiet side street. Inside, it was beautifully furnished. Isabeau’s portrait, showing her in an elegant blue evening gown, hung over the mantle.

  The lady herself unpinned her hat and sat it on a table. Her kid gloves followed suit. Billy noticed that she wore no rings.

  “Billy, darling, would you please light the fire?”

  For indeed, a fire was laid. It took only a lucifer to add its warmth and light to the room.

  She called me Billy, he thought. I always wished she would.

  Isabeau removed her jacket; the blouse beneath it was a tailored shirtwaist. Her only ornament was the jet brooch: a locket that contained a snippet of Billy’s hair.

  “Give me your coat, Billy; I’ll brush it for you.’

  He handed over the fraying blouse, embarrassed at how shabby he was.

  “Just keep warm, Billy,” she said. “I’ll be back directly.”

  She stepped into the bedroom to get the clothes brush. It was there that she found the Victoria Cross in the pocket of his worn coat. She wanted to weep. How could she have been so foolish?

  Well, now was now. She took off the brooch and put it in the pocket that held the medal. Once Billy saw what was in the locket, he would understand.

  She ran a hot bath and gathered shaving things. Bertie had left them here; he’d moved on to yet another actress but had kept up the house for her. Surely he wouldn’t care if Billy used his things. He would never know.

  When she offered the bath to Billy, he was surprised -- even moreso when she rolled up the sleeves of her costly blouse to wash his back and to shave his face. This was not the modest and proper Bessie he’d left behind. When she leaned over the steaming tub and gave him a lover’s kiss, he found that he didn’t care. He could love Isabeau, just as much as ever.

  While Billy dried himself and donned a lush Turkish towel robe embroidered with three ostrich feathers (there was now no mistaking whose mistress she had been), Isabeau unpinned and brushed her hair. She had donned a nightgown and stood in front of the looking glass. Billy came up behind her and gathered a few locks in his hands, kissing her hair and inhaling its perfume.

  “Can you still love me, William?” She watched his reflection in the mirror.

  “Isabeau, say you’ll be with me always.”

  “I promise, William. We’ll never part again.”

  She turned and put her arms around him.

  “Now, let’s go to bed. I’ll keep you warm.’

  She kissed him again and Billy sighed.

  ~~

  The constable found his body in the alleyway the next morning.

  “Damme if that ain’t Billy Edwards,” he said to his partner. “Hero of the Boer War, he were.”

  “Sad thing, him dyin’ out here like that.”

  “Aye. You know he was always lookin’ for Isabeau.”

  “Bertie’s mistress? The one as died in Brighton a few months back?”

  “Aye. Never had the heart to tell ‘im. Seems she was his sweetheart once. Couldn’t do no good to say she was gone.”

  The younger man reached into Billy’s pockets.


  “Naught here but a brooch locket and .... blimey. A Victoria Cross.”

  “Aye. Told you he was a hero. Pity that when he got home he didn’t have a ghost of a chance.”

  Gaul is Divided

  This story was born from a single phrase that occurred to me in 2006 (“Today, she aches without reason”). I made a note of the phrase, thinking I might use it one day. That phrase resulted in a so-called flash ficlet. I expanded on the original to create this tale.

  I hear them speak as I pass. I pretend not to notice.

  "Today," they whisper, "she aches without reason."

  As though I had not known his love. As though I am a Stoic.

  I would never have guessed that I would come to love him. And yet, I had.

  ~~

  Sold in marriage by my father to assure peace in Gaul! Was there no end to my humiliation? I prepared to loathe my filthy, barbarian husband, sight unseen.

  “Drusilla,” my father warned, “You have no choice. You will go.”

  “I will not,” I shouted. “I would rather be dead.”

  I yanked the jewels from my neck and tugged them from my blonde hair. I threw them at my father’s feet.

  “I don’t want your wealth if it means being sold into slavery.”

  “You will be no slave, Drusilla. You will be queen. I have already given him your dowry; you will go.”

  I should have known. A princess of Gaul has no choice in marriage; choices are for peasants. How many times had my mother, God rest her soul, told me that very thing? I was old for a bride, nearly nineteen summers, and I think they despaired of finding a husband willing to take my sharp and educated tongue.

  I had cast my eye on one of the courtiers, Alaric. He was fair, handsome and intelligent. I believe to this day that he returned my regard, but Father disapproved. Before too long, Alaric was gone from court; I learned subsequently that he had married another woman. I was heartbroken, and angry. Perhaps I would never marry; there were days when I devoutly hoped for that -- to no avail.

  My father would choose the most advantageous match for me for political reasons, and I would go humbly and gratefully. At least, that was what they expected.

  I plotted to run away, to escape. Yet, my father foresaw this and I was guarded every ridiculous mile of the journey to Hunland. I didn’t care about the landscape around me. I didn’t care about anything.

  A group of Hunsman met us a few miles from the village, at which time I learned that I would not be queen as my father had promised, but one of many wives. The men smelled horrible and their Latin vulgar at best. How could my father have done this to me?

  “Lady Drusilla,” one of them said to me. “You are quiet. I was led to believe that you were seldom silent. Your father told me you were a great conversationalist.”

  I turned to look at him; his clothes were clean and made of fine fabric. Unlike many others in the party, his teeth were good. That surprised me. So did his perfect Latin, so unlike that of the other Huns. I would later learn that he was educated at the court in Rome.

  “I am silent because I am preparing myself for a fate worse than my own death, Hun.” My tone could only be described as haughty.

  The Hunsman raised his hand and the entire party stopped, horses pawing the ground.

  “Is it as dire as all that, Drusilla?”

  I nodded.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I am to marry a filthy barbarian.”

  The Hun took off his helmet.

  “I am sorry that I do not please you, Lady Drusilla.”

  ~~

  No one could have prepared me for the wonder before my eyes that day. His dark hair hung in ringlets to the middle of his back. His eyes were a changeable blue-green. I had never seen so handsome a man, even in the court of Gaul.

  He was intelligent and well-spoken. He was a brilliant horseman; to watch him ride always reminded me of home, for we Gauls are noted for our horses. He was fastidious in his person. He was devout in his faith.

  He was a gentle and generous lover. While I was one of several wives, I never felt slighted. I came to love him so deeply that Alaric was all but forgotten.

  Ache without reason? Not I. Even as his seed grows in my belly, on the day after he took yet another wife ... today, they are burying Attila.

  The Scribe of Rashid

  In 1798, French soldiers in Egypt during the Mameluke Wars unearthed a broken piece of black granite while digging a trench near Rashid in the Nile Delta. It was covered with lettering that none of them could read. The stone was given to the British after the Napoleonic Wars. It took a young French scholar, Jean-Francois Champollion, to translate the Greek text on the lower third of the stone and create a key to the demotic Egyptian and hieroglyphs.

  No one knows which scribe carved the so-called Rosetta Stone. The Scribe of Rashid is my imagining of events.

  Sadji put down the tiny chisel and hammer to wipe his brow. It was hot and humid; he wore only a pleated linen breach clout. He needed a moment to rest; it was long and difficult work creating a dedication stele. Only the most talented scribes were given this honor. Carving the newest decree from Memphis, as directed the sacred pharaoh Ptolemy (fifth of that name) was a gift from Thoth himself.

  The work of Egyptian scribes seemed endless. Sadji collected taxes, read the law, wrote letters and legal papers for his neighbors in Rashid and even resolved disputes at times. He was the best educated man in the Nile delta town, leaning to read and write in the scribe schools starting the year of his fifth flood.

  Scribe school was brutal. The masters said that boys’ ears were found on their backs and that the only way to make them hear was to beat them. Sadji had his fair share of beatings, that was certain. He was driven by fear of punishment to constantly improve his skills.

  Sadji practiced writing on broken pots, scraps of fabric, stones ... anything he could find. Papyrus writing paper was too precious for rehearsal and could only be used for final documents. Writing had to be clear, perfectly sized and correct; otherwise, the masters might think his hearing needed more improvement and lay about him with the flail.

  Sadji learned to mix pigments as well. Cobalt for the blue. Cinnabar for the red. Lead for the black. He learned how to make and care for brushes, and had a collection of cases and palettes.

  Eventually, Sadji was chosen from among his fellow students to learn the sacred picture-writing: hieroglyphs. Only the most advanced students were chosen for this honor. It was a gift to deliver messages to and from the gods. Thoth, the baboon-headed god of the scribes, had surely smiled upon Sadji. He could now write not only the three versions of his native language but also in Greek.

  Sadji had hoped to be assigned to the Prince’s School, to teach Pharaoh’s sons to read and write. Instead, he was sent to the city of Rashid, where he now dwelt.

  He was no longer young: an old man of nearly thirty floods. Like most men of his craft, his head was permanently bowed forward. Years of bending over the work in his lap to write, or mixing pigments on a soapstone palette, had put a curve in his spine.

  Yet, Sadji considered himself blessed. He had only one wife, Aishe, but she was beautiful and fertile. She had given him a son, Khnum, who was two floods this year, and two daughters, Amri and Jana. Aishe directed the servants kindly and Sadji’s house was orderly. He hoped to have another son in this fourth Xandicus year; Aishe had already moved o the birthing room. Sadji prayed to Bes for a safe confinement and delivery.

  And of course, there was the stele. In three languages -- Greek, everyday Egyptian and the sacred hieroglyphs -- it announced the divine cult of Ptolemy V, gave a tax exemption to the resident priesthood, and stated where the river was dammed in order to help farmers. With its three languages, the important Decree of Memphis could be read by anyone who understood but one type of writing. Those who had no reading at all could find someone to tell them what it sai
d.

  Sadji was the best of the scribes, which was why he would create the stele. This work had to be perfect, and he knew that Thoth would guide his hand so that men might forever know of Pharaoh’s generosity.

  He picked up his tools again and reviewed the text. This would be his finest work.

  Lonely Man in a New Town

  This is all her fault, he thought. He closed the door behind him and hung up his jacket. The only thing that greeted him was his quiet, perfect apartment. The plants were silent, as usual. No one but him and his quiet, perfect solitude.

  Which was all her fault.

  Oh, he had office friends on the new job, but none of them were like her. If only she’d been obedient when he told her how and what to believe and speak, why, they might be talking right now!

  He turned on the radio, which was set to an easy listening station. He made and ate his solitary supper and tidied up after himself. Everything had to be in its place, all the time.

  Her house hadn’t been like that. He’d spoken to her more than once about the unacceptable chaos, but she’d laughed and said she’d just come to his house if it bothered him that much.

  How could she not understand a boundary that simple? Her home should always meet his standards. It wasn’t difficult to comprehend, was it? All she had to do was correct her flawed ways and thinking. Criminy.

  She hadn’t listened, of course. He’d go pick her up for an outing and there’d be a cat or dog underfoot. She’d leave a project half-done, where anyone might see it, and laugh on her way out the door that it would be waiting for her when she got home.

  How on earth could she live like that? Ridiculous. Anyone could see how wrong this was.

  He’d broken things off after her ongoing refusal to reform her thoughts and actions.

  “This relationship no longer meets my needs,” he had told her. He had used this particular phrase on many occasions and found that it suited him.

  Then, most infuriatingly (just like so many of her predecessors), she had failed to promise to change!

  “You did this to me once before,” she had said. “You will not do it to me again.”