Catching up with Murder - Chapter 1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval systems or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior (written) permission of the author. This is a (copyrighted) work of fiction. Names,, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. SYNOPSIS: CATCHING UP WITH MURDER: a novel in three acts  The novel divides itself naturally into three acts.  Act One commences with a young woman, JULIE SIMPSON, asking retired Chief Inspector FRED WINTER to investigate the death of an aunt, RUTH TEMPLE, found dead in her bath. Since a large amount of alcohol was found in Ruth’s body, the coroner records a verdict of accidental death.  Julie thinks otherwise but cannot convince Winter - at first... Once Winter is on the case, he not only embarks on various avenues of enquiry but also finds himself attracted to an old flame CAROL BRADY whose husband had been murdered some years ago.  One potential lead after another leads to the same dead end - a village on the south coast called Monks Tallow. Act Two now takes the reader back twenty years to the early 1980s. A young man, RALPH COTTER, shoots his friend, SEAN BRADY, at Brady's home, witnessed by Brady's young son, LIAM.  Cotter, a married, closet homosexual, is terrified that Brady will expose him. Cotter runs to his lover, Darren “Daz” HORTON for help. They head for a cottage belonging to Horton’s aunt. (The aunt is visiting her daughter in New Zealand so the cottage is empty). En route, they stop to give a lift to a woman, SARAH MANNERS, whose car has broken down in a storm. Shortly afterwards, the car skids and smashes into a tree, killing Sarah.  The two men bury the body and Cotter evades capture by taking her identity.  Darren’s aunt dies and he inherits the cottage. He and Cotter live there, happily enough, as man and ‘wife’ - in an obscure English village called - Monks Tallow. Act Three follows Fred Winter to Monks Tallow where he slowly pieces together this jigsaw of audacious masquerade and murder, putting not only his own life in danger but also but those close to him. Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

CATCHING UP WITH MURDER

A Novel in Three Acts

By

Roger N. Taber

ACT I

The present day

CHAPTER ONE

“I’m telling you, Inspector Winter, my aunt was murdered.”

“And I’m telling you, Miss Simpson, I’m retired.”

A pretty blond woman in her early thirties and a man well into his fifties with a shock of wiry grey hair and beard to match glared at each other across the room.  They were in Fred Winter’s living room. He was sprawled comfortably in a black leather armchair, thinking how Julie Simpson reminded him of Miss Parker, a schoolteacher he’d once had a crush on more years ago than he cared to remember. She sat erect on the edge of a huge leather sofa, also black, wondering why she hadn’t taken her leave of this infuriating man some time ago.

“So you won’t help me?” She made it sound like an accusation.

 Winter warmed to the young woman even more.  Julie Simpson had spunk. He liked that.  “I really don’t see how I can,” he protested, “You’ve given me no reason to doubt the coroner’s summing-up. You’ll forgive me if I say you could have done worse than a verdict of death by misadventure.”

“It should have been murder.”

“It could have been suicide,” he pointed out.

My aunt rarely touched alcohol, Inspector. Besides, she was a very sensible woman. There’s no way she’d have been foolish enough to take a bath even if she had been drinking.”

“Alcohol makes fools of us all, Miss Simpson,” murmured Fred Winter, stroking his beard, “The postmortem confirmed your aunt had consumed a significant quantity, you say?”  His guest pursed her lips, nodding mutely. “So I fail to see why anyone should suspect murder.  Indeed, as I understand it, no one does or ever has… except you.”     

“Auntie Ruth wasn’t stupid,” the crisp voice declared forcefully. “Nor was she suicidal,” it added for good measure. A pair of green eyes flashed at Winter just as Miss Parker’s had, frequently, for appearing less attentive than he might have been.

“We all put on a face, Miss Simpson. Few of us are privy to what goes on behind it. Were you close to your aunt?”  The question seemed to catch her unawares. She started. A faint blush brought a dash of welcome colour to cheeks that were far too pale, he thought. “Would she have confided in you if she had been...?”

“Driven to drink?”           

“Distressed in any way,” he corrected her in the same soft voice that had caught many off their guard in the past, led to expect a more booming sound by the shock of steely hair and strong, angular jaw.

“On the contrary,” Julie Simpson responded evenly, “she was very much looking forward to visiting an old friend in Monk’s Tallow. That’s a village on the coast, near Brighton.” She reminded herself she must expect all these questions. Even so, she had expected … what had she expected?  “To be believed, for a start,” she told herself with growing agitation.

“Monk’s Tallow, you say? I know it,” he said in such a way that made her flesh tingle. A look crossed the tired-looking face that spoke volumes. She couldn’t help but wonder what memories Monk’s Tallow held for Fred Winter and sensed him leave her, briefly, for another time, another place... 

Winter forced himself to get a grip. Even so, he did not believe in coincidences and a suspicion lingered. Could Julie Simpson have taken the trouble to find out that he and Helen were married at the parish church of St Andrew’s in Monk’s Tallow nearly twenty-five years ago?  Is that why she had come to him, not, as she had only vaguely explained, because a friend had suggested she might ask for his help?

It was a few moments before he could speak. Helen’s death had come as a terrible, unexpected blow.  Tragedy had struck out of the blue more than a year ago. Yet he was still reeling from the suddenness of it all; the tumour, the operation, and the awful end that came only days after his official retirement. A lump came to his throat as he found himself reflecting how they would have been celebrating their silver wedding anniversary in a few weeks. They had met in their mid-thirties, both on the rebound from someone or other in a long line of disastrous relationships. It had seemed too good to be true.

“Auntie Ruth wouldn’t have missed going to Monk’s Tallow for the world,” Julie Simpson persisted, “She hadn’t seen her friend for years and, besides...” Her voice tailed off. Winter’s ears pricked up. Curiosity broke into his reverie and demanded he pay due attention.

“Besides?” he prompted more brusquely than he intended.

Julie hesitated. She wished it wasn’t all so complicated. Or was it? Perhaps she should have taken Alan’s advice and left well alone. She had agreed to marry Alan Best only the day before Auntie Ruth’s body was discovered.  Since then, he hadn’t stopped nagging her about how they had enough on their shared plate, sorting Ruth’s affairs and making wedding plans, without the added distraction of a likely wild goose chase.

While conceding Alan’s point, however, Julie still hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling that Ruth Temple’s death was no accident nor that, somehow, it was linked to events in Monk’s Tallow. Alan kept telling her she had read too many crime novels and maybe he was right. But she hadn’t slept well since it happened. More to the point, she was sick and tired of everyone telling her it how was all in her mind, only to be expected, part and parcel of the grieving process.  “It’s all a bit of a muddle,” she admitted without looking up but staring at clenched hands in her lap.

“Take your time,” murmured Fred Winter, smiling encouragingly.  Something about this young woman intrigued him, quite apart from her uncanny resemblance to Miss Parker.  It had been a while since anything other than a sense of being utterly lost had penetrated self-defence mechanisms he’d gone to considerable lengths to keep firmly in place during recent months. A sharp mind that had brought countless criminals to book for offences great and small had been pretty well inactive since Helen’s funeral, closing down shutters on all but the basics.  He had rarely bothered to return calls or even answer the front door. Outgoings were strictly rationed to the bare essentials. Chance alone had brought him home from a trip to the supermarket just as Julie Simpson was about to drive away.  It would have been churlish not to invite her inside, especially since she was plainly agitated and bore such a striking resemblance to Miss Parker.  The latter, he recalled with a warm glow of admiration, had been coolness personified. For Miss Parker to become agitated there had to be a very good reason. As for ‘muddle’, the word simply hadn’t existed in Miss Parker’s vocabulary. “What, exactly, is a muddle?” he tried again.

Julie Simpson shrugged. “If I knew that, it wouldn’t be a muddle, would it?” she retorted with logic that Winter wryly conceded would have done Miss Parker proud. “I suppose it all started at the funeral.”

“That would be your aunt’s funeral?”

“No, but he was an old friend of hers. His name was James Morrissey. He was killed in a car accident nearly two years ago. It happened in Monk’s Tallow,” she added almost as an afterthought.

Winter let out a long sigh, an old habit whenever his interest was aroused against his better judgement.  She hesitated again. This time, he merely waited for her to continue. A sixth sense warned him this conversation would return to haunt him and he grudgingly proceeded to focus.

“Years ago, Auntie Ruth shared a flat with a girl called Sarah Manners. Sarah and James became engaged to be married and started looking for a place of their own. One day, Sarah took off without a word to anyone.  According to Auntie Ruth, James was suicidal. They went through all the usual channels and spent a year or more trying to trace her.”  She shrugged. “I suppose she just didn’t want to be found.  You hear of people like that, don’t you, who up and leave without any explanation?”  She sighed, fidgeted with her hands then sighed again. “It must be a terrible feeling to want to leave everything and everyone you know for...what?” Whatever possesses such people?”

Whatever, indeed…? ”Winter felt not only obliged to ask himself the same question but suspected he may know the answer.  However, not for the first time in recent months, he elected not to go down that particular path.

“In the end,” Julie Simpson continued, “James took a job in Canada after Auntie Ruth promised to let him know if she heard from Sarah. She never did, though, from that day to this.  Then, a couple of years ago, she heard that Sarah was living in Monk’s Tallow. She wrote to James and he flew back to London almost at once. According to Auntie Ruth, he’d never got over Sarah, was determined to find her and get...”

“Revenge..?”

She shrugged. “I imagine he felt entitled to an explanation at the very least. I never met James myself. But Auntie Ruth said he was a lovely man and certainly didn’t deserve the kind of treatment Sarah Manners dished out to him.  She has to be a real bitch, if you ask me.  Not that Auntie would ever be drawn much on the subject. Even so, she reckoned Sarah must have suffered some kind of memory loss to have ever done such a terrible thing to a man like James Morrissey.  It’s possible, I suppose...”

“But being a real bitch has a nicer ring to it,” commented Winter quietly. So quietly, in fact, that Julie couldn’t be sure she’d heard correctly.

Ignoring what she saw as an uncalled for attempt to prevaricate, Julie pressed on.  “Whatever,” she shrugged, “...James hotfoots it down to Monk’s Tallow, determined to do what a man has to do and adamant he must go alone. He was in a bit of a state, by all accounts. Auntie Ruth blamed herself for not insisting she went with him. A few days later, he was dead. Apparently, he crashed his car at the Devil’s Elbow. It’s...”

“A very nasty bend on an otherwise very pretty cliff road,” Fred Winter commented dryly and winced as, unintentionally, he plucked a hair from his beard.

“You do know Monk’s Tallow,” Julie Simpson observed.

“I do indeed, Miss Simpson,” Winter agreed but made no attempt to answer the unasked question that hung in the air between them. “Your aunt would, naturally, have been deeply distressed by her friend’s death...” 

“Well, naturally. But she coped very well, especially considering how she’d always fancied him like mad herself. Auntie Ruth was like that. She’d cope, no matter what.  But when Liam...”

“Liam?”

“Liam Brady. I went to James’ funeral to give Auntie Ruth some moral support and Liam insisted on coming along to do the same for me.”

“He’s your fiancé?”  Winter glanced pointedly at the sparkling diamond on her left hand.

“Good heavens, no!” she laughed. It was the first time Winter had seen her laugh. It did wonders for her appearance.  In an instant, she became more than just a pretty face but delightfully animated, a light in the green eyes that had been missing before.  “Liam and I were just good friends. It is possible got a man and a woman to be just that, you know.”  An impish grin struck him as even more attractive than her smile.

“Were?” picking up on her use of the past tense.

Smile and grin faded. Her whole body tensed. “Liam had a few days off. He offered to fetch some things that belonged to James from a hotel in Monk’s Tallow. When he got back he was...well, different, not the same person at all.  Then he started going down there regularly.”

“It’s a pretty enough village. People have been known to fall in love with such places.”

“Liam certainly wasn’t in love with Monk’s Tallow!”  Her voice shook and the cool composure seemed on the point of disintegrating before his eyes. Winter sat up, leaned forward, rested his chin on his hands and regarded his guest intently.  “I can’t explain. It’s almost as if he became so obsessed with the place that he had to spend time there rather than wanted to.  Every time he came back, he’d go all moody for weeks and be a real pain.  Even when he began to snap out of it, he’d keep on about how Monk’s Tallow was the weirdest place.”

“Weird?”

She nodded. “That’s how he described it. In the end he was proved right.”  She paused and caught her breath sharply. “About eighteen months before Auntie Ruth died Liam crashed his car in exactly the same spot as James Morrissey.” She paused again, for effect. But Fred Winter was a professional and not easily impressed.  He stayed silent and his expression gave nothing away. She, on the other hand, looked at first disappointed then angry. “I don’t believe in coincidences Inspector.”

“But they happen, Miss Simpson, all the time,” Winter felt bound to say although inclined to agree.

“Auntie Ruth was awfully upset. She hardly knew Liam. Even so, she kept saying that, but for her, he’d never have had gone to Monk’s Tallow in the first place.  I know she’d been in touch with Sarah Manners by e-mail and arranged to go down and see for herself.”

“See what, exactly?’

“I don’t know. The place where he died, maybe? I know she’d wanted to visit the spot since James was killed but, well, you know how it is. We mean to do these things but, somehow, never quite get around to them.  Besides, I think she was a bit nervous about seeing Sarah again.”

“Why nervous?”

“I could be wrong, of course. It was just an impression I got. Maybe it had to do with the way Sarah treated James. I think Auntie Ruth loved him very much.”

“Is that another impression?”

“No. She told me that herself. Poor Auntie, I don’t think she ever quite gave up hoping she and James might get it together one day but...” and she gave another little shrug, “...it wasn’t to be.”

Both were silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Julie suddenly asked to use the toilet.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Winter gave her directions. Absently, he watched her go, not unappreciative of the trim figure or the best pair of legs he’d seen in ages.  The fiancé, he mused wryly, was a lucky man.

Winter frowned and stroked his beard. He was uneasy. Not one but three deaths played on his mind and demanded attention. Try as he might, he could not turn a deaf ear. Not only had two deaths occurred in Monk’s Tallow, of all places, but that same picturesque village in Sussex appeared to be the common denominator for all three.. True, it hardly added up to murder. Even so, it was an odd little scenario, one that held a greater fascination for him and tugged all the harder at his instincts the more he contemplated its potential.  Not that he suspected foul play, he didn’t. Besides, it was far too early to speculate.

As far as Winter could make out, there was no reason why Julie Simpson should not quite simply be mistaken about her aunt being murdered.  Misguided, perhaps, even melodramatic, but an understandable over-reaction in the circumstances. Nor was it one he hadn’t encountered on countless occasions. Death is always a shock to the emotions, yet less so, somehow, if we can find a reason for it. Murder, he had long since discovered, was as good a reason as any. Ruth Temple’s death was tragic but nothing more sinister than that...surely?  So why was his nose twitching, as it always did whenever he found himself verging on the inarticulate?

Something did not ring true. It might, just might, Winter supposed, be interesting to discover just what was niggling at his basic instincts like an indefinable itch neither hand could quite reach to enjoy a good scratch. By the time Julie Simpson returned, his mind was made up.

“So, will you help me?” she asked bluntly, settling herself down again on the sofa.

“Supposing I did help you, Miss Simpson, what shape or form would you expect my assistance to take?”

“You’ll take the case?” she gave a little squeak of childlike excitement.  Miss Parker, he was sure, would not have approved.

“Did I say that?”  Winter wasted no time squashing that one. “For a start, there is no case and even if there was, I am no longer a police officer and therefore in no position to act in an official capacity.”

“And in an unofficial capacity…?”

Winter could not resist a terse smile. He had to hand it to her. She caught on fast.

“There is no case,” he repeated firmly. “All we have, Miss Simpson, is a troubled young lady and a retired police inspector who will be up shit creek without a paddle if he doesn’t get his finger out pretty damn fast.”  He let his mouth relax, pleased that she responded without dropping her guard, plainly sensing it would be unwise to interrupt and risk alienating him altogether.  Miss Parker would have approved.  “It‘s now how long since your aunt’s friend James Morrissey was killed?”

“It’s coming up to three years.”

“And your friend, Liam Brady..?”

“A year last June 23^rd.”

“A good fourteen months.”

“Yes.”

“Yet you say your aunt had only recently decided to visit Monk’s Tallow.”

“Yes. It’s like I said, I think she was nervous about seeing Sarah Manners again.”

“So what or whom do you suppose suddenly made her less nervous?”

“Might it not help us to find that out?” she put back at him, a wry smile playing about the full, shiny red mouth.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” he murmured then asked, “Did James Morrissey have any family that you know of?”

“I’ve no idea. As far as I can recall, Auntie Ruth never mentioned whether or not James had any family. But why should she?”

“And your friend, Liam Brady, does he have family?”

“His mother lives in Camden Town, it...”

“Used to have an excellent market,” commented Winter, a shade wistfully.

“Used to..?”

“It still has a market,” he agreed. “Do you have an address for Mrs Brady?”

“Yes, it’s in my address book.” She reached for her bag and fumbled inside, eventually producing a book with gilt edged pages bound in red leather about the size of a small diary. He had often wondered how anyone managed to cram names and street addresses into the spaces provided, not to mention telephone/fax numbers and e-mail addresses. 

As he watched, Julie Simpson continued to grow in his estimation. She had answered his questions without, unlike most people, wanting to know why he asked them. It not only saved a lot of time but also demonstrated a touching good faith on her part.  She trusted him. It was not a bad start, he found himself thinking, not a bad start at all.

She tore off part of what looked like a shopping list, copied an address on the back and handed it to him.  “I’ve only met the woman a couple of times. Now and then, Liam stayed there and I’ve been to the flat but she was nearly always at work or out shopping, whatever.” 

Julie flicked through the pages of the address book and began writing again. “My aunt’s best friend was her next door neighbour, Audrey Ellis. She was also the last person to see Auntie Ruth alive.” 

She handed him the rest of the shopping list. He took it, kept hold of her hand and looked her gravely in the eye. “There is no case, Miss Simpson,” he repeated, “and I am making no promises.”

“I understand Inspector.”  She neither flinched from his gaze nor attempted to conceal a gleam of...was it triumph, he wondered?   Well, if Julie Simpson thought she had put one over on him, she was very much mistaken.  Yet he couldn’t deny she had touched a nerve, awakened a near dead curiosity beyond wondering what to throw together for the next meal. It was a rare person who could manage that, he grudgingly acknowledged. Helen his late wife, had been one, Miss Parker another.

“I rather think you do, Miss Simpson,” treating her to a wicked smile that did nothing to lessen her impression that he had been a ladies man in his time. Julie rather wished she could have met Helen Winter. Without a shadow of a doubt, she must have been a remarkable woman.

Julie hesitated, her sureness of manner dented slightly. “About a fee...” she began.

“No case, no fee.” Winter cut her short with a no-nonsense gruffness that brooked no room for argument.

“And no promises,” she echoed teasingly although the green eyes retained an air of weary seriousness.  “I’ve written down my own address and phone number for you too. Can I at least expect to hear from you whatever happens? ”

“Whatever,” he agreed.

“Then I’ll love and leave you till we meet again then, Mr Winter.”

“The name’s Fred.”

A trick of the light on Julie Simpson’s red lipstick gave the appearance of a spot of blood about to trickle down her chin.  A hand in his pocket closed on a handkerchief.  He almost offered it to her. But the illusion had already passed. Winter not only felt foolish but, to his horror, found himself blushing.

“Thank you Fred,” was all Julie Simpson said and sensed she needed to say before gently disengaging her hand.

A few minutes later Winter was waving her off from the front door and watching her drive away. As he closed the door and wandered into the kitchen, it crossed his mind that he hadn’t even offered her a cup of tea. Just as well, he told himself. Far better keep things plain and simple, never a good idea to get too cosy. 

The very idea of getting cosy with Miss Parker made him roar with laughter. It was a good feeling. As he waited impatiently for the kettle to boil, Winter reflected with an unexpected sense of guilt that he hadn’t laughed like that in ages.

           

 To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Are you alright?” Pete asked Heron. He had kept an anxious eye on his friend throughout their journey so far.

    “It’s Iggy you should feel sorry for.”  Heron gave the gluck a friendly pat on the flank. “It’s no small wonder I haven’t strangled him in my sleep!” Heron grinned. He hadn’t been awake long and was still feeling sore but refreshed as he struggled to a sitting position, “I see the elf girl is still with us,” he commented drily.

      “She seems to know what she’s doing,” Pete conceded.

      “But does she know where she’s going?” Heron moaned as he attempted to stretch.

      “The Purple Mountains are that way,” Pete pointed straight ahead, “How can we go wrong?”

     “We haven’t been exactly lucky so far,” Heron reminded him. Pete hung his head.  Neither their minds nor bodies would easily shrug off the rough handling meted out by the krills for some time yet.

     “Tell me about it!” A voice in his head that Pete has learned to associate with the gluck, Sam, now trotting morosely beside him, broke a long, dignified silence. Pete had the grace to blush. To be sure, his and Heron’s plight paled into insignificance compared to the sickening massacre of Sam’s fellow creatures by aryds.

      “Sorry,” murmured Pete and tears sprung to his eyes at the awful recollection.

     “Don’t be sorry,” said Heron, unaware of the ability of gluck and motherworlder to communicate with each other, “just hope that our luck holds for once. Ouch!” He swallowed an oath as Iggy slowed to an ungainly halt. “Me and my big mouth…!” He winked at Pete as much to allay his own fears than those of the red haired boy.

      Ahead of them, Irina had stopped near some misshapen trees and was holding up a hand, indicating they should keep their distance. She turned and held a warning finger to her lips. After a short while, she joined them. “Krills!” she whispered, “probably the same band that took you prisoner. Me also, she added grimly.”

      “You’re sure?” Heron considered the elf girl’s pale face with frank curiosity as well as genuine concern. It would appear that Irina had recognized the krills. True, he and Pete had briefed her about their own encounter but she had barely touched upon her own dealings with the scaly creatures.

        “As if I will ever forget it…!” Irina hissed “We must withdraw and find shelter until dark.”

        “Then what…?” Pete wanted to know.

       Irina drew back her shoulders in a gesture of defiance that fooled no one. “We go around them.” She misunderstood Heron’s admiring intake of breath and glared angrily. “You have a better idea?”

     “Couldn’t we just follow them at a safe distance?”  Pete suggested before Heron had time to form a suitable reply.

      “The boy has a point,” said Heron. “Better to keep the enemy in our sights than at our backs, surely?”

     “It will slow us down,” said the elf girl. Males, huh! she fumed inwardly.
   “So what’s the rush?” insisted Heron with a quiet firmness that did nothing to calm Irina’s mounting frustration.

     “Trust me.” She flung them both an imploring look. How could she explain that elven intuition  brooked no argument?

      “Sorry, not this time Irina.” Heron was adamant and began to dismount with some difficulty. “Whatever’s waiting for us in the Purple Mountains, you can be sure krills have a part to play in it.  Better we keep an eye on them and have some sort of advantage.”

      “You can’t really believe that!” Irina flared, cheeks flushed and eyes darting fire.

     “No,” Heron admitted with a rueful grin that infuriated Irina all the more, “but it makes more sense than getting caught…again,” he added pointedly.

      “Coward…!” Irina spat out the word with such venom that Pete became enraged on his friend’s behalf.

      “Don’t you dare call him that, don’t you dare!” Pete rushed at the elf girl and would have hit her but she caught his wrists in a steely grip of her own. “He’s no coward, nor am I. Nor are we the fools you take us for. You have your reasons for going to the Purple Mountains, so have we, and they’re every bit as important. Heron needs to find his family and tribe. Me, I have to find Mick and Beth. And I’ll not be tied up in a sack and have heaven knows what else done to me again, I won’t!  Not again, no way!”  Pete’s fury subsided as quickly as it has erupted and he burst into tears. Nor did he pull away when Irina released her hold and gathered his shaking body into her arms.

      “The boy has not had an easy time of it,” murmured Heron awkwardly. By now, Irina was crying too. He hated to see people cry. It embarrassed him. Worse, it completely undermined his masculinity and left him feeling vulnerable, almost like a motherworlder. “Let’s go back them find somewhere to camp.” It was a relief to turn away and limp back the way they had come. The two glucks followed him while Pete and Irina brought up the rear. The latter appeared to have capitulated and was preoccupied with comforting the distraught boy. Later, after setting up a makeshift camp among some rocks, they chewed on some mori and drunk a little vinre, Pete fell asleep on Irina’s cloak that she had laid out for him. Heron covered him with his own.

      “So who will keep an eye on the krills?” Irina demanded, “you or I?”

      “I’ll go,” he volunteered as a matter of course.

      “In your condition?” Irina shook her head. “I don’t think so!”

      “I can look after myself!”

      “But yours is not the only life at risk here,” she flared angrily, “and I will not put mine in the hands of an invalid. I will go. I suggest you get some sleep, you look terrible.” She was gone before Heron could stop her. Had he the right even to try, he wondered moodily? If he looked anything like how he felt, he was little use to anyone!  His legs gave way and he rested his back against a rock. Before he could brood further, a weary sleep overtook him.

     Irina had not changed her mind. Heron’s decision was ill-judged. There was no advantage to be had in trailing behind the krills. It would merely delay their journey’s end. But she had no desire to press on alone. Besides, she had grown fond of the red haired boy. At least, that is what she told herself, dismissing the image of Heron’s infuriating grin and mischievous twinkle in the eye whenever they argued to the back of her mind.  She tensed upon hearing voices, concealed herself behind some rocks, and settled down to observe the krill encampment. It consisted of a single tent, a few spits and cooking pans. Here and there, krills sprawled, their scaly skins glistening in the twilight beside the tell-tale flagons scattered within arm’s reach. Irina sniffed and smothered a gasp. She knew that smell. It was tayo. Her father and the elders often drank it when they gathered to reminisce about lifetimes when elves were strong and not confined to the Forest of Gar. Tayo was made from the roots, leaves and berries of a plant that bore the same name. It was much stronger than vinre. 

       The krills were drunk.

      As if on cue, the two creatures nearest to her, staggering and supporting one another with increasing difficulty, burst into bawdy song. Or she supposed it was a song. To an elf, it was nothing more or less than a poorly conceived cacophony of sound designed to inflict damage on the eardrums. Fortunately, she was not made to suffer long. The pair stumbled, went flying and collapsed in a tangled heap. There they lay, barely stirring except to utter the occasional grunt.

      Irina prepared to leave. No one here would be fit to travel before daybreak, if then. She might as well return to the others and get some rest. Inwardly, she cursed Heron. Now would have been an ideal time to skirt the camp and continue their journey unhindered.  The sooner they reached those accursed mountains, the better. For only then could she and Pers return home to their beloved Gar.  Her heart skipped a beat as her thoughts lingered with her brother. Is he still alive, she wondered, and what of poor, foolish Kirin?  Her eyes misted over. Of course, they are still alive! she told herself angrily. Besides, to think otherwise would have been nothing short of betrayal. Even so, the next beat her heart skipped warned her all was not well with the two elves.  

      She turned to go. Out of the corner of an eye, she glimpsed the tent flap move a whisker. It could have been a gentle breeze or…she waited, expectantly.  Sure enough, it was soon flung back and two figures emerged in earnest conversation. One, she recognized instantly. It was the krill leader, Radik. The other was a young female. Radik, she could make out easily enough, but the woman was surrounded in a misty haze that may or may not have been smoke drifting from the campfire.  They were arguing.

      Irina caught every word.

     “Spare me your excuses, Radik”, the female railed. “Excuses, excuses, that’s all I ever hear/ Excuses! First you lose the boy, Heron, and the motherworld child. Then you capture a real prize, the one called Michal, and what do you do but lose him as well!”

     “There are powerful forces abroad,” the grim faced krill pointed out. “How can I be expected to handle everything when even the great Ragund has his back to the wall?”

      “How dare you?” the woman snarled, “You are not worthy to lick Ragund’s boots. If he has his problems it must be down to…druids.”

      “Druids…!” Radik paled. “I had no idea,” he stammered then rallied hastily. “I rest my case.” He shrugged. “How can I be expected to stay on top of things when there is druid magic about?”

        “Druids have no interest in you, you fool!” hissed the female. “They have bigger fish to fry. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open and…” She looked around and sniffed the air, “your men sober.”

Radik merely shrugged again. “What do you expect after several lifetimes of living in some poxy swamp with only bog folk for company? These are good men and will not fail you. I shall not fail you either, you can be sure. Only, keep faith with us. We will succeed, and then…”

      “Mamelon will live again, rise again, and be…”

      “Ours!” cried Radik, his ugly face creasing into an even more grotesque mask of scaly triumph.

In her hiding place, Irina shivered. It was too horrible for words. She watched as the krill leader reached for his companion’s hand but the woman moved adroitly away.

      “Not now, Radik. A dream-self may not sustain touch. You could kill me.”

      “So when..?” Radik implored, positively drooling. But he retreated several paces all the same.

      “Soon, I promise, when I am my true self again. For now I am stuck with this stupid girl’s body and must trust it will lead me to the key. Without it, we cannot succeed.”

      “Nor without the boy, Heron,” Radik snarled.

      “Perhaps…” the woman murmured. Irina did not hear, but sensed the other’s growing frustration.

      “You are thinking that perhaps the motherworlder, Michal…” Radik did not need finish the sentence.

      “Perhaps,” the woman repeated as if to herself, “but Galia’s motherworld son as well as her Mamelon grandson…Who would have believed it?”

       “If Galia lives, she is a threat to us all,” Radik growled.

      “No, not Galia although, yes, it would seem she lives if only in the motherworld. No matter, for Galia is no threat to us. Neither is she any match for Ragund.  Yet, she is Astor’s daughter…”

       “Astor, huh…!” Radik scoffed. “He is no match for Ragund either. Haven’t you told me so a thousand times?”

      “It is true. But there is something else, something that troubles even Ragund, more so even that any meddling elven or even druid magic.”

       “Such as…?”

       The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. But when I do, my dear Radik, then I will also know how to destroy it.

      “You are magnificent.” The krill made ghastly rasping noises that Irina could only suppose were meant to convey admiration. Whatever, they made her flesh crawl.

      “Quite,” the woman agreed. The sneering tone conveyed nothing short of pure malice. Irina strained to get a clearer view of her face.

        “Why are elves about?” Radik shifted uneasily.

       “Why, indeed?” The woman was dismissive. “They are a nuisance, I agree. But that is all. Elves are of precious little consequence beyond Gar. Everyone knows that. Oh, they have their uses. But elves are sentimental creatures. There is no room for sentimentality with so much at stake. Trust me, Radik. I know elves of old.”

       “A foolish race,” Radik agreed.

       “So how come they outwitted you?” the woman uttered a throaty chuckle.

        “Don’t mock me,” growled the krill leader.

      “Or what?” the woman laughed outright. “Please don’t sulk, Radik. It is a childish habit and I deplore it. Come, give me a smile and say nice things to me,” she coaxed.

       “Or what…?”  Radik parried, with a grimace that might have passed for a smile had it not more closely resembled a smirk.

       The woman tossed her head and black ringlets rose like plumes of smoke in a light breeze. “Or I might have second thoughts about making you my consort once I am Ruler of Mamelon.”

      “You wouldn’t…?” croaked the krill leader.

     “You know I would. But you also know I won’t. We are two of a kind, Radik,” the teasing voice made Irina cringe but scored a direct hit and plainly gave the krill leader heart.

     Radik’s scaly chest swelled. “I love you,” he declared.  Irina sensed he meant it. Resisting an urge to vomit, she shifted her position only slightly but sufficient to achieve her objective, a clearer view of the woman’s face.

     “You love me but you hate Ragund more. You play a dangerous game, Radik. I like that. We risk all for all. Oh, and you are enjoying every moment, even your failures.”

      “As are you,” returned the krill leader, his voice as smooth and deadly as a snake.

      “As am I,” the woman agreed. “Only, I have by far the most to .lose.”

      “True,” Radic nodded his scaly head, “but also by far the most to gain.”

      “True,” she tittered.

      “All I want is you.”

      “But I want more than you, my Radik, much more,” the teasing tone persisted.

      “I will die for you if I must.”

     “And if you must, you will, Radik. You can be sure of it.”  In the half shadow, Irina saw the woman smile and gave an involuntary shudder for it was as deadly a smile as it was beautiful.  This woman is a devil, surely?  “It is as I have always said, my Radik. “We are two of a kind, you and me, and one day we shall reap our reward for that.”

       “Why wait?” he growled. From where Irina watched, it seemed the woman tensed and relaxed again in the same instant.

       “You know why, my Radik,” the voice purred, “First we must recover the Tomb of the Creator and restore the Spring of Life. A dead planet is no use to anyone. Then all we have to do is carry out our plan and enjoy….”

      “Each other,” the krill leader smirked.

      “That, too,” the woman agreed crisply.

      Irina had the impression neither quite believed the other. But the krill leader was besotted, that much was obvious. His was an unrequited love, though, she was certain of that. Whatever she wanted from him, the woman would abandon him, or worse, once his usefulness had served its purpose. Did the krill leader know this? Something about the way his adoring eyes glittered suggested he might. On the other hand, it could simply mean he was drunk.

      “One day!” the krill leader uttered a half-strangled cry that sounded to Irina’s straining ears like a curious mix of demand, plea and…wishful thinking?

      “One day!” echoed the silky voice.

     Did she imagine an unsubtle hint of mockery, Irina wondered, even as she put a hand to her mouth. Of the woman who had been standing there only moments before, there was no sign. The krill leader was quite alone.

      A scream rose in the elf girl’s throat and she thrust a tiny fist into her mouth to stifle the sound. Radik, on the other hand, well used to such visitations and departures, merely felt in the pocket of his tunic for a flask of tayo and took a long swig. Irina, already making her way stealthily and pensively back to the others, did not hear the krill leader mutter, “You have my word on it. One day, my fair Arissa…”

     Meanwhile, Pete stirred and imagined a frantic licking at his face. “Ace?” he woke, excited, his disappointment such that he could not go back to sleep. Instead, he gazed at a bleak, near starless Mamelon sky wishing for the umpteenth time that he hadn’t faked a headache that fateful day but had gone shopping with his mother. That it all seemed so long ago and far away, almost a dream already, was really scary. He stubbornly refused to cry but let his thoughts turn, as they invariably did, to Mick and Beth.

     "Things will turn out alright, you’ll see.”  A familiar voice came unbidden into his head.

Pete tossed a sceptical look towards the spot where the two glucks were resting. “I thought you were asleep,” he murmured half-accusingly.

     “Chance’d be a fine thing,” retorted Sam. “Someone has to keep a look out for the enemy, for Ri’s sake!”

      “The krills don’t even know we’re here.”

      “There are worse enemies than krillls,” Sam murmured cryptically and then pricked up his ears as they homed in on Irina’s return. She was very agitated, the gluck could tell by the way she kept running a little, slowing, pausing, and then breaking into a short run again. Her breaths were quick and choked. Can it be the bold elf girl is frightened? “Things will turn out alright, you’ll see,” the gluck repeated as much to reassure himself as the motherworld boy. 

      Suddenly, the small, floppy ears began to twitch violently as they began to pick up other sounds coming from the opposite direction and much too close for comfort.  Preoccupied with listening out for Irina and krills, the doughty gluck had missed a new threat creeping up on them from behind…

To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Irina took small comfort from the fact that Bethan’s disappearing act left her a clear field with Michal as, one after another, each was hurled into the same rocky cavity.  All had been badly beaten. Nor had the krills spared Irina although she fared marginally better than her male companions. Krills hated elves and plainly relished dishing out a good pasting to Pers and Kirin.  If they seemed a trifle wary of Michal, it was down to his ‘foreignness’ rather than any show of temper.

      “That will teach you to turn your back on krill hospitality!” Radik cackled. Then the krill leader and his men returned to share provisions around a roaring campfire. Laughing and exchanging bawdy jokes, they were glad to squat close to the flames.  Scorching by day, the desert grew icy cold after dark.

      None were bound. Brother and sister collapsed sobbing in each other’s arms. Then it was Kirin’s turn and Irina gave him a tearful hug. Over his shoulder, she caught the motherworlder regarding her shyly.  Mick’s bruised mouth managed a rueful grin. He opened his arms wide. She broke away from Kirin and leapt into them, pressing her head against his tunic. Mick, for his part, was content to lay a battered cheek against the silky tangle of her hair, eyes closed, for what seemed to each of them an eternity.  Kirin could hardly bear to watch although, seething inwardly, forced a comradely smile.

      Pers glanced at Kirin and let out a groan that was not entirely down to his every limb’s feeling as if it had been smashed to a pulp. “What a mess!” he exclaimed wearily.

     “At least we are all together.” Irina snuggled closer to Mick. But she, too, had seen Kirin’s expression. Catching her brother’s warning look, she broke free, albeit with an exaggerated show of reluctance. Pers suspected his sister of sheer provocation. Then he glimpsed the corners of her mouth twitch, and was sure of it.  He sighed. As if being taken by krills is bot enough…

       “Not all!” Mick groaned.

      “We are better off without them,” declared Irina, “I don’t trust that Mulac. Bethan should choose her companions more carefully, Michal,” she flung the words at him.

     “She’s my girlfriend and her name is Beth,” snapped Mick, indifferent to the elf girl’s hurt expression.

       “In the motherworld perhaps, but this is Mamelon. Besides, she seems taken with the Nu-gen,” Irina commented with raised eyebrows. Pers groaned. She had never been one to concede a point gracefully, his sister. 

      “You’re just jealous, you stupid…female!” Mick shouted angrily, but then looked away so no one would see the tears that sprung to his eyes. Irina winced as if he’d struck her. Serves her right! he told himself.  Flattered at first, he was beginning to weary of the elf girl’s constant flirting. That’s not strictly true, a still small voice acknowledged. He chose to ignore it.

       “I wonder whatever happened to the little magician…” Pers mused aloud.

      “How typical of his kind to save himself and let the krills take the rest of us!” Kirin sneered.

     Mick was thinking along much the same lines. Not once, but twice now, Ricci had abandoned them. Even so, he felt obliged to leap to the little man’s defence. “He’s only an apprentice magician and I’m sure he’ll find a way to rescue us before the krills decide to play football with us again.”

      “Football..?” Pers eyebrows rose quizzically.

      “Forget it,” Mick was too tired to explain.

      “It is a game they play in the motherworld,” said Kirin, much to everyone’s surprise.

      “Next time they sport with us, it will be no game!” muttered Pers ominously.

      Irina gasped. Kirin glowered at his friend and went to her. “See, you have frightened your sister!” He gave the elf girl a hug.  

      Mick reddened and turned away. Nor was his confusion solely due to mixed feelings for Irina.  So much had happened, and it was all happening too fast. There was so much he didn’t understand. How could he? During the latest krill attack, the puli in his pocket had proved no more useful than a pebble on Margate beach. He’d begun to expect great things of the stone, especially after its spectacular performance previously. Now they were back at square one, worse even. He had lost Beth again as well as that idiot Ricci. As for the Nu-gen, “Good riddance!” he muttered under his breath. And where was Pete?  Homesickness settled heavily on his stomach, refusing to budge even when Irina slipped a hand in his and met his weary look with a dazzling smile.

      “All will be well, you’ll see.”  But the elf girl’s battered face radiated an optimism Mick could not begin to share.

     “As the aryd said to the doolie,” retorted Kirin. It was not particularly funny, but everyone laughed and it eased the tension. Mick exchanged grins with the elf in a rare moment of rapport. But Kirin quickly reverted to form and looked sulkily away. Mick shrugged. If that’s the way he wants it, so be it. He actually quite liked Kirin and wished they could be friends. A part of him sympathised with the elf. He could not forget how he’d felt seeing Mulac grab Beth’s hand and drag her after him as if he owned her. Mick scowled. Beth hadn’t even seemed to mind. Impulsively, he drew Irina closer.  She met her brother’s eye and started at the strength of his unspoken criticism. Even so, she did not resist the moody motherworlder’s arm circling her waist.

     Kirin caught his breath sharply. One of their guards sniggered. It was too much for poor Kirin. He charged the interloper, Michal, like a mad bull. Mick, who had been half-expecting just such an attack, quickly recovered from the initial shock. He and Kirin were soon rolling on the ground, scrapping furiously. Irina hovered and made plaintive squealing noises. Pers, though, wasted no time diving into the fray. The  elf was angry. They should not be fighting among themselves. He finally managed to separate the pair although not before sustaining more bruises and another black eye for his trouble. 

     Meanwhile, the two guards had edged closer and were plainly enjoying the spectacle. Pers and Mick exchanged meaningful glances. Kirin, though, preoccupied as he was with looking to Irina for sympathy, missed this fleeting interchange. The elf girl, however, did not. Instantly on the alert, she returned her brother’s wink and instinctively understood what was expected of her.  Kirin, glad the fight was over, was feeling sheepish and hard done by when the motherworlder suddenly caught him off guard with a forceful shove. He went reeling and fell heavily. Before he could strike out, the other had straddled the elf’s chest and pinioned his arms. “Be ready to run!” hissed Mick. But the elf was full of such hatred, he did not hear.

      Deep down, Kirin sensed that something was not quite right. For the first time in his life, the elf denied his natural instincts. A frenzy of emotion ran riot in his head until it felt near to bursting. His only concern was to be rid of the motherworlder once and for all. Drawing upon all his reserves of elven strength, he heaved and twisted free.

     The fight resumed. “Not so rough, eh…?” Mick whispered, and then saw the murderous look in Kirin’s eye. The elf wasn’t shamming. A voice in his head warned that he was fighting for his life. He lashed out. The pair fought like demons, much to the delight of the guards and growing consternation of Pers.

      Irina, blissfully unaware that the fight was for real, rose to the occasion and grabbed one of the guards by a scaly arm. “Stop them before they kill each other!” she pleaded.

      “Do something!” Pers remonstrated with the other guard.

    Both krills gave a harsh cackle and remained oblivious to their danger until it was too late. Simultaneously, brother and sister made their moves. Each caught the guards a lightning blow in the face, following it up with a chopping movement of elf hand to scaly neck. The guards stood no chance, slumping senseless to the ground before any self-defence mechanisms had time for even a knee-jerk reaction. 

     “Come!” whispered Pers with an urgency that penetrated even Kirin’s raging frustration.  But he and Mick continued to square up to each other. Neither moved or said a word.

     “Now!” urged Irina, beside herself. Then she made the mistake of rushing up to Mick and grabbing his hand. “We must hurry!”

         Kirin saw red. “No!” he yelled, “You belong to me!” He lunged at Mick yet again.

      Irina would have screamed if Pers hadn’t clapped a hand over her mouth and issued a grim warning. “Do you want to kill us all?”  Barely sparing the pair on the ground a second glance, he seized her by the wrist and crept stealthily into the darkness, dragging her after him.

        In vain, Irina tried to struggle free. “Michal!” She opened her mouth to scream. But Pers had no intention of being caught again. Without allowing himself time to think, he silenced her with a single blow, slung her over his shoulder and raced  silently into the gloomy Mamelon night.

      A particularly savage blow sent Mick sprawling. Kirin made as if to follow up his advantage. Mick froze, unable to move a muscle. Suddenly, something hit a nerve in the elf. He looked dazedly about him. Irina was gone! She was no longer with them in the tiny cave. He looked again. Pers, too, had disappeared.  Angry and confused, he rounded on the motherworlder. Mick’s expression told him all he needed to know.

        The elf’s heart sank.

     "Well done!” said Mick scathingly and watched unsympathetically as realization and distress dawned in the elf’s stricken gaze. But there was no time to waste. He staggered to his feet, massaging his jaw. “Now, come on!”  He moved forward, sluggishly, only to have a lone krill look out of the darkness directly in his path. It took in the situation at a glance and opened its ugly mouth to raise the alarm. “No you don’t!” muttered Mick between clenched teeth and flung himself at the scaly creature. The pair went flying. Mick hung on, but the krill was by far the stronger. A ferocious hug all but squeezed the breath from his body. By the time they hit the ground, Mick was barely conscious. Neither the cruel eyes boring into his face nor a vile stench emitting from thick lips twisted in triumph could touch him any more. Only an agony of crushed ribs kept his native spirit alive.

      Kirin watched in fascinated horror as the krill drew a blade from a handsome sheath at its belt and lifted it high, poised to strike at the exhausted motherworlder.  Yes, yes, a gleeful voice shrieked in his head. The elf nearly jumped out of his skin. The sound was completely alien to him yet excited him like no other. Nor did he have any difficulty recognizing it for what it was…pure evil.  The slight elven form gave a shudder. What have I done?  Mortified, he stared, wide-eyed. The krill blade descended teasingly, in slow motion, until it pricked the motherworlder’s throat and drew blood. Suddenly, the creature moaned as if in pain. The hand gripping the knife pulled back slightly, the scaly wrist twisting as it if wrestled with some invisible restraint.

      Mick felt himself tumbling into a dark void. In his head, he sung the Okay Song. It seemed the natural and obvious thing to do. His terror eased somewhat as he imagined himself a child again being comforted by his mother, picturing her face with such clarity that she might have been standing over him. He even fancied that he heard her sweet soprano voice joining with his shaky tenor in the old, familiar lullaby.

      Kirin heard it, too, faintly at first but growing stronger until his head seemed to be swimming with music.  It stopped with a suddenness that made him cry out, so intense was the feeling of irreparable loss left clutching at his heart. All at once, his vision cleared as if a veil across it has been flung back.  He saw the krill poised to kill the motherworlder whom he, Kirin…hated. In an appalling flash of insight, the elf bore witness to a hideous yellow fog. A dark spot within it began to swell. Kirin cried out.  A seventh sense told him that this evil thing was no less than his own spirit, looming large and impenetrable before his very eyes. From a place in such nether regions of self he had never reckoned to go, the music started up again, although he could tell it was but a dying echo. Even so, it was an inspiration. Gar was calling to him. All was not quite lost. “Elves…!” he cried and leapt upon the krill’s back, wrenching back its knife arm with a burst of super strength.

      Mick remained semiconscious and unaware of the battle that ensued between elf and krill. He came to in time to see Kirin drive the creature’s own knife between its scales where he judged its heart to be. The krill reared up and then fell back, uttered a long, low moan while continuing to flap about for a bit even after sneaking its last breath. He gaped at Kirin in blank astonishment.

      “I have killed!” the elf could only sob, pitifully, over and over.

    “You saved my life!” murmured Mick incredulously as he stemmed a flesh wound with a handkerchief. “Thanks, but we must hurry!” he whispered in the elf’s ear as he tried to pull him to his feet.  But Kirin would not budge. “Come on!” Mick hissed, “Before his mates get here. It beats me why they’re not swarming all over us already!”

      “Elves…!” Kirin repeated, but in an entirely different tone than the warlike cry he had uttered earlier. He began to cry. “Elves…!” He sobbed again, weeping freely now and moaning softly. Yet, he did not appear to Mick as being in any great distress. Rather, the elf seemed almost happy.

        Mick felt a sticky wetness against his palm, glanced at it and back at the slight figure slumped in his arms. In spite of their danger, he could not suppress a sharp cry at the bloody discharge from a wound in the elf’s chest.  Even as he did so, Kirin gave a long, low sigh and went motionless. 

       Frantically, Mick felt for a pulse. There was none. The elf was dead.

     “Take him and go!” commanded a firm but not unsympathetic voice in Mick’s head. Dazedly, he gathered the elf in both arms, lurched towards the cave exit and prayed that a dim light from the krill’s campfire nearby would not expose them as he crept into a welcome but freezing Black Hole of night.

     “Where are we going?”  But if Mick was hoping for an answer from the unseen presence he sensed so strongly while not quite believing in it, he was disappointed.  Yet, he knew better than to display either frustration or disappointment. Instead, he pressed doggedly on. 

       Dawn came without any warning, the twin moons replaced by an ascending glow that, in turn, brought with it a revelation that halted the weary youth in his tracks.

        A splendid dome glistened in the distance. At first, Mick thought it must be a mirage. Somehow, it seemed to lack substance, almost as if it were pure light. Whatever, it’s weird. He shrugged, shifted the corpse in his arms and proceeded to stagger towards the dome. Every bone in his body was crying out for rest. More than anything, he longed to be rid of his burden. Yet, an uncanny instinct urged him to carry the elf to a safe place. Did the mysterious dome offer sanctuary, he wondered?  Could there be any connection with the puli in his pocket that lay as cold and still as poor Kirin? There was only one way to find out. He put on a spurt in spite of his fatigue. All around him, the landscape’s bland indifference to his growing desperation stuck him as palpably more unbearable than any open hostility.

      An aryd swooped out of nowhere, its bulbous eyes hideous with evil intent. Mick had no choice but to stand his ground. He hadn’t the energy to run. The creature came straight for him like a bullet from a gun, waiting until the very last second before it zoomed off at a tangent, soaring with a grace that belied its ungainly appearance.  Mick saw the whites of its eyes and thought he detected an outraged astonishment, as if the winged thing was unaccustomed to and therefore unprepared for blind confrontation. Even so, the rush of its giant wings came like a blow that sent Mick reeling in its wake.  He tottered clumsily, like a child learning its first steps, but soon recovered his balance and continued to head for the dome.

     The strangest sensation came over Mick. He felt as though he had been rebuked by a dark, ungodly force that persisted, determined to force him to his knees. He swayed and nearly fell, but if ever stubbornness was a virtue, now was the time to make the most of it. He plodded on. Each step was an effort, the result of sheer willpower. A searing heat had already replaced the bitter cold. A haze rose and swirled everywhere like clouds of steam. Meanwhile, the dome flitted in and out of his vision with tantalizing frequency without ever seeming any closer.  At last, panting and feeling dizzy, he dropped to his knees with a bleak cry of despair, still clasping the elf to his chest. “Ri, help me!” he groaned, unwittingly invoking the ultimate power acknowledged by all Mamelon.

     The dizziness grew worse. Something stirred in his leggings pocket. The puli..? Somehow, he thought not. La’s gift was capable of power, yes. But this, this was a life force. Then he remembered a second gift,  a tiny crystal the elf king Ka-Ri had slipped him. His breathing became easier.  Ka meant him no harm. Mick managed a wry smile. If ever there was a time he needed to believe in elves and their magic this was it.  Suddenly, the vision of a huge whale came upon him. Absurdly, the biblical tale of Jonah sprung to mind. Mick began to panic. The beast’s jaws opened wide. A sensation of being transported into regions beyond imagination took hold.  “Am I dying?” he wondered aloud, and was instantly more amused than frightened. All at once, he felt incredibly calm. Resistance, he realized intuitively, would not only prove futile but foolish. Relieved, he gladly submitted and let himself float like a fallen leaf on a Kentish breeze…into sweet oblivion.

      On awakening, Mick felt wonderfully refreshed. I must have slept well, was his first conscious thought. He yawned, stretched, and for one heavenly moment could have been at home, in his own bed.  Then the foreignness of his surroundings rushed up at him and he remembered. His heart sank. But before he had time to brood or even collect his thoughts, a voice spoke from a shadowy corner of the blissfully cool chamber where he lay.

     “For a motherworlder, you’ve done well, young Michal. Your mother hasn’t done a bad job on you, I must say. Not bad at all.” A shadowy figure rose and approached the bed.  Mick perceived someone dressed all in yellow, with white hair and a beard. He could easily have been Ricci’s father. Or grandfather. Mick hastily corrected himself for the stranger had to be very old, although it was harfd to justify this conclusion since the smiling face bearing down upon him was almost youthful. He remembered the elf.       

      “Kirin…!”

     “The elf waits where he must wait,” said the enigmatic figure. Mick did not like the sound of that at all, but was disinclined to seek further clarification concerning the dead elf’s whereabouts.

     “So, who are you?” Mick demanded. Immediately contrite, he softened his tone as he began to realise that in all probability he owed his life to the stranger. “Where am I, exactly?”

      “Exactly…? And what, exactly, is exactness? Suffice that you are safe…for now,” murmured the old man cryptically, “And I’ll thank you to be more polite to your grandfather,” he addedm but not unkindly and chose to ignore the look of astonishment on Mick’s face. “Now, rise and shine if you please. Much hangs on you, my boy, and time is short.  My, you’ve an education ahead of you and no mistake! But don’t look so worried. I am a brilliant teacher and you have the makings of an excellent pupil.” He grasped the bed covers and flung them off.

      “My…grandfather…?” Mick managed to mumble at last.

     “Yes, of course. You didn’t think I would let you go though this on your own did you? Now, hurry up and get dressed. We have much work to do….”

      “You wouldn’t happen to have any food, I suppose, and some water?”

      “I dare say I can manage that,” agreed the robed figure, “As soon as you’re ready, come through and I’ll have something prepared.” He turned to leave. “Just bear in mind, young Michal, that I don’t appreciate being kept waiting,” called Astor, self-styled Mage of Mages, over his shoulder.

To be continued