The Crypt (Part Two)

Welcome!

Cape Gooseberry

I wrote too quickly about our winter-ripening fruits. Not long after my last post we experienced frosts in the garden for the first time in the sixteen years we have lived here. The pepino was badly burned, the agaves on our deck turned to mush, and the lovely cape gooseberry pictured here is much reduced. I have learned to make pepino & lemon jam, and pepino & ginger chutney, so all is not lost!

Next winter I'll know to check for low overnight temperatures and to cover the vulnerable plants with a sheet. But now the spring is coming, though a little colder and wetter than usual after what seems a wet enough winter to me, but which they tell us was actually much drier than average. South Australia needs its winter rains so that we have enough water in the long, hot, dry summer. So bring on the rain!

Continuing the story, begun in my previous post, of a courageous young woman and an uncommon sword in a desperate situation...

The Crypt (Part Two)

He stands with his arms crossed, leaning against the rail while his goons come at her from each side. Sharpy is there to her right, his knife doing its dance. She swings that way, then to her left as the first boy runs at her, then back as quickly as she can again towards Sharpy, trying to swish the sword a little so that he cannot entirely anticipate her moves. Back and forth they duck and lunge, and sometimes the blade makes contact with a boy or the box or the rail. All the time Honeytongue keeps up a languid commentary until the young woman wishes she could switch him off.

She cannot keep it up much longer. How she has even managed this long is a puzzle she has no mental capacity to examine yet. The boys are making hits with the tip of the knife and with fists, and the young woman’s body is bruised, cut and aching all over. The sword hangs from her hands, its weight unable to be raised higher than her waist. Her back is wet with sweat, and her mind foggy with weariness. It is difficult to see in the faint light with sweat misting her vision.

Honeytongue vaults the box and stands directly in front of her, towering over her. There is no room to swing the sword even if she had the strength.

‘Drop it.’

The voice does not sound right, her dazed mind tells her. She tries to let go of the sword but her fingers will not unclamp. The sword dips down to the platform on Sharpy’s side. But Sharpy is not there. Honeytongue is still on the box but he is looking towards the door. The other boy is crouched low on the platform looking the same way.

‘How dare you treat the Sword of Truth with such dishonour! Stop playing around. Put it back where you found it and come down here.’ The imperious voice rings out through the dark crypt. Steps sound, and suddenly the room is filled with light.

Honeytongue had used the last moments of darkness to grab for the young woman. But she is not there. She too had used the distraction to advantage, slipping into Sharpy’s previous position, dragging the sword with her. The man’s voice has charged her with new energy though she barely recognises the words.

‘Get off the altar,’ the man says. He strides towards the platform, his indignation evident in his steps.

‘She needs help, sir,’ Honeytongue says, his voice dripping with compassion. ‘She’s not herself.’

‘He’s a snake. Don’t listen to him. They chased me here to do me harm. There’s one with a knife somewhere, and another one up here where you can’t see him.’

‘Put the sword down,’ the man says.

‘Not until you make them leave.’

Honeytongue turns back to the young woman, drops to his haunches and reaches for her in a swift movement. Before the man can say or do anything, she brings the waiting sword down with all its weight flat onto the boy’s head. He falls like a stone on the platform.

The man runs up the stairs, shouting, ‘My God! What have you done?’

The young woman lifts the sword again, every muscle straining. ‘Don’t come close,’ she warns. ‘And watch out for the other two.’

The man steps back, then walks around the other way. There a black-clad boy squats, springing up as he sees the man.

‘She’s dangerous. Look what she did to my arm,’ he whimpers. But he keeps his distance.

‘Where’s the third one?’

‘Probably trying to get to the door. He’s a coward. I don’t think he’ll stay for his mates.’

The man hesitates. He looks at the sword and at the boys on the platform, one unaware, the other cowering. ‘Come on,’ he says to the whimperer. ‘Come with me.’ He leads the boy down the steps and across the floor to the door. As they pass a stack of boxes, Sharpy darts out and, grabbing the other boy, pushes the man away.

The man staggers, but in spite of his scrawny physique he holds his ground. He simply watches as the boys run through the door and out into the night.

‘Just you and me now,’ he says, walking back towards the platform. ‘You can put the sword back in its place.’ He waits at the bottom of the steps.

The young woman sobs a single choking cry as the sword clatters onto the floor. She falls forward against the box, her head hanging, her hair a curtain hiding her face. She has no strength to protect herself any more.

The man walks slowly up the steps and checks the slumped boy. He picks up the sword and examines it closely, pommel, guard and blade. Apparently satisfied, he replaces it carefully in its bed. ‘Your work is not over yet, it seems,’ he murmurs. ‘And I had thought, all these years, that your glory lay in history. Can your light and hope influence even this age?’

The young woman, now standing, sees her rescuer a confused old man. Where is the booming voice, the certainty that banished her assailants?

She takes a step towards him.  ‘You did what was needed, sir. We all did – you, the sword and I.’ After a moment she adds, ‘Do you mind if I leave now?’

The man stares at her, looking at her closely for the first time. She knows what he sees – the now dust-smeared and slashed burgundy clothing, the dyed black hair and stark makeup now smudged into a mispainted mask. She can feel blood dripping from her side, and wonders if it shows through her tunic. She senses a residue of violence in her very skin and longs to be washed clean, of this and the endless fear.

The man looks at the remaining boy, still as death on the platform. ‘I think we had better call the police. Why don’t you come to my house and clean up? My housekeeper will have some clothes, I think.’

The young woman studies his grey, lined face; he keeps his eyes on the fallen boy. ‘I guess so,’ she says, resignation and hope mingling. With one last look at the sword, now still, its jewels gleaming in the electric light, she limps down the steps and follows him towards the door.

That’s the end of the story. I like subtle endings. How do you feel about them? Do you prefer endings that tell you more about what happened afterwards? Happy endings? Endings that leave possibilities open? Perhaps you have a favourite story ending you would like to quote. Leave a comment and share your thoughts.

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

Night in the Guesthouse

                         Welcome!

last of the portulaca

Cooler days and a hint of rain. Now the garden can start to recover from the heat and dryness of summer with new growth for the evergreens and colour change for the deciduous. Our local garden centre sold off apple trees for a song recently, so I gladly bought two. They’ll be a surprise when they eventually fruit as we have no idea what varieties they are (the reason for the ‘fire sale’). In spite of possums, birds and unpredictable seasons, I love growing our own food. It hasn’t paid off this year except in the joy of the attempt. I’m still hoping the tomatoes will produce fruit before the weather gets too cold.

Another joy I experienced recently was the launch of the poetry anthology Women’s Work, including one of mine. This is an attractively produced volume, compiled by Libby Hathorn and Rachael Bailey, celebrating various arenas of women’s activities, with insight, humour, compassion, energy, and imagination in a diversity of styles.  Find out more here: Women’s Work.

You may recall I visited Cambodia earlier in the year. Here is a poem I wrote while there.

Night in the Guesthouse

Straight lines of light in the darkened room

remind me of the strokes of a dislocated Chinese character.

Where do they come from –

vertical streaks on the walls,

angled shafts on the ceiling?

Their ordered randomness in this unfamiliar space

disturbs me.

I prowl the room for understanding,

touching the luminous lines

as if the walls could reveal the physics of light

and dissolve the uneasiness of being a foreigner.

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

There's life in the old year yet

Welcome!

water in December

The old year draws to an end, dribbling out its final weary days as if all its hope has been transferred to the year about to begin. Isn’t it odd that a day at one point on the calendar should feel like it has less intrinsic value than another?

In Australia, these are the lazy days of summer when many people are on holidays, recovering from the frenzied build-up to Christmas and planning the far more casual New Year’s celebrations – beach, barbecue, all night parties and public firework shows. Some of us have more prosaic concerns, like keeping the garden alive as the moisture level of the soil shrinks and the rain is rare.

One of my motifs in living here in the Adelaide Hills is the creek which runs through our neighbourhood. When the creek is stagnant or dry, which is typical in summer, I languish. When the creek is bounding with white-crested enthusiasm after rain in winter, I feel the energy flow through me like laughter. Late December and a creek still flowing, albeit reluctantly, says to me that this year’s life is not over yet. Make every day count.

The poem for this week is a sonnet about another body of water: the Coorong in the south-east of South Australia. (See my blog called Grandy's House for more info.)

What is this grey and silent place, o'ercast

And windswept, lonely, featureless, yet held

In high esteem as nature unsurpassed?

The Coorong, where the sky and water meld.

Our island sails on through the monotone

As subtleties, the myst'ries of the grey

Emerge to fascinate, our senses hone,

And eerie bird calls cease to cause dismay.

See traces of the people who once stayed

In this secluded waterheld domain;

The mess of fishers' gear is being unmade,

While crushed-shell middens ancient dunes retain.

These lonely lands to creatures wild belong.

We leave, but ever hear its siren song.

The Coorong is not always grey but on a cloudy winter's day, as in the poem, its glory is muted.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

Lucky Beanie

Welcome!

Already the grass is drying out in the absence of rain. As much as I enjoy the weather warming up (and it has done this quite gently this year, unlike the typical skip-the-middle-numbers temperature spikes), the yellowing as the season marches towards summer is a bit depressing. It gets harder and harder to water the garden enough (while trying to be responsible with our limited water resources), and the risk of bushfire increases. Still, if the possums and parrots don’t get them first, we do have wonderful summer fruits to look forward to. It’s difficult to be too sad about summer.

The story for this week is a quirky play on a song my daughters sang as a warm-up exercise for choir rehearsals. Let me know if you recognise the song!

Lucky Beanie

I pressed the end-call button on my mobile before I let myself go.

            'I did it! I got myself a gig at the Crooked Crown. It's my break, Seona! Do you know who hangs out at the Crown? Talent spotters for record companies, that's who!' I whooped and danced around our flat like a tribal, singing an impromptu tribute to my lucky gig beanie. I just knew that beanie would give me the edge I needed to become a famous singer-songwriter.

            Seona just smiled, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes revealing her genuine, otherwise unexpressed, pleasure. 'Oh, and thanks for the idea,' I mumbled. Seona doesn't say much, but she's so smart, what she does say is worth more than I can think in a week.

            I stayed up late that night finishing off a song I thought I'd debut at the gig. I spent the next two weeks planning and rehearsing my bracket. I made flyers and handed them out to my friends, hoping they'd turn up to boost the friendly numbers. I even told my parents ─ and then had to invent a good line to prevent them from coming. I knew they'd be proud of me, but performing to old folk whose idea of real music is a violin virtuoso in a painfully silent room doesn't bring out my best.

            I should've realised the dream was doomed by the way everything rolled along so easily ─ until Friday.

            On Friday I thought I'd pop by the hotel to suss it out. It's one weird place.   While I was there, I had a chat with the manager who, after some checking and rechecking, finally accepted that it was me who would be playing between nine and ten the next night, and that, in fact, I would be playing a twelve-string guitar and singing original songs, not doing a stand-up comedy act accompanied by a trombone. It's all good, I say.

            At home I pulled out my guitar ─ my favourite, still-paying-the-mortgage guitar ─ to find pale green and black slime all over the fretboard and dropping in lumps into the sound hole. Ah yes, the snack I'd packed for my last band practice and forgotten to eat. Fortunately avocado doesn't smell too strongly.

            Yep, it's all good. Then, as I cleaned the strings, the top E-string snapped. Hurried phone calls to the guitar-playing friends since the shops had shut by then. They'd open the next morning to find a large number of guitarists keen on buying spare E-strings because it turned out that none of them had one. And to make sure they didn't sell out before I rocked up, I camped on the doorstep from six in the morning. Only got moved on twice by the police and once by a drunk who thought I looked like his last landlady.

            By 9:03 I'd been told that the distributors were currently having difficulty supplying steel strings. At 10:03 I found the spare E-string I suddenly remembered I had. Why I had hidden it in a hiking boot remains a mystery. It's just a good thing I tipped up all my shoes in order to find my beanie.

            You've got to understand about my lucky beanie. It's as ugly as heck, murky brown wool mixed with something like sludge green in a rough fibre. It was once my Great Aunt Farula's. I remember the way her eyes sank into the layers of wrinkled skin covering her skeletal head ─ and the beanie she always wore, which I studied intently to avoid looking at her face. Somehow I knew when I inherited it that it was going to change my life.

            I hunted through all my shoes, all my drawers, the dirty washing, the ironing pile and the bags of clothes waiting to be sent to the refugees. I found the much-needed E-string, but not my beanie.

            It was getting dark. I sat in the cramped lounge of our third floor flat, looking around the room at every picture, poster, photograph and ornament as if they might turn into the mysteriously absent beanie. I was out of ideas. I was working hard to push aside the terrifying thought of appearing at the Crown, on this, the night of my big break, minus the beanie. Deep, agonised silence. My thoughts had collapsed into a soggy formless lump.

            Who knows how long I might have remained in this state if my beanie had not inched its way, with jerks and jumps, before my initially unseeing eyes. It was most of the way to the kitchen before eternity thawed into a distinct now.

            I pounced. My beanie screeched. I picked it up. It shuddered. I dropped it. My beanie had never behaved this way before. In fact, it had never behaved. What had gotten into it? I flipped it over ─ and stared, uncomprehending.

            Clinging to the inside was a jelly-like purple thing with tiny nose, mouth, limbs and claws. It quivered but it wouldn't fall out no matter how hard I shook the beanie. I turned the beanie inside out; the purple creature stretched to cover what was now the outside. How dare it take over my lucky beanie! I put it under the tap, first the cold, and then, with a rush of jealousy, the hot water. It made no difference, other than the thing spraying me like a dog shaking to get dry.

            The time was nearing seven. I had to eat, dress, and catch a bus to the hotel by eight-thirty. I left the beanie on the kitchen bench while I prepared some food I had no appetite to eat. I wondered whether Seona would come home, turn up at the hotel, or spend the evening in the library as usual. I cooked her some fried rice anyway.

            I made a crucial decision while I was eating: I would wear the beanie, even with the purple creature inside if it came to that. The beanie hadn't moved for ages. Maybe the thing slept. Maybe it had gone when I wasn't looking. Anyway, I didn't have to wear the beanie until I played, so I stuffed it into my backpack.

            By 8:35 I was at the Crooked Crown. Not a lot of people yet. Which ones were the talent scouts? Couldn't tell, so I searched for faces of friends. Couldn't see any. I dumped my gear at a table near the corner where a couple of guys were playing bass guitars and singing tunelessly. I sat at the bar with a Coke, taking in the smell of stale beer and the distant clatter of poker machines, trying to tune into the mood of the place. Not much mood; everyone was ignoring the musicians. Good, I thought, they'll be fresh for me. I couldn't wait to get started.

            When I returned to my gear, I thought for a moment the backpack had moved. I intercepted a look from one of the bass players, whose gaze returned to the pack just as it lurched towards him. I looked inside, acting nonchalance. Everything seemed as I'd left it. The beanie was still and silent again.

            The guys finished their bracket to a few slow claps, packed up and pushed through the drinkers. I took a deep breath, said a prayer, and moved into the corner to set up. A couple of friends turned up, and sat at my table.

            'Hey, Jodie,' boomed Sasha. 'Looks like Mara's about to play. Should be a great show!' He winked at Jodie.

            I stepped up to the mic quickly. 'Good evening, all. My name's Mara Simbaya, and I'm going to entertain you with some of my original songs. I hope you'll enjoy them. I'll be around afterwards for a chat. So lean back and feel the flow of good vibes.' I pulled the beanie over my dark hair, strummed some chords and launched into an old favourite. It felt good, and the crowd settled to a quiet hum of contentment, while Sasha and Jodie clapped and cheered.

            As my confidence gained momentum and the audience seemed to be eating out of my hand, I tried a few one liners as I moved between songs. They went down well. But in my fourth song the mood shifted. The crowd were watching me closely but they seemed distracted. My song wasn't reaching them. Sweat trickled from my forehead into my eyes; my confidence leaked away. How had I lost my audience? And my best songs were yet to come.

            'Oh my God!' Jodie screeched. 'It's moving! Look at the beanie!'

            Her words drew me out of a desperate focus on the song to the strange sensation on my head. I realised it had been happening for a while. My hair was being nibbled and tugged, accompanied by a squelching sound. I quit strumming to peal the beanie off, intending to throw it aside. It wouldn't budge. I finished the song, and tried some banter into the microphone while I wrestled with my beanie, subtly at first, then with growing urgency. It was beginning to hurt.

            My audience was laughing, clapping and throwing comments to me. Sasha and Jodie had slunk away. I had attention; I wished I was invisible.

            Seona! I saw her at the edge of the crowd. I tried to telegraph her with my eyebrows to come and help me. She saw, watched some more, and then began an infuriatingly calm progress towards me. Nobody rushes Seona. When she reached my side she whispered, 'It's a purple people-eater. Loves hair. Very rare. I borrowed it from the laboratory but I've got to return it on Monday.' She slipped her hand under the back of the beanie, flicked, and removed the beanie without too much of my remaining hair being pulled out. I was free.

            I could feel the heat of the lights on a patch near my crown. I resolutely continued my bracket, but I had no energy for performing, and the listeners drifted away. The last twenty minutes dragged. I couldn't satisfy the half-hearted calls for jokes; I couldn't think. When the feature band of the night moved to take over, I fled to the bathroom. I couldn't see it but I felt a bald patch on the top of my head, and the slight dents of teeth marks in the tender flesh.

            I tried to sneak out the back way, but the manager caught me by the kitchen door.

            'It might have worked better with a trombone,' he said, his droopy eyes flicking past mine, cold as a lizard's. I left without answering. What can you say when your dream dies at birth?

* * *   

That was last week. Last week, last year, time frozen in eternal wastelands.

            I visit Seona at her laboratory on my way to the city, offering to donate the traitorous beanie to support her research on irritating jelly-like creatures.

            'So what's your plan?' Seona asks as she stares at the beanie, which still has a skein of my crinkly hair attached to it. I can see her mind is somewhere else.

            'Some woman rang and asked me to meet her at the Blue Fish Café for lunch. She didn't say much, just said she had an offer she wanted to put to me. No idea what it's about, but I haven't got a life anymore, and, hey, it's a free lunch.'

            Seona is with me now. She's grinning. She knows something I don't ─ so what's new? Her smile stirs hope in me though.

She offers me the beanie. ‘You’ll be needing this, Mara.’  

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

Local Colour

                         Welcome!

broody Izzy

Some days seem very long. I love daylight saving and the light in the evenings, and the fact that until the end of December our days will get longer. But today’s length is increased by sorrow. The death of a young man, suddenly last night, has us all in the shock that makes a dragging timelessness. Oddly, our chicken shares the malaise, but in her case it’s because we discovered the secret egg cache – she’s gone broody. So, just like us, she stands and stares, oblivious to her surroundings.

Farewell, 'Little Sam'. Cook up a feast in heaven.

Our story this week is a different matter, a quietly colourful contemporary piece.

Local Colour

It looked like rain, which was a pity because Shirley had set up the courtyard for her afternoon soiree. The garden was looking delightful right now, with azaleas and camellias competing to add the brightest hue. The sullen sky made a perfect backdrop for the gorgeous display but Shirley suspected her guests would not appreciate that artistic detail. With a sigh she returned to the house with the tea tray.

            On the face of it, this was simply an afternoon tea for her friends. But Shirley had a problem, and she hoped that by observing these particular people together, she might find a solution.

            The doorbell rang, and before she could answer it, her friend Anthea let herself in. She entered the kitchen by one door as Shirley walked through another towards the sunroom.

            'What can I do to help?' she asked.

            'Do you think the five of us will fit comfortably in here?' Shirley said. She explained her change of plans. 'At least we can see some of the colour from here.'

            'I love this room,' Anthea replied, with a rapt expression she often wore around Shirley. 'You make everything beautiful inside and out.'

            'Give me a hand with that chair, would you?' Shirley pointed to a dining chair like the one she was carrying. 'Put it on the other side of the table. Thanks.'

            They arranged the chairs around a glass-topped coffee table. Then the doorbell rang again.

            'I'll get it,' Anthea said.

            Shirley put the kettle on, removed her apron, and walked out to greet the next guest.

            'Darling, this is Felipe. You don't mind that I invited him to join us, do you?' Louise did not wait for the reply that Shirley could hardly make without rudeness, and turned to the moustached man just behind her. 'This is Shirley, who I told you all about. She painted that still life in the shop behind the counter.'

            Felipe bowed over Shirley's hand, which gave her the first inkling of why this stranger to Riverlea had suddenly gained Louise's favour. He was well-groomed, probably in his late fifties, with dark eyes, and long black hair tied in a neat pony tail. An arty type, she suspected, adding the second inkling to Louise's presumption. It was odd that people assumed all artists would relate well to each other, as if the act of creativity was a rare bond.

            'Welcome. Come in, come in. Is it raining yet?' Shirley showed them to the sunroom as the first drops darkened the paving stones beyond the window. She settled the three there and collected the kettle from the kitchen. She poured the hot water through the filter into the coffee pot on its portable element, and went to fill the kettle again.

            The doorbell rang. She opened it to find her two remaining guests huddling in the tiny porch in expectation of a deluge. She showed them into the sunroom. Ted was loud enough to fill the room on his own, a factor she had forgotten to take into account.

            Eventually the coffee and tea were brewed, the guests were filling their cups, and the cakes were doing the rounds. Denley had brought another dining chair through and the five guests were squeezed into the small room with Shirley's chair filling the doorway.

            Ted pushed his chair back the little it could move before bumping the wall. 'Here's to Shirley, and her spreading fame. May it bring prosperity to Riverlea.' He waved his orange teacup in the air. It looked like it belonged to a child's set in his meaty hand. So far, so good.

            'No, no, Ted. This isn't a civic function, so let's forget the speeches.' Shirley waved him into his seat before taking the remaining cup, a black one, and sitting down to drink her coffee.

            'Everything's a civic function to Ted,' Louise sniped. 'He's trying to turn Riverlea into the business district of Fairbanks. I think,' she said with emphasis, 'the charm of our town is its tasteful specialty stores and olde worlde charm.'

            'Your antique store is very tasteful, madame,' Felipe acknowledged with a smile, taking the red cup. Louise's face lost its tightness and she sat back, clearly pleased.

            'Shirley, your garden has the olde worlde charm Louise mentioned. Maybe the business council should commission you to design some public gardens where that vacant block is next to Turner's,' Denley suggested.

            Ted butted in before Denley had finished his words. 'Shirley's got enough to do already without that. We have plans, you know, for that spot, which I can't go into. Of course, Shirley would do a lovely job with it, for sure.' He stopped, reddening as Shirley gave him a stern look. 'I mean, um, you know, this garden and all her paintings and so on …isn't that right?'

            Shirley smoothed over Ted's confusion by offering another round of coffee and tea.

            Denley said, 'So tell me, Felipe, where do you come from? How do you know Louise?' He leaned forward, his usual blue cup in hand. He was an excellent listener.

            Felipe told how his search for a particular piece of cello music had him scouring antique shops. He played cello in an orchestra in the city, and collected rare music.

            'He's a lucky man,' Louise added. She refilled her yellow cup with tea. She did love that colour, thought Shirley with an inner smile.

            Anthea looked puzzled. 'Because he found your shop? Did you have the music?'

            Shirley noticed Felipe's surprised look, quickly covered with an enigmatic smile.

            'No, unfortunately I've never heard of the music. What I meant was, as soon as Felipe walked into the shop, I knew he had an aura of good luck. Surely you can sense it.'

            Shirley wanted to laugh. Louise had a 'gift' which enabled her to identify special people. It was clear from the others' expressions that they had their share of stories, as she had, about Louise's 'special' people.

            Felipe was protesting as Ted boomed, 'If he's got friends with money to spend in Riverlea, we'll all agree with Louise.'

            Denley gave Shirley a sympathetic glance and said, 'I think we're the lucky ones to have a musical artist among us.'

            Shirley found Felipe's alternations of expression amusing. She caught his eye and winked. His smile twitched and he took advantage of the view from his position to change the topic.

            'You are the artist of note here,' he commented quietly in his hostess's direction. 'That still life is excellent. I could almost smell the roses. Were they from your beautiful garden?'

            Shirley nodded, but before she could say anything, Ted jumped in. 'Shirley is the face of our latest tourist campaign. She'll bring those big dollars here if anyone can. Wait till you see what she's working on now.' He sat tall and proud, knowing that he and Shirley were the only ones in the room who had any idea of what he was talking about. And Ted had not even seen her current work himself. All Shirley could do was distract them again. She fussed over the table, asking each visitor if they would like another cup of tea or coffee, proffering the remaining cupcakes as insistently as Ted with a potential customer, until in all the bustle, one of the fine china cups, the red one, fell onto the floor and broke with a shattering sharpness. Everyone jumped, and then talked at once.

            Anthea put her favourite mauve cup down with care and fetched the brush and pan, while Denley took the rest of the crockery to the kitchen. Shirley insisted on sweeping up the red shards herself, so Anthea went to help Denley with the washing up. Shirley took the contents of the pan to another room.

            When she returned, Louise commented, 'You can just put another cup and saucer in your collection and no one will be the wiser.'

            Shirley smiled. Her problem was rapidly solving itself. Louise began to describe in detail every item of crockery in her shop and its age and history, while Ted asked Felipe if he liked the horse races. Denley and Anthea did not return until some time later, and Shirley was pleased to notice the flush of colour in her friend's happy face.

            They all left as the clouds cleared and the last of the sun's rays cast a golden glow on the watered village. Shirley saw them to the gate before taking the garden route to her studio, which stood as a separate building just beyond the back door. She turned on the light, and studied the shattered cup, comparing its colour to a large board with an almost completed mosaic design.

            There they all were, in patterned portrait: Ted with an orange tie, Louise in a yellow dress, Denley wearing a blue shirt, Anthea with a mauve ribbon in her hair. All that was missing was the centrepiece, the image of what brought them together. She had had many ideas to represent the community, but until now the right one had evaded her. The best answers were often the simplest.

            'Felipe's red cup. Perfect. I wonder if they'll remember it when it's unveiled.' She fitted the shards of the broken crockery into the space, noting which would need to be cut to form the shape of a large cup in the centre of the scene. She could use the saucer to make more pieces.

            This mosaic was destined to become a permanent fixture on the wall of the civic offices in the centre of Riverlea, at the opening of Ted's latest endeavour to put the village on the tourist map. And one ordinary cup – the colour of the stranger in their midst – would be worked in to create something new and beautiful, celebrating in more ways than one the local colour of Riverlea.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

Calling Card

                   Welcome!

bottlebrush flower

The cold is lasting longer than usual this year. I have usually turned my heater off by now, not to be used again until April. Huge power bills notwithstanding, we continue to huddle in front of the heater while the temperature fluctuates like a faulty gauge. I keep reminding myself that the week the rain ceases and the sun unleashes its full power, we’ll all be moaning about how unbearably hot it is, or living in dread of a bushfire. At least our gardens are still green and flourishing, and the smell of smoke does not strike fear. Hooray for the mild seasons!

This week’s poem is the first of a trilogy which I will present over the next five weeks as its component poems, and then put them all together on the last week. I’ll intersperse short stories, as usual, so that those who prefer prose can still find their goodies.

Calling card

This morning I communed with a rosella

through the dusty glass of my window.

He perched on a swaying twig of bottlebrush,

seeking a companion

with the ringing call of his kind,

glowing red and orange in the sunshine.

Then he turned an eye towards me

and began bobbing and chucking like a budgie,

inquiring.

With gentle movement, talking and singing,

I sent him on his search with a blessing.

My friend rosella was, vividly tangible,

God’s calling card,

for I, too, had been looking for company,

responding to the song of the creator

and listening, heart open, to his words

as he blessed me on my way.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

The Lady's Quest Part 2

                  Welcome!

spring blossom

In the driest state of the driest inhabited continent on earth, we can never take rain for granted. Only two years ago we were in drought that meant we weren't allowed to water our gardens beyond a short session of drips once a week. Once the rains returned, many large trees died, some of which had been planted by a previous generation.

That said, and in spite of gratitude for the abundant rain we are having this month, I am really looking forward to spring and some warmer, drier weather. There is hope - the almonds and cherry plums, mostly growing wild, are in bloom.

Now for the second and final part of the story I posted last week…

The Lady's Quest Part 2

Bells! In a matter of minutes the party was searching out a route on the western side of the mountain, away from capture by whoever had alerted the valley to their presence. Anvik silently rebuked himself for failing to recognise the latent danger. In the glory of the morning, their goal revived, he had failed to recognise that a valley as green and lush as this was likely to be in the grip of sorcery. All around, the landscape was barren and unable to sustain more than the most primitive life forms; it took a powerful magic to make plants grow in these parts. He would have to learn caution if they were to survive this quest. He hoped he would get the chance.

            They scrambled and slid all the way down the side of the mountain, listening beyond the sound of their haste for the approach of hostile forest men.

Deep in a canyon, some hours later, the group stopped for a brief rest and consultation.

            'So where are we now?' demanded Fiangor. 'Things are indeed grim when we cannot see our way forward nor go back to where we last had our bearings,' he said, glaring at the others.

            Hesna glared at him. ‘Would you rather go back to the cave where we were within a breath of losing our very souls? At least we are alive, we know what we have to do, and it appears we have lost the sorcerers of the forest. That is enough for one day.’ She turned away and stared down the canyon towards the north.

            'Shall we sleep here today until we see the stars?' suggested Olwin Orfus, who was ever ready for a nap. In the months of hardship his rotundity had dwindled to less than half its former fortunes, but his humour and his love of leisure had returned overnight.      

            Hollow-eyed from sleeplessness, Hesna commented over her shoulder, 'We haven't seen stars for weeks.' She spoke with authority, for if her chronic insomnia was a heavy price for sleeping rough, it nevertheless made her the ideal nightwatcher.

            Anvik took no part in the conversation. He was listening for other words, which seeped into his mind seemingly from nowhere. 'Halls beneath the fells.' It was a phrase of his grandfather's, another senile muttering the family would say. Yet beneath the inane and apparently meaningless phrases he had repeated nauseatingly often, Anvik had lately discovered a few useful tips. He was beginning to wonder whether the old man had really been a mere cloth merchant after all. The phrase that had come to mind now joined with another memory, the rumour of an underground corridor that was somewhere in these parts. It was said to be made visible by moonlight. If in fact such a corridor existed, it might be well to use it and avoid travelling on the surface of the Wild Fells, a region renowned in all history for the strange and terrifying beasts that inhabited it. A region beyond the mountains to the north, the way they must go if they were to follow the dream.

            'For once, Olwin Orfus, we will follow your advice,' Anvik declared to the weary scorn of his companions after spelling out his idea.

            'Ancient lore notwithstanding, if the cloud comes over tonight as it has every other night, there won't be any moonlight,' Hesna muttered. 'Neither king nor commoner can command the clouds.'

            'And we're supposed to recognise this doorway to the deep,' complained Fiangor. 'Elvish folk might be able to find this mythical opening to the underground halls, but I have my doubts that we will, even if the moon obliges.'

            'Lord and Lady may guide us, I'm thinking,' Sitran said, stroking his thin grey beard. 'There is many a tale of their doings in aid of those who seek the good of the land.'

            There had been many times Anvik had wondered that his call should have come in the person of the Lady, albeit in a dream. There was a chance, given her earlier favour, that she might come to their aid this night, but he had to admit it was a slim hope. However, even the faint prospect of seeing the Fair One again lifted his heart. Anvik settled himself for the wait.

            Golden afternoon light touched the rocks high on the canyon walls, but never reached the ground where they sat whiling away the remaining daylight hours with desultory talk and long-forgotten children's games. They took turns at keeping watch further down the canyon. Otherwise, it was the sort of day when there seemed nothing better to do than eat (and sleep, in the case of Olwin Orfus), but this was clearly not possible, for no matter how they had tried to hoard it, the food was running out.

            'Lizards make a good feed,' Meniar declared, pointing to some which sought the sun-warmth on this unusually warm winter's day. Shaped and coloured to blend with the golden rock of the gully, these lizards were not easy to spy let alone to snare.

            'I can catch more than you,' she challenged, hands on her narrow hips in a manner so like her childhood self that her grandfather, Sitran, burst out laughing.

            Scowling, the young woman pointed at Hesna, Fiangor and Anvik. 'You said we need food, and here it is, waiting for us. Surely you won't let the youngest member of the party take the glory?' She sprang towards the nearest sunbathing lizard and caught a leg before anyone, including the reptile, could blink.

            'Disrespectful brat,' muttered Fiangor as he roused himself to the chase, and all but Olwin Orfus, who was, of course, fast asleep on the rough floor of the rocky gorge, joined in Meniar's game.

            But Meniar alone persevered, signalling her victory with a silent hand signal so as not to disturb her prey. At the end of the day she proudly presented a capful of them to the listless party. Wrought into a strange stew by Fiangor, who was not known for his culinary skills, the lizard meat did not add much pleasure to their meal, but Meniar's hunt had given the day a pretence of purpose.

            And then night fell.

            Light from the fire danced on the canyon walls as the party heard the calls of the creatures of the dark. They felt the soberness of the moment, perhaps only realising now how dependent they were on a sign for which they had little faith. Caught between the enclosing walls of the canyon and the pitch black sky above, they felt as if they were already underground. To let the fire die out seemed to invite an unnamed trouble, yet they knew that they must or the moonlight, if it came, would not work its magic.

            'Hide an ember under this rock,' Sitran suggested, pointing to a niche behind a boulder. In minutes a large glowing ember was hidden and the fire smothered. Gems emerged on the velvet of the night sky – stars to whisper the hope of the coming moon. On this promise their expectation grew and they marvelled at the beauty of the heavenly panorama as they waited for moonrise.

            'Hilt of sword there,' Hesna said, pointing it out to Olwin Orfus, 'and tip of sheath there.'

            'I never knew such wonders,' murmured Olwin Orfus, mesmerised.

            Fiangor snorted. 'It's a wonder you know anything, the way you sleep all the time.'

            Hesna smoothed Olwin Orfus' momentary hurt with more observations of the constellations.

            On through the night they kept the watch together, until the constellations had moved through the Sword and Shield to the tail of the Dragon. Silver light began to pour like a stream into the canyon as the moon rose above them. Necklaces of light seemed to shimmer on the rocks around them, stars, it seemed, in the canyon itself. They turned their heads to gaze in every direction, awestruck, feeling themselves to be dreaming, yet dreaming together.

            And then, strung like a necklace of pearls in a perfect arch just a stone's throw from their camp, the lights shaped a doorway in the sheer rock face. The pearls shimmered, and there stood the Lord Lothiel on one side of the door and the Lady Landira on the other, both smiling a welcome and a command that the party enter.

            They moved as in a trance, bowing and curtseying to the beings of Light though none had taught them, and walked through the rockface feeling no barrier. Anvik found himself at the head of the line, and wondered for a moment if he should wait for guidance. He saw a glimmer in the rock floor just ahead of him, and knew that it was his to follow, leading the group.

            Always as Anvik walked towards the glimmer, which stayed three footlengths ahead, his feet would fall on firm, flat ground. And yet he had the distinct sense that their path was taking them first low and then higher through the earth. At first he held his hands out to feel for walls, ready to guard his head should the roof lower. His arms tired, and letting them drop to his sides, he realised that he had no sense of cave-like closeness, of being shut in. The darkness, relieved only by the floor's glimmer, felt like a vast space, as if the heavens had been trapped beneath the earth's crust. Anvik was tempted to stretch out his arms, to try to find something solid, for the feeling of traversing a limitless space reminded him of the time he had almost drowned in the river. But the knowledge that the Lady was leading them held his arms down. This was a journey of faith, and to test it might bring her displeasure. They were wholly at her mercy now.

            Though they did not utter a word, Anvik found the sounds of his companions following a comfort. He was not alone. There were grunts and sighs, a yawn, even the occasional squeak of pleasure, all in the warm, human breath of his friends, along with their steady footfalls. The very ordinariness of these sounds contrasted with Anvik's awe of the Lady and the unearthiness of this path in the midst of the earth itself. It made his mind spin but his heart warm. He was, perhaps for the first time, conscious of being proud of his dwarvishness, who had longed vehemently for his elvish inheritance. Strange, he mused, that it was by coming close to the source of his longing that he should discover the wealth he'd always had.

            The time for deep thoughts ended abruptly as light, almost blinding after their hours in darkness, showed as a widening slit a long way ahead.

            'Our journey with you ends shortly,' Lord Lothiel intoned. 'It has been our pleasure to aid those who seek the healing of the land, who have not forgotten their ancestors of Light. May you continue in true fellowship, holding to your hope, so that your journey's end may prove successful.'

            The dwarves murmured their acceptance of the blessing.

            The Lady spoke. 'You have been blessed with a gift of Light, but take care, for even such a gift may be turned to dark purposes. Though the horizon appears not to change, take heart, for if you keep your eyes on it, you will reach your journey's end and your heart's desire.'

            As her final words faded, the party walked out into an overcast morning, which nevertheless made them squint and shade their eyes with their hands. All around them were knolls with steep sides covered with spike-leaved plants and low woody shrubs. Visibility was only as far as the next hillock.

            Having walked for hours without counting the time, they suddenly found they were bone-weary, and sought the cover of some low-lying shrubs to rest. Even Hesna slept.

Anvik stood gazing in the direction only his inner vision could now see. Far away beyond the horizon, he knew, was the end of his journey. All his hope was fixed on that thin line between the heavens and the earth. It might take weeks or years, but there was no room to doubt any more that they were, indeed, on a quest called forth by the Lady herself, and nothing short of death would stop Anvik now.

Until next week…
Claire Belberg