Hamadryad
I have no problem with dead people. The dead are lovely. They never give you any grief. Unlike the living. I mean, look at the man there, sprawled across the freshly turned earth of his lover’s grave. Or, more saliently, listen to him, sobbing and wailing like someone trying to play a lament by blowing through a stoat.
This has been going on every bloody night for a week now, and the racket is getting on my wick. The dead woman – not a peep from her ghost, bless her, by the way – had specifically requested she be buried ‘beneath the peaceful ash tree in the eastern corner of the cemetery’. The trouble is, this is my peaceful ash tree. I am bonded to it, and cannot stray beyond its root system. I am a dryad of the ash, one of the Meliae. We are long-descended from the Meliae sisters, who tended the infant Zeus in Rhea’s Cretan cave. Gaea gave birth to the Meliae after being made fertile by the blood of castrated Uranus. Sorry, TMI.
Basically, my very nature means I cannot escape the irritating din of this man’s unseemly grief. By the woodsy lady, listen to him keen. “I will lie here forever,” he howls. He smells of wet earth, old sweat, and is worn and begrimed by a week’s weather.
“Oh, my beloved,” he moans. For crying out loud, she’s hopped the twig; she’ll not answer, you dimwit. “My family thinks I am safely abed, when all night I stretch above you, calling into the darkness, my tears hot and wild.”
Yes, you plonker, it keeps me awake.
“With you in your cold grave I cannot sleep warm!” he sobs.
No, me neither, you wazzock. Enough. I shall have to call the church-grims, the guardians of this churchyard. They appear from the other side of the squat, dark church: two large, spectral black dogs, ominous portents of death and protectors from evil of the souls buried here. They stand a little back from the man, who cannot perceive them, their jaws open, their black tongues lolling.
“SINGS WE A DANCES OF WOLFS, WHO SMELLS FEAR AND SLAYS THE COWARD,” says Grimme.
“SINGS WE A DANCES OF MANS, WHO SMELLS GOLD AND SLAYS HIS BROTHER,” says Gruesome.
“Yes? Erm, fine,” I say. “Hello. Having a good night?”
“SAWS WE THEM MAN O’ MOONS FACES, ROUNDS O’ GLOWBRIGHTS IN THEM SUMMER NIGHT SKY,” says Grimme.
“SAIDS THEM TO US THAT WINTER COMES EARLIES, GONE IS SUMMER, AND FLED IS HARVEST,” says Gruesome.
“Ah, rightio. That’s good to know, I suppose. Now, you see this chap here, sprawled across the new grave?”
“CRYSES HE OF GRIEFS AND WOES,” says Grimme.
“ECHOESES CHURCH WALLS OF HIS WAILING,” says Gruesome.
“Exactly!” I say. “Is there any way we can shut him up? Could you maybe raise the ghost of his beloved to have a quiet word with him?”
“BRICKY ROADS THEY TRAPPERS GRASS,” says Grimme.
“STONY WALLS THEY TRAPPERS WIND,” says Gruesome.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“IRON FURNACE IT TRAPPERS FIRE,” says Grimme.
“MOONCOLD EARTHS IT TRAPPERS CORPSES,” says Gruesome.
“Ah, right, I see. I’ll take that as a no to the ghost-raising then,” I say. “Is there no way to shut him up so I can get some peace?”
Grimme and Gruesome think for a moment, then give each other a look. They nod.
“CALLS WE SERPENTS TO THE HEELS OF THY FOES!” sings Grimme.
“CALLS WE OWLSES TO ITS EYES!” sings Gruesome.
From the far corners of the graveyard the adders come, their natural shyness overborne by the will of the church-grims. The grass writhes with their passing. They sink their fangs into the unsuspecting man’s legs, bringing him pain and paralysis. From surrounding trees glide owls, silent and sharp, and attack the man with pointed beaks and talons. He cries out as they take his sight.
“CALLS WE GHULS TO ITS FLESHLY LIFES!” sings Grimme.
“CALLS WE SLEERS TO ITS FLESHLY LIVERS!” sings Gruesome.
From the church steeple slides a creature of dark mist, vaguely human in shape, moving like a flow of dark oil to the ground. It impatiently bats away the owls, and lowers what passes for its head to within a finger’s width of the man’s eyeless face.
Earth by the grave upheaves, and a sleer, a fat, pale worm the length of a leg, pushes its triple heads free of the clinging mud. It sinks three sets of serrated teeth into the man’s torso, ripping at clothing and flesh.
The man whimpers pitifully. A white mist – his soul, his life – passes out between his lips like a winter breath. The ghul sucks the cloud into itself, taking his life for sustenance. The dead man’s hot blood soaks into his lover’s cold grave. Together at last, as he wanted.
Silence falls, save for the slurping of the sleer as it consumes the man’s liver. Grimme and Gruesome lope over to me and I ruffle their massive dark heads.
“Good boys!” I say. “Who’s a good boy? Is it you? And is it you as well? Is it? Is it? It is!”
Grimme and Gruesome wag their mighty tails in the hushed graveyard. I settle back into my tree with a woody creak.
Ah, peace at last!
Domingo
“Where’d you hide the bank money?” said the Sheriff, peering through the bars. The prisoner spat and said something in Spanish. The Sheriff looked at Domingo. “What’d he say?”
“He told you to go fu …” Domingo paused, regarding the Sheriff’s thunderous scowl. The lawman had never been a calm pond. His waters were constantly stormy and unpredictable. Domingo risked another beating if the Sheriff took this the wrong way. “… uh, fornicate with a coyote.”
“Spic bastard,” the Sheriff said. Domingo was not sure whether the slur was aimed at him or at the man in the cell. The Sheriff habitually called Domingo that and worse, usually followed by a backhander across the face. Lulu, over the street at Madame La Bonbon’s Best Tearoom and Whorehouse, kept telling Domingo that he should leave, but where would he go? And how? He had no horse, and no means to set up elsewhere even if he could afford to travel. He slept in the jail cell when it was not occupied, and out back with the Sheriff’s horse when it was. What paltry wages he got went on food, and a weekly ten-minute spell with Lulu. No, there was no escape for Domingo.
“I have robbed no bank,” the prisoner said, again in Spanish. “I swear on my mother’s life.”
“He says he is innocent,” Domingo told the Sheriff.
“You greaseballs are all the same, ain’t ya? Don’t know dung from wild honey.”
Domingo did not know what that meant. A lot of what the Sheriff said went right over Domingo’s head. Lulu reckoned the Sheriff simply loved the sound of his own drawl, and mostly the things he said were just words, plucked from the air, with no meaning. Domingo thought Lulu was maravillosa. She was the only person in town to treat him like a real human being, rather than some mangy stray dog. She was unutterably pretty. In his daydreams, he came into money (the how of which never figured) and asked her to leave town with him and live with him on a small ranch and she flung herself into his arms and kissed him. But those were just daydreams. There was no escape for Domingo.
He was knocked out of his fancies by a hard slap across the back of his head. “Don’t squat with your spurs on, Domingo,” the Sheriff said, taking out his gun. “Now, you tell this snake, I’m going to count to three. If he ain’t told me where the cash is by then, I’m going to see what the inside of his head looks like spread out across the cell floor. And Domingo,” the Sheriff tapped Domingo’s forehead with the gun-barrel, “be convincing, on account of you’re the one that’ll have to clean it up.”
The one-two-three was a favourite tactic of the Sheriff, and almost always resulted in the victim breaking down on the third count and squealing like a hog. There had been that one time, though, with the stutterer, and Domingo did not relish the thought of cleaning up shot brains again. He spoke to the prisoner.
“The Sheriff says you have until he counts to three to tell him where you hid the money.”
“He’s bluffing. Lawmen have to obey the law.”
“He thinks you are bluffing,” Domingo translated. “He says that a sheriff would not commit murder.”
“Well, you know different, don’t you? Persuade him otherwise. I don’t wear pretences, and life is simpler when you plough around the stump.” The Sheriff raised his gun and pointed it through the bars at the prisoner’s head. “One.”
“He is not bluffing,” Domingo told the captive. “I’ve seen him do this before, and he will certainly kill you if you do not tell him what he wants to know.”
“Two.”
“OK, listen,” the man said, again in Spanish, “if he releases me, he can have half.”
“He says if you let him go, he’ll give you half the money,” Domingo told the Sheriff.
“The greasy liar,” the Sheriff said, and cocked his pistol. “Three.”
“Mother of God, don’t shoot!” the prisoner jabbered, holding up his hands in submission. “You win. I buried the money near the canyon bridge, a mile southwest of town, five paces from the northern end, beneath a hojasé bush. Es la neta, I swear it.”
“C’mon, asshole,” the Sheriff said, licking his lips. “What’d he say?”
“Lo siento, amigo,” Domingo said to the prisoner, then turned to the Sheriff. “He says he is not afraid to die.”
Perhaps there was escape for Domingo, after all.
A sexy scene, but not a sex scene
“Have a drink, mon monstre!” she said, her eyes a-sparkle. She filled her cup once more, and lifted it to her lip. Étienne revelled in the physicality of her drinking: her fingers curled about the silver cup, the wetness of her lips, her satisfied exhalation after she swallowed. It was an intensely sensual experience, clearly, and yet…
“You know I like not the taste,” he said. “Perhaps I will go up to the house and fetch some wine.”
She drained her cup once more. “Or we could go for a swim!”
“What?”
Catherine unlaced the front of her dress and shrugged it from her shoulders. She was suddenly naked, and Étienne could not decide where to rest his eyes until she turned, and he saw the long scars on her back. There were old wounds there, white and faded, and newer, pink ones too.
“Madam, where are your undergarments?” he said. Dare he ask where the injuries came from?
“In this heat? Pah! They just make it harder to get naked.” She lowered herself from the jetty into the slow Seine, the tide at this time making the water waist-deep. “Aaaaargh, the water’s cold!” she laughed. “Étienne! Come! What are you waiting for? Come have a real adventure for once.”
“Pardieu!” he said, and laughed. “The things I do for you!” He kicked off his shoes, then turned his back to her so that she would have no opportunity to make jest of his body, and removed most of his clothes.
“Underbreeches too!” she called, fun in her voice. “Trust Catherine! Take it all off. No cheating!”
He paused. The old Étienne would never go so far. These days, though, Catherine had freed him from many of the shackles of convention: ‘one should never deny oneself the pleasures of living for fear of a little dirt’. In a fit of excitement he stripped off his underwear. He backed to the edge of the jetty and lowered himself into the water. “By Christ, it’s freezing!”
“It’s all in your head,” she said. “Just don’t think about it. Enjoy the feeling of freedom on your skin.”
“I think my skin’s freely turned to ice.” He shuddered as she splashed water at him. “Catherine! Do not even … aw, by God above, you are so…” He struggled for a word.
“Adorable?” she giggled. “Yes, I know. Nice arse, by the way.”
“You’ve seen it before,” he reminded her, “when you treated my injuries that time.”
“An arse once seen, never forgotten.” She smiled, the dappled sunlight painting her face, beauty upon beauty. “Well done, Étienne, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“I wouldn’t have, before I met you again.”
She reached out and gently stroked his scarred cheek.
“I’m starting to get used to the cold now,” he said. His throat felt dry. “It’s an interesting feeling, not having my skin smothered by cloth. Catherine?”
“Yes?”
“Where did you get the scars on your back?”
“Another reason to despise my husband,” she said.
He tentatively reached his hand towards her, then stopped and examined her eyes. She nodded her permission, so he traced with his fingertips the dark line that ran alongside her breastbone.
“And this one is from Madame Bosse’s knife?” he asked.
“It is,” she said. “How much do you remember of that day?”
“I remember the horror. I remember the howling emptiness when you disappeared and all that was left was your blood on my hands.”
Catherine took his hand and moved it to cover her breast.
“And do you remember telling me you loved me?” she asked.
“I meant it,” he said, his voice rough. She leaned against him, then pulled away sharply.
“Mon dieu, I’m sorry. I think I’ve drunk too mu–” she said, and vomited into the river.
The Devil We Know
The phone rings. Who the hell would call in the middle of the night?
“Commander Rowley-Williams?” a tinny voice says.
“Yes … what the fuck time is it?”
“It is the fuck oh-four-hundred hours. This is Admiral Leatherdale”
“Ugh … sorry, sir. I was asleep.” Trust that wanker to wake me up at 4am.
“We are never off-duty in the fight against Satan’s army, Commander.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“I want your debrief report on yesterday’s cock-up.”
Cock-up, indeed. That man is never satisfied unless a mission ends with a pile of underworld corpses and blood and entrails all over the walls. “Sir, I voice-mailed my report last night.”
“And I moved that straight to trash. You cannot automate these things, Commander, you know that.”
“Sorry, sir, I was exhausted, and—“
“Report, Commander. NOW.”
I take a deep breath. Calm, Catherine, calm. Just tell him what he wants to hear.
“Sir. Um … my team moved into the target building mid-afternoon. Sorry, fourteen hundred hours. Intel had directed that there was a nest of five satanspawn bedding down there.”
“I hope you did not try to talk to them. I know your views on this matter.”
“No sir. Although I do think—”
“No, you do not. When I order you to destroy a nest I expect you to do exactly that. No thinking. Destroy the nest. Slaughter the vile creatures, every one of them.”
“There were none there to slaughter, sir.”
“Damn. Any sign of where they went?”
“No sir. A few bits of bedding, some candles. I had Intel do a sweep, but—”
“Maybe they had a tip off.”
“Or maybe they just moved on, sir. There were no signs of a hurried exit. Perhaps if we just leave them alone—”
“We see devils, we kill them!” he snaps. “We do not invite them for tea, and give them cake and our immortal souls!” He hangs up.
“Better the devil we know …” I mutter.
“What’s wrong, Cath?” comes a sleepy voice from beside me.
“Nothing.”
Azakiel’s tail snakes along my thigh and strokes my hip. I sigh, then turn and kiss him, right between the horns.
Twanta 2024–the online Secret Santa’s 14th year
Pop your chestnuts on an open fire, young warriors, for it is time once more for TWANTA to shove a tree up a fairy’s frock and display its shiny balls for the fourteenth time. I hope this year in particular, having escaped from Twitter/X to Bluesky, Twanta can offer a smile or two and much-needed respite from the horrors of the world. The hashtag this year will be #Twanta2024, and there’s a BlueSky Feed at https://bsky.app/profile/did:plc:xwlpswr5ni2crbmkoaaxhcfj/feed/aaaoec5cxuwva
For the uninitiated, those taking part in Twanta send a cheap but fun Christmas gift to someone at random that I nominate, possibly a complete stranger, and in return they receive a similar pressie from someone else. Those who send the gifts can choose to remain anonymous (hence “TWANTA” – TWitter secret sANTA, see? I know we’re on Bluesky now, but ‘Twanta’ took on a life of its own, so I’ll not change it) or reveal themselves unashamedly. Many long-lasting friendships have been forged in the deep snows of TWANTA. As usual I’ll link you here to the blog post from David Tims which beautifully sums up the spirit of Twanta.
FOR NOW, JUST TELL ME IF YOU WANT TO TAKE PART so that I can add you to the TwantaTwentyFour master computer here at Twanta Towers.
Posting gifts internationally has been buggered up bigtime recently, so this year, to ease the sending of gifts, I’ll try to assign twantadors to one of three bubbles: UK, EU and US/CANADA . I realise this will remove the chance of you getting something exotic and foreign, but it should also ameliorate three-month delivery times.
As usual, I’ll give people a couple of weeks to join, and shortly after that you’ll receive the name of your Twantee by DM (Bluesky Chat message). Old hands of Twanta will know all the details already, but for any newcomers here’s a summary of how the whole thing works. Terms and conditions apply. Steep hills may go down as well as up.
You must have specifically asked @twanta (or his puppetmaster @wombat37) to take part, and I must have confirmed that you’re accepted before you can join in. I reserve the right to reject anyone that I suspect of being dodgy – this is due to one or two (very rare) wobbles in the past when some twazzock failed to send a present even though they’d received theirs. If you are unknown to me, you can still join in and be welcomed enthusiastically, but I may ask you to first swear fealty to the Twanta Code.
Make sure you follow @twanta on Bluesky. He will follow you back (it’s me really, but don’t tell the little ones. Let’s not spoil the magic, eh?). DM your address to him so that he can pass it on to your own Secret Twanta when everyone is linked up. I do remember some of your addresses from #Twanta2022, and once #Twanta2024 is over I will delete the addresses of those who ask.
Tell me if there are any mortal enemies that you don’t want to be linked with. We don’t want to be responsible for any “incidents”. You can also make other special requests (e.g. if you’re allergic to chocolate, or perhaps you hate bathroom smellies). We are a benign Twanta, and will accept all reasonable requests.
Very occasionally things go awry, and when that happens kind Twanta Fairies step in to send a gift at short notice. Please, therefore, also let us know if you would be happy to be a volunteer Fairy, should any be required (though that’s only rarely necessary).
Once @twanta has everyone’s address, he’ll DM you to let you know to whom (grammar) you should send a gift, together with their address. You might want to spend a little while researching the recipient’s timeline to find out a little bit about them. Yes, that’s a bit stalkery, but you’ll be able to make your gift more personalised that way.
Buy a pressie for your twantee (as the recipients have somehow come to be known) and send it to them. Mark the envelope #TWANTA2024 so they know what it is. Let @twanta know that you’ve posted it (so I can keep track in case anything goes missing). It’s entirely up to you whether you remain anonymous or expose yourself *snigger*.
You should not spend a fortune. Small, fun and imaginative is the rule of thumb, but don’t send an actual thumb. That would be hideous. I recommend spending no more than a tenner, though in the end, of course, it’s up to you. The photographs accompanying this post are of some previous gifts, should you need inspiration.
When you receive your own #TWANTA pressie, again let @twanta know. Then, challenge yourself to wait until Christmas Eve or Day to open the thing. Harness your willpower, young warrior.
When your willpower fails, take a photo of your gift ready to post on Bluesky on Christmas Day. Post it then including the hashtag #TWANTA2024, so that we can all follow the fun, and I’ll reveal each person’s gift-giver, unless specifically asked not to.
Don’t worry – I know this seems a lot, but I’ll hold your hand throughout. Have fun, and, if it all goes tits up, remember that it was originally all the idea of that @captaindoodle, and have a go at him. Not me, oh no, leave me alone.
Twantionary – a Twanta glossary
New to Twanta this year? Having trouble separating your twanta from your twantee? Completed your trifecta yet? Got no bloody idea what I’m talking about? Then this section will save you from social embarrassment akin to leaving the public loos with your skirt tucked into the back of your knickers. As actually happened to me once, but that’s a tale for another time.
TWANTA – this word has two meanings. Firstly it is the all-encompassing name for the whole cosy event itself, although usually with the relevant year attached to its arse (eg #TWANTA2024). Secondly, the Twanta is the person sending a gift. It is the Twanta’s own choice whether or not to remain secret.
TWANTEE – the person receiving said gift, with a smile and a song and possibly other things beginning with ‘S’.
TWANTADOR – general term for anyone taking part, bless their little cotton reindeer socks.
TRIFECTA – the magic three milestones achieved by a TWANTADOR who has (1) sent a gift, (2) learned that it has arrived, and (3) received their own.
TWAZZOCK – a dirty black-hearted rapscallion who fails to send a gift as promised.
FAIRY – a good-hearted TWANTADOR who volunteers to step in and provide a gift at short notice for anyone who falls victim to a TWAZZOCK.
TWANTAVERSE – every bloody thing to do with Twanta. Constantly expanding.
EPISTLETOE – a hand-written letter included with the gift to add a virtual Christmas kiss and a personal touch.
I aim to hang about a bit longer
Seventy-HOWMANY??? How the fuck did this happen? I remember as if it were last week being in my Twenties, and pontificating that, hey, if I made it into my Sixties, that’d do. That’d be old enough, I reckoned, even too old – I’d be happy to die then. Well sod you, you insufferable priggish arse of long, long ago. You know nowt.
In my time I’ve seen post-war rationing, the rise of women’s rights, a sharp decline in persecution of gay people, and the complete transformation of meaning in the word ‘gay’ itself. I’ve been a forester, newsagent and bus conductor, among several other things.
I’ve thrown a sheep’s heart to Bob Geldof, seen very early Pink Floyd live, and got drunk with The Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band. I watched Kirk Douglas gurn across the big screen of Rawmarsh Regal Cinema in The Vikings in 1959, and owned a Man From Uncle membership card. I remember pounds, shillings and pence. I remember farthings, by God.
I wore love beads in the Sixties, gawped at the moon landing as it happened, and lived in East London with the rise of punk a decade later, pogoing and headbanging at The Roundhouse as The Stranglers played Beaches. I watched England win the World Cup Final in 1966. I remember McDonalds first appearing in Britain (with timers on the counter so you could time the servers, and get your meal free if they were slow). Later, life slowed down, but still I gaped, open-mouthed, as fire blazed across the skies above the Rossendale valley to celebrate the turn of a millennium.
I married an amazing woman, and raised two other amazing women in their turn. I suffered under Thatcher (sidebar: and the worsening, if you can believe it, of the Tories after that). I marched in protests against Thatcher’s selfishness, little realising how much worse the Tories would get. I was involved with computing at the beginning of the internet.
And so much bloody more. A whole motherfucking maelstrom of experience that’d make your ears bleed taken all at once, and you know what? Despite my now dodgy heart, despite the diabetes, despite the sodding cancer, I want more. I’m not ready to let go just yet, so the twatmonger that I was a half-century ago can piss off and play his pseudy Soft Machine records. Life is still beautiful. I aim to hang about a bit longer.
The Chances of Anything Coming from Mars
“Do you want to see Granny Dorcas’ room?”
The funeral had been tedious and long. The two girls had been bored stiff, which, it occurred to Jojo, was ironic at a funeral. Was that the word? Ironic? She would have to ask Mrs. Balham at school tomorrow. The dreariness had continued back at the house as dark-garbed adults murmured and mumbled and ascribed virtues to Granny Dorcas that she had never possessed. Jojo felt the need of some fun.
“Are we allowed?” Jules looked nervous and, Jojo had to admit, with some reason. Granny Dorcas had been eccentric, and more than a little scary. She had spent most of her time shut in her room with the heavy red velvet curtains pulled. Now Jojo thought about it, everything in Granny Dorcas’ room looked made of heavy velvet – the bed, the wall hangings, and ancient, dark furniture the colour of old blood. One long, sideboard-like box sprang to mind.
“She had a record player,” Jojo said, “though she called it a ‘barsoomophone’.”
Over the last year Granny Dorcas had been going doolally, saying strange things and using odd made-up words. Jules had been terrified of her – and still was, by the look on her face. Jules had once told Jojo that she suspected Granny Dorcas was an alien, a thing that frightened her young friend more than demons, or witches or monsters. An idea had sparked in Jojo’s mind.
“I’m not sure,” said Jules. “Your dad said no more pranks.”
“This isn’t a prank,” Jojo lied. “This is music. You want to hear my new LP, don’t you?”
Jojo dragged Jules to the back of the house, and told her to wait by Granny Dorcas’ door. She bounded upstairs to her own room and returned with the LP. It was a double-album, and had represented quite the luxurious birthday gift for an eleven-year-old back in 1978. Her dad had always enjoyed treating her, though, perhaps as a reaction to the years of hard, cold poverty that he had suffered after coming to England from Barbados in the Sixties.
She opened the door to the gloom of her grandmother’s room. The heavy curtains were still drawn against the light, and it took Jojo’s eyes several seconds to adjust. Finally she entered. The air smelled dusty, and old, and strange.
“Come on, Jules,” she said.
“No,” said Jules, standing still in the doorway. She shook her head. “It’s scary.”
Jojo looked around. She could see what Jules meant. In addition to the old dark furniture, the room was packed with peculiar things. Thick books overflowed from bookshelves and every surface was crammed with bizarre ornaments and fine examples of the taxidermist’s art. A quick glance around showed her a crystal ball on a black stand, a toppling pile of old sheet music, a cardboard box fill of 78rpm records, and a stuffed and mounted badger snarled at her from behind a large globe of the planet Mars. Perhaps Jules had a point. The room was unnerving.
Jojo released a breath and told herself not to be silly. She opened up the heavy lid of the ‘barsoomophone’. It was such an old machine that it had a switch to change the record speed. She turned it from 78 to 33, took the first disc from the sleeve and carefully lowered it over the spindle. She turned the volume up high and picked up the stylus arm.
“Come on in,” she told Jules. Her friend took a single step and then stopped. “Don’t you want to hear this?” she tried. “It’s fantastic!” Jules took another step. Jojo lowered the needle onto the edge of the rotating disc.
“No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space.”
Richard Burton’s rich Welsh tones boomed from the speakers, shaking the crystal ball in its stand.
“No one could have dreamed that we were being scrutinised as someone with a microscope studies creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.”
Jojo beckoned Jules further. Her friend shook her head, and shuffled backwards. “I don’t like this. It’s too loud. Something’s wrong.”
“Few men even considered the possibility of life on other planets.”
You could almost hear Richard Burton tasting the consonants.
“And yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded this earth with envious eyes.”
Jojo took Jules by the hand and led her into the middle of the room.
“And slowly and surely they drew their plans against us.”
Jojo giggled, then sprinted past Jules to the door, slamming it behind her as she left. Music crashed into the darkness.
“DUM DUM DAAAAAH!”
Jojo locked the door, shutting Jules inside. Jules squealed. “Jojo, please, no more pranks! I don’t like the UFO music!” Jojo grinned. This might be her best practical joke yet.
“DUM DUM DAAAAAH!” shouted a furious string section.
“It’s too loud, how do I turn it down?” Jules began to cry. She sounded really upset. Jojo felt herself soften a little. Perhaps just one more minute.
“DUM DUM DAAAAAH!” the urgency of the music redoubled.
“Help!” yelled Jules in the silence between phrases, and then, in a rising panic, “who are you? Go away! No! Let me go!”
“DUM DUM DAAAAAH!” once more. A moment of stillness then from behind the door Jules let loose a scream so terrifying – so terrified – that Jojo dropped the door key. Immediately there came a disco beat so tight, so in the pocket, that even fifty years later Jojo could recall it with near-perfect vividity. Her foot twitched the infectious rhythm.
“What on earth is going on?” Jojo’s father appeared beside her. “Jojo, this is a funeral!”
The racket inside the room continued its musical flight from inertia. Her father picked up the key, opened the door and crossed over to the ‘barsoomophone’. He turned the volume from ‘cacophony’ to ‘listenable’.
“And where’s Jules?” he demanded. Jojo looked around. The room was – well, not empty – but things had changed. Sheet music was all over the floor, and the badger had disappeared. The Martian globe had moved to the bed, but most importantly, there was no sign of Jules.
“She was here,” said Jojo. “Right here!”
Her father looked around the room, behind furniture, under the bed, behind the thick curtains. Then he picked up the globe.
“I think she’s gone,” he said. “I think … she’s been taken.”
“Weeooo weeooo weeeooo,” the music underlined the strangeness of his words.
Jojo shuddered. What did her dad mean?
“Taken?” she said, shakily.
“To Barsoom,” he said, quietly. He looked her in the eyes. “To Mars.”
Jojo’s heart thumped. Had Jules been right, after all? Had Granny Dorcas really been … an alien? She found it hard to breathe.
“But,” she said shakily, tears starting to form, “how? Will she be—”
“BOO!” shouted Jules, leaping out from behind the curtains. She laughed, and ran to hug Jojo tightly. Her father burst into loud guffaws.
“Yes, I saw her there,” he said, “and yes I played along. Good one, Jules!” He high-fived Jojo’s friend. Jojo scowled at them both. “And let this be a lesson, Jojo. No more pranks!”
“The chances of anything coming from Mars,” said the music, “are a million to one.”
Spiders Are Our Friends
I’ve never understood the urge some people have to kill spiders. They are innocent little creatures, doing their tiny best to get along with their arachnid lives, and helping us out by catching the far more annoying flies. They don’t want to hurt anyone; they’re just trying to get places. If they could speak they’d be saying stuff like
“Hey Wom, how’re you doing? Nice morning, huh? Yeah, lots of flies about, I’m trying to take care of that for you. I’ll just stay out of your way here on the bookcase, but I might have to make a run down there at some point. I’ll be quiet though, yeah? Cool, man, appreciate it.”
I have a couple of medium-sized ones who chill out with near my desk in the corner, and occasionally one will go for a stroll, then get scared by my pen or something. The larger of the two is greyish with speckles, named Adonis, and the other one is smaller and sort of blackish brown. Much shyer, name of Enid. I imagine sometimes that the spider neighbours have little meetings where they discuss spider-drama and hang out and they’re best friends and they’re like
“Hey, Enid, wanna come over, share a wasp?”
“Sure, that’d be awesome. I’ll see you in ten? Got to freshen up first.”
I also have Travelling Spider as a companion. She lives on the wing mirror of my car, and has been all over the country with me. On journeys she’ll sometimes just nip out from behind the mirror into the wind-stream for a thrill, and to see how much damage is being done to her web. I’ll miss her when she goes.
See? They’re wonderful. And yet some people just thoughtlessly snuff out their poor little spider lives, when they are just trying to do harmless spider things. It’s very sad.
The Remarkable Adventures of Oliver Cromwell’s Head
Those of you who know me well know my love of Sam Pepys. On 30th January in 1661 Sam wrote:
“Then to my Lady Batten’s; where my wife and she are lately come back again from being abroad, and seeing of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw hanged and buried at Tyburn. Then I home”.
Now since Oliver Cromwell had died three years earlier, and been given a lavish state funeral at Westminster in November 1658, why was Sam telling us that Elisabeth, his wife, had just seen Cromwell hanged and buried three years after his death? It’s a bit of an odd, and gruesome story.
When the monarchy was restored in 1660 with King Charles II, the surviving men who had participated in the trial and execution of Charles I were hung, drawn and quartered. The recalled parliament also ordered the posthumous execution of the three ‘deceased regicides’ Oliver Cromwell, John Bradshaw and Henry Ireton.
On the morning of 30th January 1661 (the anniversary of Charles I’s execution), the three bodies were dragged on a sledge through the streets of London to Tyburn gallows, where they were hanged in full public view until around four o’clock in the afternoon. After being taken down, their heads were cut off, and stuck on 20 ft pikes raised above Westminster Hall.
“Jan. 30th was kept as a very solemn day of fasting and prayer. This morning the carcases of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw (which the day before had been brought from the Red Lion Inn, Holborn), were drawn upon a sledge to Tyburn, and then taken out of their coffins, and in their shrouds hanged by the neck, until the going down of the sun. They were then cut down, their heads taken off, and their bodies buried in a grave made under the gallows. The coffin in which was the body of Cromwell was a very rich thing, very full of gilded hinges and nails.”—Rugge’s Diurnal.
In 1685 a mighty storm broke the pole which carried Cromwell’s head, and it was retrieved by a sentry. For reasons known only to him, he hid the embalmed head in his chimney for many years. On his deathbed, he left the relic to his daughter who, presumably, sold it.
In 1710 the head turned up in Claudius Du Puy’s Museum of Curiosities, described as ‘The Monster’s Head’. Later it passed through various hands, being sold each time for sums which were equivalent to thousands of pounds today. It also appeared in a failed exhibition in 1799.
In 1815 one Dr. Wilkinson bought the head, and for generations it remained in the Wilkinson family, kept in a wooden box. They allowed several scientific studies to be undertaken as to its authenticity, the conclusions being that there was a “moral certainty” that it was indeed Oliver Cromwell’s head. In 1960 it was offered to Sydney Sussex College, where Oliver Cromwell had studied.
There it was buried on 25th March 1960, in a secret location near the antechapel, preserved in the oak box in which the Wilkinson family had kept the head since 1815. The box was placed into an airtight container and buried, before only a few witnesses, including family and representatives of the college.
If you want to find out more, you can buy a book by Jonathon Fitzgibbons all about Cromwell’s Head.
Conquistador
Cortés came dancing across the ocean with his galleons and guns, and I came with him, to make his maps and chart his conquests. Behind me I left no-one; no lovers, no friends, no parents. Before me lay the Yucatan peninsula; a new world, full of treasure and opportunity.
Dark pain. Soft sounds send small ripples through the slow silence. Creaks. Squeaks. Bubbles. An easy susurration of water and wood. Heavy pain throbs in my head. I lay my fingertips gently to my temple. They come away sticky. They smell of iron, and molasses.
On the jungle-rimmed shore, sand between his fat, gold-ringed toes, stood Pitalpitoque, his long hair plaited with coca leaves and pearls. His subjects, who called themselves the Nahua, gathered round him like leaves to a tree. They dressed in light, flowing garments of vivid colours. Their faces were painted dazzle-bright, though no brighter than their smiles. And the women all were beautiful, and the men stood straight and strong. And the out-runners called from their canoes “¡Bienvenidos! ¡Bienvenidos!”
I open my eyes tentatively. Sparkdrift blackness. A gentle rocking motion, causing my head to throb when it sways against the rough sacks upon which I lay. I am on board ship, below decks. A chorus of moans and coughs from nearby. A goat bleats.
When we landed, Cortés and I left the crew to pull the small boats out of the surf, and approached Pitalpitoque, although we did not at that point know his name. A woman stood close, stunningly beautiful, and the brightest thing on the beach that overcast day. She wore feathers and flowing scarves and her head was a cloud of flamboyant blooms, her face painted in vivid, gaudy colours.
Pitalpitoque greeted us in some unintelligible savage tongue. The woman spoke in broken Spanish, her voice musical with a lisp slight enough to remain attractive. “Pitalpitoque welcomes you,” she said. More gibberish from the fat chief, and she said “Pitalpitoque hopes for friendship, and offers hospitality for as long as you wish to remain here.”
I struggle to my feet and the world spins. My cheek hurts. I put my hand to my face to find a deep cut that runs down my cheekbone. Steady now, Diego. Hand resting against a support, I wait for the world to still. I recognise where I am – in the rear hold – and move slowly towards the centre of the ship.
And remain we did, for months. Over the weeks it became clear that although openly they professed friendship and a desire to trade with each other across the wide ocean, the two leaders both harboured secret desires. Cortés saw treasures to be stolen: gold and other riches, as well as land. Pitalpitoque, on the other hand, wondered whether perhaps Cortés might just be the white-skinned god from the east foretold by Aztec prophecy, and therefore a source of untold power. More practically and immediately, he appreciated having new allies with firesticks to defend his lands.
The hold is littered with wounded men. They cough, moan and spit. One gives out a death-rattle as he gives up his life. I pick my way through them, trying not step on any bodies.
“Maria, is that you?” a rough voice says. I ignore it.
My cartographical and diplomatic duties required me to spend entire days in the company of the woman who had acted as translator on our arrival. She was called Malīnalli, which means ‘grass’, after the day-sign on which she was born. She had learned our language from a Spanish Franciscan priest, who had been shipwrecked there two years previously and held in captivity until he died of fever. He had told the Nahua of the existence of Spain, a rich and powerful land across the sea, and Malīnalli had learned our language from him.
The effort I use to climb the ladder out of the hold hurts my muscles. The rungs are slippery, coated with dirt and blood. My neck is wet, and I realise blood is still pouring from my wounded face. I can ignore the pain for now. I need to find out what is happening.
As the days became weeks, I charted the coast, and inland as far as the Nahua city, a sprawling, stone beauty embedded into jungle greenery. When she was not busy with the diplomatic wrangling between Cortés and Pitalpitoque, I asked Malīnalli to accompany me on my expeditions. Initially this was to assist in case I happened across any belligerent natives, but more and more I wanted her company for the sheer pleasure of resting my eyes upon her. And the day eventually came that she asked me to lay my hands upon her also.
I raise my head above deck through the open hatch. The sky is the colour of old ink; I estimate the hour to be the one before nightfall. The last few steps are agony, but finally I stand on the swaying deck.
The lives of the Nahua were in many ways uncivilised. They held regular ritual sacrifices, where brave men and women offered life in sacrifice so that the Gods would provide for others to live on. As a counter-balance these horrors, the Nahua achieved feats far beyond the capabilities of Spain. The people worked together, lifting and carrying huge stones to the flatlands, where they built with their bare hands incredible pyramids. Malīnalli became mi corazon as she taught me the ways and language of the Nahua, and over the months she also taught me the ways and language of women, and how to love deeply.
I look towards the stern, where a figure stands, peering out at the apricot rim of the sky where the sun has just set. From his hat, I think it might be the first mate. I stagger towards him unsteadily.
Yesterday, as I drew contours on my paper, Malīnalli leaned over my shoulder and kissed the contours of my neck.
“Diego,” she whispered. “I am fruitful.”
I turned to look at her quizzically. Her command of Spanish was still shaky.
“There are eyes within me that do not see,” she continued. “There are feet that do not run, hands that do not yet nock an arrow. I carry your child, Diego.”
I held her tightly and kissed her beautiful face. I had fallen deeply in love with this woman and with this new world. I would be overjoyed to spend the rest of my life here with my beloved. We returned to the city in fine heart to tell the good news. What we found there was horror and devastation.
“Mate,” I say, moving alongside him. We can see the beach, receding into the distance. The sky above the darkening forest is a deep, dark orange now. Soon even that light will be gone.
“Diego,” he says. “How do you feel now? You should clean your face. Maybe cauterise that wound.”
The streets were washed with blood; bodies and body parts were scattered like leaves in autumn. From the central square came a cacophony of battle: shouts and screams, blade-clash and gun-crack. Hurrying there we met Cortés’s first mate, bloodied and exhausted, who told us that Cortés, tired of waiting for a share of the riches he saw everywhere, had taken Pitalpitoque hostage and demanded a huge ransom from the Nahua. When they refused his rapacious demands, he angrily slit open Pitalpitoque’s throat, spilling his blood on the altar steps. Unsurprisingly, this had ignited fury in the Nahua nearby, who had attacked him. Cortés, with his soldiers and guns, had slaughtered every Nahua in the square, men, women and children alike. The natives in the rest of the city had called their warriors to arms and now a full-pitched battle raged.
“Well that was a right bloody mess,” the mate tells me, holding his bloody shoulder. “Cortés has fucked this expedition up royally.”
“What happened?” I ask him. “How did I get on board?”
In the central square all hell reigned. Cortés’s men were losing, overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers and the accuracy of the skilful Nahua archers. The first mate took an arrow to the shoulder. Men died by the second. A trio of enraged Nahua ran at us screeching, machetes raised. I stepped in front of Malīnalli to protect her. I saw black, and my face splashed in the sky.
“When it became clear we were beaten, we retreated,” the mate says. “I dragged you part of the way, then got help to carry you back to the ship. Cortés will need your knowledge of the Nahua when he eventually returns, armed to the teeth, to wipe them out. That won’t be for months, though, maybe even years. Who can say when we might dare to return?”
“And what of Malīnalli?” I hardly dare ask him, for I am sure that mi corazon is dead, but I know that I must. “The woman with me.”
“Sorry, mate, I don’t know, The last I saw she was being carried away by three natives, kicking and screaming. Probably raped and killed, if I know those savage bastards.”
My heart screams. I gaze at the receding beach as darkness falls. A figure emerges from the crepuscular tree-line. It is Malīnalli, I can tell from her walk. She runs down the beach and stops at the margin of the waves, watching us disappear into the horizon. She falls to her knees and the waves wash around her. Then darkness enfolds Malīnalli, and the new life inside her, as night falls on the setting sun of my life.
Cubic Scats 
