Book Extract…for Ish.

Discussing this with blog pal, Ishaiya I said the part I was going to reference was only a couple of paragraphs long. This turned out to be around 1000 words.

Forgive me. But in my defence,  there has to be some context, right? 

From the third novel in the Mining of Lif series.

Whenever a volcano threatens to erupt near a major metropolis, a giant lizard runs amok, or a huge chunk of rock threatens to induce a worldwide headache it creates a Situation.

To deal with these larger-than-life events those In Charge require a gathering point to Direct Matters and when it’s all over, give clenched fist salutes or high fives, hug each other, sing national anthems (somehow managing to remember the words) and utter such memorable platitudes as, “Yeah, right on,” or “We did it!” or “Effin A”. Although they never appear to be doing anything, other than swear a lot, sweat profusely and cheer.

A precursor to setting up a Situations Room always seems to involve a group of military-types bursting into a building close to the site of Imminent Destruction.  They usually wear protective clothing with the initials T.W.A.T. (Tactical Weapons Advance Team – or something) emblazoned across the front and back.   Behind these stalwarts, you will always find someone with rolled-up shirtsleeves and several rolled-up plans, or drawings of the disaster area in question. (Although, when the whole world is at stake, the map is electronic and wall mounted in front of hundreds of computer monitors.)

One of the T.W.A.T.’s sweeps his arm across the first available flat space, (so as to lay out The Plans) invariably destroying priceless pieces of Dresden china, one or two Faberge eggs and a small piece of innocuous paper that has the name of the hero on it or the crucial formula that just happened to be lying around. And the moment someone announces, “Right, let’s see what we are getting ourselves into, shall we?” a lost dog will wander in and go “Woof!”

In the slightly less sophisticated world of the Sueridge Canal garrison, they also had a Situation and a Situations Room.  Only, the immediate Situation was inside the Situations Room.

‘Is it poisonous, do you think, Sarge?’ asked Corporal Zimmer, nervously.

‘Fifty-fifty, Corporal. Only way to find out is to milk it, am I right, sir?’

‘That is correct, Sergeant,’ Captain Poohbah agreed.

Corporal Drivel Zimmer had a limited knowledge of dairy-farming but a picture formed inside his head nonetheless.  ‘Wouldn’t work, Sarge. Couldn’t get a bucket underneath it.’

The others, gathered around the entrance to the storeroom where the plans of the canal were stored in wax-sealed hollow tubes, turned to stare at their serious-looking colleague.

It was obvious from the amount of dust and cobwebs that this room had not been opened in quite some time. The startled looks from many of the room’s current occupants added to this impression.

The snake, coiled on the table in the centre of the room, reared up sinuously and stared at them. It had an air about it that said, “I was in the middle of lunch. Do you mind?”

The hollow tubes containing the plans of the canal were behind the snake in pigeonholes on the far wall. So were a few pigeons.

‘Reckon it must be poisonous, sir. That’s the longest, thinnest tongue I’ve ever seen on a snake,’ Zimmer offered as a qualifier.

The others turned to stare once again at the snake. The long, thin, pink tongue flicked from side to side for a moment then disappeared inside the snake’s mouth.

‘That, “tongue”, Corporal Zimmer, is, or rather was, a tail,’ said Captain Poohbah.

Zimmer gave his captain a look confirming his belief that all officers were mental.

Poohbah noticed.  ‘A rat’s tail, Corporal.’

‘Oh, riiight. Ha-ha. Silly me, sir,’ Zimmer replied, as a metaphorical light of very low wattage began to glow inside his head.

‘Isn’t that a relief model of the canal on the table?’ Poohbah asked.

‘Si, Senor Captain,’ affirmed the wiry, moustachioed individual standing next to Poohbah.

From the amount of droppings, it appeared rats and pigeons had been relieving themselves upon it for some time.

‘It would be very useful for our strategy, wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant?’

‘Certainly help when it comes to troop placement, yes, sir,’ Flogin acknowledged.

‘Well we can’t stand around indefinitely. Has anyone got a suggestion?’ Poohbah asked.

The snake, having swallowed its lunch, began to hiss in a disconcerting manner. Disconcerting for those watching it that is. It was perfectly normal for the snake.

‘Oh, the gods,’ groaned Corporal Zimmer, the colour draining from his face.

‘What is it, man?’ Poohbah asked sharply.

‘It’s ‘im, sir,’ Zimmer exclaimed. ‘We can’t go in there. It’s a sign.’ Zimmer swallowed thickly and edged away from the entrance.

‘Him? Sign? What are you talking about?’

‘The One God’s nemesis: Stan,’ croaked Zimmer.

‘Stan? Who the ‘ell is Stan, Corporal?’ Flogin demanded.

‘Everyone knows who Stan is, Sarge. We learned all about him as kids. The One God’s numero uno pain-in-the-arse. Turned up in that garden as a snake and made Evelyn eat her fellah’s banana. That’s Original Sin, that is, Sarge. We can’t interfere with Stan. It’s an omen.’

‘Corporal get a hold of yourself!’ snapped Poohbah.

‘That’s also a Sin, sir!’ Zimmer blurted.  ‘And I intend to always have good eyesight, sir. I can’t go in there with Stan. No way. Sorry, sir. But I just can’t.’

‘It is not a sin to eat bananas. Or any other fruit for that matter. And there is certainly nothing original about it either. People have been eating fruit since before they climbed down from trees. As for “Stan,” I think you will find the name is Sayten. Am I right, Sergeant?’

‘Definitely in the right legless-lizard ballpark, sir.’

The snake decided that this lot were not going to provide it with any sport and slithered off the table and down an old rat hole to digest its meal in peace. There were several squeaks of relief and one or two coos.

Captain Poohbah caught a last glimpse of the snake’s tale.  ‘Ah. Seems our little problem has resolved itself. Corporal Partz, please assist Corporal Zimmer to retrieve the table. See if you can clean it up a bit beforehand though. We shall set up a Situations Room in my office. Senor Brunel, you may now enter and retrieve the plans for the canal, I believe.’

Copyright ©Douglas Pearce

The Search for Donaldson.

There was a time , a few years ago, the only author I read was Stephen Donaldson, who wrote the bestselling Chronicles of Thomas Covenant.

It is about a successful author whose world collapses after he discovers he has leprosy. His wife divorces him, taking their son, Roger with her,

He  is ostracized by the community.

During a visit to town he collapses in front of a car and is somehow transported to a place called The Land, Because he wears a white gold wedding band which is considered magical and has tremendous power he is believed to be the reincarnation of a great hero from a former age, 

His leprosy is healed and he is called upon to save the people from a figure known as Lord Foul.

Covenant is more of an anti hero  and the reader generally develops a love hate relationship with him, especially as he is convinced that he is merely dreaming, a stance he adopts throughout the book. But then who wouldn’t?

There are many  familiar elements to the story found in other fantasy novels, but this one I felt was something special. But I am not very good at synopsis. What a personal indictment from a writer. Just go and buy a copy of Lord Foul’s Bane. 

Smile…

If you like fantasy, the books are brilliant

One could say I was pretty much addicted to this series.

When Donaldson published the sixth novel and – one thought – ended the story – I was in a serious *dwaal.

I felt there had to be more Thomas Covenant. But, alas, it seemed it was over.

Donaldson published several more fantasy novels and a 5 volume science fiction series titled The Gap.

It was during this period, with no sign of  a return of Thomas Covenant, that I seriously contemplated writing my own version of The Chronicles. But I held off, ever hopeful that Donaldson would somehow resurrect  one of my favorite literary characters.

Eventually I gave up and sucumbed to the realisation that if I wanted to see Thomas Covenant again I would have to write my own damn story!

So I began. And guess what? I hadn’t got past 10,000 words when I read that Donaldson was going to publish a third Chronicles of Thomas Covenant!  

Sigh…so much for that literary adventure! 

And my publishers husband still has a copy of the first volume of the Third Series which I lent him ….are you listening Iain?  I want it back , China  

 🙂

Some of the terms and characters may have no meaning if you have never read Donaldson, but I hope this wont distract too much.

Anyway, here’s the first chapter of The search for Donaldson.

Chapter One

It was a cold and blustery morning. How corny, he thought. Yet, staring out of the kitchen window  this was exactly what it was. The valley, which his property overlooked, was shrouded in mist.   Underneath all that mist was a golf course and on the other side of the valley were several other properties, similar to his.

The wattle tree in the front garden bent and swayed in the wind. Outside the kitchen window the large Delicious Monster was flapping several of its leaves against the glass, as if attempting to attract his attention. The more he tried to ignore it the more insistent the tapping became.

The steam from his tea began to mist up the window and what little of the wonderful view his property offered began to slowly disappear. He felt too tired to even lift his arm and wipe the window clean.

He wondered why he was up so early at all. It was only 5.45a.m. Considering he had been at the hospital until 11.30 p.m last night and only managed to crawl into bed at around 1.30 a.m. He should be tucked up in bed fast asleep.

Perhaps the sound of the rain woke me up? I’ll finish my tea and then go back to bed, he decided.

The phone rang. He swore under his breath, but ignored it. Stuff them. It rang again and conditioning made him get up from the chair, cross the kitchen and answer it. Conditioning and the fact that if it had rang once more his wife would have woken up and given him an earful for not answering it.

‘Doctor Stewart’, he said.

And that was how it started.

The duty nurse led him to a private room. The patient, a man in his late fifties, early sixties, looked asleep. But Stewart had already been informed that he was in a coma.

After checking the man’s level of pupil dilation and pulse then reading the other relevant information on the hospital admittance chart he asked the nurse to fetch him a cup of coffee.

He studied the man’s face and a glimmer of recognition made his eyes widen slightly with surprise. Taking the chart from the foot of the bed he looked at the name.

S. Donaldson. I don’t believe it, he thought. What the hell was Donaldson doing here, in South Africa? Didn’t he live in the States somewhere?

The famous author of the Thomas Covenant series was here, in his hospital.

Pulling up a chair he sat next to the bed. He took hold of Donaldson’s hand to feel the pulse once more and suddenly his own hand was taken in a vice like grip.   Stewart was so startled he initially did nothing but an instant later he tried to yank back his hand. But the grip was secure. It would not release him.

Donaldson began to pull him towards the bed. Stewart looked at the man’s face.   The eyes were still closed. There was no apparent sign of consciousness. Stewart did not resist and Donaldson pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear.

‘Stone and sea, you must set me free.’

That was all Stewart heard. His mind went blank and he felt himself slump over Donaldson’s chest.

As he came too he was assailed by a strong smell of dung. The fact that he was in the open air, lying on grass did not initially register. Just the smell. It was awful.

I must have stood in dog crap, he thought. He sat up, steadied himself with his left arm and looked under the sole of his left boot. Nothing. But the smell was still there. Even stronger now that he had sat up. His head jerked to the right and there was the source. Horse droppings.  He had no doubt what had caused the indentation in the middle of the pile. Pulling a disgusted face he yanked off his jacket and flung it to one side at the same time scrambling over the grass away from the muck.

That small exertion made him feel dizzy and slightly nauseous. He was overcome by the need to lie down again. He settled himself on the grass in the shade of a bush covered in berries. Before he knew it he was asleep.

He awoke sometime later with a feeling of warm breath on the side of his face.  Without opening his eyes he smiled at the thought of his wife, curled up next to him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

The slobbery, wet tongue that rasped across the side of his cheek dispelled that thought in a flash.  Yelling a curse in surprise, his heart kicked like a jackhammer and instinct flung him away from that tongue. But he only managed to entangle himself in the bush under which he had been sleeping. The large, fawn mare with liquid, dreamy eyes, and a small white star in the middle of its forehead returned to munching the grass, unperturbed by his sudden movement.

Freeing himself from the bush he climbed to his feet took a deep breath to calm himself a little then looked at the horse.

Suddenly, everything began to crash down on him. The bush, the horse. This place.

I was in the hospital. Stephen Donaldson had been brought in after apparently slipping into a coma. Donaldson had whispered something to him. Free me or something like that. Now he was here. Here? Here! Where the hell was here? But he knew. The bush. Those berries. Aliantha? Had to be. The horse. The star on its forehead. Ranyhyn? If that’s true, he thought then…Something sharp was pushed against his back.

‘Ware, stranger. Remain still if you value your next breath!’

Stewart froze. A figure came from behind the bush and stood in front of him. The point of whatever was between his shoulder blades remained.

The figure, a man, was barefoot. He was dark skinned, stood about one metre seventy in height and wore a short ochre tunic. An air of confidence about the man suggested total capability.

‘Bannor?’ Stewart croaked. He could hardly speak. The only response the man gave was to raise his right eyebrow a fraction.

‘Brinn, Ceer, Cail, Tuvor?’ Stewart continued, blurting out the names of   Haruchai that came to mind.

‘The names of those you speak are known to us.’ the Haruchai paused, as if wondering how this man could possibly know anything about Bloodguard or Haruchai. ‘Their stories are amongst many which have been passed on generation to generation.’

‘One who knows such ancient and important names could also possess other knowledge of equal import. If we are to question this stranger surely it would be better in more appropriate surroundings?’

Stewart attempted to turn his head toward the direction of the new speaker but the point of whatever it was, Stewart presumed a sword or spear, pressed more firmly into his back.

‘Furthermore’, the new speaker continued, ‘Have we not watched this man for some time now? He has given no indication that he is an enemy and has no visible weapons. As cautious as we have learned to become, surely we have not completely forsaken common courtesy?’

There was a snort of derision from the person who held the weapon at his back.   But the Haruchai glanced in the direction of the speaker and frowned.

‘You speak truly. Though we will not abandon all caution so blithely’. He nodded fractionally to the person holding the weapon at Stewart’s back and the pressure of the blade was eased. This time he was able to turn his head without hindrance. He knew what the second speaker was, if not who. Stewart smiled. ‘A Giant!’

‘Forsooth a Giant indeed. Also, from the look in your eyes it would seem you have knowledge of other Giants. Mayhap they too are ancient like the Haruchai you have mentioned. I would cherish any tale, no matter how strange, that included Giants.’

‘Tales will keep, Giant. This is neither time nor place for them. I was reminded of courtesy. For that there is time’.

The Haruchai stepped back two paces.

‘I am Damon’, the Haruchai introduced himself and bowed fractionally without taking his eyes off Stewart. ‘My companions, Marack and Gan, who are also of the Haruchai. Callum, first Lieutenant of the Guard and the Giant, Cove Whitesand’.

Stewart bowed to each of them and they bowed in turn. The Giant bowed with a flourish and a beaming smile.

They waited for him to introduce himself.

‘Oh. Sorry. I am Adrian Stewart’ He paused then added, ‘The Seeker’. For some reason it seemed appropriate to give him self a title.

‘Adrian Stewart,’ repeated Damon.  ‘An unusual name for an unusual person.’   The Haruchai regarded him for a moment.  ‘I sense an air of urgency about you and as Cove Whitesand has said, this is not the most appropriate setting for more searching questions. There are others more capable to ask and to answer. Come we will return to…’

‘Revelstone,’ Stewart interrupted.

‘Indeed Revelstone,’ the Giant replied. ‘For one so strange to the Land you appear to have the familiarity of one born to it.’

‘I’ve read the…’ Stewart caught himself.  ‘I was told about this place by someone.’

‘Then perhaps…’ the Giant began.

‘Peace, Giant,’ Damon interrupted, forestalling further conversation. ‘Revelstone is five leagues from here. We must leave now if we are to gain its safety before nightfall.’

Damon nodded to Gan who turned and gave a short piercing whistle.

Three Ranyhyn and a black Mustang trotted into view and gathered around their riders.

‘Adrian Stewart, do you ride?’ Damon asked.

Stewart interpreted the do as are you able. ‘I have ridden. But that was a long time ago, when I was a child.’

‘Then you shall ride with Lieutenant Callum. Gan will go ahead of us to   Revelstone to alert the High Lord. The Giant, Marack and I must remain unencumbered to watch and ward.’

Stewart took this for granted. Something must be very wrong within the Land.   That was why here was here; to sort out whatever it was, wasn’t it?

Unlike Thomas Covenant, who, during his sojourns to the Land had fluctuated from vehement denial to eventual acceptance of his situation and surroundings,   Stewart immediately accepted everything. His main concern was why was he here? But rather than speculate on any number of scenarios he decided simply to go with the flow. His role, either as an active or passive participant would be revealed soon enough.

Gan mounted his own Ranyhyn and headed back to Revelstone at a fast gallop. Stewart realised that he had appeared in the Land less than fifty metres from where Damon and his scouting party had stopped for a brief meal. They were, in fact, on their way back to Revelstone when they had heard him yelling. The Ranyhyn had given away his location.

The groups’ supplies were stored away in sacks that were then draped over the back of each horse.

Lieutenant Callum leapt lightly onto his horse and edged slightly forward to make space for Stewart to sit behind him. Callum’s horse although not as large as the three Ranyhyn still seemed to tower over Stewart.

Stewart considered the clingor stirrup but still felt uneasy mounting the horse.  His concern was for nothing as two huge hands lifted him effortlessly off the ground and placed him squarely behind the lieutenant.

‘Thanks’, Stewart acknowledged the Giant’s gesture.

Whitesand smiled.

‘Friend Damon is wary of anything strange or unusual. Perhaps, rightly so. His native caution has preserved many a life in times past and continues to do so now.

However, I am a Giant and our nature leans as much towards the curious as it does towards caution. Although, even Giants are not foolhardy enough to poke a snake merely because it does not look poisonous’.

The Giant gently poked Stewart in the ribs and asked. ‘Are you a snake, Stewart’?

There was obviously more to that gesture but Stewart replied simply,

‘No, Giant, I am not a snake.’

‘Then, I believe we will become friends.’

‘That’s good. I have a feeling we are going to need all the friends we can get,’ Stewart said his tone more serious.

Both the Giant and Damon gave him an inquiring look but Stewart did not elaborate.

Damon shrugged noncommittally then urged his horse forward with a slight pressure from his knees. Marack leant forward and spoke a few words to his own mount. The horse’s ears pricked in understanding and it too moved off at a light canter.

Whitesand’s giantish strides easily kept pace with the horses and the small band headed west towards the ancient keep of Revelstone.

Riding horseback after so many years was an eye-opener for Stewart. There is an art or skill to doing anything. Riding being no exception. Just like his other world counterpart from previous times he very quickly became excruciatingly aware of the horses spine. Only the clingor saddle prevented him from being flung from the back of the horse at every jolt. The base of his own spine was soon so numb that he began to wonder if he would be able to walk properly once he had climbed off the horse.

Conversation of any kind became an ordeal in itself. Questions, which came almost exclusively from the Giant, were initially answered monosyllabic.  Eventually that became too difficult and Stewart’s replies degenerated into grunts.

He tried clinging to Callum and pressing the side of his face against his back in an effort to reduce the relentless bouncing. But he soon gave that up after feeling that the skin on his cheek was being rubbed raw with the friction.  He cursed richly but silently about the fact that after so much time one would have thought that these people would have invented some form of comfortable mechanised transport. But he realised, of course, that was a ridiculous thought. Things like that just did not happen in situations such as these.

Taking in his surrounding was equally as difficult so he forced his mind to go as blank as possible.

After a journey which Stewart felt would never end he heard the Giant cry,

‘Ah, proud Revelstone. Your beauty never fades and I am always gladdened to behold you.’

Stewart peered over Callums’ shoulder. The horses pace had reduced to a gentle trot as they approached the huge stone gates that guarded the entrance to Lord’s Keep.

Four mounted Haruchai were riding out to meet them. The leading rider hailed the scout party and saluted by extending his palm forward.

Without preamble he informed Damon that Gan had reached Revelstone almost an hour ago and preparations to receive the stranger had been made.

‘The High Lord requests that Adrian Stewart be placed in your charge. He will meet with you all once the stranger has rested and eaten.’ The High Lord’s request was directed specifically at Damon who nodded once in agreement. Stewart had no doubts that the Haruchai’s duty would be that of a guard as much as an aide.

Stewart was so exhausted he could not have protested even if he had reason to do so.

The group entered Revelstone through the tunnel under the watchtower.  Smokeless braziers lit the way that led to a circular forecourt. Stewart’s senses were so numb after the ride he was only vaguely aware of the activity around him.  He heard the Giant ask in concern,

‘He appears unwell. Should not a healer be summoned?’

Stewart lifted his head and responded.

‘I’ll be fine. I’m just tired and a bit light-headed. I’ll be alright after some sleep.

But I would appreciate some help getting of this horse.’

The Giant smiled then lifted Stewart effortlessly out of the saddle. ‘Are you able to stand?’ he asked.

‘Think so, yes,’ Stewart replied but immediately his feet touched solid ground his legs buckled underneath him.

Whitesand’s shovel sized hands still supported Stewart and he lifted him into the crook of his arm.

‘See, Adrian Stewart, you have been amongst us but a few hours and already you are surrounded by friends.’ But Stewart had already passed out.

Copyright ©2007 Douglas Pearce

Who’s up for some AC/DC?

Alf sat at the bar sulking like a naughty school boy. In fact, he even looked like a naughty schoolboy: short grey pants, socks, cap, blazer, and a satchel draped over his shoulder.

Bert gave his friend a lopsided look and asked,

‘What’s this then, fancy dress party?’

‘No!’ Alf snapped.

‘Ooh, no need to bite my head off,’ Bert replied.’

‘Well, not right, is it? Bloody missus don’t know a thing about music.

‘Thought your wife loved music? You said she’s got a whole collection of records of Frank Ifield, Andy Williams, and Pat Boone?’

‘Yeah, well. Okay. But that’s not real music is it?’ Alf grudgingly admitted.

‘Not real music? So what is real music, Alf. Y’mean  Ludwig van and his ilk?’

‘Who?’ Alf asked, a little perplexed.

‘Never mind,’ Bert sighed. ‘So what’s the mood for?’

‘Me grandson came round earlier. Had two tickets to a show and wanted me to come along. Seein’s as I’m the only one he knows who likes real music. So I’m off t’get washed and changed; got to get into the spirit of things, y’know. Anyhow, I reappears a bit later dressed in my old school togs; y’know, like the guitarist, Angus Young?  Well, the missus demands where the hell I think I’m going dressed like that!’

‘Me being an old rocker, like, chirps; Me and the lad are off for a bit of AC/DC!’

Bert grinned.

‘S’not bloody funny, y’know. Silly woman threw me put the bloody house, she did. Wouldn’t even let me change me clothes. I just spent half an hour with Sargent  Williams trying to assure him I ain’t a pervert!’

‘That’s what happens if you want to live on the Razors Edge, I suppose, Alf,’ said Bert.

 

In The Pub. Why White Men Can’t Jump.

I know I have posted this piece before but it still makes me laugh…and I wrote it! I wonder what that says about me? Shrug…Anyhow…

Here’s Bert and Alf…

 Why White Men Can’t Jump.

“I had an odd dream last night,” said Alf.

”Really?” Bert asked.

‘Yeah. I dreamt I woke up and found I was black,’ Alf said.

“Y’mean like a coal miner?” Bert asked.

“Don’t be daft. I mean Black,” Alf relied.

“Ah, with the capital,” Bert nodded. “What was it like?”

“It were cool.”

“You mean you were wearing a short-sleeved shirt or something?”

“No, not cool. Cooool,” Alf drawled.

“Did you have the hair?” Bert enquired.

“Course! And I got to say, Yo!”

“Yo? What’s that then?” Bert asked.

“Dunno. But all those Black blokes say it. You know? It’s Yo this and Yo that. You’ve ‘eard ‘em on the telly, right?”

“Like Wesley Snipes, you mean?”

“That’s the feller,” Alf acknowledged.

There was a significant pause as each man took a thoughtful sup of their beer.

“I wonder what it means?” Bert asked.

“What? Alf asked.

“Yo.”

“Dunno,” Alf replied. ”But I said it a lot in my dream.”

“You’d think the string would come off, wouldn’t you?” Bert ventured

“Probably why they all play basketball, I suppose,” Alf opined.

“Sidney Poitier didn’t,” Bert said.

“Well, obviously, he was an actor and . . .”

“Neither that French footballer, Thierry Henry,” Bert added.

“Yeah, him too I guess,” Alf conceded.

“Never could stand basketball. Stupid bloody sport,” Bert said.

“Wonder why you don’t get many white blokes playing then?’ Alf asked.

‘Ah, because white men can’t jump, that’s why,” said Bert, international sports fundi.

“But you do get a few of them. I’ve seen ‘em on the telly. They ain’t much good either,” Alf said.

“You know what you call a white basketball player?” Bert asked, with a smirk.

“No, what?”

“A Yo-Yo!”

“Sod off, Bert. It’s your round.”

The Ark

copyright©DSP 2012

Short Story. The Old Tree.

Over at the Red Ant there is a (true) story about how senseless and somewhat selfish some peope can be toward nature and specifically trees.

So I thought I  would post this story I wrote a while back .

 The Old Tree

The old tree lay on its side. Broken. With its’ last vestige of consciousness it wondered at what might have been.

It had started life as does all life, a seed. Indistinguishable from many other seeds; but a seed of huge potential nonetheless.

As a seed he was taken, uncomplaining, from his family. His family, a huge, almost immeasurable forest, hardly missed him as he was picked up by a migratory bird and carried over seas and vast tracts of land. Over one particularly barren stretch the bird rested by a small stream to drink. Unbeknownst it dropped the seed by the stream and after drinking its fill flew off, continuing its journey to wherever birds like it flew.

There the seed lay, undisturbed and unmolested. One small cloud in an otherwise azure sky unseasonably shed a few drops of precious water that fell on the seed and the surrounding earth.

It was enough. Germination began. The tree grew. First a shoot, then a sapling. It sent down roots to anchor itself to the bank and to draw water from the stream.

And it continued growing. There were no other trees for company, but whilst the tree was young many insects made their home in and around him. They were too small to damage his essential vitality and he flourished even more.

In time his branches grew as wide as he grew tall. His roots went even deeper. He began to be visited by a multitude of creatures, birds especially. There were other creatures, lion, deer, elephant and the like.  But none stayed. They were all transitory or migratory. Answering a call as ancient as nature itself.

And he still remained essentially alone. But not lonely.

Many, many years passed. Though for the tree, which had ancestors that had lived for thousands of years, the passage of time must have seemed very brief.

Then, one day, a creature the likes of which he had never seen before, but soon learned was called human, arrived.

She sat in the shade of his branches, drank cool water from the stream and fell asleep.

This creature was not alone. She brought with her two smaller creatures which the tree learnt were her children.

The following morning the woman announced that this was the place they were all to make their home. The children hollered in delight and scampered up the tree to play amongst the branches.

At first the tree was overjoyed. Company at last, it thought. But its happiness was short lived. It misunderstood the woman’s intention. He had believed they would use him as their home. He would have allowed them to rest and sleep amongst his branches, as the birds did. He was prepared to shelter them from wind and rain with his leaves and he would willingly have allowed them to share the stream.

But the woman had other ideas. She was not aware of the tree in the same manner, as the tree was aware of her and her children.

At first when she brought her axe against his trunk he was confused. The axe made little impression, initially. So when she ceased striking him with it, and rested against his trunk in the shade of his branches he dismissed her action as strange but inconsequential. Had he had been with his family he would have learnt at an early age the destructive nature of man and he would have been taught to resist in the way of trees.

But he did not have that knowledge and so was without defence.

In the days and weeks that followed the woman hacked and hacked at his trunk until eventually his tough bark was breached. By now the tree was angry and rallied to defend itself.  One small breach in its bark was not fatal, he could easily heal himself. But he needed to take action all the same. The tree shook its upper branches and disturbed a hornet’s nest the woman was unaware of. The hornets attacked the woman and stung her terribly. It saddened the tree to hurt her. Even more so her children but she had to stop hacking at him. Did she not realise what she was doing?

The woman and her children sought refuge in the stream and eventually the hornets left her alone. But their own home had been inadvertently destroyed by the tree shaking it loose so the hornets flew off in one huge swarm in search of another, more quiet place to rebuild their nest.

The woman and her children cried. The tree thought they were upset at what they had done so he sent down a small shower of thick green leaves. The leaves were full of soothing sap and the woman and her children rubbed the leaves over their bodies to ease the pain of the hornet stings.

After several days they seemed to recover.

The children asked if it would be better if they stopped trying to cut down the tree. But the woman was determined. She stood hands on hips in an attitude of defiance and addressed the tree.

“Old bastard, you have got to go”.

The children were still very young and understood little. So their allegiance was with their mother.

They held hands and danced around the tree singing,

“Old Bastard, Old Bastard you’ve got to go”. They sang over and over.

But as with all small children they tired of this game very quickly and asked their mother why the Old Bastard had to go. For it was no longer a tree in their eyes. It had hurt them and they had lost all sense of reason towards the tree.

Their mother explained but the words she used made no sense. Words like, “Didn’t put food on the table.”  “Didn’t pay its’ keep.”

“Was blocking the view”.

But essentially, The Old Bastard was “In the way”. 

The woman and her children went away for a while. The tree thought that they had decided to leave him alone.

He began to reminisce about the times the children played amongst his branches. How they made up counting games with the seeds he dropped for them. He remembered the times he showed them all the wonderful creatures that shared the tree with them.

The tree had not complained when the children, with the help of their mother, had built a small house amongst its’ lower branches.

The tree sensed the children were happy and so it was happy.

The woman soon returned. This time she brought with her two men and a machine. The tree did not know this was called a ‘chain-saw’.

This time there was no defence that the tree could muster. It was all over in a moment. No time for weeping, the tree was too numb with shock.

As it crashed to the ground it seemed to scream in agony. The children held hands and danced again.

“The Old Bastard is dead, the Old Bastard is dead”. The woman stood hands on hips and a look of grim satisfaction on her face.

Many small creatures that lived with the tree fled in panic. Amongst these animals were an owl and a squirrel, which neither the woman or the children had noticed. The owls’ nest was destroyed and the two fledglings crushed.

The woman turned on her heel and walked away, calling for her children as she went.

Where the tree had stood the large patch of grass soon began to wither and die. The wind blew the soil into the stream that eventually clogged with silt and turned stagnant. Most of the fish left or died.

The Old Bastard was dead. But his death destroyed many other things.

But at least the woman’s view was not blocked anymore. At last she could see clearly.

The End……..

© Douglas Pearce 2006

In the mood for…..

Inspiration – for me at least – is a funny old thing, and it usually arrives while in the shower or in the garden or on the run. Something triggers a rush of ideas and on occasion I am able to write out a whole scene in my head then it is just a case of getting to the wordprocessor ASAP and get these thoughts typed.

When I am banging away on the computer at full tilt I usually work with music and often I will have a particular piece of music depending on what I am writing.

During the writing of the novel, The Pourne Identity ,  I had one particular favorite: Claude Bolling – Picnic Suite, which I have on LP and I listened to it almost exclusively during the entire time spent at the keyboard.  I stress almost, as to listen to it without any variation would have driven me mad   madder.

For some reason I got it into my head that this was a very French piece of music and as the book is set in France it seemed appropriate.

Anyway, see what you think?

This is track 1 Rococo.

The Pourne Identity. Extract

Jim Logan sprinted through the concourse but reached the pick up point too late, just as the back of the limo began to weave its way through the nighttime Parisian traffic.

‘Damn,’ he swore, then hailed a taxi parked twenty-five metres further along the pavement. He waved frantically but the driver, who was plainly visible under the bright lights of the airport, remained impassive and did not respond. Logan walked a few metres closer and tried again. Still no response. After a third attempt he walked to the taxi, yanked open the back door and yelled.

‘Taxi!’

‘Oui monsieur, I ‘eard you the first time. Zere is no need to shout.’

‘So if you heard me yelling why did you not come pick me up?’

‘Ah, monsieur, it is only twenty-five metres. Mon dieu, you are not a fit looking man. The walk did you good. Besides, monsieur, zis is my spot. If I leave it I might miss a fare.’

‘But I was hailing you, for god’s sake. I am your fare.’

‘True, I suppose. But what if you changed your mind? Then I would   ‘ave wasted the drive, wasted petrol and lost my parking spot. Tu comprend?’

Logan, feeling exhausted and exasperated climbed inside the taxi and handed the driver a piece of paper.

‘You know this address?’

‘Mais oui. Le safe house.’

‘Can you take me there, then? Sil vus plate?’

‘But of course. In a moment please.’

‘I’m in a hurry. This is a national emergency.’

The cab driver suddenly looked shocked.

‘Mon dieu, Thierry Henry is defecting?’

‘Who?’ Logan asked, almost at his wits end.

‘Thierry Henry. Ah, my god. One of the greatest footballers on the planet and you don’t know ‘oo ‘e is. That is a tragedy.’

‘Just drive, for god sakes man.’

‘Hold on, monsieur, I ‘ave nearly got it.’

‘Got what?’ Logan asked.

‘Ze combination for the lock on my sandwich box. Ze other drivers are always trying to steal my food. It’s a conspiracy I tell you. A bloody conspiracy. Ah, there you ‘ave it. Of course, 666, I should have known. My little Emily is such a devil.’

 The Pourne Identity © Douglas Pearce

Something to read. It’s free and for gratis. Enjoy 🙂

http://www.pkaboo.net/bookshop.html#almostdead

In The Pub. Crime & Punishment; it’s just not cricket!

 

Alf tapped the newspaper with his pencil.

“S’lot of people that is. A bloody lot.”

“Lot of people what?” asked Bert.

Alf was doodling on his copy of the Daily Express while considering putting 50 quid on the upcoming England/Pakistan cricket test. Apparently the only safe bet currently on offer was which pair of umpires would take the field. Being politically savvy, his money was on South African Darryl Hare and that West Indian bloke Steve Bucknor. Besides, he knew someone who worked for the sponsors, Black and White Whiskey and he told him it was a dead cert and for 10% of the winnings he’d make nearly 300 quid.

“All these murders,” replied Alf coming back to the moment.

“Murders? What murders?” Bert asked.

“Over in South Africa,” said Alf.

“Been there once,” Bert offered.

“You never did? When?” Alf asked.

“Oh, long time ago, it was. Was on holiday and went to see old Basil D’Oliveira. Only I didn’t.”

“Sorry, Bert. You’ve lost me,” said Alf.

“What I mean is, I was due to see him but I didn’t get to see him on account of the colour thing,” Bert explained.

“Oh, right. Apart…. Whatever it was.”

”What?” Bert said.

“The colour thingy they had over there,” Alf said.

“No. Not skin colour. Was on account of the colour of my ticket. I turned up at Wanderers Cricket Ground and I had the wrong ticket. And it was sold out. The ticket I had was green and had Zoo –admit one, on it.”

“Ah, I see. The Wrong Trouser story, yes?” Alf said.

“That’s the one,” Bert agreed. “So what was you saying about murder?”

”Over in South Africa. They’ve just released the figures. Says so in the paper. Seventeen million.”

Bert was incredulous.

“Seventeen million! You’re balmy, you are.”

“Well that’s what it says. Must be true I reckon, otherwise they wouldn’t print it, would they?” Alf replied indignantly.

“Yes, but seventeen million, that’s like …like, all of Wales that is. You sure?”

“Have a look for yourself then if you don’t believe me,” said Alf sliding the paper across the bar to his friend.

Bert quickly read the article in question then breathed a sigh of relief and shook his head.

“You daft old fool. You been doodling on the paper, you have. See these extra zeros? They’re in pencil. You wrote them. Put you bloody glasses on next time. It says 17,000.”

“Oh. I thought it sounded a lot. So only 17,000 you say?”

“Yes!” Bert said.

“Well, that’s all right then, I suppose. Er…how many murders have we had in Wiggleswood then?”

“Seventeen and a half,” said Bert.

“Oh. That’s still a fair amount for such….”

“Since World War I,” Bert added.

“Oh,” Alf said.

 

 

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