Author: Alexander Fawn

I must say that the people at number eighteen have been very good to me; since it happened.

There I was, at the grand ‘fifty percent off everything’ sale, along with hundreds of others. I had queued up and gone in looking for a bargain. Specifically, I wanted to replace my old winter jacket, preferably for one that had a comfy fur collar. Last winter, my old, thinning coat over my school uniform just wasn’t keeping off the cold. I saw the sales as the answer. I quickly made my way up three escalators to the men’s and boy’s clothing department. It was already getting busy. I fought my way through and found racks of suitable items. There was so much choice! There were certainly some great bargains on offer. The whole place was swarming with eager shoppers.

It was then that I saw it. I pushed my way through the crowd. It was exactly what I wanted. It was the perfect jacket with a fur collar.

I was feeling the material when the whole thing was tugged in the opposite direction. I looked up to see this woman scowling at me. It was an old face, gaunt with black eyes that seemed to be all pupil. She gave another violent tug, but I was determined not to let go. It was at this point that this weird looking stranger lifted a gnarled finger and whispered something that I couldn’t quite make out.

It was shortly after this altercation that a very nice young girl saw that I came to no further harm.

For my parents, who live a few blocks away, it was never fully explained why their only son, a bright schoolboy with a passion for veterinary studies, never came home that day,

Nevertheless, this is how I was turned into an angora rabbit.

The painting is nearly finished.

From the beginning he knew that this would be his finest work. He would make it so. In the attic, where the light is best and at its most natural, the easel is turned to face the sky. He stands, applying oils to canvas. This will be a tribute to the woman of his dreams. Although trite, this is how he thinks of her now. Since the gods had removed her from his life, his dreams have been filled with happy glimpses of her smile. For him, there is a sadness that will fade, and he will come to terms with her early passing, as surely as time itself passes.

He lowers the brush and stands back. He has caught her likeness. She wears her favourite dress. He steps forward and searches out details. The eyes are truly perfect. The smile is captured as being the something that it is, a thing that is not altered by time, it lasts forever, unchanging, eternal.

He sees movement in her eyes and a subtle motion of her hand. He looks on with little surprise or wonder as the gesture grows and takes on a reality that needs to be acknowledged. He blows her a kiss. Her hand moves faster, as if to show that the kiss was received. Slowly, the fingertips come through, then the hand, the arm extends. The fingers stroke his cheek, the way they always did, the way they always will.

Some things never change…

The wise old owl lived in an oak.

He sat and watched it all. He watched the sun come out, drying up the rain and the spider climb up the spout again, and the girl, sitting on a tuffet eating her curds and whey. With a start, he heard the weasel pop. He watched as the old woman in the strange house give her children broth without bread at bed time.

The more he saw the less he spoke.

He looked down at the girl who had lost her sheep being told that she should leave them alone, and they’ll come home, wagging their tails behind them. He looked on as the butcher, baker and candlestick maker climbed into a tub. He saw the little boy who lives down a lane receive a bag of wool, while a good little boy clambered, soaking wet, out of a well having rescued a cat. As the boys came out to play, he saw one of them run away. He watched, as the clumsy boy went to bed and covered his head in vinegar and brown paper.

The less he spoke the more he heard.

He watched the boy jump over the candlestick, then spied the garden beyond, with silver bells and cockleshells and pretty maids all in a row. He saw the children on the village green dancing in a circle. After a great deal of sneezing, they all fell down. In the distance he could hear dogs; here a bow, there a wow, everywhere a bow-wow. He heard the boy passing underneath telling his friend how he’d once caught a fish alive. He saw the woman rush into the baker’s shop and give an urgent order for a cake, asking him to bake it as soon as possible. Eventually, as the sun slipped silently away, the first stars appeared above, so high, like diamonds in the sky. He was such a wise old bird!

We could all be like this wise old bird?

The writer was struggling with his story.

It happened sometimes. He had the idea in his head and had made notes, but it was in the ‘putting it together’ that was giving him trouble. His stories were only ever short, just two or three hundred words most of the time. He would post them on his blog each week knowing that there were readers out there somewhere, visiting his site and reading them. Sometimes he would get comments about them and he was always interested to see where in the world they came from. In a way, it was times like this that he felt he would be letting these unknown visitors down if he couldn’t actually complete and provide any particular story. Logically speaking, this was a complete nonsense, of course. He knew that.

There was a place where such unfinished drafts of stories would go to die. A sort of graveyard, you could say. It was a folder on his laptop that was dedicated to drafts that were, and most times, never finished.

For him, this was the case today. He would give the electronic file a special notation in its title and consign it to the nether regions of his laptop.

There was always something sad about this; sad for the writer. A sadness that only the writer would ever feel.

Nobody would ever read his story because he couldn’t write it…

It was very humbling.

He first heard about tribal tourism from the barman in a nightclub.

He himself had taken on bar work over the years and knew the barman in question. He was intrigued with the idea and wanted to know more. He was told that the idea was to give people the chance to visit in order to see, and sometimes meet, the indigenous inhabitants of some of the world’s most out-of-the-way places. He was told that there were some that saw it as nothing more than a voyeuristic exercise, while others say it was a rare educational opportunity.

The way it was descried to him that evening made it sound both exciting and slightly dodgy. There had been unpleasant incidents with angering tribesmen, but this could happen while visiting any foreign country. He was also told that there were unlicensed tour operators out there, but was given the business card of a bona fide travel agency that were well versed in arranging such tours. It seemed the man passing all this information had taken a tour with his girlfriend the year before. He took the card and thanked him for all the information. He definitely came away thinking about it.

Two weeks later saw him making a booking. He’d done his research and looked at what a number of agencies had to offer before going with the one that had been recommended. The tour was one of the cheaper ones, but he was intrigued with the whole idea and figured this would be a good way to start. He booked for a week.

The tourist complex itself was pretty meagre with only six chalets for accommodation, a canteen, a toilet block and a small recreation hall for events. The night he arrived they put on a small firework display with a large bonfire on a section of waste ground in front of the buildings. Despite the heat coming from the fire the temperature was warm enough for him to wear just shorts and a t-shirt. There was lively music playing from somewhere and the canteen was serving drinks he’d never heard of from large, stone flagons. It was extremely strong alcohol-wise, and very cheap.

The relatively small number of guests were made up of singles and couples, with some groups sharing the accommodation. Most were drinking, dancing and singing around the fire late into the night. It was around that time that seeing a queue for the toilet he wandered of through the trees for a bit of privacy. Having gone some distance into the dark, no longer penetrated by the fire’s glow, and having relieved himself, he went on. The brochure had said that the beach was only six hundred metres from the tourist complex. He felt sure that he’d gone more than half way, and a short time later found himself standing on sand and looking out at an ocean lit dimly by a partial moon. It was really quite beautiful.

Feeling the effect of the drink growing stronger as he walked along the water’s edge, he wondered how long he could enjoy the freedom of what he was doing before heading back. A short time later, he found himself staggering. He stopped and looked around. There was no way of telling how long he’d been walking or how far he’d come. At first, looking back into the trees; he saw no sign of the fire’s glow. After staring hard for a while he could just make out a spot of orange light.

Slowly, he made his way back through the trees, becoming aware of how tired he was. The undergrowth seemed to be much thicker on the way back. Also, he noticed that although becoming more visible, the fire seemed to be much further away than he remembered. Exhaustion was probably the cause of both of these notions and he felt a strong need to stop and rest. He found a flat spot and sat down with his knees bent and his arms wrapped around them. Within minutes, he fell asleep.

Day was breaking when he woke. He could make out a thin column of smoke where the fire had been. He stood up, still feeling groggy, and made his way forward through a tangle that was definitely different to the way he’d come the night before.

When he had made it to the clearing where the ashes continued to smoulder, he could see that this was not the place where tribal tourists come for a holiday; nothing like it. He had been heading towards the wrong fire!

This was a tribal village. It was a large clearing with a dozen or more huts scattered around. As he approached the largest of them he became aware of movement in the trees around him. He stood listening, aware that he had entered the genuine habitat of an indigenous community that he knew nothing about. These people, whoever they were, had seen him coming. He had no idea how much danger he was in.

Around twenty tribesmen emerged at the same time, all carrying spears. All with black, bony bodies and wearing loincloths made from animal pelts. Gradually, they formed a wide circle around him and began pointing at him. The oldest man, apparently the leader or chief, approached wide eyed. He too was pointing, at his chest. He came close and seemed to be squinting at his t-shirt. Suddenly, shouting something unintelligible, he fell to his knees with his head bowed. The rest followed, dropping to their knees and making grunting noises that sounded like they were discussing something between them. This chatter grew louder until he old man shouted something and they instantly fell silent.

The village elder; that had to be who he was, moved closer and made it clear that he was pointing at the symbol on his t-shirt. The tourist froze as the elder moved forward and rested his fingertips on the motif.

The symbol that he was so fond of was a triskelion, a pattern of triple spirals. He’d had the motif screen-printed on several t-shirts of various colours. By some strange series of events it had made its way to this little island where it had taken on a completely different meaning!

The question was, did the symbol mark his coming as an evil omen or was he about to be worshiped?

All spears dropping to the ground had to be a good sign… didn’t it?

She had pottered around the garden for so long that her cat was complaining.

It was passed its dinnertime and the meows were growing louder by the minute. It was careering into her ankles every chance it got. This could be painful. Its owner considered just how hard the cat’s skull had to be to inflict the buffeting she was receiving. This was just another example that made her regret giving it the name Angelica. It just didn’t fit. She was clearing things away and avoiding contact with it wherever possible. Finally she was at the back door and about to go in when she, the cat, tried to rush passed her. The woman lost her balance momentarily and trying to save her fall kicked the door frame, hard. She screamed out in pain and it made her eyes water.

The cat, now inside, didn’t react in any way. Just sat next to its bowl waiting to be fed. Its owner stood in the doorway for a moment, looking down at her shoe. She was holding it off the floor to avoid putting pressure on it. It felt as though something was broken. She hobbled in and made it to a chair. The cat meowed.

“You’ll just have to wait,” she said, slowly removing her shoe. Wincing, she pulled off her sock. The cat meowed again. There were already signs of discolouration around three of her toes, but she could just about move them.

The cat howled even louder.

The woman slumped. “You don’t seem to realise,” she said, almost in tears now, “I could have broken bones, or something worse… a lot worse!”

The cat looked at the bowl and back again. After a moment of just staring, it lifted its chin and meowed.

The woman closed her eyes and mumbled, “You couldn’t care less, could you? I feed you and take care of you and what do I get… apathy!”

The cat lowered its head into the empty bowl, sniffed at it, looked up and meowed.

He sat thinking about their last conversation.

The truth of it was, he just hadn’t listened. Her food preferences had once been the subject of angst. For that reason he avoided it altogether. She said she had explained her innermost feelings, but he hadn’t listened. She said she had laid herself bare the way she had never done with anyone else. Her view was that taking him into her full confidence proved fruitless because he had never responded in a way that showed that he understood, or had attempted to understand. He thought about all of the deep and meaningful things she had said, in defence of her leaving, while she packed up her things. He remembered the fiery look in her eyes just before slamming the door behind her. How could he forget?

He had to be honest with himself. Was it a case of selective deafness or was it a case of not wanting to be around someone who stank of garlic?

Probably the latter.

Being cruel to animals had always come quite naturally to the boy.

Today he found great sport on this open patch among the trees. He had been chasing the creature for several minutes. He had no idea what it was. At first he thought it was some kind of rat, but it had no tail and its head was too round. It was definitely ugly. The pointy stick he held would certainly finish it off if he managed to catch it. But, of course, that was the sport in it.

Something huge crouched in the thicket at the edge of the clearing. It looked on with pride as its son scampered straight up the trunk of one of the tallest trees.

It too could move very fast.

The nature of its discrete existence meant that it rarely had the opportunity to dine on man. No physical trace of the boy would ever be found. No DNA test would ever be applied to any droppings in the forest. It was a clean erasure. A blot removed. One less genetic aberration allowed to pollute their pool. It had a surprisingly thorough understanding of the evolutionary trajectory of genetic pollution.

After a belch that no one would ever hear, it smiled at the irony of doing the human race a favour.

He jolted awake from the most bizarre dream.

He raised his head from the open book he’d been reading. He closed his eyes, sat still, seeing the images again. There is a young girl, she is walking quietly through a large garden. She seems to be coming towards him. There are mythical creatures throughout the place, under bushes, in trees, burrowed underground, none of them readily visible. This fact causes him to ask himself how he could possibly know that they are there. Suddenly, they each hear a rustle and turn to see a large snake winding through a leafy bough. Beneath, stands a lamb, its innocence somehow clashing with the evil above. A small flock of doves rise up and a sense of peace settles once more over the place.

The youngster draws closer, he can see now that she carries a basket. He is not sure whether she is smiling or grinning. She lifts the cloth and takes out a small jar, then puts the basket down between them. She is quite obviously grinning now, as she unscrews the lid. Dipping her fingers in, she scoops out a large portion of dark brown paste. Jamming her fingers into her mouth she begins eating the unidentifiable goo with a great deal of relish. He simply stands and watches as this is repeated several times. Finally, she drops the jar and raises her hand to show that it’s covered with the stuff. She moves closer and without warning slaps his face!

He sits blinking for a while. What a peculiar dream! He now realises that it must have been the unexpected slap that woke him. Looking back down at his book, he wonders whether it was this that brought such a strange reverie about. Although he could hardly imagine this could create such peculiar images. The book itself being a fairly dry read; basically a reference work on the psychological analysis on the categorisation of logic. He smiles at his attempt to blame the book. He felt it was high time that he returned to reality. He got up. In the bathroom, he ran some cold water. He was wetting his hands in order to rinse his face when he noticed marks across his cheek. He peered closely, but could not make out what it was.

He dried his hands and gently wiped some off with his fingertips. He licked them.

Vegemite!

For generations his people had appeased the mountain devil.

The fact was, they had worshipped it. They prayed to it, offered gifts, made a point of always being nice to it. It seemed to work most of the time, but not so lately. Crops were failing, hardly any rain, and the locusts were particularly bad. This was the state of play before the pending confrontation; before the challenge was taken to the mountain spirit.

It was seen that all this was about to change. The defiance would come from a fit young man, fearless and obviously destined to become a leader. He had already proven himself to be a worthy community member in the eyes of the village elders. So much so, that they sanctioned his bold plan to put an end to the never-ending tyranny from the evil deity that resided in the mountain’s caves.

No more humble compliance. No more doing the fiend’s bidding. He would enter the mountain with demands that the spirit would no longer rule. A new order would be set and those that lived in the fields and valleys below would gain a freedom that they had never known before. When the appointed day came, over a hundred villagers gathered at the foot of the mountain. Almost every member of the community had come to show their respect for what he was about to do and to raise a hearty cheer as he began to climb.

The steep and often stony path was winding and treacherous in parts. Several hours of exhausting effort eventually put him at the gaping mouth of the cave’s entrance. Very few had ever come this far before. With a resolute demeanour he entered. This would not be easy, but his courage and determination would win the day. Those people back in the village had given him the support he needed, and this would enable him to deliver better lives for everyone after today. This would be a great turning point in the life of his village.

When he had gone so deep into the mountain that very little light was still visible behind him, he made his stand. He raised his voice without a quaver. Into the evil blackness he made his demands, loud and strong. For several minutes he made it clear that the mountain devil would no longer ruin the lives of those below.

With his final words he turned to leave.

On his way out, somewhere in the gloom of the cavern he heard sniggering.