The Last Goal

by Andrea Williams 

double espresso

The sun is directly overhead again.  Another day.  No shade, no features to distract your eyes, no green to vary the endless colour scheme.  

No; no, Over there.  Through the slits of her eyes she can make out - something different.  Something that isn’t quite the unvarying colour of sand.  Staying on a recognised route would have been most sensible, but maybe this could mean escape. It could be half a mile away.  It could be two miles away.  It could be over the horizon, out of sight, made visible only by the magic of bending light in the shimmering air.  It may be rocks.  Rocks might have shade, they might mark the boundary between desert and not desert.  They might even, just might, mark a place where dampness could be found.  Not more than a couple of days left in the water bottles. 

Shuffling, dragging, crawling; step after shuffling step, she moves in that direction.  The pain of her injured leg seemed to have lessened.  Now it was merely excruciating.  She didn’t want to look down at the spreading black flesh of her leg and foot, the angry red boundary where black flesh met red flesh.  She knew she wasn’t going to survive with both legs intact.  She knew about gangrene, knew it was never cured, just ‘removed.’  Each day the red boundary marched onward.  But if her mirage, or rock, or spring, was really there maybe she would at least survive.  She knew now that real desert is not as it is portrayed on celluloid.  Driving, nay, speeding across trackless waste leads only to sand traps, a damaged leg, and no phone signal. 

No-one knows what they are capable of until tested by real life.  Her shuffling, agonised movements gradually reveal the dark line to be an actual rocky ridge.  The end of the desert.  Slowly, so slowly, the landscape beyond reveals itself as she approaches.  The sand reluctantly giving way to more rock and solid looking ground.  When she crawled to the top of the final rise she thought she could see a new distant line of sparse and wiry grass and scrub.  That must mean water.  That might mean a phone signal.  She pulled out her phone and turned it on.  Feeling a frisson of hope as it started up, then the now accustomed despair as it refused to show any signal.  She turned it off, preserve the battery.  Why expect it to work, out here in nowhere land?

 
After two more hours of numb effort, crawling, now dragging herself through the never ending beach of tideless sand she reached her goal of the ridge of rock.  It was just that, only a ridge of rock that broached the sand.  She sank onto it, conscious now that this was going to be The Place.  The place that would be the last place to see her alive.  The last place that she would see.  The sun was losing some its fierce grilling power, settling back to a steady roasting temperature.  Roasting; her mind drifted from roasting beef to baking bread.  A loaf must feel like this, in a hot oven, being baked into bread, the yeast made lifeless by the heat.  

 She stirred, looked again at her leg.  The blackness had spread, the scarlet line of battle between health and death inexorably moving toward her centre.  With the cessation of movement the pain had dulled, or was it just that her brain was dulled? She lay back and dozed, or fainted, or lost consciousness, it was all the same now.  A moment, or an hour, or a day later she opened her eyes.  The sun had reached the horizon.  The sand began giving back its stored heat, which to her confused mind meant she had became a cake on a cooling rack, feeling the rock ridges beneath her as wires.  Slow air movements dispersed the smell of her rotting flesh to the wind with the dispersing heat of the day. 

Her eyes closed again, the increasingly cool desert night feeling recalling the frosts of an ancient winter creeping along her body when her childhood blanket had slipped off. Jack Frost was nipping now at her toes and creeping up her body.  There would be frosty ferns on the window in the morning, but surrendering to the tiredness, feeling the winter’s cold seep up and over her body was a relief.  The pain of her leg had completely gone with the last of the daylight.  Now there was nothing but blackness, a bottomless void that she felt herself embracing.  It was a relief to stop fighting, to give herself up to the creeping cold and the blackness.

As the blackness overtook her it seemed her mothers voice was asking if the bread was ready.  Fresh bread for a winters night.  A bright square of white light appeared in her blackness.  She fell into the welcoming darkness.

About the author

When not writing Andrea I make furniture, repairs dry stone  walls and enjoys Northumbria.   

Howie

By Andrea Williams 

a glass of porter

‘Howie’ we all call him now.  His real name is Dillon, itself a misspelling of Dylan.  He once told us that Dylan was the name his mother had wanted, being a big fan of Bob, but the vicar had written everything as Dillon. A sort of celestial mix-up between magic roundabout and magic mushrooms that was never clear.  

Why was he renamed ‘Howie’ you ask?  It wasn’t immediate.  We regular customers of the Circlet Inn are men, women too nowadays, who are considerate, mindful of people’s feelings, slow to judge.  We also generally don’t care what your name is, and he would have been Dillon, or Dylan  or anything else, had it not been for Andy, our genial host, who receives all the stories told on our side of the bar, and has the delightful habit of retelling them, with or without attribution, whenever his cause of selling more ale needs the support of some extended lingering.  

It was after I overheard him talking about ‘Howie, one of his regulars‘ receiving a bullet wound to the jaw after yomping across the Falklands that I asked him who he was talking about.  Surely there couldn’t be two blokes who used the Circlet Inn with such a singular scar on their jaw.  

“Howie.” he said, “The tall lad who comes in.  You can’t miss him - got a scar on his jaw.”

“You mean Dillon.” I answered him, “He told me one day how he got that scar.  Nothing to do with the Falklands.  He was a lad, playing rugby, on the school team.  They were up against a team from South Shields, a right tough school.  They were four points behind, and it was a needle match, with a few minutes to go when someone raked him with their boot when they went down in a scrum.  Studs used to be nailed on in those days, and this lads' were worn, with the nails sticking out.  Made Dillon mad as all hell, so when he was upright again and the ball came to him he kicked it high, ran under, collected it at full pelt, and ran for the line, skidding round the full back with a feint to the left, scoring the winning try with blood still pouring down his shirt.  He was known as Redshirt until he left school.”   Andy looked up at me, and leaned back,

“Redshirt eh? nice touch.  That must be it then.”  Someone called him away, and I thought for a moment.  What did Andy mean by ‘nice touch’?  it wasn’t a comment on the rugby.  

A day or two later  Archie was in the bar, so I asked him,

“Do you know how Dillon got his scar?”

“Oh yes, he told me about it, ages ago.  It was a girlfriend’s husband.”

“What?”

“Dillon was a good looking lad in his twenties. At least, he said he was good looking enough to have an affair with a married woman.  She was tall and blonde, and not blonde from a bottle.  He knew that because he knew the inside of her bathroom and bathroom cabinet, having been in there plenty of times.  They had a wonderful thing going.   The old story of the husband being away, so the toy boy moves in.  Eventually the husband came home unexpectedly, caught them in flagrante, and in the ensuing fisticuffs landed a tremendous punch.  He wore a ring that tore open Dillon’s face.  Needed stitches, he said.”  and Archie took a meditative sip of his pint.  “I asked him if she was worth it, and he said he’s reminded of her every time he uses the mirror, so ‘yes’ it was worth it.”  

After that, I checked with some of the other regulars,  Clive had heard the real story too, 

“Kicked by a runaway horse when he worked in the stables at Fallodon Hall, back in the fourth Lady Howden’s day.  The horse was a bit wild, and Lady H’s daughter was about to be trampled, so he ran in front of it.  The horse reared as it stopped, and caught him with its left foreleg hoof.  The family was so grateful they gave him two hundred pounds, back when that was a lot of money, as a thank you - and to keep quiet.”  When I asked Phil I got the real story again, 

“He was in a mountaineering party aiming to climb the north wall of the Eiger, and the party on the face let a stray piton fall, that caught him as he stood below.  He’s always been grateful it missed his head, else he’d have been nailed up there for good.”   Then I went to Matty, and he corroborated nothing that had gone before,

 “Used to work for the Forestry Commission, up in Keilder forest, and it happened when they started felling in a sub-compartment.  There were some wind blown casualties to bring down, and in one of them they had a couple of wedges holding open a relieving cut.  The tree twisted without warning, crashing down, and  spat out one of the wedges into his face when it did.  The wedge sliced into his face guard, taking a slice out of him too.  If he hadn’t been wearing his forestry helmet he reckoned he would have lost his entire jaw.  Lots of energy spreads around when four tons of timber gets on the move.”  

Finally I asked Dave, our car dealer, and it seemed he had the truth of it,

“Dillon’s scar?  Oh yes, we were yarning about motor racing, and he told me that was what gave him his scar.  He was in a pit crew at Silverstone for a saloon car race, and his driver floored it whilst his wheel brace was still on a nut.  The thing spun off of course, and he was in the way.  Broke his jaw bone in two places.  He still has metal in there that rings bells at airports.  Didn’t he tell you about it?”  

This was all getting out of hand I decided, so I reported my findings to Andy.  

“Andy, I’ve been asking around about Dillon.  Everyone I talk to has a different version of how he got his scar.  Did you know?”  

He was careful not to incriminate himself when he answered. “Weeell, I have heard one or two versions,” he confessed, a bit hesitantly.  “But he’s good for business.  People often feel the need for another drink after talking to him.  He’s just a good storyteller.  He just tells them something they can relate to, whenever people ask how he got his scar.”  The way he spoke gave me a sudden enlightenment. 

“So you call him ‘Howie’ - because everyone asks ‘How ‘e got his scar.”  

Andy just nodded.  

“How ‘e - makes sense doesn’t it?  How about a pint of something?” 

About the author

I write under the name of Andrea Williams - when not writing I make furniture, repair dry stone walls, and enjoy Northumbria.  

 

A Small Lie

by Andrea Williams 

a glass of chilled cider

When I arrived at work on Tuesday, I was called into the office first thing.

“This is your last written, official, warning, Jones.  You’ve been late 43 times since January, and despite you saying that you know how essential your job is to keeping the warehouse running, you keep on turning up late.  Not a couple of minutes, not a missed bus worth, but half a morning late.  So late we have to pull in other people from their jobs. We can’t rely on you.  Well, unless you’re here on time every day for the next month, its P45 time for you.  Is that clear?  Is there owt you want to say?”

“No, sorry, I understand.”  

Silence.  Really there was plenty I wanted to say, but you can’t, so you don’t, do you?  I wanted to say something like ‘Your job is so boring and repetitive and gives no job satisfaction, and I can’t stand the idea of working for such a misogynistic bullying dinosaur who doesn’t value the people or provide any training or encouragement to do well.’ 

But you can’t really say that can you?  So I tried to look sorry, and trudged back to my airless, windowless cubicle to fiddle with the computer keyboard and keep the forklifts moving.  It’s a job, and it pays the rent, and it pays for the fishing tackle, and the bait, and the waterproofs, and if I close my eyes in my cubicle I can imagine I’m somewhere else.  Like maybe out on the point, after a good nor’easter, and the fish are biting, and the surf’s up enough to take the line way out to where they feed on the flood tide.  

“Billy - wake up man,  where’s the next picking note.”  An angry voice called me back.  “You just ‘fish’ out another for me, and stop ‘flounder’ing about. The ‘plaice’ is going to pieces. Get your ‘skates’ on, we’re all getting a bit ‘crabby’ out here, ”  he said, and I could see half the drivers stood round with big smirks - they knew what was going on. 

“Here, five more for you.  You’re too slow, they’re stacking up.”  I said, and went back to daydreaming the day away.  

I managed to get up early and be on the early bus for the next 11 days.  Then I went fishing, off the beach, on a flood tide, and what a night it was.  Ended up in the dark, wearing a lamp to see by, and every time I cast, I seemed to catch something.  I should have stopped sooner, because when I’d packed up and hiked back with the gear, and nearly three stone of fish, I’d missed the last bus.  

Next morning, I’d slept in.  Now what?  When I go to work, I’ll get sacked for sure.  I need some excuse that’ll work.  I thought up the best I could think, then phoned in, sounding as if I cared.

“Billy Jones here, Mr Williams, yes, yes, sorry, I know what you said last time, but you’ve seen I’ve turned over a new leaf, and its just, well, you see me Mam died, and I’m at the hospital, and I’d have phoned you, but I’ve just now had chance, and I know what you said, so if you want to sack me, then I’ll understand.”  I thought that that last bit was real good, then I thought fast and added, “and I’ll need to ask for some time off for the arrangements and the funeral too, so just go ahead and sack me if you want.”   There was a silence, his angry remarks at the start had stopped, and his voice had changed.

“You say your Mam just died?”

“Yes Mr Williams, I’m very sorry I didn’t have chance to ask for the time off.”

“Don’t worry about that lad, a bit sudden was it?”

“Yes Mr Williams, she’s been having problems for a while,” and I thought quick again, “I didn’t want to say anything before, in case you thought I was trying to make excuses.”  That got him, his voice softened.

“You should have told us, Billy man, we’d have let you have some time off if you needed it.  Just take as long as you need, and be in on Thursday.”  

‘That’s great,’ I thought, still got a job and a whole two days off.  So I went fishing. 

Thursday morning came, and I made sure to be on time.  Clocked in and went to the cubicle on the far side of the loading bay.  It was full of flowers.  Well, not full exactly, but there were two bunches, and a few envelopes with my name on.  They had sympathy cards, saying ‘sorry for your loss’ and so on.  I’d barely got sat down when Sheila came in from the office.  I like Sheila, well I would if she’d let me, but whenever I’d spoken to her before she did her best to ignore me.

“Billy love, I was right sorry to hear about your mam.  Tell us what happened.”  

I wasn’t ready for that.  Had no story prepared.  I thought I’d just wangled a couple of days off, kept my job, and got away with it, but she wanted details, and seeing as she worked for Mr Williams, I knew it had to be convincing, ‘cos it was going right back to him. I took a gulp and started inventing.  

“Well, she’s been badly for a while,”  thinking to myself, ‘about twelve years since we waved her off at the crematorium,’  “but lately she’s been getting sicker, and I didn’t like to say much.”  And then I had a flash of pure genius.  "It was ‘women’s troubles’ if you know what I mean, and she didn’t like to talk about it, so I used to just say that I’d missed my bus or slept in so as to keep it a bit, well, quiet like - for her sake - you know.”  That worked, I could tell by her expression.  When Williams heard that, I might even get a few credits back.  Then, disaster.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Billy, what sort of troubles?”  

Well I have no idea what it could be that could kill her, I only knew that there was a whole area of medicine I overheard bits of down at the pub that were ‘women's troubles’ - I was just hoping some of them could kill a man - well, kill a woman, that is.  

“They didn’t explain, exactly, just said they couldn’t operate or do anything.” and I added  “It was very sudden, and she went peacefully.” 

“Such  a shame for you. How old was she?” 

How old? how old?  how would I know?  If she was 57 twelve years ago when she died, and just died now, she’d have to be… what’s 57 and twelve.. quick.. she’s looking at me… 

“Sixty eight.” I said, then got the right answer, “Sixty nine.” I corrected myself, and thought,  ‘Phew, close shave there.’  Then I realised I could have said forty three or fifty two and she wouldn’t have known, and I might have got more sympathy.    

“And when’s the funeral dear?  I’m sure Mr Williams would like one or two of us to come along and show some support for you.”   ‘Oh no’ I thought, how can I get out of that - play for time.

“I…, I…, I’m not sure yet, they want to do a post mortem, so I can’t say when, yet.”  Sheila gave me a bit of a look, so I thought I needed to add some more, “There was something about it being so sudden, like, so they just needed to find out more.”  Her face cleared, almost, and she turned to go, then said, over her shoulder,

“Well, as soon as you find out, be sure to let us know, so we can arrange something.”  and she left the cubicle, which suddenly seemed to got very hot.  

Anyone know where can I find a spare funeral at a couple of days notice?  

About the author

When not writing Andrea makes furniture, repairs dry stone walls, and enjoys Northumbria.  

 

Midsummer in the Country

By Andrea Williams 

scrumpy

The ‘Green Man’ is the epitome of the classical, traditional English country pub.  You will have seen it in any of a dozen films.  White rendered walls, red tiled roof, some roses around the door, lawn to the road sprinkled with weathered benches.  You know it so well already I hardly have to describe the Dickensian interior either.  When I moved in to the village I was delighted to find it there. I was even more delighted to find that it was as good a pub as it looked, with a landlady who was friendly, always prepared to stop and pass on the gossip.  The locals and regulars who gathered nightly in the cosy, comfortable panelled bar ensured that everyone knew everything about everybody, and inside a month I was one of that everyone.  

One of their number was an extremely talented wood carver, Daffyd Thomas by name,  his work was displayed in the main entrance hall.  Carvings of Green men were all over the pub, but the hallway linking stairs, dining room and lounge bar has a lighted glass display cabinet with  carvings for sale, small studies of hands, a pair of matching feet that morphed into roots.  The central piece was the head and upper torso of a green man, complete with foliage breaking out all over it, not stylised, but carved in lifelike detail.  It was a sort of threequarter depth, flat at the back, hung against the panelling, cut vertically half way through the ears.  Truly a stunning work, named for the pub, or the pub named for it; either way its quality was appreciated, as its price tag, on a small stand beside it was £15,500.  Not something I could ever afford.  

On the shelf below was a study of a hand, slightly conventional, in that it was outstretched upwards, the forearm forming the base.  You’ve seen pottery versions as ringstands.  The thing about this was the detail that the carver had incorporated - all the little lines around the knuckles.  The fingernails, the cuticles, all lifelike, though polished.   What lifted it to the status of ‘Art’ and the £5,000 price tag, was the incorporation of a diamond studded ring on its ring finger.  It was somehow embedded around the finger, and was being displayed on a slowly moving turntable to show that it was a continuous gold ring.  Beautiful, artistic, and a puzzle piece all in one.  At a more prosaic level, I know how to cast metal rings in place into wood, and it’s something that’s common enough on the handles of certain makes of bit braces.  Very fiddly and time consuming, especially so if you then had to carve the housing for the diamond.  I thought it underpriced given the work involved and I would have bought it solely to appreciate the effort made in its creation.  

The back bar, or public bar, as it said over the door, was entered from the lawned area via its own ancient Tudor headed doorway and matching nail studded oak door.  Even the latch was oak.  It operated with a length of binder twine, and casual visitors who asked were told that the binder twine dated back to t’he third reaper binder machine in the county’ coming to the village in 1897, and the oiled twine that came with it on a huge reel was still in use whenever a new twine was needed, though they were down to the last five yards or so.

It made a good story, often good for a pint for whoever told it.  I admired the veracity of it being the ‘third’ machine, a nice detail that genuine tall tale tellers appreciate.  

I thought I was included into the elite company of local barroom regulars that knew everything about everyone after a few months, but I wasn’t - quite.  It was well over a year later, coming up to midsummer, that I was invited to join a small group of regulars who were in the tiny oak panelled room off the bar we called the snug.  It was Roy Brown who came to find me in the bar and escorted me in there.  It was crowded, and when I looked around there were a dozen others sitting and standing around.  No, there were eleven others, six women, five men, all known to me except for one young lady.  I say young, but she was in her late twenties, good looking in a modest way, dressed conventionally for the country, which is to say that she had wellies, and a look-alike for a Barbour jacket over a used but trendy jumper and worn jeans.  She introduced herself as Rebecca, and said she was ‘thrilled to be allowed to join in.’ Daffyd Thomas was standing in the far corner, a very worn and grubby looking duffel jacket showing its age concealed his other clothes, and his black beard, long grey hair, and piercing black eyes looked over the company from his great height, for he was over six feet tall, and lean with it.  He broke the silence that had descended when we entered.  

“We are twelve.” he pronounced.  I didn’t like to say that there were thirteen of us, and he went on.  “Midsummer is almost here, and we must honour the year as we have always done.  We twelve will do midsummer honour.  And now we join hands in the oath.”  at this point Roy pushed a card into my hand, and someone did the same to Rebecca.  It had on it the words of an oath to keep secret what was to come, and to keep the ancient ways.  I was in!  A secret circle of Gaia worshippers, or animism believers, or something - and I had been included. Whoopee! 

The party broke up immediately after, and my attempt to ask a question was silenced, and I was told ‘You will be called.’ and that was that.   Next evening, I waylaid Roy, and didn’t stop until I had more of the story.  Daffyd was some sort of priest/druid /haman who presided over ten novices and two noviciates each year at a ceremony held on top of Stone Hill on midsummers eve.  

“You’re kidding?” I said, “and do we all dance round that big stone naked with flaming torches?” 

“No, no torches. Wait and see.”  was all he answered, and he clammed up, and eventually became a bit threatening unless I shut up.  So I did.  

With only two days left Daffyd called to talk to me, and explained that it was a bit of a harmless jape amongst the villagers, and ‘we’ usually found a gullible tourist or newcomer to join in whilst he choreographed some marching around the ancient stone at the top of Stone Hill, and then a big reveal when the dupe, and everyone else, would throw off the white robes and be left there naked, and everyone enjoyed a bit of naturism followed by a booze up.  All good clean fun, as they say in rural areas, and good for tourism.  Never any shortage of volunteers these days.  He left a white robe, which he assured me was a ritual item handed down for many years, but I thought was more like a cheap white towelling bathrobe with the “Made in China’ label cut off.  

Two days later we met up, at 3:30 a.m.; twelve of us plus Daffyd, appearing by ones and twos from the young trees that surround the bare top of Stone Hill.  We’d walked up from the car park at the base of the hill clad only in our white robes, and it was a bit parky in the morning draughts, midsummer be blowed.  I wasn’t impressed with the ancient stone.  It was only about a metre tall, with not much about it that suggested it was green, or put there, or made by man, or anything.  There was some graffiti in the form of names and dates scratched here and there, and a lump of white calcite or dolomite or some other mite that looked out at the eastern horizon, but that was it.  Stonehenge has tons more presence, no wonder the crowds go there. 

About four o’clock the eastern sky could be seen getting  lighter, and Daffyd  called us to attention, as it were, and began on a long speech - about Gaia and the earth mother, and the turn of the year, and the Green Man who looked after the circle of life of all things, and how we honoured the turn of the year and its passing toward the long darkness when the sun shone elsewhere, and we would dance and sing and chant to give him comfort and companionship in his lonely struggle to keep the earth turning in its cycles within cycles of birth and death and light and dark…  

Eventually he stopped.  I think his cycle of breathing needed attending to. It was getting steadily lighter, and he had us gather in a circle on the east side of the stone, with himself at the other side of it.  Despite the chill, magic or not, it was a grand place to be at the very height of summer, next to a lump of rock they called the ‘summerstone’  watching the sun come up.  

As dawn approached we stood in our circle before the summerstone, with Daffyd Thomas at the far side.  Everyone began a chant, and then, slowly at first, a rhythmic swaying from the shoulders, then from the hips.  The chant was hypnotising, embracing, ancient.  It didn’t have words, and yet, as I picked up the sounds from my neighbours and repeated them it seemed that they were words.  Old words, words in a language from beyond recorded time.  The Eastern sky was becoming lighter, the sun god who oversaw us was returning at full strength once more.  Daffyd shouted something, and everyone threw off the white robes, all but me and Rebecca.  We looked at each other, and I shrugged, and threw off mine, and she felt the peer pressure to do the same.  She was the youngest female there, and I have to say that on any standard, she was the best looking.  If only I could have said the same about me.  I could only claim to have a better physique than the other men around me.  I shouldn’t have looked around.  A dozen middle to old aged people standing naked, chanting and swaying on a hilltop at dawn.  No one had anywhere that was taut.  Everyone has wobbly bits, some more than others.  They all wobbled.  Some had spare supplies of calories in rolls that overhung other parts of them, some of them had bits that were in the grip of gravity.  It was a grotesque spectacle, fascinating perhaps, but not pleasant.

 The chant grew louder, hypnotic in its intensity as the light grew.  Somehow it entered your head, then your being, then you were the chant, and the surroundings faded.  The first ray from the horizon flashed across the land and touched the summerstone.  Daffyd struck it with his staff, shouting something like ‘We welcome you and offer ourselves.”  and everyone stood stock still, rooted to the spot. 

Literally rooted, that is, my feet wouldn’t move, all the other’s feet I could see had turned green, then brown, leaves sprouting.   The outstretched hands became twigs, branches, leaves sprouting from people’s arms, their hair turning into wood, and then, horror atop horrors, writhing branches and tendrils appeared from their open mouths, curving around and over their heads.  I felt my own body change, felt my tongue spring into a life of its own and sprout, pushing out of my mouth and the green shoots of the new circle of life curving around my head.  My toes were growing down into the soil, my arms becoming bushy.  I felt the air in my leaves, the sensation of a thousand tiny parts of me turning to the light, giving me sustenance, eating the air.  The sunlight was spreading down the summerstone, and as I felt the last remnant of my fleshy body giving way to its new wooden self the light reached the base of the stone, touched the white, reflected back - and the leaves retreated.  It was the most amazing sensation.  I felt life flowing back into me.  I could do anything, I could run a marathon. I could climb Everest, no, I could RUN up Everest.  My head was clear, I could compute the boundary effect of a black hole, make a fortune on the stock market.  

Then I was myself.  It was silent, the chant had ended, the very birds had stopped their chorus, we were no longer a circle of new trees and new life, just a set of assorted sad, overweight, sagging, sticklike, blubbery, naked people who said nothing to each other.  Mostly we didn’t meet each others eyes.  I searched myself for that wonderful vitality of a moment ago.  It had left me.  I was one of the sad naked people, still not beautiful, sagging in places.  I looked for Rebecca.  She was still there, now the only remaining tree.  I shouted her name, ran, still naked, across the space, and touched her, her leaves, her cheek, her flowing foliage., the upreaching hand, still with a wedding band on its ring finger.  Daffyd crossed to me,

“She is the most beautiful of us, so the gods keep her.  Her soul will endure.  If you too want to keep her, then come back with a saw.”  

About the author

When not writing Andrea makes furniture, repairs dry stone walls, and enjoy s Northumbria.  

   

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