by Peter
Gandalph Cohen nods and places his empty glass on the table.
“It feels sad,” says Rosemary. “It feels like I just sat up all night with a sick friend and now ... now she’s gone.”
“Not gone,” says Gandalph Cohen. “Just moved on to where she’s needed more. Écoutez...” he says. Out in the darkness, outside the two-flight walk-down on the corner of 23rd and Fifth, a wind seems to have gotten up.
“So tell me,” says Jim Leafman, watching the others cocking their heads to one side, listening ... smiling to themselves ... watching them get to their feet and stretching, seeing them embrace and shake each other’s hands, “what is a meringue? Could someone tell me that?”
Ringfenced by Lynn M Cochrane
SO I PHOTOGRAPHED Sam that sunny afternoon, leaning against the gatepost at the entrance to the field, his hair blowing in the wind, eyes sparkling, laughter written in every crease of his face. Later, and there was a later, I would look at that image and not know whether to destroy it or linger in the beatific warmth of his gaze.
Holidays get you like that, don’t they? You slave all year for a few measly days in a better place – oh, and enough to put the roof over your head and the food on the table the rest of the year – then you zoom off somewhere else and remind your camera what it’s supposed to do. And it reminds you of what it can’t. So you recharge the battery and try again. Only by the time I’d got the camera functioning, it was our last day on holiday and I went trigger-happy.
“Do you fancy the beach, again?” I asked Sam.
“Not for the second day in a row,” he said. “Let’s head for the country. I could do with some green fields around me and the wind across the hilltops blowing the cobwebs out from between my ears.”
I chased him round the hotel bedroom until he turned and caught me and kissed me into submission, both of us laughing all the time. Then, we picked up our cameras and packed lunch and headed for the local bus and a trip into the country.
The bus was the town-link service, one of a hundred or so in the local livery. I have never blamed the bus. It took dangerous bends fast. It stopped at short notice to collect people hiding in the tall hedges that lined the single-track roads. It raced where I would have been cautious and dawdled where I would have rushed; even stopping once while the driver went into the newsagents and again while he delivered a couple of bags of shopping to a small cottage set back from the road.
“Your Mum all right?” one of the locals asked him as he climbed back into his cab.
“She is now she’s got the bread and coffee she forgot yesterday,” he answered.
“Ah! Breakfast is served,” called one of the other passengers.
“Delivered, more like,” said someone else.
Sam and I sat there, grinning like idiots, enjoying this glimpse into the local community.
We were almost sad to leave them when we got to our stop and started up the steep footpath towards the top of the hill and the long walk back to the hotel.
The scenery was stunning. Sky and sea were blue with the horizon a darker blue line with occasional sails or sets of funnels moving along it. The grass along the path seemed a brighter-than-usual green. Gulls wheeled overhead, glaring white against the sky. Both of us went trigger-happy, catching fleeting glimpses of butterflies and birds, dragonflies and bees, unusual angles on standard holiday scenes.
Near the road, the hill had been quite steep. We reached what we had thought of as the top – and wasn’t. There was a dip before the hill went on up, in a long incline that robbed both of us of breath. At the end, the slope went convex once more, bulging out to meet us as we climbed up between pairs of stones that were almost lost in the ubiquitous hedges.
Gasping, Sam leaned against the right-hand post of the gate that barred our way. Sam had ran out of memory on his camera; I had a few shots left available on mine. Laughing, I snapped one of those last few images, capturing the effects of that climb on the man I loved.
When we had finally regained our breath, we opened the gate, slipped through, and closed it behind us. Sam briefly laid a hand on the stone of the gate-post.
“Someone must have brought this here,” he said. “Why? How?”
“Don’t ask me,” I said. “Let’s find a place to sit out of the wind and investigate the Hotel’s packed lunch.”
We found a sheltered nook with a decent view of the sea and opened the packed lunch. I found my share inedible and scattered it around for the wildlife to find. Sam, he of the cast iron stomach, chomped his way through day-old sandwiches, a yellowing pork-pie and cakes so stale they disintegrated into crumbs at a touch. Rested, but not refreshed, we carried on along the path.
I felt it first as an itch between my shoulder-blades, right where I couldn’t scratch. Then the hairs on the back of my neck all stood up – closely followed by the hairs on my arms and legs. I shuddered, not liking the sensation.
“You, too, huh?” muttered Sam. He stopped, looking round, eyes growing wide.
Confused and worried, I looked round as well. The path was running across a wide open area with hedges forming a circle around it – a circle marked out by standing stones that formed dots in the dashes of the greenery.
“Wow!” said Sam. “I wonder if anyone knows about this.”
Trust him to react that way. I was, perhaps, a bit more observant. We were the only visible life forms in the circle. The clean, green grass was short but there was no evidence of what had shortened it. No rabbits, then. Birds flew in the air all around but none crossed the hedge and stone boundary to fly over the velvet green lawn. Bees and butterflies had been our companions all the way from the bus but there were none here in what should have been an insect paradise. Even the grass felt like Astro Turf.
I found the lack of wildlife worrying. I glanced up at the sun – suddenly hidden behind milky white cloud. I looked around again before consulting my watch. The afternoon was wearing away faster than I liked.
“Sam, we need to go now,” I said, emphasising the last word.
“Ssssaaaammmm,” came the sussurant echo from one side of the circle, replicated and returned until I heard, as a faint whisper, “Ssssussstainn.”
It was, honestly, an attempt to get Sam to hurry that had me pacing to the far edge of the stone circle. I kept clear of the twin menhirs that formed the gateway, although the couple of scraps of wood that hung from the one had long since ceased to be a barrier across the path. I side stepped to avoid the last wagging finger of rotting timber before I stopped and turned and looked back to see where Sam was. After all, a grown man doesn’t need a minder, does he?
Perhaps he does. Sam stood in the centre of the circle, head thrown back and arms outstretched. He seemed bathed in light, somehow, the morning star against the midnight blue of the open area.
“Sam!” I yelled. “Come on! Look at the time!”
Sam looked up at the sun, which struck me as odd. He’d usually check the time on his mobile phone, even when we were at home in the garden. Then he shrugged, gave me a thumbs-up and started plodding across the circle to join me.
By the time he reached the gateway, he was stumbling. He reached out to the nearest stone and used it to balance himself. It was some moments before he let go and stepped away to join me on the path.
But it wasn’t Sam. Not the Sam I knew. Not the gentle, teasing lover I had chased round the bedroom that morning. Plodding just behind me to my left was the outward appearance of the man, but none of the vivacity that made up Sam.
He was staggering by the time the path became wide enough for two. I paused to let him regain his balance until I heard whispers on the track behind us, sounding like approaching snakes. I put Sam’s right hand onto my left shoulder and led him further down slope, along the path. Three pauses later I was holding him round the waist, trying to keep him more-or-less upright but at least the hotel was in sight. I almost carried him into reception.
Thinking back, I was surprised to see our cases
waiting for us by the reception desk. At the time, I was more concerned about getting medical help for Sam. The receptionist nodded but didn’t seem to do anything. She just watched us.
The ambulance, blue lights flashing, drew up outside. Two burly paramedics came into reception. One of them took Sam from me and began to walk him out to the ambulance. The other indicated our cases. I nodded. He picked up the luggage and indicated that I should precede him. Behind the desk, the girl hadn’t moved.
In the ambulance, Sam was already lying on the stretcher, looking exhausted. I was ushered onto a seat on the other side of the vehicle and our cases were strapped down nearby.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
The paramedic who had carried the cases looked shocked. “You can still talk!” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Why not?”
“This is a small community,” he answered. “You were seen going up to the circle by the receptionist’s sister. She was on the bus with you yesterday morning. Then you were so very late back. You should have returned yesterday afternoon. The people here are superstitious. They think that anyone who spends the night in the stone circle is dead but doesn’t know it yet. When you were seen approaching the hotel, your cases were brought out and we were called. It usually goes down as an accident and nothing is said ... but you can still talk. Tell me what happened.”
So I told him. It seemed the best thing to do, really. Behind him, the other paramedic was sucking his teeth and shaking his head. Eventually, he turned round and asked for his colleague’s help. The paramedic I was talking to stood up and looked at Sam.
“I’ll drive,” he said.
It was the last ride I took with Sam while he was alive. Not that I could see much. The ambulance windows were dark, small and way above my head and the paramedic kneeling beside Sam blocked my view.
At the hospital, I was ushered out of the ambulance and sent into A&E to give all the relevant details for both of us. Sam was brought in on the stretcher and nodded through into the main part of A&E. By the time I was called for, it was too late. Sam had simply stopped functioning.
I’m told I cried. I don’t remember. As far as I was concerned the world had stopped
They did a post mortem, of course. They gave the cause of death as major organ failure, but no reason was stated as to why everything had ground to a halt.
They seemed more concerned about me, keeping me in for observation for several days, almost as if they were waiting for me to die, too. In which case, I disappointed them.
They wanted me to take Sam’s body away with me. When I suggested he should be cremated and his ashes scattered in the stone circle it was greeted with horror. No one in their right mind, I was told, would go within a hundred metres of the place.
We compromised. It was Sam’s ashes that accompanied me home. I scattered them sadly round our garden.
It was much later that I downloaded both cameras onto the laptop. Many of Sam’s shots were blurred, as if the memory was somehow corrupted. Most of mine were clear enough – a couple of my thumb, a beautiful shot of my left shoe and many of insects and birds.
And one of Sam; leaning against the gatepost at the entrance to the field, his hair blowing in the wind, eyes sparkling, laughter written in every crease of his face. From the top of the standing stone that formed the gatepost rose a ray of light, blueish-white against the sky: light of the same colour that had bathed Sam’s cruciform pose in the middle of the circle.
Ithica or Bust by Bryn Fortey
SO IT CAME that Troy was obliterated, leaving only an empty orbit around the twin suns. A destruction that had finally ended the latest of the Great Galactic Wars. Such was the unleashed power necessary to reduce a whole world to nothing, that even the victorious battle fleet were scattered far and wide throughout space. A few managed to make straight forward journeys home, but many were forced into strange and tortuous complications.
The Fleet Commander, man-metal hybrid Space Admiral Agamemnon, was one of those able to overcome navigational problems. By allowing his robot half ascendancy he could plot a direct warp-route home. Unfortunately, during his long absence the planet Mycenae had banned all flesh, becoming the first world inhabited entirely by robot-evolved creations.
“Death awaits,” intoned his Cassandra-box, but the conqueror of Troy was too used to his duality. So he landed as a Hero upon the purple plain, accepting the acclaim that was his due. Then roared old fashioned defiance as his flame was extinguished.
So died Agamemnon, joining those who had perished while the war had raged.
Palamedes was dead.
Protesilaus was dead.
Achilles was dead.
Ajax was dead.
Anticlus was dead.
And many, many more, but Odysseus, architect of the victory, still lived.
FOUR-LEGGED, FOUR-armed, two-headed Odysseus: bravest of the brave, most cunning and clever of them all, now so far away from his home planet of Ithica. His warp drive still worked but the direction finder had ceased to function. His ship would plunge through the depths of non-space but there were no guarantees as to where it might emerge.
“Well, that’s us finished,” said the subservient second head.
The dominant first head frowned. “That’s enough of that,” he ordered.
“I told you the sub-particle intensifier would be too strong.”
“It destroyed Troy didn’t it?”
“But at what cost, tell me that?”
However smart, awkward or pettifogging the second head might be, the dominant partner always had the definitive option. He could direct enforced sleep cycles during which the subservient head would sink in its shoulder socket, leaving number one with a better all round view and the ability to act without interference.
Odysseus knew that a major failing with his species was a tendency to impulsive over-reaction, which had made the double-head system so important in their development from primitive to now. Number Two’s function was to offer advice, suggest caution, to worry over fine detail. No Ithican would be without his second head, but it was good to be able to shut them up now and then.
If the direction finder no longer worked it might be best to engage the warp drive in short hop sequences only. He had tried one massive jump and had ended up where they were now, in an unrecognised corner of space with unknown star constellations so distant they were only faint glimmerings.
Number Two had, of course, warned against such a big jump. So, short hops only from now on. He entered the relevant instructions into the propulsion guidance network, then gave the order for the first of the shortened flights through non-space.
It wasn’t long before Head Two woke and rose from its shoulder socket. “You’re using the warp drive again,” he stated.
“Only for short hops.”
Number Two said no more, but smirked that know-it-all, I-was-right-all-along expression so disliked by all Number Ones.
Four hops later, a life bearing planet was found, according to all retrievable data.
“Maybe at a pre-radio stage,” suggested Two when none of their available bands solicited any sort of response. Visuals were out too. Not being able to penetrate a fog-like blanket that circled the world,
“Guess I’ll have to go down,” decided Head One.
“I?” grumbled Two. “I? Shouldn’t that be we?”
“By the Great Godheads of ancient times!” thundered One. “If I go, you go. It’s a biological necessity. So no more nit-picking!”
After locking the battle cruiser into an unequivocal orbit, Odysseus summoned a ship to surface transporter and set off to investigate. Once through the vapour layer he could see what appeared to be a world of rich grasslands, dense forests and high mountain ranges. There were also strange triangular buildings dotted here and there, though not in any profusion.
Landing on flat grasses, he put on full battle gear and left the craft while nodding vigorous agreement to the subservient head’s w
hispered entreaties for care to be taken. There being no immediate signs of life, he moved at a steady four-legged pace towards a nearby area of forest.
The people of Ithica stood an average five metres tall with a body sturdy enough to cope with their four legs, four arms and two heads. Indeed, of the sentient races making up the combined attacking force sent against Troy, none were bigger. Odysseus was used to standing tall, so when a large lizard-like creature over twice his height stepped out from the trees he adopted a speedy defence posture. Weapons primed and ready for use.
“Hang on, old chap,” called the creature. “What is one supposed to say in these circumstances? I come in peace. Will that do? Or shouldn’t you be the one saying it?”
“He’s right,” whispered Head Two. “We are the intruder.”
“Shut up!” hissed number One.
“Pardon?” asked the lizard.
“No, not you.”
“I should think not.”
Odysseus had heard of such giant creatures, but not of them being intelligent. Some such wild breeds were said to have roamed the jungle regions of Troy. “I do come in peace,” he called, “but how can I be sure of your intentions?”
“I am a Deinonychus. I am fast as the wind and have teeth that could pierce your puny armour as easy as cracking coconuts, which I find very easy. If I had meant you any harm, you would already have been seen to.”
“I knew we should have sent an unmanned drone,” whimpered the subservient head, but Odysseus was willing to let his dominant part meet force with force, if necessary. “I am Odysseus, Lord of the planet Ithica, Galactic Prince, destroyer of Troy,” he shouted. “I have weapons to match your natural advantages. As you’ll find out if you make one false move.”
The Deinonychus laughed at that. A deep laugh which seemed to contain echoes of its ancestral past. “Let us not put it to the test, friend. My meat-eating days are long gone. My companions converted me to vegetarianism more years ago than I care to remember. I have shown myself merely to greet you. Visitors are very rare in this long forgotten corner of space.”
