by Roger Hurn
Jim gulped and then stepped out onto the track. He nearly dropped his rifle in surprise at what he saw. Instead of an angry grizzly bear there was a space alien in the trap. The alien turned its head to Jim and said in English, ‘Please help me.’
Jim stared open mouthed. The alien had golden skin and large dark eyes. Its face was twisted in pain. The alien groaned in agony. It was badly hurt. The steel jaws of the trap were crushing its leg.
‘The trap wasn’t meant for you,’ said Jim gruffly. ‘I was trying to catch a bear. You should have been more careful.’
‘I’m sorry,’ replied the alien. ‘I wish I had. Now, will you help me? The pain is very bad.’
‘Where’s the grizzly?’ asked Jim. He looked up at the cave mouth. ‘I’m not staying here if that bear is anywhere around.’
‘No, you are quite safe,’ replied the alien. ‘I scared it away with my sonic blaster.’
‘Why didn’t you kill it?’ said Jim. ‘I would have done.’
‘I am not a killer,’ answered the alien simply. ‘But I am in agony. So are you going to free me from this trap?’
Jim narrowed his eyes. He stroked his chin but he made no move to open the trap. ‘Why should I?’ he said at last. ‘No. I think I’ll go back to my jeep and drive off to fetch the police. Then I’ll be famous as the man who caught a space alien.’
The alien looked at Jim with sad eyes. ‘I’ll be dead long before you return,’ he said.
‘Too bad for you,’ snapped the cruel hunter. He turned to go. ‘Wait!’ called the trapped alien. ‘I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.’
Jim stopped. He stared at the alien. ‘How are you going to do that?’ he asked. ‘I can’t use alien money on Earth.’
‘I know that,’ said the helpless creature. ‘But I can show you how to cure cancer. Then you will soon become the richest man in the world.’
Jim Jones shook his head. ‘I’m not a doctor, I’m a hunter,’ he snarled. ‘I kill things. I don’t make them better. Anyway, I wouldn’t understand how to do it.’
The alien took a deep breath. Its whole body shook with pain. Then it said in a weak voice, ‘You don’t have to know how to cure cancer. I will give you the formula. You can sell it for a billion dollars.’
The evil human’s face lit up with greed. ‘A billion dollars’ he shouted. ‘Now that’s more like it.’
‘Do we have a deal?’ asked the alien.
‘Yes’, replied Jim. ‘Give me the formula then I’ll let you out of the trap.’
‘No,’ said the alien. ‘You must free me first. But don’t worry. I won’t trick you. I am too weak to run away.’
Jim nodded and opened the steel jaws of the trap. He took hold of the alien’s arm and pulled him to his feet. He shook the creature hard. ‘Now give me the formula or I’ll put you back in the trap,’ he said.
The alien reached into a pocket and took out a piece of plastic and a laser pen. It wrote down the formula and gave it to Jim. ‘There you are,’ it said. ‘You will now be rich. The creature shook its head sadly. ‘It is strange,’ it went on. ‘You are a bad man yet you will do a good thing. You will save the world from a terrible disease and people will bless your name for ever.’
‘Whatever,’ grunted Jim. Then he told the alien to go before he changed his mind and put him back in the trap. The alien limped slowly away. He had only gone a few yards when Jim aimed his gun at the alien’s back. He pulled the trigger and fired all his bullets. The alien didn’t stand a chance.
Jim Jones strutted over to the dead alien. He turned its body over with his boot. ‘Well,’ he said with pride. ‘I guess this makes me the best hunter in the world. Other men can shoot moose and bears but I just shot an alien. I think I’ll go back to the jeep and get my camera. I need a photo of this.’
As Jim Jones turned to leave he came face to face with the grizzly bear. He hadn’t heard it return. It wanted to go back to its cave. It was still very, very angry. Jim’s gun was empty. But the bear still had its claws.
The Hook
John was tired to his bones. He was on a walking holiday and he had tramped for miles over the bleak and empty moors. His feet were sore and his legs felt as heavy as lead. His rucksack straps cut into his shoulders and his stomach rumbled with hunger. Then, to make matters worse, it started to rain. A thin cold rain that soaked through his clothes and chilled him. He needed to find a place to rest for the night. In his mind he had a vision of a welcoming country inn offering food, a hot bath and a soft, comfortable bed with clean sheets and a thick eiderdown. He looked about hopefully but the night had fallen and swirled around him like a thick cloak of darkness. He could barely see his hand in front of his face.
John stumbled on, then, at last, he came to an old road. It was little more than a country lane but John’s spirits rose. He felt sure it would lead to a village or at least to a house or cottage where he could ask for a bed for the night. He stepped out with renewed energy and, before too long, he saw a dark shape looming up ahead of him. As he came closer he realised that it was an inn, though not the one he hoped to find. It was grim and gloomy and the windows were shuttered. There was not a glimmer of light showing anywhere. John’s spirits fell but he strode up to the front door and used the old brass knocker to announce his presence. At first nothing happened so he hammered on the door again. Then a shaft of light appeared under the door and John heard the sound of bolts being pulled back and a key turning in the lock. A large, thickset man stood silhouetted in the doorway.
‘You’re hammering is enough to wake the dead,’ he grumbled.
‘Sorry,’ said John, ‘but I’ve been walking on the moors all day and I’m cold, soaked and famished. I need food, a hot bath and a comfortable bed or I won’t last the night.’
‘Then it’s lucky for you that you’re here,’ replied the man. ‘We pride ourselves on being the best inn for miles around. You’ll not find a better place if you look from here ‘til doomsday.’
‘I’m more than happy to take your word for it,’ said John stepping inside.
The landlord threw a couple of large logs onto the open fireplace and John warmed his hands on the leaping flames while steam rose from his wet clothes. Then he wolfed down a large bowlful of soup before making his way up to his room where he had a hot bath.
After his bath, John draped his clothes over the wooden chair to dry. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His face was ghostly pale and dark shadows skulked beneath his eyes. John shook his head at his sorry appearance. It’s nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t put right, he told himself. He turned and tripped over his rucksack. He cursed his own clumsiness, picked the rucksack up and hung it from a hook that protruded from the wall. Then he climbed into bed, blew out the candle, pulled the covers up to his chin and fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.
John had no idea how long he slept but suddenly his eyes flew open. The darkness pressed down on him like a heavy blanket. He frowned, puzzled as to what had woken him. Then he realised that it was the acrid stench that filled his nostrils. Smoke! He couldn’t see it but he could certainly smell it. His brain was still fuddled with sleep and he couldn’t work out where the smoke was coming from. Then the old saying, “there’s no smoke without fire” popped into his head and his heart lurched with fear. The inn must be ablaze and he was trapped on the upper floor. He became aware of running feet and distant shouts. People were escaping from the building but John lay in his bed unable to move. A great weariness filled his bones and it seemed to him that if he only pulled the blankets over his head and went back to sleep he would be safe.
Then, from just outside his room, came a terrible crash. John sat up and dragged himself out of the bed. He staggered and swayed and bumped into the wooden chair containing his clothes. He swept them up into his arms and commanded his aching legs to carry him to the door. He wrenched it open and nearly collided with a shadowy figure who rushed past him and disappeared into the darkness. Flame
s were licking their way up the walls. A wooden doorway collapsed and an inferno of heat blasted along the passageway. John spun on his heel and dashed towards the stairs while blistering air scorched his back.
The stairwell was smothered in a fog of dense and choking smoke. The stairs themselves had vanished. Frantically, John turned to find another way of escape but a wall of flame was advancing towards him. The fire roared like a furious dragon and its breath singed John’s hair. In despair he spun round and faced the pit where the stairs had been. There was nothing else for it. John had to jump into the swirling smoke. He had no idea where, or on what, he would land but he buried his face in his clothes and leapt.
He crashed into a smouldering banister that broke his fall and sent him tumbling across the floor. He sprawled half dazed for a moment then an old oak beam came hurtling down from the rafters in a shower of sparks and smashed into the ground right next to him. John scrambled to his feet. Panic flooded his mind. His throat was like sandpaper, his skin was raw; he knew he was going to die. Then he felt a cool draft of air on his face. It was coming from a rectangle of pure darkness away to his right. He hurled himself towards it as another blazing beam fell behind him and the ceiling collapsed.
John found himself alive and standing on the stone path outside the inn. The rectangle of darkness was, in fact, all that remained after the front door had burned away. John stared as fire danced on the roof and flags of bright red and yellow flame burst out of the windows. Suddenly it dawned on John that, although he had cheated death, he must fetch help for those still trapped inside. He sprinted off up the lane in search of someone, anyone, to come to the aid of the victims of the fire.
John ran until his lungs were bursting but there wasn’t so much as a cottage anywhere nearby. He was almost on his knees with exhaustion when at last he came to a small house. With renewed energy he raced up the garden path and banged on the door. An upstairs window was thrown open and a very startled man demanded to know what on earth was the matter.
‘Come quickly,’ yelled John. ‘The inn’s ablaze and people are in deadly danger. You must help them.’
‘You’re drunk,’ replied the man. ‘There’s no inn anywhere near here, more’s the pity.’
‘Yes there is! It’s about two miles back down the road. You have to come. You can’t just leave people to their fate. I only just escaped with my life.’
When he realised that John was not going to go away the man slammed the window shut and came down to the door. After a great deal of argument, John finally persuaded the man and his brother to go with him to the inn. They thought he was mad and only went to keep an eye on him. When they arrived back at the spot there was no fire and no inn. There were just the overgrown remains of an old ruin.
‘I’ll tell you what must have happened,’ said the man. ‘I bet you were so tired after walking on the moors all day you must have fallen asleep on your feet and had a nightmare, son. This place has been a ruin since before my grandfather’s time. Nobody round here even remembers what kind of building it was.’ He shook his head and with a shrug he and his brother went back home.
By now the sun was slowly climbing up into the sky and, by the early morning light, John could make out the layout of the ruin. He stepped over a pile of crumbling bricks and began to explore. He felt a chill shiver run up and down his spine like a spider and he shuddered. John was convinced what he had experienced had not been a nightmare. It had been far too real for that. Then he saw what remained of the fireplace where he had warmed his hands. His mouth went dry with excitement. There was a gap in the stones where a door would once have stood and he walked through it. This led him to the stairwell. John glanced up at the moss-covered wall and along to where his bedroom would have been. His stomach knotted and his blood ran cold for there, high above his head, was a hook and dangling from it was his rucksack!
The Daughter
It had been a long but profitable day. The taxi driver was smiling to himself as he drove home. He’d had more customers today than he normally had in a week and his pockets were filled with coins. Even though it was early evening and long shadows were stretching like black cats across the road the air was thick and still hot. Beads of sweat trickled down the man’s back and made his shirt stick to his skin. He could feel a storm coming. People were looking up at the sky and hurrying for shelter. Black clouds smothered the sinking sun and the first drops of rain splashed onto his windscreen smearing the dirt and dust. He cursed and set his wipers to work. Everywhere people were running for shelter as the fierce rain lashed down from the skies. Out of the gloom a cyclist suddenly appeared from a side alley wobbling unsteadily and forcing him to swerve. The driver switched on his headlights, hunched over the wheel and concentrated hard. The weather was foul but he knew he hadn’t far to go now.
Then, in the glare of his headlights, he saw a girl sheltering beneath a large banyan tree. She looked so forlorn and sad that the driver thought he’d stop and offer her a lift. He wound down his window and asked her. The girl looked at him with large sad eyes.
‘I don’t have any money for a taxi.’
The driver chuckled. ‘That’s not a problem. I’ve had more than enough paying customers today. If you’ll only tell me where you live, I’ll be happy to take you home.’
The girl smiled and thanked the man. She told him that she lived in the small house that was set back from the road at the top of the next hill.
‘I’ll have you home in no time at all,’ said the taxi driver. ‘Hop in.’
The taxi splashed on through the puddles that were forming on the muddy road. The wipers beat a steady rhythm and the driver whistled a merry tune but the girl said not a word. Before too long the driver pulled up outside the small house. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘You sit tight and I’ll tell them you’re here. Perhaps your mother will have an umbrella to keep you from getting wet.’
He dashed to the door and rapped on it with his knuckles. At first he thought nobody was home but then it opened slowly and a white haired woman stared up at him.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘I’ve given your daughter a lift home in my taxi,’ said the driver. ‘She’s …’
The woman looked at him with such hatred the taxi driver felt his blood run cold.
‘My daughter is dead.’
‘She can’t be,’ replied the driver. ‘I saw her sheltering under the banyan tree at the foot of the hill and stopped to give her a lift. She told me herself that she lives here.’
In a voice that was raw with pain the white haired woman told the driver that her daughter had been sheltering under the banyan tree exactly five years ago when a car skidded off the road and killed her.
‘You can’t bring her home,’ said the woman, ‘so leave me alone with my sorrow. Your joke isn’t funny.’ She stepped back inside her house and closed the door firmly.
The driver ran back to his taxi to demand that the girl explain what was going on but, when he got there, the girl had vanished.
The Appointment in Samarra
Once, many, many years ago, when the world was a very different place, a rich merchant lived in the city of Bagdad. One day, the merchant decided to hold a feast for his friends so he sent for his most trusted servant.
‘Ahmed,’ he said. ‘I want you to go to the market place and search for food and drink that will astound and delight my guests when they come to dine with me tonight. Buy only the finest produce. My friends will expect nothing less than the best.”
‘Don’t worry, master,’ said Ahmed. ‘You can rely on me not to let you down.’
Ahmed bowed and hurried off but he wasn’t looking forward to his task. The day was hot and he knew the market place would be filled with bustling crowds. He was right. People were pushing and shoving each other to get at the best bargains. Ahmed sighed and plunged into the seething mass of humanity.
Suddenly, he felt a hand tug at his sleeve. Ahmed frowned and turned to see who it was. To
his horror, a face he had hoped never to see stared at him. Ahmed gasped in fear and took to his heels.
He raced back to his master’s house and burst into the room where the merchant was counting his money. The merchant looked up in surprise. ‘You’re back soon,’ he said. ‘I expected you to be hours yet. I hope you haven’t just bought the first things you saw.’
“I haven’t bought anything,’ said Ahmed.
The merchant frowned. ‘Why ever not?’ he asked angrily. ‘You had better have a good reason for disobeying me.’
‘I do, said Ahmed in a very shaky voice.
‘Well, tell me what it is,’ said the merchant. ‘And be quick about it.’
‘I went to the market place as you ordered,’ said Ahmed. ‘But when I was there someone grabbed hold of my sleeve and pulled on it.’
‘Well, that was a bit rude of them I suppose,’ said the merchant. ‘But surely it was no reason for you to come running home.’
‘Oh yes it was,’ replied Ahmed. ‘Because the creature that grabbed me was Death himself!’
‘No!’ gasped the merchant.
‘Yes!’ said Ahmed. ‘And Death glared at me in a most horrible way. I was terrified!’
‘Of course you were,’ said the merchant. ‘You poor man.’
‘I didn’t know what to do, so I ran away.’
‘Quite right too,’ agreed his master.
‘Look,’ said Ahmed, ‘I can’t stay here now. Please lend me a horse and I’ll ride to Samarra and hide at my friend’s house. It’s the perfect solution. Death will never find me there.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said the merchant. ‘Take the horse and go immediately. You’ll be safe in Samarra, it’s miles from Bagdad.’
Ahmed saddled up the merchant’s swiftest horse and galloped off to Samarra without further delay.
