David Gullen's Blog, page 5

Writer not rich enough for a bursary.

Note: This is essentially the same as a recent Twitter thread I’ve posted. I decided to blog about it too because not everyone uses Twitter and it’s easier to cross-post from here to places like FB. Also, because I am incensed.

Briefly, some background: I am the current Chair of the Milford SF Writers conference, an annual, week-long event for critique & discussion. We’ve run in the UK since 1972.

Since 2017, thanks to the generosity of individuals and two EasterCon committees, we have been able to offer bursaries to BAME writers around the world, and currently are funded for a few more. We’ve always been pleased to offer two bursaries a year.

To date, as well as UK writers, this has allowed SF&F writers from Nigeria, Netherlands, and USA to attend Milford. Not this year.

For 2019 we were again delighted to be able to fill both places. Except – annoyingly, frustratingly, infuriatingly, one must now fall vacant. Because UK Visas and Immigration (UKVI) have rejected their visa application on the grounds of ‘financial capacity’.

One committee member is highly experienced in the problems the Hostile Environment policy causes musicians seeking visas. In their opinion there is no room for appeal. The writer we had been hoping to welcome to the UK says it is too heartbreaking a task to try again.

We’ve lost them. This is enormously disappointing. We are proud to be able to play our own part in increasing inclusion and diversity in our field of literature and the arts, immensley grateful to our donors. It is obvious that everyone benefits.

But this is where we now are with the poisonous Hostile Environment policy that Theresa May, our outgoing Prime Minister, introduced in her time as Home Secretary. It tells us low-income writers from other countries are not welcome, & we cannot help them with grants & gifts.

In short, this government thinks they are not rich enough to be given a bursary.

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 81 – To Sleep

An odd week. My life in most respects is ordinary, but this week has been strange. I’ve been deeply distracted but have managed to work hard, the main reason being the mutual support and encouragement of a couple of lovely people.

Equally important, old Mrs Woosencraft is about to take her afternoon nap in…

Chapter 81 – To Sleep

It wasn’t easy to fall asleep when people expected you to. Although
Tim was very tired and comfortably settled onto Mrs Woosencraft’s settee he just
couldn’t do it.

Once Mrs Woosencraft drew the
curtains she dropped off with no trouble. Now she lay in her chair with her
hands folded over her tummy and her feet on a low footstool. Despite being
asleep there was an air of expectation about her.

Tim’s mind was still full of the
past day’s astonishing events: the sinking ship, the great swim, Jarglebaum and
Koponen’s unknown fate, the shark women’s transformation and wild revelations.

A shadow passed over Tim’s face. Foxy
kissed his forehead. ‘I’m going into the kitchen,’ she whispered. ‘Go to
sleep.’

Tim found himself thinking about
the flies under the lampshade in his room. During their swim to shore he had
seen small shoals of fish circling under floating mats of weed, discarded
fishing nets, waterlogged pallets and other debris. Foxy had said such places
were refuges, the fish were hiding.

What were the flies hiding from, he
wondered? They were safe, he didn’t mind them being there. They should land and
have a rest. Maybe it was safer for them to keep on the move. He zoomed in
closer and flew with the flies. His office expanded to became a titanic space
filled with vast objects like the valleys of Colorado.

I think I’m asleep now, he thought.

And he was.

Tim opened his eyes into a room bled dry of colour. Mrs
Woosencraft looked up at him from her sleeping body. He reached down and drew
her out. She took one look at her own form, and nodded. In the kitchen Foxy sat
colourless and still, both she and the room looked like they were drawn on pieces
of paper in astonishing detail. Tim led Mrs Woosencraft into the garden.

Gale-winds blew out to sea, the monochrome sky streaked with tattered clouds streaming like wind-torn banners. Mrs Woosencraft jumped up onto his back, lighter than a feather. Tim thought a single word – Asklepios. For a moment he struggled against Mrs Woosencraft’s inertia then surged up into the sky. The ground fell away below their feet. The wind whirled them in four directions – then one.

To be continued…

The Girld from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 80 – All She Needed

I really do need to pull my finger out and start prepping the print/e-book versions. With the edits all done, and new cover art I just need to do- everything else! Have great weekends, and I hope you like this sweet little chapter.

Chapter 80 – All She Needed

His parent’s front garden was exactly as Smith remembered. Shoulder
high dahlias flanked the path; blue pansies, pink daisies and orange marigolds
still clashed in the flower bed.

Why shouldn’t it be the same? Had
had  only been away a few days.

It felt like forever.

The garden gate clicked shut
behind him. ‘My, what a lot of flowers,’ Heidi said. ‘They’re so, um, colourful.’

Smith pressed the doorbell. Soft chimes
rang in the hall. I’m not nervous, he
told himself as he reached for Heidi’s hand. I’m excited.

A slightly stooped female figure
swam into view through the hammered glass of the front door. She stood still
for a moment fumbled the catch and flung the door wide. Violet Smith looked
joyfully up at her son.

‘Hello, Mummy,’ Smith said.

‘Who is it?’ Albert Smith called
from upstairs.

‘Derek,’ Violet said quietly. She
called out louder: ‘Albert, it’s Derek. He’s come home.’

Furniture bumped upstairs, a door
slammed. Unbuttoned cardigan flapping, bifocals swinging from the cord round his
neck, Albert Smith erupted onto the landing and thundered down the stairs. ‘By
God, my lad, where have you been? Your mother’s been worried sick.’

‘Albert,’ Violet cautioned.

‘Whatever you’ve been up to, my
lad, it was not Good Thinking.’

Violet’s voice carried an edge.
‘Albert. Derek has a friend with him.’

‘Actually, it was very Good
Thinking indeed,’ Derek said. ‘Hello, Daddy, this is Heidi.’

Albert Smith lurched to a halt, reassessed
the situation and stuck out his hand. ‘Hello, my dear. Won’t you come in?’

It didn’t take long. Violet knew she could be good at this
sort of thing if only she had the chance. She’d waited such a long time.

‘So tell me, where did you meet Derek?’
Violet said.

‘In the office where I work. Del helped
me out with some calculations.’

She calls him Del, Violet thought
happily. ‘He’s always been good with numbers. Lists and timetables, things like
that.’

‘Did you come over on the bus?’
Albert said.

‘No, in Del’s new car.’

Albert looked through the lace
curtains, gaped and turned back. He managed a rather high-pitched, ‘Derek,
where did you get that car?’

‘It’s not mine, I borrowed it.’

‘When did you learn to drive?’

‘It wasn’t that difficult.’

That wasn’t the answer Albert had
been looking for. He opened his mouth, lifted a finger.

‘I like your front garden,’ Heidi
said a little loudly.

It was all Violet needed.

‘Come out back and see what I’ve
done. Derek, go and show your father the car.’

She’s nice, Violet thought to
herself as the two women toured the garden. Her top is cut a bit low, but I
expect that’s just me being old fashioned. It’s not every girl who’d pretend to
be interested in flowers to please her boyfriend’s mum.

Later in the front room the two
women looked out the window at the men. Albert knelt beside the wing of the
Imperial making circular motions with his palm over the dented bodywork. Derek
helped him up and they stood back, arms folded, heads nodding slowly.

Violet took a deep breath. ‘You
and Derek get on well.’

Heidi smiled to herself. ‘We’ve
really only just met.’

‘I know, dear. I can’t help it,
I’m his mother.’

Out by the car Derek said
something. Hands stuffed in his pockets, Albert roared with laughter. Watching
them, Violet felt her feet were about to leave the ground. She blinked hard, it
had been a long while since she had last felt this happy.

Albert and Derek came inside. Violet
put her arm round her husband’s waist and gave him a hug. ‘I’d like to go to
the garden centre. Heidi suggested I put a purple clematis over the trellis,’
Violet said.

‘Derek and I need to go to the
car shop.’

‘Why don’t we go together,’ Heidi
said.

‘I’ve decided to become an
explorer,’ Derek said.

To be continued…

Beginnings, Middles, and Ends

Almost all stories have beginnings, middles, and ends. Not necessarily in that order, and sometimes there are more than one of each. Each one is as important as the other.

Beginnings

The vast majority of advice I received about novel structure was focused on the opening, and it was all about getting published: your opening needs to be vivid; it needs to be engaging; that engagement must be immediate. The reasons given being that these things help get you past the slush reader and/or agent and/or commissioning editor to the desired goal of acceptance, contract, and publication. Yay!

This made me wonder about who the audience actually was, especially for newer or less well-published writers. Was it yourself (you should always, always write for yourself), your (prospective) agent, your (prospective) publisher? Where were the people you were really writing for? Sometimes it feels like a readership is a long way away but it’s also worth remembering that any reader is free to put down your story, and when a submission reader, agent, or editor does that your story proceeds no further down that particular path.

One thing a good beginning does is make a series of promises: this is where we’re going, and why; we’re going with these characters; this is their world. Of course not all promises need to be kept, but they should never be dishonestly broken.

Geoff Ryman’s The King’s Last Song has a superb, beautiful and engaging beginning. As a writer I still remember thinking ‘Why do I even bother? I shall never be this good.’ As a reader I was compelled and excited to read on, the promise of a good book was terrific and it led me deep into:

The Middle

There’s also much advice on how to get through the great swampy middle, where plot wanders in circles, tension withers and dies, and characters stand in empty rooms and discuss what they should do next.  When that happens I believe they are not really talking to each other, they are asking the writer for directions.

Often I’ll put a book like that down, or skim to the end. More rarely I’ll keep reading because the quality of the writing keeps me engaged. Then, even more rarely, all that seeming wandering turns out to be deliberate, it draws into sharp focus, and you realise the writer really did know what they were doing. The brilliant The Old Ways, by Robert MacFarlane, a book about the ancient footpaths of Britain, is a very good example. Truly, not all who wander are lost.

Usually though, it’s best not to wander. Where is tension, where is pace and forward movement? An agent once wrote that they could not remember ever having put a book down because it had too much tension. This is top advice, and really is worth paying a lot of attention to. Without it your reader may never reach:

The End

A good ending is essential but I’ve not read much advice on how to do that, or even what one is. An ending needs to be as good as you can make it for several reasons and a key one is that a reader remembers how they feel when they put your book down. And that determines how they talk about it, and even if they will ever read another book by that author. Word of mouth is incredibly important – I once had a long fantasy series recommended to me on the basis that ‘after book three it gets quite good’. Reader – I never started.

I’ve read many reviews of books in series that complained about how the end was not an end, just a pause in the tale, and how disappointing that was. I seldom had the impression they were giving up on the story, and actually, it’s wonderful that the reader continued to trust the writer. Or maybe it was just hope, because clearly the story wasn’t over. I too hate to leave a story unfinished.

The End depends on the Middle and the Beginning.

If the beginning is about making promises to the reader, then the middle is about trust, and the end is how you reward that trust.  An ending needs to pay back in some way on the promises you make to the reader in the course of the story you have told.  Whether your ending is full of blood and thunder or quietly introspective, whether those promises were directly kept, or subverted, the end should summon memories of the journey we’ve shared, author, reader, and characters. In a word, it should be satisfying.

I remember the tears in my eyes finishing Pratchett’s A Hat Full of Sky, the ‘sensawunda’ of Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood, and the open and unresolved end of Zelazny’s Jack of Shadows. I am sure you have your own favourites.

I think this is important enough to say again – People remember how they feel about a book when they put it down. Ideally this should be at the end.

~

(This is an edited version of a post that first appeared on the Milford SF web site in April, 2019. )

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 79 – In his Dreams

Hello! It’s been a while since I’ve posted a chapter. There’s good reason for that, it’s nothing bad but it’s also something I don’t want to go in to here, though I might blog about it later.

Meanwhile, mysteries are being resolved and some questions at least are being answered in…

Chapter 79 – In His Dreams

The more Mrs Woosencraft explained, the more intrigued Foxy became. As her hostility faded she occasionally interjected comments of her own. She even went out to the kitchen to refill the kettle.

‘Why don’t you sit in your
chair?’ Foxy said on her return.

Gratefully Mrs Woosencraft sank
into the cushions.

‘Move up, Tim,’ Foxy said.

Tim lifted Morse onto his lap.
The cat’s eyes never left Foxy and she frowned back at it.

‘Never mind him,’ Mrs Woosencraft
said. ‘He’ll get used to you.’

Tim didn’t find Mrs Woosencraft’s
explanations all that easy to follow. There were long stories and there were
long stories, hers seemed to be recapitulating most of human history. He had a
few questions of his own.

‘You still haven’t said why you
really wanted to find Foxy.’

Mrs Woosencraft pursed her lips.
‘Because I’m old. I’m the last keeper of Deg
Naw Wyth, and only an average one at that. I’ve never seen Deep Magic and
this felt like my last chance before I well, you know – cark it, brown bread, pushing
up the daisies.’

‘Deg Naw Wyth. What does that
mean?’

‘It means Ten, Nine, Eight, and
the name is a trick because all of those numbers can be broken. It came up from
Africa centuries past and took root here. Once– Oh, that was just once and an
age before my time. All that’s left are a few fragments – lucky seven,
everything I say three times is true.’

‘Un Deg Naw,’ Tim said
thoughtfully. ‘You named your cats after numbers?’

‘Well, yes. It was tempting to be
clever and call them things like Hilbert and Keith and Heegner, but to be
honest it made them easier to remember.’

‘It’s not very affectionate.’

Mrs Woosencraft shook her head. ‘They
don’t mind, and they’ve got their own names. Secret ones like ‘Scrwch’ or
‘Yrowl’ they don’t want us to know about. We were all in this together. They
wanted to see a mermaid. Don’t ask me why, cats just like looking at them. Me ?
All I wanted was to meet someone who knew one of the old ways.’

Foxy took over. ‘Our magics don’t
overlap, we’d lost contact. My mother warned me about cats but she didn’t know
why, it was just something we knew. We had forgotten they could be a sign, a
request for a meeting.’

‘Such a shame.’ Mrs Woosencraft
shook her head sadly. ‘Poor little scrap.’

‘What happened to her?’ Tim said.

‘I did,’ Foxy said regretfully. ‘I’d
only just come ashore and straightaway she was there, following me. I decided
better safe than sorry.’

Tim could believe it. He
remembered her reaction to finding Morse in her flat and shifted uncomfortably.
It was a difficult thing to discover the woman you– He had to know. ‘Did you–?’

Foxy shook her head emphatically.
‘I scared her off. A lot.’

Mrs Woosencraft squeezed Foxy’s
hand. ‘We’ve both made mistakes. I want you to call me Dot. All my friends do.’

‘All right.’

Despite their reconciliation Mrs
Woosencraft was exceedingly glum.

‘The skill is gone. Nobody is
interested in the old ways. I don’t have a student, not even a chubby little
goth girl in black lace, purple hair and a nose ring. Soles on their boots like
breeze blocks, some of them. Nineteen isn’t very far to go at all. Ethel
managed twenty-three and a bit of twenty nine. Her tutor mastered thirty-one. These
days hardly anyone even knows their thirteen times table.’

‘There isn’t enough room in our
minds for everything,’ Foxy said. ‘New things push aside the old. Then the new
becomes old and the very old ways return in a new form.’

‘I think she’s right,’ Tim said. ‘Foxy
and I managed a divination with maps. And I–’ He became self-conscious under
Mrs Woosencraft’s suddenly penetrating gaze. ‘I can make things happen in my
dreams.’

Mrs Woosencraft cocked her head. ‘Tell
me more.’

Tim narrated his experiences with
Asklepios.

‘That’s right,’ Foxy said.

‘You knew all this too?’ Mrs
Woosencraft exclaimed.

‘I was going to get around to
it.’

Mrs Woosencraft flapped her hands
with excitement. ‘Show me his pendant.’

Tim pulled it out from his shirt.
Mrs Woosencraft cupped her hands around it without touching.

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Whatever was
there, it’s gone.’

‘You don’t believe me,’ Tim said.

‘I do, but I’d like to see you do
it.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ Tim said. ‘I
have to be asleep.’

Mrs Woosencraft settled back into her chair. ‘Well, I think it’s just about time for my nap.’

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms – Chapter 78, The Ritual

In which a goat makes the ultimate sacrifice to help a time-traveller marooned in ancient Babylon find his way home.

Chapter 78, The Ritual

The white-haired goat gave a strangled bleat, kicked against
its bonds and lay still. Assisted by Ishkun, Asklepios hung the animal by its
back legs from a hook set into a roof beam. The animal struggled briefly then
hung still. Asklepios placed a deep bowl under the goat, took Ishkun’s
proffered knife, and cut the creature’s throat.

Asklepios looked at the dying
animal with some regret. He knew he did not need all this paraphernalia and
that simpler was better, but couldn’t bring himself to give up on the ornate
ritual. Not yet. For now it helped at least as much as it hindered. Experiment
could come later, today was not the time for change.

While he collected the goat’s
blood Banipal cleared away the rushes and gouged a shallow trench all around
the table in the packed earth of the floor. He cleared the debris from the
trench and swept the waste outside.

‘I shall send a simple message to
my master,’ Asklepios said. ‘If he wishes to respond in person he will come. If
not, his answer will reveal itself in a secondary divination.’

Banipal noted Asklepios had been
careful not to mention his master’s name.

Now the incense was smouldering, the
lamps were lit and the correct herbs placed in the seven equidistant positions
around the table. Using the table was a joy, Asklepios’ insight had been
vindicated and he felt his confidence grow. Already he could see how
improvements could be made by adding division marks of thirds and fifths for
simpler rituals, and sevenths for the more complex like the one he attempted
now.

Banipal and Ishkun stood to one
side. The priest held a flask of wine, the hunter his bloody dagger.

Asklepios went outside, changed
into a short-sleeved knee-length shirt of clean white linen and re-entered the
room. He took up the bowl of blood and carried it slowly and carefully to
Banipal, who poured in a measure of wine. The he turned to Ishkun, who stirred
the mix with his knife.

He poured the mix of blood and
wine into the channel, put the bowl aside, went to his allotted place, raised
his hands palms upwards and began to chant.

Time passed. Banipal’s feelings
of awed anticipation gradually changed to the bored tension he often felt during
the longer rituals in the temples at Esagila. Beside him Ishkun shifted his
feet and Banipal knew his friend was itching to move.

Asklepios finished his chant and
knelt on the spot he had marked on the ground, intermittently prostrating
himself. As he repeated the move for the umpteenth time one of the lamps went
out.

Ishkun sighed in exasperation and walked from the room.

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 77 – The Truth

Author’s note: A day late, but it’s still the weekend and it’s only a day. This week’s chapter from The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms is called ‘The Truth’. So i suppose the question is – can you handle it? More to the point, can Heidi?

Chapter 77 – The Truth

There she was, dressed in another variation of lace-up
boots, a long skirt and scoop top in black and purple. His heart in his mouth, Persistent
Smith hurried towards the Kylma Kala main entrance.

‘Hello. It’s me,’ Smith boomed
anxiously.

‘So I see.’

Smith grimaced unhappily. ‘Sorry
I’m late.’

Heidi was incredulous. ‘Late? It’s not even the same day.’ She headed off along the pavement. ‘It’s my lunch hour, I need to do some shopping.’

Smith hurried after her. ‘I could
buy you lunch.’

‘No, thank you.’

Nonplussed, Smith fell back. ‘Help
me,’ he begged the Hand.

‘He was kidnapped!’ the Hand
shouted. ‘Locked in the boot of a car and driven to Southampton.’

Furious, Heidi spun on her heels.
‘No you weren’t. Don’t you dare lie to me.’

‘Yes, I was. Honestly,’ Smith
said.

‘It’s the truth, honest to God,’
the Hand cried. ‘Sure as the fact that I’m just a stupid hand pretending to be
a person. Or am I a person pretending to be a hand? I don’t know any more. You’ve
got to help me!’

Lunchtime crowds pushed around
them. ‘Really kidnapped? Really?’

‘Only by accident. I escaped.’

‘Well, yes, I can see that.’

Smith grimaced uncomfortably. ‘It
wasn’t that difficult.’

‘You’re impossible, do you know
that?’

Heidi walked away. Smith bounded
in front of her. ‘I’m persistent.’

‘Do you know how long I waited
for you? I felt like a complete idiot.’

‘I don’t know where you can get
one of those around here,’ Smith said. ‘I’m only part of an idiot, will that
do?’

Despite herself, Heidi smiled. ‘What
really happened?’

‘I was on an adventure.’

Heidi shook her head. ‘Tell me
the truth.’

‘I was following someone and hid
in the boot. Then they drove the car away.’

Heidi jerked her head towards the
offices. ‘You don’t work here do you?’

‘As well as being a bit of an
idiot I’m a bit of a detective too.’

Heidi absorbed the information.
‘Which bit?’

‘The bigger one.’

They started walking.

‘Then what happened?’

‘They got out the car. I escaped and
we drove back to Brighton.’

‘We?’

‘My friends. They actually really
were properly kidnapped, on a ship. They escaped and swam to shore.’

It all sounded utterly implausible.
On the other hand this was Derek Smith. ‘So where’s the car?’

‘Just around the corner.’

Smith showed her.

‘Oh Lord, where did you get a
machine like that?’

‘I just said.’

‘What about the owner?’

‘He drowned when the ship sank.’

‘I don’t know whether to believe
anything you say.’ Heidi ran her hand over the crumpled rear wing. ‘What a
shame this happened.’

‘I’m going to get that mended,’
Smith said.

Most of the damage was from Tim’s
sideswipe of the Mercedes. There were also fresh knocks and scrapes on the front
bumpers. On the drive back to Brighton Smith had leaned over the front seat and
studied how Tim moved his feet across the pedals and moved the gear stick. It
hadn’t looked difficult. When they pulled up in Tim’s street he said he would take
over and drive home. And they let him.

Something beeped in Heidi’s
handbag. ‘Dammit. Look, I’ve got to go,’ she said but didn’t move away.

‘OK.’ Smith shuffled his feet and
stared at his shoes.

The beeper sounded again, louder.
‘That stuff you helped me with on the computer was really important. Thank
you.’

‘All part of the service, ma’am,’
the Hand said.

Heidi took a step away. ‘I really
have to go.’

Smith took a deep breath. ‘I could pick you up after work.’

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 76 – The Beginning

Mrs Woosencraft recognised the distinctive tone of the
Imperial as the car pulled up outside. Filled with trepidation she listened to
the doors open and close and the car move away. The knock on the door was no
surprise. Reluctantly she prepared herself, walked down the hall and opened her
front door. What would be, would be.

‘I’ve come for Morse,’ Tim said.
Beside him was the young golden-haired woman called Foxy Bolivia who Mrs
Woosencraft had glimpsed in the Mercedes yesterday, only yesterday.

Breathless with relief Mrs
Woosencraft stepped back. ‘Best come in, then.’

A dozen cats made themselves
scarce.

Morse lay curled up on the tatty
old sofa in the back room.

Mrs Woosencraft could hardly keep
her eyes off Foxy. There was an aura of wildness about the woman. Not of
aggression but of freedom. She was someone who lived and was at home in the
wider world. The deeper world. The thought made Mrs Woosencraft’s mouth dry
with nerves.

She took in the weariness on
Tim’s face, the ill-fitting boiler-suit and the fact he had no shoes. Weariness,
and something else.

You’ve come through testing times, she thought. They have opened your eyes.

‘I’m glad you made it back,’ she
said.

Tim nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Tim sat down on the sofa, picked
up Morse and scruffed the top of his head. ‘Tea would be lovely.’

Morse purred softly and pretended
to go back to sleep. If cats could smile…[1]

Mrs Woosencraft was almost but
not absolutely sure. Hope put a catch in her voice. One short conversation in
private… ‘Would you like to give me a hand in the kitchen, love?’

‘No.’

‘I could do with a hand.’

‘I’m sure you can cope.’

Mrs Woosencraft tried a different
tack. ‘That’s Tim’s cat, Morse. I’ve been looking after it for him.’

‘I see it.’

‘Not a cat person, are you?’ Mrs
Woosencraft said.

‘What are you supposed to make of
an animal that likes fish but won’t go out in the rain?’

Mrs Woosencraft bit her lip. It’s you, Foxy Bolivia. It really is you and
you are what they say you are. Oh, my goodness gracious me.

Even with that realisation, it
was cats they were talking about so she tried for the last word. ‘You’re not meant
to try to understand them. Just accept them for what they are.’

‘Some things are unacceptable.’

She means me and I deserve it, Mrs Woosencraft thought sadly. Deserve it in spades. Oh dear, oh deary me
I’m in trouble now. Oh, bugger me sideways with champion leeks.

The simple of ritual of warming
the pot, spooning leaves and brewing was as calming as ever. Some of Mrs
Woosencraft self-confidence returned.

This was her house, after all,
she told herself. And that meant a fair bit, even in this day and age.

She carried the tray into the
back room. Tim and Morse occupied the sofa. Like Electra, Foxy had chosen the
armchair, the one the cats knew not to sit in.

She put the tray down, sat on the
piano stool and looked Foxy up and down.

And she could not help herself, she
was just too excited. Things hadn’t gone as she’d hoped (there had never been a
plan, just expectations). Yet now it looked as if it might now work out. She
rubbed her hands and beamed her best sweet little old lady smile.

‘You really are her, aren’t you? The
one we’ve all been looking for. The mermaid.’

Foxy looked down her nose at the
dumpy little old lady. ‘And you’re a witch.’

‘Oh, but I knew it! This is
wonderful, I’m so–’

‘You’re so sorry?’ Tim said sharply.

Mrs Woosencraft dipped her head. ‘Yes.
You are absolutely right. Listen to me go on.’ She pressed her hands together.
‘Tim, I am very sorry for deceiving you. I have not behaved like a friend.’

Tim looked at her steadily. So
did Morse.

Sitting on the piano stool with
her feet not quite touching the ground Mrs Woosencraft felt a little
interrogated. She bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry for the cat-napping too.’

She turned to Foxy. ‘And I’m very
sorry for what you’ve been through, pet. Markus Koponen isn’t a bad man.’

‘Wasn’t,’ Tim corrected. ‘The
last time we saw him he was trying to launch a boat from a sinking ship.’

That knocked her back. She’d known
bad things were coming but to have them confirmed– ‘He might have made it.’

‘So might Troy, but Imelda hurt
him badly.’ Tim sketched in the details of the fight and what had happened to
Koponen’s women.

‘I tried to warn Markus. You were
there Tim, you heard me.’ Mrs Woosencraft chewed her thumbnail. ‘I should have
tried harder, I should have made him listen to the truth–’

There was scant sympathy in
Foxy’s voice. ‘Yes, let’s have your version of the truth.’

‘Well–’ Mrs Woosencraft wriggled
her bottom, she scratched behind an ear. ‘Well– It’s like this. You might not
believe it but I was–’

‘There’s a lot I believe today
that I didn’t yesterday, so just tell us,’ Tim said.

His sharp words were a verbal
slap and brought her to her senses. ‘I was on my uppers, stoney broke and Koponen
offered me money. Then I was one cat short, I’d been paid and I’d made a
promise. Whatever you might think I’ve got my standards. I needed nineteen, you
see? Nineteen cats to make it work.’ Her hands dropped into her lap and she
sighed. ‘It all seemed so reasonable at the time. Looking back I can see how I
talked myself into it. I thought it would all be all right, I’d be able to find
Foxy first, we could have our little chat and you could go on your own way. All
sorted out nicely. I never wanted any trouble, it’s all been very upsetting.’

Tim and Foxy exchanged puzzled
glances. Tim poured the tea. ‘I think you’d better start at the beginning.’

[1] Was it affection or was it relief? No doubt a bit of both. After all, meal ticket #1 was back in town.

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 75 – Perfection

Outside my window it’s a cold and miserable day in what is supposed to be spring.  I hope it’s warmer and sunnier wherever you are. If not, here’s the next chapter form The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms to entertain you. And so, without further delay, somewhere in ancient Babylon…

Chapter 75 – Perfection

The table was ready and it was perfect. Asklepios admiringly
ran his hand over the smooth sanded surface. Two gold-inlaid lines divided the
circular top into exactly equal quarters. He rested his cheek on the top and
looked along them. Each one ran straight and true. Two finer lines subdivided
each quarter into thirds, also inlaid with the precious metal.

Asklepios had been intrigued to
discover the craftsmen worked in both base ten and base sixty, as did all
numerate people in Babylon. He soon understood the advantages of working in a
large base divisible without remainder by many numbers. Though it was difficult
to learn the higher base he persisted.

Each third was further subdivided
into thirty sections, each marked by a short groove on the table’s
circumference, with every tenth line cut twice as long.

Banipal watched Asklepios
closely, happy see the pleasure in his guest’s eyes.

‘Your carpenters are at least the
equal of the finest in Baghdad.’ Asklepios’ vocabulary had increased rapidly,
he was grateful he could now express his thanks properly. He clasped Banipal’s
hands in his own. ‘Thank you, my friend. This is a gift beyond kindness, beyond
hospitality–’ His throat grew tight, he wanted to say more but could not.

Banipal did not mind, he could
see Asklepios’ joy, though he was not sure the cabinetmakers would appreciate
being called carpenters no matter how fine.

Once he fully understood Asklepios’
request Banipal was interested in the idea for his own purposes. The
cabinetmakers quickly grasped Asklepios’ ideas and encouraged by Banipal’s
status and gold they worked fast. In fact Banipal found Abil-Ilishu, the shaven-headed
and bright-eyed elderly guild leader, enthusiastic to the point of arm-waving.

‘It will be magnificent! Seasoned
cedar, teak and ebony, ivory–’

‘Northern oak will be fine.’

Abil-Ilishu absorbed the instruction
without pausing. ‘Yes. Fine-grained oak, an economic choice and almost as good
quality. I guarantee not one knot-hole or other flaw. I propose it is inlaid
with alternating segments of ebony and ivory, the contrast will be–’

‘Again, not necessary. This is a
working table.’

‘–beautiful.’ Abil-Ilishu pouted,
then burst back into life. ‘A double rim around the circumference bounding the
degree marks and inlaid in silver, broad and deep. The marks and radii inlaid
gold, major diameters capped with rubies and minor alternating jacinth and
sardonyx. I suggest chalcedony–’

The conversation wore on. After a
long hour, a pause for refreshment, then further negotiations they settled on a
simple medium cost design with diameters, radii and tenth-angle marks inlaid
with gold. There would be no silver, rubies, sardonyx or jacinth.

‘This is a prototype,’ Banipal
explained, feeling oddly guilty about not spending his own wealth. ‘A table to
your original design may well follow.’

‘I understand completely.’
Abil-Ilishu said, equably, his grumbling protests that a plain design was
unworthy of the cabinetmaker’s craft apparently forgotten.

Looking back, Banipal wondered if
Abil-Ilishu had in fact got exactly what he wanted. After all, he, Banipal, had
only wanted wooden a table.

Asklepios watched as Banipal fetched
twine and began measuring the table’s circumference.

May I help?’ Asklepios asked.

Banipal passed Asklepios one end
of the twine. ‘Hold this against the table.’

Asklepios pressed down on the
twine with his thumb. ‘What are you trying to do?’

‘The world is round. I wish to
measure it.’

‘What is the problem?’

‘I do not yet understand how the
diameter changes relative to the circumference as a circle grows.’

‘It doesn’t,’ Asklepios said.

Banipal looked up. ‘What do you
mean?’

‘It is the same for all circles, part
of their mystery. The ratio is always twenty-five eighths.’

Banipal stared in amazement. He
drew lines and circles in the air with his fingers. ‘You are quite certain?’

‘Completely.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘It is a part of our history. Once,
a group of foreign monks fled persecution because of some learned scrolls in
their possession. They founded a monastery at a place called Jundi Shapur, lived
peacefully and obeyed our laws. In time the emperor became ill and no cure
could be found. A servant sent for one of the monks and as a result of the
monk’s medicines and care the emperor grew well. For a reward the monk asked
only that he and his brothers be allowed to teach philosophy, medicine and
astronomy from their scrolls, which were exceedingly ancient and the only
copies that yet remained in the world.’

Banipal fetched parchment and
drew more lines and circles. ‘How can this be? How can a line grow in simple length
yet the proportion of the bounding circle–?’

 Asklepios spread his hands. ‘I don’t know, but
it does.’

Banipal frowned, then laughed
long and loud. ‘It was me all along. My mistakes, my errors. I’m relieved, you
know. I really am.’

‘It happens to us all.’ Asklepios
remembered his own mistakes keenly.

Banipal ran his hand over the
table. ‘We need better instruments.’

‘We do indeed.’

That evening Asklepios narrated
his own adventures to Banipal and Ishkun. They listened attentively, accepting not
only had he been magically transported from another land, but from another age
as well.

When he had finished Ishkun sat
back, his hand on his chin. ‘Truly, Ea sent you here to teach Banipal. Before
that could happen Marduk asked Ekad to test both of you with his river.’

Not wanting to argue religion
Asklepios said nothing. Sensing his discomfort, Banipal asked him about his
plans for the table. Specifically, when would he perform his magic?

Asklepios grew even more
uncomfortable. ‘If I could teach you ten times what I know it would not repay
you for your kindness. Before I can perform a ritual I have to ask you for even
more – herbs, incense, lamp oil.’

Banipal sat forwards, his eyes
burned bright. ‘Tell me what you need.’

Asklepios tried without success to
describe the herbs and spices. Banipal clapped him on the shoulder. ‘We will go
to the market together. You point to the things you need and I shall buy them. That
way there is no risk you will have to jump into the river again.’

Late in the night Asklepios rose
and went to the table. The wick from the evening lamp guttered as the oil ran
dry. Idly he traced the ritual place markings, curves and lines crossing the
surface. Once again he marvelled at the accuracy of the design.

Now there could be no errors, all
would be perfect.

Banipal related Asklepios’ tale of the monks to Ishkun. When
the story was done Ishkun wept.

‘What in this tale troubles you
so?’ Banipal said.

‘It tells me that one day Marduk
and Ea will turn their backs on us. Babylon will be nothing but fallen walls
under drifting sand.’ Ishkun dried his eyes. ‘Our achievements will be
forgotten. We will be less than memories.’

‘No,’ Banipal whispered, half to
himself. ‘No.’ he looked out across the glorious stepped pyramid of Etemenanki
and considered the might of Babylon’s armies, her foot soldiers and chariots,
the strength of her double walls, the wealth of her storehouses and granaries,
the grand canals and temples and tried to imagine it all gone.

It was all too easy.

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms – Chapter 74

It has been a distracting couple of weeks here in the UK, sometimes it has felt like the world has been on fire. Light, perhaps, at the end of the tunnel, except broadband issues then arrive. It’s not been easy to do the post today, but I made it and the latest chapter of The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms is now up! Yay!

Have good weekends, one and all.

Chapter 74, An Amazing Guy

Crouched behind the Imperial, Persistent Smith watched two anonymous
silhouettes backlit by the dawn glow emerge from the water and wearily make
their way up the slipway. When he recognised one of them he stepped out of
cover. ‘Over here, Tim. It’s me, Smith.’

Tim’s companion was a tall athletic
woman. She looked very tired. Even so, she began combing her hair. It was the longest
hair Smith had ever seen and it glowed pale gold.

Not knowing what else to say,
Smith put on a fake Chicago accent. ‘Who’s the dame?’

Tim was in a daze. His clothes
were soaked, his sopping leather jacket sagged heavily from his shoulders. Smith’s
words and big, eager face slowly registered. ‘This is Foxy Bolivia. She saved
my life.’

‘Hey,’ Foxy said. ‘Got anything
to eat?’

Smith dug around in his fleece
pockets and offered a half-melted bar of chocolate and the broken remains of a
few biscuits.

‘Thanks.’ Foxy grabbed them all. ‘Starving.’

‘How come your clothes are dry?’
Smith said.

‘BecauseImafrippinmermaidallright?’
Foxy said from a mouth crammed with broken biscuits.

‘Sorry. I just wondered.’

‘Wellgetusedtoit.’

‘Sure thing. No problemo.’

Tim stood in his socks in a
puddle of sea water. He looked at Smith and tried to order his thoughts. Foxy
Bolivia was a mermaid but the surprises kept coming. ‘Smith, it’s good to see
you. How did you escape?’

Smith puffed an imaginary cigar. ‘They
haven’t made the cage that can hold me.’

‘Of course not.’ Tim shivered. ‘I’m
freezing.’

‘Wait here.’ Smith darted away
and returned with two pairs of overalls from the alcove he’d used as an
emergency latrine.

Tim stripped off his sodden
clothes, careful to retain the pendant. His old jacket was ruined, the leather
slimy and stretched, the sleeves reaching past his fingertips. He pulled on one
pair of overalls and dried his hair with the other. His skin tingled as he grew
warmer. He’d spent who knew how many hours underwater and felt like he’d run a
marathon. Some food would be good. Ham egg and chips. He salivated. ‘Any of
that chocolate left?’

 ‘Sure.’ Foxy handed the uneaten half of the
chocolate bar. She looked fine, in fact she looked great. Her skin glowed with
health, her clothes were perfect, her hair shone.

Tim devoured the chocolate in two
bites. ‘We need to get out of here.’

Smith pointed to the Imperial. ‘I
found the car.’

‘That was good work,’ Tim said. ‘Actually,
it was great work.’

‘I know. Let’s get in.’

‘No keys.’

Smith extracted the keys from the
exhaust pipe with a flourish.

Tim gave him a weary grin. ‘Smith,
you’re quite an amazing guy.’

Smith looked steadily back. ‘Yes,
I think I probably am.’

Foxy climbed into the driver’s
seat. She twisted the wheel enthusiastically. ‘I want to drive.’

‘You can do that?’ Tim wondered
about the pedals.

‘Humans do it all the time. How
hard can it be?’

‘Move over.’

Foxy slid across the front bench,
Smith climbed into the rear. The engine throbbed into life. The windscreen was
coated in dew.

Tim operated the wipers, held the
wheel and looked through the windscreen down the long black bonnet. He’d spent
a lot of time and effort looking for this car. Barefoot and wearing a shabby
old boiler suit, now he was behind its wheel. The search had shown him strange
and terrible things. He looked at Foxy beside him. Wonderful things too.

The metal of the accelerator
pedal was cold under his foot. He pressed down and the big car surged away down
the quayside. Tim swung around in a fast one-eighty and headed towards the exit.

The engine had a superb tone. Tim
listened then said, ‘The timing needs advancing by one half degree and the plug
in cylinder three needs the gap setting.’ He frowned. ‘How do I know that?’

Foxy tapped his chest. ‘The pendant.
It wasn’t just Sea Cucumber, it
taught you the language of machines.’

It was true. The Imperial felt
like a natural extension of his own body – 
exhaust, transmission, valves and gears.

‘Look.’ Foxy pointed at the
Mercedes parked beside a warehouse.

The Imperial was doing fifty and
still accelerating.

‘Hold on.’

Tim dropped the clutch, span the
wheel and hauled on the handbrake. The rear side of the heavy Imperial
fishtailed hard into the Mercedes and slammed it into the side of the warehouse
with a thunderous metallic bang and splintering of glass.

‘Yay!’ Foxy twisted in her seat. Behind
them the Mercedes rocked from the impact, its windscreen was crazed, one of the
tyres was flat, a hubcap spun madly across the quay. ‘Tim Wassiter, you bad
man!’

Tim’s mouth twisted in a lopsided
smile as he brought the Imperial back in line. ‘Two and a half tons and not a
hint of understeer.’

Smith slid around on the bench seat
giggling with excitement. ‘How fast can this thing go?’

‘Let’s find out.’

The big black car roared through the dockyard gates and tore through the empty dawn streets of Southampton. Out on the coast road they sped towards Brighton at over one hundred miles an hour, their headlights blazing to challenge the rising sun.

To be continued…