Here are a few graphics/ideas that I have recently been playing around with...


(Click on any image, to enlarge).

Are you?

Are you normal?

Do you want to be

A faceless person in a heaving sea

With no aims, ambitions, dreams or goals

Just happily plodding along that road?

Are you slowly dying?

Don’t you feel the magic of each new day

The sounds of laughter as children play

The warmth of the sun on your back, so good

The song of birds, the smell of wood?

Are you passing time?

Don’t you wonder at the sky, so blue?

The start and end so vague to you

I hear you say, ‘I am happy still

So too is an ant that has no will

Wake up wake up it’s not too late
There still is time to change your fate

Renounce the ‘normal’, do something MAD

Shock them all create a fad
Be yourself alive with goals

With dreams and wonders still untold

Exult this life in your own distinctive way

It’s yours alone; you must have your say

Lest you slip into oblivion (without a trace).

My bonesMy bones are cold

(I found it hard to sleep last night)
My bones are old
I need more rest tonight
If the weather turned warmer, very soon

I might just last, and make it through till June

I feel as though my end is neigh

If it rains any more I will certainly cry

Oh where is the sun?

Has it forever gone?

Oh where is the sun?

Is it on the run?
From me and you and them as well

We could all be living in our own hell

And not yet knowing that we are there

Through time and space (and the weather fair)
I need the light. I crave the sun

There must be more than forever on the run
Trying to escape the hell of the poverty trap
There must be life!

Where is the map?
Now is the time to seek and find

To stand and say, “I will not be blind”
To all that is around me now
No blinkered eyes or mind in the here and now
I will be myself!




Originally Intended for publication on April 1st.

The other day I heard the earth was flat
That all these years it’s been like a mat,
That you hardly see or notice there.
Until you are told the earth is square.
If it is square then I am sure
What I have learnt was oh so flawed
But perhaps it’s all a dream of sorts
And when I awake all will be as before
And if it’s not then I must learn
not to walk too far or I will fall
Off of the edge

Elusive dreams?

We all have our dreams
Our ultimate goals
How things might be
If we were so bold
To follow our dreams
And follow our hearts
Despite the extremes
We face at the start
It can be achieved
Of this I am sure
With spirit thus freed
Abundance in store
The conclusion will see
That I was so right
Once sacrifice made
The future is bright

Louco’s Preferred Drink

My drink of choice
My choice of drink
It gets me going
(Keeps me in the pink)
I keep it there
Up on the shelf
Close by me
(Just my own self)
And when I feel
So tired and slow
It perks me up
From head to toe
Its… Louco’s aid

Old Friends Revisited

Snowdrops
White drops
Teardrops
Jewels
First friend
Winter’s end
Sadness end
Treasures
Joyful sight
End of night
Hail the light

My friends

How To?

The shortest day

All is affray

The darkest night

So full of fright

The hush of death

So short of breath

It’s all around

The only sound

To escape the rot

I have forgot

How to live

?

Smelly dogs, smelly hogs

All for us or us for them?

Are we right or lacking in sight?

Do we need to scrutinise them?


I‘m, not

I’m not ‘normal’

I don’t want to be

A faceless person in a heaving sea

Walking along that pointless road

I need my dreams, my aims and goals
I want to live

I want the time to see the day

I need the time to have my say

To do the things I have to do

I want to live, this is so true

Time is precious

This road I tread just one time

I must use each day as best I can

My thoughts I’ll write with ink and pen

Record, inscribe and share with them

It can be hard

At times it’s hard to complete my dreams

My time is scarce, so too my means

But if I don’t tread this, my very own plan

It’s me too blame, no woman or man

Rise up rise up

At fifty years the time is here

To not be ‘normal’, of this I’m clear

The goal I seek is worth the pain

The prize I search is what I’ll gain

I must not loose sight of my dream

I want the time to see the day
I need the time to have my say
To do the things I have to do
I want to live, this is so true
This road I tread just one time
I must use each day as best I can
My thoughts I’ll write with ink and pen
Record, inscribe and share with them
At times it’s hard to complete my dreams
My time is scarce, so too my means
But if I don’t tread this, my very own plan
It’s me too blame, no woman or man
At fifty years the time is here
To not be ‘normal’, of this I’m clear
The goal I seek is worth the pain
The prize I search is what I’ll gain
I must not loose sight of my dream


At 50

I'm 50, it came so fast

The big five-o, I am aghast

Where are the years, they flew so fast

As ever nearer the grave I pass

If I could have that time again

What changes I would make

Early Christmas Morn

At break of morn before the dawn

We open our eyes to see

If he has been, we are so keen

Will we be filled with glee?

We open the door, at half past four

We must go have a peep

What’s under the tree for you and me

Down the stairs we creep

We make our way, and as we pray

A vision of joy unfolds

With cars and stars and rockets to mars

A thousand dreams untold

These are the dreams, the childhood scenes

Repeated across the globe

For one short night there is be no fright

It should, just always be

Thank you so much, we love you such

For giving us so much joy

We will be good, we know we should

Each and very girl and boy
A Christmas thought…


If you eat to much this Christmas

Don’t be concerned at all

As the extra calories you have consumed

Can be saved up and made good use of later

As cushioning against inflation

Mice

Last night as I lay down in my bed

I heard them…Scratching

Up there, in the dark cold attic

I heard them…Scratching

A trap I placed (not too far from them)

A tempting morsel placed upon it

I heard a snap - No more scratching

Searching…

What is peace?
Does anyone really know?
I’ve searched so hard
But it evades me so
Will I ever know
Its sweet embrace?
Its soothing touch,
And saving grace?
Or will I fumble on
From day to day?
‘Till I can dream no more
And fade away?


Ah!

Timed does not exist…

Ah, but here’s the twist

It’s always NOW

No before or then

No happy ever afters

For mice and men

It’s NOW - It has always been

‘Befores and afters’
Just a silly dream



Moving On

My time here now is almost run

A time well spent

A time, some fun

I must move on now

To a diff’’rent place

Another land, another face

Will we meet again?

It’s hard to know

And if we doIs it right, yes or no?



Words in stone…

At the end of your days
When all your struggling is done
When the battle is fought
And the war has been won
When you lie ‘neath the soil
In splendid retreat
All that is left to tell of your deeds
Are some words carved out, oh so neat
When your soul is at rest
And your body no more
Those words above you
Might lead to implore
They may inspire some person
Who is not yet in this world
To strive and continue
With your aims and your goals
Those few words on that stone
Though they be cold and so still
Are perhaps the most important of all
The things you leave in your will
So before that day comes
Record those words down
Of how you want to be remembered
And for what, through all time…

Changes?

We have new pope
A pope without hope
He is ever so old
(He could die on the spot)

We have a new pope
A pope without hope
(A conservative man
If ever there was)

We have a new pope
A pope, who gives no hope…

Elusive dreams?

We all have our dreams
Our ultimate goals
How things might just be
If we were so bold

To follow our dreams
And follow our hearts
Despite the extremes
We face at the start

It can be achieved
Of this I am sure
With spirit thus freed
Abundance in store

The conclusion will see
That I was so right
Once sacrifice made
The future so bright

…

copyright 2006 gerrardtwilson

Last Night (did this really happen?)

I heard a sound by my bedside last night
I heard a lone sound, how I got such a fright
Something passed by me, deep in the night
I heard a faint sound; did it want my poor life?

I made no sound; I was still, in such fright
As I lay in bed, in the deep of the night
I could hear something close by me, how I longed for the light
What was this dark thing, evading my sight?

A dark, black mass, a shadowy sight
Began to rise, slowly, in front of my eyes
As I lay in bed on my left-hand side
This dark, evil thing slowly rose into sight

I could not move a muscle; I was frozen in fright
As the dark, frightful vision continued, in height
Till it’s evil eyes were almost in sight
Only then did I close mine, despite the dark night

I knew it was wicked, the devil personified
He wanted my sight, the light of my life
If I kept my eyes closed, shut tight as the night
I might just be spared from the Grim Reaper’s cold scythe

Finally, eventually, I opened my eyes
Had he gone, departed – left, from my bedside?
But no! He was there (though lower again)
Starting, beginning, rising yet one more time

How could I be free from this terrible beast?
That wanted my soul, my heart and my peace
Perhaps, if this time my eyes remained firmly closed
It might well just give up and go away home

So as my eyes closed, again, in such fright
I prayed and I hoped that I’d last out the night
I could feel its Dark Presence, so close by my brow
But kept my eyes shut, it wouldn’t bother me now

The darkness and danger passed from me that night
Vanishing, returning, away from my sight
I rolled over, so comfy, lulled back into nod
Till the next time it happened, it’s just me and my God

Well, what do you think - did this actually happen? The answer might surprise you...
you can e-mail me on gtpwilson@eircom.net

A Christmas Fairytale
By Gerrard T Wilson

Last Christmas Eve began no different from any other. I rose at 7.30 as I always do and, yawning, opened the blinds to see what the day offered. It was a cold dark morning so typical of midwinter with a thin wisp of frost covering the ground, my car and the few scattered toys my children had absentmindedly left out. Simply looking out onto the frosty wonderland sent shivers down my spine, so taking hold of my dressing gown, embracing its wonderful warmth, I pulled it tighter around me. “That’s better,” I said quietly, not wanting to awaken anyone.

Still yawning, I walked down the hallway and into the kitchen where I plugged in the kettle for the most important part of the day – my first mug of coffee. For someone who has never imbibed of this aromatic concoction it is impossible to understand the importance of it. Why, even the simple act of spooning the granules sent my pulse racing. “Coffee’s coming!” my receptive brain tells my eagerly awaiting body. And when I pour the hot, boiling water releasing the full aroma of the coffee beans my taste buds go into sensory overload. Last but not least I pour in a few drops of milk – just to colour it. It’s now ready. Raising the mug to my, eagerly awaiting lips, I take a big gulp – it’s wonderful. I can now begin to contemplate another day.

Pulling a high-stool up to the café bar I place myself upon it. Then, almost without thinking, I grab the TV remote control and press the green button. It’s an old television that has slowed down over the years (like us all), so it takes its time to awaken each morning. When the picture finally does materialise my mind is immediately drawn away from the ‘coffee ceremony’ to the scene being played out upon it. I stop slouching. I stare, shifting my position, edging closer to the cathode ray tube unable to fully take in the spectacle I see.

“It’s him!” I cry. “This can’t be right. Where are the programme presenters?” I ask quizzingly. Placing my now half empty mug upon the worktop I rub both eyes in incredulation. “It’s him, it’s really him,” I repeat, still unwilling to believe what I can actually see. I check the television station and, yes, it is the usual one I watch for the early morning news. But all I can see is the full, round face of Father Christmas staring out from it. I flick across to another channel, but there he is again. I try each and every one of the myriad channels available, but all I can see on every one of them is Father Christmas. “What’s going on here? I ask, drumming the counter in puzzlement. Then the penny drops - “Sure it’s the 24th of December,” I proclaim. “It’s Christmas Eve, and everyone knows that Santa comes at Christmas time. That’s the reason why he’s on the TV; it must be some sort of seasonal, charity special!” I say, trying to convince myself.

More relaxed now, believing that I had sorted that out, I reach for my mug and take another swig of coffee; It’s almost cold. “Why is it that cold coffee tastes so awful?” I moan. There’s nothing else for it another one is called for, so pulling myself away from the TV I switch on the kettle and reach for the coffee jar. It’s then I notice something odd, something very odd indeed. The TV… It not even plugged in!

Scratching my head in bewilderment, and then double-checking, to convince myself that I’m not going mad, I follow the lead back from the socket to the appliance, and it’s most certainly out. I scratch my head again, trying to make some sense, if any, of the situation. “Hmm,” I whisper, adding, “I’ll sort this out.” And with that I reach for the remote control and with no hesitation press the red button. “Hah, that will sort you out,” I laugh.

And for a while it did; the picture on the screen obediently faded away leaving a rectangle of greyness it its wake. “Hah, I knew that would fix it,” I laughed, proud to have erased Santa from my sight.

Just then the kettle, having boiled, switched itself off. I spooned in another measure of coffee and poured the hot water over it. “Another few drops of milk and all will be well in the world,” I said, putting the bizarre experience well and truly behind me.
“Why did you do that?”

I froze. “Who said that?” I asked, too scared to raise my eyes from the worktop.
“I did.” The voice, said again.
“Who?” I asked, timidly.
“Look up, Jeremiah. Look up, to the face of Christmas,” the mysterious voice commanded.
Trying to gather as much courage as I could hope for (considering the circumstances), and with trembling hands and shaking mug, I lifted my gaze towards the voice. Father Christmas was once again beaming out from the TV screen, smiling at me nonchalantly. In shock I fell off the stool, knocking over the newly filled mug in the process
“What’s wrong, Jeremiah?” the old man asked, chuckling.
Pulling myself up to the counter, while righting the overturned mug, I stared at the screen, asking, “Is that really you, Santa?”
“It most certainly is, Jeremiah.”
“But why?” I asked, unable to think of anything more profound to say.
“It’s Christmas,” he replied, “what better reason is there?”
He was right. What better time for Father Christmas to appear than the festive season? “Can everyone see you?” I asked him, enquiringly.
“You mean am I on every TV in the land? he replied, eying me with his large round eyes.
“Yes, can everyone else see you?” I asked again.
Before replying the old man laughed, a real jovial Santa Laugh, “No, I’m afraid not. I am only on this television – for your eyes only.” At that his mood changed dramatically, he became quite, most unlike the Father Christmas we have all learned to expect and to love. He remained silent, and did so for what seemed like an eternity, this old man on the TV, with head lowered and eyes cast down - the only thing audible being his heavy, steady breathing.
As I waited for him to say something – anything, my mind couldn’t help but wander. I found my thoughts drifting back, back to my childhood days many years ago. Once again I was young, I was carefree, without a worry or a care in the world – it was fantastic. I found myself asking, “How could I have forgotten the magic of Christmas, a time when anything is possible, if you believe it to be so?”
With these thoughts set firmly, my mind came back to the present realising just what I had lost. Somewhere along the way I had lost something, something very special. I lost – we have all lost the magic of youth. I could see how, as we grow older, we lose this frame of mind, a mindset that is open to anything, and where everything is possible. I shouted, at the top of my voice, “I must do something to rectify this situation.” And it was then I noticed Father Christmas, Santa and all the other names that he is called throughout the world, looking down at me, smiling.
“You now see, don’t you?” he asked kind-heartedly.
Shaking with excitement, I replied, “I do, I most certainly do, and it’s fantastic! How can we have lost this – this enchantment? How can we have been so blind? There are children, everywhere, all around us, children now living the dream, but my mind, all adults minds are closed to the world they see. How? What, must I do to change this?” I implored him.
At this point, what must have been the strangest thing in the whole episode occurred. For a second or two I felt giddy, a little feint – it lasted no more three seconds at tops, but when this light-headedness had lifted, lo-and-behold, standing right there in front of me, and as large as life, was Father Christmas visible for all the world to see. I almost fell of the stool again.
“Phew! I thought I might never get here,” the old man said, brushing down his bright red suit with a dark, gloved hand.
“You’re here,” I blurted out, unable to say anything more meaningful.
Looking at himself, making sure that everything was where it was supposed to be, Santa replied, “Yes, it seems so.” Then he added, “Though I do think it’s about time I got a new outfit, this one is getting a bit thin at the seams, and the red does show up all that soot.”
“A new outfit?”
“Yes, something more practical, a dark grey maybe. What do you think?”
Even though I was still in a state of shock at meeting the real Father Christmas I almost choked at the thought of him sporting a dark grey Santa Suit. “You must be mad,” I retorted forcefully.
“He looked at me questioningly, and then, pushing his round, rimless glasses up his wrinkly nose, said, “Perhaps you’re right. I could be mistaken for a burglar, and Ho, ho ho’s mightn’t get me out from that.”
I said nothing, nor did the old man; Silence once again took hold of our meeting – it reigned. Apart from him taking out a large linen handkerchief, and blowing into it, clearing his nose, not a sound could be heard. I wondered how my wife and two children (a boy and a girl) had been able to sleep though all the shouting I had been doing (not to mention the TV blaring out). Oh well, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy...
Father Christmas finally began to speak once again, but this time it was with a purpose. This man, this good, old man had a definite, planned strategy in mind. He said, “Listen, Jeremiah I have much to tell you, and so little time in which to say it, heed my words…”
He talked. I listened. Sometimes I had to interrupt him asking a question, or for clarification on an item, but for the most part it was he who spoke. And what he said to me on that cold December morning, I had, in essence, somehow always known. He told me that our life here on Earth is short, that we are here for a purpose, an opportunity that must not be wasted. He said, “Grab the moment, be it Christmas or any time of the year. Live life to the full – that is how we can change the mindset of mankind for the better. The old man finished with… “That is all I can tell you, Jeremiah. I hope that you now fully understand the importance of saving the Spirit of Christmastime, not just for a few short weeks each year, but for always.”
“I do, “I replied with a conviction that I had never, ever in my fifty-two years of life, experienced before.”
“Then I will leave it up to you,” he said, “I have a busy night ahead, I must be away...” And with that he was gone – disappeared, into thin air…
While gathering my racing thoughts, trying to get my mind around the strange encounter that I had just experienced, I heard the first awakenings of my wife and children. Then, looking outside through the steamed up window, I discovered that it was beginning to snow. “That’s nice,” I remarked.
“I thought you hated the snow,” my wife, Breda, said, standing in the open doorway.
“I used to, but not any more – it’s Christmas! Let’s go out and make snowmen.” I said. She looked at me suspiciously.
But the mere mention of snow was enough for Eric and Victoria who dashed out from their bedrooms; Victoria pulling a heavy sweater over her head, trying to get it over her pigtails, and Eric, well he was being Eric shoving one arm into his duffle coat while at the same time trying to tuck his shirt into his pants with the other, and with little or no success at either. “Snow!!!” the shouted in unison, displaying all too plainly the magic of youth we can so easily miss.
“Last one out’s a rotten egg,” I shouted, as they scrambled past, determined not to be that egg.
“It’s only just begun snowing, Breda complained, “and what about your dressing gown?”
We never heard her words… we were out in a wonderland dancing, singing and playing in the falling snowflakes.
“Look,” I called, to Eric and Victoria. “Look at this snowflake, see how it’s formed.” The two children, with wide-open eyes and even more open minds, watched as I pointed to a particularly large one that had landed on the arm of my dressing gown. “Look, look closely at it. See its beauty.” I explained. “And did you know that there were never two snowflakes the same, ever! Isn’t that amazing?”
Eric and Victoria’s faces edged ever closer to the most wondrous snowflake discovered. Then suddenly, because of their warm breath, it began to melt. “It’s melting,” they shouted, distraught at its impending demise.
“Don’t worry; let’s find another, even more wondrous one that that was.” I urged them.
“Hurray, it’s Christmas,” they cheered. “Hurray for daddy, even though he’s a bit weird.”
When all three of us finally tired (we had even managed to build a small snowman) we headed back indoors. Breda gave me a cross look (though not too cross) and told us that breakfast was ready. We had piping hot chocolate, and pancakes dripping with butter and honey – a perfect start to a perfect Christmas.


Much later that day after Eric and Victoria were long gone to bed, Breda, snuggling up close to me on the couch, asked, “What came over you today?”
“What do you mean?” I replied, playing it curiously.
“You’re different. It’s like you’ve rediscovered your childhood,” she said. “There’s a magic about you – is this making any sense to you?” she asked, intriguingly.
“More sense than you can ever imagine,” I answered, smiling. “And a Happy Christmas to you.”

And if any of you, reading this, thought that I was going to tell Breda that I actually saw Father Christmas, you are in for a surprise – I didn’t. Though, perhaps, just perhaps, I might have told Eric and Victoria, what do you think?

A Short, Scary Story

By Gerrard T Wilson



Suddenly I find myself alone on a strange beach. Not far out, and directly in font, a large ship passes hurriedly by. It’s one of those huge oil tankers that transport the lifeblood of our increasingly industrialised world. As I watch it slip effortlessly through the dark, murky waters not one sign of life is in evidence along its entire length.
Then, taking note of my immediate surroundings and the situation I find myself in, I cast my eyes both left and right. The beach that I have been (somehow) landed upon is dead flat, stretching away into the distance. Looking down at my feet, and the damp sand beneath them, it’s all too obvious how different this is from those warm, golden beaches so abundant in warmer climes. This one is definitely closer to home. It reminds me of Dollymount Strand, a few short miles from the city of Dublin, a beach that on first sight, because of its huge size and splendid isolation, always energises my soul. A beach that on closer inspection of its grey, cold, compacted sand and ever-present litter creates a sigh of pensive melancholy within me at how uncaring a large section of mankind truly is.
Directly in front of my shoe, almost touching it, a green plastic bottle lies waiting for eternity to erase its unwanted presence. I grab a spade (I don’t know where it came from) and begin digging a hole. Only a couple of inches down, and the sand has changed dramatically. It’s now a congealed sticky blackness that turns my stomach, threatening to expel its last meal, complaining of the obscenity it’s been subjected to. With the help of the spade’s sharp blade, and trying to ignore this imminent expulsion, I tap the offending article into the newly excavated hole. No sooner has it ‘plopped’ to the bottom do the seawaters run in, covering it in a slimy mess of liquefied grunge.
My senses fixed, temporarily locked, watching the demise of the green bottle are suddenly jolted. My heart skips a beat. Where is this water coming from? Only moment earlier the waterline was several yards away. And now, with the hole well and truly consigned to the annals of oblivion, the lapping waters are surrounding my feet. It’s lucky that I am wearing these Wellingtons –heaven knows where I got them! Why, I haven’t owned a pair off Wellingtons for years! But here I am, on a strange beach, (is it really Dollymount?) facing the imminent arrival of a new tide, wearing them!
The tide and its rushing waters continue, relentlessly, waiting for neither man nor beast, as it has done for millennia. I can’t stay here. I turn around. Only then do I realise how far from shore I actually am. Wasting no time, walking with a brisk pace, I head for the safety of dry land. With large strides and determination of mind I splash through the encroaching waters remembering days long ago, splashing through the puddles of my childhood. It’s fun! Life should always be so. We lose far too much of the magic of youth as we journey through life. I’m giddy.
But after a while I find it harder to walk – the waters having now advanced several feet before me. Even the splashing that I enjoyed only minutes earlier now takes seriously more effort to sustain. My pace is too slow. I will have to speed up, to out run it. Breaking into a saunter I soon catch up with the waters’ vanguard and, for a time, I even outpace it, but the promise of dry land is still a long way off.
Now, almost halfway across this huge, cold beach of my eternal winter, and still ahead of the inward bound waters, I see a problem directly ahead! Twenty or so yards in front of me there is a wide dip in the land. It’s only a couple of feet deep – three at the most, but enough to pose a real danger.
I quicken my pace. I try valiantly to outpace the rushing waters. I must cross the depression before the tide fills it in. As I race full-pelt into the sunken area ahead I can feel the soft sand slipping, sliding beneath my feet. It’s hard to keep my speed up. I try. It’s difficult. Half afraid, I glance over my shoulder. I can see the waters tumbling down the slope churning the sand bubbling, boiling. I’m still ahead. I still have a hope of outrunning it! Shifting my gaze to the far side of the dip, and the relative safety of its brow, I head onwards with renewed determination. I can outrun it. I know I can. In no time at all I am striding, boots now splashing, up the other side. The sand here is also loose underfoot. My sped slows down. I can’t slow down. I must reach the top, and be over. The waters rising, my feet are churning, the sand, I’m clinging, fighting, climbing. No, I’m lying. The water’s now reaching over my boots, and into, my feet are freezing – I’m loosing, tripping. Beneath the water, I’m slipping, sliding, dying. Finished. Gone...



Beneath warn dry sheets, sweet smelling linen. I am back in my bed, oh how I’m smiling. How did this happen? Was I only dreaming? It must be so; it’s still not morning. I roll right over to cuddle up anew. But what’s this happening? What’s spilling out? Where did this water come from? Am I wearing Wellingtons?

Greengrocer Jack
and the
Talking Cabbages
(Rough transcript of the first few chapters)

By Gerrard T Wilson


Chapter One
Hot, Sticky Porridge

Some time ago in a place far from here lived a man named Jack. He was, in most ways, like any other man you might meet. He lived a normal life. Nothing much exciting ever happened to him. He got up at the same time each morning, and, after having a wash and shave, ate breakfast – tea and toast being his favourite, except in the wintertime when hot, sticky porridge replaced the toast. He always said, “In wintertime you need something more substantial in you, to keep out the cold.” And to look at him heading out each morning, be it summer or winter, in his heavy, multi-coloured checked coat, you would be forgiven for thinking he couldn’t be anything but warm (with or without the porridge).
Pulling the door closed Jack put the key into his trouser pocket and then headed down the garden path. The old wrought iron gate squeaked as he opened it. “I’ll have to oil you tonight,” he said as it squeaked closed behind him. It was a lovely June morning, the trees in full leaf, the birds singing their hearts out and the sun shining gloriously. “A perfect start to a perfect day,” said Jack as he paced the short distance to work with no inkling of the tremendous events that were about to unfold. Indeed, if on that fateful day he had been privy to certain information, and, if he had, instead, chosen not to leave home that morning the world might now be a quite different, darker place for us all. So, as we follow Jack along the road, let’s see how his adventure began…
“Morning, Jack,” said Mr. Fryer, passing on his way to the fish and chip shop.
“Morning,” Jack replied, adding, “I’ll see you later, Mr. Fryer, I’m looking forward to a nice piece of Rock Salmon for lunch today.”
“Ok, Jack, bye.” Mr. Fryer said as he turned down the lane disappearing from sight.
Passing the old rectory Jack always took the time to admire the Vicar’s wonderful garden. Today, as always, it looked a treat – picture perfect. Spying a particularly large clump of Sweet Williams just coming into their own, Jack stopped, and, leaning on the old rickety picket fence, enjoyed their wonderful perfume. “Hmm, that’s heavenly,” he said, allowing his mind to drift back to days long past, when, as a boy, he grew them in a little patch of garden assigned to him by his father.
“I’m glad you approve,” vicar Fernbach said as he walked up to the fence.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there, vicar. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Glorious,” the old man replied as he lit his timeworn pipe, enjoying the aromatic perfume of the igniting tobacco.
“You know, you shouldn’t be doing that,” said Jack, scanning the garden.
“It’s all right, Jack, my wife has gone shopping,” said the old man, sucking the pipe. “She took the 237 bus to Hounslow - won’t be back till some time this afternoon,” the vicar added.
“That still doesn’t mean you should be smoking, you know how it plays havoc with your health,” said Jack, sternly.
“I know, but let’s keep it as a secret between us,” said the vicar, winking. “How about a big bunch of flowers to brighten up your shop? It might take your mind away from all this smoke.” Vicar Fernbach waved his arms in a mock effort to disperse the smoke haze surrounding him.
“As long as they’re from that clump of Sweet Williams,” said Jack, chuckling, “You know, I have no idea how you managed to ever become a vicar, I really have no idea at all.”
The old man, knee deep amongst the wonderful assorted blooms, trod carefully until he arrived at said the clump of Sweet Williams. Bending down, he cut several dozen of the wonderful flowers until he had a huge armful, “How’s that, Jack? he asked, proudly displaying the fruits of his labour.
“God! That’s far too many,” said Jack, though he took them anyhow.
“You’re welcome, Jack,” said vicar Fernbach. “But remember, not a word to the missus?”
“Don’t worry,” Jack replied, laughing, “discretion is my middle name.” After bidding the vicar goodbye Jack once again headed down the road. Looking at his watch, he said, “Just enough time to pop into Bennett’s for a newspaper.” As he entered the small shop Jack never failed to be amazed at the variety of sweets on display behind the old, glass counter front, and the patience that Mr, and Mrs Bennett had for the mesmerised children it attracted.
“The paper, Jack?” said Mr Bennett, leaving two small children almost hypnotised at the counter.
“Please,” Jack replied, handing him the coppers. “Exact money today, no change needed.”
“Thanks, see you this evening?”
“You sure will, I can’t go home without a Lucky Bag for my niece, Ally.”
At this point Mrs. Bennett, who had just finished serving three giggling girls, looked up and her eyes were immediately drawn to the huge bunch of flowers. “Why, what lovely flowers, Jack. Where on earth did you get them?” she asked.
“The vicar gave me them. Here take some,” said Jack, dividing the large bunch in half.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Mrs Bennett said in astonishment at the unexpected gesture.
Looking at his watch, Jack said, “I had better get my skates on, don’t want the boss to be at my throat, you know.” Laughing, he disappeared through the open doorway.
“Bye,” said the happy couple.
Placing the folded newspaper under his arm, Jack began the last leg of his morning journey…

Standing at the kerb in his white coat with lollypop in hand was the old, familiar figure of Mr Swan. Jack walked up to, and alongside, the frail looking man. “Morning Jack,” said Mr Swan, looking left and right along the length of the road.
“Hello, Mr Swan. It’s a great day, isn’t it?”
“Lovely, I hope it keeps fine for my holidays,” the old man answered.
“Going anywhere nice?”
“Jill and I are going up to the Lake District, went there once, years ago, thought it about time we tried it again.”
“When are you going?”
“In three weeks.”
“I hope you both have a great time, Mr Swan,” Jack replied, with sincerity.
Spotting a gap in the traffic Mr Swan walked into the centre of the road holding the metal sign high for all to see. “There you are Jack, been doing that for a long time, haven’t I?” the old man said. And in truth he had, for Jack had been crossing at this same point since he was a young child. And now, even a mature adult, would never, ever consider doing otherwise. Life can be strange at times, can’t it?



Chapter Two
The Wooden Shop

On reaching the other side of the road Jack stepped onto the path, and walked the short distance down the driveway leading to his place of work – The Wooden Shop. Now you might think that a strange name for a shop, but it was made of wood - completely, so what better name might it have? The Metal Shop, maybe? Nah, that would be stupid – it was The Wooden Shop, and that was that.
Approaching the tired-looking door Jack took the key from his pocket, and pushed it home turning the lock mechanism anticlockwise. The door opened, and as he entered the premises the smell of its stock wafted out, greeting his sensitive nostrils. Smell is, perhaps, a rather inept and inappropriate word to describe the wonderful odour produced by the amazing variety of fruit and vegetables on offer. Aromatic aroma might better describe it because, truly, the array of produce on sale was staggering. There were apples from England, oranges from Spain, tangerines from Israel, peaches from the Canary Islands and leeks from Wales. There were also plums from Cornwall, pears from France, potatoes from Scotland, strawberries from Wexford and cabbages from Lincolnshire. Moving further a field there were pineapples from Ghana, bananas from Jamaica, melons from The Lebanon, kiwifruit from New Zealand, and yams from Nigeria. It was a most remarkable shop, indeed. Entering it was like going on a safari and having a geography lesson combined.
Jack stood in the doorway and flipped the light switch. The fluorescent tubes spluttered into life. He always enjoyed this part of the day. He loved his work and would never dream of doing anything else. Sure why would he? – He had a perfect life, and he loved every moment of it.
After placing the bunch of flowers and newspaper upon the counter Jack took off his heavy, checked coat and hung in on the hook behind the counter. Then, stepping into the small alcove to the rear, he plugged in the electric kettle and made himself a nice cup of tea. He always said, “It tastes better in a cup,” and, “Tea leaves are far superior that those awful, new fangled tea-bags.” Pulling himself up onto the high stool next to the till Jack took a mouthful of tea, opened his newspaper and settled down to catch up with all the latest news. It always intrigued him how so many things, both good and bad, seem to happen somewhere else in the world. “Nothing much happens around these parts,” is what he always said, and up to then that certainly had been to be the case. Sunbury was a quite place in those days, a backwater, to a point, but soon, very soon the peace and tranquilly that he took so much for granted was to dramatically change …


Chapter Three
Tommy Tilbert

Flicking through the pages of his newspaper Jack took another gulp of tea, and, scratching his chin, began reading an article about the wholesale price of fruit and vegetables that had caught his attention. It read, ‘Fruit and vegetable prices soaring.’ “Hmm, I wonder what this is all about,” he said, folding the page in half. He continued reading, ‘All around the world the wholesale price of fruit and vegetables is rocketing.’ It continued, ‘Almost overnight the supply of these items has been dramatically cut. While the reasons are varied, from bush fires in Australia to drought in France and England, from locusts in Africa to floods in Ireland the outcome is always the same – the supply of fresh fruit and vegetables has been dramatically cut, causing an unprecedented rise in the cost of these commodities.’
“I hope this is only a temporary thing,” said Jack. “We all need fruit and veggies. It will cause chaos if it continues.” Eying the words again, he said, “I’ll bet that by this time next month this news will be ancient history – it’s just a blip, that’s all, a simple blip. Yes, I am sure of it.” So without further adieu Jack turned over the page and got on with his reading. This time an article about mushrooms caught his attention, it read, ‘Mushroom blight wrecks havoc on growers.’ Jack read on, ‘ A hitherto unknown disease, a blight, is rapidly spreading through mushroom farms across the world. Nobody knows where it originated, and how it had been able to spread so quickly.’ “Hold on a minute,” said Jack, “just what is going on here? First we have fires, floods, locusts and what have you, and now there is a mysterious mushrooms blight!” Jack scratched his head trying to make some sense of it, but he couldn’t. He was so concerned by this news that he read both articles once again, but all that did was worry him all the more. Then taking one last drink from his now almost cold tea Jack carefully closed the newspaper before placing it beneath the counter. “There’s no time to dwell on this right now, it’s time to open up shop,” he said. And with that Jack pulled the two battered doors open, and gazed up the driveway looking for any potential customers. Staring into the clear blue sky Jack marvelled at the lovely weather. At times such as this he was glad that he hadn’t taken the advice, offered by so many customers and friends down the years, that he should replace the gardens surrounding his shop with tar macadam and concrete. ‘A car park is what you need, Jack,’ one might say. Then another, ‘It’s not easy parking on the street, I might have to go to that new supermarket, at the cross.’ But despite all these ‘threats’ not one of his customers had ever deserted him. The garden stayed. So also did its apple trees, picnic tables and benches. Much better than a silly car park, don’t you agree?
The first person to venture in was, as always, little Tommy Tilbert. “Morning, Tommy, said Jack to the young boy.
“Hello, Mr Wilson,” Tommy replied.
“Your usual, Tommy? Jack asked.
“Yes please, Mr. Wilson,” said Tommy, smiling.
Now Tommy had a penchant for fresh, green apples. He loved them. So much that each and every day, on his way to school, he made a point of calling in to The Wooden Shop, to purchase one.
“I have just received a new batch of apples from New Zealand,” said jack poking around behind the counter. “I have been assured they are something special. Mind you they’re not green,” Jack warned him. “Would you like to try one?” Jack held up a large, dark red apple in his right hand. The fruit was so dark it was almost purple in colour.
Tommy gazed at it, his mouth watering, “Yes please.”
“Here you are, Tommy,” said Jack as he handed the tempting apple to the waiting boy.
“Thanks, Mr Wilson,” said Tommy, offering the usual tuppence.
“It’s alright, Tommy. This one’s on me. All you have to do is tell me tomorrow how you liked it.
The young boy’s eyes lit up, and, taking the prize apple, he placed it carefully into his satchel. “Bye, Mr Wilson.”
“Goodbye, Jack,” and with that Tommy skipped through the doorway and was gone.



Chapter Four
Whispering Voices

Jack was happy that Tommy Tilbert had accepted the New Zealand apple. It was part of a first consignment from that country, and the importers wanted feedback as to their quality, taste and customer appeal. Tommy was the perfect subject for this trial. Despite coming from a broken family (his father had died when he was only three years of age) Tommy was the best-behaved child Jack had ever come across. He often said, “When I get married, if I have ten children as good as Tommy there won’t be one too many.”

Putting on his brown shop coat Jack grabbed hold of the broom and began sweeping out the premises. It always amazed him how so much debris fell from his neatly packed shelves. Yes the shelves were always very neatly packed. Jack might have won prizes if there had been a competition for such an activity. Potatoes, turnips, even yams, all lined up in perfect rows with their best side facing out. “Just because they are vegetables doesn’t mean they can’t be presented as appealingly as apples or oranges,” he always said. And that was so true because each and every part of the displayed produce was flawless.
Sweeping a particularly messy assortment of fallen cabbage leaves into the dustpan Jack thought he heard something. He thought he heard talking. He thought he heard whispers. Bending down he took a look beneath the display counter, but could not see anything out of the ordinary that shouldn’t be there. “Hmm, I must be going dotty, there’s no one here,” he said, scratching his head. So taking hold of his broom Jack continued cleaning the shop of yesterday’s rubbish.
After he had finished sweeping Jack’s next job was to restock the shelves. It was at this point that he tidied the displays to their daily picture perfect state. He always received so much satisfaction in this activity. He knew full well that his efforts were soon to be ‘trashed’ by vigilant housewives inspecting the produce for the very best items, and he forgave them anyhow. First on the agenda were the potatoes. They took the longest, so he got them out of the way first, and when he had completed this task they were a sight to behold; row upon row of lovely, fresh spuds ready to tempt his most fickle customer. Jack, next, turned his attention to the onions. He always had three separate displays in this category; Regular, Spanish and Spring. He flew through the Regular and the Spring onions, but when he began sorting the Spanish onions Jack came across something odd, and it disturbed his concentration entirely. You see, taking a large shiny onion from out of a Hessian net sack Jack placed it, and many more, next to the ones left over from the day before. When he had finished adding to and tidying the display Jack stood back, admiring his work, and only then did he notice that something was obviously not right. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, scratching his head trying to figure out the puzzle. He knew that something was different, and not as it should be, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t see what the problem actually was. Mrs Sentence coming in for her usual Friday order of potatoes interrupted his thoughts. She was a regular. She came in each and every Friday to buy a stone of potatoes for the chips she made for her husband and children. “A growing family needs chips once a week, plus a good sized piece of fresh cod, though not that rubbish Mr Fryer offers, she added” She could be quoted for saying the same sentence, word for word, each and every Friday, without fail.
“Hello, Kitty,” said Jack, greeting her. “Spuds, as per usual?” he asked, by way of politeness.
“Yes, Jack,” Mrs Sentence, answered. “It’s a grand day, isn’t it?”
“Wonderful,” said Jack as he took hold of the scoop and began placing several large, round King Edward potatoes onto it.
“Oh, will you give me that one?” she asked, pointing to a particularly large specimen.
Jack reached for the said potato. It was only after picking it up did he see something peculiar about it. Unlike its comrades already in the scoop the skin of this potato had distinct marking upon it. For a second Jack hesitated.
“Is everything alright?” Kitty Sentence asked.
“What?”
“I said is everything OK?” she asked, again.
“Oh, yes. Yes, it’s fine, Mrs Sentence. I don’t know what came over me,” said Jack, disguising his confusion. Wasting no time he weighed the potatoes put them into a bag and gave them to the woman.
“That will be two and thruppence,” please.”
“Here you are, Jack, half a crown.”
Jack rung up the money on the till and returned thruppence change.
“See you next week, Kitty.”
Bye,” she replied as she disappeared through the open doorway.
Hurriedly walking to the front doors Jack closed them, one after the other, securing each with a hefty bolt. He needed time to think.

Chapter Five
Faces?

“If any more customers come they will jolly well have to wait,” said Jack, looking back and forth like someone was about to jump out and grab him. He remained still, standing rigidly behind the closed doors. His thoughts, racing, his heart pounding, Jack tried his best to come to terms with the peculiar thing he had, only a few moments earlier, experienced. “I see it, now,” he said. “Why didn’t I notice it before? How could I have overlooked something so obvious?” he asked.
Breathing deeply, in slow, regular breaths, Jack tried to compose himself and steady his nerves. “Ok,” he spoke, quietly. “Come on, Jack, there must be a rational explanation to explain it. Yes, there must be…but what???
It was a quiet morning, the fine weather having distracted his regular customers elsewhere. “Thank heavens it’s quiet,” Jack said, tentatively stepping toward the potato counter, “I have no idea what I might say if someone were to knock on the door, looking for service.”
Approaching the potato counter all appeared, as it should be. Everything looked right, that is, apart from one small item – THE POTATOES ALL HAD FACES ON THEM.
Finding courage, Jack leant over to inspect them in finer detail, and, yes, the potatoes definitely had faces, AND THEY WERE ALL STARING RIGHT BACK AT HIM.

Well, that's all there is so far. Heaven knows where it will end. Anny ideas or suggestions???

gtpwilson@eircom.net

Free car stickers (e-mail me for one) gtpwilson@eircom.net

Or print yours out, today!!!

Wot, Nott, Kakuri and the HU BA HOU

A Magical, Mystical Adventure Story- A Race Against Time...

We were not boy wizards, vampire’s assistants or even living skeletons, we normal everyday people living normal everyday lives, with no inkling of the tremendous events that were about to unfold.

Our adventure began with the arrival of a peculiarly small Christmas card, which sent us hurtling to the land of Onisha. Umahia, the Grand Mystic, wanted our help. He needed our help in defeating Miafra who had stolen his powers, the seasons, free will and all time. Umahia told us that we had powers, powers that we had absolutely no inkling we possessed, which might, just might defeat the evil man…

We had no idea that we were going to be attacked by Protectors atop Hound-Horses, fight a statue hell-bent on killing us, be betrayed in our sleep and be forced to fight a dangerous beast called Dragonsaur. No, we had no idea at all. If we had, we might have chosen not to heed Umahia’s call, leaving Onisha and the Earth open to untold dangers…


Prologue

Rioghbhardan and Fikri

Hello, my name is Nott and my best friend is called Wot. We have been friends as far back as we can remember; we have always lived on the same street, we went to the same school, we shared most all our childhood experiences together, we are, and always have been, the very best of friends. Even as adults we still spend most of our free time together, and we couldn’t see it being any other way.
My real name is actually Fikri, and Wot’s is Rioghbhardan, but neither of us liked these given names and from an early age we would play happily for hours on end trying to think up new ones. Despite spending so much time in this preoccupation we found it difficult to pick alternatives, names we felt more suited to. We begrudgingly accepted them that is until one summer’s afternoon when we were again playing trying to pick new ones, when we got a bit giddy. Acting the cod, singing in unison, we said, “What’s in a name? I do not know! It’s not our aim to go on so, trying to find what’s best or not – what must be resolved, or not.” With those words we stopped dead in our tracks, and Rioghbhardan cried, “That’s it! From now on those will be our names – What and Not!”
I immediately agreed, though I changed the spelling slightly, proclaiming, “From now on we are WOT and NOTT, and that’s that.” And little did we realise these names were to remain with them for the rest of our lives.
As we grew older we didn’t drift apart as so many childhood friends tend to do, if anything we actually grew closer. This does not mean we always got on well together, and quite often we might appear more like enemies than friends. The reason for this is that Wot is a laid-back type of individual who cannot be rushed into a quicker rate of knots than he is comfortable with – he gets the job done, but on his terms. This can, at times, drive me almost bonkers because I have a quick mind with an uncanny ability (or so I am told) to work things out. I want to get things done as soon as possible and cannot understand why anyone would have any other way of behaving. This difference in personalities has always ensured life was far from dull for the two of us.
Wot is a larger than life individual whose favourite colours are earthy browns and greens, and his clothes definitely reflect this taste; he always wears flared, cord trousers, whether they are in fashion or not, and a casual, polo neck shirt. Despite prematurely greying, Wot’s short-cropped hair compliments rather than takes from his appearance, but a series of loose wrinkles running horizontally across the back of his head, quite unique to him, have to be seen to fully appreciate their uniqueness.
I am just over half Wot’s height, of a thin build, with black hair and moustache. My preferred items of apparel are a blue suit, crisp white shirt, black tie and my old trilby hat that I would never be seen anywhere without.
…We were two friends living normal everyday lives with no inkling of the tremendous events that were about to engulf us...


Chapter One

A Knock on the Door


24th December.
Sitting comfortably in his favourite armchair in front of a roaring fire Wot was looking forward to a relaxing evening at home watching all his favourite Christmas television programmes. He had already opened the present he had bought himself – a really warm and comfy pair of Christmas slippers, decorated with all sorts of festive scenes and motifs. Before turning on the set Wot slipped a little book from out of his shirt pocket, and opened it. It was in this that he partook of his favourite pastime - writing poetry. He loved writing his poems. He received so much pleasure in writing them, and he never suffered from writers’ block, which others can on occasion be so callously inflicted with. When he took pen to paper with the words flowing freely he was in another world. Some of his poems were long, others so short they were finished almost as soon as they had begun. He wrote happy ones that made him laugh sad ones that made him cry and every other conceivable type. Down through the years in which he had been writing, recording his thoughts and feelings in rhyming verse there was one thing he had always felt, and somehow known, it was a talent he possessed, a gift, which he must never neglect. So picking up the pen Wot wrote down the following...

“Christmas Eve so still I know
But something’s in the wind
There’s a sense of magic about
It’s now we need our friends.”

Those were all the words that came to Wot, and they puzzled him. What meaning or relevance they had, if any, eluded his tired mind, but he recorded them dutifully into his little book calling his poem ‘Words in the Wind’. Wot tried reading it out aloud hoping he might somehow understand it better, but it still made no sense. Then scratching his head in frustration he finally gave up and slid it safely into his shirt pocket as he relaxed in front of the warm fire, listening to the logs crackle and sparkle up the chimney. It was a perfect start to Christmas. He felt so content he could have sat there all night without a care in the world.
Suddenly Wot’s relaxation was interrupted by a loud knock. His first thoughts were that in his half-sleep he had been imagining it. He was not expecting anyone at so late an hour, so ignoring the noisy interruption Wot closed his eyes and once again relaxed, listening to the crackling logs sparkling up the chimney. To his annoyance another even louder knock struck the door. “Who on earth can it possibly be?” he asked, yawning as he reluctantly rose from his wonderfully comfortable chair. On approaching the door Wot’s eyes were magnetically drawn to the old coat stand upon which he had placed a peculiar Christmas card earlier that day. It was small, very small, and, more surprisingly, was from his best friend, Nott. He picked it up remembering how surprised he had been that Nott would have sent so small a card. Looking at the picture, a wonderful summer scene of a house in the country, Wot was again intrigued. He studied it closer… The house had whitewashed walls with weathered, wooden beams that seemed to have been strategically placed for the maximum visual pleasure of the onlooker. The building was surrounded by a large cottage-garden in the full bloom of summer. It even had rambling roses around the door. There was a duck-pond, an arbour, a rustic garden shed and so much very more, all enclosed by a shiny white picket fence. It was in most ways a perfect picture of summer, not your usual Christmas card theme by any means. Studying it in finer detail Wot held the card ever closer. At this point he had completely forgotten to see who might actually be at the door. Wot’s eyes, again magnetically drawn into the picture, noticed how big and sturdy the door of the house in the card actually was; it was dark brown in colour sporting a large, brass knocker. “They don’t build them like that any more,” he said, without realising he was actually speaking.
“It’s a bloody good job they don’t,” a voice boomed.
Wot got such a fright he dropped the card, and very nearly jumped out of his brand-new Christmas slippers.
“Take it easy, you could have killed me!” boomed the mysterious voice again.
Where on earth was it coming from? Imagining there was someone hiding, playing a prank, Wot looked all around – everywhere, but he didn’t, he couldn’t see anyone. He was confused, he was puzzled with no idea what he should do. In fact he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that he had heard the voice at all. “This might all be in my imagination,” he said, though not very convincing, as he stood stock-still unable to decide his next move.
“Are you listening to me? Wot, I am speaking to you!” the mysterious voice boomed again.
Being personally addressed by an, apparently, bodiless voice totally confused poor Wot, and his mind raced fearing the worst. He wondered, was it a g-g-ghost? Or was he going mad?
“Pick me up!” the voice shouted.
Pulling himself together, trying to show some courage, Wot whispered timidly, “Where are you?”
“On the floor! At your feet!” the voice replied tersely.
But on looking down the only thing Wot could see was the small Christmas card he had dropped, so he said, “I can’t see you! There’s nothing there!” Then looking along the hallway, again trying to spot the mysterious person who might be actually be playing an unwelcome practical joke, Wot still saw no one. “I can’t see where you are!” he whispered.
Beginning to lose patience the voice shouted, “Wot. I always thought you were a bit slow – now you have proven it. I AM IN THE CARD. Pick it up! BUT CAREFULLY!”
Confused, wondering how anybody could possibly be inside a Christmas card, Wot bent down and gingerly picked it up. Carefully opening it he half expected to see someone crammed inside, but he didn’t. No. Except for the short, standard greeting of Happy Christmas there was nothing to be seen.
The voice, loosing what little patience it had left, interrupted Wot’s floundering thoughts, shouting, “LOOK IN THE WINDOW, you berk.”
With those words something clicked in Wot’s bamboozled brain. The voice THAT voice was starting to sound familiar! Scratching his head, trying to figure out just who it might actually be, Wot closed the card and once and again looked at the picture on its front. His eyes, drawn to the quaint old house and its wonderful leaded windows, suddenly saw something – MOVING! He thought he saw someone – someone he recognised! He saw his best friend, Nott, staring out from one of the small windows, waving frantically in a most agitated manner. This was just too much for Wot, and he passed out, dropping the card onto the floor once again…

The Onishian flag, click to enlarge

Chapter Two

Cereal that tastes like Sawdust

After lying on the cold, hard floor for nearly an hour reality began to trickle into Wot’s shocked brain, but his new perception of reality was very different to that which he had up to now known. “Oh my head! What happened?” he moaned. Then looking down the drafty hallway he asked, in a whisper, “Was I dreaming?” Nobody answered. Silence prevailed. Wot called out again, but even quieter, “Nott?” He heard nothing. He received no reply. Panic edged into his psyche. Trying a little louder, he said, “Nott?” Still silence. He was confused. He was worried. Then he shouted, “NOTT! ARE YOU THERE?” Still he heard nothing. The Christmas card on the floor caught his attention. He picked it up and looked into the window of the old house, the same window in which he had seen Nott waving frantically from. “Was it all in my imagination?” he asked, scanning the card. “And if it was what a strange thing to imagine.”
After several minutes, and still with no sign of his lifelong friend, Wot placed the card back on to the coat stand, and slowly walked toward the kitchen. Once inside he put on the kettle and prepared to make himself a nice cup of tea. “That will clear my mind,” he said. After the kettle had boiled he prepared the tea. Steam rose as he poured the hot water into the teapot. After the brew was mashed he filled a large mug with the wonderful drink, then grabbed a mince pie, and made his way to the sitting room. Settling comfortably in his favourite armchair Wot tried to work out what had actually happened, that is if it had actually happened at all. But after finishing the tea and ‘pie Wot still had no more clarity of the strange events; the best that he could work out was that he must have slipped in the hallway, bumped his head and knocked himself out. And while he had been unconscious all the strange happenings regarding Nott and the Christmas card must have been a weird dream. “Yes, that must be it,” he said, trying to convince himself.
Wot glanced over to the clock. It was after eleven, and time for bed. Still feeling shaky from his ordeal Wot decided to make himself a nice mug of cocoa to bring upstairs. “This will help me to sleep,” he said, climbing the stairs. “Yes a good night’s rest will do me a power of good and I will be back to normal in the morning.”
“It might sort you out old friend, but it certainly won’t help me,” the mysterious voice boomed louder than ever. At that Wot’s mug of cocoa shot into the air, did a double summersault while at the same time spewing its contents like a wet brown Catherine Wheel firework. In the confusion Wot lost his footing and tumbled unceremoniously to the bottom of the steps, landing in an undignified heap as the remains of hot, brown liquid rained upon him. The mug, glancing off his temple, made its way to oblivion in a thousand pieces as it struck the hard, cold floor.
“Nott? Is that you?” Wot asked, whispering in the direction of the card while rubbing his sore head as he licked the dribbles of cocoa from his face.
“Of course it’s me, who did you expect? The Queen of Sheba, maybe?” Nott replied sarcastically.
Grabbing the Christmas card Wot could see his old friend, Nott, waving madly from a small window. “So, I wasn’t imagining it after all!” he proclaimed triumphantly. “I was beginning to think that I was losing my marbles!”
“That’s assuming you had any to lose in the first place,” Nott quipped, before asking, “Why did you drop the card again?”
Wot explained how that the shock of seeing him in the card in the first place must have caused him to pass out, and thus drop it. “After I regained consciousness,” he said, “I called out to you so many times, but I received no reply - nothing. Finally, I came to the conclusion that I must have dreamt the whole silly thing while I had been unconscious. That’s the best I could make of it, sorry.” Nott gave Wot an odd look. Wot concluded, saying, “I was just off to bed when you finally called out. Why didn’t you answer when I was calling you?”
“The reason why, should be quite obvious,” Nott replied. “I was also unconscious! I was knocked out cold when you dropped the card, remember?” Then he added, “It’s a miracle I haven’t been killed after being continuously dropped from great heights!” Wot felt so humble. Nott continued… “Now, are you going to help me get out of here, or not?”
“Of course I will, that goes without question,” said Wot. “But how on earth did you get in there in the first place? And what is it like in there? Is it just like a real house? And what is it like to be so small? Was it you I heard knocking on that door in the first place?” Nott rolled his eyes toward heaven while making strange, laughing, muttering sounds…
“It was so simple for him to influence those less talented than himself – just his appearance would cause an awed hush. This man, this tall man, with dark skin and shaven head that held the blackest of eyes, so black they seemed more like holes, he always demanded respect. Whenever he spoke, he promised a new world where everyone would be equal, a world of eternal summer—he promised them, ‘Summerland.’ And when they listened to him, Miafra resurrected what had lain hidden for more than five hundred years—their greed.”

Now on with the story...


25th December.
The next morning was Christmas, a Christmas that was to prove like no other before it as Wot and Nott’s world, and their perception of it, was changed forever. Wot awoke first; the falls and knocks of the previous day must have taken its toll because he had slept like a baby! In fact he said that had never slept so well in his entire life, and was feeling totally refreshed. Nott, however, was another matter altogether, and when he awoke he proclaimed quite sarcastically that he found it difficult to sleep inside a Christmas card, especially one that had been left in a cold, drafty hallway.
Ignoring Nott’s complaints Wot made himself a great big Christmas breakfast fry-up. The wonderful smell wafted around the house, and past the Christmas card, which Wot had by now placed in the warmer position on the kitchen table.
Nott began shouting, “That’s right! Make me feel worse than I already am!”
“What are you on about now?” Wot asked.
“Why, the smell of the fried breakfast, of course - it’s driving me bananas! All I have in here is dried-up cereal that tastes of sawdust! arrgh…”
“I’m sorry, old friend,” Wot replied. “But it is Christmas, and I was starving.”
When they had each finished their own decidedly different breakfasts Wot cleared up the breakfast paraphernalia before returning to the card atop the kitchen table. “Right then, Nott, now tell me the whole story of how you got into your present predicament, and why you cannot free yourself from it. Then we will put our heads together and see what we can come up with.”
Biting his tongue Nott agreed to tell the whole story, but only if Wot promised not to interrupt, not even once.
Nott began… “It started on Christmas Eve morning. The mail arrived earlier than usual just as I was finishing breakfast. I was surprised to see that it consisted of only the one small envelope. Picking it up I walked into the sitting room, sat down and continued to study it. There was no address on it, or even stamp. There was only my first name ‘NOTT’ written in capital letters. I thought, how strange, but convinced myself that perhaps the postman didn’t deliver it after all. Perhaps a friend or neighbour had dropped it in. That would explain the absence of an address and stamp on it. I studied the writing, but failed to recognise it. I was annoyed that someone could be so stupid as to address an envelope in so a reckless manner. On opening the envelope I found a small card inside (the very one that I am now speaking from). Apart for the printed Happy Christmas greeting there was no other writing on it, and this got me even more worked up. I fumed at the stupidity of anyone doing such a daft thing, and I said, I wish I knew what this was all about.”
“Then I heard the sound of wind. It was faint at first, but it continued to grow louder and louder, stronger and stronger until it filled the entire room, whirling and whizzing around me. It frightened me, Wot. As it continued to gain in strength it began to form a perfect vortex the centre of which was the small Christmas card I was holding. In shock I dropped it, and no sooner had I done so did I feel myself being pulled, tugged and dragged by the rapidly strengthening eddy. It lifted me clean off my feet, spinning me in ever decreasing circles. I was its captive, helplessly drawn into it. I wanted to escape, but it was far too strong. Before I was able to get my head around what was actually happening the wind drew me inward, downward, towards the card lying on the floor. I was vanishing, waning from the reality I had always known. I was disappearing, with no idea where it was taking me.”
“It wasn’t long, however, before I had my answer because in no time at all I landed with an almighty thump on a hard, wooden floor. ‘What happened?’ I cried. ‘Where am I?’ But I was alone. Staring at the unfamiliar surroundings I could see that I was in a small bedroom. Then I shouted, ‘My God, that wallpaper is absolutely awful!’ The ghastly wallpaper was actually the first thing that caught my complete and undivided attention. It was weird. I could hardly take my eyes from it. I continued to speak, saying, ‘If this is a practical joke being perpetrated on me by Wot, or anyone else for that matter, they will see my temper, so help me.’ Then I again moaned, complaining, ‘My God, that wallpaper really is dreadful.’”
“For the first time in my life I actually found myself in no hurry to get up, or do anything. You see, Wot, I literally didn’t have any idea what to do next. All I could do was stare at that hideous wallpaper, unable to take my eyes from it…”
“When I was eventually able to drag my attention from the bad taste in wallpaper I got to my feet and decided to have a look around. I still had no idea how it had happened, or why, but curiosity got the better of me and I began exploring. Firstly, I studied the room I was in, and while the furnishings were old and traditional in style they were certainly not antiques by any stretch of the imagination. There was a double bed, a large wardrobe and a dressing table with a mirror atop it. In front of the mirror there was a large, china bowl, water jug and neatly folded towel. Apart from the aforementioned bad taste in wallpaper, which, incidentally, was represented to varying degrees in the remaining rooms, the house itself was quite nice. Perhaps a tad old fashioned for my taste, but I warmed to it. In total there were three good-sized bedrooms, all with the same taste in furniture. The bathroom definitely fell into the old-world category. The toilet had one of those high water cisterns with long chain hanging down, and it had the thickest, darkest wooden seat I had ever laid eyes on. The large, imposing bath sitting in the centre of the room had a wonderfully ornate claw foot at each corner.”
“Heading down the stairs I was surprised at how narrow and steep it was, so holding on tightly to the rickety banister I descended the steps until I was standing in the sitting room below. Although it was darker than the floor above it was again pleasant, in an old fashioned way. There were the usual items of furniture, which I did not pay much attention to, and a large grandfather clock standing proud in one corner, which caught my immediate attention. There were two reasons why. The first was that it was quite imposing, with its loud, slow tick-tock filling the entire room. The second was that it had only one hand on the dial - the minute hand to be precise. The hour hand was resting on a ledge beneath. I reached up to have a look, but I was unable to remove it. The hand had actually been secured, screwed down to the ledge – it was there for a reason. It wasn’t to be moved, but I had no idea why. ‘How very peculiar,’ I thought. Then leaving the puzzle of the clock for another time, I continued exploring...
Only after meandering through several more items of nondescript furniture did I spy the Victorian chaise longue, and it cheered me up no end. I headed straight for it, for as you know, Wot, I have always wanted one of them. As I sat upon it, thinking how grand it was and of how well it would fit in my study, a solemn voice interjected, ‘If you help us, Nott, it is yours, and also anything else that you might want’. The voice had come right out of the blue, but I didn’t take it seriously. You see, Wot, I thought that it must still be you playing a rather complicated practical joke. I thought that now you had finally made contact, the strange goings-on would soon be over. So I hollered out shouting that when I got my hands on you there would be hell to pay for what you had put me through. But the only reply I received was no reply. I was unnerved, and I shouted out something else along the same lines, but yet again all I heard was the sound of silence. Finally, plucking up enough courage to eat humble pie, I asked, ever so meekly, Is there anybody there? I said that I was sorry for shouting, and I pleaded with the voice, whoever it was, to reply. Looking around the room trying to spot something, anything, that I might have missed, I noticed a figure in the far corner, diagonally opposite the old grandfather clock. I was sure there had been no one there seconds earlier, but someone (or something) was now most definitely there. Shrouded in shadows he was sitting in a large, leather armchair, and in no, apparent, hurry to say anything else. Eventually, in a humble voice that seemed quite out of character for me, I plucked up enough courage to ask, Who are you? He remained silent. All sorts of feelings and scenarios rushed through my head as I waited for it decided to address me. The perspiration trickled down my forehead, over my brow and down my cheeks. I was afraid it might be a devil that could wipe me out as easily as the wink of an eye. I wanted, I needed to wipe the sweat, but I was too frightened to move. I was scared, too scared to move a single muscle, and all through this terrible ordeal of waiting the grandfather clock slowly ticked the seconds away…”





Wot and Nott Broadsheet Wallposter - Click to enlarge or print yours out today!!!


Chapter Three

Umahia

Looking out from the Christmas card Nott continued his amazing story…
“After what seemed like an eternity the dark, mysterious figure began to speak. He said, ‘I am Umahia, the Grand Mystic.’ I said nothing – I was far too scared. The shadowy figure continued... ‘You are in what is now called Summerland. Its previous and rightful name is Onisha. A terrible wrong has been done to this land, and to all who live in it. You were brought here because we need your help, Nott. It was I who sent that small card. It was I who called you here, Nott. And it was I who instilled the Magic and Intrigue that was needed to get you here - I knew you would come… it is your destiny.’ I was dumbfounded, Wot, How could this person know me? My thoughts raced, raced as to how and, more importantly, why this person had decided he needed my help. As you know, Wot, I have always thought of myself as nothing special or out of the ordinary (Wot’s eyes rolled up to heaven), so I was at a complete loss as to what use I could possibly be. And I told him this, saying, ‘Apart from the few small things you have just told me I know absolutely nothing of your Summerland, or whatever it’s called.’ Rising from the armchair Umahia stood tall, his features now more visible, and I strained to see who I was actually talking to; he appeared old, as old if not older than anyone I had ever before seen. And as he made his way towards me I cringed. ‘Nott! Do not be afraid,’ he said. ‘We need you. We need you and your friend, Wot. Out of all the millions on Earth only the two of you can help us. We need your help’, he said. Well, I was flabbergasted, Wot, and I screeched, What? Wot! What has he got to do with this? Sorry, Wot, but his remark had raised my goat. And I’m ashamed to admit that I continued my ranting all the more, telling him that you hadn’t got the intellect to help yourself let alone an entire population of some strange land. My temper being up gave me the courage to shout, saying that I must have been mad for thinking that you (Wot) had anything to do with all the strange goings-on. Sorry, old buddy, I got a bit carried away, no insult intended.”
“Umahia, ignoring my protestations, was now quite close to me, and I studied his appearance, his features, in finer detail. I couldn’t understand how this Mystic man, this Umahia, who looked so old could also have an appearance of youth, or innocence about him. I had never before come across such a phenomenon, and it intrigued me! He was about six feet in height of thin build with long, straight, black hair so dark it had a hint of blue to it. His skin, in contrast, was pale but so very wrinkly. He had a long, thin face with fairly sharp features, a long black moustache that curled around at the ends and the darkest, bluest eyes you could ever imagine. He was wearing a gown, or a cloak. It was long. So long it touched the ground, completely covering his feet. And this cloak of his, it was so unusual! It appeared thick and hardwearing, but also soft and lightweight. And it had a strange 3D appearance that I had never seen in any item of apparel, or whatever. You see, Wot, when I looked at it, or rather when I looked into it, the cloak… it projected, it projected a vision, or a semblance of… no, wait, perhaps I can describe it more aptly as a vista of the Universe unfolding before my very eyes. This vision was so beautiful I could have gazed at it forever, but Umahia distracted me saying, ‘Nott, you and your friend, Wot, you each have a gift which neither of you have recognised, let alone developed to its true potential. You are a team - a team in which each one can, and must strengthen the other. These gifts, these abilities you possess were once common, and much used, on Earth in days of yore, but now they are hardly recognised at all. Even when they are so obviously present in someone there is no encouragement or development of such talents. But here in Summerland, or rather Onisha, we still know, and fully understand, the powers involved, be they good or bad, from the Light or from the Darkness. Listen, Nott, I will now tell you a story of how things used to be…’
‘Not so long ago all was right, here in Onisha. We had a good life. There was enough for all, be it food, drink, a place to live or whatever. Throughout the land the feeling was one of contentment. Mysticism and Enchantment had always been an integral part of our daily lives, and it was actively encouraged. We had no enemies, why the last war was over five hundred years ago.’” Nott looked around the bedroom and spied a stool in the corner, and he said, “Hold on a minute, Wot, I need to get something.” He grabbed the stool (it was a tall one), placed it in front of the window, and then climbed onto it. “Ah that’s better, my legs were killing me. Now where was I?” he asked. Wot made an attempt to speak, but his little mate didn’t even notice, and began again, “I wanted to ask Umahia a question but he gave me so stern a look I said nothing as he continued with his story… ‘In our mutual and distant past, you on Earth were so like us. You also embraced the Mystic Ways, and for a time both worlds progressed onwards together, both worlds on the same path – almost as one. Yes, it’s true, we discovered Earth way back in the mists of time, and while the paths and destinies of our two worlds remained close, the door between them stayed open. But over a period of time things changed. We now consider ourselves to be an enlightened race, because we progressed onwards fully embracing Magic and Mysticism, but you, you on Earth, you turned your backs on the Magical Ways, and embraced material wealth. The door closed – we drifted apart… A simple spell can still open that door, the portal from which we can view Earth, and it’s goings on. Through this we can teach our young how not to be. From the time our paths separated almost all or your history has been of war, of who is killing whom. No! We had evolved beyond that…or so we had thought!’ Umahia paced back and forth, in deepest thought, while stroking his long moustache, and he then said, ‘Perhaps we had grown complacent. Perhaps we had grown weak in the comfort we had become accustomed to. Perhaps we took our Mysticism for granted, thus allowing our interest in it to wane. Whatever the reason, we did not pay enough attention to the possible dangers, and in an uncontrolled regime of Mysticism and Magic these dangers can lurk and grow. It was in such a climate that we found ourselves...’”
Nott shifted his position, and then continued with the tale, “Umahia studied me closely, saying, ‘Now remember this name, and remember it well - Miafra.’ Umahia’s gaze drifted, to another time, to another place, and the more he progressed with his tale the more worried and old his appearance became. ‘It is our own fault!’ he cried. ‘Miafra is the spawn of our own neglect.’ Umahia paused, trying to pick the right words, ‘You see, Nott, he was an upcoming Mystic, someone who could have been a great force for good in Onisha. He could have brought us back in to line, to a new Golden Age. He had a look of purpose - a confidence. He had a ‘way’ about him that few people have. It was a charisma, a gift - it was his gift. And with the deliberate and calculated use of this Miafra rose swiftly through the echelons of Mystics, perhaps too quickly, and all too soon he joined the highest ranks in The Brotherhood of Mystics. His powers were strong, very strong, but he lacked the guidance to use them for the good for which they were intended, so he strayed. And somewhere along that deviated path the Dark Forces influenced him. We all knew they were out there, but no one dared to contemplate embracing them. Yes, our world is good, but it is not perfect - there is good and bad everywhere. We had removed the powers of Darkness from our minds - it merely slept. That is, until Miafra strayed, and in so doing he has changed our world completely.’
‘It was so simple for him to influence others, those less talented than himself. Just his appearance would cause an awed hush. This man, this tall man with dark skin and shaven head that held the blackest eyes, so black they seemed more like holes, this man, he always demanded respect. Whenever he spoke, wherever he spoke, he promised a world where all were equal, a world where everyone’s powers would be equal - a world of eternal summer. His actions, his words brought out what had lain hidden and asleep for over five hundred years - he released and set free our greed.’”
“Umahia gave me no opportunity to ask any questions, he was far too engrossed in delivering his tale, and I so eager to hear it to its conclusion,” said Nott. “Umahia began again, ‘I have already said that Miafra had a charismatic way of getting his message across, and no one suspected the Dark Forces had influenced him. He wasted no time in kindling support from all sections of society, and day-by-day his influence grew. He promised a New Order, a world where all is certain, a world of eternal summer, a world he proudly called Summerland. But there was a condition to his promise! To bring his plan into reality he needed more powers, and the only way of achieving that was to be Grand Mystic (the highest position in Onisha).’”
“But that is your position, I said. Umahia ignored me, and continued, ‘Miafra called the Brotherhood of Mystics together for a Meeting of Extreme Importance. Naturally they were intrigued that he had called such a meeting, and, more importantly for Miafra, under the oaths they had sworn on their investitures to always protect the ancient ways they were obliged to attend. Little did they know he had a more sinister reason for the meeting than any of them could ever dream of. On that fateful day the Brotherhood of Mystics were like lambs to the slaughter - sitting ducks ready to be picked off…’
‘No sooner had they begun arriving at the Citadel of Composure, and commenced entering the circular Room of Deliberation, some of them felt that all was not right. You see, during the last five hundred years the atmosphere in the Citadel has always been tranquil - this is known throughout the land. The Citadel is a place of pilgrimage where believers can visit, to gain wisdom and composure, and strength and dignity at stressful and challenging times in their lives. But on that fateful day tranquillity and composure was certainly lacking both within and without the grand building. In their efforts to see and to hear why the charismatic man had summoned them the Brotherhood sadly overlooked these warning signs. And by the time the last of them had entered the Room of Deliberation the skies overhead were brewing a storm so fierce, a storm so strong the very foundations of the old building shook.”
“I myself am never expected to attend meetings of the Brotherhood. All discussions and decisions taken are forwarded to me for my final say. My seat is there, but only for symbolic purposes. This is so that I will not be seen to influence the decisions of the Brotherhood - it is an old way, but it works. Miafra had wanted me to attend, he had tried so hard and in so many different ways to pressurise me into going, but I resisted. It is for that reason and that reason alone that I am here today.’”
“Once again I couldn’t help myself,” said Nott, “I interrupted, asking him what happened to the Brotherhood of Mystics? He continued, ‘Have patience, Nott. I will explain everything in due course. On that fateful day, as the assembled Mystics waited for Miafra to appear, he was far below them, he was beneath their very feet, secreted deep in the bowels of the building, as far down as possible to go. Miafra, standing in the near darkness, held in his outstretched arms a chalice full of liquid gold (it’s a simple spell to change it from solid to liquid) so hot it was boiling and bubbling like it had a life of its own. Raising the chalice high above his head, Miafra said, I, Miafra, who have dedicated my life to the forces of Darkness, the forces that were for so long ignored, despised and, indeed, almost forgotten, in the deepest, darkest recesses of this holy of holy buildings - at it’s very centre, offer to you the Power of Darkness, in all its different forms and possibilities, this sacred site as the base for my Realm, your Realm, of Darkness. The Brotherhood of Mystics stand in my way, and with that in mind I ask you to give me the means of destroying them. Miafra lowered the chalice, pouring the liquid gold onto the cool, dark earth. As it sank into the ground steam rose, forming into a small cloud that took on the appearance and shape of an intricate and highly detailed dagger. It was a ghostly image that, despite having no physical substance, posed a dreadful danger! This ghostly image, it drifted, it drifted lazily toward Miafra where it came to rest on his outstretched hand. It lay on his open palm, and he smiled. And then he spoke, in a voice barely audible, he said - End their lives. At that command, this image, this apparition, which had been conjured by evil, rose from his hand and disappeared silently through the ceiling. It continued upwards, on its journey of destruction, through the floors above until it arrived in the Room of Deliberation where the curious Mystics were assembled. Without making a sound, emerging through the floor like a waif, it rested three feet above it. Some of the Mystics saw it, and stared in bewilderment perplexed at the ghostly image in their midst, an instrument of war, of hate, and their own distant, past. Others were so engrossed in their conversations and deliberations with their fellow Mystics as to the reason for the extraordinary meeting they did not notice it at all. It made no difference whether they saw it or not, because it was over so quickly. Speeding across the circular room the ghostly image seared through each and every Mystic’s heart – it was over. The Brotherhood of Mystics, all twenty-two of them, were dead.’
Deep within the bowels Miafra instantly knew it was done, and he shouted, There is only one person left, only one person in my way, my path, for total control and power - Umahia. And like those who lie dead above me his days are also numbered. The Brotherhood of Mystics are gone! Umahia is all but dead, so now in the name of the Powers of Darkness I claim the position of Grand Mystic, and no one, not even the great Umahia himself can oppose me! Just as my powers will grow so will his diminish until he is as nothing before me. ‘I knew this process would take some time,’ said Umahia. ‘In an effort to buy time, to slow the drain on my powers my best hope was to flee as far away as was possible.’”
“As I watched Umahia’s body shook like a ghost had walked over it,” said Nott, “and then he continued with his macabre story, ‘This was yet another ploy of Miafra’s, because by proclaiming himself Grand Mystic Miafra kept the people on side, while he still had a use for them. Apart from Miafra I am the only Mystic still living. His powers are so strong he can sense whenever I am performing any sort of mystic activity. Nott, I took a great risk when I energised the Christmas card that brought you here. I cannot fight him; my powers are far too weak, and he too powerful. All the hopes of the good people of what was Onisha are depending on you, Nott. Will you please help us to rid our land of this evil man, and all that he stands for?’”
“I answered him,” said Nott, “saying I didn’t seem to have any option. I also reminded him that you, Wot, were not there with me and that I still didn’t understand the gifts we were supposed to possess! I also told him that I had absolutely no idea of how to start in this request of his. But Umahia simply smiled, a smile, a tired smile that I guess comes with so great an age and its inevitable accumulation of knowledge and pain, saying, ‘All will become clear, but first we must get your friend.’ At that remark Umahia placed his hands into his robe, not into the pockets but actually into the robe itself or, rather, into the vista of the Unfolding Universe that was his robe. His hands actually disappeared as he was doing this - it really spooked me out. When the first hand reappeared it was holding a small Christmas card. Well, I immediately recognised it, and I shouted that it was the very same one, which had brought me there. I asked him how he had got hold of it, and could I go home, instead, but
I immediately regretted saying that, and told him so. Umahia continued, like he had heard nothing, withdrawing his other hand from the recesses of the Universe within his robe. It was clutching a small, black bag made from the same type of 3D material as his robe. Loosening a gold cord Umahia took out two glass phials each containing a clear blue liquid - a liquid that bore an uncanny resemblance to the striking blue colour of his eyes. He returned the small bag to the dark recesses of his long robe, and then spoke again. ‘Nott, you already know that I cannot risk using more magic – take this. He offered me the two phials containing the blue liquid, saying, ‘Drink from one - it will give you the power, albeit temporary, to bring your friend here. Because you are not from Onisha, because you are an Outlander, Miafra will not be able to trace you. Use it wisely and remember that its powers are only temporary, and limited.’”
“I asked him what the second phial was for, and he replied, ‘Your friend, Wot, must drink from it – it will bring him here.’ Removing the cork stopper from the first phial I was, to be honest, quite excited at the prospect of having powers, whatever that entailed.
But on raising the phial to my lips I almost threw up - it smelt terrible! And then, heaven knows why, that awful wallpaper in the bedroom came to mind. Perhaps I imagined it would taste the same as the horrid smelling blue liquid, god knows only why. I said that I couldn’t drink it, that I’d throw up. Umahia smiled the same smile as before, and he said, ‘Try again, but this time close you eyes.’ I couldn’t understand how that would make the slightest difference, but did as he bid, raising the phial to my lips with my eyes closed. The glass tentatively touched my lips, and the dark blue liquid flowed effortlessly down my throat. It was strange! I didn’t taste or smell it at all! Then, without warning, I felt something happening within me. My sensations, they changed, they altered; I felt I was away, far away in space, in the Unfolding Universe I had seen in Umahia’s robe, and it went on forever. All around me – surrounding me, I could sense – power. It was so dark, and yet so bright, I felt, I wanted, I needed to stay there forever, to try and fathom it out, but Umahia interrupted my thoughts saying, ‘Open your eyes, Nott, it is done.’ I asked him what had happened, but he ignored my question (he was good at that), saying, ‘You now have the power, but remember it’s only temporary - use it wisely.’ Still ignoring my confusion he said, ‘See the Christmas card? Now look into it, concentrate on it, and go fetch your friend, Wot.’”
“It was a strange request, and I obeyed it as much to humour him as actually believing I could do it. Then to my astonishment I once again heard the sound of wind rushing around me, winds rushing in a circular motion, and I shouted, Oh no, here I go again. At that point I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I knew I was sitting on the floorboards staring at that awful wallpaper again. I cried, shouting, asking what on earth was going on, but no one was there. I stood up and walked around the room, and at first glance all seemed the same. Then I noticed something, something that was certainly very different – a bright light, shining in, through the window. I went over to investigate, and I can tell you, Wot, what I saw through that small, leaded window amazed me. You see, way up high as far as I could see, there was an enormous light bulb sporting the biggest, tackiest lampshade I had ever laid eyes on. I then noticed that everything, which had originally been outside the house, was gone; there was no garden or plants and the countryside beyond had also vanished without a trace. And the oddest thing of all was that everything had been replaced by a view that I found hard to comprehend. Where the garden should have been there was now a large area of highly polished wood. It made no sense at all. Trying to see further all I could make out was a vast expanse of deadfall wallpaper not much better than in the room I was presently in. The wall seemed to go on forever, and, more peculiarly, I felt that I had seen that wallpaper before, though on a smaller scale. Then in a flash of inspiration, I remembered! It was the very same wallpaper that you, Wot, have in your hallway. I then recognised the lampshade, and the front door, again the same as yours. I was really excited, because if it were so then all the goings-on with Umahia had really happened, and I was actually inside the Christmas card on the table behind your front door. What a stupid place to leave a Christmas card, I thought.”
“I looked for you. I stared through that window for hours on end. In fact, I looked through all the windows, but I didn’t see you, I saw nothing. And because I couldn’t see over to your window for signs of daylight, or lack of it, I had completely lost track of the time, and that old grandfather clock with just the one hand was a fat load of use. I wondered why any one would bother to wind up a clock with only one hand on it, especially when it was the minute hand. And the reason why they might want to screw down the other onto a ledge was anyone’s guess. Tiring of such seemingly pointless questions while waiting for your appearance I finally fell asleep. The next thing I knew was hearing you reciting one of those weird poems of yours. I shouted to get your attention, but it was no use, you couldn’t hear me; I was too small and too far away. Racking my brains trying to think of a way to attract your attention I eventually remembered the door and its big, brass knocker. I thought that, perhaps, if I knocked it hard enough it just might attract your attention. I ran down the stairs half expecting to see Umahia in the far corner, but he wasn’t. I opened the door and lifted the heavy knocker; it was a lot heavier than I had thought. Then, with both hands I gave the door a loud knock. I waited for you to appear, but NOTHING. I hissed in disgust, That dope, Wot, has fallen asleep in front of the fire again. I lifted the knocker a second time and banged it even harder, this time with all the strength I could muster. It was much louder than my first attempt and I felt sure you would hear it. I knew it had worked when I heard you stomping down the hallway.”
“Yeah, I did hear it,” said Wot. “I can still remember how it annoyed me,”
“Well, I had to get your attention, didn’t I?”
“I wasn’t complaining, Nott,” Wot replied, apologetically. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok you big galute,” said Nott in a lighter tone. “Now, let me continue will you?”
“Sorry, go on.”
“From my viewpoint inside the card you had the appearance of an enormous giant, walking down that hallway. But that didn’t put me off! Oh no, not at all! Determined to get your attention I shouted at the top of my voice. That was when you looked down and picked up the card - I was certain you saw me in the open doorway, but the speed with which you picked it up told me a very different story as I was sent crashing to the rear of the hallway and into the wall, as the door slammed shut. From that position, huddled in the corner nursing my bruises, I could see your large eyes scrutinising the card in fine detail. Good, I said, Perhaps now he will see what’s actually going on!”
“I remember,” said Wot. “It did fascinate me! That front door, and how well it was constructed of such old, solid timber – it intrigued me. I remember saying they don’t build them like that any more, and then being totally shocked by your reply coming right out of the blue.”
“I did say no interruptions, remember? I’m telling the story!” said Nott, who then concluded with...
“Well, you know the rest from there, old buddy. That is the complete and full story of how I got into this unfortunate situation, and why you must help me to get out from it, away from this madness. It’s far too dangerous! Let someone else help them.”
Wot’s brow creased as he contemplated Nott’s predicament. He then said, “Perhaps it is dangerous, but what will happen to all those people if we don’t help them?”
“That is their problem, not mine,” Nott replied, but his flippant remark didn’t go down well with Wot, and if they were a team he was definitely its conscience.
Pondering the situation further, Wot asked, “Remember the time you fell down that well?”
“Yeh,” what about it?”
“When you shouted for help did I leave you there?”
“No, you didn’t” said Nott, beginning to see where the conversation was heading.
“And the time your ceiling fell in, did I leave you to fix it yourself?”
Nott lowered his eyes.
“And, again, remember when your old car broke down out in the middle of nowhere, you ‘phoned me up for help. Did I say no?” Wot’s truthful words hit the mark and his small friend felt smaller by the second. Nott knew that he was right. He knew that had no choice but to eat humble pie and listen to Wot and his precious conscience if he ever wanted to see the outside world again.
“Ok, I’ll help them,” Nott said, quietly.
“And so will I,” Wot added. “You know it’s the right thing to do, don’t you?”
“Hmm,” Nott replied.
“Have you finished your sawdust – I mean cereal, Nott?”
“Yes,” said Nott, still annoyed at missing out on the Christmas fry-up.
“Right then, I am ready,” said Wot. “Now tell me exactly what I must do to join you inside that card!”
Nott passed the small phial through the open window, instructing Wot to drink from it.
Wot carefully took the delicate piece of glass, it appeared so small in his large hand, and drank from it. “Ok, I’ve done that,” he said. “What next?”
Looking surprised that Wot had made no remark about the liquid’s foul smell Nott then explained the next step, instructing Wot to concentrate while at the same looking into the Christmas card.
“There doesn’t seem to be much to that,” said Wot. “I am sure I can manage that with no problems.” Without another word he sat down and began staring into the little card. In little more than a few seconds everything around him was in a whirl, and Wot could feel himself being tugged, sucked and pulled into another world, into another place – into Summerland…






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Chapter Four

The Tree of Knowledge

Just like Nott Wot also landed with a thump, but because was so much larger it was a proportionally heavier landing. It was in fact so heavy he almost went through the floorboards, as they split and cracked beneath the enormous impact.
“Err, Nott! Can you give me a hand?” Wot asked. “I seem to be stuck, and these floorboards are ever so sharp. One of them is actually sticking in my...”
“Oh, all right,” said Nott. “God, I hope this isn’t an omen of things to come,” he complained. “You are here less than a minute, and are already in a mess needing my help.”
“What on earth have I gotten myself into?” Wot mumbled, as Nott tried desperately to remove him from the splintered boards.
“Earth is one place you most certainly are not,” Nott replied, matter-of-factly as he made one last effort to separate Wot from the floorboards, and his undignified predicament. “…And it’s very important to always remember that – your life might very well depend on it!”
“Thanks, old friend,” said Wot, removing a particularly troublesome splinter from his derrière.
“Oh, and by the way, its good to have you here.”
“Its my pleasure, Nott.”
As he showed Wot around the house Nott called out, “Umahia! Wot’s here.” But neither of them saw the old man. Descending the steep, narrow stairway Nott continued with the tour of the house, like it were his own. He even apologised for the bad taste in wallpaper. Wot said he thought it was quite nice. Giving him a strange look Nott peered out through the back door window, and was relieved to see the garden had reappeared. “Now that we are well and truly back in Onisha it’s safe to go outside and look for Umahia,” said Nott. “Come on, he might be out here,” said Nott as he opened the back door, stepping onto the patio. Within the garden they might have been forgiven for thinking they had been transported back to Earth. The wonderful old world cottage-garden brought them back to their childhood, when they used to play for hours together during the long summer days.
“This is magnificent,” exclaimed Wot. “Who looks after it?”
“I wouldn’t have the foggiest,” Nott replied. “We aren’t here to look at the flowers. Come on, we must find Umahia!”
Wot hardly heard Nott’s reply, he was mesmerised by the spell of the garden, a spell too strong to resist. Then, without warning, he felt one of his a poems coming on, he took out his little book which went everywhere with him, and wrote down the following…

“World of rhyme and sorcery
The time is running short
Restore all as it was before
Lest all shall become morte.”

Wot looked at the rhyme, scratching his head in bewilderment – the words made no sense. So closing the little book Wot placed it back into his shirt pocket, for later. Only then did he notice how far Nott had gone ahead into the garden, and he shouted, “Hey, wait for me!”
When he caught up, Wot discovered that Nott had already found Umahia. They were both sitting comfortably under a mature plum tree, chatting, with little or no regard to his late arrival. The tree was old, certainly much older than the house whose garden it was in, and its trunk was gnarled, with several gashes and marks upon it - like so many battle scars. It was packed full of fruit; large fat plums all ripe for the picking. Umahia was already eating one, and its juice ran freely down his chin. Overhead, the steady buzz from the wasps, which had also discovered its generous bounty, emphasised the heat of the day.
“Welcome, Wot, welcome back Nott, my Outlanders friends,” said Umahia in a genuinely welcome tone. “I have so much to tell you. Pick a fruit, sit down and rest yourselves - save your strength, you will need it later.” They each plucked a large, ripe plum, then sat down and joined Umahia beneath its welcome shade.

During the next few hours, sitting beneath the old tree, Umahia and the two friends talked of many things. Umahia told much about Summerland (Onisha). He explained how its main, physical, difference from Earth was that Onisha consists of one main continent (plus some small, lesser islands). The Outlanders also learned about the inhabitants’ way of life, which although so similar to of those on Earth was yet so different. A way of life governed as much by the laws of Rhyme and Mysticism as by the laws of physics. They also learned that although Onisha occupies the same physical place as Earth, it is in a different dimension.
“That’s why it’s relatively easy for us to journey between the two worlds, if one has the necessary knowledge and inclination to do so,” said Umahia. “This was done, frequently, in the distant past, and is one of the reasons why there are so many similarities between our two worlds.” Umahia explained, “In the days of your own King Arthur, Rhyme and Mysticism were as important on Earth as they were in Onisha. Why, your very own Merlin was an honorary member of the Brotherhood of Mystics,” Umahia added encouragingly. He also explained to Wot and Nott how the shared, chosen paths of Onisha and Earth had ended when those on Earth turned their backs on the ancient ways, the old ways. “You relied more and more on the ways of man, and mans’ own devices. “It has now got to the stage that nearly all of the mystical knowledge that humankind once held dear has been lost,” Umahia said, sadly. “You deviated, you chose a different path to that of Onisha. Unlike ours, your path was in a direction where material wealth is paramount, gained oftentimes with no thought to the consequences to humankind, and to the world in which you live.”
The two lads listened glumly, as Umahia continued, “After the Brotherhood
Of Mystics had been killed Miafra came out from The Citadel of Composure and spoke to the people. Using his considerable, charismatic charm he convinced them that it had been a sad, but necessary step in their voyage of self-realisation, their voyage to a world of eternal summer, to a world where all would be equal, to a world of consistency - to Summerland.” For a few moments Umahia’s thoughts drifted, drifted back to happier days, and then he said, “Miafra proclaimed that day to be a day of celebration. He renamed the Citadel of Composure as The Dome of The People. This was yet another ploy to keep the peoples of Onisha onside, and so convincing was he in his rationale no one questioned his actions. Why would they? He was their idol. He was their saviour! He was Miafra, Lord of all he surveyed.”
In awed silence the two Outlanders listened as the story unfolded, “In this journey to The Promised Land - to Summerland, Miafra pledged he would guide and protect everyone, to ensure that it become a reality for one and for all. Only then did Miafra tell them that for his plan to succeed he had to be no less than Emperor. He wanted to become Emperor. He longed to be Emperor. He had to be Emperor, because in achieving this he would gain the Mystical Powers, which had for so long eluded him. What Miafra failed to tell the people was the fact that these powers were so great and absolute any mortal man, no matter how well trained and versed in the mystical ways, was corrupted absolutely by them. Miafra conveniently ignored this truth, he ignored the simple truth these powers had been the main cause of all the wars that had raged on Onisha, many eons past, culminating in the last one five hundred years ago. That is the reason we abolished this position,” said Umahia. “For the good of the land, and also the greater good of the People, the Brotherhood of Mystics banned it, long ago. They hid, secreted away and concealed all written information appertaining to it. But Miafra convinced the people that the Brotherhood had no right to deny them their rightful path to Paradise. He promised that when he received these powers all would be possible for him and for them – he promised they would be living in a Utopia.”
Umahia was tired, but he continued, “In his quest to attain this goal Miafra looked for information on the old, ancient ways. He searched for books, books long hidden, books long banned. He was patient, he was persistent and in the end he found where they had been secreted, where they had been hidden in the deepest, darkest depths, the very bowels of the Dome of The People (The Citadel of Composure), where nobody should have ever seen them again.
Over a period of time, and all alone, with just a faint light to illuminate the ancient words, Miafra studied every detail. The books, the manuscripts, the parchments were old, so old; some crumbled as he turned their pages, others simply turned to dust at the slightest touch. But he persevered in his quest, and from the hidden pages, from these banned pages he learned of the pure power he would gain if he were to be crowned Emperor. He learned that to gain this power and position he could not enforce it upon himself – he had to observe the Old, Ancient Ways, which meant it had to go to the population for a Peoples’ Vote. Miafra had to be legitimately voted in, and then, after that, inaugurated by means of an investiture - Miafra put on his charismatic face…”

Umahia plucked another large plum from an overhead branch, and carried on with his tale…
“To put his plan into motion Miafra summoned the elders, of the towns and villages, for a gathering in the newly renamed Dome of the People. This gathering was described as a meeting in which all the elders, who now represented the people, could present their ideas and visions of the way forward in their new Summerland. But in reality its sole purpose was to enable Miafra to use his considerable charismatic charm to mesmerise and convince them into accepting his vision as the only way forward. He had no doubts, whatsoever, that he would succeed in this. All he had to do was get them assembled, where they would be like putty in his hands, agreeing to his every suggestion.
“Couldn’t anybody see through him?” Wot asked.
“Yes, some did, a few brave souls stood up to question him, but he quickly banished them to a ‘Dark Place’ - a limbo between worlds where they remain there to this very day. All this happened at a frightening speed, and six months ago to this very day Miafra was finally crowned Emperor. I knew it would be so. It was the will of the people against his – no contest.”
Umahia paused, staring at the remaining portion of succulent fruit, “Before that fateful vote I had already fled into exile - to the island of Ogbo,” he explained
“Is that where we are?” Wot asked, quietly.
“Yes, it’s the only place where we can speak together in total safety. There are other ways, but they carry bigger risks, I will tell you more of those later. This island has been a secret since the dark days of yore, when last we had an Emperor. It is on no map, it never has been. This place has a natural form of protection. A magnetic barrier, deep within the rock veils us from his or anyone’s prying eyes and senses, but only to a point. While I am at this location, and as long as I refrain from using what powers I still have remaining, Miafra should not be able to find me. The more I use them the greater will be his chance of him finding me.” Umahia shifted his position, making himself more comfortable, and then said, “When Miafra was crowned Emperor his powers and knowledge were increased ten-fold. He finally had the means that he had always wanted to achieve his ungodly ambitions, and he wasted no time in creating the most powerful Mystic Rhyme imaginable. This fateful ‘rhyme had a three-pronged intention; the first was to stop time, the second to drain the willpower from the people – their very chi (thus creating a world of slaves for his personal use) and the last, and most ambitious part, was to drain my powers, transferring them into himself. In no time at all Miafra had his ‘rhyme worked out, and ready to use. This time he didn’t hide in the darkest depths of a holy and sacred building to read it. It was on a wonderful June evening at the late hour of ten o’clock, the sky was still light (this does not happen anymore) when he casually walked out from the Dome of the People, and began speaking. He was so confident he simply stood on the top step and read out his evil words, to one and to all. There was no fanfare, no announcement, and some people, strolling past, stopped in wonderment to see what was actually going on. As they listened to Miafra’s dark words, shivers down their spines… he said,”

“Darkest powers of darkness grow
Darkest night, darkest sight
Time slow down, time be mine
Till time is no more

Darkest powers of darkness grow
Darkest night, darkest sight
Remove their light give me their might
Their wills be only mine

Darkest powers of darkness grow
Darkest night, darkness my right
Bleeding strength by taking his rhyme
One will be left, and one slowly dying”

“No sooner had the last word departed Miafra’s lips did the heavens above show their disapproval. Storm clouds gathered, lightning crackled and the skies opened, in a torrent, soaking the onlookers who scuttled silently away. Miafra, hardly noticing nature’s disapproval, smiled - it was done, and he walked back into the building, and rested…”
Umahia could see that he was burdening the two Outlanders with an awful lot of information, but if they were to have any chance of succeeding they had know, so he began again. “For a while all seemed good for the people in this new world, this Summerland. The sun rose at the same time each day – it always shone, it was never too hot or too cold, and everything seemed to be as Miafra had promised. But as time passed, people noticed that things were not as they had once been. It became harder and harder to differentiate between the days of the week and the weeks in the month - they all seemed to be the same! Other things like dates of birthdays, anniversaries and so forth were also waning from the people’s consciousness; no one could understand it. In fact no one even talked about it, for whom could they talk to, even if they wanted to? So for two or three months nothing was said (at least not in public). By the time people were starting to question it more seriously, other larger, more fundamental changes had begun. The holiday months of July and August had passed without anyone giving it a second thought; they had simply continued on in their daily work routines. Then, later on, for Halloween, it’s really BIG here - that was totally forgotten. There were no seasons anymore; they had all merged into one long summer, there were no special days, no public holidays, there was nothing to celebrate. Somehow, the people’s perception of reality had been radically changed. In our minds, time was a constant – in our perceptions time had been stopped.” Umahia’s mind’s eye drifted back to those days, and he said, “Our world had been jinxed by a ‘rhyme so powerful, so strong it could change, could alter the very fabric of time, for the benefit of an individual. In effect, time in Onisha had ceased to be. Yes, the sun rose with each new day, but it was not a new one, it was, in reality, the very same day we had just finished… they were all one and the same! I should have tried something, anything, to stop him… I could see this happening, so clearly, but it seemed few others could, and that number diminished day by day as the influence of Miafra grew, and their minds dulled. Miafra no longer had to threaten the people with sudden death, or banishment to the Dark Place if they did not do his bidding. In their altered state of consciousness they were open to any suggestion he made, and would carry it out religiously.”
“Not content with this, Miafra surrounded himself with constant physical protection; he formed a small army with an elite force of guards. And from the highest ranks of his most loyal officers he appointed a select group of Governors. These were his eyes and ears, to administer the provinces of Summerland. He was in total control. His perception of reality was the reality the people had to endure, a reality they accepted without question now that they were little more than his slaves. This was the true, New World envisaged by Miafra, a world so very different from the one he had promised.”
“From the outset, despite being concealed on this island far away from his power base, his climb in station to Emperor has affected me. I felt it from the first utterance of those words, on the fateful June evening, atop those steps. I knew that I was losing a part of myself, that my powers were draining. They were diminishing then, and still are. Luckily, they are not draining as fast as he had planned, and that is my one trump card, a small hope to cling to. Wot, Nott we are in a race against time, or time and life, as we know it, will be no more. If Miafra is not stopped I am certain his ambitions will not end in Onisha… he knows full well that Earth is there, and ripe for the picking."
“It sounds as if he is unstoppable,” said Nott, rather glumly, adding, “What can we do against someone as powerful as that?”
Umahia sat, in silence, slowly eating what must have been his tenth plum. Wot and Nott each plucked another, and joined him chewing the tasty fruit. They sat, eating and thinking, as the evening drew in…
It was almost dark when Umahia next spoke, and the two Outlander friends gave a jump as their minds, which had been far away in many strange and totally absorbing dreams, returned to reality.
“Sorry! Can you say that again?” Wot asked. “I must have dozed off for a minute or two. I can’t understand what came over me.”
“Hmm, what did you say?” Nott mumbled. He was still in the process of waking up, and a tad confused. Then jumping up, looking very frightened, he asked, “Where are we, what happened?”
“Its alright old friend,” said Wot. “You were dreaming, we both were dreaming.”
Nott yawned, and said, “Yes, I was dreaming. I was in this sort of cave, it was very dark… and I knew that I was not alone. Something was watching me - it was horrible! Am I glad you woke me up!”
“Don’t worry, it’s quite normal to sleep and to dream after eating from the Tree of Knowledge,” said Umahia.
“The tree of what?” shouted Nott.
“The Tree of Knowledge and Wisdom, to be precise.” Umahia answered. “It is talked about in our myths and legends… some believe in it, and some do not - perhaps it is better that way. It is said to fruit continuously all year long, and it is claimed that when the fruit is eaten it will open the mind of the person who consumes it. Good will come if the person’s intentions are noble, but woe to the person who eats of the tree if their goal is solely for their own betterment.”
The two lads looked at each other, neither of them knowing what to say in reply to that remark. They sat, in the near darkness, quietly awaiting Umahia’s next words. And when he began speaking again it was in an even quieter tone than before. Perhaps, if he spoke any louder, the wrong ears might hear and all would be lost. Even though they could barely see Umahia in the rapidly encroaching darkness they felt that he had changed, that he was somehow different. They also felt, strangely, altered themselves. They felt more confident. Perhaps there was something of truth in his story of the old plum tree after all, and as the light faded, they listened ever more intently to his every word…
“I have already told you that Miafra’s incantation was divided into three parts,” Umahia continued. “The first was against time itself, the second against the people and the third was aimed directly against me. It must be in this same way that we make our counter-attack - also in three.”
The lads’ ears cocked.
“First you must find the Amulet of Oxmosis which will be of great help and use to you. Your search will be filled with dangers, many dangers that you will have to face without me - just the two of you.”
“Are you kidding,” cried Nott. “We won’t last five minutes out there on our own. We will stick out like two sore thumbs. Why, we have never even seen your Onisha yet. We have absolutely no knowledge of how to get around it, and on top of that we are strangers here.” Wot tried to hush him, but Nott continued… “I wish I was in Fabled Crest to ask the Stone of Directions what to do next.”
“I have never heard of that place, Nott,” Wot said, “Where is it?”
“Why it’s across the sea in the Green Valley of Cross River, everybody knows that.”
Still puzzled, Wot questioned him further, “Across which sea?”
“The Sea of Loneliness, of course.” And only then did Nott realise the ramifications of what he had been saying. “I know where we are,” he shouted. “I know what’s on the far side of this old plum tree. I could bring you all the way to Onisha City, and the Timeless Gates guarding it. In fact I feel that I know this land well enough to transverse right across it.” Looking at Umahia, he asked, “How can this be?”
Umahia’s eyes lifted to the branches above him, and Nott immediately understood - it had come from the Tree of Knowledge and Wisdom.
Wot felt somewhat puzzled, and asked, “If the tree has given Nott this knowledge, then where does that leave me?
Umahia replied, “You already had the power before you arrived… you have always had it. But know you this, the fruit of the tree has opened your eyes, your ears and your thoughts.” Wot still looked puzzled. Umahia continued, “Of all the poems you have written recite the first one that comes to you.”
Wot scratched his head and then wiped his nose, before finally raising an arm into the air, “I have it,” he said. “It’s called, Old Blue.”
“Go on,” said Umahia, “recite it.”
Clearing his throat, Wot began…

“Blue was my dog, my faithful friend
For ten long years we walked together
He…”Stopping dead in mid-sentence Wot’s jaw dropped. For there, as large as life, in the form of a smoky cloud floating a couple of feet above the ground was his old dog Blue. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, but it was certainly was old Blue, no mistake about it. The tears welled up, and Wot said, “I loved that dog… He died three years ago… he was the best.” Then wiping away the tears Wot turned to Umahia and thanked him over and over for the wonderful vision of his old dog, and second best friend.
“When the words come to you, and you write them down, you think of them as your poems,” Umahia explained. “You don’t always understand the meaning of them do you?” Wot’s head nodded in agreement. “Some of them are simply that, just plain poems, but others, others are so much more than simple rhymes. You now have the power and the wisdom to differentiate which is which. Here in Onisha all rhymes are mystical, and if you so wish you can see them as well as hear them. For an Outlander you have the rare power to understand words, use it wisely, so much will depend on it.”
Clasping his hands behind his back Umahia continued, “You both are a team, one helps the other - the sum is bigger that the parts. But you still have much to learn if you are to stand any chance of defeating this evil man. Come in, the day has passed, its time to rest.” With that Umahia walked into the old house, with the two friends following closely. It had certainly been a long and interesting day…
Wanter poster, click to enlarge.










I'm in a good mood, today, so here is another chapter...

Chapter Five

The Old Boat

26th December.
Next morning, as per usual, the sun rose at the same time, and it was another glorious day - every day was a good day in Summerland, or so it seemed. In bed, sitting up and looking out from the small window, Wot could see how easily these people had been taken in by the charms, charisma and promises of Miafra.
After dressing, lazily, Wot wandered across the landing towards Nott’s bedroom when all of a sudden the old earth saying of, don’t judge a book by its cover popped into his mind. Feeling it might somehow be relevant Wot took out his little book and wrote the words in to it, before gently knocking on the bedroom door, asking, “Nott, are you awake?”
“I am, now,” came the terse reply from within.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, I will go back and leave you in peace.”
“Come in, come in, it’s all right. I really was awake,” Nott said, impatiently.
On opening the door Wot was confronted by the strange spectacle of his small friend, sitting cross-legged up against the wall, staring at that wallpaper again.
“Why is it,” Nott remarked, “I can’t keep my eyes off this hideous paper?” And without waiting for a reply, he continued, “I know it’s ghastly, but there is something about it that intrigues me. I mean, just look at it. Why, in places the pattern doesn’t even match up. Look at this blue swirl, it should finish here, but it doesn’t – it simply continues on. It’s the same over here, then here, and again here. I feel this means something… but I can’t put my finger on it - it’s driving me bananas.”
Wot smiled, but to be honest he thought Nott was acting a wee bit strange. When he felt it was safe to change the subject, he asked, “Are you coming downstairs for breakfast?”
“No, I think I will give it a miss, cereal that tastes of sawdust isn’t particularly appealing two days in a row.”
“It’s not sawdust, I mean cereal. It’s a wonderful fry-up. I can smell it from here - sausages, fried-eggs, puddings, rashers and even mushrooms! If you’re not going down I certainly am,” And with that Wot left the room.
Wot’s description of breakfast puzzled little Nott. On the previous morning all that he had been able to find was a lone box of cereal that was definitely beyond its sell by date. If it were really true, then where had all the ingredients come from? At that point the wonderful aroma of fried bread wafted past Nott’s nostrils, and curiosity got the better of him. Getting up from the floor he settled his blue suit, straightened his tie, opened the door and followed Wot and the tempting aroma downstairs. Gingerly descending the narrow steps Nott, also, was caught in its alluring spell - he could even smell white puddings and hash browns to boot. “This was the breakfast I should have had yesterday,” he whispered, half afraid he was dreaming. Reaching for the door handle Nott cautiously turned it, and the spectacle that greeted him was a sight for sore eyes - there was food absolutely everywhere! He felt like a child in a sweet factory. But was it real food, or just a figment of his imagination? He edged closer, only half believing his eyes. On touching one of the large plates it proved to be real, “No figment there,” he said, smiling. At the centre of the large, round table he spied several, huge serving dishes, each one competing with its neighbour to present the best display. On the far side of the table, and already seated, were Umahia and Wot who barely noticed him entering. They had already begun to tuck in, and continued paying him little or no attention. Nott, fully intent on having his share of the wonderful feast, leaned forward, trying to lift up a plate - it was enormous and terribly heavy in his small hands. Wot, noticing his little friend’s predicament, helped him by placing it in a free position on the table.
“Thanks old buddy,” said Nott, as he began helping himself, taking six sausages, seven rashers, three fried-eggs and an unknown quantity of hash browns. He piled the food high; like a small mountain, paying special attention to the wonderfully aromatic white puddings, which he piled into another separate mountain on their own, smaller plate. There was so much food it couldn’t help but fall off, but he continued to pile more on regardless. When he thought the others weren’t looking he put a few hash browns in his suit pockets, for later. He was having the time of his life; he tried at least two or three of everything, and drank four full cups of tea and two of coffee. Eventually, when he could eat no more, Nott sat back in the chair and let out a loud burp, “Whoops, sorry!” he said. “Boy, was that good. I really needed it! I feel like I could climb a mountain,” he said, happily. “But where did it all come from? Yesterday there was no sign of any of this, and of that I am certain.”
Umahia, as usual, took his time to reply, but when he did, he said, “You are still thinking in the ways of Earth. This you must stop. While you are here, in Onisha, you must think differently. Remember, that which I have already told you – In Onisha the power of ‘rhyme is an equal to the power of substance. If you want breakfast, say the words that best describe your feelings towards this need, but say it as a ‘rhyme – and always remember these words, these ‘rhymes consist of so much more than simple poetry. For example, if you would like a glass of water to wash your breakfast down - say it, but as a Mystic Rhyme, and it will be given you... go on, then, try it!”
Nott felt awkward, like a child at school who has been asked to recite the seven times table, without having learnt it beforehand. Trying to compose himself Nott made a brave attempt, saying…

“Water, water everywhere
But not a drop to drink.”

A very small man, completely dressed in green, carrying a large watering can rushed in through the back door. Running like the dickens he climbed up the back of Nott’s chair, perched high atop it and promptly emptied the entire contents of the watering can over Nott’s head. Then, just as quickly, he made his way down to the floor, whizzed out the back door, and was gone. Nott, who had been taken completely by surprise, sat there in shock and total disbelief.
In an effort to escape the deluge Wot had jumped away, but had still been partially caught in the watery onslaught. Umahia, who had a good idea this might happen, had stepped back to a safe distance. As for Nott, well, he just sat there in shock, unable to believe what had been done to him.
After some embarrassing, wet minutes sitting in the chair Nott finally stood up, and shouted, “Why did that happen?” And over dramatising the situation, he added, “I could have been drowned, you know!” At this remark Umahia and Wot burst out laughing. Nott, still dripping onto the kitchen floor, couldn’t decide if he should laugh or cry. Although it must be said he did, eventually, see the funny side and joined them, but he was still very wet!
“Here, dry yourself with this,” said Wot, throwing him a thick, white towel. Wot had also procured one for himself, and before long they were both dry.
“I hope you have learned a valuable lesson,” said Umahia, “…that you understand, and appreciate, how powerful Mystic Rhyme can be. This is the very same power that Miafra has taken from the people, from my people when he changed their perceptions of reality. This is why I said to use your powers and gifts wisely lest you do yourselves more harm than good.”
“Ok, ok I get the message, but who, or what, was that little man who completely soaked me? If I could get me hands on him I’d…”
“He is one of The Orlu,” said Umahia.
“The who?” Nott asked.
“The Orlu. They are a separate race, and it is they who provide sustenance and drink, when called upon. Whenever you call for food or drink, it is they who hear and oblige.”
“That’s very handy,” said Nott, beginning to calm down. “And I am sure they will be of great use to us in our fight against Miaf….”
Umahia abruptly cut him off, saying, “No! They cannot be of any help to you against Miafra. He sees them as no threat or danger, and thus allows them to carry on as they have always done. But if their role were ever to change from simply providing sustenance, he would kill them, with no hesitation. Never ask for more than this from The Orlu! Just remember, use the words carefully and they will oblige,”
“Perhaps, in a strange way, all that water was good for me,” said Nott, looking pleased with himself. Umahia and Wot listened with curiosity, as he continued, “When I was so unceremoniously sitting there, getting a soaking, it came to me.”
“What came to you?” Wot asked.
“Why, the meaning of the blue swirls on that awful wallpaper upstairs, of course.” Wot leaned forward, listening intently. “Those blue swirls represent the Blue River. It’s all so clear to me; I can’t understand why I didn’t see it before. Overlooking the position where the Blue River joins with the Green, is the Fabled Crest, on top of which is the Stone of Directions. That is the meaning of Green Valley of Cross River, which I mentioned earlier … The Blue River is our first destination - that is where we shall find the Amulet of Oxmosis… I can’t understand why I didn’t realise that before?”
“You are just beginning to learn how to use your powers,” said Umahia reassuringly. “As time passes you will improve,”
“I think you are great figuring that out,” said Wot. “What use have I been up to now? Little or none I might add, and may never be. All I have is my silly poetry.”
“That poetry, and the way you use it, can, and perhaps will, mean this difference between defeating Miafra or not,” said Umahia, ominously. “Never underestimate this ability you possess – your life may depend on it, and sooner than you think. Now, as I said to you last night, you have much ahead of you, so listen carefully…”
Umahia once again explained how after they have left the relative safety of the island he would be of little or no help to them. They would, in effect, be on their own, at least until they had found, and secured into their safe possession, the Amulet of Oxmosis.
“I do have tell you that I feel reassured,” said Umahia, in a more upbeat tone, “knowing that you are already beginning to work things out for yourselves. Without my help you have seen the way forward. I could have told you this, but did not have to - it is a good sign! Now heed me wisely as I explain the three-pronged counter offensive I envisaged, while beneath the Tree of Knowledge.” The two friends edged closer, as Umahia continued, “After you have secured the amulet you will be ready for the first prong of our counter offensive - to restore time.”
Wot interrupted him, saying, “My gut feeling tells me it’s a whole lot easier to say than to actually do, am I right in thinking so?”
“Yes, that is true, my good friend,” continued Umahia. “But there are no other options – you must restore time.” With that he walked away from them, saying, “Now you must be away, we cannot waste any more time, or there will be no more time left to waste.”
“We must be away?” said Nott, in desperation. “I’m still waiting for details of this three-pronged counter attack. As far as my ears are concerned that was only one prong, and you can correct me if I’m wrong!”
“You know all that you need to know at this juncture,” Umahia answered. “I will speak to you again – on your journey. Now hurry, you must head for the coast and find a means of transportation across the Sea of Loneliness.”
As they set off down the dusty track the two friends reluctantly bid the old man goodbye, with Wot wondering how far it was, with Nott knowing the answer but forgetting to tell him, and with both of them wondering if they would have to walk the entire length on foot.
Apart from the garden this was the first glimpse of the island Wot and Nott had actually seen, and it was quite beautiful, in a wild sort of way. As they walked along the track, which could not be called a road by any stretch of the imagination, they passed beautiful flowering trees, shrubs, bushes and all sorts of exotic flora. There was hardly a vacant space left that some variety of plant had not colonised, and made its own. The trees, so different from those on Earth, were growing in weirdly odd ways. Some gloriously covered in orange leaves, as if it were autumn. Others had no leaves at all, though sporting, instead, vibrant green trunks and branches. One variety growing in great abundance that Nott particularly admired resembled overgrown flowers rather than trees. They were so full of luxuriant, vibrant life the two friends felt they could almost see the young saplings growing. The best way of describing them is that they resembled tall, thin hands sticking out from the ground on long thin wrists, with even longer, thinner fingers atop them. These fingers, or, rather, branches had no smaller branch-lets or twigs growing out from them, but what they lacked in woody growth they more than made up for in the abundance of exquisite flowers covering them; some red and others yellow, depending on the individual specimen.
Much of this flora was growing amidst lush wildflower meadows similar to those of bygone days on Earth. Barely visible through all the vibrant growth were old stonewalls that, at some time in the distant past, had been dividing the fields. There were also a few houses, dotted here and there, but no signs of life visible from any of them.
There were insects and birds of every description flying in the clear blue sky. There were luminescent dragonflies, as big as eagles, hovering stationary while their large wings buzzed effortlessly – the two lads marvelled at this spectacle. Then without warning one of them shot off at full speed directly towards them.
“Duck!” shouted Nott, as the giant dragonfly zoomed ever nearer. But Wot, who was always a tad slow in reacting, was unable to avoid the oncoming insect and felt its full force as it struck him squarely in the chest, throwing him unceremoniously to the ground. The giant insect, apparently unfazed by the crash, continued without a wing out of place. “Strange creatures,” he thought, feeling rather silly at being knocked over by an insect.
As well dragonflies there were butterflies as large as dinner plates, which flew about unhurriedly, almost in slow motion. There were caterpillars with only two sets of legs, one at each end. Nott watched them, fascinated at how they propelled themselves by drawing both ends of their soft bodies together, almost like a spring. Then, on releasing their grip (and the captured tension), they would spring erratically upwards, landing almost anywhere. This appeared to work, but it remained a mystery to Nott as to how the insects could have any hope of knowing in which direction they would be proceeding next. There were many other strange looking insects buzzing to and fro, far too many to mention here, and all so different, in one way or another, to those on Earth.
Lastly, and perhaps the most surprising of all were the birds. Some of the more common varieties from Earth were represented such as sparrows (though these were green) and blackbirds (with two separate black and white varieties, plus a few cross-breeds). There were also crows, sporting human-like features and characteristics, appearing more like little old men than actually birds. An abundance of exotic parrots were in evidence all competing for brilliance of colour. But the oddest, the most peculiar and definitely the most outlandish of them all were the other ‘birds’. Just the sight of them made the two travelling friends rub their eyes in disbelief. The reason for this was the simple fact that they were not really birds at all. They were actually fish, and flying ones at that! These birds, or rather fish, were of a golden colour quite similar to common goldfish on Earth. The resemblance to goldfish, however, finished there, because in every other way they were so different. They were far larger in size anything from several inches up to a yard. Yes there really were fish, albeit of a thin variety, and they were actually flying through the air, though to be truthful it was more akin to gliding than flying. To support their aerial endeavours each fish had a set of particularly large fins, which they used, in the same way as the wings on a glider plane, to catch the slightest breeze to whisk them through the almost, still air. These creatures rarely strayed from the areas of water on which they depended nevertheless it was an amazing sight. For many minutes the two friends watched, in silent wonder, until, Wot, realising how much time they were wasting, said, “Come on old friend we still have a sea to cross.”
As he began walking along the dusty track Wot’s thoughts drifted to how lucky he has been to have such a good friend as Nott. Yes, he was cranky as times, and also abrupt, but he was proud to call him his best friend, a person whom he would trust with his life, and he was sure the feeling was mutual.
As Nott walked along the only thoughts he had was of the wonderful breakfast that morning, and would he be able to conjure up anything near as good for tomorrow’s, or, for that matter, tea that evening, without getting another soaking in the process.
The sun was low in the sky when they reached the coast, and in all that time they had not seen another living person. Finding a comfortable, mossy patch beneath a large tree Wot sat down. “No plums on this one,” he remarked, realising how hungry he was.
Taking this as his opportunity to see if he could conjure up a decent meal Nott said, “Right, Wot, you just watch me and see how I get on this time, old buddy!”
“Use the words carefully,” Wot advised him, “I don’t want to be covered in another shower of water, food, or anything else for that matter.”
“I know, I know!” Nott hissed, “And for your information neither do I!”
“Well this is your opportunity old friend - go for it, and the best of luck,” said Wot as he withdrew further under the tree.
More cautious this time, knowing full well the sort of repercussions that could occur if he got the words wrong, Nott went over them carefully in his mind before saying them aloud. He went over them once, twice, three times before finally sitting upon the ground, and saying…

“A meal for two we need right now
A meal with bread and butter
A pot of tea with milk and sugar
Just that, and no more bother.”

A sound of feet, running in great haste, could be heard somewhere in the distance. At first the two Outlanders could not see anything, then, suddenly, a dozen or so of the little people appearing from behind a bush headed straight toward the two Outlanders. Whizzing in great haste they carried cups and plates, bread and milk, in fact all the items requested by Nott who, incidentally, sat there quite gob-smacked. One of the little people laid a large, round cloth upon the ground, others placed all the items on it, and no sooner had they completed this task they all whizzed away, and were gone.
“Wow! Now that’s what I call service,” said Wot.
Feeling quite chuffed, Nott asked, “Tea anyone?”
When they had finished eating, Nott remarked, “That was the best tasting bread and tea I ever had.”
“Your welcome,” came a reply from deep within the undergrowth. Then, as quick as before, the selfsame little people reappeared rushing around like crazy clearing everything away before disappearing again.
“I’m beginning to like it here,” said Nott, watching the last of the little people disappear behind a bush.
“Don’t get too relaxed, Nott, remember what we have come here to do,” Wot reminded him. “And remember, there are many dangers that lie ahead.”
“I know, I know,” said Nott, annoyed that Wot had taken the good from his success.
Wot, looking up at the rapidly darkening sky, then suggested, “I think it might be safer if we make our way across the sea, by night - under the cover of darkness. Come on, follow me, we need to find a boat.”
Nott obediently followed, and the two friends, wandering along the seafront, searched for anything that might be of use to them in crossing the lonely sea, but apart from an old hollowed-out tree trunk, filled with holes, nothing even faintly resembling a boat, could be found.
After a while the ground ahead of them rose into a small hillock. It was overgrown, and obviously hadn’t been approached in years. “That looks interesting,” said Wot, pointing it out in the near darkness. A pair of yellow eyes peeped out, hooting at them.
“What was that?” Nott asked, timidly.
“It’s only an owl,” replied Wot as he forced his way through the thick vegetation. By the time Nott had taken his eyes away from the nocturnal bird his large friend was fast disappearing within the undergrowth. Shouting out, “Wait for me,” a panicky Nott tried to catch up.

Meanwhile, in The Dome of the People, an impatient Miafra paced the floors in frustration. The transference of Umahia’s powers was proceeding far too slowly for his liking – something was clearly wrong. And if there was something wrong, he had to find out the nature of the problem, and fix it.
So, calling together his loyal circle of governors, Miafra informed them that all was not as it should be, that he was not happy with the progress of the third, and final, part of his plan. “Something is working against my influence,” he proclaimed. Ordering them to their various regions of influence, Miafra instructed them to enlist the help of the people, the poor, wretched, unquestioning people in his quest to find out exactly what the problem was. The people were to be his pawns, his spies; expendably items – alert for anything unusual they might come across, no matter what danger it might pose to them. Miafra wanted to hear of anything, no matter how small, that seemed out of place in the ‘perfect’ world of Summerland he had created. After sending his governors on their way Miafra again paced the corridors…

The two stalwart comrades forced their way deeper into the thick, green vegetation guarding the hillock, but, due to the tangled nature of the growth, it was hard going. Undeterred by this difficulty Wot pioneered a path for his smaller friend. As they advanced ever deeper what small degree of light, still left in the late evening sky, was soon left far behind. Finally, in one huge effort, Wot broke through the last vestige of undergrowth, and passed through an opening leading into the dark interior.
The two friends, now standing on the inside of the mysterious hillock, gazed in amazement. The interior, like the mound outside was circular in construction. It consisted of one singular room, but what a strange room it was. It reminded Nott of the igloos the Eskimos construct from blocks of frozen snow, but in this instance the blocks were hard, unyielding stone.
As their eyes became accustomed to the darkened conditions more details of the strange construction became apparent. “I think this is a boathouse, of sorts,” said Wot, walking a few step ahead.
“It used to be a boathouse,” Nott added, dryly.
Wot inspected the room, further. The sturdy, rock structure was in fine repair, but the opposite could be said about its fitments. The room was, surely, in a sorry state of repair. The air smelt of dampness and many of the shelves lining the curved walls had collapsed, spewing their contents far and wide across the dusty floor. Amidst all this mess, in the very centre of the building, one single item caught the two friends undivided attention - a large object, covered by a thick dust-laden sheet.
“That looks interesting,” said Wot, walking right up to it, and with no hesitation he pulled away the cover, setting free a thick layer of ancient dust. The entire room was immediately filled with the fine, air-borne particles, which had lain undisturbed for centuries. The dusty cloud all too easily entered the Outlanders lungs causing the two lads to cough and splutter uncontrollably. Retreating to the curved, damp walls, trying to avoid the irritating cloud, as best they could, they waited for the dust to settle, thus allowing them a glimpse of what had been uncovered.
“No one must have been here for years!” said Nott, still coughing. “You know, you could have wiped the dust off first!”
As the fine particles began to settle, and the air cleared, the two Outlanders realised just what had been uncovered, and both of them were speechless. For there, before them, was their means of travel across the Sea of Loneliness – a boat! And what a boat it was! It was a grand vessel, at least thirty foot in length, at the centre of which stood a cabin with large glassless windows. Inside there were three rows of ornately carved wooden seats, the last row being the most ornate. A small bench was fixed at the bow end, and another at the stern, though these were of plain construction. The outside of the vessel was entirely covered in carvings, embellished by thousands of small square pieces of painted glass and mirrors, creating a sumptuous ambience that the passage of time had done little to diminish. It was, indeed, a work of art, and a wonder to behold. The two friends, walking slowly up to the boat, inspected it in greater detail…
“This is amazing,” said Wot, running his hand along the outside of the boat, marvelling at the intricate craftsmanship, “All the work that went into this one craft - it must have cost a fortune!”
“It’s a bit over the top alright,” said Nott, “They mustn’t have had much to do back then, when they could spend so much time making boats like this.” Pointing into the interior, and in particular to the very ornate rear seat, Nott continued. “I would be embarrassed to travel in something like this.” It was only then he noticed a gleam in Wot’s eye, and realised that was exactly what his friend had in mind.
“Travel we must, my good friend,” said Wot. “And very soon.”
“Not on your Nelly.” Nott reiterated. “Why, that must be as old as Umahia himself! And it would probably sink at the first sight of water. Look at this bit!” He pointed to a piece of decorative carving. “It’s actually falling away in my hand,” and with a bit of gentle persuasion he broke off a piece. Nott continued with his protestations… “Have you even considered all those pieces of painted glass and mirrors? We will be seen for miles,” he added, still protesting.
Nott’s argument fell on deaf ears. Wot ignored him completely. Then, picking up a dusty piece of cloth, Wot searched around until he found an old fragile-looking bucket and a length of rope. “Look below, down there,” he said, pointing towards the front of the vessel as he handed the bucket to Nott. “See? There’s a ramp leading down to the water. Fill the bucket and wipe down the boat. We need to remove all this dust and dirt to see what shape she is in.”
Nott begrudgingly took the bucket, but continued to mumble his protests under his breath. “I doubt this old thing is capable of holding even one pint of water,” he said, holding up the bucket. “The only thing that this appears capable of holding is air!” But Nott’s protests continued to fall on deaf ears so he headed towards the ramp. Lowering the bucket into the dark waters Nott filled it up, and sure enough there were some leaks. He was about to complain again, but realising his protests were being stonewalled he decided to get on with the job, as best he could. As he cleaned away the accumulation of years of dust and dirt Nott calmed down somewhat and actually felt a tad embarrassed by his outburst of complaints, so by way of breaking the ice he said, “What exactly is this place, anyway? And why is this boat so ornate?”
Wot answered, but it Umahia’s voice that spoke, “This was the last Emperor’s boathouse,” the voice droned. “So engrossed was he in his own magnitude and importance he had this facility constructed to reflect his glory; for his own perfect pleasure, to parade himself in front of his people. This vessel is constructed from the wood of the Yola trees. They are the ones you admired, Nott, on your walk along the track; the ones that resemble upturned hands. They grow faster than any other type of tree in Onisha, and while they are growing fast it is a soft wood, but as the tree matures, with age, it turns into the hardest wood known. A living one is never cut down. Only when the tree dies is the wood harvested. Sadly, the last Emperor became so far removed from the ways of the land and the ways of the people he ordered that the trees used in the construction of this boat to be cut down, whether they were alive or not. It is indeed a good omen they will now play a part in the downfall of the new Emperor. This boat will not let you down.”
Nott, confused by the voice of Umahia emerging from the lips of his friend, did his best to carry on with the conversation, “Is there anything else I can do?” he asked.
This time is was Wot who replied, “Yes, you can go down the ramp and open the doors, time is short, we must soon depart.”
“Are you alright?” Nott asked, surprised that Umahia’s voice had ceased so abruptly.
“Of course, why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing,” he replied, turning his attention to the long, dark ramp and rippling waters beneath its water-soaked doors.
Despite treading ever so carefully on the steep, damp ramp Nott suddenly slipped, landing heavily on his back before sliding feet-first towards the aforementioned doors. BANG! He struck them at full speed and they fell asunder as he continued through the opening, out into the cold waters of the sea beyond.
“Why is it me who is always getting soaked?” he complained. “How come Wot never gets a ducking?” he asked, despairingly.
Wot heard nothing of this. He was high above, inside the boathouse busy readying the vessel for its first trip in five hundred years.
When Nott eventually made it back up the ramp, and with water still dripping from the brim of his hat, Wot stared at him in disbelief, asking, “What on earth happened to you?”
“Didn’t you hear the bang?”
“Bang! What bang?”
“Why the bang when I hit the... Oh never mind, is everything ready?”
“Everything is ready and waiting,” Wot replied (again in the voice of Umahia).
Nott, opening his mouth, about to ask Umahia why the all the coming and goings, had no opportunity, as the voice continued, “You are to proceed directly across the Sea of Loneliness. On your arrival in Onisha proper you must remember to trust no one - anybody could be the eyes and ears of Miafra. Avoid the roads; travel cross-country whenever possible. Upon reaching the Fabled Crest seek the Stone of Directions.” Through the eyes of Wot Umahia looked down at the feeble figure of Nott before him, and said, “Don’t be afraid, Nott, I will be in touch again, later. ” Wot continued speaking, but now in his normal voice - Umahia’s presence had gone. “Get in the boat, Nott, we must depart,” he said.
They both clambered into the old vessel, with Nott sitting inside the cabin on one of the ornate seats, and Wot standing at the stern.
“Hold on tightly,” said Wot, “it might be a little bumpy at first.” And with that he untied the two heavy ropes that were holding the old boat in position. The two friends, ready for the steep decent towards the sea, held on tightly - but nothing happened! The boat didn’t move, not even an inch! Nott, raising his hand to make a suggestion, was suddenly taken off guard when, without warning, WHOOSH the boat sped down the ramp at a frightening rate of knots. It whizzed down, past the broken doors, through the open doorway, into the cold waters beyond. As it struck the dark, murky waters the waves heaved, sending a shower of water cascading over the old boat as it headed fast out to sea.
Immediately a thick fog appeared engulfing the old boat as it sped further out to sea. For several minutes the only sound was of the rippling water flowing beneath the floorboards, and even this became quieter and quieter as the boat began to lose speed.
“Are we slowing down?” Nott asked, quietly. Wot made no reply. “We are slowing down,” Nott cried out, again. The boat continued to slow until it finally came to a complete halt. The two friends, straining hard to see each other through the thick, pea soup fog, whispered in unison, “We have stopped?” They sat, afraid to speak, afraid to answer their very own question. But it was true, they had stopped, and were now lost and alone in the lonely sea.
“We are doomed I tell you, doomed,” said Nott, in desperation.
Wot, trying to put on a brave face, remained calm, but he secretly hoped a miracle might happen, and very soon.
Perhaps a miracle did happen; perhaps a miracle did find them, because, suddenly, right in front of their very faces, Umahia appeared. He said, “Remember, you have the power, you have your gifts - use them. The mist surrounding you is the Fog of Protection. It shields the island from the eyes of the world. It will also shield you in your journey across the sea - it is here to protect you.” And on those words the image of Umahia faded from sight.
“Come back! Come back,” they both cried out, but he was gone. The two friends sat in silence, neither of them confident enough to heed the old man’s words.
“How could Umahia abandon us so?” Nott asked, baring his fears.
The fog grew even thicker; the only sound was of the lazy water lapping beneath the boat. It was so relaxing, intoxicating, mesmerising – the two Outlanders, they drifted, they drifted off to peaceful sleep.
Minutes later (or was it hours?) Nott awoke with a jump. It was still dark, the fog ever-present, but the sea had turned rough, very rough. Nott panicked - would this old boat, could this old boat survive the storm?
“We can’t just sit here waiting to drown,” said Nott. “We must do something.”
“You’re right,” replied Wot, shivering from head to toe. “I have written a poem. I am going to recite it.”
“A poem! A poem! Is that all you think of?” Nott yelled, quite distraught.
“Yes! Remember Umahia’s words. Wot replied. “He said that we have the power and the gifts. There is power in rhyme, Mystical Rhyme that is. Now shall I recite it, or not?”
“Yes, yes, go on, go on,”
“Right, then, here goes,” said Wot, standing unsteadily, lifting the little book closer to his eyes.

“Mystic waters mystic might
Help us in this our plight
Guide us on our journey long
Propel the boat so smart along
Safe and sure to solid ground
To start our task, in this we’re bound
Bring us right to the land we seek
Asking this two souls, so meek.”

At first nothing happened, but slowly, very slowly the old craft began to inch forward. Bit by bit it continued to increase in speed. Faster and faster, quicker and quicker the old vessel accelerated until it was soon ploughing through the cold, dark waters. The two lads held on tightly as the rickety vessel accelerated ever faster. The window frames rattled, the floorboards creaked, and the whole vessel shook, violently, as it sped faster along. The two Outlanders wondered how long it could take the pressure and still remain in one piece. The small decorative squares of multi-coloured glass and mirrors, which had adorned it for so long, fell off in profusion disappearing in a colourful, sparkling rain into the distance. The two Outlanders held on for dear life as the waves crashed again and again over the ancient boat - there was no hiding place from the sea’s terrible fury. The old craft seemed so very small and fragile as it headed speedily for its final destination.
All of a sudden they struck something, something hard and solid, and the two friends lurched forward as the boat came to a sudden and complete stop. Had they reached Onisha, or were they marooned on a rocky outcrop never to be seen again? With such thick fog blotting out their view it was almost impossible to know. Wot and Nott, scrambling to their feet, walked carefully along the creaking deck before tentatively stepping over the side, onto a sandy beach. It was land! They were safe!
“Where are we?” Wot asked, quietly.
“On the fair ground of Onisha, of course, said Nott with a newfound certainty.” (His gift had evidently kicked in again). Then he added, “But I haven’t got the foggiest notion in which part of it.”
Gazing back at the old boat Wot could see the bad state of repair she was in. It had suffered badly in the storm and they were very lucky to have survived the voyage at all. “We can’t leave it, just floating there,” he said. “In the morning, if somebody spots it they will be onto us pronto. We had better do something.”
“Hmm,” Nott replied. “You’re right, come on we must scuttle it. But before you jump in we must first shove off from the beach, come on, I can’t do it on my own.”
Because the boat had struck the land with such force Wot had some doubts that it was possible to push it back out to sea, though he did not air them. He simply put his back into the job-in-hand, and pushed like his life depended on it. After many backbreaking minutes the old boat finally began to inch forward as, little by little the waters again supported it.
“Get into the boat, Wot, and follow me down to the stern,” Nott ordered. “Break off a piece of the decorative panel, yes that bit there. Now use is to prise up the floorboards. Then, keep hitting the bottom of the boat until you make a hole in it, see?” They both pounded and pounded until water was flowing freely through several holes. When it had reached their ankles they climbed over the side, and, after one last push, swam to shore, leaving the vessel floating out to sea, and an uncertain future.
As the vessel floated into the distance Wot felt sad to see it finishing up so; disappearing into the fog, and bound for the depths. His thoughts, however, were interrupted by Nott, calling, “Come on then, lets find a place to sleep, I’m whacked.” There was a full moon in the night sky, but due to the thick fog they could not see it. However, its diffused light helped them reconnoitre and assess the immediate area.
“Look, there!” said Wot, pointing to a small opening, at the base of a cliff, half concealed by scrubby growth. On reaching it, and crawling through the small entrance, they discovered that it led into a small, dry cave.
“This is perfect,” exclaimed Nott, happy to be safe, out of the elements. Then looking outside, he said, “Look over there, just outside, that dead grass. Bring it in, we can use it for bedding.” Despite being so tired Wot didn’t get annoyed at being ordered about, he knew that Nott meant no harm. He knew only too well how Nott got carried away, at times, on the spur of the moment, so he crept out to procure the said grass.
With beds thus made two weary bodies lay down and rested, far enough inside not to be seen, but near enough the entrance to spot any potential danger, and soon they were both sound asleep.

Sudden nott felt himself chained to a wall in a dark, damp room. The light was low. He had difficulty in seeing. He had no idea where he was, but he was sure of – there was danger there. Hethe presence of someone or, more worryingly, something, that posed a great threat to him. He had to get away, but how? He was in chains! He could hear it coming closer, closer. He could hear its slow, laboured breathing as ied him, and he screamed and screamed…

Oh, by the way... - I'm looking for an agent and publisher!!!
My e-mail address is gtpwilson@eircom.net