narratorAUSTRALIA: A Cool Change - James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: A Cool Change - James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee - Pt 4 Final

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – Part 3 J

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – Part 3 James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – Part 2 - James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – Part 2 - James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – part 1 - James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – part 1 - James Craib

© Cosmic Mosquitoes

© Cosmic Mosquitoes

The ‘Mosquito’ was ready to launch; awaiting only the final sequence that would send the last spacecraft hurtling through the now mostly polluted atmosphere and out of the Earth’s gravitational pull. The year was AD 2085. The crew were comprised of the best minds and most physically perfect specimens that humanity had left. The idea was to ensure that a remnant of humanity would survive the anticipated cataclysm and return to Earth at an undetermined time in the future.  The acidic rain had finally relented after pouring down unremittingly for around three weeks. However, further heavy falls were anticipated within 24 hours – this was their last opportunity before the monsoon season started. 

Whilst all care had been taken, the reality was that some contractors had still cut corners in the supply of components to the project. Consequently, at T minus 20 seconds, an alarm showed up on the DUD (digital universal device) of an anxious manager in the control room at Cape Canaveral. The launch sequence was immediately postponed and a technician was despatched hurriedly to the launch site. Normally any technician entering the spacecraft would need to be attired in full protective, sterile, gear so as to ensure that no contaminant compromised the atmosphere of the vehicle. Such was the urgency of the mission, that the quality control section was instructed to give only the bare minimum of scrutiny to the technician. Consequently, no-one noticed that two or three mosquitoes were clinging to the man’s overalls.

The fault (a minor section of printed circuitry in the communications system) was quickly replaced. The technician wondered idly why it was necessary that the whole project be held up for such a minor problem that could have been easily rectified by the crew at a later time. Meanwhile two of the mosquitoes took refuge in the warmth of an air filtering duct. The technician quickly vacated the craft and the launch sequence began anew. This time there was no hold-up and the launch sequence proceeded to its inevitable conclusion. Lift-off!

Climate change, global warming and the resultant struggle for control of the Earth’s dwindling resources, fresh water and arable land decimated the planet; leading to anarchy. The planet’s population descended into warring tribal factions. Contact with the ‘Mosquito’ was lost around 50 years later and all but forgotten. Thousands of years passed...

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

The story of the launch of the ‘Mosquito’ entered the realm of myth and its eventual return became entwined with other stories and legends of the return of a messiah.  In story and song, even the names became interspersed as ‘The Mosquiah’. These stories were handed down from one generation to the next. In 4550 or thereabouts, a strange craft materialised on the shore of the Simpson Sea. The local tribe approached the craft cautiously. In appearance, they were similar to the Aboriginal tribes that had inhabited the area many millennia before. The legend -‘MØЅΩÜÏŦΦ’ appeared on the side of the craft, together with what appeared to be a depiction of a six-legged insect.

An opening appeared in the side of the craft and a being the height of a man stepped into the bright sunshine. It stood upright on two legs and appeared to have four arms, and rudimentary wings. The head was almost human in appearance. The only difference was that the large compound eyes dominated the face and had the ability to view a very large angle, detect fast movement and the polarisation of light. Two or three members of the tribe dropped to their knees and began chanting: ‘Mosquiah has come, Mosquiah has come...’

The alien being looked bemused. He or she lifted one of its arms/tentacles and directed it at the chanters. There was a flash of light and an energy beam flew from the outstretched limb, incinerating the nearest person to a fine ash within seconds. The air was filled with an acrid smell and there was a sound not unlike that of an insect hitting an electronic Bug Zapper in a food shop. The bug had travelled far; it was now time to reclaim the Earth.

The Winter Spectacle

© The Winter Spectacle

Nancy Collins stopped outside St Hilda’s church and marvelled at the sight of the thousands of people thronging Katoomba Street. 

            ‘What a spectacle’, she mused. ‘All these people here for the Winter Magic Festival – I wonder what the religious zealots, who write into the Gazette, will make of it this year. All that palaver about the feral festival; invoking evil spirits and witch’s covens...’

            ‘Sorry love’, Patrick interjected, ‘Were you speaking to me?’

            ‘Ah...no Patsy, just idle thoughts, at least I thought they were just thoughts’. ‘I’ll really have to be a bit more diligent’, Nancy admonished herself,”Engage conscious mind before opening face portal”, as the Prime Unit is forever saying ... ‘

It also brought to mind something else the Prime Unit had imparted, “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself; now is not the time!” It had been some years since Nancy’s conversion and yet Patrick barely seemed to comprehend that she was not the same person she once was. Patrick just thought that she’d “got a dose of religion”, as if it was some sort of malady that would eventually right itself.  Patrick, as a lapsed Catholic, considered himself to be some sort of expert. The point was, of course, that Nancy hadn’t just got religion; she’d undergone a complete makeover, rather like ‘being rejuvenated as in a television home improvement programme’ as she herself imagined. Nevertheless, Patrick did not object, declaring that “everyone should have a hobby and Nance has found hers”, in a smug, self-serving way to friends at dinner parties. And some of their friends agreed with him but wisely kept their counsel. ‘Personally, I’ll stick with astronomy’ he confided. Nancy, however, harboured quite secret and far-reaching plans.

The only hint of annoyance that Patrick revealed was to remark one day to Nancy that “You’ve become a bit anal-lytical of everything, Nance; lighten up a bit!”  Indeed, Nancy conceded that the Prime Unit, as the source of her re-education, was a ‘bit pompous and aloof’ and had actually said so to him at the last meeting. The Prime Unit had not the slightest notion what she meant and in turn had puzzled about it for some weeks. On the whole, however, Patrick’s non-interest in Nancy’s ‘gatherings’ suited her purposes and those of ‘the trust’ for the moment.

“There’ll be time enough to reveal our real mission”, the Beta Unit confided to her at the last meeting, “And Patrick will be next one to experience enlightenment – you’ll see, it’s inevitable!” Nancy rather thought it would take more than mere words to persuade Patrick, who despite being a star-gazer was a pragmatist, to accept the inevitable. ‘It is inevitable – isn’t it?”

‘What’s inevitable Nance?’ asked Patrick.

‘Oh no, I’ve done it again’ thought Nancy. ‘Err... sorry Patsy, just chewing over something the prime un ... I mean, the minister had to say recently’.

‘Did you say Prime? Struth Nance, I thought surely the Prime Minister hasn’t joined your mob as well’, he laughed. ‘I thought she was an agnostic. What is it you call yourselves again – The Illuminated Trust of the Sacred Bleedin’ Nose of Yeswah?’ And he laughed even louder at his own witticism. ‘Gees, look at the witch outfit that little girl’s got on’, his attention momentarily sidetracked. ‘Anyway, what’s inevitable?’

‘You know full well that we’re known simply as the Trust, Patrick”. Nancy replied crisply. ‘I would’ve thought you’d come up with something new instead of flogging that old chestnut’.

‘And that, m’dear is a mixed metaphor, if I’m not mistaken. For the third time: what’s inevitable?” he asked again good-naturedly.  ‘Hey, look at the little fairy – isn’t she cute?’

‘Oh you know Patrick, one of these nights, you’ll probably encounter something quite out of the ordinary when you drive out to Narrow Neck or Mount York road – or where ever you decide to go, to check out the alignment of the planets’. Her good humour restored. ‘Maybe you’ll be taken by aliens’, she added mischievously. ‘Little green men would really appreciate a green point of view - that’s inevitable!’

‘Yeah, right ... and it’s inevitable that Tony Abbot will finally accept that climate change is real and do something for the country, instead of wringing his hands and bewailing the damned economy all the time. If action isn’t taken soon there won’t be any economy and the aliens can have the damn planet!  Bipartisanship isn’t giving into the devil you know ...’ Clearly, Patrick was about to climb up on his ‘save-the-environment’ soapbox once more.

Nancy’s eyes rolled skyward. Realising her mistake, she quickly nipped his ‘green’ sermon in the bud. ‘Give it a rest will you Patsy?’ she countered. ‘You know damn well you’re pitching to the wrong audience; I’ve been in the ‘green’ camp even longer than you have. Please let’s just concentrate on the witches and fairies for once instead of the poltergeists and their blasted shortcomings!’ she pleaded.

‘Sorry sweetheart’, replied Patrick, who was actually heartily sick of the subject, after watching a somewhat desultory edition of Q & A, where the climate change sceptics seemed to be well represented ‘Let’s go find a café and watch the passing parade. You never know, we might see one or two ‘aliens’ go past’. It’s quite a Winter spectacle this year. isn’t it?’ ‘Remember the year when it snowed? Now that was truly spectacular!’

‘Yeah that’d be great – a cappuccino would hit the spot right now’, Nancy smiled at Patrick and took his arm as they wandered down Katoomba Street; marvelling at the fact they could walk down the middle of the street without being menaced by traffic.  She caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window and just for a split second she noted a dark aura around her head and her eyes looked golden. But she wasn’t concerned. No one had noticed and even if they did, people would assume it just was some silly middle aged woman dressed up for the festival. The image would immediately disappear from the memory – the Prime Unit had thought of everything! “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself; now is not the time!” Still ... now might be Patrick’s time – she’d bring it up at the next meeting.

Old Seadogs

(c) Old Seadogs                                      

The morning sun danced on the waves as a brisk gust brought the smell of the ocean, laden with salt, into Darcy’s nostrils. He awoke with a start, as he felt something wet and rough licking his face. He sat upright and tried to open his eyes, but found they were encrusted with a film of salt and sand.

            ‘Go on – bugger off!’ ‘God that dog smells bad’, he said aloud and tried to shoo the determined mutt away. ‘Yuck!’

‘Aw it’s only Seaweed, won’t hurt ya’. Darcy was distracted momentarily by the voice close to his right side. ‘Come on, that’s enough, get down!’

‘Seaweed?’ Darcy replied incredulous, ‘Nah, I know a dog when I smell one; is it yours?’

‘Yeah, sorry mate’, the voice continued, ‘Should’ve explained a bit better, see his name is Seaweed. I call ‘im that ‘cause he’s a kelpie…mainly. Ya get it? Kelp, therefore Seaweed or Weedy for short; hang on a minute, here’s a drop of water to get the grit out of yer eyes, the cap’s off’.

Darcy felt a plastic bottle being shoved into his outstretched hand. He poured a liberal amount into his free hand and sluiced his face and eyes, then took a long drink. ‘Thanks mate’, he exclaimed, ‘That feels so much better’.

Darcy blinked a few times and gazed quizzically, as the figure squatted beside him gradually came into focus. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun and looked into the lived-in face of his benefactor. Seaweed’s owner had one of those slightly ravaged faces of a life spent out in the open; clear intelligent eyes set beneath a shock of blonde-white hair and a slightly mocking smile, adorned by a three-day growth. About sixty or so and rangy, thought Darcy, not a fool – an old seadog. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and sneakers, and a blue windcheater over a rolled-neck pullover that was probably obtained at an army surplus store. A canvas bag hung down from his shoulder. The man picked up a stick and hurled it towards the ocean; Seaweed barked loudly and took off after the stick as if it were a rabbit. Within seconds, the dog retrieved the stick and brought it back and dutifully dropped it at the feet of its master; anxiously awaiting the game to continue, alternately barking and panting.  

‘Weedy – sit, be quiet’, said the owner. And Weedy sat down and gave a slight yelp of resignation and panted impatiently; it was too nice a day to be still whilst his owner talked to the other two-leg who had shooed him away.

‘My name’s Percy – me mates call me Parrot, reckon I’m always squawkin’ about sumptin,’ he looked down at an empty wine flagon, ‘What do they call you … old soak?’

Darcy glanced balefully at the empty flagon also, ‘Ahh Darcy, yeah I know, ‘looks like another deadbeat slurping turps on the beach, ‘must’ve passed out last night; don’t happen to know the time do you Parrot?’ ‘Speaking of which, my mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage’. He took another drink.

‘Yeah you look like shit also’ replied Parrot and pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch. ‘It’s um, just on seven’. ‘Though you don’t sound like a down-and-out, what’s your caper?’

Darcy looked askance, ‘Thanks for the compliment … does he talk like that to you too, Weedy?’ trying to deflect a possible confrontation, ‘Jeez my head’s bursting’.

The dog, which was predominantly black, turned its white face sideways at the mention of its name and barked twice; seemingly in affirmation and wagged its tail in anticipation.

‘If you must know … I was thinking about trying to swim to New Zealand – one way. If I made it, good and well, if not …’ Darcy trailed off.

‘You mean you were going to drown yourself – what on Earth for? It can’t be that bad, surely! What happened? Did the cat snuff it or sumptin? Get yourself a dog – take mine!’ Parrot went quiet for a moment, then added. ‘I’ll tell you something else, Darcy boy, drowning is NOT a pleasant way to go.’ His voice raised higher, ‘Take it from me, I used to be a fisherman up ‘til I retired. I got washed overboard once in a high swell and nearly got carried away. Luckily I managed to grab a mass of net but I lost a finger in the process when my hand got entangled ’. Parrot was practically shouting now in anger, as if Darcy was, somehow, partially responsible. ‘Cop this!’

And in confirmation, Parrot held up his left hand to show the ugly stump of his forefinger, streaked with scars from where strong twine had ripped through the joint.

‘Actually’, said Darcy slowly, ‘It was my wife Madeline that ... snuffed it.’ The expression tasted like bile in his throat and he turned and spat into the sand. ‘She … passed away a month ago. She was diabetic, went into a coma and didn’t come out of it. I had to tell them to turn off life support’. ‘We were going to go to Europe next year.’ Tears formed in his eyes and he turned away again in embarrassment, body convulsing.

Parrot’s face dropped, and his voice returned to normal ‘Oh bugger me, I’m very sorry Darcy, Jesus I’m a prick. I run off at the mouth at times, just call me Percy the Prick!’     

Darcy snuffled, ‘It’s alright you weren’t to know, it’s just that I’d looked after her for the last few years and now it all seems to have been so futile, got nothing much else to live for – we didn’t have kids. Plus our parents are gone now on both sides … got a sister but I haven’t seen her in years; still living up in Queensland last I heard. Cairns I think was her last address …’

Something, grabbed Seaweed’s attention down by the water’s edge. He barked loudly once, jumped to his feet and took off across the sand to do battle with a noisy seagull.

‘Weedy’, yelled Parrot to no avail, ‘Come back here, you little mongrel!’ But it was clear that Weedy’s patience was exhausted and had no inclination towards obedience. ‘Kelpies are like that, they get bored. He’ll come back eventually, just like kelp on the beach’, Parrot conceded smiling at his own joke.

Turning his attention back to Darcy, Parrot said, ‘Look Darcy, that’s bloody awful, really! But you know when I gave up fishing, not long after I nearly became fish fodder me self and lost the digit … the wife buggered off with the local baker. I was devastated but it transpired that they’d been carrying on every time I went to sea. We had a couple of kids but I wasn’t much of a Dad; never at home see? They’re both adults now, flew the coop quite some time ago and now I don’t hear from them at all. They both shot through to the bright lights of Sydney. But here’s the twist – I’ve become rather friendly with the baker’s missus!’

Darcy turned and looked at Parrot, ‘Are you pulling my chain?’

‘No, straight up. She’s a lovely girl and everything’s nice ‘n’ easy, no hang-ups, pleasant conversation; we take in a show occasionally and I have dinner ‘round at her place quite often. I take a bottle of wine from the pub – that’s it behind us up there on the bluff – The Sea-Spray. I even get to throw the leg across occasionally. Actually, I sold me house and boat as part of the divorce settlement and now I’ve got a room at the Sea-Spray. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean and comfortable. My nephew is the publican and I help out as a handyman and also behind the bar when required. I’ve got the pension and I like to fossick down here on the beach; you never know what you might find … prone bodies even, particularly after a long weekend. I’ve already picked up about ten bucks in change this morning. Anyway; I’m rambling on here…’

‘I’ll say’, interrupted Darcy, who was actually finding his story intriguing.

‘Just hear me out Darcy and then I’ll piss off and you can get back to pollutin’ the ocean and amusing the seagulls.’

‘Thank you Percy Freud’, replied Darcy, It was his turn to get angry. ‘What are you – the coastal shrink? the … Fisherman’s Friend? If you think I’m going to sit here and suffer your …’

But Parrot cut him off short. ‘Listen you dick, it’s no skin off my nose, all I’m tryin’ to say is that there are other fish in the ocean, other paths to follow. “Life flows on within you and without you” as George Harrison once said. Ok you’re wife has passed on, but you haven’t!’  Don’t make the mistake of dropping your bundle, grieve for her certainly and then move on. Grog’s not the answer either you know.’

‘Yeah?’ said Darcy somewhat mollified, ‘I suppose you’re an expert there too, after all you do live in a pub!’ ‘Yo bloody ho and a bottle of Bundy?’

‘But of course!’ agreed Parrot. ‘I used to get legless just about every other night’. I’d lost a finger and I’d been fingered, or cuckolded or something. Then one day I’m down on the beach, just like you, with the mother and father of a hangover and I ran into a couple of Buddhist fellers sittin’ cross-legged on the sand staring out to sea, meditatin’. It sort of threw me at first because they weren’t in saffron robes or had shaved heads or anything. Turned out they were visitors at the Ashram just back in the hinterland a bit, on a weekend retreat. Anyway, I got to talking to them and they suggested I try meditating. At first I thought “this is bullshit” but anyway later on I said to me self – self, I’ll give this a try, got nothing to lose. So after one or two false starts sure enough I start to feel relaxed and I get reacquainted with the young bloke I once was in me twenties, only I’ve got a bit more wisdom now see – yeah you can laugh, but it works; got me off the piss and curbed the urge to run a gutting knife across me wrists’.    

‘Sorry Parrot I wasn’t laughing at you, really, it’s your dog – Seedy is it? No that’s me! Weedy, that’s it! He’s trying to catch that seagull, just about got him that time. You mean to say that you tried to end it all? A bit messy I would’ve thought slitting your wrists in the bathtub.’

Parrot chose to ignore this observation. Instead he stuck two fingers in his teeth, whistled a shrill note and called out loudly, ‘Weedy, come here mate, come on’. And Weedy, after giving one last lunge at the hapless gull, came a racing back up the sand to where the two men were sitting.  He shook himself violently and salty water sprayed both men and they protested alternately with cries of ‘Bloody hell’ and ‘God, you stink’. Oddly enough, Seaweed didn’t appear to be too perturbed. The little dog barked excitedly – time to go, gulls to chase!

There was an awkward silence, finally Parrot said ‘I’d better get going,’ ‘wouldn’t want to waste anymore of your precious time and I’ve got to be back at the pub in an hour to help get set up for the day’s trading.’ There was another awkward moment, ‘You should wander up later for a counter lunch and a … mineral water, get yourself cleaned up first. Or if you like I can give you and Weedy a hose-down at the rear of the pub. He’s especially on the nose and you’re not far behind.’

By now Darcy was bereft of any other pithy response.

‘Be seeing you – yo bloody ho!’ and with that Parrot stood up and started off again along the beach. ‘Come on Weedy,’ he called. And soon he was another hazy figure on the water’s edge in the morning sun, gradually getting smaller with a yappy grey black bundle beside him.

Darcy yawned, stretched and rubbed his eyes once more. He noticed that Parrot had left his water bottle behind. He took another long drink to wet his parched mouth and throat. ‘Silly old bugger’ Darcy thought to himself. ‘But he did make some sense!’ he acknowledged grudgingly. Madeline was gone and nothing could bring her back. Maybe it was time to make a fresh start. Get a new job or perhaps travel – he’d always wanted to see Europe, never know who you might meet. He could try to look up his sister in Queensland, or maybe he could get himself a dog. Old seadogs – maybe he might just repair to the Sea-Spray for lunch.

Ruby's Ring

© Ruby’s Ring

            It was in a small, dark, little shop in a laneway just off the Portobello Road in London 1950 that Robyn found her greatest treasure. Nestled in among the antique galleries, the little shop was actually a pawn-cum-junk shop that had the intriguing name: The Junque Emporium. A bit pretentious, Robyn thought to herself, but then again...weren’t they all? She pushed the door open and the unmistakeable smell of age assailed her senses, whilst the tinkle of the bell made her wince. “Oh God,” she said aloud, “now someone will know I’m inside!”

            “Don’t you worry dearie, I won’t disturb you, take some time – that’s something I’ve got plenty of, ha ha!” An old man’s voice with a trace of something foreign came from the dark interior and startled Robyn.

            “Oh th-thank you,” she stammered. Robyn had lost her family in the Blitz and as a result was quite timid and withdrawn, “I’m just br-browsing.”

            In truth, Robyn had spied a small ring in the shop window, set with what appeared to be a small red ruby on a plain gold band. The shopkeeper, in turn, had actually seen her gazing in the window and being an old rogue with a keen sense of sizing up potential customers, knew the young woman had been looking at the ring. “Here’s a likely prospect”, the old man had said, licking his lips. “Come on dearie in you come; you know you want it!”

            Robyn poked about the shop in a somewhat perfunctory manner, thinking to herself that The Junque Emporium was well-named. Eventually, after rummaging about amidst the aged chinaware and other bric-a-brac, she returned to the counter where the old man stood leaning on the one hand whilst slowly turning over the pages of a newspaper with the other. “So would you like to try on zee ring my dear, it’s a charming little piece, is it not”?

            Robyn was taken aback, “H how, ah that is, um...how did you know”...

            “That you were interested in zee ring?” By way of an answer, the old man brought up his forefinger and tapped the side of his prominent nose and winked at the young woman conspiratorially.

            Robyn was puzzled and said nothing. Time stood still and she had a momentary feeling that she had stepped back in time and was transported to a Dickensian novel; am I dealing with Fagin? She thought to herself, he certainly looks like Fagin with that hooked nose...“Well...yes I might be, but how did you...”?

           

            “Oh don’t worry about that dearie,” the old man said dismissively, waving his hand above his head, “I’ll just get it for you to try, no obligation”! And in the blinking of an eye he stepped to the end of the counter and plucked the ring in its little blue box out of the window. “It’s a fine unpretentious piece of jewellery,” he went on before Robyn could utter her usual ‘I’ll think about it’ and grabbing her right hand, slipped it on to her second finger. “There you are fits like it vas made for you and only fifty quid – what do you say”?

            Robyn was again taken aback, “F-f- fifty pounds? Oh goodness me...no I couldn’t afford that sort of money; I’m sorry to have troubled you!” She hurriedly took the ring off, put in on the bench and started to make for the door.

            “Not so fast dearie, stay a minute, I’m a reasonable man; genuine rubies don’t come cheap you know and it’s a lovely little ring...how about forty?” The shopkeeper went into his full spiel, “I can see you’re a young lady of good taste and discernment.” “Be brave, rubies are the stone of courage...” Robyn had opened the door; “Well thirty then, I can’t do any better than that!” he called after her anxiously.

            Her interest was piqued but Robyn replied, “I...ah couldn’t afford anymore than twenty pounds, that’s more I make in a couple of months – I’m only a cleaning girl you know.”

            “How about twenty-five? And I tell you what, you could pay it off at zay 10 bob a week, ‘won’t take you long. Come on dearie, fortune favours zee brave! It’s a ruby ain’t it?” The old man had played his last gambit.

            “Well I should hope so!” said Robyn returning slowly to the counter, “Couldn’t you make it twenty...please sir?”

            “Oh all right then...twenty pounds! You’re robbing me blind, so you’ll have to pay fifteen shillings a week until zee account is clear – agreed?” The old man was irritated but he had to make a living; he pulled out a grubby sales book. “I’ll keep a note each time you come in; twenty pounds for a ruby ring – I must be going senile.”

            “Oh y yes sir, thank you sir, I can give you a pound today and I could pr-probably manage a pound a week from time to time – could I try it on again...please?

            So over the next few months, Robyn dutifully attended the little dingy shop off the Portobello Road each week and paid another instalment on the Ruby Ring. As she got to know the old shopkeeper – Jacob better, her confidence increased and her stammer faded. Jacob let her wear the ring as she browsed about the shop. Curiously, she saw never another customer enter the shop. Jacob would tell her little snippets of his past life in Europe during the war but never fully revealed his origins, or how he came by the ring; only to say that it was from an old lady’s deceased estate. Every time she gazed at the ring on her hand, Robyn felt a strange sense of power – a feeling of courage, strength. She tried to assure herself that Jacob’s story of ruby being the stone of courage was just a legend.

“Ruby is zee stone of love, energy, passion and power Miss Robyn,” Jacob would say. “It gives you a zest for life; ruby is zee perfect sign for powerful feelings. Ruby is blood; it restores vital life forces and increases energy and vigour.  Ruby is also known as the stone of courage. Legend tells us that a person possessing a ruby can walk through life without fear of evil or misfortune.” “The ruby is you – believe in yourself!” Robyn gave a wan smile...

The weeks and months passed. When Robyn (or Ruby... as she had begun to think of herself) had paid about 15 pounds off the ring, Jacob surprised her one day, “Miss Robyn, I must leave for awhile to attend to, ah, some urgent family business. If you can pay me zay another three pounds today, the ring is yours and your account is paid in full – do we have a deal?”

Robyn could ill afford the extra three pounds but agreed at once. “That’s very generous of you Jacob but I haven’t got it on me at the moment; could I bring it back this afternoon?”

“Excellent my dear and in the meantime I’ll clean and polish it for you.”

“Oh don’t worry yourself Jacob.” said Robyn anxiously. “Nonsense my dear, it will be my pleasure, you run along now.” Jacob replied, with a strange glint in his eyes. “Come back at 5 o’clock.”

When Robyn returned at five, the little laneway was already dark. She was surprised to find the door of the little dingy shop to be locked. Jacob was standing close by in the shadows with his hat and coat on. “Ah you’re here, punctual as ever, do you have zee three pounds?” “Come on girl, I’m in a hurry,” he added brusquely. “Yes of course,” she replied somewhat puzzled and handed it over. “Good, here is your ring polished to perfection and your final receipt - Auf Wiedersehen.” And with that remark, the old man hurriedly left the laneway and disappeared into the throng and deepening gloom of Portobello Road. He was never seen again. Robyn looked down at the little blue box in bewilderment. Back home at her room in the boarding house, Robyn took out the ring – it looked different somehow...

≈≈≈

A year or two later, a confident, bright eyed young woman called Ruby Porter disembarked at Sydney off the SS Cheshire. She was looking forward to her new life in Australia. She gazed at the slim gold band with the small ruby on her finger and felt a surge of confidence that was almost mystical. “The ruby is you – believe in yourself!” Jacob’s words came back to her. Within two years, Ruby met and married Bert. The young couple struggled for a few years to make ends meet and eventually scraped together enough money to buy a block of land in the Blue Mountains. Ruby worked as a waitress at the Hydro Majestic Hotel and as a seamstress. Whilst Bert, who was a carpenter, eventually built them a modest but comfortable house; their lives were fulfilling.     

Bert always marvelled at the way that Ruby never let anything stand in her way. She was the most determined woman he ever met. Until the day he died, Bert could not fathom the secret of his wife’s steely resolve. They only had one child – a girl, Dorothy or Dot. She was named after Dorothy, who wore the ruby red slippers in The Wizard of Oz.  Many years later when Ruby lay on her death-bed, the old woman looked up at her daughter with tired eyes although the fierce determination still blazed. “I want you to have my ruby ring, Dot,” she said lovingly. “It’s my most treasured possession, my secret; it’ll give you strength, courage and protect you always.” “The ruby is you – believe in yourself!” “I will Mum, truly,” said Dot, although she retained a healthy scepticism.

Dot had heard the story frequently of how her mother had obtained the ruby ring from the old mysterious shopkeeper in London. Months later after her mother had passed away, Dot decided to have the little ruby ring with the alleged aura valued at her local jeweller. She had found out from the Internet that some ruby rings dating from the 1940s could be quite valuable. The jeweller examined the little ring with his eyepiece at length. “Well Dot, it’s certainly a nice setting, but I’m afraid to say that it’s not a ruby...it’s glass. Possibly a chip of murano glass from Venice, but glass nevertheless; you might get ten bucks for it at one of the markets.”

Baffling Bill Letts' Magic Billets

(C) Baffling Bill Letts' Magic Billets

‘Baffling’ Bill Letts was an average stage magician and illusionist. His best tricks and performing years were now well behind him. Constant touring around country shows and fairs, not to mention an above average consumption of grog, had taken its toll over the years. His long suffering partner and wife – ‘Fay the Fair’ had endured his taunts above and beyond the call of sanity. Bill’s once mysterious charm had now vanished in the smoke that accompanied some of his more elaborate illusions; now, sadly, a dim memory also. Bill nowadays relied upon ‘sleight of hand’ tricks that were the magician’s stock in trade. His prowess in this area was also in the decline.

            Fay, (who was simply known as Fay Johnson when she first met Bill), was a crack shot, lasso artist and trick rider in her father’s small-time bush circus. Bill had joined the circus briefly and the gormless Fay was instantly captivated by Bill’s oily charm and his dark, hypnotic eyes. When Bill suggested they should join forces, run away and leave the circus; Fay promptly agreed. The only life she had known was with her father and the chances of finding a handsome, sophisticated partner like the swarthy magician were slim. Indeed, young Bill had looked remarkably like a young Bela Lugosi and affected the same dark, mysterious, manner. Bill moreover was of Eastern European origins, immigrating to Australia in 1948 from Latvia with the name Vilhelms Krūmiņš, aka ‘Wilhelm the Wizard’.  This name proved to be ‘baffling’ to Australian audiences and so in a rare moment of inspiration, with a nostalgic reminder of his origins, Young Vilhelms became ‘Baffling’ Bill Letts.  

            Bill had lost his family during the war and never got over it. Consequently, he came to rely upon alcohol, especially vodka, as the only means of escape. When Bill was drunk, he became particularly nasty and belligerent and the hapless Fay soon became the target of his scorn. As the years passed and Fay’s girth widened, she played less and less a part in Bill’s performances. Her once trim figure, from years of horse riding, had ensured that she was able to contort her body so as to perform the magician’s more elaborate illusions; such as ‘disappearing’ from locked cabinets or folding over double so as to appear being sawn in half or avoid swords pushed into her sequinned torso. Highly strung as she was, Fay resented the decline in her physical stature and paranoia gradually increased. 

           

            ‘You iz not so fair now Fay; your rump is as vide as ze horses you once rode,’ Bill told her bluntly. ‘But you could still be ze plant ven I appear to read the minds.’ Bill justified Fay’s demotion. ‘It also means I do not need to pay some oaf whose billet I know in advance...is good, no?’ ‘You just keep your dumpy frame out of sight ‘til Showtime and zen no-one vill suspect you are part of ze act.’ Fay protested loudly that the other skills she brought to the act; like shooting a hole through an ace of spades or the bullet catch that would appear ‘magically’ in the magician’s fingers or mouth, brought excitement to the performance. ‘Zat time is now past,’ Bill declared, ‘Anyvay your aim iz now not so good!’ Bill, who had a couple of close calls during the war, had a healthy aversion to firearms anyway. Fay snorted in contempt. ‘He knows damn well that we use wax bullets.’ But did not voice this out loud; instead she said simply, ‘Alright Bill, I’ll be the plant – what would you like as the message on the billet?’  

           

            The deception used in billet reading is known as the one-ahead method. The performer relies on knowing what is inside one of the envelopes ahead of time, and using that knowledge to stay (hopefully) one step ahead of the audience. The performer does this by having a plant in the audience insert a predetermined message as one of the billets, or by secretly opening one envelope. The performer subsequently pretends to read the contents of the first sealed envelope. Actually, the plant's message is being recited and the performer must simultaneously commit the new message to memory.  Bill now performed this trick as the end of his show. Alas, his memory was failing and he was having difficulty in recalling each message from one envelope to the next. His excessive vodka intake did not help.

            Bill tried to cover up his mistakes by emulating one of his ‘magical’ heroes – Tommy Cooper, by appearing to be drunk when he performed. Indeed like TC, Bill frequently was drunk. Regrettably, Bill lacked Tommy’s panache and the refined comic timing to carry it off and consequently just seemed inept and pathetic. When Fay had suggested that perhaps they should just retire, Bill flew into a rage. ‘Never!’ he bellowed. ‘Ven my time comes, I vill die on stage just like Tommy!’ Fay, in a vain attempt to remain a more visible part of the act, had suggested that a billet could be secreted inside a cartridge with a wax bullet that she would fire from the rear of the audience. Bill actually considered this momentarily but then declared that the logistics were now more than he could handle. He turned her down again. Fay seethed.

            Fay endured the humiliation (as she saw it) of being the plant in the audience for a few months. Then they had a miraculous change of luck and Bill secured a booking in one of the bigger RSL clubs in Sydney. ‘My luck is changing at last,’ declared Bill. ‘Zay are oafs but ze money is good! I need a big finale!’ Fay again suggested that she fire a wax bullet from the side of the auditorium. ‘Come on Bill, it’s your signature, your name – Baffling Bill’s Magic Billets. You just do a substitution and place the real bullet with the message – This is the end of the show! in your mouth when you pretend to fall down’ Bill’s vanity got the better of him and so agreed; thinking that it might impress other clubs and he could always get a newer and more attractive assistant at a later time!

            At the Sydney RSL club the performance was going well and Bill, eschewing his customary vodka pick-me-up, was in fine form. He called on a few random people to write down various messages on pieces of paper...the billets. Fay as usual was one of the random people and wrote her standard message – I really love horses on the billet. This she placed into the discreetly marked envelope that Bill would recognise as hers and place it on the bottom of the stack. She then walked to the side of the auditorium, near the stage, and waited quietly with her hand in her hand bag grasping her pistol. Having collected all the various envelopes, Bill placed Fay’s envelope on the bottom by sleight of hand. He placed the top envelope against his forehead and after a dramatic pause called out, ‘Our first person says that he or she really loves horses – iz this the right message?’ Fay acknowledged that it was and added ‘That’s amazing – how did you now?’ Bill replied, ‘Vell you look ze horsy type!’ There was general laughter: Fay seethed.

            Bill dutifully went through the same routine with each envelope and read each billet in advance before solemnly declaring each message, feigning a little difficulty and basking in the applause when each person acknowledged that he had ‘divined’ their particular message. Having arrived at the bottom envelope, Bill intoned ‘My dog has fleas’ as the last message, adding, ‘Dis person must have an unfortunate doggie... or play ze ukulele!’ There was laughter and the usual expressed amazement. Bill tore open the envelope expecting to see Fay’s usual message - I really love horses.

            Bill looked up from the billet with a look of puzzlement. He turned in Fay’s direction but was unable to see as a spotlight was in his eyes. ‘Fay, wha...’ A single shot rang out.

            A neat, red, black hole appeared on the magician’s forehead and he dropped to the floor; the billet fluttering from his hand. There was much confusion, people screamed, some said it was just part of the act. Afterwards the police recovered the billet from the stage. It read: The horse has bolted. Your last billet is a bullet. No wax this time, Wilhelm! Fay demonstrated conclusively that she had, in fact, lost none of her prowess as a crack shot. When asked by police why she had shot her husband, Fay answered with a vacant stare. When pressed again she replied, ‘He got his wish, he died on stage – just like Tommy.’

Dark, They Were and Golden Eyes...

Dark, They Were and Golden Eyes...

“His eyes just flickered”, he heard a hollow voice say.

Or, he imagined he didn’t hear it; rather he felt it within his head. “Oh Lord, I must be hallucinating”. Patrick Collins tried to open his eyes but the light was too intense. They throbbed painfully.

“Am I dreaming”, he mused, unaware and unable to determine if he actually said the words, or if he was just floating on the edge of consciousness. He could hear a low hum, or imagined he did. “Medical equipment perhaps”?

“No, you’re not dreaming Mr. Collins, err Patrick I mean”, the same voice tried to assure him. “You’ve been in a coma for quite some time, rambling a bit – try to open your eyes”.

The voice sounded reassuring to Patrick’s … ears? No, there was a disembodied quality to it; hollow, ethereal, like the sound of a priest’s voice in a confessional. It was familiar, not unlike that fatuous blowhard – Father Lonigan from eons ago.

“What do you want to confess, Patrick”? Another voice asked bemusedly, “It’s been a long time since you’ve been to mass”!

Patrick was thoroughly confused though strangely relaxed, “I must have said that out loud”, he thought, or, thought he thought…

“We heard you quite clearly Patrick”, the first voice said. “Don’t try to make sense of it, you’re still quite disoriented and perhaps your auditory nerves have been affected by the explosion you’ve been alluding to – don’t you remember”? “Why don’t you try to slowly open your eyes”? The ‘priest’s’ voice encouraged him again. “The lighting has been dimmed”. 

Patrick tried once more to open his eyes but the pain was still too intense. His brow furrowed in concentration, “Explosion? What explo… oh yeah I remember”! Suddenly the memory came flooding into his frontal lobe. “I was driving along Mount York road, about 4am, and suddenly there was this huge ball of an incredibly intense yellow light that appeared directly in front of me; I drove straight into it: I couldn’t avoid it”! Patrick’s voice raised in agitation…

“Take it easy, take it easy”, said the second ‘priest’. “What were you doing out there at that time of night anyway? That’s a lonely deserted place and pitch black too”!

“I’m an amateur astronomer; I was going to look at the alignment of the planets through my telescope at around 5 as dawn was breaking”. Patrick replied enthusiastically and then a realization struck him, “I guess I’ll have missed it. It won’t occur again until 2040”.

“Well, that’s not all that long to wait, surely”? said the second ‘priest’.

“Are you kidding”? replied Patrick archly. “I’m almost seventy now, by that time I’ll be pushing up daisies or my dust will be spread over Megalong valley or something”.

“Do you mean you’ll be dead”? asked the first ‘priest’.

Patrick was thoroughly puzzled and a little angry, “Well…duh, yes of course, anyway how do you know whether I’ve been to mass lately or not”? In fact, Patrick hadn’t stepped into a church for over forty years, apart from funerals, marriages and the odd baptism. There was a schism between organized religion and actual faith; and Patrick, despite all the reading he’d done, was as confused as ever about divinity. If Dawkins represented one end of the scale and Pope Benedict the other, then Patrick was a notch or two away from Dawkins. “I’ll find out when I finally snuff it”, was his personal mantra. Patrick had a strange premonition, “Maybe I’m dead … am I dead”?

The ‘priest’ ignored Patrick’s question and asked instead, “Tell us about the explosion, the big yellow ball of light – what happened”? There was a pause, “Sure it wasn’t the moon”?

“Well”, said Patrick, “Just after I drove into the ball of light”, he said with emphasis, “I hit the brakes and there was this enormous booming sound; the light seemed to fly off in all directions and I thought I must have hit something. Then everything blacked out for a couple of moments and the light slowly returned, sort of a muted silver-grey luminance. I could see these figures coming slowly towards me in the beam of my headlights”.

“Figures? What figures? What did they look like”? The first voice demanded.

“At first I thought they were nuns dressed in the old style dark habits and cowls – you know”? “But as they got closer I could see it was just the shapes of their heads; dark they were and golden eyes. And no noses or mouths…just these blank dark faces and enormous oval shaped golden eyes that bulged slightly like an insect”! Patrick’s voice took on a note of desperation. “It felt as if I’d fallen into an episode of ‘Doctor Who’ or ‘The X Files’ or something, and then I thought don’t be stupid – it’s probably just kids dressed as aliens trying to scare the be-Jesus out of people”.

Patrick’s story was now coming out in a torrent…”but then I felt this buzzing in my head almost like a swarm of bees had invaded my mind. It was getting louder and louder, more incessant. I screamed out in pain as the intensity increased and I thought I could hear a babble of voices only they sounded as if the voices were going backwards, like when an old tape player is rewound. I couldn’t make any sense of it and I just blacked out”.

Patrick trailed off. Recalling the incident had suddenly made him feel tired. His eyes felt sore, throbbing. He tried to raise his right hand to rub his eyes and found, to his surprise, that his arm was restrained. He tried to raise his left arm and found it to be restrained as well. He tried to move his legs but they too were held fast.

“What the hell’s going on”! Patrick cried out. “Where am I? Why am I being held down? I haven’t done anything wrong”! A feeling of dread came over him, “Am I in a hospital or … what”?

“Don’t distress yourself Patsy, everything’s alright”. A third voice came from the direction of Patrick’s right. It sounded feminine, hollow and soothing. Simultaneously, he could feel the back of his hand being gently stroked. It was a curious tactile sensation; an odd combination of velvet and the caress of a lizard. “The restraints are just for your protection until the transition is finished’.

Far from calming him down, Patrick felt as if a mild electric current ran through his body. Then just as suddenly, he immediately felt at peace as if a sedative had just taken effect. “Nancy – is that your voice I hear”? “What transition”? He heard himself ask in the same disembodied voice that the first ‘priest’ seemed to be using. It sounded hollow, almost like he hadn’t spoken at all. Telepathic, almost …

There was a moment’s hesitation and then ‘Nancy’ replied, “Yes, it’s Nancy; don’t be afraid you’re among friends. I know your eyes are still throbbing but try to open them anyway”.

“Ok”, said Patrick, and slowly opened his eyes. The throbbing had almost subsided though his eyes felt somehow as if they had spread over his face. The room came slowly into view and his vision was crystal clear. It was clearly a medical facility although the equipment, which he did not recognise, seemed to hum and gently glow with a silver-grey luminance. He gazed up at the ceiling which gave the impression of disappearing into a gradually receding yellowish fog. The effect was strangely calming, soothing…

“Are you beginning to feel like your old self now”? enquired ‘Nancy’ as ‘she’ loosened the restraints. The transition was now complete.

“Now that’s a curious remark” said Patrick Collins. “Or was it a thought”?

He gazed at the three figures gathered around him. Dark, they were and golden eyes ...