Stagecoach;Western write 3 of 15

3.

Sergeant Thomas “Tom” Stack looked to the nearby hills. He felt the Apaches were out there. They have been chasing the shadows for days.

“Ute,” Sergeant Tom called the Pima scout who was dressed in the Calvary jacket and striped pants. He even carried the Spencer rifle on the saddle. The scout walked over with his moccasin footwear and his steps were silent to the ears.

“How many you think they are out there?”

“I counted thirty of them. They are split into two groups. They won’t attack us at this hour. We are too many and we have a big house.” The Sergeant heard the scout. It was the Apache way to fight with stealth, and they ambush their enemies with hit and run battles. He had read the reports that the Geronimo army was not big; the last reported count was not more than fifty riders. The seasoned Apache leader once led half of his tribe from the reservation at San Carlos Reservation to Mexico. It was soon after the death of Cochise; another great leader of the Apaches. Geronimo was captured and returned to San Carlos but he escaped once more. Geronimo evaded the authorities several times and laid ambush across the border.

“Geronimo is a great leader. He may be old but his medicine is strong.” The Sergeant praised the other. He then looked to the men that were under his command. The Corporal had placed picket duties around the Outpost, and the men off duty were resting on the hard ground outside the Outpost.

“Sergeant, all the men are accounted for.” The Corporal reported in.

“Have your bedding by the Outpost door. In case of any trouble, go in there.” The Sergeant told the other. “I will be in the barn.”

It was the Sergeant saw the pregnant lady stepping out of the Outpost with the suave gentleman he knew as Mr. Hatfield. He was not a young man and envious of any female companion. His own wife had died giving birth to the child which also did not live longer then. He had since then given up on any family and volunteered to fight in the Apache war. His only other preferences were the card games and whiskey.

“Mrs. Mallory, are you feeling better?” Mr. Hatfield was the gentleman holding the lady’s right elbow while she leaned on the Outpost pillar on the porch.

“I am fine, Mr. Hatfield. It was …. stuffy inside and I needed some air.” Mrs. Mallory had heard the news of her husband being wounded and despite being assured that he will be fine, she was all concerned for him. She wished she had come earlier to the frontier but the doctor in attendance to her told her it was not advisable. More to it the other army wives were all forthcoming to stop her. She had enough of their concerns and took the journey then. It was by train and then the last stretch by stagecoach. She was not expecting it to be so tiresome and made worse by the man seated across her was in irons. She was raised a Virginian lady with her fine upbringing. Her father had prospered from the Civil War and she found her love in the young officer then by name of Mallory.

James was a fine man with his father who was a Medical Doctor but the elderly man sanctioned his son to join the Army. James had courted her for a while before he approached the lady’s father for her hand in marriage. It has consented and soon she was Mrs. Mallory. It was fine until she got to know he had asked for a transfer to the South.

“I had to go, darling. The South is in chaos with the Indian wars. If I am there, I stand a chance to be a Major or Colonel.” James plea to her was seconded by her own father who felt the son in law needed the ranks to be seen in the society. He left soon enough but it was only his departure, she knew of her pregnancy. She offered to be near him but his letters were quite explicit in denial. She was to stay at home.

“Tell me, Mr. Hatfield. Why are you here?” Mrs Mallory decided to shift the subject matter.

“Well,” Mr. Hatfield was stunned by the request. He had never spoken of his past before to a stranger or recent acquaintance. “I …”

“Pardon my manners, Mr. Hatfield. I am being rude to ask you.” Mrs. Mallory retracted her earlier request.

“None at all, ma’am. I am actually going back …. home.” Mr. Hatfield smiled. “I am from these parts. I was born in Texas and have lived here for some years before I went North.”

Mr. Martin Hatfield was not his real name. He was christened Merrill McCarthy by his father then who was a cotton farmer inherited from his family. Their land was not huge but it was worked on by a hundred slaves before the Civil War. The war took its toll on the family with his two uncles dead fighting for the South, and his father maimed in the right leg. They lost their slaves, and their farm was halved. The family toiled on with the new laborers they hired but the proceeds were not enough. Soon, Merrill was sent to his mother’s family at Ohio to be raised there. He left at a tender age of six and never looked back. Merrill could not fit into the Northern supporter family, and with his lineage, he was bullied. He took on his own path at the age of ten to leave the adopted home and return to his mother. Instead, he found himself in the company of dubious men. He was to join them at the border to the wilderness of the North, where he learned to hunt and kill before he left for the French influence of Quebec. He was then under the patronage of a fine gambler and was taught the finer skills of being a gambler. He was soon to change from the bearded rough pelt trader to the charming adulthood gentleman at the tables. He made his way south towards Virginia after a harrowing period of avoiding the French scoundrels. He moved from places to places with his gambling skills to sustain himself. He was in Virginia then to Kentucky and Tennessee go Missouri. He avoided the South to reignite his desire to seek his family but the call of the South was too great. He turned towards Arkansas and then Mississippi where he saw the Kid gunned down his friend. Merrill was a partner with the other and they gambled on separate tables but they shared their winnings.

Merrill left alone then moved from one town to another, before he took the bold step to go home.

“Why, Mr. Hatfield. That was an interesting tale.” Merrill aka Hatfield had told another fabricated tale to Mrs. Mallory. He had hidden the part of the fur trading and the gambling but painting himself as a traveling scholar.

“You gave up on your law practice to go back to Texas.” Mrs. Mallory smiled at the young man. “It must have been hard on you.”

“Yes, but the call of my sweetheart back home in Texas was overbearing.” Mr. Hatfield further fabricated his tale. “Tell me of your husband; Mr. Mallory.”

Besides gambling, Mr. Hatfield was also a shyster. He had conned a few ladies of their wealth. He could tell then that Mrs. Mallory was with some wealth.

Above it all, he wanted to kill me. I took away his real love,

Stagecoach;Western write 2 of 15

2

“Mrs. Mallory, I knew Lieutenant Mallory. He is a mighty fine officer.” The commanding officer told the lady of her lover He was Lieutenant Blanchard with the detachment of twenty-five troopers assisted by the Sergeant and Corporal, and the Pima tribe Indian scout. The Pima and Apache were rival tribes and when words went out of Geronimo rampage, they volunteered to track the Apache.

“How is James?” Mrs. Mallory asked of her husband named Lieutenant Dayton ‘James’ Mallory. They were married for a year and then James was sent to the Apache land. She knew her husband has a responsibility to uphold. He left his wife in the care of the family at Michigan.

“He is wounded but will live.” Lieutenant Blanchard told the lady. He had met just minutes away when he rode towards the Outpost. He had seen the stagecoach there and decided to check the Outpost. He signaled the Sergeant to take two troopers and check the Outpost. He then reached for his water container. It was near empty from the three days of hard riding and chasing the elusive Apache leader. He rubbed the stale water off his parched lips and then signaled the follow-up. He saw the Sergeant had reached the Outpost.

“Corporal, I want a flanker of ten men here. I don’t want surprises.” Lieutenant Blanchard had been fighting the Apaches for over a year then. He had seen fine men including officers which had died fighting this war. He was not to lose his life by charging in blindly into an ambush. He rode on with the remaining man. He had on his revolver; the Navy Colt while his men were all armed with Spenser Repeating rifles.

“Are we expecting trouble, Corporal Dan?” The non-commissioned officer named Daniel Bain looked to the civilian they had picked up while on patrol. Mr. Martin Hatfield was dressed in the three-piece suit but the low-slung gun belt spoke of a man with a reputation of the wild west. He did introduce himself as a Southerner looking to go back home.

“No, Mr. Hatfield. I doubt it so.” Corporal Dan was from Virginia and has served the army for over twenty years, he still held the grudge for Southerners after having seen his father and friends died in the Civil War. He had joined the Calvary to honor his father.

“You stay with us, Mr. Hatfield. No harm will come to you.” Corporal Dan told the Southerner.

“Like heck, I would.” Mr. Hatfield kicked at the horse he was on and rode after the Lieutenant. He was upset at his earlier predicament when he rode out of the town with the stolen horse. He had little choices then; it was the hangman noose or the bullet in the back. He took the later and rode as if the sand storm was on his back. He left his poker winnings on the table before he fled for his life. He was a trickster and knew the odds was against him. His luck was bad for the horse he was riding soon had a lame on the left front leg. He had to put it down and took the long walk until he was rescued by the Army. He was given the spare horse by the Lieutenant. He took a liking to the officer who was from Louisiana. It was the Sergeant and Corporal; they were Yankee’s bred and detested the Southerner.

Mr. Hatfield arrived just when the Lieutenant had stepped in and was followed by himself. He saw the passengers of the stagecoach was there. It was a relief to him. He then saw the pregnant lady. If there was any kindness in the Southerner, it was his manners towards the ladies. He saw the officer conversing with the lady and then focused his attention to the others.

It was then he saw me.

“Ringo?” Mr. Hatfield muttered the name. He had met the Kid before. Well, it was more from a distance. He was playing cards than on the other table when he saw the Kid gunned down the other gambler. The kid had called the other on his cheat and on the gambler’s table, it was a grave insult. The gambler was not wearing a gun belt but the derringer was hidden in the left sleeve with the spring switch. The Kid drew his gun and it was all over. The gambler fell to the floor but the Kid was out of the saloon doors. Mr. Hatfield had picked up the derringer to keep with him.

“You must tell me about him.” Mrs. Mallory pleaded with the Lieutenant.

“He will live, Mrs. Mallory. He was shot in the left arm and right shoulder but the wounds are healing. He was kept in the infirmary to let him rest.” Lieutenant Blanchard had not disclosed how the other Lieutenant had retreated with only half his detachment when they were caught in an ambush against Geronimo. The officer had fought his way out and brought the survivals back with the Regiment Colours. He then turned to look at the others. He counted two ladies and four men. He then turned to the Sergeant and gave the order to dismount there.

“Call in the Corporal too. We will rest the night here.” His detachment needed the break. “And get some of our rations for these people.”

“Tell me why is that man in irons? Where is the law officer?” Lieutenant Blanchard looked towards me when he stepped in. I was still in my irons. It was Marshall Wilcox who replied.

“That’s a wanted fugitive from the law. I came on the stagecoach to get a ride to the next town. It was by coincidence I saw him and took him to custody. I am Marshall Curley Wilcox.”

“Lieutenant Blanchard. 6^th Calvary.” Both men greeted each other before the Lieutenant spoke to Mrs. Mallory. It was the Sergeant who asked the Marshall of myself.

“Shall the fugitive be kept away from the ladies? I can assign guard over him in the barn perhaps?”

“That won’t be necessary, Sergeant.” Marshall Wilcox replied. “I have him restraint and doubt he will attempt anything silly. There are worse things that the Apache could do to him.”

That brought a gasp of despair from the lady named Ms. Dallas.

“He cannot be left outside.” Ms. Dallas exclaimed out while looking at me. I have seen her furtive looks at me when I was in the stagecoach but she never made any attempt to talk to me. “It’s not the Christian way.”

“And he won’t be, ma’am. I do apologies for my earlier remark.” Marshall Wilcox then looked at me. I had remained quiet after the eavesdrop at the back of the Outpost.

“Don’t worry, ma’am. I will have my men here to guard the Outpost. We will not leave all of you unprotected. Fugitive or not.” Lieutenant then turned to attend to his own men.

“Are you well treated, Mister?” Ms. Dallas approached me. That action irked Mr. Hatfield who intervened and pulled the lady back.

“Don’t you step near that man? He is a killer.” Mr. Hatfield grabbed Ms. Dallas’s right elbow. She called out in pain. It was my call then to ease the lady of her discomfort. I stood up and kicked with my left leg at the other man in the inner side of the right thigh. He stumbled and I lashed out with the right leg at the groin. I kicked him hard and he went down. It was then I felt the hard handle of the rifle stock on my back. I went down next to the fallen man.

“Don’t move.” I looked at the barrel of the rifle leveled by the Marshall.

Stagecoach;Western write 1 of 15

Inspired and loosely adapted from the above movie

Stagecoach 2019

Jimmy Loong

1.

“Well, there are some things a man just can't run away from.” I moaned at my predicament then. I was relieved of my guns and handcuffed at the wrist. I am Ringo Kid; feared outlaw and cowboy until I was caught hauling my saddle across the stagecoach route. It was a sad event for my horse went down on my ride and I had to put it down. I had since then walked until the eventual meeting. The stagecoach pulled up and I asked for my ride.

“I’ll be darned. It’s the Ringo Kid.” I knew then, I was flat-footed by the only man able to track me across the land. It was my stroke of bad luck then. I had ridden from the law for some time then after having killed a man over the poker game. The dead man was a shyster but no one would believe me then. I grabbed my winnings and left town with my trusted steed. She was my love with her long strides while we too for the desert. We rode all night and out-paced the posse brought on by the local sheriff. Since then, and with a few stop-overs at the town saloons, I was always on the move till my luck ran out.

“Kid, you should have thought of that before you gunned down that man.” I looked to the Marshall who had the jurisdiction of the state. He was a fine officer of the law, in his forties and sporting the slim tanned body from his hunting days. Me, I am the cowboy full-blooded since the day I took to the saddle. I have been tending to the cattle ever since I was able to ride and shot my first man soon after I learned to draw with my hands. Ever since then, the name Ringo Kid was my name and feared by many.

“Marshall, he was a shyster and it was a fair draw.”

I had known Marshall Wilcox was a fair gentleman and he may just hear my side of the tale. Marshall Henry ‘Curly’ Wilcox knew me from the cattle drives when we crossed paths. He was good with his guns but above all, he was a gentleman when it comes to handling justice.

“Make way for the infirmed.” I heard the call and stepped aside. The one that staggered in was one of the passengers from the stagecoach. I heard his name was Doc Bone, Josiah Bone to be exact but he looked like a wreck with the reeks of whiskey in his breath. The doctor staggered past me and went towards the far corner where he found a seat for himself. He was followed on by the tummy bulging dressed in the eastern fashion and bonnet. That lady was not in her comfort zone then but her determination to have her husband, Lieutenant Blanchard at her side when the baby was to be born. She was assisted by another lady who was also a stagecoach passenger.

“Ms. Dallas, I will be fine.” Mrs. Mallory made her way to the nearby seat, a distance from the drunken doctor. She felt nauseated by the stench of the alcohol and was relieved that they actually disembarked to rest there at the outpost of the stagecoach route. She untied her bonnet before leaning on the chair. Ms. Dallas, the younger lady in the laced dress took her seat next to the pregnant lady. The last passenger stepped in carrying the leather bag with his wares of alcoholic drinks. He had shared some of his bottles of drinks with the drinking doctor. The Marshall recalled his name was Mr. Hitch or something close. He had loaded most of his ware on the stagecoach top and kept some bottles for the ride.

Marshall Wilcox looked out the door towards the stagecoach which was tended by the driver then. Bucks was what everyone called the old man who rode the stagecoach for many years on that route. He had only two love for the life; the stagecoach and the dust he breathes on the route.

“Please remain inside.” The Marshall took to find the handler of the outpost and found no one. There were some dry foods and beans in the kitchen with coffee. He reckoned the handler may have ridden off for some chores or was concerned on marauding Apaches that was reported then in the area. He returned to the living area and saw the salesman was stoking the woods in the stove to heat up the room. He then checked out the settings there; it was bare except for the table and four chairs of which three were taken up. There were the shelves with the paraphilias for outpost including ropes and shovels but the gun shelf was empty. The two windows in the room were not barred and opened out.

“Well, we can leave in a short time.” Bucks had stopped at the doorway carrying the rifle he kept at the rider side of the seat. He was bearded and with his body past his prime, he looked like an old man from the farm. He rubbed the soles of his boots and shake the dust off his pants before stepping in. He looked to the Marshall.

“Did you see Tom?” Bucks got his reply when the other shook his head. He had known Tom for a long time, and if Tom was not there, he was either dead or left for the nearest settlement, which was Apache Falls. Tom was not one to run with the tail between his legs unless he was really scared. Tom and himself had fought off the Apaches and others before.

“Well, I get the water boiling and we can have tea.” It was the kind gesture of Bucks then. He tended to his task while the Marshall looked to the shelves for something to reinforce the place. I saw through his intention and smiled. 

“Marshall, you could do with an extra hand.” I held out my hands.

“Stay as you were, Kid. I am fine.” Then Marshall continued with his search. He then decided to go outside on his search.

“Are we in any danger, Marshall?” Mrs. Mallory asked at the Marshall when he was to exist. She had seen the guard with the badge hidden behind the vest. She also heard the other passenger called him Marshall.

“No, ma’am. You will be fine.” It was then the Marshall saw Bucks signaling him. He stepped over and was led to the back. Bucks were looking around the ground and then he spoke to the Marshall.

“Marshall, I saw signs of Apache at the well and the barn. I think I found Tom. He is buried behind the corral.” So, the mystery of Tom may have been resolved. What puzzled Bucks was Apache’s do not bury the dead?

“We may have to move but the horses needed some resting. There are no spare horses in the corral.” Bucks looked to the outpost behind him. “We may need to guard them.”

“I understand.” The Marshall replied.

“How many rounds have you?”

“I got six in my pistol and another six in the rifle. I hold fifteen in my belt.” The Marshall replied. “What’s your take?”

“Me and my rifle, I have twenty rounds, and in the seat, another rifle with six more. I have my knife in my right boot.” Bucks smiled. " Do you think the others have a case filled with more guns for us?”

“Your rifle in the stagecoach driver seat is a shotgun, and it will blow a hole only a short distance. At that distance, the Apache will have the tomahawk at the chest.”

“I have twenty rounds in my saddlebag and there is my gun belt. You have it on the stagecoach.” I had listened to it all standing at the back door. “You relieved me of my gun.”

The Marshall turned to look at me while his the right hand was at the holster of his gun.

“You like to crawl on people to eavesdrop? I could have shot you.”

“Well, it’s better to die that way than to stake out on the anthill.” I did not mince his words. I then approached the Marshall. “You could do with an extra gun.”

“Not today and till the Hell taken you in, I will fight anyone alone.” The Marshall glared at me. “We may be friends but you cross the line and I don’t list you for my Christmas greetings.”

It was then we heard the sound of horses approaching the Outpost. The salesman named Hitch appeared and shouted out.

“There is a detachment of troopers approaching us.”

Dark 37 Excalibur

1.

I never thought that one day I would have stayed in an old castle perched over a low cliff overlooking a small bay. It’s my inheritance as I am the last in the Belvedere lineage; a gift not of love but of family tradition that I am needed to continue to administrate the wealth of the family heirloom which unfortunately includes this castle in its will.

I have never been here before as my parents were estranged from the family soon for them to be left to stay away for over thirty-four years upon my birth. It was the time before my birth. If not for the family name that was attached to my Mother's name, I would not be standing there on this balcony looking at the incoming drift of the mist from the sea.

"Master Morgan, you must come in. The coldness of this land is not of that in London or Glasgow." The man reminded me of my two previous abodes during my young and then adult age. I looked over at the man who had just dragged me in literally from the balcony.

Matthew Arthur was the caretaker of the Castle and had been in his family care for generations. The man was tall and white-haired that he had it bound in a ponytail. He was dressed in his working uniform of the three-piece suit with the extra scarf due to the cold weathers. He was my father’s guardian until his departure from the castle. He was already into his eighties and yet he chose not to procreate the next generation for reasons he never disclosed to anyone. But despite his age, his bones still permitted him to mount the numerous stairs and walked the corridors of this place without much of a complaint. The faithful servant does not wait for my answer when he closed the Victorian glass doors.

"Victorian design in an old castle? Surely, Matthew. This is out of place even in this castle and only this room. I expected some Highlander design would be more suited."

The older man ignored my remarks. I had the company of him for only a week then, and yet I found him to accommodating for my liking. I was a free spirit in London, or anywhere. I may have decided to domicile my restless spirit against my will. I then shrugged my shoulder and walked towards the nearby coffee table. On it was a glass of whiskey set by the older man for me alongside the beautiful crystal glass bottle. That drink had been the trademark of the family business; it was named Camelot and was a tradition to take one after every meal including at breakfast. I picked up the glass and looked at the volume poured. It was not my ideal measurement and took a swig all of it. The drink warmed up my body from the evening coldness which was creeping up from the nearby lake. It was then I heard the glass door being latched.

“Arthur, is the castle haunted?” I poised the question to the older man. “I have weird sound in the corridors and at times at the windows. I think the sound was more like music from the sea.”

“An overactive imagination of yours, Master Morgan. The castle may be old but I am sure your forefathers will not scare you in the dark hours of the night. Even they themselves would have taken shelter in their own crypts for fear of the cold nights.”

“I hear the calling, Matthew…”

“The winds, Master Morgan. They are swift here and the walls have cracks which the wind may pass through and hence the calling you may had heard.” Matthew smiled. “Perhaps your grand paddy may be in it. He was an avid singer although his vocals were atrocious most times.”

I put on a smile for the old man’s remark but what I heard was not any calling of my parents or the ancestors. It sounded more like calls for help or at worse, eerie screeching to wake up even the dead. For myself, as a trained historian and being involved in several excavations of the burial site, the myth of ghosts does not scare me. I did not comment further for my intention to be there was only temporary. I have already advised my solicitors to put the castle on the market and worked out the compensation package for the staff including Matthew.

“Victorian? It must be an upgrade to this place? Was it my mother’s doing?” I changed the subject to keep the older man distracted from my other question.

"Aye, a refinement which your father did for your mum's stay here. She was of the London society and she vainly needed the feel of her old scene when he married your father. So, without hesitation, your father took to task on the works. They are brought from London at great expanses but your father's love for your mother would have spared all the pennies for her comfort. Her favorite room was here as she will knit her scarfs for your father while waiting for his return by boat to pick us up from London."

I remembered those scarfs she did for my father as it was her only pleasure then besides waiting for him. He does have a tendency of losing them at sea or where he was, as he is clumsy with his personal things. I remember when I was young, Mother used to rock me by the cradle as she knit. It never crossed my mind then that all my forefathers have perished at sea including my own father.

“This scarf was done by your mother for me. I have treasured it since then.” The older man was trying to impress me but I was soon moving to a new subject.

"Matthew, you been with us all your lifetime. Tell me how did my father die. And his father before him. I never got to know the whole version."

I had then poured my second glass and sat down comfortably in the same chair once occupied by my mother. Matthew looked at me with his cold stare and then mumbled to himself about the need to know what may be mine. I had researched my father’s death some years back but the news was all brief except for the part of the ship he was one was devoid of life when boarded. They found scenes of blood-curling killings and were linked to supernatural means. My father was seen hanging from the mainmast with his body desecrated with old verses. The killing was never resolved. There was one report that was not picked up by the major papers that spoke of the similarity on the death of my grandfather. He was not killed on the ship but in a nearby cottage. His body was found spread-eagled on the flooring with the old verses. I looked at the older man who was muttering to himself by the bookshelf next to the glass door.

"Matthew, please speak up. I am not of hard hearing but your voice is too low even for the rats in the castle who may fail to hear you too."

“Pardon me, Master Morgan. Your family death was never discussed among the staff. We reserved….” The older man was trying to evade my question.

“Matthew, I need to know. I am your Lord now.” I was insistent to know the truth or what they knew transpired then,

“Master Morgan, the past can bring up more pain than its conclusion.” Arthur was still evading my question but I insisted once more. The old servant walked along the bookshelf as if looking for a book. The shelf has been filled with books of my family generations and for the last twenty-five years of my absence, I believed it has seen more dust than readers to its pages. Arthur reached for a small thin volume book with the spine bounded by thick threads on the upper shelf. He took it down from the shelf and wiped it clean of the dust with the lapels of his jacket. He then walked to me with the book and handed it to me.

"It’s your family diary from the days of one of your ancestors; starting from the one who built this castle. It will tell you of the legacy and also of the curse that befalls all the male heir of the family." His voice all raspy was eerie to my ears then but I took no caution of it. “It may explain your father’s death and his father before him.”

I took the thin volume from his hands and placed it on my lap. I wanted to ask the man more of what he meant by my legacy but he was hurrying on the way out without a second glance. It was unbecoming of him, as he hardly left my side when I am here in the castle. I casually took another sip of my drink and snuggled my body comfortably on the armchair for what may be a long read. I reached for the book cover and then I heard a sound which I am most familiar with.

'Morgan LeFay Belvedere.... beware.... ~'

"Mother?" I stood up and looked around me.

It was her voice and yet she can't be here. No, I shook my head. It was the drink and the cold air which have given me the shivers at times. She can't be here and it was my mind playing the trick of me hearing her voice. She was laid to rest two years ago after a long battle with her illness. She spent thirty-six years of hardship while my father was at sea and it exerted on her health. Upon my birth, she was ill most times, and finally bed stricken the last three years. It was near her death that she told me to see the attorney of the family on my inheritance. When I consent to the task, she slipped that day from me.

I did as per her wish and it was from there I was made known of my inheritance. My mother hid me from my inheritance until her near-death hours and for that, I have harbored a rage in me for her selfish thoughts We were living on meager takings and yet riches beyond my dreams was there for me to use. That wealth would have paid for my education instead of relying on handouts and grants. I gave her the proper funeral rites and left London for here on the next day of her burial.

'The book.... beware.... ~'

It was my mind again. I took up the glass and gulped it all. If I was going to see ghosts, let me be drunk than sober. Then I recalled the book. I had forgotten about it. I took it up and untied the string that held the thin volume intact. I turned the cover and saw the writing of my great grandfather on it.

2.

My ancestor wrote these words;

'Forgive me for this as I was rash then. But the damage was done and the payback needed to be drawn. Could I have gone back to avert this? I had tried many a time but the end could never change. I leave you this so that you will know it was my fault but there are good to it as well as bad. Read for your sake and keep it safe for the family sake...... Sir Ian Belvedere of the Round Tables, servant of my King Arthur.'

I looked up from the book and saw the portrait hanging over the fireplace. He does look like a pirate, rogue, and plunderer. A knight I doubt so. I then raise my cup and saluted the man.

"Pardon me, my great ancestor. I shall refill my glass now." I placed the book down and took up the bottle to pour myself another full glass. Then I picked up the book again and turned the page to come.

“I have betrayed the King when he entrusted me with his last wish. I was to return the sword to the Lady in the Lake. I failed to do so and instead I sailed with it to the open sea. I was don’t know why I did it but it was done. I paid for my passage on a longboat to sail to the Icelandic island to hide. The skiff sailed on the turn of the tide. I was with my trusted warriors, Geldor and Tolyn. We have shed our heavy amour but we kept the chest plate and the broadsword with the shield. Once we were on the open sea, the crew leader staged a revolt on us. They were about twenty of them and held various weapons. We fought and was soon the only one who was surviving then was me. I held my sword firm with both my hands. I did not realize it then but in the fight, I had wielded Excalibur.”

“I was to jump into the sea with the sword when I heard the sound. It was eerie to my hearing. I saw the boat crews rushed to cover their ears but some was dancing to it. The ones that were dancing soon jumped into the sea. I leaned over to watch and saw hands pulling the crews from beneath the waves. I then saw the hands belonged to females and males. I had called them that for they looked like our folks without any cover of clothes but their skins were bluish and they had fangs in their mouth.”

“Abomination! I shouted then at the bluish creatures. I saw more of the crews jumped overboard. I rushed over to hold the ones on board but they have been called by the sea. I recalled hearing such devils that dwelled in the sea. They were named the Sirens. Their sounds will turn men who ply the seas to jump overboard into the sea. It was recorded in the ancient scrolls of the so-named Argonauts. The only way to avoid the influence of the Siren was to block out the sound. The only way was to place beeswax into the ear.”

“I had none and yet I was unaffected. I stood on the keel of the ship and then the leader of the Sirens appeared on the deck. It was a figure of Man and yet the resemblance differed from the waist down. There was a body covered in scales and instead of legs, it was a fin tail.”

“I am Lord Dijon. You held an exalted artifact.” The bluish figure voiced out. “Give me the sword and your life will be spared.”

“This is under my care. I would not release it to you.” I challenged the one named Lord Dijon. “I am the …”

“A knight without a King. I know of you, Sir Belvedere. I will ask no more than to demand the sword.” Those words shook me but I will not give up the sword. I had then regretted the decision to betray my King of his wish. I held my ground when the Sirens resumed the attack. It was after a blood bath, and myself bloodied but standing, Lord Dyson withdrew his Sirens. He then cursed me.”

“Your fist born and also your heir will die on their thirty fifth years. That curse will prevail till the sword belongs to me.”

'Morgan LeFay Belvedere.... beware.... ~'

"Mother?" I called out once more and then stood up. I had dropped the book and spill my drink on the carpet. I looked around me. I was no longer in my castle.

I was on the boat with the dead bodies; humans and abominations laid on the deck. I was dressed in the knight’s amour and held a broadsword. I looked up and saw then my ancestor, Sir Belvedere standing at the keel holding the sword. I recognized him from the portraits of him at the castle. On the other end, they're lying on the deck was Lord Dijon. I believed he was that for he had the tail fin.

“Who are you? How dare you intrude into my domain?”

“I am 'Morgan LeFay Belvedere. The descendant of Sir Belvedere of the Round Knights.”

“The recent of the descendant.” Lord Dijon spat out those words. “So, Belvedere. How many had died for your unwillingness to submit to my request? How many had it been? Twenty-five or more heirs of your family? I lost count on the killings. How many will be tied to the post on your stubbornness?”

“You are a Devil in the disguise, Lord Dijon.” Sir Belvedere sighed. “I grew tired of your curse but I won’t betray my King anymore. Kill him as you did with the others. They will die in protecting my honor.”

“And he will but unfortunately he has no heir and is the last of your lineage.” Lord Dijon laughed. “Our battles will soon end. You will be without an heir and the final battle will be you and me once more. I will prevail and Excalibur will be mine once more.”

“I trust my descendant to defend my honor too.” The voice was that of a lady who appeared on the deck next to me. I did not know she was with me but there was her in the flowing white gown with the scattered red roses on the hem. Her long hair was loose flowing down her back to the waistline.

“Morgan Le Fay, I presume.” Lord Dijon exclaimed in surprise. “I would never have thought you would intervene in the matter of Excalibur.”

“The sword wields by Arthur who killed my son.” Morgan Le Fay referred to the final battle of Arthur against Mordred, her son with Arthur. “It’s in the past, Lord Dijon or shall I call you Hades.”

Lord Dijon laughed when his identity was revealed. Hades was one of the three leaders of the Sirens. The Greek philosopher Plato says there were three kinds of sirens- the celestial, the generative, and the cathartic. The first was under the government of Zeus, the second under that of Poseidon, and the third of Hades. When the soul is in heaven the sirens seek, by harmonic motion, to unite it to the divine life of the celestial host; and when in Hades, to conform the soul to eternal infernal regimen; but when on earth their only job to "produce generation, of which the sea is emblematic"

“He invades my domain with his army of Sirens.” Another voice roared from the starboard. It was a tall and huge bluish figure with the heavy muscles famously known in the fables as Poseidon, the leader of the generative Sirens. “Hades, your Sirens are outnumbered by mine. Recall your curse now.”

“I am Hades, and even the command of Zeus are not mine to follow.” Hades defied the other. “I will have Excalibur, the one sword that even the Gods fear.”

“And it was ours to guard.” Another voice sounded off the port side. It was an ensemble of ladies in armor and wielded weapons. “We are the Amazons, sisters to the Lady of the Lake.”

“And where hid the previous guardians of the sword?” Hades called out. “Are you ….?”

“I am here. We are all here.” The one who spoke was Viviane of the Lake. She was standing next to the Amazons with the same armor. “I loaned the sword to King Arthur on the request of Merlin.”

“The one who had seduced you before…” Hades laughed.

“Morgan…”

“I do not control Merlin. He was my lover for I needed his power.” Morgan Le Fay replied. “Maybe he may explain himself.”

The elderly figure that was my butler and castle caretaker appeared. He stepped onto the boat and looked at the dead bodies. He then looked to Sir Belvedere.

“My sincere apologies, Sir Belvedere. When I told you to take the sword away after Arthur’s death, I had wanted to create a new King. I was not to know that my strength and power was weakened by Morgan Le Fay and it took me a long time to recover.”

“Yes, Merlin. The death of Mordred drained you for you were linked to him as I was. We both suffered for his death. We were unable to protect the sword and went into hibernation. I was a wandering soul while you choose to stay in Camelot to serve the descendants of Belvedere, given the castle by the knights. Lancelot had wandered the lands looking to be bested in battle, Percival to find the Holy Grail once more, Galahad with Gawain had left for their own land. So were the others too.”

“Master Merlin. I had fulfilled your wishes. Spare me the death I deserved.” Sir Belvedere looked to me. “He deserved not of this.”

“Hades, lift the curse. The sword was never yours to possess.”

Poseidon looked at Hades. “Or I will have the seas only of two Sirens species.”

Hades agreed and Sir Belvedere handed the sword to Merlin. The later declined and motioned to the Amazons.

“The sword belonged to them. I merely loaned it.”

Soon I found myself back in the library. I picked up the glass and the book. A note dropped out.

“Master Belvedere, I am leaving you now. I am ashamed to have done those bad things to your family. Don’t forgive me. Just remember me. Arthur.”

I burnt the note and stepped to the window. I opened it and looked outside despite the cold air. I looked to the sea that was below the castle cliff. I heard nothing but the waves. The sound was melodic as if it was sung by the Sirens. It was appropriate for me to name Camelot to its new name; the castle and the drink to the "The Sea Sirens".

Sherlock Holmes Tales: Mrs Hudson

The doorbell rang at the early hours of the afternoon just when I was cleaning the dishes from lunch. I had prepared lunch early that morning, on the dire request of my tenant and his regular guest to the unit upstairs. I offered that unit for tenancy some years back and have my mixed concerns on it. After all, my tenant was peculiar in his eccentric manner. I had put up with the infernal person for some years then, and he pays well, if not timely. Not that I was in need of money; with my late husband’s estate, I am rather comfortable but the extra does pay for the sessions of bridge games with the old ladies from my boarding school. And they all adore hearing of my tenant’s adventures.

Who wouldn’t be when they have Sherlock Holmes staying at the upper level?

And he is the gentleman and me, the sweet widower; those tongues would whack for hours on the intermission during my bridge games routines. I have to admit that I feigned bashful denials but inside my heart, I was onto another Holmes. Unfortunately, he was aloft to my gazes and unbuttoned bodice (I had to admit the cleavage was more like the Red Sea parted by Moses now than the mounds of the Highlands.) I do my mutterings for my bull terrier, Billy who was my avid listener to my mutterings of the golden days when I was with a real lover. For all I could care while I am lamenting on my lost love, Mycroft could be smothering his lips at some harlot’s bosom.

The doorbell rang once more and I was back to reality.

“I am coming.” I stepped over the newspapers lined up on the flooring of my living room where I was painting the walls from the dreary pink shades to green. I heard pastel green apple was the shade of the society then. They said the shade blended in with the greens of the forest, and I was trying my artistic feels with the brush. What could be more artistic then applying strokes of straight lines on the wall?

“Good afternoon. Is this 22B Baker Street?” I looked at the lady standing there dressed in the Paris designed dress of high collared and tight bodice to the hoops within the skirt. She had with her the brolly with the delicate handle. However, I was not in the best of London, unless you considered the apron and the drably house frock from Portobello Market the design then. I looked over the lady’s shoulder and to her sides before I leaned over to her.

“Actually, it's 10, Downing Street but we are disguised today,” I whispered to her. The lady was taken aback and leaned out to look at the road sign. I knew then she was either daft like Laura from my Bridge game or Bertie who was from the stage, imitating my silliness.

“I think you are doing a good task there.” The lady smiled at me. “I never thought they needed a paint over at Downing Street, or perhaps the Ministers there needed one hogwash to their speeches.”

I laughed and invited her in. After all, it was Scottish manners and the skies were downcast outside. London never rains, it pours those days.

“Thank you.” The lady stepped in. She smelled nice with her choice of perfume, unlike mine which was a blend of paint and kerosene. She stood there at the corridor while I closed the door. I then introduced myself.

“Martha Hudson.” I extended my right hand.

“Irene…. Anther.” The lady replied. “I am looking for a Mister Holmes. I was told he stayed here.”

“Holmes….” I had to bite my tongue there. I should have known. Most of my visitors to my house were never for me unless it’s the milkman or the occasional salesman with those awful products. I once had to kick one of those infernal persons trying to sell me the Windsor Castle.

“Yes, Holmes lived here. Unfortunately, you missed him. He was called away to…. God, I know not where. I am his landlady.” That last bit came off with a tinge of “why would I care where he is”.

“And Doctor Watson was with him.” I was not being rude but I knew Holmes’ visitors came not for him alone but also the Doctor. The later was once my tenant too, before he got married and moved out. He moved back for a while when his wife died and then out again when he re-married. I did wonder if he and Holmes were at stage lovers but if there was any preference, they won’t include me. God forbid me, I was not envious. I do have my preference.

Mycroft was his name. If only he chooses to remember me.

“Ms. Hudson, if I am trouble you. Could I use the privy room?” I could not refuse the lady. After all, I am a lady and we can’t just stand behind the lamp post for that relief. I showed her the direction and then stepped back to my living room. The green was coming in fine, like the patches of the lawn during the summer. I knew it was not an easy task trying to cover the previous coat of shade. And the flooring was a mess; I am sure the Thames River looked better at low tide compared to my room.

“Ms. Watson. I think I have to go.” I heard the lady but the Merciful had his way with our choices. It rained then. I offered the lady some refreshment. I thought of my kitchen but it was piled with buckets and brushes too. I could think of one other place to have tea. After all, he was not around. I did wish then it was hospitable.

“Shall we do tea upstairs? My place here is a mess.” I told the lady and proceeded to the upper level. I have opened the door many times; announced and unannounced to deliver tea there. Holmes was a tea person with scones for his afternoon rest or discussion with the Doctor. If I had my way, I would have sent in Billy to tear a path for me to walk in but after several attempts, I had resolved to serve it by the door. The good Doctor was always kind to take the tray and poor man, he will limp on his bad foot to place the tray on the table. The Doctor was used to holding his balance while pacing his way across the flooring of papers. It must have been his experience at the Frontier then.

When I opened the door, I was surprised. It was not immaculate but tidy clean. Okay, I did exaggerate on my tenant. He was a good tenant with the occasional eccentric need to holler out at odd hours, or whine with the violin, or do some pistol practice on the stuffed parrot by the wall. Maybe I was patronaging to hide that bedeviled gentleman of the real Holmes.

“Ms Hudson?” I was brought back my senses then. I looked at the lady who standing behind me at the doorway. I guess the ingredients of the paint have made me light-headed.

“I am sorry, my dear. It’s Mrs. Hudson to be precise. I am a widow.”

“How unfortunate. I am too. My husband dies last month and which is why I am here.” The lady named Irene replied. I excused myself to go back to my opium scented kitchen to prepare the tea I promised. While waiting for the water to boil, my mind questioned why do husbands have to die before us. Well, the Doctor was an exception. He survived one and took on another to challenge himself. It then Dawns to me that we may be to blame. I could not think of many reasons; we did what we could, heck, we even fake our orgasm. Well, mine anyway sometimes. I am being honest.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, I am unwell today.” I had to excuse myself for I was still holding the tray on my hands. The lady assisted me and offered me the seat. I declined for that was Holmes’ high back seat.

“I can’t. Not there. That is Holmes.” I took the other seat usually occupied by the Doctor. The lady took the other seat designated ‘for use by guest only’. She served tea to me while I looked at the room I was seated. It was my upper level, my fireplace, the shelves and the reading table with the gas lamp. And the curtains I have sewn myself prior to listing the unit for tenants.

Damn, Holmes has added in the birdcage and the awful violin was by the window sill. There was the bullet riddled picture of a bespectacled gentleman with the mustache over the fireplace. God knows, Holmes was shooting at someone he disliked. The poker by the fireplace side was bent at an angle; I would not imagine what he has done to that. I did see the syringe beneath yesterday’s paper. It was advised to me by the good Doctor of Holmes’ ailment and he was treated then.

“Ms. Anther, was it not your name? I meant maybe I got it wrong.” I sat there with my legs closed and my back firmed up on the hard leather back of the seat. I felt as if I was the good Doctor doing the opening words to the discussion with a potential client of Holmes.

“Uh, yes. I am …. Anthere actually. It’s a family name. I am from … Wales.” The lady replied.

“I am curious. Is that a Welsh name? I have….”

“Yes, my grandfather was a stranger to the village and soon married my grandmother and named themselves the Anthere like in ‘And here’.” The lady hid her laugh behind her right hand. “I was told of that by my grandmother. God bless her soul.”

“Well, mine was Hudson and it was not the river it was named after, but the family name was Hudson for generations.” I defended my family name and then changed the subject matter.

“How may Holmes assist you? Is there a case he was to know about? Or…” I was cut off.

“No, I am not here on the need for his expertise. I am here to …. Meet an old friend. Childhood to be exact.” The lady explained. “We were once neighbors.”

That took me by surprise for all I ever knew of my tenant besides his prompt payments to occupy the upper level, and the afternoon tea, with occasional; I am being modest here, he has a stream of visitors daily as if I was the marketplace for victims and enforcers.

“Yes, I knew Holmes when he was in school days. He was staying in a modest house next to mine. His father was a medical doctor, I think. I hardly asked then but we used to meet on the street. He was with his mother most times. He has a brother Mycroft was his name but the other was at the Boarding School. So, it was always me and him.” The lady smiled. “We studied together until he went to the Medical School while I did … other subjects. Our place of study was not far apart and I do see him occasionally.”

“You knew Holmes when he ….. How as he then as a child?” I had to jump into the subject. Holmes had intrigued me of how he was brought up. I was keen on Sherlock for Mycroft was differently seen by me.

“Oh, Sherlock. He was a normal child. He was polite but it was his glare that scared me then. He will stare at you and it could be eerie. I got to know much later, that he likes to study the person personality. He scared his relatives away. I recalled one day my mum said Sherlock scared his Aunt Mabel who was there for a stay but left early. He had literally stared at her at every occasion and kept a detailed diary of the events.”

“Diary…” I was wondering if there was one on me. I mean I was the landlady and it has been years since he moved in. Suddenly then, I felt as if I was stripped and tied down on the floor. Oh, it was terrifying and sexy too.

“Diary? Yes, he showed me one day when we were studying together. He told me of the diary and we discussed the contents. He had some notes on me too. I was dismayed on what he had written but he later told me, it was his deduction of the matters when he views it. I was not offended then, but actually had an affection for him.”

An affection she said. I was impressed. I thought Holmes will die a virgin.

“Well, we split later in our life. I was in the college doing my studies and were courted by some others.” The lady blushed. “I did see him on the streets but he was always carrying a load of books. He looked like a bookish person compared to myself. I was the … society girl.”

“I heard he had no admirers and was a loner mostly in the labs. He did not do Medical like his father. He wanted to be in Scotland Yard as a detective.  He could not do that as his father had forbidden him.”

“How did you know this? You never ….. hardly meet him then?” I was inquisitive then.

“Sherlock writes to me weekly. He was not to know that I was in the same town as himself. So, he wrote to me and my Mum forwarded the mails to me.” The lady drew a sigh then. “We were corresponding like daily mails and not a word he ever said whether he likes me or not. I was …. To shy ask him.”

“Gracious me. A lady asking the Man. That will be the day when we wore the pants and hold the whip.” She smiled at my remark. The only request of mine on Man was ‘are you done yet? I got a household to take care’. I had to admit it was a harsh remark but harsher was the bucket of unwashed laundry.

“Yes, I did like him but there was no passage towards him at all. I did wonder if he was …. You know.” The ladies understand each other like the pages to the book.

I nodded.

“Was he?” The lady looked distraught at my nod.

“I wouldn’t know. I had my thoughts but the Doctor was with him and he does not look like them. And he has been seen alone with any his gender. I have not seen when he goes on his runs. He could be but I doubt so.” It dawned on me then that Mycroft could be one too. After all, he ignored my garters once I left on the staircase. He did pick it up and then left it on my kitchen table. And it was a clean one, mind you. I saw him when I was in the bathroom. I was short of that garter then.

“Tell me more of younger Holmes.” I had probed on.

“Well, he was a hard-working chap. I heard from his lecture mates,he was very diligent in his works towards  late nights and spend time at the Mortuary.” I heard the lady. Probably that was why Holmes likes to leave at night and back before dawn. I heard of such fixation … it was called … Heck! I was unsure but it involved sex. Wow! Big word for me. I had never thought I was to refer to that word in my mind. It was mind-blowing.

The rain then stopped.

The lady stood up and told me she was leaving. I smiled and then offered to walk her to the doorway but she refused.

“I will be fine.” The lady walked out while I stayed behind to clear the cups and saucers. I noticed then the picture frame above the fireplace was moved. I knew Holmes was particular in his arrangement. I moved the frame back to its original position but I could not help looking at the figure in the frame. I remembered there were some workings behind the frame. I turned to read it.

"Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity she was not on my level?"

I remembered her name was Irene Adler. And she was just there.

Holmes living area.

I rushed to window and opened it. I saw Irene was about to step onto the hansom there on the street. I called out to her.

“Irene Adler.”

Irene turned her head to look at me. She smiled back at me before she boarded it. I turned back and then closed the window. It was later to see the note she left for Holmes.

“I was there but not seen by you for a long time. I am now a mist in the weather to you. Love, Irene.”

Days later, Holmes asked me whether anyone was here to see him when he was away. I had brought the afternoon tea to him and the good Doctor. Mycroft was there that afternoon.

“No, Mr Holmes. There was no one.” I replied.

“I am curious. I caught a scent not familiar to me.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft. “Can you?”

“I doubt Mycroft noticed anything.” I told the men and left. I heard the men asking each other if they had in any manner insulted me.

Men…. They are just dense between their ears. I had burned the note to save Holmes.

God bless the Men.

Dark 33 Have Faith will Travel

I cannot believe it then. I was to leave for the airport to visit my family members when the memo arrived at my desk. It was from the Presidential Desk.

“Negotiate for me the Greenland continent.”

“Gawd!” In my southern slang, I called on the Almighty to help me with that task since my Aunt Gretta told me to move to Germany for the sake of unification when the wall came down. I told her I can’t for I was doing my Phd in Political Science in New York and I have three kids that needed their mother.

“Well then. Bring those ‘kinder’ along then. I am sure the village could feed three more.” I declined politely although it was Fred’s insistence we go over. I knew his insistence was nothing to do with inviting but it was Oktoberfest there. He was from Glasgow and misses his beers. I do like beers but once drunk and ended up with the third ‘kinder’ I gave up drinking and took to wine.

And tequila which was fine for I had that since Middle school. We started younger at the southern borders.

I landed at Oslo with my three kinder and dragged one distraught husband who still snarls at the Danes for invading the coastlines of Ireland a century ago. I was met by my sister, the demure Isabel who had adopted that name when she married her Spanish husband. He was a businessman in the maritime lines, and they are well to do.

“Como estas?” The sibling of mine thought she was still in Madrid. I was to say, “Hvordan har du det’ which was Norwegian, but I think my Norwegian came like some rap lines lyrics. Isabel burst out into laughter at my attempt to speak that language. We had our hugs and kisses and then with family members. Even Fred was amicable to the friendly banter; I guess the Spanish never landed in Ireland before this. We soon convened in the lengthy long sedan courtesy of Stefan who was Isabel’s husband. He hired the sedan for us; ‘one that suits Faith’s in her daily works.’ Kind of him to remember the long convoy of lengthy sedans that was part of the Presidential usual troupe de tour. I was embarrassed that my sedan was the staff coach that sat thirty of us with the President’s posters.

We finally reached my other sister’s place; it was located ‘where you could take a ga en tur or stroll for the Danes, in a typical villavarter; that is a residential neighbourhood. Her place had the name “Bohus” which translate into ‘House to live in’. Danes have huge homes, they also called them ‘hjem’ and during the summer, they spend their holiday in a ‘kolonihavehus’ which is essentially a smaller house in a special kind of garden. Fred was not impressed. He felt his grandfather’s cottage was more comfortable. Never the less my sister Ingrid got us settled in soon enough and the surprise of the evening was we were having a costume party at the enormous back yard with the eight shaped swimming pool and the small figurine that filled it up with his ‘equally small pecker’.

I loved costume parties.

I have my costume.

I took out my wig and the suit that I bought from the warehouse near my house, and my black convent school flats courtesy of my English Boarding School days.

Ta-da, I was Margaret Thatcher the Iron Lady of the United Kingdom.

“Sinister betrayal!” That was Fred’s remark when I donned that costume. He was however dressed in the demure Irish suit of grey flannels and knee-length stockings with the leather shoes. I don’t know if he was Irish or British then.

The best was to come.

We met Cousin Heidelberg or to us the sisters, she was the Hindenburg. She was from Greenland and stormed into the backyard like an Ogre on the rampage. She likes me unfortunately too much. She rushed towards me and hugged me off my feet. Hindenburg; I meant Cousin Heidelberg was huge and taller and wider than me. She could wrestle a bull in the rodeo with seconds to spare.

“Faith, darling, I missed you at the last gathering.” I smiled meekly at the cousin of mine. During the last gathering, I was drunk and a mother of two then. Here at Oslo, I was not yet into drinking and a mother of three.

“I…” My reply was stunned off her like the bee against Goliath.

“I hear your President wants to buy Greenland. Tell him he can do it over my dead body.” I knew Heidelberg was a passionate resident of Greenland. She meant her words well. I could tell clearly even with her tough metal chest plate and rounded shield reinforced with the spear held in her right hand, she looked like one nasty warrior. ( Hail, Greenpeace here. ) The only ladylike of her was her white skirt that billowed in the wind like a huge mushroom head minus the stem. She had braided her hair to add the Viking touch to her looks.

All night, I had to listen to her talk about Greenland and why its Greenland and why we will never understand them. When dawn crept in later, I was close to having labour pain, not on my tummy but my head, I had Fred later telling me why he should have come as William Tell with the bow and arrow.

“I would have shot the Viking.”

I flew back the next week to Washington and replied the memo to the President.

“Do at ye own risk.” I quit my job then.

“I am not the first nor the last to do, Mr President,” I added to the memo reply.