Day 20 – April 20 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The Golden Fleece

I think this may be another short piece showing a world which may have a few spin-off or two in the future. Lame pun not intended. 

Day 20 – April 20 – The Golden Fleece

Only a quarter of The Golden Fleece served as a wool shop. The shop windows showed various knitted and crochet jerseys, socks, blankets and a very bright orange bobble hat. It stocked your normal types of natural and synthetic yarn and thread for the most of the customers and kept the special threads, among other things, in the back. Maisie had grown up in the shop and knew all the customers by heart. She knew exactly which ones came to buy the ‘normal’ wools and which came for the ‘special stock’. She was also the one who arranged the special stock to be made and delivered (usually at night) and knew almost every specialty spinner in the country. Although the most costly of the yarn was the Straw-to-Gold™ made by the dwarfs of the Eastern Mountains which was mostly used by the tailors of the noble families, she was also the only (human) shop stocking thread for Faerie garments. Imported spider webs from across the world, took their place in the back of the shop in specially made boxes.

The only yarn The Golden Fleece refused to stock was the Invisi-yarn which had been developed by a alchemist some two centuries ago. Unfortunately you could only see the material if the light caught it just right. It was even more unfortunate that the king in those years decided to have a whole outfit made from it – and then go walking through the streets. She sniggered as she remembered the many tales which were told from generation to generation about the incident. She still had the faded certificate against the back wall proclaiming The Golden Fleece the only accredited retailer of the Real, Authentic Invisi-yarn.

Maisie sighed as she looked back at her knitting and continued with the pattern of knit and purl stitches. Her hands already knew the whole pattern for the mushroom cosies themselves and she could let her mind wander around. Every winter she helped the gnomes and fairies knit cosies for the flowers and other plants for when it became too cold outside for the half-fairy plants to live. Last winter she had even knitted a blanket for the unicorn in the woods. But this winter she felt very restless. She needed to get out of the city and away from the shop she had run single-handedly for thirty years. And she knew just what siren song it was that drew her away.

There was only one yarn which the shop had never stocked – Golden Fleece. Real Golden Fleece. It took a Quest to get the fleece and bring it back and now there were not enough heroes to go around; not after the wars with the dragons. The Lake Maidens had not been able to weave enough fabric for Anti-Dragon Armour and many knights and heroes perished in their inadequate metal armour.

Maisie finished the cosy and placed it on top of the pile next to her. A thought struck her. She had quite a bit of stock of the shimmering white yarn the Lake Maidens used in their creations. Easily enough for a dress. And she could trade some of the Straw-to-Gold™ for passage and board. And she could wield her steel knitting needles better than a knight his talking sword. A smile spread across her face. Why stay here this winter if she could head north to the summer and to adventure?

She got up from her rocking chair, locked the shop’s door and put a message stating “Closed for Winter.” Then she went to the back of the shop to get the yarn and start knitting.

Day 19 – April 19 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Suicide Bridge

Day 19 – April 19 – Suicide Bridge

Alexander’s parents had given him the name of the historical figure hoping that their son, too, would be great. It turned out that the name was not completely applicable to the bouncing baby boy and at the moment he found himself standing on a bridge, his toes level with the edge and his hands clamped around the railing behind him. And he was scared out of his mind.

It was not a particularly high bridge, but it was the dry season and the river below had numerous sharp – and potentially lethal – rocks begging for him to take the plunge. Many others, so the newspapers contested, had ended it all on this bridge. So much so that it became known as “Suicide Bridge” to the local people. Motorists usually kept out an eye for potential jumpers and there was an SOS phone close by. But early in the morning, when the darkness has only started to lift, there were not many motorists on this road. Alexander clamped and unclamped his hands around the metal railing and stared into the river’s distance.

He turned his head sharply when he heard a car approaching from his right. Was this really the time for someone to show up? He was still thinking! He had half a mind to climb back over the railing and give the untimely driver a piece of his mind. But then the car slowed and stopped by the side of the road, just before the bridge.

A scrawny man climbed out and smoothed his hair and jacket before walking towards Alexander. Scrawny stopped abruptly when he saw Alexander and fumbled in his top pocket for his glasses. “You here to jump?” he said at last and Alexander was sure the man was blushing.

“Thinking about it.”

The scrawny man looked back at his car and shrugged. “Mind if I join you? I’d prefer not to go back and have to do this again.” A flicker of a smile pulled at his mouth.

Alexander shuffled over a bit on the bridge as you would on a bench to make space for one more person. He watched the scrawny man try to climb over the railing and not succeeding. At last the man just sank onto the tar, his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet sticking into the road past the faded red line.

“How long have you been here?”

Alexander glanced at his watch. “About an hour.” He stared down at the man and wondered what had happened in his life to make him come to Suicide Bridge. He ventured the question.

“It’s a big step,” the scrawny man said.

“Yip. Not too sure if this is the best option. Jimmy from the bank took a dive off the bank’s roof and look where he ended up.”

“Yeah. Bummer of a way to find out you cannot survive falls. Or fly.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” He shook his head vehemently.

“Rachel from the grocer’s can stop time, apparently.”

“We haven’t found anyone yet that can fly.” Alexander cleared his throat. “Perhaps it’s one of us?”

The scrawny man shrugged. “Maybe I have a brilliant mind to keep myself out of trouble or to save the whole world through my genius creations. Maybe I don’t have to jump.”

“I would rather be bullet proof or be able to run very quickly. Or climb walls. Or see through chick’s clothing. Or see through walls. Maybe you’re supposed to be my nemesis.” Alexander grinned.

The scrawny man felt a flickering inside. Yes! Yes! He was The Nemesis!

“Maybe I’m supposed to meet you in a fight to the-“ Alexander’s voice turned into a scream as the scrawny man pushed him from the bridge. Alexander did not fly. In fact, the splattered quite a bit when he hit the rocks below.

“I am The Nemesis!” the scrawny man shouted, throwing a fist in the air. “And I will rule the world!”

Agatha, dressed in practical clothes and practical shoes (unlike the spandex so many in town favoured suddenly), stood on the ledge of the bank building’s roof. At ten floors high it was the highest building in town. It had been three weeks since the meteor hit just outside of the town and she was still too scared to test and see if she had received any superpowers. Three weeks and already The Nemesis was building a Giant Ray Gun to Explode the Moon. At the edge of the town The Nemesis’ Lab sent smoke into the sky. She grinned, but didn’t jump. Who needed to fly to fight The Nemesis? She would fight brains with brains. A grin spread over her face.  

Day 18 – April 18 – Part 2 – The Bridge Keeper

Ok, this is one I wrote a while back (read about three years) and decided to dust it off and review it a bit.

Day 18 – April 18 – The Bridge Keeper

The master waited for his pupil to bow. The boy was young, just over a century old. The master was well over 1000 and his face split and cracked like slate. His hair had vanished somewhere after he turned 400 and his bare head was covered by a rough woolen hood. The apprentice in front of him looked as scared as he himself was after being given his first task. The boy still had his hair, though, and his face barely showed the cracks of time. Unfortunately he also wore glasses.

“Take this, apprentice Shar-ghathal,” the master said and handed the boy a staff of gold wood. Inscribed upon it, in runes, were not the names of the doomed as some thought, but a couple of back-up riddles if he should need them. As they were too powerful to be taught to anyone and the speaking of them could make even the barrow dwellers sit up and take heed, they were only written and given upon an oath not to use them except to defend themselves.

Shar-ghathal took up the staff.

“I swear that I will use this only in defense of myself and my kin, Master Néghla-ghurtathal,” he said, bowing his head.

The master nodded.

“I give this bridge to you to keep. You will defend it with your life. You will not let anyone pass into the realm of the Trolls. You will ask three riddles to all who step upon the bridge. If they do not answer correctly, they may not pass. If they answer right they are considered a Troll-friend and may pass the bridge. But under no circumstances may they pass into the realm. This is your order. Do you accept?”

“I do, Master Néghla-ghurtathal,” he answered, banging the end of the staff upon the bridge.

“What will you do if someone tries to pass without being let by?” he asked.

Shar-ghathal thought of the sword slung across his back.

“If they try to pass, they will be slain and given to the river to ferry to the sea.”

“Good,” the master nodded. He stepped off the bridge, seeming to blur for a moment before vanishing, having passed through a doorway into the realm of the trolls.

Shar-ghathal sat down on the bank next to the river, keeping his eyes on the road that led from the southern cities, reciting the three riddles of the bridge over and over in his head.

Some time had passed since the apprentice took his seat on the bank of the river. The road where he was stationed was not used much – therefore the perfect place for an apprentice Bridge Keeper to start. On either side of the bridge was a half overgrown road that led to some of the smaller northern cities and the Wilds beyond. The sun had gotten a lot warmer and he crept underneath the bridge to get some shade without leaving his post. As the bridge was made of wood, he reckoned that he would easily hear anyone trying to cross it.

He lay there, content with listening to the river and the birds in the tall grass, when he heard taps on the bridge. He hastened up the bank and onto the bridge to see who it was.

There, on the other side of the bridge, with the wide river below them, he saw three goats. One was an emaciated, pathetic looking animal. One was a bit fatter, though he had quite a dumb look about him. The other one was fatter and larger than his companions and had a magnificent pair of horns on his head.

An eerie feeling came over Shar-ghathal and he clenched his hand tightly around the staff in his hand. Pushing his glasses back on his nose, he spoke to them, as most people will speak to animals.

“Shoo,” he said, “Go away. Bridges are no place for goats. You have enough grass on that side.”

The fat goat cocked his head to the side.

“I beg you pardon, Troll, but the grass seem to be greener on the other side of the river. Look at my friends here, they need food and they need it quickly before they starve,” the goat said gruffly.

Quite surprised at the learned accent of the goat, he let them come closer.

“If you wish to pass, you must answer my riddles three,” he said, remembering again his task as Bridge Keeper.

“Very well,” said the fat goat. “I will answer your three riddles.”

The troll scratched his nose absentmindedly and started with the first riddle while the emaciated goat chewed on the hem of his robe.

“I was weaponed warrior. Now proud, young,

a warrior covers me with silver and gold,

with curved wire-bows. Sometimes men kiss me;

sometimes I summon companions

to war with my voice. Sometimes steed bears me

over the marchland; sometimes a mere-steed

bears over oceans me brightly adorned.

Sometimes a maiden fills ring-adorned bosom;

sometimes on tables, on hard boards,

headless I lie, despoiled by the warriors.

Sometimes I hang with jewels adorned

where men drink, fair on the wall,

noble war-trapping: sometimes folk-warriors

on steed carry me--then must I wind

swallow, wealth-marked with name.

Sometimes with calls I warriors invite,

proud ones to wine; sometimes from cruel ones

with voice I restore booty, from raiders,

make fiend-scathers flee. Guess me!”

He watched the fat goat closely as he tapped-tapped a hoof on the bridge while he was thinking.

“A sword and a goblet,” he said, not thinking quite straight.

“That is not correct. You may not pass.”The apprentice took his staff in both hands.

“I will pass,” the goat said.

“Then I must slay you as any other man that passes the bridge.”

“I’m a goat, not a human.”

“Then how could you not guess the answer to the riddle? Your own forebears taught the trolls that riddle.”

“Our forebears hate trolls,” the second goat said without thinking. The emaciated one looked up, the hem of the robe still in his mouth.

The troll apprentice made a swipe with the staff, sending the emaciated goat plunging into the cold water of the river and causing a few travelling salesmen who had just came to the bridge to gasp at the sight of cruelty to an animal – by a troll nonetheless.

The goat plunged into the cold water, and went under for a moment, but then bobbed to the surface, changing its shape to that of a magician. The others, too, changed their shapes. But Shar-ghathal was ready with his silver sword and fought the magicians, using the trolls’ own magic to guard him from their spells. They too, he sent to the river.

He returned his sword to the scabbard on his back, and adjusted his robe, mending the hem with a few words. He stood in the middle of the bridge, his staff in one hand, and pushed the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“If you wish to pass the bridge, travellers, you must answer my riddles three,” he said, his voice carrying loudly to the travelling salesmen.

“How far to the next bridge?” One of them asked.

“Twenty miles.”

The man lifted his wide brimmed hat. “Well, good day to you, I believe we’ll not be taking the short cut after all, thank you all the same, sir.”

Troll Bridge by Woodwose

Day 18 – April 18 – Dragon Food

I just had to do one story with names containing a lot of apostrophes...

Day 18 – April 18 – Dragon Food

“I never should have stayed a virgin,” Ke’el’se’ah said to the empty field around her. Sure it sounded like a good idea – until the town decide you’re the perfect girl to sacrifice to a dragon. Well, the Dragon, when you think about it. It’s not like they’re a usual part of the country’s fauna. The previous one had “visited” some five hundred years ago and the whole race was considered a legend – until this one showed up about a week ago. She sighed and tried again to get her hands free of the rope. And she wished she had hidden her knife better. Then, at least, she could have cut through the ropes and freed herself. Of course, they needed a virgin. A virgin who was also an orphan was even better. The elders in the town figured the people wouldn’t mourn as much if it was an orphan. It was good to know she was loved.

Not quite sure what to do with the dragon’s sacrifice, they had drugged her a bit with bitter tea, carried her to a fallow field and tied her to a stake. Then, for good measure, they packed some kindling about her feet – maybe the dragon likes cooked meat, one said – and then they even strew some herbs over the wood. She could tell from the smell of the bruised leaves it was parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Go figure. Then one of the women placed a crown of daisies in her hair. As if she needed to look pretty for the beast that was coming to devour her at any moment.

Ke’el’se’ah struggled against the ropes again, but the knots only tightened. Why did she have to live in a town where everyone knew how to tie proper knots? Couldn’t they have tried bows and at least given her a chance to free herself and run away? If she knew this was coming she could have married someone. Preferably someone from another town where the townsfolk didn’t have the need to sacrifice innocent people to dragons.

The sound of membranous wings beating the air came just before a screech and a roar of purple flame. When Ke’el’se’ah saw the great silver dragon, she could only stare in terror. The great beast landed on the field and dug deep furrows with its claws. It turned its head from side to side, screeching and scorching half the field.

“Run, puny humans!” it shouted in a deep, but feminine, voice.

Ke’el’se’ah opened one eye – perhaps she could reason with another woman, even if the woman is a dragon. The dragon seemed to enjoy herself as she trampled the ground and sent purple and red flames into the sky.

“Run and flee to your simple abodes of grass and mud where I can easily herd you and set the town ablaze! Fear me!” she shouted and punctuated every few words with a blast of flame. She huffed and puffed around the field a minute or two longer before walking up to Ke’el’se’ah.

“Maiden,” the dragon asked in a learned accent. “Why do you remain in the field?” She looked the girl up and down and spotted the kindling and stake. “Are you my sacrifice?”

Ke’el’se’ah nodded, still too stunned to say anything.

The dragon sniffed at the herbs. “Where is the mint? Everyone knows dragons only eat mint with their meals – opens up the lungs and sinuses, you know.”

“I – well, I am an orphan and a virgin and no one in the village will miss me much if I am eaten.” Why bother to lie at a time like this?

“And your crimes?” the dragon frowned.

“Crimes?”

“Yes, you know, murdering someone, murdering quite a few people, cheating, stealing, kicking a dog, making political promises... what crimes did you commit that made them choose you  as the one to be eaten? How old are you anyway?”

“I am eighteen. Uhm… I’ve never murdered anyone… or kicked a dog… I’m not really into politics…”

“So your village elders didn’t pick a criminal for my lunch?”

“What? No! The old books all say that a virgin should be sacrificed. Well, usually she should be a princess as well, but we don’t have anyone like that at home.”

The dragon sighed, spewing clouds of dark smoke that made Ke’el’se’ah cough. Then she retrieved a book from somewhere on her person, turned to a page and pointed with a claw to a paragraph.

“And I quote,” she said and started reading. “’Twas in the year 1392 that the evil princess Sha’g’hael’le not only let her army into the neighbouring country where they slaughtered 30 000 innocent civilians, but she also treated her dog badly. She did all this before she was married. It was decided that she was better taken care of by the local dragon and since that day the dragons have patrolled the land for the worst criminals.”

“What do you do with them?” Ke’el’se’ah asked.

“We eat them, silly. Less grisly than hanging and cheaper than waiting for them to rot in jail. You’d be surprised how long some wizards can survive on oxygen alone.”

The dragon used a claw to cut through the rope binding Ke’el’se’ah.

“But, if you’re not going to eat me… who then?”

“I believe there is a certain Kraig’gho’re in your town… he was not very nice to his cat, Dumpling, last week. Dragons like cats even better than dogs, you know.”

“Kraig’gho’re was the one insisting I be the one sacrificed!” Ke’el’se’ah said.

“And you know where this rascal lives?”

“Yes.”

“I think I will have a word with this Kraig’gho’re,” the dragon grinned. 

THE END

Day 15 – April 15 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – How To Hide a Corpse

Day 15 – April 15 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – How To Hide a Corpse

I wished it was a dark and stormy night. It would be a lot easier to hide a body on a dark and stormy night. Rather it was the middle of the day and the sun was shining all bright and merrily. At least on a stormy night the ground would be soaked and I would have been able to dig the grave quicker. Now the sweat was plastering my hair to my head, sticking my shirt to my back and burning my eyes. I plunged the shovel into the ground again and had to climb on top, kind of jumping up and down to get the blade to sink into the ground. Then climb back down, bend my aching back and heave-ho until I broke off another piece of the reddish clay earth. I have watched enough crime shows to know that you don’t just dig a shallow grave. And you didn’t wrap the body in plastic bags or a sheet or anything that could be traced back to you. Not that I searched for a gravesite too long – I don’t think I have the time to meticulously search out the best place. Lucky for me I live next to a graveyard – the sound of digging is not strange. And we have the Jo’burg patented 10 foot tall suburban wall, equipped with razor wire, an electrical fence and CCTV cameras. Of course, I had turned those off. I will delete everything when I’m done here. And, if someone happens to see me digging a large hole, I can just tell them we’re getting a Koi pond. And I’m digging the hole because I need the exercise. Sure.

I climb onto the spade again and jump up and down as best I can. Almost there now. For a moment I glance over at the bundled body next to the wall. It’s still in a sitting position in the corner, but I had closed his eyes and threw a tarp over him so I wouldn’t look at him the whole time. I never thought I’d be so calm if I had a body on my hands I needed to dispose of. I look at my watch. I still had about an hour and a half before my parents would return from work. Thank goodness for peak time traffic jams. There, that should do it. And then I can just put the grass over again and pat it down. This may just work.

I drag the body over to the grave and struggle to get him inside. He’s still wearing the bloodied clothes, but he’s far too thin to fit into anything we have, so that will have to do. I lay him on his back and fold his hands on his chest. It looks most proper. As I cross his hands, I think how wonderfully he would have been able to play piano with those hands if he had lived. Then, in a moment of soppy weakness, I go to the rose bush and pick a couple of blooms to throw into the grave. I also say a few words. You know, earth to earth, dust to dust. Then I sing “Nearer My God to Thee” and start shoveling the dirt back into the grave. Sooner than I expected, I’m finished. I look at my handiwork and smile. No one would ever guess someone is buried here, just in the back of our garden. I dust my hands on my grimy cargo pants and go to put the shovel away. I need to get cleaned up fast.

I had thought that a lot of men in suits would show up as soon as the poor guy in the grave hit the ground bleeding. What had happened to him, I don’t know. All I could figure was that he was hurt on his way somewhere, was attacked and then decided my garden was the best place to hide in. Well, what was I going to do? Go to the police? Then I’ll end up in some loony bin – or to jail because they would think that I killed him.

I look towards the cemetery, to the slight distortion in the air above the graves. You had to look really carefully to see it, so perhaps they would never find it. I hope it works with solar power. I will never be able to explain away an alien spaceship. The Men in Black would be on me in seconds.  

Day 13 – April 13 – The Far-side of the Tree – NaShoStoMo Challenge

I really wish I knew where ideas came from and why stories sometimes turn out very different from the way you though it was going to turn out... I actually do love baobab trees! I hope you enjoy today's piece for the NaShoStoMo Challenge!

Day 13 – April 13 – The Far-side of the Tree – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Damian scratched absentmindedly at the bark of the baobab as he sat and read. Every now and then – the moments when his brain seemed to realize for a few seconds that his body was in another reality than the one it was living – he glanced to where the train tracks disappeared from sight. How he wished and prayed that the next train would show up. It has already been three weeks without any train passing the station aptly called Tussen-hier-en-nergens.

Sometimes he would leave his book for a moment – not long enough for the white ants to find it, mind you – and crawl over to the tracks. There he would crouch down like a cowboy, place his ear to the warm iron and close his eyes. Then, for another moment he could imagine hearing the clack of a train coming. Perhaps even a whistle will sound and his father would come out of his office. Perhaps he could even go to the Wild West for a few moments. But then the iron grew to hot, or a bead of sweat will tickle his neck or cheek and he would open his eyes. The only thing left to do then; was go back to the baobab and pick up whatever book he was busy with and forget about the absence of the train for another while.

Some people from the dorp said that the trains would never come again and that they will all have to move somewhere else to make a living. “Might as well rip up the tracks and sell the scrap,” Twee-oog said one day outside the pub. He probably would have done it too if he had a wagon and more than one horse. These days people were only drifting towards the pub; drifting away from the station house and the counter there that served as a post office. No mail came now. No people travelling up north. No one travelling back south. Damian couldn’t remember a time when he had been this bored or when last he had seen his father smile. Even his mother and siblings seem to keep to themselves. They didn’t even look which book it was that he took off the shelf as they usually did – he was, after all, a laatlammetjie and ten years younger than his sister, Klara, who was the fourth child.

Damian only stopped reading long enough to walk across the tracks, go into the house, get another book from one of the trunks and walk back to the tree. His tree. It looked like a giant crouching next to the tracks with wild hair sticking into the air. It felt ancient. Damian imagined it to be the guardian of Tussen-hier-en-nergens. It was still alive – he was sure of that – but the tree never bore any leaves. It only stood there next to the tracks looking as if some larger being had ripped up a tree and planted it upside down so that its roots and not its branches reached out to the sun. Sometimes the wind sang strange songs when it blew through the root-like branches and Damian stopped reading to listen if he could understand what the wind was saying. Sometimes the tree made a hollow sound like when you blow across the top of a bottle, only much louder. He had an inkling that the hole on the other side of the trunk led into the middle of the trunk and that the tree was completely hollow. But since Thomas – the man who’s books he read – went missing after climbing into the hole, he had not ventured there again. If it wasn’t for the train staying away so long and everybody having other things to worry about, he probably would not even be permitted to sit under the tree.

No trains came for four weeks. His father didn’t even bother dressing properly in the morning anymore and he seldom went into the office. Barely anyone looked up the tracks anymore. It was as if the whole town had forgotten that the town was only built because of the trains. But word had come that there were very bad rains to the south. Apparently some of the tracks were beyond repair and had to be rebuilt – along with couple of trains – before the track will be used again like before. But Damian could not hear how long the trains would still be away. It was a lot more difficult to eavesdrop through a door in real life than in books.

On the day news came of the rains, Damian went again to the Baobab. He walked slowly around it to where the hole was where Thomas had crawled in. He bent down and peered inside. It was large enough for him to easily crawl through… And he would take a flashlight and not a lantern like Thomas did. And he would tie a rope to the outside of the tree and around his waist, just like in the stories. He would find out whether the tree was really hollow. Maybe it would even lead him down into caverns where the baobab grew leaves in the light of a million glittering crystals. Maybe there would be a whole other world down there with dinosaurs and a great lake… But he also remembered the day Thomas went into the tree. He was gone within minutes and even when the men lighted lanterns to try and see inside, they could see nothing. For months after that no one went near the tree and people said that there was something wrong with the tree or that the tree was angry at all the people moving there and building a town.  Damian felt his heart restrict at the thought of his father stopping him before he could venture inside the tree himself. It was his tree after all. He spent every day with it. It wouldn’t hurt him.

He sneaked into his father’s empty office and took a torch and rope from the cupboard. Then he sneaked back to the far side of the tree. He tied the rope around his waist and then to a sturdy rock nearby. The rope was at least fifteen meters long – long enough to circle the tree trunk nearly twice. He put on his flashlight, got down on his hands and knees, took a deep breath and crawled inside. He had never felt so alive before. Inside the tree was hollow after all and he could stand upright. But the torch’s light seemed not to be able to reach the trunk. Beyond his circle of light it was black as pitch. He glanced back and could still see the opening in the trunk and a small piece of the sun-baked ground. He went farther into the tree. Still he could not see the trunk. The whole in the baobab’s trunk slowly creaked closed and the rope snapped. 

THE END

A Baobab tree - a strange beauty

(With thanks to the source of the picture)

Some translations for the curious few:

Tussen-hier-en-nergens = Between here and nowhere (This is a fictional town. I have no idea if there is a real town of this name in RSA.)

Dorp = town

Twee-oog = Two-eyes (A nickname, he has an identical brother that wears glasses while he does not.)

Laatlammetjie = an informal way to refer to a child born much later than his/her siblings.

Day 12 – April 12 – The Message

Day 12 – April 12 – The Message

Andrew sealed the capsule and wondered if anyone would get their message. The same message was still repeating in an endless loop hours after radio contact had been lost. Inside the capsule was a copy of their logs, diary entries and even a couple of personal letters. They had been so happy when they visited the planet which had been christened New Earth. The new home of the human race – and many animal and plant species – had been completely terraformed. It seemed a utopia, a Garden of Eden, not like the spoiled and dying Earth they had come to know. 

There was no communication possible between New Earth and Earth and that is why they had been sent. Either they would find the new world ready, or they would find a barren wilderness unfit for humans. If it was the first, colonisation could begin. If it was the latter, well, other planets were also being terraformed. The people of Earth would have another decade or two to suffer in their man-made hell before being able to colonise a new world. But the world was ready.

On the way back, something terrible had gone wrong with the ship. It spiralled off course and could not get back on its course. Then the main engines died after communication with New Earth had been lost. Now they could communicate with neither the people of Earth, nor the people of New Earth; but sent out a distress call nonetheless. When they got no answer and their oxygen levels were getting depleted they changed the message of the call. “New Earth terraforming completed. Begin colonisation.” Short. Simple. But he wanted to know that the message reached someone. Anyone. Preferably his loved ones, even though that was selfish – there were billions of other people that needed saving as well. 

Jimmy took the capsule from him. “Is this it?” 

Andrew nodded. “This is it.” 

“I hope they get it before it’s too late for them – for Earth, I mean. What happens to a message if no one receives it?”

“That’s deep,” Clive joked. He always had a joke, no matter what the situation. No matter how dark and hopeless. “If nothing else,” he added, grinning his Clive-grin, “we won’t have to go to a man-made New Earth now, we can go to the real thing.”

THE END