"Born of the Rose - Part 2"

BY;Fjm                                                                   the Rose - Part 2"

"Born of “ ’ey , Netanas, see this one?” Norlea asked looking up at his sad looking face.

“Aye, you drew that?” He asked, surprised at Norlea’s talent. He had seen almost every drawing she’d drawn since she had turned 14, but each time he saw one it never failed to amaze him.

“Yes, last night,” She looked amazingly cute at the moment. Netanas bend his neck and let his lips connect with hers for a moment. She tasted wonderful, everything he could dream, and more. They pulled away and Netanas’s checks flushed pink and he bent his head so his hair would fall into his face and hide it. Silence. Damn that silence. It controlled him, his fear, the one thing that he could never stop alone.

“You liked it then?” Norlea asked pushing his hair out of his face and lifted his chin with her cold thin fingers.

“Yes. It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.” It was her turn to blush. Oh good god this was overpowering for him. He leaned his head in again and their mouths became one. This time he let it last longer. Smooth and flowing. There was no one in the world as flawless as her. No one. And she was his. He was hers. For them to live without each other, you wouldn’t call it life, it would more of just being. That was his love.

Kelaré and Norlea walked up to the Fordge. The sun was setting. They were late, again.

“Did you have another…dream?” Kelaré ventured.

“Not exactly. But in a sense, yes I did,” Norlea answered.

“When?”

“While we were kissing, I saw the same dream, but much quicker, then I forgot it. Until we departed,” Norlea explained, heavy hearted.

“Oh. Well, lets try to forget it, shall we?” Kelaré said in attempt to cheer Norlea up. “We’ve got a whole nigh to spend in the Fordge. It’ll be great, you’ll see.”

“I guess so, but I feel like we’re more than just friends, the four of us a mean”.

“Oh, ok. I was getting a little scared for a minute there,” Kelaré said laughing at herself.

“Oh you stoop. I’m serious. I seriously think that we’re all…connected, somehow.”

The moment Norlea said this she was surrounded by an icy cold breeze, though the air was quite warm. She looked down at the ground and saw Netanas’s footprints, they all began to fill with blood. The trees began to spatter blood out of them, everything was bleeding. Norlea heard a wailing sound. Suddenly a bony long fingered hand reached out toward the two girls, who stood horrified. A man’s face appeared behind the hand, and his arm appeared as well. His mouth was open wide and his flesh was grayish and was peeling off his face. His eyes were sunken in and he seemed to be crying, but his tears were thick and black. His hair was long and matted. He wailed loudly and flew toward them, and went right through them, and his body, or vapor as it seemed turned to a fog like substance. It cleared after a moment and Norlea saw Netanas lying, chains bound his half naked body, and he was weeping. Covered in blood. It all disappeared and went back to the way it was almost as quickly as it had appeared.

“What in all of heaven, hell, and earth just happened?” Kelaré stuttered. Her face had gone pale and her eyes were wide.

“You saw it too?” Norlea asked completely shaken.

“Yes”. At that moment Norlea fell to the ground.

A few moments later Norlea woke up again. Kelaré was still standing up, shocked, looking down at Norlea and then back at the place were Netanas was hunched over a few minutes before. Norlea knew she wasn’t out long.

“Kelaré ?” Norlea asked weakly. “What do we do?” Norlea began to slowly rise back up.

“I think we should tell him,” Kelaré said.

“No, not yet anyway”

Kelaré and Norlea finally made it to the Fordge, though a bit shaken and a good deal late appeared normal.

“Were the hell were you two? I had to sit here and get my ass whipped by Netanas here, playing bulso,” Silean complained.

“Oh you’ll live,” Kelaré said, kissing the top of his head and then proceeded to tousle his hair.

“Are you ok?” Netanas asked Norlea, who still looked a bit paler than usual. The image she had first seen of him dying flashed in her mind unexpectedly. Her eyes widened.

“I’m…fine,” she finally answered.

“No, you’re not. Come here,” Netanas said standing up and walking toward her. He cupped his hands around her face and pushed her hair away. Her eyes were shinning and wet, and her lips trembled. He pulled their bodies together into a tight hug. He held her close to him and she wept.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Netanas implied. “Why shouldn’t I know?”

“It’s nothing, here, I’ll forget it,” Norlea said, pulling away and wiping her face. She looked up at the high rock ceiling, a few crystals shinning from various places.

After a half an hour or more they were all laughing in fits of hysterics, and eating fruits and chocolates by the dozens, throwing cards at each other. Silean went out of the cave for a few minutes and came back in holding a frightened looking pixie.

“Why the hell did you go and capture a pixie for,” Kelaré asked.

“Naw, I didn’t capture ‘em. We ran into each other is all. I told ‘em to wait outside the cave ‘till we’re ready for ‘em,” Silean explained taking Kelaré ’s hand. “He’s gonna play a little tune for us, come’on now, play for us Niddenthrill”. This, obviously being the pixies name, began to play a number of wild tunes on his odd looking flute, which could very well be three flutes stung together, each more shrill than the last. Silean grabbed Kelaré ’s other hand and began to swing her around.

“Silean!!!!” Kelaré shouted, more in shock than anything else. Norlea and Netanas, sat and laughed their heads off before they started dancing as well. Well past midnight and Silean about 50 keilins shorter, they all had laid down to sleep.

“Well that cost a lot more than I had expected it to,” Silean complained.

“You caught ‘em in the first place. Not my fault that ya promised to pay ‘em,” Kelaré said.

“Well, now I only got ‘bout 10 keilins left in me pocket”.

“Well, ya shoulda thought ‘a that afore you caught ‘em,” Netanas replied.

“Funny, real funny guys. I have’ta go out an’ buy me mums vegetables tomorrow,” Silean said sulking.

About a week later, on the full moon day, Norlea ran up to Kelaré in the market.

“Kelaré , I saw it again, twice,” Norlea said in a panic.

“You’re telling ‘em. Today,” Kelaré said looking at her, dropping three apples and a teca fruit.

“How the hell am I going to do tha’? Go up to ’em and say, ’Netanas, I think you’re going to die’,” Norlea said picking up the apples.

“Well, you could write ‘em a letter, you’re good at that,” Kelaré suggested.

“Yeah, I guess so. How am I going to put it?” Norlea asked.

“Well, I dunno. Come on, lets go to my house,” Kelaré said taking Norlea’s wrist and pulling her towards her house.

“I’m guessing I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Yep”.

They sat in Kelaré ’s kitchen an array of parchment and inks in front of them. The room wasn’t all that big, but it wasn’t small either. It had white walls and a sepia colored trim. The table was dark sepia and had an ink stain on the left side, which had been there as long as Norlea could remember.

“Is this good?” Norlea said, twirling a gray quill with her fingers and handing an almost dry letter. Kelaré took it and began reading. She handed it back to Norlea.

“I think that should be good, it’s well written and explains most of what happened,” Kelaré reassured her. Norlea looked down at it and reread it.

Dear Netanas,

I’m not utterly thrilled to tell you this and I’m very sorry. I have a suspicion that someone may be out to kill you. I’m not really sure, I’m guessing, I’m sorry. I’ve had dreams of you being toured to death, and they’re all the same. Kelaré too. I know you trust us, and I’m very sorry to tell you this, I’m sure you’ll understand. We were late to the Fordge the other day because Kelaré and I saw the forest change into something most horrible and I wish not to write it. I am not a visionary that I know of so I’m not completely sure if this could happen. Please heed my warning. I’ve also seen you dying while I looked at you, and once when we kissed. I’m very sorry, don not let anyone see this. Especially Mornen and Ishmé .

Norleaš

She folded it and put it into her satchel.

“I’m going to go find him,” Norlea said and walked out of her best friends house, a bit more nervous than usual. She found him sitting under a tree reading a book. She walked over and sat down next to him. He looked up at her, his eyes were shinning brightly and he smiled at her. She took his entire body in and fell on his chest and cried. He held her to him and whispered in her ear. She didn’t hear him, her head was pounding so much. With her one free hand she reached into her bag and pulled the letter out. She pushed it into his hands and kissed him quickly before running away. No words were exchanged, no words were needed. She didn’t notice that everyone was looking at her, she ran, and ran. She had no clue were she was going, all she knew was the ground that carried her feet as she fled. She found herself at the Fordge. How she had gotten there she didn’t know, but when you know a place well enough and it’s your refuge from the world and makes you happy, your feet will find it, even if your mind doesn’t. She sat on the edge of the drop off that Netanas loved to sit and watch the sun go down from. And that was what she did. She sat and watched the sun setting in the east. Tonight was the Full Moon. By the ancient religion of their people, scarcely practiced anymore, except maybe the older folk, and the four of them. She knew they would preparing for the individual ceremonies each of them held. She also knew they would find her here. Were else would she go? She closed her eyes, when she opened them again night had fallen and the moon shone brightly in the darkened sky. Someone was cradling her in their arms. Her vision was slightly blurred from sleep. She rubbed her eyes and saw Netanas, his face turned toward the moon.

“Netanas?” Norlea whispered.

“Shh,” he said putting a finger to his lips. A tear fell down Norlea’s cheek, Netanas wiped it away with his finger. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see. Let’s just get you home first, it’s almost the 10th counting since midday.” So he walked her home.

She slipped into her room through her window, unnoticed, and began to light the candles. A soft melody played in her head as she sat and began to recall the months events.

She awoke the next morning and got dressed. She walked down to the kitchen, grabbed a roll, and headed towards Kelaré ’s house. She walked past a group of teenage girls huddled around something and giggling. One of them saw her and pointed at her.

“Look, it’s Norlea. Hey Norlea, look at me, I’m dying,” The girl said falling dramatically to the ground. The group burst out laughing. Norlea swallowed the last of her muffin and pushed her satchel back, as it had moved to the front of her body instead of the back.

“Shut the hell up Korinë ,” Norlea said. She hated Korinë , she was such a bitch. She walked passed them and Mornen and Ishmé ran up behind her and grabbed her satchel.

“Why do you carry this thing around with you, do have a murder weapon in it or something?” Mornen teased. He turned it upside down and a mess of parchment, quills, ink, and two books fell into the dirt. Norlea scrambled to gather her satchels contents. She hastily stuffed them back into her satchel and proceeded to Kelaré ’s house. But Mornen and Ishmé followed her. Mornen waved a piece of parchment that was sloppily copied down from something.

“Look what I have ginger crap,” Mornen taunted and Ishmé laughed. Norlea grabbed the parchment and looked at it. It was the letter she had written to Netanas a day before.

“How the hell did you get your disgusting things on this?” Norlea demanded. The kid may be a year younger but he was a real idiot.

“Nicked it off of Netanas while he was reading it,” Ishmé said.

“Shut up Ishmé ,” Mornen hissed. Norlea ripped the letter into a hundred pieces and threw them all onto the ground. It wasn’t the exact one that she had written, this was scaring her. If he had recopied what she had written then there could be more of these out there.

“That’s ok,” Mornen said. “Me en’ Ishmé got 10 more copies out there, we’ve been given ‘em to the teenies all morning’”.

“You -” Norlea proceeded to say something so very nasty at this moment that it would be inappropriate to write down. She ran away from the town an hour later after she had torn up three of the letters and yelled at what seemed like 20 people. She angrily ran up to the Fordge, knowing she’d find everyone there, since they were meeting there that morning for a few hours before going back down to the village. When she got there she found Netanas sitting on the overhang of the cliff, alone. Kelaré and Silean were no where in sight. Netanas had his back facing Norlea, something was wrong.

“Netanas?” Norlea asked, slowly walking toward him. He didn’t turn and look at her. “Netanas, where’s Silean and Kelaré ? And why did you let Mornen take that from you?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in a broken sort of voice.

“Netanas? Is everything all right?” Norlea asked, sitting next to him. He was hiding his face. She turned his head and pushed his hair aside, he was crying.

“Oh my god, Netanas, what happened?” Norlea said, beginning to want to cry.

“My grandparents are ….” He began, but he couldn’t finish. His shoulders started shaking and his face became contorted and he started to cry harder. His hair feel into is face and Norlea put her arms around him. He continued to cry for a few minutes then began to subside. They sat in silence for awhile before Netanas said something. Norlea was scared, she’d never seen a man cry, and Netanas, being 17, hadn’t cried since he was a boy, publicly at least. He sat up and stared out at the mid morning sky.

“My gramma died this morning…and…and my grampa told me that he’d kill me if I stepped into his house again. He thinks it was my fault my gramma died. And then there was what you’d told me, and what Mornen and Ishmé did to me yesterday…and my mum…and…that man that calls himself my father,” Netanas said bitterly. Norlea didn’t know what to say to him. She just hugged him again. He hugged her back this time, and she kissed his cheek. After a few minutes Norlea asked,

“Where’s Silean and Kelaré ?”

“I don’t know, they never showed up,” Netanas said.

“Oh, I never made it to Kelaré ’s, I thought she’d left without me by the tome I pasted her house. I was chasing Mornen and Ishmé for about an hour tracking down those letters.”

“About that, I was reading it over a second time when Mornen took it from me. I tried to get it back but he punched me in the stomach, then kicked me and ran away,” Netanas explained.

“It’s ok, it wasn’t your fault. Hey, I’m going to spend the night with a friend who moved across the river when I was little. Annehellrä , remember her?” Norlea said.

“Yeah, she was nice,” Netanas said. “Well, let’s go collect all the papers we can find, I’ll spend the night at Silean’s”. He stood up and started walking toward the village.

“Hey, wait up!” Norlea said jumping up and running to catch up with him.

By the end of the day Netanas and Nolea, with the help of Silean and Kelaré , had traced and torn up every copy of the letter except the original copy, which remained unfound. Norlea knocked on the door of Annehellrä ’s enormous house, she felt almost joy. It had been an interesting day. Her mind was doing flips in the bittersweet at the moment. That was the only way to describe the feeling, bittersweet.

"Born of the Rose - Part 1"

BY;Fjm

Part 1: The Beginning of it all

"Norlea!" a small high-pitched voice screamed.

"What?" Norlea retorted to a small girl now standing in front of her.

"The boy from the village has come to see you," she said excitedly.

"Amrissania, what do you mean by 'the boy from the village'?"

"He's come to see you terd brain, I told that."

"I heard what you said, and don't be going around calling people terd brains"

"Mornen told Cormen he was a terd brain"

"And I suppose that if Mornen said it than it's okay for you to say it as well"

"Ahuh"

"No, it's not, stop saying it is, and stop listening to what Mornen says," Norlea replied. Amrissania went red at this. "Oh fine, I'm coming"

This is a sample of my life, my former life. As you guessed, this is Norlea, I will tell you a story that you may find depressing, sad, downcast, whatever you may call it. I am telling you in my third person, which makes it easier to understand, and also so you don't become fully indulged by my dark depressing thoughts. If anyone you know has ever been through personal denial than you may understand this a bit better. I was sixteen when the events of this came to being, what you have read is the beginning of it all, the very seed of misery. That was my sister, Amrissiania, she was seven, such a young age. I live on an island called Vivlendié . The exact whereabouts I'm not certain of even to this day, but my people have lived here for a millennium, which is not all that long of a time if you think of it, for forest elves. Please do not automatically think that because I am an elf that I rely strongly on organization, neatness, cleanliness. For I don't, I am a wood elf, not a normal elf you might see in some book. Wood elves are very different if you must know. We don’t rely fully upon order, and cleanliness.

Norlea walked into a room were a boy, with his back facing her sitting in a chair. She recognized his bellow the shoulder length black hair at once.

“Netanas?” Norlea asked. He turned around and when he looked at her his face broke out into a huge grin.

“Well, who’d you think I was?” He asked.

“My sister said you were a boy from the village, she does know who you are”.

“I told her to tell you that I was a boy from the village,” he defiantly. “Y’know that we’re all meeting today in the Forge?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know when,” Norlea said truthfully.

“Oh, I came to get you”.

“All right, hold on. MOM! I’ M GOING OUT WITH MY FRIENDS! I’LL BE BACK FOR DINNER!!!” Norlea screamed loud enough for her mother to hear her. “Okay, come on, I’ll race you”

“I ran all the way here,” Netanas complained.

“Oh fine,” Norlea said with a hint of sarcastic displeasure.

“There you two are!” Kelaré said. Her and Silean sat across from each other behind a waterfall in a deeply set room cleverly hidden, thus known as the Forge. “You’re late.”

“So? Netanas didn’t want to run, he was tired,” Norlea said, giving Netanas a playful grin.

“Stop being late, you might get us in trouble if we come home three hours after dusk.”

“Who, me? Trouble?? Naw,” Silean said.

“Oh yeah Silean, you’re an angel all right,” Norlea sarcastically remarked. Silean had a tendency to get himself into more trouble each week than the town idiot could in a month. Though Silean never got himself into anything he couldn’t handle.

“Well, what’ve you been up to lately?” Netanas asked Silean as he sat down, Norlea sat closely next to him and rested her head against his chest, she could feel the heat of his body warm her check, she could hear his heart beating. His deep voice was soothing to hear, his perfect pale skin, long black hair, dark, dark eyes, and his smile, his most amazing feature. His smile lit up his cold dark brown eyes so beautifully, his whole face was softened by it. She closed her eyes and focused on his beating heart. She sat for a few minutes, listening to the rhythm, then it stopped, it was all silent. The black behind her eyes became the darkest of all black. Netanas appeared, but he was no longer healthy, and strong, as she had known him, he was lying on the ground in a dimly room his face contorted in pain, his chest fell and rose rapidly as struggled breaths came from his bloody lips. He was covered in blood. he was dying.

Netanas gently stroked Norlea’s hair. She had fallen asleep on his chest. He leaned back against the rock. The sky was turning vivid shades of pinks, purples, yellows, reds, and oranges. He hadn’t seen a sunset so extravagant as this one in such a long time. He eased himself into serenity. Silean and Kelaré we playing a game of buslo, it was an ancient card game that very few people still knew how to play. The four of them were the only one’s who respected the islands history, and the ancient ways of the world. They had set themselves away from all the changes of new inventions below in the village. Although the changes meant less work, somehow the old ways seemed better. What had intrigued him in the history was all the missing pieces it held. No one that he knew of knew the full history. The beginning was vague in the stories of old. All that was known was that there was another world, and that his people were once part of it, and that there were other islands. What had happened was either never mentioned or forgotten. Norlea moaned and shifted in her slumber. He looked down at her, her long thick dark red hair was arrayed all over her back and fell gracefully to the floor. Her hair was beautiful, it went down to waist. Her skin was pale, and it brought out her sharp green eyes wonderfully. She was perfect, in physical and mental form. She was never spoiled, and before they, as a group were formed she had all but one friend, Kelaré .

Kelaré was wonderful as well. Although Netanas’s feelings toward her were more of a friendship than love, he felt a bond between the two of them. Kelaré had long white blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes that shined exultantly. Her face was small, but not quite round, just cute in a way. Kelaré was very caring, she had a tendency to be sentimental at times though.

Silean, Netanas’s best friend. Silean was an interesting person, no one just quite understood him. He had a gift of getting in only just enough trouble to stay out of the stocks. Surprisingly Silean was extremely intelligent, whish could scare a select few if known, which would most likely be the reason of it’s secrecy. Silean had warm brown eyes and short light brown curly hair, if grown longer could stand upright well. At one time he had it in a pony tail at the base of his neck, but that was short lived. Very short lived. Silean and Kelaré were perfect for each other, as Netanas knew before they had formed as a group.

It was an interesting thing, how they had come together. Many of the villagers hardly ever saw any of them without the other except in the case to get another. Silean had moved with his father from a neighboring village, which wasn’t all that far away, maybe about a ten minutes walk from the stream separating their boarders. Natanas’s story was quite different on the other hand, as Kelaré and Norlea had been born in the very village they still lived in. Netanas’s father had abandoned his mother and her baby son (Netanas). Netanas’s mother had gotten deathly ill only a few years latter and he was forced to move in with his grandparents. When Netanas was ten years old his mother died, leaving him no money or refuge. Netanas ran away from his grandparents, hurt and confused, and found this place, which is now the Fordge. He spent a night there before they found him. He began that night, to learn how to shut himself out from the world, to hide his pain and his hatred as well as he could. He hated his father, for leaving his mother with no money and hope. He hurt his mother, Netanas thought that’s what made his mother sick. He hated the healers too, for not being able to help his mother live. He had cried for so long, the simple things that most boys did at his age were of no interest to him. He lived with his grandparents, and they taught him everything his mother couldn’t. He learned to read and to write. He learned that love can destroy people, that marriage can be false, that love can be deceiving. That the world is an awful place for those who aren’t careful. He loved his grandparents. They allowed him to read all the books his broken heart desired. He read hundreds of them, mysteries, horrors, fantasies, histories of unknown worlds. He loved it. He could escape from his pain for as long as he wished. He didn’t need to stay in this world, he could escape to other worlds, so unlike his own. That was his refuge.

He lived out most of his life without any friends, hate learned at such a young age had destroyed his childhood. He never knew what had happened to his father, he didn’t care either. He hoped he was dead, someone as cold as that should be dead, so he thought.

When Silean and Norlea became friends, no one knows how, they would go around tying all the chickens feet together and making all the tomatoes turn purple. For almost a year they went around with this before they were caught by Kelaré ’s parents. That is the first time that they had meet Kelaré , and after that Silean and Norlea stopped “chicken tripping” and went their own separate ways for awhile, staying on neutral terms with each other, and occasionally tying the elder’s chickens together.

Kelaré and Norlea began spending days together and became the strongest of friends. Netanas would only go outside to the market, but somehow he became friends with Silean, and soon they too became best of friends.

Norlea watched and waited for him every week, for she knew which days Netanas went to the market since his grandparents were to old to carry on the shopping themselves. They would always run into each other and mumble awkward apologies. Netanas began to grow his hair long, to hide his face, thus ejecting his passiveness through hidden methods. He enjoyed watching the girl who would watch him back. He began to notice that many girls would watch him, take in him thoroughly. There was only one girl that he wanted, just one. One who wanted him as equally as he wanted her. The only thing holding him back was himself. He knew he needed love, but he wasn’t to keen on other people knowing his true feelings. He might just get shot down again. She might not even like him as a person, maybe she just wanted his body, she wasn’t interested with his soul. The thought tortured him. So many girls wanted his body, and couldn’t care less about his soul. They just wanted what was under his clothes. He knew better though, he wouldn’t give himself to that kind of sin. Ever.

After more than a year of watching the green eyed girl he gave in to himself. But he would not do it directly and quickly. He wanted to what she was like first. He began to start petty conversations with her best friend, Kelaré . After all, Kelaré knew more about Norlea than anyone else. He began to look forward to these conversations, not to talk about Norlea, as he gave to telling Kelaré of his love for her. He began to open up to Kelaré . He began to tell her his pain, everything he could tell no one else. He and Kelaré began to become second best friends in a way. From the sidelines, Norlea and Silean began talking to each other again. The way things were playing out was fascinating. Never in his wildest dreams could something like this ever be played out. But now, here it was, coming into reality before his very eyes.

The ceremony of the 12th moon he gave to his anguish, and transformed it into something beautiful. He asked her. Everything he had ever known for so long melted away to form a new kind of life. That night he showed her to his hide-away. Where he would go to escape the world. This was his Fordge, and he was finally ready to let her share it with him. They had spent half the night there, talking, and watching the stars falling from the skies. H e once again found true joy. And he cherished it with his life. She was perfect.

When Silean saw this he become sorrowful. He looked at Kelaré who smiled through tears, day after day. He knew it was because of him, he knew he shouldn’t have said the things he said. He knew he loved her, who was he trying to kid. He too, finally, in all his regret, opened himself up to Kelaré . Now he understood Netanas’s joy. He felt it too. This was how it was meant to be, he kept telling himself. Little did he know, this was how it all started.

Norlea woke with a start. She was in her own bed, in her own house, sleeping on her own blankets. How the hell did I wind up back here? she thought to herself. She got up and looked out the brown framed window of her bedroom. The sun was beginning to come up and bring itself against the dark night sky. It was wonderful to watch. I must’ve fallen asleep on Natanas, and he brought me home. Not the first time. All of a sudden her dream of Netanas dying came back to her in a flash. She quickly got her clothes on and climbed out the window. It was really early, and she didn’t want to arouse the rest of her family. She ran down the dirt road to Kelaré ’s house. She stopped at a high window with dark blue curtains drawn. Norlea tapped on the window and sharply whispered Kelaré ’s name.

“What?” a dreary eyed Kelaré said after a few minutes. She pulled the curtains back and propped her elbows on the wooden window sill.

“Remember yesterday when I feel asleep on Netanas?”

“Yeah, why?” Kelaré asked becoming more aware of her surroundings.

“Well, I had this sort of dream, and Netanas was dying in it,” Norlea said, tears coming to my eyes at the thought.

“Oh my god! What happened in it?” Kelaré asked more acutely aware of what time it was and what was happening.

“Well, he…we were…we were on a dark room and he was on the floor and he was covered in blood and he was dying. It was really scary.” Norlea said quickly.

“Interesting, well…I don’t know what to think about that. I kinda dreamt something like that too.”

“That’s really freaky,” Norlea said, slight hint of terror in her voice. “What was yours?”

“It was about the same, somewhat. I just saw two really tall people carrying him down a dark hall way and he was dead. I heard screaming coming from somewhere near me, but I didn’t know who was screaming. I just knew that I was behind bars. I think someone had captured us, I’m not sure though, the beginning of the dream was vague. The rest I can barely remember,” Kelaré explained.

“What was it?” Norlea asked.

“All I remember is being chained to something and my head was throbbing because someone had put my hair into a really tight pony tail at the top of my head. That’s all I remember.”

“Oh, ok”

“If you have another dream like that tell me,” Kelaré added.

“Yeah, hey, We meeting at the Fordge today?” Norlea asked.

“Yeah, after breakfast, Why?”

“Just wondering. It’s that random memory thing again”.

“oh, I see. Vivreandé .”

“Aye, Vivreandé ”.

"Coldfire Pursuits"

BY;Fjm

 A long time ago, a peace had fallen upon the land of Menoria. A millennia of war had stricken the land, craters left from explosions and poison still rises from their depths as the magic left in them decays. The world was deprived of its resources, including water and materials needed to live such as precious metals, like iron. The trees were barren; the animals were gone to seek new pastures to feed, if they could find any. For a while, the humans had struggled to survive, each band of them isolated from each other from the scars of war. Each soon developed its own new culture, to live for themselves and their fellow kin. This young raced developed into an age of science and did their best to heal the land. Mankind had soon learned its part in the world’s destruction, and now he is doing his part in the world’s resurrection.


Scientists of this early age had moved away from ancient magics and made breakthrough experiments advancing the human race through this Dark Age. The people soon spread out once again, to explore the world, to meet the people they once hated, sharing cultures. This peace spread out throughout the world, no war and no crime. It was a utopia for all of the humans, where science ruled their lives, where beliefs were gone, and the human race was indifferent towards one another. Though their cultures were different through the world, they all believed in one thing only, science. They lived happy and peaceful lives, no war ravaged the land, and this lasted for 200 years.


During these 200 years, the land was healed; only minor scars were left, bearing the memories of the past war. The trees were now fully grown, bearing beautiful flowers and laden with fruit. The birds of peace fly over the land, spreading their wonderful beauty. The farms were fertile and settlements spread. Menoria was a magnificent sight from a far, the plains were lush with green grass and trees, flowers bloomed in a seemingly infinite number, giving a glowing radiance from far away. Groups of horses ran through the plain, healthy as ever, their beautiful manes long and sheen, these black, brown, and white creatures were the pride of Menoria. The settlements of humans were magnificent, each with its own unique structure, but none are better than the last. This was the golden age of man, and it would go on for another 100 years. Where the land prospered, and so did the Earth’s creatures.


Soon, the old magics were forgotten, those of the dark, the light, those of peace and war. Magics that give the life-blood to all of the Earth’s creatures, including the humans, and magics that take it. The old prophecies were forgotten, those that tell of mankind’s ascension, and those that tell doom. One prophecy should soon come true, one that reminds of them of the power that brought the world together, and one that could rip it apart.


White crystals of frozen water fall, covering the ground in thick blankets of its frozen embrace. The townspeople of Aristona prepare to huddle away in their homes as the snow starts to become thick. Outside its protective walls lies a black and dead forest, thought to be cursed, filled with animals from the dark. This day will be forever marked, as the ground ripples with unnatural force, dark energies bursting forth in mountains of magic. Far away, a quiet town shakes to its foundations, a crack forming in the middle of town, small and unnoticeable... A mark for what is to become, a warning for what will happen, a warning for what is happening...


The demons have come…


Leave no survivors…


A distant rumbling is heard in the distance, footsteps are heard just a few feet away, dead branches crumbling under the heavy steps. A figure comes into view, his face masked my several sheets of emerald crystals going from his chin up to his emerald green eyes, his black and red hair covering them. A black blood stained cloak concealing the armor beneath it, frost forming in patches on his cloak and armor, a mist of ice trailing him. A warm summer night breeze passes through the trees. How strange, the air is warm, it is mid-summer, but snow covers the ground. “Something is happening, and it doesn’t feel right…”


The moon shines through holes in the canopy above, the dead limbs of trees stretching out, hiding the Reaper from view. They try to take him into the darkness, but soon retreat, their efforts futile. His magic is too strong, his will, all too similar. “Can it be? Perhaps… He shall soon know the powers of the Goddess, the forest obeys, and the animals as well. No trespassers, no survivors.”


Creatures stalk him amongst the trees, quiet as the night, invisible as the wind. They keep an eye out for him, waiting for their Goddess’ command, to tear him to shreds, to rip him open. The thought of his meat makes them drool. The wolves gone mad with dark energy, they thirst for blood, they hunger for meat. Their fur a scorched black, decaying patches of flesh dripping with diseased fluids on their bodies. These energies compel the wolves to the Reaper, but his force them away. “Why?” They can smell something. But it’s not meat, it’s not blood, there is no scent, but the scent of death itself.

"An Old Campaigner´s Last Hurrah" BY;Fjm

BY;fernand jiro marantal

 “Oh dear, Frederick,” said Harry Crook to his beloved cat, one windy, 

autumn’s evening, “Unless my old ears deceive me, we shall be having rain before the 

night is out.”

 Another drum-roll of thunder made its presence known just over the horizon, 

the dark grey clouds that filled the sky acting as harbingers for the tempest that 

seemed sure to come. Harry Crook was unfazed, however, for he knew that most 

English storms were like lions without teeth- darned impressive from a distance, but 

slow in the upbringing and fast in the dissipation when up close. He knew well the 

tumultuous temper-tantrums that nature could throw forth upon man in the wilder 

parts of the world. Desert storms in Egypt had failed to end his existence, just as he 

had refused to yield to that hurricane just off the south-tip of Africa all those long 

years ago. No, the occasional half-hearted rages the non-stop British rainy-season 

produced would not shift him so easily. 

 “Now, now, Frederick,” the old man whispered softly, “You wouldn’t desert 

me, would you?”

 Needless to say, Frederick the faithful cat, himself getting on a bit, would not 

leave his master’s lap. They had been good company for each other ever since Mabel 

had gone to God, all those years ago.

 Harry Crook was 73 years old, still quite active thanks to his many years of 

healthy living. He was slightly taller than average but thin enough that it was not an 

impressive sort of tallness. His neck was long and his head just a little too small to be 

truly proportionate to the rest of his body. This rarely bothered him, though, as the gift 

of good looks had never been one that he had possessed in great abundance, even 

during his youth. His eyes, though, were wise, in a quiet sort of way, although anyone 

who knew him well could tell you that, ever since the passing on of Mabel, his wife of 

43 years, a little twinkle that used to live amongst his irises had disappeared into 

infinity. He wore a smart, but not abnormally so, tweed suit, and his jaunty farmer’s 

hat (even though he was not a farmer) was never far from his side.

 Harry Crook lived in Sunflower Cottage, a small but pretty little thatch-roofed, 

white-washed bungalow just a handful of miles from the small, rural, East Anglican 

town of Greater Twilbourne. Just around Sunflower Cottage was Harry’s garden. 

Before the war, this had been a plot entirely for roses, tulips, daffodils and all the 

other pretty little examples of God’s creation that had given both Harry and Mabel so 

much joy. Now, however, thanks to the great need for home-grown vegetables, many 

of the flowers were gone, to be replaced by potatoes and lettuces and all the other 

produce that was due to be harvested in the next few days. Still, Harry had managed 

to maintain a few flower beds and he continued to watch these proudly, as if these 

were the children he had never had.

 Right now, however, autumn’s rustic heart had begun to beat. The trees in the 

farmlands that surrounded Sunflower Cottage swayed gently in the wind, golden and 

amber leaves flying through the air to be crunched under the feet of the cattle who 

moved aimlessly around in the muddy grass. It was not yet dark, nor was it still fully 

bright, the dawn of twilight having come. Everything seemed drenched in a chilly 

amber light that, despite the breeze, was unnaturally still. Even the coming storm was, 

in Harry’s eyes, beginning to seem…unworldly. It looked like it was going to be the 

kind of night from which omens and prophecies spring.    

 Feeling slightly unnerved, Harry shuddered as a gust of wind blew another 

collection of golden leaves around his aged head. Even Frederick had had enough, 

scarpering away back into the protection of the house. The day itself had been 

uneventful. Harry had gone to the little rural Presbyterian church he and Mabel had 

favoured for Morning Prayer. Then, he had met up with his old chum of many a year, 

Talfryn Jones (who was a Methodist and so frequented a different place of worship) 

and had as good a Sunday lunch as was possible in wartime at the Hog and Bull. The 

Home Guard parade at the old drama theatre was next. This had been the standard 

affair, with his Lordship Captain Edwin J. Merryweather giving out orders in his 

usual aristocratically phlegmatic way, his chauffer Sgt. Dodgson raising hell with 

whatever unlucky soul was half-a-beat late with the stand-at-eases.

      Harry had little love for any war, even though he had been through enough of 

them. He had been through the final year of the Sudanese campaigns when he was 

only a boy, enlisted by his father, himself a career soldier. Then had come the Boer 

War, and his involvement in that had been through the inexorable force that was peer-

pressure. He had been married at that point, had a regular job and was happy. Yet still 

he enlisted, partly because he wanted to see the world, but mainly because all his 

friends were going and he had not the courage to be the odd one out. By the time that 

the Great War came around, he only had scars left as physical reminders of South 

Africa. This time he held back, listing himself as a conscientious objector and taking a 

position as a stretcher-bearer. He saw the world here as well, principally places with 

names such as the Somme and Gallipoli. After viewing the excrement of mud and 

misery that filled the trenches there, he at least consoled himself with the fact that, 

after this, there would be no war, ever. 

      

      And now Harry Crook, private in Home Guard, tried to make himself 

comfortable in his chair at 6.55pm on the 23rd of October, 1941. War had come again. 

This one may have been a justifiable war, more so than the last one at any rate, but it 

was still war. A necessary evil was still an evil and it is sorry world that forgets this 

fact. Still, the Home Guard was not the same as being in the real army, no matter what 

Capt. Merryweather and Sgt. Dodgson thought. It was important to protect against 

invasion, against the destruction of all that was good by the Nazi war machine, and 

that is why Harry joined up. He did not enjoy it, but even disillusioned old 

campaigners have duties to attend to. 

      

      Still, at Sunflower Cottage, the war made itself known only on occasion. 

Every now and then a troop-transport would rattle past, filled to the brim with young 

faces. Then there were the air-raids, far, far in the distance. For obvious reasons, 

Greater Twilbourne was far from a top priority for bombardment in the eyes of the 

Luftwaffe, but still, they had the siren and the A.R.P. wardens. Also, if the wind was 

right, it was just possible to hear the low thump of the bombs landing the bigger 

towns and cities far in the distance. ‘With each of those little thumps,’ Harry always 

said to himself, ‘At least one soul is rising to meet his or her maker. At least one 

family is losing a husband, or a wife, or a mother, or a father. Oh, why are wars 

always with us? Why, oh Lord and God, why did you give men the will to fight?’

      

      Tonight, though, was quiet. Almost too quiet, perhaps? No bird was singing, 

no dog was barking, even Frederick seemed to have wrapped himself up in a bed of 

silence. Only the wind and that strange, rumbling thunder broke through the stillness.    

      

      Acting entirely out of habit, Harry Crook raised his right arm and glanced at 

his watch. Always fastidious about the keeping of the time, Harry never wanted more 

than ten minutes to go by without his knowledge. The three little slivery hands, 

however, were not moving.

      “That’s odd,” he said out-loud, partly to break the grasping stillness that 

pushed in at him, partly because he was genuinely surprised, “It’s stopped. Had this 

watch ten years and it hadn’t missed a beat, yet. Very, very odd.”

      “Let me tell you, it’s thanks to us, little girl, that it’s safe for you to walk home 

every night!”

      Harry jumped, his heart missing a beat before he realised that the static-

shrouded voice merely came from the wireless he had in his living room. It was one 

of those idiotic comedians, Enoch something-or-other, prattling on about Heaven-

knows-what. Overcome by a surge of late-life grumpiness, Harry rose to his feet and 

was about to head inside to switch off the accursed machine when a thought struck 

him, more-than-a-little unnervingly. 

      “Who, what on God’s Earth turned it on?” he asked himself, “Surely not 

Frederick?”

      He shivered as the temperature seemed to drop at least five centigrade. 

Perhaps…perhaps somebody else was in his house?

      “Who’s there!?” he called, the boldness in his voice trying not to betray his 

nervousness, “Come on out! If you want to rob an old man you can, at least, show 

your face.”

      The only sound that bothered itself to reply was the white noise that was now 

exclusively broadcast by the wireless, Enoch’s voice having totally faded away. 

Suddenly, Harry Crook began to feel very, very alone. The dark storm clouds now 

totally covered him and his house, the tall trees in the distance now appearing as dim 

shapes, peering at him like ancient demons spying a mortal from beyond the abyss. A 

deep rumble of thunder rolled from one end of the autumnal landscape to the other, a 

portent of darkness more potent than a hyena’s cackle. It had not been since his time 

in an isolation cell in a POW camp during the Boer War, that Harry Crook had so 

wanted human company. 

      

      Honk! Honk!

      Harry turned round in a relief-felled surprise. Trundling up the road to his 

cottage was an old van, covered with a newly laden coat of khaki paint. Once it had 

belonged to Fred Masterson, the town baker. Now it the official platoon transport of 

the Greater Twilbourne Home Guard. In the front compartment were squeezed three 

disparate figures, each clothed in the uniforms of their rank. Sitting at the wheel was 

Fred, now a private and the platoon driver. He was a large, unhappy-looking man, 

who behind a very blue exterior sat a heart of gold, visible only to those who bothered 

to look hard enough. At the far side was Sgt. Albert Dodgson, a battle-scarred veteran 

of many, many campaigns whose bullying, fierce expression was in a direct 

counterpoint to his diminutive frame. Still, no-one with a twitter of wit would every 

cross Sgt. Dodgson. Unpleasant things tended to happen to those who did. 

      

      The third figure, sitting uncomfortably in between these two common folk, 

was the lord of the manor, the (self-proclaimed) highest aristocrat in that part of 

England, chairman of the East Anglican Lord Byron Appreciation Society, resurrector 

of the Devil’s Alphabet and captain in the Home Guard, Edwin Merryweather, 

temporary displaced from his manor house by a stray Nazi bomb. Merryweather was a 

thin man with prune-like skin and black, wavy hair, just old enough to avoid the call-

up. When Anthony Eden had first broadcast the call for the formation of the Local 

Defence Volunteers he had been quick enough, not only to be the guiding hand in the 

formation of the Greater Twilbourne unit, but to appoint himself as leader of the said 

unit. While this was not a popular choice amongst the townsfolk, the call to duty was 

more than enough to dispel the collective dislikes they had for their commanding 

officer. Still, Capt. Merryweather was not a bad officer, in his way. He knew his job 

and, while none of the men had any desire to associate themselves with him socially, 

they appreciated, possibly with the help of some feudal genes that still lingered, that 

he was the best choice for commander. 

      

      “Get in, Pt. Crook!” shouted Capt. Merryweather, in his strongly nasal upper-

class accent, “It’s an emergency!” 

      Too many things happening at once, Harry hesitated, his mind fumbling.

      “But, sir? What about my uniform?”

      “Leave it, man! Get your rifle and jump on!”

      

      Within less than half-a-minute, Pt. Harry Crook partly jumped and was partly 

pulled up into the rear of the van, which promptly shuddered and moved off. The old 

man squinted his eyes in the gloom, attempting to recognise the large group of faces 

that now stared at him. As he expected, the faces belonged to the rest of his Home 

Guard colleagues. Most where retired veterans between the ages of 50 and 70, 

although there were a few young lads not yet old enough for call-up and smattering of 

30-year-olds who worked in reserved occupations. Some wore uniforms while others 

had clearly been grabbed in a hurry, as had he. All held rifles and all looked anxious. 

Harry wondered why. There had been no sirens, no explosions. Perhaps this was it? 

Perhaps this was the invasion? Harry’s stomach began to knot itself.

      

      “Aye up, Harry,” whispered a distinctly Lancastrian voice from the side of the 

van.

      The voice belonged to Wallace Peacock, an abnormally tall farm labourer in 

his forties with a huge jaw-bone and a bald head that was so shiny you could 

heliograph off it. 

      “Hi Wallace,” replied Harry, debating whether to ask the burning question or 

not- eventually deciding that he had better, “Is this it, then? Has the balloon gone up?”

      “Oh, I wish it where that simple.”

      “What do you mean, Talfryn?”

      The Welshman was sitting beside Cpl. Peacock, his tall friend’s shadow 

making his own features unreadable. He was short and hairy, a coal-miner in his 

youth. Harry shifted his position to join them.

      “We don’t know what in the Lord’s name is going on. All the phone-lines are 

down and something’s blocking them wirelesses. Then Carter Patterson comes 

running into town screaming that he’s seen lights hovering over his fields.”

      “Gerrys?”

      “That’s what the cap thinks but where are the R.A.F. then? And Carter 

Patterson says they hovered! What plane, Gerry or not, does that?”

      The common sense within Harry felt like scoffing.

      “You’ve been led on a wild goose chase,” he stated with a joviality that 

convinced no-one, least of all himself, “You can’t belief nothing Carter Patterson 

says.”

      “It’s a secret weapon, that’s what it is,” exclaimed Cpl. Peacock sombrely, 

nodding his head like a guru.

      “Ours or there’s, corp?” asked Pt. Fitch, a young bank clerk two days away 

from his 19th birthday.

      “How should I know, Fitch? Do you think Winston Churchill would let 

country bumpkins like you and me know the intimate details of each and every new 

kind of blunderbuss them egg-heads at Whitehall come up with? Eh?”

      Fitch squirmed and fell silent. It did not take much effort to see that he was 

terrified. They all were. 

      “Here, Talfryn, what time is it?” asked Harry, trying to bring the talk to more 

down-to-earth matters, “My watch has stopped.”

      Pt. Jones looked at the golden watch he kept in his pocket, his most prized 

possession. His face creased in surprise.

      “That’s queer. Mine has too.”

      “So has mine,” added Cpl. Peacock. 

      The three elder men looked at each other, throwing about gazes of mutual 

incomprehension.

      

      As the van trundled down the rocky country roads towards Carter Patterson’s 

farm the shadow of night had begun to spread its way across the Heavens. It was a 

dark, dark sort of night- the sort or night with no stars and where the moon burns with 

an icy malignance. The rumbling thunder, meanwhile, was, by now almost ever-

present, serenading the grim proceedings like some diabolical choir. 

      

      This, the threesome in the front compartment noticed. 

      “I don’t like it, sir,” grunted Sgt. Dodgson in his gruff northern voice.

      “What are you babbling about, sergeant?”

      “The air…everything…it feels…you know…wrong.”

      Capt. Merryweather snorted.

      “Nonsense, man. You’re letting your imagination run wild. There’s a storm 

brewing and I pity any Nazi bastard who tries to come ashore in a storm.”

      He turned to Pt. Masterson.

      “How long until we reach the farm?”

      “We’re nearly there, sir.”

      Suddenly, there was an almost animal-like whine from the engine and the van 

ground to a halt. 

      “Masterson, what the hell are you doing? Do you expect us to walk the rest of 

the way?”

      The private made a futile attempt to restart he engine. 

      “I’m sorry, captain,” he pleaded, “I can’t understand it. It never gave me any 

trouble before.”

      “I don’t want excuses! Get this vehicle moving!”

      “Sir! I…I can’t!”

      “Damn it all to Hell!” exploded the captain, “Useless piece of junk! Listen, 

Masterson, if the Nazi’s invade, if they come to your town, if they murder your wife 

and children, it’ll be on your head! Understand!?”

      Practically purple with childish rage, Merryweather turned to his sergeant.

      “Sgt. Dodgson! Get the men off this flea-trap on wheels!”

      Obediently, the sergeant gave three bangs on the back of the front 

compartment.

      “Men!” he yelled in a voice that was louder than anyone would have thought 

possible, “Dismount!”

      

      As the men jumped off the van, both the darkness and the feeling in the air 

shook them to their bones.

       “The air,” muttered Pt. Jones, “It feels almost electric, like it’s charged with 

static.”

      “That’s enough of that sort of talk, Jones,” bellowed the sergeant, now in 

amongst them, “Now then, our transport has broken down. That means that we walk 

to the farm. There, we shall ascertain the presence of enemy aliens.”

      “And what if there are?” quipped Pt. Perry, a young cockney, “What can we 

do in the middle of nowhere with five rounds apiece?”

      “We give them Gerry’s the hell they deserve!” replied Dodgson, the flaming 

bright-red bloodlust already burning in his eyes, “But now, my fine lads, we march! 

Understand!? Platoon! Get in line!”

      Stirred into action by the almost religious devotion inspired by the chain of 

command, the men shook off their fear and sorted themselves speedily into that well-

known line of drill. Capt. Merryweather and Sgt. Dodgson eyed them approvingly.

      “Good lads! Right, attention!”

      The Greater Twilbourne platoon did as bidden.

      “Right face!”

      “Very good, men,” remarked the captain, his rage soothed by the display of 

obedience, “Now we don’t know what we’ll be coming up against tonight. If it is the 

invasion, if this is what we have been waiting for, I expect each and every one of us to 

do his duty. It may be the end of us, but we’re prepared for it. Aren’t we?”

      The men gave a grumble in a reply, unsure of that question themselves.

      “Now I am not a praying man,” continued Merryweather, “I believe in 

evolution, not God. And so I believe that our race, the British race, is the superior one 

on this Earth. Those Nazis believe that they are the masters. Now let us show them 

how wrong they are!”

      “Platoon…platoon…march!”

      

      It was like a crash of thunder that had fallen from the sky, followed by a 

terrific sonic boom that extended in all directions. For a moment, Harry thought that a 

bomb had been dropped beside them. However, there was no explosion, no fire, no 

screams of pain. Instinctively, half the men dropped to the ground, the others frozen 

in total bewilderment. Still, in whatever position, no-one could have missed what had 

just descended from the clouds and was now in the progress of flying over them. 

      “Oh my God!” mouthed Cpl. Peacock.

      “Lord of all that is holy, have mercy on us,” prayed Pt. Jones. 

      “Stone the crows,” exclaimed Pt. Perry, “It’s a flying light-bulb!”

      

      In shape, it was akin to a jewelled, three-dimensional kite, pure and crystalline 

like a diamond the size of a spitfire. Iridescent dust streamed out from its tail, coating 

hedges and fields, styles and roads, making them glow as if made from the stars 

themselves. Beams of light, all the colours of the rainbow, shot out of each facet of 

the crystal, illuminating the countryside for miles around. There was no visible form 

of propulsion, no form of guidance, only the feeling of crackling energy in the air and 

a constant mechanical hum.   

      

      It floated slowly and gracefully through the air, as if taking its time to observe 

the world around. Suddenly, as it came directly above the van, it stopped, hanging 

totally motionless. The men below (well, those who had managed to overcome their 

initial shock, at any rate) held their breaths, waiting for whatever was due to come out 

of the crystalline lattice. Maybe it would be some form of death-ray that could reduce 

flesh to atoms in moments; maybe it would be a bomb, powerful enough to destroy a 

whole continent? What did come, however, was very different.

      

      Little droplets of light, looking like glowing snowflakes, began to gently 

descend from the crystal aircraft. Ignoring the strong wind, they floated down around 

the heads of the men, hovering at about eye-level. Inside the little floating lights sat 

ten-legged hexagons, moving about as if they were jewelled spiders. Almost invisible 

scarlet beams radiated from these, enveloping the heads of the men in their range.

      “Oi, Harry,” whispered Talfryn, as quietly as he could, “They’re looking at us. 

They’re studying us.”

      “Studying us for what?” replied Harry, who despite, himself, somehow was 

not afraid of these little flying light-bulbs. 

      

      The same could not be said for Capt. Merryweather. Sweat trickling from his 

brow, he glared at his observer with a look of unadulterated fear. Then, suddenly, 

without even thinking, his hand went to his holster.

      BANG!

      All the men turned to the source of the noise. Capt. Merryweather’s observer 

was on the ground, flaying wildly, its light gone, half its legs blown off by the force of 

the bullet. The captain, aiming his gun at his twitching little adversary, fired again, 

and again, until it moved no more. The effect on the other light beings was immediate. 

In a single, collective movement, they rose up into the air, melting into the mother-

craft, which itself began to slowly drift away. 

      

      Harry, despite his soldier’s instincts, could not contain himself.

      “What did you do that for!?” he cried out, “They meant no harm!”

      Merryweather stared at him furiously, the look of burning rage in his eyes.

      “Don’t you dare talk to a superior officer like that, Pt. Crook! We are under 

conditions of war, under the eyes of the enemy! I could have you shot for less.”

      Dodgson suddenly seemed to catch the feelings of his commanding officer.

      “Platoon! Open fire on the enemy! At once!”

      Half the men of the platoon raised their rifles and fired at the, still quite within 

range, aircraft. The bullets simply bounced harmlessly off the shell. The other half 

just stood motionless, partly because they were still dumbstruck and partly because, 

deep down inside of them, they found that they simply could not hurt this most gentle 

of things. 

      

      After a while, the firing stopped. Merryweather was apoplectic.

      “Damn Nazis! If that thing heads to the town hundreds could be killed or 

wounded!”

      “Come off it, cap,” stated Pt. Perry, rather unwisely, “Do you think Herr Hitler 

could have come up with a thing like that?”

      “Don’t talk rubbish, man! What else could it be? It tried to attack us! 

Those…those…things were clearly weapons of some sort!”

      “But with all due respect, sir, why didn’t they do anything? They just glowed. 

Glowed and watched.”

      Even the sergeant was moved to comment.

      “Perry is right, sir,” he said, rather uncomfortably, “I know the Hun. They 

wouldn’t…couldn’t make anything like that, sir. That…thing…didn’t look like 

anything from this Earth…sir.”

      The look and sound of utter, bitter contempt appeared in the captain’s face and 

voice.

      “Not you too, sergeant? Are you seriously suggesting that that came from 

outer space!? You’ve been reading too much H.G. Wells, Dodgson. May I remind you 

that the human race appeared on this planet by a fluke of astronomical chance? The 

sheer probability of another sentient race occurring on a planet anywhere near us is so 

small as to be virtually impossible. Darwin and Wells are about as compatible as a 

lion and a seal.”

      “It was an angel,” whispered Jones.

      Merryweather almost turned purple.

      “I am not even going to honour that statement with a reply,” he sneered.

      

      Harry Crook, meanwhile, did not know what to make of the flying jewel. It 

had come in peace and benevolence, showing nothing but harmless curiosity. Even 

after it had been assaulted without provocation, its sole reaction was to withdraw with 

dignity. Dodgson, of all people, was probably right. This was not a thing of this Earth. 

This was a thing of a place were war was a total anathema to life, rather than being an 

ugly and inseparable part. Perhaps Talfryn was also correct? Perhaps it was an angel? 

A being of peace, sent by God, something unknown to Merryweather and his atheist 

ideas. How could evolution bring peace? How could there ever be peace in a world 

whose philosophy is selfish survival, not the mutual gain of all? Harry Crook 

suddenly wanted to follow the peaceful flying machine. Perhaps, where it came from, 

he might find Mabel?

      

      Suddenly, the engine of the platoon van roared into action. Merryweather was 

the first to act.

      “Dodgson! Masterson! Into the front! Now!”

      “Why sir?” asked Fred.

      “We are going after that thing! No matter what it is, we won’t let it get away!”

      

      Within two minutes, the platoon van was trundling down the dark, night-time 

country roads in a desperate attempt to keep up with the aerial intruder. Inside the 

van, a simple system of observation had been set up. Pt. Fitch and his school friend Pt. 

Owens were poking their heads and upper bodies through special hatches that had 

been added to the roof of the van. Their information was passed down to Cpl. Peacock 

who, squeezing his head through hole that existed between the two compartments of 

the van, communicated to his commanders.  

      “It doesn’t appear to be heading towards the town, sir,” relayed the corporal, 

“More out into open country.”

      “Well, that’s something, sir, at any rate.”

      “Maybe, sergeant. But how do we know that there aren’t more of them?”

      “The air-raid siren would have gone.”

      Pt. Jones, with more than a little difficulty, pushed his head past Cpl. Peacock.

      “But what about the electrical black-out? That thing is emitting some form of 

energy. At long range it screws up the wireless transmissions and at close range all 

forms of energy are put out of action. It is probably also what is causing all this rain-

less thunder.”

      “They could still ring the church bells, even if they didn’t have power,” 

countered Dodgson.

      “But even then, how are we going to get near to it. The van would just stop 

and we’d be back to the beginning once more.”

      “Jones has a point there, sir,” added Masterson.

      Merryweather growled. 

      “Don’t damn well tell me there’s nothing we can do. We keep on after it for as 

long as we can. Maybe it’ll show some weakness.”

      

      Up at the top of the van, both Fitch and Owens were shivering with the cold 

wind, praying hard that no rain would be forthcoming. 

      “I don’t like this, Fitch!” half-yelled Owens over the din of both the engine 

and the breeze, “It isn’t natural! I feel like a man looking for the end of a rainbow!”

      “Shut up, Dave!” came a clearly scared reply, “That ain’t no pot of gold! 

Imagine a fleet of those things, coming over the English Channel, each containing a 

hundred Nazi paratroopers. What could we do against that!? We wouldn’t have a hope 

in Hell.” 

      Suddenly, the glowing invader seemed to stop, hovering as though letting the 

relatively primitive four-wheeled, ground-locked contraption behind it catch up.

      “Corporal!” shouted Fitch, aiming his voice into the innards of the van, “It’s 

stopped!”

      “Fitch?” noted Owens.

      “Yeah?”

      “It seems to be getting bigger.”

      “That’s because we’re driving closer to it. How the hell did you ever get your 

school certificate?”

      “No. Fitch, look at it. It shouldn’t be getting bigger so fast.”

      Fitch looked again. Then his heart froze. 

      “Oh, my Gawd! Cpl. Peacock! It’s coming towards us! It’s coming straight for 

us!”

      

      Static perforating the air, another crash of thunder set everyone jumping. 

Then, as expected, the van’s engine gave out once more and, in about twenty seconds, 

the wheels came to complete standstill. Immediately, a pair of rifles were passed up to 

Fitch and Owens, who checked them and prepared to fight with them. At the same 

time, Merryweather and Dodgson climbed out of the driver’s compartment. 

Merryweather raised his revolver and pointed it at the rapidly approaching flying 

jewel. The captain narrowed his eyes. This was his chance to strike a blow for 

England, this was his chance to defend his homeland. 

      

      Silently, the mysterious aircraft glided softly over the van, totally ignoring the 

volley of bullets that imbedded themselves into its’ crystalline hull. Within a few 

moments, it was fading away, back into the murky distance once more. As if on cue, 

the van’s engine started once more and captain and sergeant jumped in again. 

Quickly, the vehicle did a three-point turn and continued to follow its quarry.

      

      “If it goes over the fields we’re in trouble,” noted Pt. Masterson. 

      “Then why’s it following the roads?” asked the sergeant. 

      Pt. Jones poked his head though the compartment to give more helpful advice.

      “It’s probably following the roads for navigation. My guess is that it hasn’t 

orientated itself yet.”

      “Why haven’t the air-force done anything?” growled the captain.

      “Well, sir, I suppose that, if you are going to make an aircraft that can do all 

that that one can, you might as well make it radar invisible while you’re at it.”

      Dodgson looked around at him.

      “And what makes you an expert, Jones?”

      Talfryn shrugged and withdrew into the back compartment. 

      “Damnit, Masterson, can you go any faster?”

      Fred wiped the sweat from his brow.

      “I’m sorry, captain, but I’m doing thirty now. I don’t know how much more 

the old girl will take.”

      Needless to say, Merryweather was not overly sympathetic.

      “Well, you can shake this thing to pieces for all I care- just as long as you keep 

after it!”  

      

      Harry sat at the back of the van, his face creased and deep in thought. One 

hand was clutched around his rifle, the other around a photograph of Mabel. 

Grumbling, Talfryn manoeuvred himself to a position beside his friend. Everyone felt 

a little sick thanks to the constant banging and swaying as the wheels lurched along 

the rough road.

      “Merryweather and Cannonball Dodgson- pair of stupid sons-of-bitches.”

      He patted Harry’s shoulder, noticing what he held in his hand.

      “Harry? What’s wrong?”

      “Everything, Talfryn. We shouldn’t be doing this. That ship, ahead of us, it’s 

not of this world. It’s from somewhere else. I don’t know where: Mars, Venus, 

Heaven itself perhaps. But we shouldn’t be going after it with guns and all that. We 

should be on our hands and knees begging it…begging it to teach us how to stop the 

war.”

      “You can’t stop war, Harry. It’s human nature.”

      “Precisely! It is human nature! It is what the human race does when it is not 

eating or sleeping. What did Darwin call it? The survival of the fittest? That is 

Merryweather’s philosophy. Have you noticed the look in his eyes every time he even 

thinks of fighting? He enjoys it! Do you know why? Because he believes it is good 

and right. He worships evolution as his god, and it is a god that demands the pious 

destruction of all that is not the same. They can teach us different! They can teach us 

to rise above such beliefs. If they enjoyed the death of anything and everything that 

was inferior they would have swatted us like a fly the moment we fired our pea-

shooters at it. Maybe they are angels, maybe they are beings from another world? 

Either way, we have to stop Merryweather! We have to stop him before he does 

something that the world will regret for ever and ever.”

      For a second, Talfryn paused in thought. Then he spoke.

      “Is this because of Mabel?”

      “My wife?”

      “Yes, you’re wife. You are simply thinking her thoughts, saying what she 

would have said. Well, she is with God now, of that I have no doubt. But, you think 

that this…whatever-it-is…comes from the sky so it must also come from God? Harry, 

man, listen to me. Have you thought for one moment that you could be wrong, that 

this could be a spearhead for invasion, either by the Gerrys or Martians in their giant 

tripod-machines.” 

      Harry merely clutched at his temples with his hands, the electric humidity in 

the air becoming very oppressive. Suddenly, he felt old, old and confused.

      

      “It’s turning right at the crossroads!” yelled Fitch.

      “The blighter’s turning right at the crossroads!” yelled Peacock. 

      “Cor’ blimey,” muttered Perry, “It ain’t half leading us on a merry dance.”

      With a screech of tires, the van changed direction at the crossing.

      “It’s heading for the railway line,” noted Masterson.

      “Aye!” exclaimed the sergeant, “And there’s a train coming!”

      He pointed to a pencil-thin line of smoke on the horizon, just illuminated by 

the sparks and embers from the funnel. 

      Fred gulped.

      “Captain,” he stated nervously, “We’ll be at the crossing about the same time 

as that train will. Shouldn’t we slow down?”

      “Go faster!”

      “But sir! The train!”

      “Damnit it, man! I said go faster!”

      Muttering what, quite possibly, would be his final prayers to the Almighty; the 

soldier pressed his foot hard down on the accelerator.

      

      From up top, Fitch and Owens viewed the approaching scene with barely 

disguised terror.

      “Bleeding hell!” cried out Owens.

      The aircraft passed over the level-crossing. Fitch cringed and waited for the 

inevitable end. The train’s whistle let out a horrified scream.

      

      Somehow, the van was not crushed like an eggshell beneath several tonnes of 

smoking, belching, whistling metal. With a sudden, almost miraculous explosion of 

acceleration, the ancient baker’s van thrust itself over the railway tracks, narrowly 

missing the oncoming dreadnought. This, however, was too much for the van’s 

engine, however, which spluttered and gasped with agonising groans. Suddenly, 

something snapped and Fred Masterson found all his acceleration dying away. 

      “Masterson!” snapped Merryweather, “What the hell are you doing?!”

      “It’s not me, sir. It’s the engine!”

      “Something to do with that Gerry craft?”

      “I don’t think so, sir. Not this time. I think the old girl’s just about had it.”

      Angrily, the captain let out an animalistic growl, kicking the bottom of the 

dash-board with all his might, the majority of the damage being done to his foot more 

than anything else.

      

      With a final, brief, pained shudder from the exhaust-pipe, the van came to a 

rest, perhaps forever. Voicing a strange mixture of disappointment and relief, the 

motley collection of soldiers exited, looking at the steaming tires as if good intentions 

made half-decent auto-mechanics all by themselves.

      “Ah well, then,” noted Pt. Jones pragmatically, “It appears the chase is off.”

      He looked sympathetically at Pt. Crook, whose eyes were downcast, like those 

of the man who missed the last boat to paradise.

      Capt. Merryweather was not a particularly happy member of Her Majesty’s 

Armed Forces at that time.

      “God damn it!” he screamed, “Masterson!”

      “Yes, sir?” replied Fred sheepishly- he knew what he was in for.

      “You ought to be on a damn charge for not keeping that vehicle in order!”

      “There was nothing I could…”

      “If we were in No Man’s Land, 25 years ago, I’d have you shot for this!”

      Pt. Perry managed to work up the courage to intervene.

      “Oi, sir, you can’t talk to him like that.”

      “And are you going to stop me, Private! Don’t you dare talk to me like that!”

      

      Only Cpl. Peacock and Pt. Owens had their attention on the invading aircraft. 

The younger man ran his fingers through his orange hair, his helmet resting on the 

ground.

      “Hey, corporal? Shouldn’t it be trying to escape from us?”

      “Nothing about that thing surprises me, anymore, boy.”

      “But why would it just be hanging there, watching us?”

      “Well, what harm can we do it? Them Gerrys or Martians or whatever up 

there must be having a real good laugh.”

      “Don’t you think we ought to tell the others?”

      “Shouldn’t they know already, boy?”

      He turned around, seeing that they all seemed so enraptured by 

Merryweather’s display of abject insanity, that they hadn’t even considered the fact 

that their quarry was, not only still within visual distance but almost appeared to be 

waiting for their attention. Wallace Peacock sighed.

      “Ah well, I suppose somebody better tell them.”

      He called out.

      “Oi, lads! I think we’re still under the eyes of the enemy!”

      

      Merryweather and Dodgson, clearly embarrassed by this revelation, reloaded 

their weapons and ran up to where Peacock and Owens were standing. The rest of the 

platoon made a collected effort to gather, en masse, behind them.

      “Good grief,” muttered the captain, “Why the hell hasn’t it got away?”

      “Perhaps it’s laughing at us, sir,” ventured Owens, earnestly but really rather 

stupidly.

      Merryweather gave him a withering look and then returned to the problem in 

hand. 

      “What do you think, sergeant?”

      “Maybe it wants a fight, sir. One-on-one or something like that.”

      Suddenly, Harry pushed his way through.

      “Listen, sir, it doesn’t want to fight,” he pleaded, his eyes swelling, “It is 

trying to make contact with us!”

      “Don’t be ridiculous, you old fool. Why would a bunch of Nazis want to talk 

to us?”

      “Nazis!? Listen, you young, toffee-nosed idiot: you aren’t going to find any 

swastikas hidden on that thing! That came from another world, a place were you and 

your philosophies would have been sent to the furnace long ago! I’ve known and seen 

enough war to be able to recognise that which has not been touched by it. You talked 

about No Man’s Land twenty years ago. Well, I’ve been there. While you were 

hunting your foxes and baiting your badgers I was out there, knee-deep in blood-red 

mud. You tell me that because of evolution, war is necessary. Well, that thing out 

there, that beautiful, pure thing, can show us the path out of your kind of ignorance. 

Maybe God sent it, maybe it sent itself, but from wherever it came from it is not going 

to let a degraded, blaspheming bastard like you send it back!” 

      

      There was a moment of shocked silence, penetrated only by the rhythmic hum 

of the mysterious craft. Then the captain lashed out, pistol-whipping Harry Crook in 

the face. Stunned, the old man fell backwards, onto the darkness of the ground, blood 

oozing from a gash on his head. Merryweather’s eyes were bright red, his face a 

picture of insolent fury. In almost an action of reflex he levelled his revolver, aiming 

it between Pt. Crook’s eyes. 

      

      Sgt. Dodgson was the first to act, his knowledge of what was right and what 

was wrong clouding over the loyalty he had to both his commanding officer and his 

employer. Quickly, he grabbed the captain’s wrist, wrenching the weapon away. 

Peacock and Jones then pounced, restraining Merryweather by the arms.

      “What are you doing!” he screamed, “Unhand me now! That is an order!”

      The look in Dodgson’s eyes turned to pity. Suddenly, a flash of lightning shot 

through the sky and the first drops of a heavy torrent of rain began to fall, blowing 

through the wind like millions of icy missiles. The sergeant, who had been through 

much, much worse than this, ignored it.

      “I’m sorry, sir. But I am relieving you of command. Your behaviour of late 

has been both inappropriate and dangerous. Cpl. Peacock! Pt. Jones! Take the captain 

back to the van and place him under open arrest. That is an order!”

      “Bleeding heck!” cried out Pt. Fitch, “Look at the flying thing!”

      

      The crystal aircraft had begun to move, not forwards or back, but around, 

rotating through the air until the pointed tip at the end was facing the ground. Then, 

with a sudden outburst of energy forming a halo around it like some heavenly form of 

St. Elmo’s fire, it descended, the pointed blade entering through the soft mud until it 

was as intractable as the sword in the stone before King Arthur had got his digits 

around it. None of the men dared speak, only the bravest chancing any form of 

movement at all. It was Merryweather who broke the taboo of silence.

      “You see!” he shouted through the turbulence of the air, “They’ve come! 

They’ve come to kill us all!”

      At this, some of the men began to flee back down the road, but most stayed 

transfixed, their eyes locked on the stunning beauty of the clear crystal obelisk, purer 

than any earthly diamond. The rain evaporated harmlessly off this, the great wind 

failing to budge it an inch. Harry, slowly, climbed to his feet, trying his best to steady 

himself despite the whirling universe around him and the torrential storm of which he 

now inhabited. He steadily approached the intruder, his hands raised in a gesture of 

peace.

      “Come out,” he spoke softly, “Please come out. No harm will come to you. 

Just come out and teach us.”

      

      No door, though, opened. This however, is not to say that nothing happened. 

Indeed, a change, a very, very noticeable change began to occur. At first, the lattice 

merely glowed again, only it was a different kind of glow, more like a sickly green 

ejection of light than anything else. After a few seconds however, this glowing 

became growing. With a deafening aching creak, the crystal started to expand at an 

enormous rate, each individual facet multiplying and dividing as though they were 

living cells. At first, this growth was upwards, creating a giant tower of fluorescent 

diamond and energy. Eventually arms grew out of this tower- two from the sides and 

one from the head- that spread out like branches from a mighty oak, enveloping all 

that came within any sort of range of contact. The men all gasped and moved back as 

the arms reached high over their heads and far around them, trapping them in an 

almighty embrace. Then, even the arms began to expand like living flesh, joining up 

with each other while the ends embedded themselves fast in the ground, entering the 

soil with a thud. Barely a minute after the first growth, the Greater Twilbourne 

platoon, and their broken-down van, had found themselves trapped under a mighty 

dome of crystal.

      

      “Sarge, I’m scared.”

      “Yes, Fitch. So am I.”

      “Hey, Jonesy!” asked Perry, sweat pouring from his brow, “Where…where 

the hell is the light coming from?”

      “Phos…phosphorescence from the crystal, possibly. Man, this is a bit different 

from a coal-mine. How do you expect me to know?”

      He let go of a quivering Merryweather.

      “Do you still think these are German’s, captain?”

      The captain did not hear him, looking for all the world like a man who’s just 

had the closed door of his mind ripped clean off its hinges. Owens, meanwhile, had 

moved to the nearest wall and was studying it with fearful intent. Wallace, seeing 

him, called out.

      “Oi, Owens. Don’t go touching anything.”

      The orange-haired private had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

      “Who are you trying to kid, corp?” was his shaky reply. 

      Only Harry Crook was in prayer.

      “Oh Lord of all that is holy,” he whispered, down on his knees, “Have mercy 

on us poor servants. I know now that we are close to your presence, possibly in the 

company of your angels themselves. Please show us the light; please give us a sign, a 

way to end this war, a way to end this tyranny of evolution, of human nature. Please, 

Lord, your servant begs you, show us your sign!”

      

      It was then that the old man realised that his fellow soldiers had stopped 

talking. Shaken by the silence, he raised his head and opened his eyes. What he saw 

almost set his retinas ablaze in their sockets. They were now in the presence of what 

could only be described as three ‘beings’. From a distance they looked like three giant 

jellyfish, their bodies rippling and waving, several feet off the ground, as though the 

air was the currents of the sea. At a closer inspection, one could see that they were 

vaguely kite-shaped, not unlike the space-craft, their pointed, triangular tails 

stretching a good distance behind them, mingling amongst the trailing clump of 

squirming tentacles that reached out from their back. Their heads were small, with 

big, rapidly blinking eyes, no mouth or nose of any sort and what looked like some 

kind of proboscis reaching out the back. Their bodies were totally luminescent, 

throwing a bright white glow over the terrified men, as well as being translucent, 

almost to the point of transparency. The beings did not approach, keeping a respectful 

distance, more content to observe than act. 

      

      Despite everything else, Harry Crook smiled. These were not simple men 

engaged in their warmongery. These were not Nazis. These were beings from another 

world, another place, somewhere that had to be free from all the ills of this world. 

They had to communicate. For the sake of all that Harry and his wife had held dear, 

they had to.

      

      Slowly, gently, fearful of making any sudden movement, the old campaigner 

got to his feet and, as if treading on eggshells, he approached the three beings of 

radiance. Intangible tendrils of light that came from the walls of the dome weaved 

their way around him, probing his mind and being. Harry could feel his thoughts and 

memories being accessed but he did not mind- there was more at stake than his 

privacy. With equal care, the three beings floated until they made a triangle around 

him, their tentacles curiously feeling their way around his body, softly and tenderly, 

desiring not to hurt or injure him in any way. Using thoughts in place of words, Harry 

told them all about his world, his home, and about war. He mentioned very much 

about war. In return, he learnt about the beings, the domain that they called home, 

their past and present, their feelings and emotions. 

      

      The platoon, meanwhile, had barely moved. A few were praying, the rest 

locked in a state of paralysed awe. 

      “Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” gaped Talfryn, “If only I had my 

camera, what a picture this would make.”

      Fitch, meanwhile, was cradling his tommy-gun like a newborn baby, terrified 

to use it but just as scared to be out of its reach. He did not notice the dark shadow 

that was gradually moving but behind him. Suddenly, he was knocked senseless by a 

bang to his head, Capt. Merryweather wrenching the tommy-gun from his hands. At 

first, the officer waved it at is own men, the look of mania in his face and poise. 

      “You cowards!” he screamed, his hands shaking, his eyes glazed, “Don’t you 

understand! We are here to fight! We are at war!”

      He then spun around, his head spinning, his perspective rolling in a million 

different directions.

      “Pt. Crook! Come out of there! I order you to stop giving comfort to the 

enemy!”

      Harry and the three beings turned to face him in unison. Something was 

different about the old soldier. The stoop in his back was gone, the wrinkles in his 

face smoothed out. His eyes were white, a burning, bright white.

      “Put down your gun, captain,” he replied, “You have little need of it here.”

      “Crook! Come out of there! They’ll kill you!”

      “Captain, sir. He’s right. Put down your gun. There is nothing we can do.”

      This came from Sgt. Dodgson. 

      “No. I’m not going to let a pretty little light show make me surrender without 

blood on my lips!”

      “Sir, please!”

      “Forget it, sarge,” noted Perry, “He’s flipped. He ain’t listening.”

      Harry began walking slowly towards Merryweather.

      “Please, captain. I see so much now. You are wrong. Believe me, you are 

wrong.”

      “Stay back, damn you!”

      “Captain…”

      “I’ll shoot! I will!”

      “Please…”

      Merryweather fired. The bullets came thick and fast, passing harmlessly 

through the three beings but ripping their way through Harry Crook. Letting out not 

so much as a groan, the old soldier fell dead to the ground in a pool of blood. Then 

came three more volleys from a rifle and Merryweather went rigid, his own blood 

dripping from his mouth. With a final pained groan, the captain, too, fell, joining his 

fellow in death. Sgt. Dodgson closed his eyes and threw his smoking weapon onto the 

ground.

      

      Unfazed, the three floating beings drifted until they floated directly over the 

two lifeless forms. The look in their eyes was almost one of idle curiosity, as though 

they were immortals, peering at the novelty of death for the first time. The little 

feelers now surrounded the two corpses, poking and prodding them gingerly, as 

interested in death as they were in life. The sight of this moved Talfryn Jones out of 

his shocked silence.

      “Get away them!” he shouted, taking a few steps nearer, “Get away!”

      He stopped as the beings stared at him. Somehow, the Welshman was moved 

to find the need to explain.

      “They’re dead. Don’t you understand? They’re dead. Gone. Finished. All 

because of you. One of them thought you were angels, so did I for a while. Only he 

thought that you came to offer us hope, wisdom, a chance for salvation. The other 

thought you were bitter enemies, out to conquer us, to destroy us. Maybe he was right. 

After all, what have you brought us? Nothing but fear and two dead men, both of 

whom were convinced that they were in the right. Well, whatever you luminescent 

jellyfish plan to do, get the hell on with it. Either that or just go.”

      

      For a few moments, the creatures idly watched the impertinent human, 

showing no signs of understanding. They simply floated about in what tiny breeze 

there was, seeming as cognisant of the world around them as their aquatic look-a-likes 

were. Then, in what seemed like a flurry of telepathic communication, the one in the 

centre rose up high into the roof of the dome, disappearing into the crystal. The other 

two, meanwhile, took up what looked like set positions over the bodies of Harry 

Crook and Edwin Merryweather. 

      

      “Sarge,” quipped Owens, “What in God’s name is going on?”

      “How the hell should I know? I’m not even sure whether it’s in God’s name or 

not.”

      Masterson, who was helping Fitch to his feet with another soldier, rubbed his 

fore-head.

      “Perhaps it is some sort of funeral rite. You know, like the last post.”

      Jones shook his head and looked back at his fellows.

      “You know, man, I don’t even think those things understand the concept of 

dying, let alone how do be undertakers.”   

      

      Suddenly, there was what almost could be described as an explosion without a 

bang from up above. As the men looked up, a million little beads of light burst out 

over their heads, like seeds from a dandelion. All the men, with the exception of 

Dodgson and Jones, ran back to the van for shelter. The sergeant looked to his junior.

      “You don’t think running would be much good, either?”

      Jones shook his head.

      “No, Sarge. No matter where we try to hide, they have us by the short and 

curlies.”

      A look of sentiment appeared in the sergeant’s eyes- the look that fills up a 

condemned man.

      “Talfryn, isn’t it?”

      “Sarge?”

      “Your name?”

      “Oh yes, it is. A good strong Welsh name that is. You’re Albert, aren’t you, 

man?”

      “Aye. Named after the prince himself. Well, here goes.”

      

      The flurry of stardust fell upon their heads and around their bodies. Beyond 

giving the two men what looked like mutated dandruff, no affect on them was 

apparent. The affect on the two corpses and the two beings guarding them, however, 

was both apparent and immediate. Little flashes of light, twinkling like the stars 

themselves, flashed around the inanimate human forms, filling them with their energy. 

At the same time the two creatures lowered themselves until as prostrate as possible 

upon Crook and Merryweather. That is when the merging began. The two observers 

shielded their eyes as the fusion of flesh and energy, skin and the power of eternity 

began. Suddenly, there was a soundless shock-wave of light as mortal and immortal, 

corporeal and non-corporeal became one. Then everything went dark.

      

          -

      

      “Yes, sir,” replied Sgt. Albert Dodgson, acting-C.O. of the Greater Twilbourne 

Platoon as he sat, on the phone, at his late captain’s desk in the small office in the 

drama centre that now acted as the Home Guard H.Q. in that area, “It was very 

unfortunate. Capt. Merryweather was a good man.”

      He looked up at Cpl. Peacock, who stood to attention on the opposite side of 

the pristinely tidy desk, with more than a little unease. He had never lied through his 

teeth at an officer before. Not that the corporal knew any different. All that he knew 

was that the false alarm had turned out to be just that, and that Capt. Merryweather 

and Pt. Crook had stumbled into a minefield that lay on the edge of the town. They 

even had the broken and burnt remains to prove it. Dodgson knew differently, of 

course. He and Talfryn Jones had been allowed to keep the truth. 

      “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

      He put down the receiver and looked outside the small office window. It was 

dark and it was raining. ‘Does it rain where they are?’ he thought to himself. Peacock 

misinterpreted this as being a sign of grief in his usually unflappable superior.

      “It wasn’t your fault, Sarge. There was nothing you could have done.”

      Dodgson was a terrible liar and he knew it, so he decided to keep the 

conversation short.

      “I know, Peacock. I know. Battalion HQ is going to send us another officer, 

although it might be a few weeks yet. Looks like you’re going to get that third stripe 

in the meantime, though.”

      “I wish it were some other way.”

      “Don’t we all. Are the police gone?”

      “I think so, sir.”

      “Then tell the men to go home. Baring an emergency, tomorrow’s drill is 

cancelled. Thank God neither man had much of a family to tell.” 

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Dismissed!”

      “Sir!”

      Peacock did a 180 degree turn and then left the room. Dodgson did not really 

know how he felt. He wasn’t really sad, for nothing particularly saddening had 

actually occurred. Yet, he did not feel particularly jubilant either, as though the events 

he had witnessed had been part of a dream, slowly being clouded in the mists of 

awakening. Maybe they had been phantasms of sleep? After all, he only had one other 

witness to prove that they weren’t. Never a particularly religious man before, the 

sergeant suddenly felt like praying.

      

      Pt. Jones sat on the drama centre’s stage, not caring as the flaky black paint 

stuck to the palms of his hands. Cpl. Peacock had just handed out their orders and the 

men had begun to morosely move out. Still, Masterson, Fitch, Perry and Owens 

remained, standing around the old Welshman with looks of consolidation on their 

faces.

      “You O.K., Jonesy?” asked Perry.

      “We all knew that you and Harry were good friends,” added Fred.

      Talfryn looked at their wet, tired, discoloured faces. He had seen their 

expressions before, in many men in many wars. They did not so much grieve for 

Harry, that he knew, but for Merryweather. They may not have liked their captain as a 

person but he was their leader, and, for a group of men in war, to lose a leader is the 

nadir of all the torments that could possibly happen. Of course, the captain was not 

really dead, and neither was Harry, but, if he even told a fraction of what he knew as 

the truth, they would send him away to the funny-farm for life. 

      “I’m all right, thanks,” he replied, entirely for their benefit, “Harry was a God-

fearing man, so I know that he’s going to a better place. Now go home to your wives, 

children and girlfriends.”

      “Can you make it home, Mr. Jones?”

      “Away with you, Fitch-lad. I may be old but I’m not an invalid just yet.”

      “You’re sure, Talfryn? If you want a talk, just let me know.”

      “Thanks, Fred. But I’ll be fine. Now go home, all of you.”

      Slowly, the men mumbled a few good-nights and then moved out the door, 

leaving only Wallace Peacock behind. 

      “That means you too, Wallace. Just let me be for a bit.”

      Understandingly, the corporal nodded his head and then walked out into the 

rainy night, back to his longed-for farm and family. 

      

      Once alone, Talfryn Jones jumped off the stage and moved into the office 

where Albert Dodgson still sat. For a while, neither man said a word, merely soaking 

in the odours of the truth that still hung in the air. It was a clap of thunder from the 

storm outside that provoked the sergeant into speaking. 

      “We are doing the right thing? Aren’t we? Being quiet about it all? About the 

aircraft?”

      The private walked to the little window beside the door, peaking past the 

black-outs. 

      “Do you doubt anything you saw, man?”

      “I don’t know. I’m just a simple soldier and I’ve been one all my life. But 

what we saw tonight…and the fact that the others don’t even remember. It is all 

beyond me.”

      Talfryn pressed his fists down on the desk, his face deadly serious. 

      “Listen, sergeant. It was all real. Every last moment of it. We have to believe 

it, and we have to tell others. Maybe it is like what it said in the Bible, in the book of 

Revelation, about Christ coming back to Earth. Maybe it’s part of that? Maybe it’s 

something entirely different. Hell, I don’t know.” 

 “But why don’t the others remember? If it is so important why was it just us?”

      “There had to be a cover-story, I guess. What would GHQ think about 26 men 

ranting about how two of their platoon was abducted by a flying piece of moon-rock? 

It is best there just being the two of us. And then we were the only two who stayed to 

watch, to receive the good news. That might be something to do with it. All I know 

was that Harry was my friend, and you were probably the closest thing the captain 

ever had to one. That was Harry who spoke to us, and you felt Merryweather’s soul 

there as well. Can we believe otherwise?”

      

          -

      

      Right then, Talfryn found himself back under the crystal dome, watching the 

two new creatures stand before them. The bodies were gone, as had the jellyfish, to be 

now replaced with two humanoid figures, the bright white tendrils exuding from their 

sides, almost resembling wings as they did so. One of the figures was bright, the other 

was dark, as though under the shadow of Lucifer himself. Both their faces had aspects 

of the familiar.

      “Cap…Captain,” muttered Sgt. Dodgson.

      “Harry!” exclaimed Pt. Jones.

      The Merryweather-being nodded its head sadly and then, slowly, very slowly, 

began to fade away, until merely a glittering flurry of glowing dust was left. 

      “Captain?”

      Then the Harry Crook-being spoke, not with words, but thoughts, singing their 

way through the astral plain.

      “He will be unharmed,” he/it said, “He will never be harmed again. He has 

gone to see the universe, to see all the great and wonderful things his doctrine had 

blinded him to. He is very lucky. If he had died anywhere else, we could not have 

saved him from the dark, festering oubliette that awaits others like him. When he has 

fully conquered his doubts, then he will be one of us.”

      Talfryn finally countered the urge of silence.

      “Wh…who are you? Are you…you Harry?”

      The figure in white gazed benevolently at him.

      “I was once,” it replied softly, as though talking of irrevocable events long 

ago, “Now I am more, my old friend, more than the sum of both my parts. You see, in 

the course of time, we will need to further understand the human soul, the human 

mind. We need to fully understand the human nature, both the darkness and the light, 

about war and about peace, so we joined with two souls, both in the process of leaving 

the confines of this realm.”

      Talfryn gulped.

      “That might be all right for Merryweather, but Harry- supposing he wanted to 

be set free, to go to Heaven?”    

      “This he wants. He will get to the realm that awaits him, but not through 

dying. We can fall, but we cannot die. Here he will see all the wonders outside of this 

world. At the same time, he will help prepare us for the Final War, when the 

knowledge of your souls becomes paramount. He is part of the plan to end all wars, 

for the length and breadth of eternity itself. Once his work his finished, then he will 

join the one to whom he was bonded under of eyes of that which is higher than us.”

      “What did you mean when you said ‘Final War’, sir?” asked Dodgson.

      “That is the dark time that will precede the merging of our two realms.”

      “Will we see that?”

      “Not with your mortal eyes, Talfryn. But your descendents will, that we 

promise. Try and help prepare this world for that, both of you.”

      “And the others…”

      “They are blind and deaf. They will remember none of this, just the deaths of 

Capt. Merryweather and Pt. Crook in an accidental and tragic explosion.”

      Jones’ eyes suddenly acquired a twinkle, like that of a young child.

      “Are you…an angel?”

      The being of light smiled enigmatically.

      “That is one of the things we are called. In a few years you will know the truth 

about us. Talfryn, Harry asks that you keep an eye on his cottage, to make sure that it 

is not torn down to make way for another aerodrome.”

      “Of course.”

      “And he also asks if you please give Frederick a home. He is a good cat, well-

trained.”

      The old soldier found himself choking up.

      “It would be a pleasure, Harry. A real…real pleasure.”

      For the first time, a sadness crept into the face of the being of light.

      “He says ‘good-bye’ Talfryn, old friend.”

      “Good-bye…Harry.”

      “’Do not worry,’ he says, ‘Just consider it the last hurrah of an old 

campaigner.’”

      

      With that, the being rose into the air, disappearing with blinding flash into the 

multiple facets of the crystal. It was then that the dome began to follow suit, pulling 

itself out of the ground and then rising into the sky with an electric hum, static 

crackling through the air. Then, silently, propelled by forces unknown to man, it 

angled itself towards to the darkest of the storm clouds, throwing about pure white 

light like it was second moon.  A few moments later, with a clash of thunder, it had 

disappeared, beginning its journey to other worlds, worlds with four moons and 

purple skies, worlds with golden oceans and vast plains of silver snow. Worlds that 

neither Talfryn Jones or Albert Dodgson would ever see. Well, in this life at least. 

      

          -

      

      After a while, both men had left for home and for a well-deserved bed. The 

next morning however, Talfryn Jones had trekked out through the town to his ‘late’ 

friend’s old cottage. Nobody questioned his right to go there, most people considering 

that he was as close as Harry Crook had had to a living relative. Last night’s storm 

had taken its toll on the area. The fields were now huge muddy puddles, the cows 

lackadaisically standing ankle deep in the mire. Piles of sodden leaves covered the 

roads, squelching under the old man’s footsteps. Branches of trees and sometimes 

more had to pushed aside for any access along the thin country paths. Needless to say, 

Talfryn was glad he had brought his Wellingtons. 

      

      Sunflower Cottage was a bit of a sorry sight, as though it knew its owner had 

gone on to pastures anew. One window had been smashed in by a fallen tree and 

water had clearly begun to leak in from the roof. The wireless was still on, jabbering 

away, by some miracle the battery having failed to run out. Likewise, Frederick was 

clawing on the outside of the door, cold and wet, wanting nothing more than a dry 

place on which to kip. 

      

      As soon as Talfryn pushed open the creaky wooden gate, the cat ran up to him 

and was picked up gently. 

      “There, there, boyo,” whispered the Welshman, his breath visible in the cold 

air of morning, “It’s O.K. You’ll be all right with me.”

      The little bundle of fur meowed gratefully, letting himself be stroked by the 

old soldier. 

      “There, there. You’re master has gone away, old fella. He’s gone away for a 

long, long time and I guess you’ll never see him again. But he has important work to 

do. Aye, very important work. And he’ll be back.”

      Pt. Jones looked up at the cloudy autumn sky, his thoughts on angels and all 

the things of Heaven and Earth.

      “Yes, boyo, Harry’ll be back. Someday.”