

C onsequences

CROWVUS

Copyright © 2019 Crowvus

Breaking Out © 2019 Carole Whittaker

Elementals © 2019 Clemency Crow

The Coffin Road © 2019 Judith Crow

The Morsta Curse © 2019 Susan Crow

The Steps to the Beach © 2019 Mark J Gibson

The Thunderer © 2019 Virginia Crow

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Published in 2019

Crowvus, 53 Argyle Square, Wick, KW1 5AJ

Copyright © Cover Image Crowvus 2019

ISBN 978-1-913182-02-1

This eBook is free, but please donate to Scottish Book Trust here:

 http://www.scottishbooktrust.com/about/support-us/donate

www.crowvus.com

#   
Contents

#

Introduction

Breaking Out by Carole Whittaker

Elementals by Clemency Crow

The Coffin Road by Judith Crow

The Morsta Curse by Susan Crow

The Steps to the Beach by Mark J Gibson

The Thunderer by Virginia Crow

# INTRODUCTION

Crowvus is not a conventional publisher. Is it any wonder our stories do not come from conventional settings? Take this book, for example. During Book Week Scotland 2018 we held an event in John O'Groats, reviving that classroom favourite: Consequences.

The premise is simple. You write down a list of six plot devices and read them through as a story. The only thing is, you don't write them all on the same piece of paper. You swap papers in between, and you don't get to see what else has been written on the sheet when you add your next criteria. In between each category, one of the Crowvus writers gave a few words and a reading or two to inspire the next instalment on the sheet.

The sequence is this:

  1. A man

  2. A woman

  3. A place

  4. He said...

  5. She said...

  6. In the end...

All the people who attended were invited to write up their Consequences sheet as a <4000-word story. Of them, six rose to the challenge, and the stories you see here are their finished product.

We've typed up the Consequences sheets here, written at the end of each story so you don't know how the story will end before you get there! We hope this will give you a little bit of an insight into how the writers arrived at the stories they have created.

Why not have a go at creating something like this yourself? Go on, we dare you...!

#  BREAKING OUT

## by Carole Whittaker

Ragniv was sick of hewing a pickaxe. Even an auto-assist one. It was hard work in a pressurised spacesuit, and, being small, he tended to bounce back every time he struck the rock face due to the one-sixth gravity. Despite having been bred for the task, he was sick of Moon rock, sick of Moon dust, sick of black and grey and sick of his existence.

Humans - full-sized ones - wanted the precious elements he was mining because they were long depleted back on Earth so, he reflected with growing frustration, they had bred tiny humans to do their dirty work, given them the name dwarf from mythology - and a reference to humans who did not fully grow - and, in effect, enslaved them. Ragniv stood _two feet tall, red haired with a beard_ which, in invented species frustration, he railed at having to keep trimmed for the spacesuit.

He had been following a deposit that had taken him away from his co-miners and the tunnel he had hewn out had narrowed considerably. This made his bulky spacesuit even more difficult to move in.

Suddenly the frustration of his situation boiled over and, angry, Ragniv swung the pickaxe one more time. It connected. And fired.

A rumbling, a slow-motion tumbling of falling rock, and clouds of floating Moon dust later, an astonished Ragniv found himself standing in a hollowed-out cavern.

Then he realised; it was not a cavern. The walls were not rock. They were lined with panels. There was a big blank area that had to be a screen with two padded and cushioned seats in front of it.

He was standing in a spaceship. One buried on the Far Side of the Moon, where the mine was.

Ragniv wiped Moon dust off his helmet visor as best he could with the back of his glove and took a look round by the bright light of his helmet lamp. Until the dust from the rockfall had got in, the place looked to have been pristine.

But how long had it been there? It must have landed - Ragniv did not think crashed because there was no sign of interior damage - a long time ago because he did not remember any newscomm of a spaceship landing on this locality. Mining had been ongoing here for two Earth decades, so that was at least how long this ship had rested hidden.

Slowly, Ragniv began to explore. Like all humanoids, humans and settled off-worlders of the twenty-ninth century, he was familiar with all commonly-used forms of technology. No miners lived on the Moon; they were transported at shift-end up to a dormitory ship locked in lunar-stationary orbit. It was designed to simulate over ninety percent of Earth gravity to maintain bone density and health generally. All miners had to know how to operate the transporter, as well as the dorm ship and any bigger powered mining equipment than the pickaxes.

The technology Ragniv saw supported his theory that the ship had landed some Earth years before, because he could see it was slightly outmoded and clunky in design compared to modern technology. But he could understand it. He thought he knew how to operate it.

And then the moment of revelation. If this thing worked he could get out of there and back to Earth! Finish being a mining slave for good!

The moment of excitement was brief. For one thing, he had to break the ship out of the rock in which it was entombed. While he had no doubt this could be done, it would attract the attention of the mine Overseers from the dorm ship. There was also a contingent of Overseers - armed - in attendance on each shift. They were less worry. But the dorm ship was also armed.

Despite these crushing thoughts - at least he thought wryly, he was being realistic - Ragniv started a deeper exploration of the ship. There were even stores of food, all vacuum-packed and possibly still edible, as well as a store of water. That would be stale but usually spaceships had a water synthesiser as part of their engines; had done for a long while.

Then Ragniv found the power source for the ship. Black diamonds, or Carbonado. These elusive minerals were very uncommon on Earth but more plentiful in asteroid bodies, and there had been a couple of exploration missions sent to the location of the Solar System main asteroid field between the orbits of colonised Mars and Jupiter.

His excitement began to rise again. Carbonado was a super-fuel; the crystals would go on generating power indefinitely, providing the starter in the ship could heat them to the right temperature to start with.

He might have food. He would have water. He had the power. And he was sick of living the way he had been forced to. If he could get to Earth, ditch the ship before the authorities could catch him, salvage some of the Carbonado gems and get away, then he could start a better life with a source of income.

Ragniv was desperate. He also knew that the rockfall would have been seismically detected by the surface Overseers. They would be on their way; perhaps almost at his last known position. If he was going to go, he had to make the attempt now.

Almost feverishly he began to flick switches, flip toggles and press buttons. It took a short while, during which he held his breath for so long his spacesuit emitted a warning but, slowly and with increasing intensity, the spaceship began to return to life.

Ragniv watched the display as the Carbonado power unit began activating. It seemed to take an eternity to him, but as the power came online he began to feel the vibration. As light flooded the craft he switched off his helmet lamp. He closed the hatch, secured it, and strapped himself in one of the reclined cushioned seats. The viewscreen was now operational but still showed a wall of rock.

The power unit reached operational heat and surged into life. Ragniv pressed the lift-off button and the craft responded as if it had only been landed for a brief while, not years. He pressed full throttle, and activated the rock-buster laser.

The ship almost jumped aloft. The rock wall collapsed and was replaced by blackness. Ragniv realised the blackness was the sky; in the two-week long Lunar day the stars could not be seen.

A warning sounded. The Overseers had seen what was happening and had been swift to take action. They had launched drones to blow the ship to pieces.

Quickly scanning the controls, Ragniv found the countermeasure activator and set them off, hoping their two Earth decades or more had not seized them up.

They worked.

With full life-support established, Ragniv climbed out of the bulky and restricting spacesuit. He set co-ordinates for Earth. It was, after all, where he had been bred. It was close. He thought he could survive the two days or so to reach it.

And then the spacecraft gave him another gift: a lever beneath a display that showed a splay of arrow-tipped lines. The pictograph was indicating a hyperdrive.

Without hesitation, now he was well clear of the Moon, Ragniv activated it. The ship jumped into hyperspace; now out of reach of the Overseers and their next attack.

Ragniv was on his way home.

Aleetha was enjoying the quietude of the late evening in her sector of the big city. In the background was its muted hum but here nothing but the faint sigh of the gentle breeze. _She stood alone on the corner; her hand resting on the rough surface of the street lamp, her slim body swaying to an inner tune_.

Actually, the inner tune had become an earworm and was starting to irritate her, so she was scanning her mind-library for a number that was less irritating and she could tolerate being stuck with for a while.

This, and the darkness, was why she missed the sudden shimmer of large section of the air at the other side of the road, and the materialisation of a small spaceship from hyperspace.

It was only when a small, red-haired man with a short, well-trimmed red beard, clambered out holding a box that she suddenly became aware.

Angrily she strode over to him. "Hey! You can't park that thing there! That's my front garden!"

Her accent was _broken English with a little squeak; in a sharp voice she sounded a bit Dutch_. Ragniv knew the Dutch accent because some of the Overseers were from that big and powerful Earth province.

The man was staring at her. Intently. "You're a dwarf!" he exclaimed in delight. "Like me."

Aleetha had failed to take in the fact that they were both of similar height, although she was dark-haired and green-eyed. She was still angry that this stranger had landed his craft in her front garden.

"Look!" she gesticulated at him. "My Antares Ringing Blossoms are all squashed!"

Ragniv looked. "Oh. I'm sorry," he said. And then, gripped by a sudden sense of urgency; "They'll be on to me soon. All extra-terrestrial landings are recorded. I need to hide. Sorry about your flowers, but can you help?"

Aleetha was sidetracked from her original outburst. "You're being pursued?"

"I found this craft in a mine on the Moon. I had to get away; you've no idea what it is like, being forced to mine." With added desperation; "Please! Can you hide me?"

Something about Ragniv stirred something in Aleetha. She had been a dwarf slave, too, until she had saved the life of her Owner who had rewarded her and set her free. There were still some humans with integrity and compassion towards non-human beings.

"Oh. Yes. Well, my house! But what about your spaceship? Does it have a cloaking device?"

"Yes. I found one just before I jumped out of hyperspace. It might be an idea at that, to hide close to where I landed. Hold this a minute." Ragniv thrust the box into Aleetha's hands and scrambled back inside the craft. He reappeared a few moments later, jumping down from the hatch as the spaceship disappeared. He held a remote control for the cloaking device in his hand.

"Please lead on," he said as he took back the box.

Aleetha led him in through a small gate and up to the front door of the house. Her Antares Ringing Blossoms looked as normal now, but she knew they were still squashed by the craft. Their normal appearance was part of the cloaking device's projection.

Aleetha's house was _a small house in a big city; the surrounding area was quite wealthy and the architecture was Victorian-inspired. The small house stood out as it was quite modern and dilapidated_.

"How did you get to have your own house?" asked Ragniv when they got inside and Aleetha had shut and locked the door.

"Like so many other lady dwarves I was a house-slave to a human. She was very wealthy and also very kind for a human. I grew rather fond of her, so being a slave was not that bad."

"Was for me," growled Ragniv.

"I went everywhere with her, even when she went away on holiday. The seaside was once popular with humans a few centuries ago. And, with the revival of the ancient style known as Victorian, it has become popular again. One day I was out with Miss Vanessa in her boat. It was fully robotic, of course, but something went wrong and we were headed for a collision with a pier. She was trying to get control but just before we hit I pushed her overboard and dived after her. She was so grateful, especially as no one else was hurt, that she gave me my freedom and a substantial reward, which enabled me to buy this house. I like being among the Victorian Renaissance style but didn't want a house as big as those, even though I could afford one. This one suits me very well." She paused. "And it has a cellar."

Ragniv nodded. Something in their breeding made all the dwarves like being underground. Provided they were not being forced to mine. In a bulky spacesuit.

They exchanged names and then Aleetha asked if Ragniv was hungry. He suddenly realised that he was. So Aleetha got some food ready.

While they ate; he was suddenly ravenous; Ragniv told her his story.

"How long have you been a slave miner?" she asked.

"Longer than I like to remember. I think it's about twenty Earth-years."

"Will they come after you?"

"If they got the co-ordinates from the spaceship, although they may not have had time. Bit obvious though; to head for Earth. I was born on this planet."

"How long will they take?"

"I don't know. They will have to go through the Unauthorised Landfall Observatory to see if they can establish where I landed. Might take some time."

Aleetha looked thoughtful. "Ragniv, do you need that spaceship anymore?"

I doubt it. I got what I need from it." He nodded towards the box. "Why?"

"The nearest spaceport to here is only ten klix away. Could you send it there by autopilot? It might mask where you actually landed. After all, the ULO's monitors are only accurate to within tens of klix."

Ragniv stared at Aleetha as if seeing her for the first time. "You know, you might have something there. No one is supposed to land except at a spaceport but I might have - luckily for me! - landed close enough to conceal where I did land."

"Give it a try?"

He scrambled to his feet. "Right now!"

It did not take long for Ragniv to climb aboard the craft, programme its autopilot to the co-ordinates for the spaceport that Aleetha gave him from the commdirectory and send it on its way, still cloaked until it reached the spaceport perimeter, where he had set it to crash-land.

"Now, you need some sleep," Aleetha suggested. "To be safe, in case anyone comes looking for you, I don't only have a cellar. I have a secret room just off it, too."

"Do you keep your gold there?" joked Ragniv, as tiredness did begin to get the better of him.

Aleetha looked at him sadly. "Dwarf stereotype jokes," she pointed out, "Don't sit well with me. I have no gold. But my money is in the care of my solicitor."

A thought struck her. "But what is it you have in the box?"

Ragniv hesitated for a moment. But then realised how much Aleetha had helped him; was helping him.

He got up, went over to the box and lifted it from its shelf on the wallcase. "Here," he said, holding it out to her.

Aleetha took the box and lifted the lid. Inside were a lot of dull black glass-like stones.

"What are they?" she asked.

"Black diamonds. They were the spaceship's power source. I left just enough to fly it a short distance. Besides, I didn't want to leave it without any power source; that would have raised suspicion."

"These are black diamonds? I have heard of them. They are hoping to find some embedded in asteroids. Why, these are a small fortune!"

"I know. I plan to live off them for the rest of my life, providing I can keep clear of the Overseers from the mine. And the ULO."

"Well, one step at a time. First, you need some sleep. And so do I. And then we can talk again about what to do tomorrow."

Aleetha took Ragniv down to her cellar and showed her the secret room. It was comfortable, clean, luxurious compared to conditions on the mine dorm ship, well concealed by its own cloaking device and, for the first time since the discovery of the spaceship, Ragniv was able to relax and rest.

The next day Aleetha was full of excitement about newscomm reports of an unidentified spacecraft crashing at the spaceport. There were no reports from ULO of any unauthorised landings in the area. Furthermore, there were reports from the Moon of an unknown spacecraft blasting off from the Mare Serenitatis Mine but its destination was unknown. It had jumped to hyperspace too quickly to get its co-ordinates.

"You're safe!" she exclaimed in delight. "Now all we have to do is make you legit on Earth and you are home free."

Ragniv blinked. He was not yet fully awake, having slept deeply after the exertions of the previous twenty-four hours.

"How do we do that?" he asked warily.

"We go to a solicitor and get your nanochip updated."

Everyone resident on Earth had a nanochip. It was law. It contained full information about that individual, and was applicable to all forms of human, humanoid and resident alien life.

"But how can I do that when I am an escaped slave?"

Aleetha frowned. "Could be a problem. Did the mine own you?"

"No. I was part of an exchange programme; slaves for shares in the mine's profits."

"Then you have a chance."

"How, when I stole a spaceship and am in possession of a fortune in black diamonds?"

"You know the reports from the mine don't mention stolen. Was it inside the mine?"

"Yes!" A pause. "No! I was digging a new tunnel. It was not part of the mine. It would have been logged and added when I filed my report of that shift back up on the dorm ship."

"And the ship you found was clearly not the mine's property. Which also means the diamonds aren't. You found both. Abandoned. The diamonds are yours."

"Maybe, but how do we get my nanochip updated?"

Aleetha smiled. "My solicitor. Something I didn't tell you about him. He is also a dwarf."

Later that day Ragniv, clad in smart new clothing after a quick shopping spree via Aleetha's commsole, stood uncertainly outside a door marked PENDARAC, PENDARAC AND PENDARAC in very big, imposing and, more disconcertingly, expensive lettering.

"His brother and son are also solicitors," Aleetha explained. "We'll go in together and explain and then I will leave you with him."

"What do we tell him?"

She pouted. It made him go giddy. "The truth. Always. Pendarac has helped a lot of former dwarf miners and slaves. He will listen."

The door opened and a very stylishly-attired lady dwarf came out. "You may go in now," she announced.

A quite expensive restaurant in a very fashionable quarter of the city was host to a celebration dinner for Ragniv and Aleetha. No one paid them any particular attention because there were humans, humanoids and resident off-worlders among the clientele.

Ragniv was admiring the tattoo locating his updated nanochip. "I can't believe it says I am Free!" he said. "I owe you a lot, Aleetha. Thank you."

"I know it was expensive," Aleetha admitted, but your History was worth every diamond. Shame you had to part with all of them."

"Pendarac will not just grow fat and rich on them," Ragniv said. "He will use them to help other dwarves. Bit by bit we will stop dwarves being used as slaves. He told me there are even humans and off-worlders getting together in groups to campaign for better treatment of dwarves. There is more than enough technology to provide kit that will do their jobs."

"Yes," agreed Aleetha. "There are more humans like Vanessa now."

"Besides," added Ragniv, "I didn't part with all of the diamonds. Pendarac didn't want all; said it was more than his fee. I still have some so I have an income."

He paused, suddenly shy.

"Aleetha," he began, then bit his lip.

She looked at him. He was a very handsome dwarf. His beard was still a little short but it would grow; he would eventually fill out and look less haggard. Already he did look more relaxed.

"Yes?" she said.

_In a just audible whisper he asked how they could possibly see each other again_.

Aleetha chuckled. He had become so solemn. Did he really think that, now his situation was resolved and he had a life of freedom to look forward to, she might not want to be a part of it?

She was about to reply when her attention was caught by a couple of human men who were watching them very intently from a nearby table.

"Ragniv," she said quietly. "Don't look directly, but the men to your left; do you know them?"

Ragniv glanced covertly sideways. He paled visibly. "They look like two of the mine overseers! They must be Earthside on leave. They think they recognised me!"

"Let's go," suggested Aleetha. "Quietly. The payment for dinner has gone through; I just felt the confirmation."

As casually as they could, the two dwarves got up from the table and walked out. As they left the building Aleetha caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye; the men were following.

She had already summoned her pilotcar, so it had pulled up outside. They got into it. As it pulled away she saw the two men get into another. She programmed a route into its comsole.

The night was misty. As they left the city and its lights the grey tendrils closed about the pilotcar and obscured the surroundings. As they travelled on Aleetha looked behind. "They aren't closing," she said. "But we are not losing them."

"What are we going to do?"

She glanced at him. "I have an idea. But you'll need to hang on."

She added more program changes to the pilotcar comsole. The vehicle was heading towards the coast. She let the pursuing car get a little closer.

"Right!" she said, "Here goes! Now hang on tight!"

One more program and their pilotcar swerved sharply to the left. It left the roadway and bounced across grass, before picking up another roadway. Aleetha added another program and the pilotcar slowed.

Behind them _the car drove into the mist; unfortunately it took a wrong turn and drove into the sea_. They heard the splash. Someone had input a wrong program in their desperation to follow the two dwarves.

"I think that does away with your pursuers," concluded Aleetha. "Don't worry," she added, as Ragniv opened his mouth to protest. "They won't drown. All cars are fitted with survival gear. But it gives us the chance to get away. And lie low until your beard has really grown and you are no longer recognisable to any Overseers from that mine!"

"And then we can get on with our lives. On Earth," added Ragniv.

"And together," finished Aleetha.

Consequences Sheet:

**Man** : 2' tall, red haired with a beard.

**Woman** : She stood alone on the corner her hand resting on the rough surface of the street lamp her slim body swaying to an inner tune.

**Place** : A small house in a big city, the surrounding area is quite wealthy and the architecture is Victorian inspired, the small house stands out as it is quite modern and dilapidated.

**He said** : In a just audible whisper he asked how they could possibly see each other again.

**She said** : Broken English with little squeak in a sharp voice. Sounds a bit Dutch.

**In the end** : The car drove into the mist, unfortunately it took a wrong turn and drove into the sea.

#  ELEMENTALS

## by Clemency Crow

You know I don't like talking about this. You shouldn't dwell on the past - it's the future that should concern you.

But I accept that you have a right to know, although my telling you would constitute treason. I know I can trust you.

Tristan was not your average hero. I knew him since school - we stuck together in the dorms and stayed close at university. While he was a loyal friend, he preferred drinking cheap drinks and smoking to saving the day. But, like so many in those days, we were made to think that the only option was to fight for our country.

Just after the first year of university, the government caught up with us in an effort to initiate a new 'programme'. I remember the sound of the car on the snow outside and the heavy boots coming up the stairs, followed by three slow knocks at the door. That's how it began.

"Mr Boreas and Mr Glass." The suit-wearing gentleman at the door stated with surety. I nodded and it was clear he expected to be allowed in. Our sort can never be too careful, though, so I feigned ignorance and stood firm.

"I need to speak to you both on a matter of national security." The gentleman prompted.

"Go ahead." I remained plausibly ignorant.

"Should anyone else hear," he continued, his patience never wavering, "it would mean months of work are compromised."

I looked confused and smiled.

"Very well." There was a glint in the suit-man's eyes that could have been the start of impatience. "Hesta said you would do this."

This took me off guard. The fake smile slid from my face as I saw Hesta glide forward from the shadow of the darkened corridor. As graceful and beautiful as I remembered her, she swept past me into the shabby Living Room.

"Goodness me, little brother." Hesta tutted at me, her tone reminiscent of arguments in the past. "You have not been successful, have you?"

"You would know of success, wouldn't you, sister." I snapped back as she and the two men went to sit down on the sofa.

"I'm not afraid of success, if that's what you mean." She smiled a stunning, perfect smile that made her crimson hair glow.

"Enough ladies." The business-like government man intervened. Before he could reveal his reason for being there, however, the door swung open and in walks Tristan, his scruffy ginger hair looking as though he had not only gone through a hedge backwards, but had then dragged the hedge along the path by his hair. He stopped abruptly when he saw we had company but grinned when his eyes rested on my sister.

"Tristan." I began, seeing a need to save my friend from certain heartbreak. "These people want to speak to us about something. Sit down."

Tristan sat with a nervous energy, cross-legged in front of the sofa. He glanced from me to the government men and to Hesta, his eyes resting on that perfect smile.

"We are in need of people with your..." The government man paused, "...skills."

"And you have one." I said, waving my hand in Hesta's direction.

"Mr Boreas." He replied. "The task the Prime Minister has in mind requires more than just one of you."

"The Prime Minister?" Tristan dragged his eyes away from Hesta.

"That's right." My sister's voice chimed. "The orders come from Asquith himself."

"He should have come and asked then." I laughed, enjoying the flush of embarrassment or anger on the officials' faces.

"Joke all you like, little brother, but eventually you will have to find out what we are here for."

I glanced across at Tristan who was waiting as if all he wanted was to hear Hesta tell her story. I sighed and listened. Perhaps I should have walked out there and then, taking my best friend with me, but I'm ashamed to say flattery caused me to stay. The thought that Asquith had asked for our involvement spurred me on to stay.

"As you may be aware," Hesta ignored me and spoke only to Tristan, "there is some unrest in Ireland. As you are probably not aware, all attempts at subduing the parties responsible has failed."

"I did not even know that you'd tried." I laughed and my sister sneered across at me.

"As I say, you were probably...not...aware." She paused between each of the last three words.

"We simply did not have the right weapon." The government man declared, seemingly unaware of the tension in the room. I scoffed and then realised that Hesta was seriously supporting this man.

"We are not weapons." I shook my head, and Tristan seemed to agree with me.

"Do not flatter yourself." The government interrupted. "We are not referring to you, but to the source of your power."

I stared in disbelief and Tristan spoke.

"You know, then, that we cannot help you." He sounded truly disappointed to be letting the government suit, or more likely Hesta, down.

"Look." Hesta intervened. "These rebels threaten everything we know. And we can do something about it."

"You're talking about Caladbolg." Tristan shook his head. "Nobody has been able to even touch that sword without disintegrating for centuries."

"But we can." There was a fiery glow in Hesta's eyes now. There always was when she became excited - Tristan seemed entrapped by it.

"No, Tristan." I snapped. "I'm not going to let you do this."

"Come on." Tristan laughed, but his voice showed that he knew how foolish he was being. "You're my roommate - not my mother."

"Tristan." Hesta smiled innocently. The government man had sensed that he had better take a back seat in negotiations and leave it to the expert. "Think of it. For years, our kind have been hunted and hated. Now this is our chance to show the government how useful we are. We can become heroes - not hated outcasts."

I knew Hesta had persuaded my friend before she had made this patriotic speech. I was not going to let Tristan follow my destructive sister without me. I felt responsible even then, but I was not strong enough to prevent them from going.

The following day saw us on the boat from Ireland, watching our own homeland fade into the distance. I was in silence for the entire journey but Hesta and Tristan spent the time getting to know each other. I knew that every word my sister said was dangerous. She could twist words as easily as she could twist fire, or Tristan could twist ice.

"Do you really think we will be ever seen as heroes?" Tristan asked as we were entering Dublin.

"We are descended from Fergus mac Roich." She laid a hand on his. "We are heroes. It's in our blood."

"But the people don't see us like that." Tristan shook his head. "I can bend ice, you can bend fire. They see us as a threat. And those are the kind ones."

Hesta didn't speak at first but rested her red head on his shoulder. He leant his cheek against her. Watching from the background, I didn't see what was plain to my eyes. I believed Hesta's act was just that - I didn't realise that she was forming an attachment to him just as much as he was to her. Even Hesta's attitude to me seemed to be softening. Surely I would have seen that as a warning sign, but I just believed it was a trick to get me to do whatever she wanted.

As we stood off the boat and made our way to the hotel in Dublin that the government were paying for, I lagged behind and watched Tristan and Hesta walked ahead arm in arm. Still, I believed that it was an act.

We were to meet our contact behind a bar in near the train station. None of us seemed to know his name - only that he would recognise us and make contact. We headed over to the train station and wandered around for some time trying to find a bar that could be our meeting place. It was as we were wandering that a scruffy looking man bumped into Hesta, causing her to lose her balance and fall onto Tristan. Hesta glared at the man who didn't make eye contact but scurried away.

"Idiot." Tristan muttered in the man's direction as he helped Hesta regain her composure.

"Perhaps." She smiled, "but more likely just trying to be discrete."

"And failing." I scoffed.

Hesta showed us what she meant. In her hand, she was holding a crumpled piece of paper which she unfolded.

"It seems like we should go back to the train station."

"What?" I said, snatching the paper and read the untidy message written on it.

"Is he mad?" Tristan said in disbelief. "How's he to know he's not being watched?"

"We should go." Hesta ignored them and sped off towards where we had just come from. Despite her surety, my fingers began to tingle with the ability handed down to me from Fergus mac Roich.

I felt something heavy tugging at my coat and looked down, realising that nervousness had caused me to lose my self-control. Ice had seeped through my pocket where my hand was and it was clinging to my coat as though it had a million tiny hands. My sister glared at me and rushed over, placing her hand on the icy patch. It immediately steamed away and I felt it burn against the top of my leg.

"Are you scared, little brother?" She snapped. "One more move like that could fail this whole mission."

We reached the train station without any other incident. As the note had said, the place was crowded, but as we walked around the side of the building, we found the scruffy man, leaning against the wall of the station. He glared at us as though we had done something terrible.

"What are you thinking?" I sneered at him and he scowled back.

"That's enough." Hesta spoke to me as though I was a child. "Do you have it?" She addressed the man.

"No," He scoffed, "Do you think I'm an idiot? Why would I bring it here? It's your job to collect it from its resting place."

"Which is...?" Tristan prompted.

"St Patrick's." His voice was now a hoarse whisper. "In the Boyle Family monument."

"That's it?" Hesta asked, "No 'this is how you get into the cathedral'?"

"When the cathedral closes of course. Wait until the lights are switched off then use your...many talents to get in."

I hesitated. "That's bad luck."

"It's pretty bad luck going into war without a weapon too. We need that sword."

"I'm not sure." I shook my head.

"Look-" the scruffy man began but stopped suddenly and looked over our shoulders. "Get away from here. Go."

I looked around. Coming towards us were three uniformed men. They looked like government men so I wasn't sure why this man was so afraid. He had just told us information that would help the British government. Hesta, seeing the man's anguish, however, pushed us towards the corner of the station where we watched how they marched up to the scruffy man who had made no attempt to run.

One of them caught him first and, instead of speaking to him, pinned his shoulder to double the wall with his fist and, using his other clenched fist, cracked his rib. The scruffy man bent and the passers-by kept their distance. A couple of women screamed and hurried the opposite direction and we, I'm ashamed to say, remained hidden.

The other two government men were there now and they seemed to be taking it in turns to see how many bones they could break. Hesta pulled us away and we followed gladly, still dumbfounded at the men's reaction. Perhaps they weren't government men at all. Should we have helped the man who had helped us? I'm sad to say that our mission seemed more important than one human life.

We needed to wait until it was almost dark to get into the cathedral. That was the only way of being sure that we would not be apprehended. The building loomed above us and Tristan turned to me, his look showing that he regretted the decision to leave our home as much as I did. I still remember how he looked - there was a sad resignation in his eyes.

Breaking into the cathedral was easy. It had been built with defense in mind but those times had long passed and now it just served as a holy building for the Christians, and a beautiful building for everyone else. One moment of Hesta using her inheritance to burn the locks off the door and we were inside the cathedral. In the darkness, we could hardly see the roof. The noise of pigeons or bats showed us where the top of the building was situated.

Although the building was beautiful, none of us had the time or inclination to look around.

Against the wall was resting the Boyle family monument, its colours clear and vivid even in the half-darkness.

"The monument was moved." Hesta explained, walking over to it. "I wonder if it was moved with this very purpose in mind."

"What purpose?" Tristan asked, following her steps.

"To hide the sword." She explained. "Now, once I've done my bit, come and freeze the monument. Fire and ice should make short work of this."

I watched as the two of them took the elements from within them, making fire and ice from nothing but their bodies. The Elementals' gift stems from a person's core. It comes from being the characteristics of your element. Hesta's soul was fiery. Her decisions and passion came from the element within her heart. Tristan, on the other hand, was pure ice.

As I stood there watching them fire their gifts at the statue, I realised that opposites truly do attract. Tristan had never been like this before about a woman. He'd brought many home with him, but there was something like respect for Hesta which I had never noticed before.

As they were attempting to destroy the monument, the perfect carvings were beginning to crack. With a loud, echoing nose which I was sure must have been heard in London, the monument broke in half from top to bottom.

"Now your part, little brother." Hesta smiled, seeing her handiwork.

I called into my heart and my soul and felt a rush of power dart through my arms into my hands. Holding them out to both halves of the statue, the rush left my hands with a gale force wind, blowing the two halves of the statue apart.

It took me a moment to gather my strength again. When I looked back, I saw what Hesta and Tristan were staring at. Behind where the monument had been was a hole in the wall. The three of us crept up to it. Within the hole was a long box and Hesta, reaching it first with fiery enthusiasm, took the box down and opened the latch without hesitation. It creaked open, sending cobwebs and dust floating through the air. It was clear that it had not been opened in centuries.

Inside, sitting on black velvet, was a sword without a scabbard. It did not look like it had been sitting in a box for hundreds of years. The black handle shone in the moonlight that was reaching through the window, as if attracted by this ancient monument. If the handle shone, that was nothing compared to the blade. The metallic blade seemed to have a light of its own - within the sword. Light emanated from the relic and we stood open-mouthed. Tristan's trembling hand reached over to the sword hilt but I snatched it back.

"You don't know the extent of its power." I hissed, "Or yours."

This seemed to shake some sense into him but none of us could take our eyes off it. None of us, that is, until someone else spoke.

"I'm pleased you found it." A man's voice said and we all turned to see that we were joined by 15 men. One of the men stood a little ahead of the rest.

"Who are you?" I snapped.

"An interested party." Came the reply, "A friend of the man who helped you, who you abandoned to his death."

"Death?" Hesta scoffed, although her nonchalance was unconvincing as her hand hovered over the sword.

"Yes, death." The man said, a look of pain in his eyes. "He was dragged out of the river one hour ago."

None of us spoke on hearing this ultimate brutality so the man continued.

"I asked Curtis to speak to you and tell you where the sword was kept. I knew that if anyone could open its hiding place, it would be you three, and I hoped that it would show you the right path."

"Which I suppose is to give it to you?" I ventured.

"We do not want to fight, you know." The man took a step forward.

"Then why are you all armed?" Tristan asked, pointing to the guns that the men carried.

"For protection." He answered. "The sword is many things. It is wiser than most people. It may not always give you just what you want, but it will always give you what you need. Look at his last owner - Fergus, your ancestor."

"So, if you don't want the sword to fight with," Hesta began, "Why do you want it?"

"You shouldn't search for an object that you know so little about." The leader said. "Don't you read? Among its benefits, the sword can show you who is telling the truth...and who is lying. Pick it up if you like, point it at me, and see if I'm telling the truth."

With trembling hands, Tristan reached again towards the gleaming object. It seemed to coax his touch, and sent an electric wave through him as he picked up the sword. He gulped back the shock and pointed it at the man before us.

"Ask me anything and you'll know if I'm lying."

"What's your name?" Tristan commanded.

"Thomas."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to beg you for the sword, and to show you our need." Thomas never faltered, despite being only centimetres away from the blade.

"And why do you need it? Why do you think you deserve to win this fight?" Tristan asked and Thomas shifted slightly.

"That's a little harder to answer. I need it because we need a guiding wisdom in our uprising. We're fiery people, but we need a little calculation. I think we deserve it...because...we do not want to do harm with it. We want peace, but we also want freedom. It's my hope that this sword will show us the way."

"I don't think he's lying." Tristan whispered to me before he turned back to Thomas. "Hide. You and your soldiers. There are people outside and if they find you, you'll end up in the same place as Curtis."

Within seconds, without questioning Tristan's knowledge but being sure it stemmed from the object in his hand, the armed men spread out into the darkness of the cathedral. The door opened and the government man who had visited our flat entered, following by two others in similar suits.

They walked up to us and smiled, reminding me of a wolf showing its teeth.

"Well done." He looked truly overjoyed. "This is sure to stop the rebels in their foolish attempt at an uprising."

Holding out his hand, it was clear that he wanted Tristan to hand over the sword. Hesta and I watched, hardly breathing. The decision was in Tristan's hands and I felt sure that whatever he did would turn the history of Britain.

At first, I thought Tristan was holding the sword out to the government man but I realised that he was pointing it at the man.

The man did not seemed to know what to do, but the two men at either side of him reached for their guns. The man in the middle held up his hand and wafted them away.

"Why do you want the sword?" Tristan asked, his voice unfaltering.

"To stop the rebels." He replied. Tristan nodded but did not lower the tool.

"And why should the rebels be stopped?" He asked.

"Because they threaten the security of the United Kingdom. Now give me the sword!"

Tristan paused.

"What will you do with the sword?"

At this the government man's face turned beetroot purple.

"We will use it to guide us to a better future, boy."

"No." Tristan shook his head. "You will use it to kill. You do not want peace. You are looking for war."

Tristan's eyes were growing colder and I knew that it was only a short time before the chill seeped out from his heart. It was the next sentence Tristan said that confirmed my worry.

"And you'll get it." He snarled.

With this, it seemed that the air in the cathedral froze. I could see my breath steaming in front of me. Ice shot up through the sword toward the government men but before it reached them, they sprang with surprising agility to the side. Then everything happened at once.

They drew their guns but before they could fire, the rebels rose from their hiding places and rushed over. Seemingly unwilling to fire their weapons in a holy building, they resorted to using them as blunt objects. One of the government men was knocked unconscious by the frenzied attack but the other two kept them at bay with their own weapons.

Tristan was still calling to the coldness and making the ground icy and treacherous. As the other government man turned to run away, he slipped and fell on the floor. A river of fire shot from Hesta's eyes, so hot that the man did not have time to even shout out before he died.

Now it was only their leader who was left. I knew that it was me who should do something but I couldn't hurt somebody in a church. The government man had no such morals, however, and it was me who he pointed the gun at.

I was aware of the sound of the gunshot, but I didn't feel any wound. The gun had been pointing directly at me. At first, I assumed it was one of the rebels until I turned to Tristan.

He glanced at me before stumbling to the floor, the sword clattering on the ground beside him. Hesta, seeing this, knelt down beside him and I did the same.

"Tristan's ice deflected the shot." Hesta explained. The river of fire shot towards the last of the government men and the cathedral plunged into silence. The fire died as Hesta's tears dropped. "He saw the gun pointed to you and he dived forward with his element, but the bullet hit him..."

She could not finish the sentence but held Tristan's head on her lap. Tristan tried to speak but found it too difficult so Hesta bent her head down.

I wish I could share with you Tristan's last words but only your mother knew, and she took it to her grave.

Two days after your father's death we left. News of our treason could have spread to England so we couldn't return home. At the time, the world was at war and we found shelter where were could - on islands, in the mountains, until eventually we came here and settled. The waves hiding our noise, and the headland keeping us from sight.

We gave the sword to the rebels to guide them, its wisdom showing them the way to win Ireland's freedom, albeit at a high cost.

Where is the sword now? Hidden, until Fergus' people need it again.

Consequences Sheet:

**Man** : Scruffy, ginger hair and curly beard. Stocky build, with brash loud voice, odour of stale alcohol and fags.

**Woman** : The beauty of her face only just matched the ugliness of her soul as she plotted the downfall of all that even slightly annoyed her.

**Place** : Rolling plains and big dramatic skies, the tossing sea and winds that drove in often to pummel and batter. Distant headlands and island where, after dark, lighthouses burned.

**He said** : "Will you go, do you think?"

**She said** : "Please tell me more about him, Father. I know he was a hero but I don't know why."

**In the end** : He was the cold personified.

#  THE COFFIN ROAD

## by Judith Crow

Hither and thither and hither again,

Hi! Ho! The coffin way!

We'll take the Corpse Road through the fen.

Watch for the Plague Lights that lead us on,

Hi! Ho! The coffin way!

Hark for the wind that sings a dead song.

It was a strange sort of pilgrimage, taking her through the hills and valleys of North Yorkshire, but Julia had never been so driven by anything in her life. In some places, the old road had been adopted into very twenty-first century hiking paths, and she would find herself passing various people, who would nod politely and walk on, focused on the outcome of completely their hike.

Other places were more neglected, and Julia had to force her way painfully through gorse, which would slash at her skin like tiny knives. Here, the old Corpse Road had been forgotten as it left behind the modern footpath to wind apparently needlessly around a hill. Julia knew though that it was anything but needless: these paths had been deliberately twisted to try to confuse the spirits of the dead. They like to travel in straight lines, the dead. It was a funny thought though that the people who had carried the dead along the paths would rather have taken a more challenging route just to take pre-emptive measures against ghosts.

Six hundred years ago, the small village of Kirkerton had boasted the only church for twenty miles, so anyone wishing to be buried in consecrated ground (and therefore find rest) had to be taken the distance. Strange stories had leapt up around it, not least the tales of vicars who supplemented their income by poisoning elderly parishioners, especially the wonderfully-named Edynfed Avery Wydeville, who was the first non-Catholic priest after the Reformation. They were a suspicious and superstitious lot, the sixteenth century Brits.

But the story that had stuck with Julia when she had first read it, was the tale of when the plague hit the area. Coffin after coffin, bier after bier, had been brought along these paths, usually by people who were already beginning to show the first symptoms of the illness themselves. The small information board at the start of the walk had been written by someone with a vivid imagination: "until the Second World War, there were reports of 'Plague Lights'. These were believed to have been the spirits of those who took the Corpse Road during the Plague Epidemic of 1603." Superstitious. And suspicious too, as the board went on to say that the locals blamed the epidemic on James I and, as a result, hated the Scots even more than they had done before.

As she began to climb higher into the hill, Julia found that there were patches of late winter snow, almost floating on top of the grass like thin ice on water. The air was sharp and cold, catching in her throat and making her cough, but she could feel it cleansing her soul.

"I don't believe in souls," her brother had said when she announced her intention to go on her pilgrimage.

Well, she thought now as she stopped for a moment to look back over the winding path she had already taken and look ahead to the path that lay ahead, he doesn't have to. Because he's never felt his get so weary that it begins to weigh the body down.

She could have forgiven him anything. He was her only flesh and blood, the only other child to have survived the devastating impact that Ancash had had on their beautiful home. It was another lifetime ago. A lifetime before the last, in fact. Her first two years spent with her little brother and the parents she barely remembered. Her next lifetime had been spent with Ma and Pops, who adored her but could never quite forget the child they had lost themselves. It had been difficult for her, as she tried to come to terms with a language and culture that was entirely alien, whilst also trying her best to be everything they needed.

Nothing about her life had been normal, but on paper it looked idyllic. She had continued to go back to Ma and Pops' thousand acre farm every week, spending the weekdays driving tractors or herding cattle. No one could have guessed she was the little Peruvian orphan who had lost so much nearly fifty years earlier.

She glanced around her at the sound of footsteps and was surprised to find that she was no longer alone. A young man, probably twenty-five years her junior, was standing at the mouth of one of the small caves that was cut out of the rock on the hill. He smiled and waved across at her before returning to blowing onto his hands to warm them up.

"Morning," he said, his voice thin with the cold. It looked as though he had been caught up on the hill without any warm clothing, so Julia found herself taking her coat off and handing it over to him. He was thin and tall – the exact opposite of her in build – but he took it gratefully.

"What happened?" Julia asked as she watched him putting her coat on.

"When?"

"I mean, what brought you up here in shorts and t-shirt?"

"Oh, I see," the man laughed. "A morning run gone wrong, I suppose."

"Are you local?"

"Not at all. My wife and I are on our honeymoon up here."

Newly-married. Julia should have known. She could see the symptoms now it came to it. He was wearing a shining gold band which seemed to not-quite-fit his ring finger, and his face was shaven to within an inch of its life. She had seen enough newly-weds in her time, each one looking to achieve that freedom they had felt before they had walked their new bride down the aisle. They were always incredibly immature, even if they hadn't been a week earlier, and just the sort of people to take a run up a hillside in March without a coat. That was the nature of the call of freedom they got: they just had to answer and be damned with the consequences.

"Congratulations. Is your wife with you?" Julia knew the answer before the man even spoke.

"No, I left her sleeping. I've been a bit of an idiot, if I'm honest."

"Who hasn't?"

"Ha!" His laugh echoed around the hill, cascading down the Corpse Road in both directions. "No, I mean, I just followed a path and got completely lost."

"Do you know what the path we're on was?" Julia asked and the man shook his head. "Just wondered. I'm Julia Goldacre."

"Arch Chalmers," the young man held out his hand, which was almost blue with cold.

"We should head down the hill," Julia said. "You're freezing and I'm on a schedule." It was only half true but, if there was one thing she had learnt in her many, many years of experience with boys like Arch, it was that they needed to protect their pride, so they weren't in any way weak or vulnerable. Her new, and slightly unwelcome, companion would much preferred to have believed that he was working to her schedule than realised that she was genuinely concerned he would develop hypothermia.

They walked in silence, and Julia was able to pretend that she was once again alone with her thoughts. She wondered idly about the companionship that the people had shared as they had walked this road in the past. Did they adopt a formal, respectful tone as they spoke to each other in front of the dead body of their friend or family member? When Pops' mother had died, she remembered how everyone suddenly spoke differently. They had gone into the old lady's room talking loudly and laughing with each other and left it an hour later full of solemnity and polite smiles. It wasn't the way her Gramma would have wanted it: she would have wanted the laughter to have continued for as long as possible.

And, during those plague days, had they shared their fears with each other? Or was it the proverbial elephant in the room who accompanied them on all these treks? The board had said that the people of Kirkerton had only become suspicious when they had already buried ten people from the outlying area, by which time the infection had spread to the residents of the town. For a while, they had kept been buried in the churchyard but, eventually, their bodies had been piled together into a mass grave beside the last stretch of the Corpse Road.

Without her coat, Julia was beginning to feel the cold more and more, and she turned around to look at the young man's chilled features, but found she was alone. Startled, she tried to block out thoughts of ghosts and horror stories and told herself that Arch had just returned to the more welcoming path that ran about half a mile parallel to where she stood now. He could at least have returned the coat, of course.

She glanced down at her watch and then up and the clouds that were gathering in the sky to herald the end of the day. She had only forty-five minutes to reach the Bed and Breakfast where she had planned to spend the night and, without her coat, she did not want to spend the night in the exposed wilds of North Yorkshire. She began to walk along the path as it wound back down towards the neatly presented hiking trail and once again merged to join the two time periods. At least the last part of the day's walking would be easier than the rest. Tomorrow, she would reach Kirkerton and visit the church and graveyard where all those people had been buried.

Julia reached the house just as the sun was disappearing into the same hill where she had met the mysterious Arch Chalmers. From first glance, it was the setting for a horror novel, and she could not help the near-hysterical laugh that burst from her as she thought of it. To have travelled all the way from the USA to find herself wandering along a Corpse Road and staying in a haunted house. She could have just gone to Disneyland and at least stayed in the same country. However, when the door opened and the old woman who ran the house came out to meet her, she was suddenly confident that the house was not haunted at all.

"Hello, love," the woman said brightly. "You must be Julia?"

"That's me."

"I'm Muriel. Come on in, it's freezing out there and you've not even got a coat."

"I did have one," Julia said, slightly indignant. "I lent it to someone I met on the trail and didn't get it back."

"Ooh, it's like that old story, isn't it? You'll find it in the cemetery the next day. You know this used to be the old Corpse Road, don't you?"

"You'll think this is crazy," Julia said with a laugh, "but that's why I'm doing it."

"I don't think it's crazy at all. You're not even the first to stay in this house who's been drawn to it for that reason."

Julia looked around as she walked further into the house. Although it looked gothic from the outside, inside it was as modern as the apartment she rented in New York. The walls were a neat beige, with lots of immaculate canvas pictures and the odd, meaningless photograph, looking as though Muriel had just left the standard photos in the frames without putting in anything that meant anything to her.

"This is your room," her host said with another smile. "I'll leave you to have a shower or anything. The room's ensuite, of course. Would you like me to make you a sandwich?"

"A sandwich would be great," Julia enthused, only then realising that she had eaten nothing but sweets since breakfast. How she had kept walking along the overgrown path was a mystery. Well, not quite a mystery: it was almost certainly the same sense of drive that had seen her come here in the first place. With the money she had received when her work had burned down, she had made a private vow to use the insurance money to improve her life and give it a better sense of direction.

After she had showered, Julia flicked the television on, half expecting to hear that the body of Arch Chalmers had been discovered in the hills, but instead it was politics and sport, neither of which interested her. She had heard enough about it from the horses' mouths, as it were, listening to problems and self-praises from sportsmen and politicians was par for the course in her line of work.

She was still towel-drying her hair when there was a knock on the door, and she opened it to find that Muriel was standing there with her coat.

"Does this look familiar, love?" the old lady said with a smile. "Not in the cemetery after all."

"Thanks," Julia said with a smile. "Did Arch drop it off?"

"He did. He's in the living room if you want to talk to him?"

Julia didn't know if she did want to talk to him, but it only took her a split second to realise that it would seem strange if she declined, so she wandered through, still in her dressing gown, and smiled at the young man in front of her.

"Sorry," he said, getting to his feet. "I bent down to sort my laces and, well, you walk surprisingly fast."

Julia gave him her most brilliant smile, the one that she reserved for only her very important clients to make them feel at ease. She did not openly question how he had not managed to catch her up when his legs were almost half again as long hers and he was only a little more than half her age.

"Did you call your wife?"

"Yes," Arch laughed, slightly nervously. "I told her I'd got stuck up on the hills and would make my way back tomorrow."

"AWOL on your honeymoon? That's not a good start."

"Better than AWOL before, surely?" Arch laughed again, but he was looking at Julia with a pathetic look in his eyes. She knew it. She knew his kind, having seen them and comforted them through their struggles so many times.

"You know that better than I do," she said, taking the seat beside him. Normally, this would have been the point when she would have started running her index finger gently up and down his inner thigh, but she just crossed her hands in her lap and sat serenely.

"Do you believe in serendipity?" Arch asked, and Julia smiled at him again but said nothing. "Do you believe our paths were meant to cross?"

It would just be easier to have sex with him, even if just to shut him up, Julia thought. But no, that was definitely not the purpose of the trip.

"I believe that we find what we're looking for," she said carefully. "Eventually. Even if we don't know what it is."

"I've never thought like it before," Arch confessed. "Only, something about you makes me feel, I don't know... alive. When I was wearing your coat... You're going to think I'm mad when I say this. When I was wearing your coat, it was like a hug, you know?"

"That's very sweet."

"I've never felt so contented."

"I'm sure that's not true," Julia said with a polite smile. She dropped her left hand out of the clasp of the right one and nearly moved it onto Arch's leg. At that moment, Muriel came into the room carrying a tray with a teapot and mugs.

"You'll be getting back to the Mrs then, Mr Chalmers?" she said, apparently oblivious to how close Julia had come to giving into temptation.

"I should."

"Well, stay for a cup of tea. It's a long old trek and I've nothing to offer you in the way of a car. It's been in the garage since last Friday. I can lend you a torch though."

"You're going to walk back in the dark?" Julia asked disbelievingly.

"I think I'll have to," Arch replied, leaning over to twitch the curtains and looking out at the darkness that had descended on the house.

"You're welcome to stay," Muriel said politely. "I've got a room for you if you want it?"

"Maybe," Arch said slowly. "It's pitch dark out there."

"A shame for your wife though." Julia had not meant it to sound like an invitation, but Arch smiled across at her.

Julia excused herself as early as she could, disappearing to her room and reminding herself over and over again that she was on this strange pilgrimage to make her life purer and better, and that giving into the first temptation that came along would make it all meaningless. She was still telling herself this when there was another knock at the door, and she opened it expecting to see Muriel standing there again. Instead, Arch bent his head down to look below the low doorframe. There was the same neediness in his eyes, but it was mixed poisonously with something else as well, something that she wished she had never seen before. He smiled again but did not wait to be invited in, throwing his arm out in front of him and pushing into the room.

"I think you should leave," Julia snapped, pointing back to the door.

"You understand why I can't, don't you?" Arch whispered. It sounded as though he was trying to chat her up, but there was more about his tone which suggested that he would take what he had come for, whether she was willing to give it up or not.

Julia laid her hand on the first heavy-ish implement she could find: an ornamental hairbrush from the dressing table. A quick glance down showed where generations of spiders had woven webs around the bristles, in sharp contrast to how polished the top of the brush was.

"You've no idea what the past few months have been like." Arch continued walking towards her as he spoke, and Julia found she was almost unconsciously walking backwards to get away from him. She only noticed when her legs bumped against the bed. "Her family, always telling me what had to be done. When it had to be done. Then I'd do it, and it still wouldn't be right. Why did I let them talk me into marrying her? It's too much." He thrust forward and Julia fell back onto the bed. It seemed an age ago since she had last been so out of control in a sexual situation. She was always the Madam: running the show and keeping an eye on her girls, as well as whoever was with her at that moment.

"You're drunk," she whispered, although she had no idea whether it was true.

"'No, no, no,'" Arch continued, speaking in a squeaky voice which was presumably to mimic his wife. "'You cannot do it like that! It has to be done this way or it won't work at all.'" He paused and then looked at Julia again. "Well, that was their opinion. I didn't agree."

As Arch moved towards her again, Julia swept her hand out and struck him across his neatly-shaved face with the cobwebby hairbrush. He stumbled, confused by the blow, and she took her chance to escape.

The Corpse Road was dark, so dark that Julia had no idea where her feet were leading her. Every so often, she would see what looked like lights ahead, but it must have been a trick of the night, as she never reached them. It was strange, when she took a second to think about it, that she never fell or even stumbled in the dark. There was some other force at work, something far more than just her, which allowed her to keep steady on her feet and yet still follow the overgrown Corpse Road.

Had they journeyed on through the night, those plague people? Had something guided their feet too? Or did one of them go on ahead, swinging a lantern that must have creaked and guttered with each step into the darkness? And what about when the light-bearer succumbed? A light flickered in front of her for a second and she thought she saw a person a short distance away but, when she blinked, she realised that she must have been mistaken.

Her feet were bleeding and painful by the time that the first morning light began to crack open the grey clouds. She was surprised to find that she was on the top of one of the hills, overlooking the small town of Kirkerton, and even more surprised to find that Kirkerton was hemmed in by modern cul-de-sacs. In her mind, it was still the same village where the plague victims had been buried all those centuries earlier, but it was exactly like any other small English town.

As she reached the houses, she passed a milkman delivering bottles of milk from a van smelling strongly of diesel, and he called across at her, apparently not noticing her strange appearance. Curtains and blinds in the houses were beginning to get drawn back, and people were already heading out to work, suited and booted and so utterly wrapped up in their own lives that they hardly noticed the woman who continued to walk purposefully towards the church.

When she reached it, she had a strange sense of déjà vu, as though she had known the place her entire life, although it was alien from anything she had seen back home. She walked through the lych gate, the place where the Coffin Road officially came to its solemn end and sat down on the park bench just inside the churchyard.

Like the rest of its surroundings, it was grey. In the sun, it was grey. In the rain, it would be grey. Just a poor, grey bench. But, Julia thought as she mused on it position just inside churchyard, it would have seen so much life, so much love, so much heartache in its grey existence.

Julia nearly leapt out of her skin as a man sat down beside her. He had a handsome face, framed with an attractive five o'clock shadow, but there was no mistaking who he was.

"Hello," he said, as though nothing had happened. "Are you waiting for someone?"

Julia just stared at him.

"I'm Arch," he continued. "I saw you just in front of me on the Coffin Road. I didn't think anyone but me would be walking through the night."

"I know you," Julia whispered, but even as the words left her mouth, she could not remember how or where they had met, as her memories of the man just dissolved like a dream in the morning sunlight.

"I don't know how," Arch laughed. "I've never been here before."

"Aren't you married?" Julia was desperately trying to remember.

"I got close once," the man whispered, "but it wasn't for me. It would have turned me into something I'm not."

"I know. That coffin road. It's strange to go along the road to death just to find some life." It was more poetic and philosophical than anything Julia had said in her life, and it sounded strange in her American accent. She sat contentedly beside the stranger she knew that she knew and looked up into the sky.

For a second, she could see her and Arch reflected there, and a chariot carrying them: the alternatives; the people they might just have easily been. The chariot gathered speed and disappeared through the clouds with no sound at all. She and Arch sat together and had a shared sense of loss, which neither was able to explain.

Consequences Sheet:

**Man** : He appeared to others as quiet, shy yet when called upon to participate he was able to command the room.

**Woman** : Bandy legged, small, chubby woman of South American decent. Lady of the night at weekends only and a farmer's daughter working on the farm during the week.

**Place** : It was a park bench. It was grey. In the sun it was grey. In the rain it was grey. In the fog it could not be seen. Just a poor old park bench. But it had seen so much life, so much love, so much heartache in its grey existence.

**He said** : "No! No! No! You cannot do it like that! It has to be done this way or it won't work at all!"

Well, that was her view. I didn't agree.

**She said** : "I'm sure that's not true."

**In the end** : The chariot gathered speed and disappeared through clouds with no sound at all. They stood together and had a shared sense of loss which neither was able to explain.

#  THE MORSTA CURSE

## by Susan Crow

Jez and Josh were chalk and cheese. They didn't do the same jobs, they didn't eat the same foods, they didn't come from the same area, they didn't look the same. Jez was pale and thin with light spiky hair which could never be described as a good head. The scalp was visible and shiny. There was something about the lad though. Something which was attractive in an elfish kind of way. And, like the elves, Jez had the power to make a difference. His gentle nature belied his strength in dealing with difficult situations. And there were a number of those. Josh was hot headed and inclined to land them both in it. He was not one to back down and doubtless he would have been on a stretcher many times if Jez hadn't intervened. Jez had mossy green eyes and these were protected by thick-rimmed glasses. Josh had dreamy dark eyes which were protected only by thick dark lashes. These eyes guaranteed Josh interest from girls and boys alike. He was quite a dish with his thick wavy black hair and his silver smile. Jez was quiet in public. This was a good thing as Josh was not. Josh opened his mouth and spoke without thinking. Jez thought before he spoke - but not so much when it was just the two of them - then Jez dropped his guard and really opened up. They were comfortable together.

If Jez and Josh were chalk and cheese, then Tilly and Trudah were pea soup and lobster thermidor. They were at the same university but Tilly was studying law and Trudah was studying creative writing. Neither one was your average feminist bolshy young woman of the early twenty first century. Tilly wore very little jewellery and absolutely no make up. Trudah had piercings - but subtly placed - and tattoos - but artistically designed ones. Her eyes were almost invisible beneath the cosmetic black. The piercings, the tattoos and the cosmetics swaddled Trudah and kept her safe. She often laughed, with Tilly, about their first meeting. It was in the Union bar at lunchtime and just three days into their first year at uni. They both missed home but had no intention of staying in their rooms and brooding. Going to the bar would silence their inner Grumblings - show them who was boss. Neither girl was prepared to allow the Grumblings to get the upper hand. The cheese rolls were good but better with the addition of sliced onions and Tilly and Trudah reached for the tongs at exactly the same time. It was one of those "No, you go first" / "No, really, I'm sure it was you, please go ahead" moments. Onions became a joke with them. The Grumblings crawled back into their caves and rarely made appearances after that. Tilly and Trudah were best mates.

The four of them were together in a group on the island of Morsta, half a mile west of Slithern. Morsta struggled to support the sheep and cattle which were transported there by the farmers from the mainland. Once upon a time it was good grazing but the neglect had taken its toll and it lacked a good programme of land management. Farming in the west had become a trial and all efforts were concentrated on improving the mainland grazing. Morsta was neglected. It did, however, attract tourists in the summer months and youth groups, colleges and universities sent young people out there for various activities. Some were archaeologists, some would study the marine life, some would use the area as inspiration for their own form of artwork. There were other interests too but, basically, the island was a favoured location for the new generation to search for a sense of purpose and to structure their own belief systems. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't.

Jez, Josh, Tilly and Trudah found themselves around the same camp fire, eating from the same pan of over-salted stew. There was alcohol too and Trudah proved a match for anyone when it came to downing a pint of lager. Tilly whistled through her teeth and didn't mind the surprise when she refused the booze and sipped lemonade through a curly straw with a pig attached. This was pink and rubbery and had been in Tilly's life since she won it at a party when she was seven. Most people took their lucky mascots with them and this was Tilly's. Trudah had a tiny grey bear on her key ring.

The Js and the Ts were able to discuss all manner of subjects. They were all so different and yet, in their pairs, they were able to open up without fear of reproach. The island was an important player in the developing relationships between the four. Its seclusion impacted on their collective sense of security and the great booming rollers from the stormy sea around them excited each one with an energy which was difficult to control. Trudah was worse for her three pints of lager and, when Josh asked her why she had brought her guitar along if she wasn't going to play it, she stood up with amazing confidence and played the most intricate and beautiful piece any of them had ever heard before. The music settled like witchcraft on the party and the other small groups joined them - drawn in by the sound, the witchcraft - or both. Even the bellowing waves seemed to settle down and appeal for more. The lighthouse above them reached to the sky and petitioned for stars. There should be stars on a night such as this. Something very special, something curious and quite likely unique had just occurred. What it was, nobody was able to be sure. Here, in this group of ordinary people, was a sense of another time, perhaps another planet. The company held together in appreciation and expectation.

"It is a strange thing," a slow and puzzled voice came from amongst them, "but today I may believe what the ferryman told me."

A serious lad with a shock of red hair spoke publicly for the first time since their arrival on Morsta.

"He said there are tales of empowerment through the music of the sea. But there are bad vibes too. Do you want me to tell you the rest?"

They all agreed he should as, now they knew about it, they had to be aware of what may go wrong - if anything. So Red told the story he had heard from the ferryman. How, many, many years ago, there were just two families living on Morsta. The lighthouse keeper lived there with his wife and two boys and a farmer lived nearby with his wife and three children. Apart from the seabirds and the sheep and cattle, there were no other living creatures - no rats, no hedgehogs, no squirrels, no deer, nothing except rabbits - and there were multitudes of those - grey ones, brown ones, black ones and some floppy eared ones which had developed from those kept as pets by the children who had lived on Morsta in days gone by. Now they were a source of food. Every fortnight the supply boat came with everything needed to keep the families in groceries and provisions until the next time. Occasionally the farmer would take a boat across to Slithern to buy or sell sheep and cattle. The logistics were complex as there was no room on his tiny craft and sometimes he had to enlist the help of his cousin. One dreadful day the farmer returned to the island with his cousin to find that his own boat was missing from its mooring. He trudged up to the farmhouse with a heavy heart. He had just finalised the sale of twenty lambs and should have been glad to return home with the news. Instead he called out to his wife and children, wondering how he was to break the mixed news to them. There was no reply. He searched the house and found no one. He went outside and caught sight of the two younger children huddled together by the byre. They were shivering and sobbing and found difficulty in telling their daddy that their mummy had gone. The eldest child, Edith, was up on the hilltop looking for her mother. The children had no idea where their mother was. She simply went and said nothing to them. When all three children were safely in the house, the farmer went to the lighthouse keeper's cottage to get help in looking for his wife. There was no help. The lighthouse keeper's wife wept as she told him that his wife had left Morsta with her husband. They had taken the farmer's boat and vowed never to return to the island. Through the weeks which followed, the lighthouse keeper's wife changed from weeping to shouting - and her boys suffered the brunt of it. The boys spent more and more time helping on the farm. They no longer had a father and they no longer knew their mother. The day they returned home to find her gone seemed little worse than the days she had beaten them for the slightest wrong-doing. She was found later on the rocks beneath the lighthouse and a note was discovered, in the cottage, which set a chill on the hearts of all present at the inquest into her death. Her written words were a curse on the farmer's wife and on any woman who dared set foot on Morsta. Witches and sorceresses have been on the island since then and the ferryman said that all women are treated with suspicion by him and his fellow boatmen.

Josh was scornful and told Red that he didn't believe a word and why would he want to scare the girls anyway? Trudah declared that she wasn't scared and she doubted very much if Tilly was -

since she was far too level headed and sensible to be affected by something so far fetched. Jez said nothing. He had a feeling that the exquisite music which Trudah had played was a prologue to an awful real-life drama to be acted out on Morsta that evening. He needed to create a diversion. He had to think quickly if he were to change the dreadful course of unfolding events.

"I'm er . . .I'm afraid I'm not good at creepy stories. I've erm . . . .wet myself. I wonder if you would mind washing my trousers in the sea. Would you be able to press them? No \- of course you wouldn't - no iron! Silly me! Well shall we take them down to the sea and give them a rinse? They would smell so much sweeter." He looked directly at Trudah. "I thought it was going so well."

"Thought what was going so well?" Trudah was genuinely curious.

"Well, your guitar . . .the sea . . the way we get along together - do you think we might wander down there then?" He started off towards the shore. Trudah called after him,

"I'm only a woman and not very experienced in these matters."

No one believed her. She really didn't appear to be a shrinking violet.

"Well, what did you all expect me to say - come on then - let's get our kit off? Oh to hell with it! Look - he's only gone down there and undressed! Hang on Jez!" And Trudah shoved her guitar into Tilly's hands and ran after him.

"Jez, what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to save you."

"What are you saving me from?"

"From the curse of course!"

She laughed at him and grabbed him by his skinny shoulders. She looked straight into his mossy green eyes, her face shining with an eerie green glow. He looked back at her and saw her body bend, rear up and lean over him, her eyes burning like hot embers. Jez shook himself away and stood fixed to the wet sand. He was unable to move. Terror grabbed hold of him and kept him captive while Tilly watched from the beach, unable to believe what she was seeing. Josh ran towards them, calling to Jez to get away. In a moment, Jez knew that the tables had turned and Josh was to be his rescuer this time. He summoned up determination and courage and shook himself free from the spell. Josh stared at Trudah, wondering what her next move would be and if he would be able to deflect it. She was still towering over the spot where Jez had been rooted with fear. Jez was away along the sand and Josh expected her to follow. But she turned, laughing with a fierce frenzy, and she watched as he ran away to the quay where fishermen were landing their crabs. Jez saw the crabs escape from the creels and knew that he, like the crabs, would be drawn back to captivity.

Consequences Sheet:

**Man** : Mossy green eyes, quiet in public and thick rimmed glasses.

**Woman** : Despite the three pints of lager she confidently stood up, picked up her guitar and played the most intricate and beautiful piece.

**Place** : Lighthouse or a secluded island. Stormy tidal seas, seabirds. No vermin but place has been cursed by old lighthouse keeper's wife.

**He said** : "I thought it was all going so well and then I wet myself. Would you mind awfully if you washed and pressed my trousers?"

**She said** : "I am only a woman and not very experienced in these matters." No one believed her.

**In the end** : But she turned and watched as he ran away.

#  THE STEPS TO THE BEACH

## by Mark J Gibson

Part One The Journey

Ross was prematurely grey, with twinkling dark eyes and everyone who had ever loved him or that he had loved were dead.

He drove the truck with mechanical precision through the miles of single track roads that led to the coast. Every move thought about in advance, eyes constantly flicking between the instruments, rear view mirror and road ahead. He drove at a steady fifty unless a bend or loss of line of sight dictated that he slow down.

There was nothing much in his mind when he drove. He found it best that way. No thought too deep. Deep thoughts were just painful. For years now he had concentrated on just the task in hand and aimed to do it well. That was best. The best thing to do. Wasn't it?

The car was a tool to get from A to B. One after another the jobs on the list arrived at, examined and ticked off. What happened after he made the entry on the tablet mattered not; only the next job. The real problem was the end of the last job, when he had to go home.

Ross had a reputation for hard work and even at 51 he could easily outpace his younger colleagues. Built taut and hard but not by his childhood. Childhoods do not always make the man. Sometimes any trauma can wash the accumulated personality away like a burst dam roaring down a glen and taking all before it to matchstick oblivion. The world is stripped down to the bare earth and from this one must build again.

When Ross lost his wife to cancer the months of sick horror had exploded into nothingness. All the earth scoured leaving unable to know how to even start to rebuild.

One cannot plan for such things because the devastation is always worse that imagined.

For ten years Ross had worked and eaten and slept and very little else. His mind compartmentalised and his feelings numb. He took work no-one else wanted and did not mind unpopularity. Life was unfair, get used to it. In the office he was known as the Grim Reaper. Sent out into the Highlands to kill dreams and condemn hopes. The Inspector of all things the Authority wanted closed or demolished. Village halls, schools, play-parks – it was all the same to him. Examine, condemn, send in the bulldozers.

Today they had given him just one job because it was so far to get to from Inverness. An easy job because it was just a set of steps to a remote beach. Not much controversy, although the Community Council would no doubt want a replacement for which there was no money. There was never any money. Just enough to condemn and never enough to replace. It was an oddly negative way of doing things.

Ahead Ross could make out the shimmer of the sea between low craggy hills. The mountains around him began to recede and the landscape flatter, with small lochans, rock and heather. One or two houses began to appear, some empty and ruinous, others white and modern. He reached a fork in the road and paused to check the map. Although the truck had satnav he never used it except to get him around cities. He found the name of the settlement he needed and correct turning to take.

Another mile took him to a scattering of houses nestling in the bowl of two small rocky hills. There might have been only a dozen houses scattered over the landscape but it was enough to make this a fair sized village. The end of the road came with a small car park and a low building with a long conservatory with tables inside and a cafe sign on the door. Another sign pointing at a gap between an earth bank said simply "BEACH."

Ross pulled into the car park and came to a halt with crunching of gravel. There were no markings on the truck and he was wearing jeans, a check work-shirt with plain black hoodie over the top. There was nothing that could identify him as being from the council. He preferred it that way. Less hassle on the job, not that he really cared much.

He grabbed the tablet computer from the passenger seat, turned it on and got out of the car. The wind was cold but the air was clear and fresh with a smell of the sea. If he liked anything at all these days it was being out in the fresh air with no-one else about. Even the small cafe had a closed sign on the door. That he supposed was a pity. He could have done with a cup of tea.

The flask back in the truck was empty. He had stopped thirty miles back in an abandoned quarry to have a piss and eat the sandwiches he had prepared before setting off. Two slices of bread with some cheese and pickle in them but they had gone down a treat. It was there that he had also drunk all the tea. Proper builders tea, not the lapsongsushi crap that people drank these days. Warm and wet and strong. Miriam used to joke that he like the spoon standing up on end in the cup before he was satisfied with the brew. But then he had done it. Thought of Miriam; and it was just too painful to go there. So he threw his sandwich box onto the seat and set off to drive again.

Now, on arrival at the job, there was no tea and a closed cafe.

He wandered over to the door. A little sign to the left of the closed sign said "Back in half an hour – maybe."

Ross rubbed his beard. "Well, maybe it will be open when I get back."

He had a habit of speaking aloud to himself when he knew no-one else was around.

He peered through the glass. There were cakes in a cabinet by the tills. Gods knew how long they had been there in a remote place like this but food was food.

"Ach well, back to business."

He looked at the tablet which had loaded up with a log in screen. He ignored it and pressed his ring finger into the reader at the back. The database opened up and he checked there was a connection (very poor) before clicking on his location. This opened up a new set of fields, most of which were empty. His job today was to fill them and then be on his way back to Inverness before it got dark.

Part Two The Job

The first part of the path down to the beach was hard packed mud – many years of children's feet pattering and counting the steps, tripping over the wooden planks that held the earth in place. He vaguely remembered coming here himself as a child. "God, if it is the same planks then they must be as rotten as hell."

He took a small screwdriver from his pocket and knelt down to press it into one of the planks. As suspected, the tip went in easily. Further along some were missing entirely. All went in the database along with a couple of photos he took with the tablet.

When the new technology had been introduced most people had not liked the idea. They preferred pen and paper. Once he would have been the same, just like he still preferred paper maps. However at that time he had not really cared about much at all and so taken the change in his stride. Now he found it useful. His report together with photographs could be on his desk even before he had left the site. Back at his desk he would look through it again, draw up recommendations and then wait to see what new jobs the following week brought him.

He found weekends hateful. Sometimes he would just sit all day on a Saturday with a bottle of whisky and stare at the ever changing clouds through his living room window. Sunday he would sleep off the hangover. He always looked forward to being on the road again.

Ross walked further along the gentle slope until he reached what could be classed as a cliff top. In reality it was a steep slope to a small sandy bay. The sea was wonderfully green with a small sea stack to one side and caves to the other where the cliffs either side of the bay rose in height. He did remember playing in those caves as a boy until his mother had called him back, from the incoming tide.

The village had been busier then. The little car park full on good summer days. He wondered if it was still popular. It did not look so. A good road had been put in up the coast and this little bay bypassed for a good few years now. There were no toilets and only the sad little cafe. Today, a fine but cold April day, it was near deserted.

He scanned the beach. Empty except for a lone figure walking very slowly with a stick out near the water's edge.

Immediately in front of him a set of wooden steps with a single wooden handrail went down at a 45 degree angle to the beach. The screwdriver test showed they were pretty rotten on the surface but not too bad deeper down. Some chicken wire had been fixed to them presumably to make them less slippery and in some places he could see fresh wood where repairs had been made.

He noted all this down and took photographs. The repairs were not council work. He noted "unauthorised? " by each entry for new wood. The chicken wire was also unauthorised.

On reaching the bottom he knew already what his report would say.

Recommendation: Close steps and remove. Alternative Beach access is available via a track 500 yards to the North.

He glanced to the North. Just before the ground started to rise there was area of the cliff where it was possible for a fit person to get down without too much difficulty. He had checked it on the map but might have a look after he had been back to the cafe to see if it was open.

He almost headed back then but seeing the figure on the water's edge, feeling the breeze in his face, and, for once, being at least partially relaxed, he decided to have a look at the caves he had explored as a child. He headed South.

Part Three - A Cup of Tea

Alison took one more look at the sea before turning inland to head for the steps. It was a bit of a shock to see the other figure on the beach but she forced away momentary alarm and watched him head for the caves. Geologist maybe? They got a few. Some kind of special formation. These days it was the geologists that mostly came apart from weekends in the summer when they got families through for the beach. Not like it was though. Alison had inherited the old cafe thirty years earlier from her Gran, just after she had dropped out of university and spent a few months drifting through Europe from one bad love affair to another. She had intended to run it for one season to make some money to fund more trips, but she had never left.

"Found my soul again".

The sea behind her grumbled on the sand and the wind sighed. She made slow progress across the beach. Arthritis was crippling her. More each year. But her times on the beach seemed to make the pain go away for a while. Sometimes on good days she would come down in swimwear and sit in the sea. It was freezing but made her free of pain for half an hour afterwards.

She reached the steps and patted the handrail. "Come on old friends, get me up."

They had been there when she had arrived thirty years ago and every so often she had paid a local joiner to keep them in good condition. Over the years she supposed that the whole set of steps must have been renewed at least once!

Groaning slightly with the pain she started her progress upwards.

At more than halfway she heard someone coming up behind her. It was the man on the beach. As he passed he stopped and then looked back.

"Need any help."

She bit back an angry retort of "I am not bloody disabled you know" when she reminded herself that in effect she was. Instead she said:

"No thanks. I try to do this every day of the year. However cheers for the offer."

He did not immediately move off, instead it seemed as if he was contemplating something. She saw shadows cover his face. She wondered if he was safe to be with but he looked respectable enough and was carrying an expensive looking tablet computer.

"Need any help from me?"

He look startled. Shook his head and smiled. It was a pretty weak smile but one none-the-less and made him look less weird.

"I don't suppose you know when the cafe will be opening? I could murder a cup of tea."

Alison grinned. "It will open as soon as I get up these bloody steps and unlock the door."

His smile became a little warmer. "Well, if you are ok, then I will go and drop this..." he waved the tablet "back in the car and then come over. Cake would be nice too."

She called out to his back as he climbed the rest of the steps "Cake is also on offer." But she whispered under her breath "some of it might be a bit stale."

***

Ross sat on a plastic chair at one of the tables in the cafe near to the counter. Alison had just poured him a pot of tea. He also had one of the carrot cakes from the display.

"The most fresh of them" she had described it. "Not much turnover of food at this time of year."

He asked if the place was really busy in the Summer.

"On hot days – admittedly few and far between out here. But in season there is a steady trickle and enough of them needing a drink to justify me keeping this place going." She waved her hand around the small cafe, which in places needed a coat of paint.

"Not much out of season though. A few geologists to look at our rocks maybe. Are you a geologist? Saw you looking at the caves."

For once he was amused. "I don't think so, what do you think? Do I look like one? Naah, not got the hat."

He paused a while, wondering how much to say and sipped his tea to disguise the fact.

"I work in construction. I was in the area and thought I would take a trip down here for old times' sake. Used to play on that beach as a kid during holidays."

Alison nodded, her short ginger hair flashing in a brief appearance of the sun. He found something attractive about her, a woman who seemed so comfortable with her surroundings. It was a thought he quickly and guiltily suppressed.

She poured herself a cup of tea. "We get a lot of people doing that. Coming back after a few years. I have seen wee bairns come back with their own small families eventually. But it is not like it was."

He raised an eyebrow. "The new road."

A sad look came over her. "Aye. At first everyone thought it would be a godsend. Ullapool in a trice. But then the marketing people got to work and we got missed out. I guess none of them ever came here as bairns, and there are easier beaches to get to right off the big road. We get a few of course, with their motor caravans and whatever. They do block the car park though and drink their own tea."

"But the regulars keep coming?"

"Some do. But the big road has got busy now and some of the older regulars who came here for peace cannot seem to find it anymore."

"Peace is sure hard to find" he said ruefully and stared at the tablecloth. A bright red thing with pink roses.. "but you have peace here?"

"I do. Well as far as my knees and ankles will let me." She pointed at the stick. "Arthritis. But the sea helps and as long as I can walk on that beach I am not giving up and I might live another year."

She paused and looked concerned. "Are you ok?"

Ross shook himself out of the unaccustomed feeling of surprised horror. Unaccustomed because he was not used to feeling very much at all. Afterwards he wondered if he had gone pale because of the shock of feeling an emotion.

"Yes, fine. Why?"

"You went all white and spooky on me. Something I said?"

He looked at here, right in the eyes. "No. Something I felt. Memories maybe. It has been a long time since I have been here."

By that he also meant a long time since he had felt anything.

He thought carefully about his next words.

"An effort is it? Getting down to the beach?"

"The steps are a lifesaver. Paid for them to be kept up myself. You can get down further along but that is too far for me and too much of a scramble."

"You pay for the upkeep of the steps yourself?" He made a mental note to add that to the empty box on his e-form.

"Yes. A local carpenter does the work. Keeps 'em going. To be honest I would just die if I could not walk on that beach and feel the cold sea. Most of the visitors would not bother if they could not get to the beach. So I suppose I am a on a one woman mission to keep the beach open!"

Ross, now feeling another emotion he was not used to – deep embarrassment – hid it again by draining the last of his tea.

She laughed. "The Winter tries to beat me but every year I win."

She came round the counter and took his mug away. "Want another? On the house?"

Ross shook his head. He changed the subject. "Peaceful living round here, this time of year."

"Peace? Aye. Good for people who like peace but not for ones who like open spaces! I mean the one where you're afraid to go out!!! Is that a type of agoraphobic? It sounds like a type of goat." She laughed again. "Or is that Angora?"

She realised she was rambling and wondered why? In truth though she quite fancied this quiet man sat in front of her. He looked like he had a lot of depth. Not that this was a good thing necessarily.

"Angora is the goat, I think."

Oh well today I have learned a few things I should already have known, but have probably forgotten twice as many to make room for them in this noddle". She tapped her head. "Always onwards in hope. You have to be positive until the dark gets too much that you cannot see."

Ross knew he ought to leave. He really needed to leave. Already in a few short minutes he was opening himself up to all sorts of feelings that he did not want. Why? Maybe it was a combination of things. Maybe because this woman would have her life destroyed by the report he was due to write – but he had destroyed many things in the last ten years and that had never been a problem before. Maybe it was because he used to come here as a kid. Maybe memories had been triggered. That made no sense though. He had been to other places he had been as a kid with no such feelings coming upon him.

He ought to leave.

"Sorry, I have to go. Jobs still to do and I want to be back in Inverness by dark."

Alison looked disappointed and stared through the windows at the sky. "A little while to dark yet. Stay for something better to eat than cake" she gestured to the crumbs left on the plate. "I could rustle up some home made soup and bread."

"Thank you very much but I do really have to go."

He felt genuinely sorry about it. He really did. It was a real novelty, all these emotions and feelings. He knew that they felt dreadful and they were bringing back other memories too. He reached for his wallet.

"How much for the tea?"

She looked sad. "Tea and cake, a fiver will do."

He handed over the money but before he left he held out his hand. She tentatively took it.

"I would have liked to stay for soup. Maybe take a rain-check on that?"

She looked amused. "First time you been back since you were a kid.... don't wait so long until next time or the soup will be cold."

He smiled and gave a wave as he left the cafe and headed for his truck.

Alison watched him get in the cab, reverse it out of the parking place and then drive it back up the road.

"Oh well, we can always dream."

Part Four – Paperwork

Ross stared at the computer screen. He had not typed a word for several minutes. The recommendation box was still empty. He only had to tick "Condemned".

His mind had been all over the place since the site visit. He had cried a lot the last few days over things lost. Raw grief again that he had not imagined would ever return. It had made him sick but afterwards, for some very strange reason he did not understand it felt better. Like a hot humid day broken by a thunderstorm but one which had brought clear cool air.

However he still had a job to do and really he ought to tick "condemned". He had other options though beyond that. He could recommend replacement. He knew it was unlikely but it might make him feel better. Job done. Maybe then he could just walk away from this and feel as unruffled by things as he had done before. That would be good would it not

He looked at the screen and began to type.

Later, in the outer office he saw one of his colleagues reading a book.

"What are you reading?"

The woman looked up at him disconcerted, very unused to small talk from the Grim Reaper.

"It is a post apocalyptic novel. I have just reached the bit where with the news of doomsday looming, it was decided by everyone that a mass orgy would be the way to go." She stared right back at him unblinking.

Ross laughed. "Sounds all a bit depressing to me". He took his coat off the hook by the door. "by the way the report is filed. The Beach steps. Recommendation – No action. Review in one year. Bit ropey but they are fine for awhile. I might drop back there in a few weeks and give them a second check."

He headed off to the canteen.

Consequences Sheet:

**Man** : Prematurely grey, with twinkling dark eyes

**Woman** : I mean the one where you're afraid to go out!!! Is that a type of agoraphobic? It sounds like a type of goat.

**Place** : The path down to the beach was hard packed mud – many years of children's feet pattering and counting the steps, tripping over the wooden planks that held the earth in place

**He said** : "I don't think so, what do you think?"

**She said** : "Today I have learned a few things I should already have known."

**In the end** : With the news of doomsday looming, it was decided by everyone that a mass orgy would be the way to go.

#  THE THUNDERER

## by Virginia Crow

As Madelena looked out at the station she found herself swaying slightly as though the train was still moving. She looked about the carriage to make sure no one else had noticed, but she was alone. Everyone alighted at the busy town of Thurso. Wick was her destination. The end of the line. The end of her running, and the end of her troubles.

The train lurched forward, the loud horn sounding as they rounded the corner at sped out alongside the river, Thor's river, becoming tame and lazy the further it was from the sea.

"Mind if I sit here?"

It was hardly a question, with only the slightest inflection suggesting it was so intended. She shook her head.

"Are you travelling from Thurso to Wick?" she asked politely, sensing the old man who sat opposite her was in search of conversation. "That's quite a short journey."

"I've travelled every inch of this land. There's no one knows it like I do."

"It's the first time I've been here."

"Aye," he said, as though nothing was more obvious. "Where ye staying?"

Madelena paused, uncertain she wanted to impart such detail. She had made such innocent remarks in the past which had caused the unending trouble she now found herself in. But his expression demanded an answer, so she offered a response.

"I'm not entirely certain. I bought a house, and I have only just made up my mind to visit it."

The old man gave a deep chuckle as though she had told a joke. His merriment sobered as he gazed out the window. "Aye, property's cheap as dirt here. But the dirt's peat, and it leaves a lasting stain on those as try to abandon it."

"That shall not be me," she answered with more sorrowful sincerity than the old man had expected or could understand. "I intend to stay there until I die."

Silence clung to the pair as the train continued. Only the clattering of the train and the clicking of the eternally blowing wind against the partially opened windows could be heard. This remained the case until the lights of the terminus became clear and, once the train had ground to a standstill, Madelena bade her fellow passenger a safe onward journey. Her eyes lit up as they rested on a man holding a board with the name of her house scrawled on it.

"Off to Kemp's Cove, are ye?" the old man queried, an odd light glinting in his eyes, a hint of sea storm in the puddly blue. "Mind yerself. There's folk there as ye'll not have seen before."

"I thought I owned the only house in the cove," she remarked becoming irritated by the old man.

"Aye, but ye'll not be the only one there. Never was the same after hearing it, old Sandy."

"Sandy Mackay?" Madelena whispered. "That's the man who sold me the house."

"Aye."

She picked up her bags and turned to face him, but he had moved on and there was no sign of him. She tried to dismiss the fear within her. She had travelled here with the intention of leaving her life behind, but she did not dare to consider the thought of another helping her.

She climbed into the taxi and tried to settle her racing mind as the driver pulled away from the station and began the journey out of Wick. She watched in the fading light as the road moved along the coast and she wondered what sort of place Kemp's Close would be, and what the old man had meant about the others who lived there. She had never been to Caithness before, her furthest visit north having been to Dunrobin Castle as a teenager. She had travelled there with her parents and her sister, wondering at the artifacts and admiring the gardens. It had been on the merit of that visit that she had been inspired to throw off her usual calm and rational approach and travel north. After living in London for the past seven years nothing could be more perfect. A quiet place for her life to end.

Madelena Ferguson Roy had travelled to Kemp's Cove to die.

"This is perfect," she breathed as she stepped out of the taxi, taking in the sea air and imagining lying at the bottom of the waves. She gave a slight cough as the air caught in her throat and, for the first time since she had started this journey, she felt afraid. "Would you like to come indoors," she said quickly as the driver handed her the luggage from the boot of the car. "I could make you a cup of tea."

"No," he laughed. "I'd not want you to be paying for me to have a bevvy."

She smiled slightly before drawing money out from her small coin purse and handing over the fare with a large tip. The money meant nothing to her, but the driver's silence on the journey out to Kemp's Cove was priceless.

"Thanks," he muttered, evidently uncomfortable with taking twice as much as the fare in payment for the trip. "And mind yourself out here. There's a fair few stories linked to this place."

"I'm beginning to understand so."

She watched as the taxi crawled up the steep incline before joining the other road and speeding into the countryside. Finally she turned back to her house and walked forward, trying to take in as much as she could of the property. It was a low roofed building with moss-covered slates creating a fuzzy hairstyle against the darkening sky. The walls were damp and, as she shone her torch on them she tried to imagine how long it had been since they were last whitewashed. The door was not locked, but the handle took so much force to open there was hardly the need for the archaic lock. She reached to the light switch and flicked it down.

Nothing happened.

She had the strangest feeling she was being watched. This in itself was not unusual. She had been a public figure for the best part of a decade, she was quite used to being watched. But this was different. It was not someone or something unknown to her which watched her, but herself. She realised she could see herself as clearly as if she was looking in a mirror. A modestly beautiful woman approaching a premature middle age, grey flecks speaking of stress and worry amongst her dull blond hair, and her face resigned and weary. She looked sour and dismal. Initially politics had been a dream job, a way to better her corner of the world. And she had believed in it, too. Everything she had done, each speech, vote and rally, had been done for her constituents. But she had not been prepared for the underhand ways of her opposition. And how tabloids loved a story!

Still ladened down by her luggage, she shuffled into the room on the left. A quick scan with the torch revealed this was the living room, while the bedroom was to the right. The kitchen and bathroom were at the rear of the property. It was fully furnished, or as fully as it had ever been. There was a bed, wardrobe and chair in the bedroom and an armchair, coffee table and chest in the living room. The walls were stone with bare wires running down them to sockets and lights. A fire had been laid on the hearth countless months earlier and she checked the mantle shelf for matches, finding them in a quaich, slightly damp but with enough life to spark. After four attempts the paper took hold and Madelena huddled as close as she could to the fire. Had the room around her become colder or was it only that the welcoming warmth of the fire made her notice it more? She pulled the damp armchair forward and curled up in it, falling asleep almost at once.

She jumped awake at the sound of thunder, and tried to remember where she was. Nothing seemed familiar. The fire had died and the late winter night still covered the world in darkness. Moving over to the window she watched, waiting for the next flash of lightning. She was surprised to find stars shone overhead, with no clouds at all in the sky. How was there thunder without any cloud?

There was a knock at the door.

"Hello?" a heavily accented voice began. "It's cold out here."

She moved to the door and looked through the frosted glass at the shape of a person hunched forward, shivering visibly. He had one hand resting on the low lintel and the other hugged about him. The moonlight glinted on his pale skin and dark hair framed his pallid features.

"Are you ok? It's cold out here."

"It is cold in here, too," she replied. "What do you want?"

"To check you're alright."

"I'm not afraid of thunder," she scoffed.

"Aye, but there's thunder and then there's thunder. I know why you're here, perhaps better than you do."

Madelena opened the door slightly and frowned at the man before her. "Which one are you from?" she demanded.

"Which what?"

"Which paper? How did you know to find me here?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he laughed. "I met you on the train earlier between Thurso and Wick."

Madelena peered out into the dark and shook her head. There was nothing about this man which looked anything like the old man on the train.

"You did offer me a 'cup of tea'," he continued, mimicking her voice. "I'd take that now."

Every bone in her body told her this was madness. The man on her doorstep was neither the train passenger nor the taxi driver who she had invited in for a drink. By the expression on his face he knew what she was thinking and he smiled, turning to fully face her for the first time. His smile never faltered as she stepped back, about to allow him into the house, but she paused as she looked at a long scar down the left side of his face which caused his eye to droop and tore his eyebrow in two.

"He saw the error of his ways," the man laughed.

"Who?"

"The man who did this," he replied, pointing to the scar.

"I've changed my mind." The tone of her voice allowed for no argument.

"About what? Allowing me in? Or killing yourself? Think carefully about both. I knew a young man in your position and he caused untold pain through his actions. But this is an exciting moment for us all. We're at the beginning of the world, the new world. If you'll let me in, I can show you."

"I have heard that before," she remarked, pushing the door closed in his face. "You people are unbelievable. Is there no level to which you would not stoop? I cannot believe you said that. One should say nothing rather than speak such words."

"Madelena," he called through the glass. "I know why you're here."

She pulled open the door about to confront him, but only the wind confronted her. Angrily, she stomped out of the door and stared round her, but he had gone. "It's not possible," she muttered, pressing herself against the door. "What is this place?"

Madelena was almost surprised to find she did not receive an answer. She looked about the dark, cold hallway expecting the shadows to reach out and take her. She had fled London afraid of being followed by the scandal she had unwittingly being placed in the centre of. Her constituency was full of the press. And the very people she had given her life to were all baying for her blood. People followed blindly when they were told to.

Not wanting to sleep on the bed, which was only a mattress and frame, she walked back to the living room and looked for anything else she could put in the hearth to make a fire. There was nothing. She curled up in the armchair and willed herself to sleep.

There was no more thunder and she awoke to a clear morning wrapped in a strong blue sky. She walked to the kitchen, surprised to find the house had running water, though it began with a brown peaty stream. Going to the toilet was a cold experience, but as she returned to the kitchen and gazed out at the view through the glass panel of the door, she felt a warm feeling inside. It was like a picture book, perfect, pure and dramatic. The thought of violating this purity by drowning herself seemed unthinkable. Perhaps, if she could survive in obscurity until her own scandal had blown over, she could return...

She jumped as someone appeared at the window.

"Sorry," he said, his tone suggesting no apology at all. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She opened the back door and took in a deep breath of salty air, smiling at the tang it left on her tongue.

"You're new here, aren't you?" he continued. "Were you ok after the storm?"

"The thunder?" she asked. "Why do you all seem so concerned about me? I've survived thunder in the past."

"Not thunder like that, I reckon. Still, it's given us a grand day."

"Yes," she agreed without thinking.

"Almost like a new start," he continued, turning to the sea and looking out. The shale beach was vanishing beneath lapping waves while the tall cliff rose in a dramatic vista to the left. "It's like being at the beginning of time."

"Why are you here?" she demanded, his words and their likeness to the man last night causing her tongue to sharpen. "And why were you here last night?"

"You're without power," he stated with more sympathy than indignation. He knelt down beside the gas cannister. "I can help you get that sorted. You mentioned you'd not been here before."

"No, I didn't," she whispered, her voice increasing in volume as she continued. "Are you all colluding? Hoping to catch me out, the same as that journalist who set me up. I'm not mad. I'm not crazy."

"Aye, you're her alright. That lassie from London. That MP. We'd never have stood for such a thing."

"What? A woman in parliament?"

"No," he returned. "A Scot in London. You mentioned you were a bit of a painter, though. You'll not find a better view than this. Especially if you close your eyes to see it. There," he added, straightening up to his proper height. "You've at least got a flame now."

"This is madness. The only person I told I liked painting was Sandy Mackay." She stepped back into the kitchen and started the gas hob, which lit with a gentle whoosh. She poked her head out of the door once more. "And why would I paint with my eyes-?" She stopped as she realised she was alone. Once again, her companion simply melted away.

Again and again she questioned her sanity. Perhaps her heightened emotions were running wild. She looked at the sea, trying to steady her breathing. This was not how she had imagined her end. Her plan had been to fade away, but now that seemed impossible. People had found her. Strange people, she admitted, but good people. People who seemed to care about her.

She had brought almost nothing with her, intending not to remain in the cottage for any real time, but Sandy Mackay had left almost everything behind. It was as though he had died and no one had set foot in the house since. It did mean though that, with the gas hob, she was able to make herself a cup of tea which was the best drink she could ever remember having. Certainly it was better than that one she had drunk prior to waking up beside a vaguely familiar face, the commencement of her downfall. She had been successful, popular, and clever. The only way she could have gone was down.

She stared out at the sea and felt tears slither down each of her cheeks. She blinked them away. She opened her eyes to find the beach was no longer her own. Someone was sitting at the waterside, staring out at sea. There was a rod and line set up beside him and he was leaning forward to study something. He seemed to have been settled for hours, but she was sure he had not been there a minute before.

"Say again," he began, turning to face her. She grimaced at the sight of his empty eye socket but his other eye lit up. "You look like you've not eaten for days. Have you a fire burning? I've plenty of fish."

Madelena looked into the basket, surprised by how many were there. "Are you planning a party?"

"Nae," he laughed. "But the thunderer is mighty hungered."

"The thunderer? You're from The Times, then."

"Nae," he began, rising to his feet and pulling out a knife which he put to work at once, offering her two fish after he had gutted them. "Make yourself some food. And I've a favour tae ask. I cannae see tae finish my painting. He'll nae stay still for me now."

"You want me to finish your painting?"

"Aye. He'll come yet. Not for me, though. You'll call and the thunderer will answer."

She walked forward to the painting and studied it. It was a cross-section seascape, from the seabed to the sky above. There was a large space in the picture a little below the waterline.

"I ken what you plan, but you'll be better painting with your eyes closed. Nae need tae gae down there."

"How dare you?" she began, but he had gone, as had his rod and line and the basket of fish. "How did you all know?" she shouted out into the cove.

"They just want to help," said a gentle voice behind her, and she turned to face a man who walked across the shale to her.

"Are you another one of them?" she asked suspiciously. "Another journalist?"

"Yes to your first question, no to your last." He folded his arms across the plaid he wore, looking like a character in a television drama. "This world is strange to us, as we're no doubt strange to you. We've had kings, saints and lowly men, but never a politician."

"How do you all know what I planned? How did you all know what I had said to each one of you? Have I spoken to," she paused as she counted the men she had encountered. "Seven men? Or just one?"

"That's not an easy question to answer," he laughed. "He left you his painting."

"To finish with my eyes closed." Her tone made it clear how ridiculous she found it.

"It's not as foolish as it seems. How many eyes have watched you as you've been talking to us? And how many of them have looked like mine?"

"All of them," she whispered, her breath catching as she looked up at him. His eyes were grey and stormy, as Sandy Mackay's had been, the man on the train, the taxi driver, the night visitor, the gas man, and the painter. All of them stared back at her through the gaze of the man before her.

"Take the brush," he said. She did as he suggested and picked up the paintbrush from the easel. "I know how little you trust, and it's a good thing for your path. But once I've gone, close your eyes and the view will become clear."

"Just things like that," she began, her voice unusually childlike. "How do you know me?"

"I looked in a mirror, saw myself, and it was you." He flashed a brilliant smile at her. "But this is not the beginning of my world, it's the beginning of yours. You've not always had the fairest deal, Madelena, but you've always had a cause. That's what has brought you here, the highest cause. The thunderer needs a new guardian. I severed my ties with him long ago. You couldn't drown yourself now, even if you tried, he wouldn't let you. He will give you power to confront those who oppose you."

She rounded on him, demanding answers, scathing remarks pouring from her lips which she regretted at once. She had no need to, however, for the man had vanished. Gripping the brush firmly in her hand she stared at the picture. It filled her with a deep calm, as though the painted waves were really lapping as gently as the artist had pictured them. But it also inspired a giddiness in her, a resolve she had not had since she had been framed in the most appalling manner. The peculiar sensation of watching herself returned once more and, afraid to see what she might do, she rushed back to the house.

As the morning turned to afternoon, she stood at the kitchen sink washing the pots after her dinner of fish. She felt quietly proud of herself for her primitive meal and imagined everyone who had eaten a similar meal in that house. The easel stared back at her as she looked through the window, the gaping hole in the paint daring her to fill it. For a time she simply stared at it before collecting the paints the man had left and stomping over to it. Swirling the brush in the blue on the pallet she placed the hairs on the canvas and closed her eyes.

Was it madness? Could she really see what she imagined she was seeing? She was racing through the sea, the waves brushing past her as she sped on. And her hand knew what to paint. She opened her eyes, filling in the minutia of the details she had just witnessed. She felt, as the sound of thunder echoed in the cove, she was a part of the landscape, and it gave her the power to continue.

"Bonny painting," someone remarked. She turned to face a ruddy-faced postman. She studied his eyes for a moment, taking a second to check he did not have the watery grey eyes of the other men. "I'll pop the post here then," he continued. "I could have sworn I heard thunder a moment ago."

Madelena saw herself nodding as she faced the postman whose face paled and he stumbled backwards, pointing beyond her. She turned to face what had so unsettled him and gaped at the colossal creature which rose from the water and regarded them through her own eyes and the eyes of each of the seven men she had met. What power was in those eyes, which caused them both to retreat as it opened its cavernous mouth and gave a deep, thunderous cry which caused the cliff to tremble. It lowered its serpentine body back into the water, vanishing from sight, its fleshy crown being the final thing to sink.

"What was that?" the postman began after several minutes. "It looked like the bloody loch ness monster."

"Maybe it was," Madelena whispered, too quietly for the postman to hear. She could see all the creature saw as it sped through the sea, leaving Kemp's Cove behind. "It's the thunderer, and I'm its guardian."

She gave the postman a drink and they stared out past the painting to the sea which was now calm and blue. The waves lapped gently and the surreality of the last twenty-four hours rested on Madelena's shoulders, making her smile nervously. They did not speak, but parted in the stunned silence such a peculiar revelation left them under. Neither of them could prove their theory, nor what it meant. But as Madelena returned to the house, a new surge of determination running through her veins, she was certain the world had changed. Forever.

Consequences Sheet:

**Man** : His left eye drooped, pulled down by a long scar that cut his eyebrow in half.

**Woman** : She is a perfectionist but very quick to anger, her attitude towards people is cold and hostile.

**Place** : The rear door led out to the sandy beach. To the left stood a rocky headland, while to the right the land drifted away in the distance.

**He said** : Broad loud Caithness accent, "We are at the beginning of the world."

**She said** : "What an awful thing to say. I would expect better of you. I think that one id better not speaking than doing this."

**In the end** : They would never know what they suspected; it could not be proved. But it was going to change the world forever.

