 
### The Rabbit Of Usk

Tim Candler

**Front Cover** : "Rabbits" by JH

Disclaimer

The characters, countries and places in this story may indeed look and sound like real people, countries and places, they might even share the names of real people, countries and places. If so it's purely accidental.

### Table of Content

Prologue : Initial or Unnecessary Observations

Chapter One : The Shelf of H's

Chapter Two : Wisps and a Button

Chapter Three : Leopards and Joyful Dispenditure

Chapter Four : Dandelion and Abdul's Book

Chapter Five : Windrals and Long Handled Shovels

Chapter Six : Saint Timothy

Chapter Seven : Escape and a Hair Cut

Chapter Eight : Freckles

Chapter Nine : Monda's Fair City

Chapter Ten : Glavni Kolodvar

Chapter Eleven : Mrs. Woolley and Miss Weston-super-Mare

Chapter Twelve : Beetroot Sandwiches

Chapter Thirteen : Shire Hall and Road Signs

Chapter Fourteen : The Facility

Chapter Fifteen : Crabtree and Rabies

Chapter Sixteen : The Saints of Afon Bedd

Chapter Seventeen : Offa's Dyke

Chapter Eighteen : Fishing Trip

Chapter Nineteen : A Bit of a Fix

Chapter Twenty : Day School

About the Author

Prologue : Initial or Unnecessary Observations

A most worrisome creation of an Almighty, is a subcategory of Hominidae, called Hominins. I am one and so are you. Hominins have been rather nicely described as, "Humans and those relatives of Humans that are closer than Chimpanzees." Here, I find myself sad to say, all Hominins except for Homo Sapiens are extinct.

I too, see myself as ending. Somewhere around 2021. Before the Autumn is through. Before the Winter Equinox, before the burden of winter fuel and while the memory of Barn Swallow are still in my sky. But The Rabbit tells me, that more likely, my final breath will be achieved in the winter of 2022, with frost on the ground, a sneer in the sky and mud on the boots. And it's possible too, that the Mockingbird, who just this year took control of the Fruitless Plum outside my window, will be alive to ignore my absence as heartily as he ignores my presence.

The Mockingbird will be nine or ten years old when I depart, which is late middle age for him, and I suspect that not once between now and then will he chose to describe himself as a new world passerine of the Mimidae family. Call him a Mimus Poliglottos and odds are he'll spend his night in unholy complaint, as I do. The Rabbit will be at least thirteen hundred and two years old when I depart.

It's a sickness I have. A derangement you might wish to call it. It's maybe no more than yet one more mental frailty, but I cannot help but sympathize with those of the 'discerning' and 'wise' who hold the view that any hint of usefulness in the words 'being alive' will always be quite without a legitimate foundation. These words will remain uselessly wrapped up in 'perception,' 'awareness,' 'sentient' and the list is endless because whatever set of words or explanations or definitions might be applied, being alive, like the color puce, Just Is. Those who explore it, this side of the sciences, essentially will only ever achieve no more of a conclusion than an equivalent to the purchase of a fashionable pair of shoes, then taking those shoes out for a stroll down the high street to see how useful they might be through the impulses of a Friday night, its boot-scoot, its drink halls and fighting, it's latte at Starbucks and lipstick.

As my friend Walking Stewart would have it, in the printing presses of the 1790's, "philosophers muft bow down to the microfcope." Which I like to remind myself is also how Darwin himself parried the blow from those who are so emboldened by a sense of their own worth that they incline toward an idea that the universe has their telephone number.

All the same, as I wait for the tether of life to be rid of me, and for reasons that usually completely escape me, I don't appear to have been granted an absolution from the arduous work of Just Is. Which I guess is why sometimes death is described as blessed release, and which is why in the year of 1822, Walking Stewart ended his own time here on the earth by resorting to laudanum. His blessed release discovered by friends on February 20th of that year, the day after his birthday. He'd have had seventy five years of being alive. And oddly enough, if The Rabbit is correct, so will I.

But I will admit that lately I have debated pronouns with Moses, Popeye and Pythagoras. There has been diatribe and disgruntlement and sulking. Each of my protagonists, preoccupied with an I Am. And I have to think most of the words exchanged between us have, shall we say, become increasingly dubious of motive. Less and less to do with the words wise or discerning and more and more to do with words that might reflect pursuit of purpose, or more accurately the ambition to possess the regalia of victory. An often emotional drama, which might better fall within a category that owes charm to a Greek word, muien, from which we get the English word myopia. And this is a shame, because I incline toward idleness, or honesty, depending upon perspective, and this inclination leads me to suspect that Moses, Popeye and Pythagoras are all of them very far from decent in their anticipation of my willingness to wade through yards and yards of reasoning, and then reach their same magical conclusion. Which is why I am reluctant to attach the vicissitudes of these debates I have with the invisible to the conversation between you and I.

And I am sure you'd agree with me that upon the outset of any quest, there has to be an element of enthusiasm, else it devolves into the sort of cynicism that finds points of inspiration in such nouns as the sure knowledge that around the globe both Jesus and pets are billion dollar industries. A wonderful subject for a Friday night, but not one for a day that might include my last breath. All the same, so constant in my mind is the quarrel I have with the past five or six millennia, it is now and then bound to come between us. I can picture God, up there. As an I Am, he'd inevitably have his doubts about the wisdom and effort of Creation. Such an easy thing to have started. Then sit back and relax on the seventh day. A cold beer and a cigarette. "This is going to be fantastic."

I can also picture The Almighty alarmed by an ever increasing set of possibilities that arose from the existence of other I Am's hobnobbing around with grandiose theories, structures and tool making. And, following the weakness of character we I Am's are so prone to, I can see why God could not help but beat his head against a brick wall by whispering the words "Consider an Ark" into Noah's ear. And I can understand completely God's attempt to further alleviate the problem of creation by "confounding the language of all the earth." Then when a higher class, classically motivated Ancient Egyptian of Hebrew origin, finally had the nerve to ask "What are you?" I can see God pause for a breath of patience from which to draw insight. And I can do this because in his same position, as an I Am, my own first response to such a question has always been one of irritation.

Perhaps, it's life experience that responds to the question "What are you?" And when I think about it, I usually find myself leaning toward "I am self employed." Which should be a perfectly sufficient response, but, such is the nature of we I Am's, the answer "I am self employed" is certain to result in follow up questions. I have also been tempted to wonder why God didn't respond to the question with "I'm recovering." In this way he might have responded to follow up questions with the suggestion that recovery from being born may indeed last a life time, or eternity. However, and in the end, the question "What are you" seeks to place the other within a preconceived tapestry of things. And so I have told Moses, Popeye and Pythagoras that God's best answer to their question "What are you" might just as easily be "I'm in doubt." Or as the God of Moses so beautifully put it in an idea of becoming "I am that I am."

Popeye for his part is more inward searching. When home from the sea, his heart shy around a skinny girl with large feet. Not for him the deep thoughts and concepts that might have given him more than tins of spinach as a means to direct the future of others, as our species coalesced into larger and larger groupings. An increased complexity the whimsical have called progress, or civilization. And here Popeye's description of self has less latitude for the free wheel of an I am in the process of becoming that springs from the answer "I am that I am." Popeye's "I am what I am" contains no hint of seduction or hope, rather it suggests a mind waking from alcoholic stupor and searching for one final excuse with which to explain itself to a magistrate, a something I have a familiarity with.

However, in response to Moses' question, had God loosely quoted the American Heritage Dictionary "I am conceived as the perfect, omnipotent, omniscient originator and ruler of the universe, the principal object of faith and worship in monotheistic religions." I have to think Moses might not have achieved quite as much as he is reputed to have done.

It's an illusion I am sure, but all the same, we can conceive of an I Am so wrapped by stillness it becomes a perfect I Am. Which is why, the God of Moses, chose to create the universe. He chose to open his lungs and become borne. And as Pythagoras might have had it, we subjects then became the obverse of nothingness by becoming the opposite of perfect.

And hearing him in the Fruitless Plum outside of my window, I am tempted to think the Mockingbird thinks the same way. He's a Popeye, can't help himself. And I am too, I'd guess. Entirely possible you're as lost as I am, and easier for you to do a little thumbing through the pages in search of solace.

Good chance you won't find it, so "Call me Ahab" if you wish to.

Chapter One : The Shelf of H's

It wasn't a passage in the sermon that drew me to the book in my jacket pocket. I had a choice to make, and where better to maintain contemplation of the world than within a structure that had been built by skilled masons six hundred, possible a thousand, years prior to any consideration of me. Yet, had I taken from my jacket pocket The Book Of Common Prayer or The Gospel of Saint John, instead of John Walking Stewart's Apocalypse of Nature, I might have avoided the Head Prefect's fidgeting eye.

"Latin, Greek and English are dying languages." Walking Stewart preferred a voice that could tear paper when a student body was somber before The Almighty. His many interests in my future included a desire that I one day accurately translate his work of genius into a more lasting language, and there it would wait until some future generation rediscovered the wealth of his thinking, instead of dismissing it as an "un-tutored entertainment." And my friend went on. "Of the language options available for the next school year, I suggest you consider taking French."

Our neck ties straight, our shoes polished, no hands in pockets. In chapel, the definition of heaven was demanded of us, staring down at a stone floor that had tasted generations of boy, as though we were sausage. A fine sausage, made from the very best, some of us were persuaded. Hard not to be so persuaded within the stain glass and vault of a tradition that traced a circuitous route to the Saxon King Alfred. He being proud of his own capacity to read, write and translate from the Latin into the rude tongue that in time became the English Language, chose to extend his largesse to the children of his courtiers. There's argument of course, but what with one thing and another, having spent time in Rome, King Alfred found his courtiers, most of whom were good at killing, far too oafish and practical to his way of thinking. Alfred's invention of the lantern was yet another attempt by him to encourage more worthy activities among the highborn through the longer nights of winter.

I opened Walking Stewart's book to page one hundred and two. "Amongst the various modes of increasing the faculty of cognition, I have before forgot the most powerful, which is luxury. This accounts for the torpor of the savage and the ardor of the civilized mind."

I asked Walking Stewart how that might sound in French. I could feel his laugh, as well as disappointment stir his mood. He had no great faith in my capacity to ever achieve the erudition and learning he himself had managed to achieve through the course of his existence. And I'd learned not to remind him of an opinion within his own paternal side which so lacked confidence in the righteous of their entail that at the tender age of fifteen my friend had been dispatched to the Indian Subcontinent to work as a writer of accounts for the East India Company.

We of the congregation rose for hymn one hundred and two. "Now Thank we all out God," we sang. "In heart, and mind and body."

And sad to admit, it was Eason III's first week as Head Prefect of our House. His predecessor had been sent home for banging his head against the bathroom mirror, causing the mirror to shatter. A blood trail of failed dreams to the matron's room was the last we ever saw of him. Our new Head Prefect had yet to whip one of his juniors, he was anxious to secure his so sudden promotion before the year ended with a commencement which would see our new Head of House follow his two straight backed older siblings into the world.

Eason III had mission, his jacket finely cut, expensively tailored with it's red satin lining. He wore the cravat at the dinner table, took his place beside the House Master and would laugh at any suggestion of humor that included a pun. And worse, much worse for him, I outshone him at the game of Fives which I would play gloveless, more of a matching socks issue than any bravado on my part. I'd taken his place on the Rugby Fifteen, and though I didn't own my own cricket bat, I was the sole representative of our House on the School Cricket Team. This, believe it or not, kept me golden in the eyes of our House Master, a man who supplemented his passion for sailing, his Rose Garden and inspecting male adolescent genitalia by teaching the dismal subject of Economics to an always reluctant classroom.

"You'll be Eason III's first," Walking Stewart was proud of me, and he added. "He may possess the coordination of an egg on the rugby field, but you'll be glad to hear he's been practicing the whip in his study on the embroidered cushion his aunt gave him."

"The trouble you bring me." I had answered him with a purr of love in my voice. Our friendship would be eternal, I thought. Aloneness was something I'd never know.

It was in the House Library just before lights-out, a beating took place. A rattan cane, obtained from a supplier in Bristol. The Head Prefect of our house had a choice of three. They hung in his study. There'd be tension, gossip, history and a performance to be judged. The primary participants were the subject, the object and the Assistant Head Prefect who'd be there in the library acting as observer, or witness. In the four dormitories, among the less experienced, or younger than others there'd be an uncertain silence. The idea of this fairly regular event being defined as an act of violence would have been nonsensical, rather the House became a theatre. Quite why reading a sentence from an unworthy book in Chapel required this reaction was unquestioned. And something poignant about a Library being converted to a place of punishment.

I could bend over, touch my toes and if I looked up a little I could see the bottom shelf of books. Which were "H's." John Habberton, The Annals of a Baby Son. It was right there at the bottom left hand corner of the book shelf. It's spine splattered a little from the water mop and wax, which the wooden library floor boards were occasionally subjected to.

"Start with that book," Walking Stewart had spoken with enthusiasm, we were in the junior dormitory back then, both a little lost at sea, and my friend was attempting to promote the wisdom of more fully participating in a training of the mind and by so doing avoid becoming engrossed in the vegetative state. Habberton's book was an awful story, with an embarrassing title for a youth on the cusp of life. But I'd signed it out of the library and we began to read it.

"Only the Fat Nurse with the frilled cap, snatched it away and told her 'It's bad luck to cry over a baby.'" A narrative so doting and cloying and self congratulatory, Walking Stewart had had to challenge me to bring it to a conclusion. "Read it all," Walking Stewart had insisted. "Every word."

"You are torturing me," I'd complain. "I hate Nettie Blane. I hope The Crippled Sister kills her. I think Uncle Jim is a pervert. And who calls a basket of flowers 'the sweetest thing in the world to give.'" Yet, with my arse still blue from the whip, I arrived at the last page, where "a cloud swept over the face of the moon" and where the sickening "Titania would never be entirely left alone in the darkness without this token of heart's-ease." The Baby Son was dead, flowers were in tears, and I was well satisfied.

Call me Ahab, if you wish, but no great voyage to accidentally find Habberton's book while trolling through the second hand stores, and I have a copy of Annals on the table beside me which I found some years ago on a dank day in Louisville. It's an 1877 edition, identical in every respect to that copy from the House Library which I'd read sixty odd years ago at a school for boys in England. The essential difference, however, between the book I have now and the House Library copy, are the initials "JH," written in royal blue ink, beside John Habberton's "The End."

From Habberton's lonely volume, to blithering Henty, At Agincourt, "...and families, become split into factions, as interest, or family ties, or the desire to increase an estate by annexing another next to it, may influence the minds of men." There were hundreds of them. Golden Canon, chapter one, "In the month of August 1856, the bark, Northampton was lying in the harbor of San Diego." And San Diego was very hot in August, much moaning from the characters. "'This is awful, Tom,' a lad of about sixteen in the uniform of a midshipman said to another of about the same age.."

Beating after beating, all the way, from left to right, along that bottom shelf of the House Library, book after book, word after word, one after the other, I had streamed diligent to the end, so I might share a warm conclusion with the initials "JH." In royal blue ink from a fountain pen and always it was just beneath and to the right of "The End."

A Devil's own temptation to cheat, to take a peep at the back end of the row of H's to see how far JH might have traveled. Move up a shelf to the G's to see if JH had fled in that direction, or whether he'd gone on southward toward I's and J's. Maybe across the aisle to S for Sapper and his Bulldog Drummond, the big man with eyelashes that turned a lady's eye. "Every beard is not false, but every nigger smells," he'd explained in Female Of The Species. "And dis nigger don't smell." That was it for me and all Bulldog's generally.

I had asked Walking Stewart. "What harm would I do if randomly chose a book from the shelf of A's."

"Why deceive our invisible comrade?" The thought of doing such a thing outraged him. "Why spoil the game! Either JH one day unaccountably chose to write his initials in each book of the library or he had a mission with purpose. He might even have found the reason and comfort that you do while enduring the whip."

Nonetheless as I drew closer to the end of twenty odd books in the shelf of H's, I found myself looking forward to moving northward, up to the shelf of G's. Walking Stewart did too. And for some time we had discussed which end of the shelf of G's I would start with.

"I am tempted by the title, Wind In The Willows," Walking Stewart admitted. "I have found the H's somewhat slobbering in their approach to the human condition."

Walking Stewart's own antipathy toward Eason III had little to do with my own dislike of our new Head Boy. I had long recognized Walking Stewart's weakness as envy of Eason III's prodigious capacity for Greek. Not the modern Greek, but the Greek of Pindar and Plato. He could write and speak it, often without being asked. And while Walking Stewart was fluent in eight living languages, his own background had never provided him the opportunity to receive instruction in the Ancient Greek. This nursed a wrath in my friend, that was possibly not a healthy one. In my view at least it had led him to dismiss pretty much the entire written world prior to the publication of his own contributions. An absence of humility in him that I thoroughly enjoyed.

"I have obviously added English to the list of declining languages, along with Greek and Latin. You have promised to translate The Apocalypse of Nature into the language of the Sabeans. You have refused to even consider some mix of Cuneiform. So French it must be. But you'll require a great deal more than school boy French to do justice to a translation of my seminal work on the material nature of reason, which when more widely read will precipitate the journey home for our species. So you must excel at French for both our sakes."

To my own mind, choosing French for my final year of study, presented the appalling prospect of sharing a classroom with those in our boarding school of six hundred boys who'd fallen to the bitter pill of excellence. I was happier at the bottom rung of that particular ladder, down there where physics and biology managed the purpose of producing scrum forwards for the school's rugby fifteen. Dainty scholars made borderline wings and clumsy fly halves. First at bat, they wore gloves and helmets. Bashful around girls, they'd not think to risk "Can I touch you?"

That morning in Chapel, as we sat down from "Whom earth and heaven adore, for thus it was, is now, and shall be for ever more," I told Walking Stewart that I had no intention of choosing French to study, because I liked physics, and to accentuate my point I quoted his own words, "the philosopher must bow down to the microscope." And, to mark the moment even more fully in his mind, I took his Apocalypse of Nature from my jacket pocket, opened it to the very last page and pointed to his own rendering of "The End." Which in my copy of The Apocalypse of Nature, is the far less ambiguous, "finis."

It's an old book. It's publication date is 1793. When it became mine it was already yellowed and thumbed, attacked by age, white ant and spore. Yet the manner in which light came through the stain glass from the sun, bounced from the ceiling, caught a pattern in pencil. It was just to the left and a little below Walking Stewart's "finis." It was distinct and clear and alarming. I sat down to fear, and a world in my mind that wouldn't leave and never has. I'd possessed the book for years, and never seen the initials before. So I looked a second time, trying to convince myself it was trickery. Buy JH had read my copy of the Apocalypse of Nature, or I was dreaming.

"Kenneth Grahame, Wind in the Willows. I'm looking forward to it." Was the best Walking Stewart could produce from his own encyclopedia, which had crossed more land and sea and time than mine.

In the library I peered up from my toes, saw the spine of "Wind in the Willows." I wondered if JH had read it, or perhaps by now I was traveling beyond JH's path toward new territory.

But Eason III was nervous, I could smell it on him. Four times out of six he missed my arse, his whip cut into the backs of my thighs, angry enough to draw blood. And when he'd finished, I told him the bathroom mirror had at last been replaced. I could see him frightened, and wordless, and sweating. My pajamas would leave blood on the sheets of my bed in the dormitory.

"You don't deserve to be here." Eason III had found the nerve to say. "You should be expelled.

"I'm pretty," I reminded him.

And he retreated from the library table. Uncomfortable with what he'd done to me. The Assistant Head Boy, I forget his name, could not return my gaze, but he too had his reason to dislike me. I had taken his place as the House Master's sailing companion. A summer afternoon on a Sunday he'd take a favorite to the coast where he kept his yacht. "Ready about, lee ho!" I yelled and his yacht "Sorceress" took the long downwind on my advice and piped the post a good thirty seconds ahead, to win the cup. And the stranger thing is, in the confines of the Sorceress' cabin, our Housemaster preferred to watch me change into and out of what he called 'sailing kit,' and surely when I did that for him, he'd notice the welts on the backs of my thighs.

When the lights were out, Walking Stewart sat on the edge of my dormitory bed. Neither of us could recall when last I had felt tears. "Perhaps Wind In The Willows will help," my friend offered. And I might as well tell you, a Mole, a Toad and a Water Rat did little for either of us.

Chapter Two : Wisps and a Button

I'd like to say I was born in a wheat field, a half days walk from the sea. It's somewhere in France, near the Pyrenees, I'd prefer to think. And good of van Gogh, all those years later to have painted it for me. And if you look at the black Crows, they are the ambitions of Saint Timothy. It's the dark sky, a distant smoke from the burning of Visigoth fields far, far to the south, which when Saint Timothy was born heralded the defeat of King Roderick, and all of Christendom now threatened by Saracens from Africa.

Saint Timothy was child to a peasant girl who went by the name of Alaia, which means joyous and happy in the language. His father a Frankish nobleman, or so she'd told her only child. "I'll give him a Christian name," Alaia decided. "That way the monks might care for him."

And scholarship is misty on these points, but there are some who declare with conviction that Saint Timothy at the age of three years performed a miracle. He turned a Lizard into gold so that pagans might pay taxes demanded of them by their new master Tariq Bin Ziyad, lord of Cordoba. Pope Constantine's Bishop in Aquitaine sent a mission to adjudicate Saint Timothy's first miracle. A political move I am convinced. They came secretly to the village of Berobi where Saint Timothy could be found, playing in the dust, his horse a wooden stick, his sword a split of black ash, and Alaia worried for him. Tariq Bin Ziyad's own emissaries were also in the village promising amnesty from taxes to all who submitted to Allah, and because all who breath do not believe in miracles, some of Ziyad's emissaries were curious about where a savage boy might have found a golden lizard.

The Christian mission disappeared on their return to what is now days called Toulouse. Slaughtered by pagan clans as they neared Pamplona, some will tell you. Others will suggest, that indeed the Bishop's emissaries had found a Roman hoard, went on to live comfortable and aimless. And here is the account of Abdul Bin Abdul, one of Ziyad's better armed tax collectors, "The child did not have the flat face of a Goth. His hair was a light brown with the red of sea raiders, and I doubt he was of Frankish blood. His eyes contained green."

Me, when I started first to remember, I wanted to be an Iteso. I wanted to follow the Lead Bull, I wanted Groundnuts in my blood, I wanted the sharp throwing spear, and I wanted to take Cattle away from the Karamajong. But as my friend Okanya would sometimes point out, I was pink and freckled and round and short. Too easily seen at night to be useful and far too clumsy from the misfortune of having been given to the Wazungu, a word which when I first met it, meant those who wander around in a most aimless fashion.

I could see presence on the other side of thorn bushes, and then next he'd be in the Lantana, sniffing it's ugly bloom and apparently unaware of a Black Mamba that probably lived there, all of her sixteen dangerous feet. She was a Snake dark of mood, her eggs un-neglected, which meant she'd not stray for more than a Grasshopper, until her children entered the world. Little creatures they'd be, the size of a longer finger and without knuckles. So, the Lantana was not a place I'd go near, not this one, not any one of the Lantana that drifted like breeze off into the far places.

When I asked our Ancestor about these wisps of movement I had seen in the thorns and then in the Lantana, and how particularly nervous they made me because no one else seemed to be able to see them, he told me that I had no reason to be afraid. "We are more like the work of a Weaver Bird than we are like the work of a White Ant," he explained. He had the gentle smile for me, and always it was gentle, but sometimes in it's gentleness there was a curious sadness, which I could understand. He was a very old man, his eyes red from age and dust, his skin scourged by worms of the intestine, where his muscle had been there was just bone.

In the house, they called our Ancestor a brigand, a thief and a rascal, so he would have to become invisible when he visited his children.

"What you are seeing are parts of a being in a search for reunion. And it could be that some of those parts of a being wish to speak to you, and you alone. Otherwise I too would see them."

Okanya reminded me that his mother's father was a bit of an ana akou, which I guess in the English language means something like grass head. But, Okanya agreed with me there was no way of telling whether the old man might know things which others had not yet troubled to think about.

When the motor car was off about its business, we crept into the house, and went to the little tin trunk, which was stored in the place where I slept. The tin trunk belonged to me. "That's yours," I'd been told.

I lifted its lid carefully, because it had that tendency to squeak. Okanya was even more wary than I. His mother was inclined to berate him when he was found inside the house. A tortoiseshell comb, a little wooden box that contained buttons, and book was all the tin trunk contained.

I picked up the book, and again glanced though it as though it might contain diamonds. "When the Christians show me how to read writing," Okanya whispered, "I'll show you."

It was nineteen fifty something, and somewhere soon after that whisper, I woke up to daylight and rain on the roof and a man was staring down at me. And you have to think the scar on his cheek, and that discrepancy he has in his gaze, with one eye never quite understanding the other, would have raised an alarm in me, sent me to a caterwaul that would have raised the roof. But it didn't, because he seemed to be more torn by circumstance than I.

"My coat," the man said, and here my memory isn't strictly accurate, it doesn'tt contain the A plus a B, yet I retain the gist of what it was he first said to me. "My coat, belongs to an Armenian private. He had wanted to be a carpenter for the Ottoman Navy, but became interested in gun powder, and I traded this tunic for a gun powder recipe. It is wool tunic, it has good pockets. Sadly I have lost a button, and I am looking for it. Have you by chance seen a button like this one."

In the palm of his hand I could see what I thought was Hippo tooth, not the kind that a Hippo fights with, but the kind that he chews with. I told him I hadn't seen anything like it. He reached his full height, puffed out his chest and I could see that indeed one of his tunic buttons was missing. "It's uncomfortable to look at," he explained, and before he was gone he asked me to keep an eye out for his button, which I agreed to do.

I could hear the screen on the front door slam, I tried to catch up with him, but he disappeared through fierce squalls of rain toward the Lantana. But running around at that time of morning and slamming doors before breakfast caused outrage in the house. And worse, it was raining, which meant mud. Not from my bare feet, because I had not ventured outside, but a trail of large boot prints leading from the front door to the room where I slept, and back outside again.

"Look," I was tempted to offer. "My feet are clean. They are unsoiled, and even if I were wearing my shoes, these footprints are very much larger than mine."

But these sort of persuasive arguments I had begun to realize usually resulted in an increased vigilance in the house, where there was a fear of the outside, and especially through the night with its Hyena and Jackal call. Guns would have been loaded, talk at the table would increasingly turn to somewhere called England. Like Jerusalem, I'd been told it was. A green and pleasant land, where Hedgehogs did not dance and Mosquito did not happen, and everyday it rained, and you could drink the milk.

So I went outside, muddied my feet, and smiled inanely. "What's wrong with you!" and a couple of clips on the ear, a period of time consigned to the room where I slept.

"He is a Wazungu." I told Okanya's grandfather. "He's looking for a Hippo tooth."

"It's a blighted land, the Wazungu have," our Ancestor sighed. "Why else would they wonder so far from it." And he went on to ask me for details, because in his experience he had noticed that much could be understood from what it was a person thought important. "Especially as they attempt to return to this world. I can understand a Wazungu concerned for his golf ball, or his motor car, but why would he be looking for a Hippo Tooth. Unless it belonged to a Hippo he had taken some pride in defeating."

In the early hours, the strange man again came in through the door from the sitting room. He took the book from under my pillow, he sat down on the wicker chair that was stored in the room where I slept, he crossed his legs. "I have made errors," he said. "I feel like a fool."

So I asked him whether he had been drinking at the club with the other English, and whether he played tennis, or preferred golf, and to please never again walk through the house with muddy boots leaving others to carry the consequences.

"I have been looking for the Sabeans," he said. Which made me wonder whether he was indeed a Wazungu, or something else. The Wazungu usually laughed when they heard mention of the ancients. Maybe this man was a German, and I had heard of Italians.

"We Ateso, are not the Sabeans." I knew this with the conviction of an old man whose Lead Bull had been stolen by the Karamajong, and I pointed toward the south. "The Sabeans are way over there beyond Bukedea, the other side of the Karamojong. That's where the Sabeans can be found. They live high in the Masaba, where the cold can transfix."

I had anticipated a smile from him. I thought it would be a smile all high hat with disdain from that part of them the English reserved for the Ateso, who when we weren't borrowing from them or making the mistake of trying to be useful were a simple people. But the man on the chair in the room where I slept, did not produce such a smile, and this made me feel good enough to know that I too would one day dance for the heart of a bride. The man nodded his head, and I could see his eyebrow grim from curiosity.

"Could the Sabeans be Karamojong?"

I heard our Ancestor in me, and powerful he was. Karamojong in their language means the old men sat down. And there are some who will say the old men sat down because they refused to travel further into the swamps of Teso, or west toward the Great Lake, or south toward cold Masaba. And when the old men sat down it enabled the young Karamojong to better concentrate upon stealing cattle from more righteous people who lived all around them. I explained all this in the way it had been explained to me.

"Yes," the man in the chair answered me. "The Sabeans weren't always cattle people. They once served the Kings of Egypt, and I have heard some of them drowned while ridding Egypt of Moses. Some have called them 'men of the common sort' others have appeared to think that 'common sort' means the Sabeans were drunkards and thieves. Perhaps the Karamojong are Sabeans."

"That's not possible," I told him with a conviction. "The Sabeans brought cattle when they returned from the north. The Karamojong only know how to steal cattle."

Then before I could ask him why he was looking for a Hippo tooth, I smelled cigarette smoke, and felt the nervousness of breakfast with my hair uncombed, the top to my toothpaste lost, the button on my trousers missing again.

"Where the man went," I later told Okanya. "I don't know. But the Wazungu was gone. He must still be searching for all his parts. Perhaps when he finds his Hippo Tooth, others will see him, as I do."

"I believe," Okanya told me, "if I were in your position, I'd be afraid."

But he'd been listening to the missionaries, who'd asked him to forego his circumcision, a something his grandfather would not hear of him doing, and he was trying to learn the English, which neither of us was very good at.

"The Wazungu are temporary, and so are their habits." The old man had long ago convinced me.

They say, in the world where I now live, that a mind is built in the early years of being on earth. It's in those early years that a home is made. And I see us all now, crouched over dust in the shade of a Mulberry Tree. I can see the grasshopper leg I was holding. I could squeeze the thigh and watch the shin move as though the leg was still alive. The old man didn't seem to mind flies, he'd knock at them occasionally with fingers so long and thin. I would too. He was drawing with a stick from the Mulberry tree in the dust between us. Hoof prints of all the Bulls he had ever known.

He'd run about five miles that morning to visit for just an hour or so and also to return a gift Okanya's mother had sent to him. He had his spear, and as an older man he wasn't a person to wear trousers. A dark cloth was all the clothes he had, that and a little leather bag, and his hands which could touch my skin gentle as a feather, produce a want in me as though I too might have belonged to him.

I'd also heard that he'd not settled his dispute with his Paramount Chief who had refused him permission to raid cattle from the old men who sat down. It was just the one Bull missing from the herd, but it was the Bull he had wanted to follow into the next world so that he might return again peacefully. It was a Bull he had raised from a bloody birth, all the way through it's childhood, and it had been stolen. Okanya's mother wanted her father to adopt the custom of wearing trousers, and she'd sent him a pair, which she had gleaned from her employer, at some cost to herself.

"Trousers will impress our Paramount Chief," she'd insisted. "He'll listen to you."

"The English have given him a motor car." Was all the old man had to say to his daughter.

And I can remember Okanya's mother taking back the trousers, holding them in her arms as though they were precious. She was more exhausted than she was sad, standing by the kitchen door, her face so fallen to resignation she would not watch the old man drift off into the haze, and when he disappeared, she put her hand up to her mouth.

"I'm going to be circumcised," Okanya whispered to me.

My own father, on the other hand, had been buried without his head. Nor, as far as I knew, was such a thing considered a proud tradition amongst my own people. That evening, at the table, from the other side of the salt seller, I heard that I was to be sent away to a boarding school near Elgon, which was the Wazungu word for Masaba, the Land of the Sabeans.

Chapter Three : Leopards and Joyful Dispenditure

"It has been difficult first half. He has escaped three times; on one occasion getting as far as the railway where he boarded a goods train. His reading is excellent, his spelling appalling and his other work suffers from a complete absence of grounding, and will no doubt be improved by extra tuition. In other respects he is well advanced, though prone to trouble making."

My own preference would be to follow the tradition of the Zoroastrians. I too wish to become one with the earth as well as the sky. Leave my body naked on a platform raised above the Coyote and Fox. They may have my bones when my flesh is done. The morsels are for creatures that fly.

We have the Buzzard round here called Turkey Vulture. Noble and diligent, I admire his being, envy his flight and I have seen him feed his young, which he does with vomit. And we have the Black Vulture, like a stealth plane he is, dark and almost tailless, his wing flap quick, he hates to glide toward the spirals, and I bet his sense of smell is keener because he is cruel to the helpless as are all creatures who are greedy. He'll not be invited. And I have to debate with the Merlin before I issue his invitation to feed upon me. But Titmouse, Chickadee, the Kestrel and my friend the Mockingbird will all have starched linen napkins and are welcome to bring comrades.

I'd like to think of comrades gathered in the field out there, sitting in armchairs, drinking beer to excess, and listening to the songs of Dylan, the alleluia of the Ramones, and the first act of the Mikado: "So you are wondering who we are." Around noon I'd like to hear Mozart's, "Where are they, the beautiful moments," sung by the New Zealander who has the Maori name. It should be played upon a windup gramophone player, there should be no theater or funny costume or extravagant gesture or rapturous applause, that way I might cry one last time.

Then as the sun sets, I'd like to hear the single sentence, "In the beginning was the word." The remainder of that book can then be closed and everyone can go on about their business.

Sadly the ordinances of humankind where I live are written to a particular rigidity. Who I wonder would choose to bury or incinerate their dead. It's a legal inspection that binds a being to a grave or mantel on the evidence of a stranger's signature. Put me up in the market square for all to see, title me a product, sell tickets and spare the expense of burying me. Call it football if you have to.

But in 1950's something I was young and I had been transported to the Land of the Sabeans in a dark grey motor-car that had a cracked windshield. I'd sat on the back seat, a tin trunk tied to the roof rack along with spare tires. The Trunk contained new clothes, nail scissors, a toothbrush, bed sheets and a red blanket. There was a towel and rugby boots. There was a long sleeved woolen sweater, and there was a short sleeved woolen sweater all neatly folded away. As well, amongst the mysteries, there was an ink pen, a face cloth, a nail brush, a great many grey socks and a colorful book with large pages and pictures, which was for afternoon reading I'd been told. I was dressed up in a gray short sleeved shirt with a collar. A tie constricted my throat. There was a felt hat that would protect me from sun, and I shouldn't lose it or crumple it. I had a green and white belt round my waist, not to keep my shorts from falling off, my arse was plump enough, but because the belt belonged to a uniform.

Out the window of the motor-car I had stared for hours, and hours. I'd been looking for leopards and ancestors who wore feathers and who could command the eagles. I thought they'd glow, ride the clouds. Stand tall and all knowing. But in the land of the Sabeans I saw only Giraffe and a sky that became bluer and bluer, and as it became colder and colder, the clouds began to change. Puffy things they were, until you looked into the horizon, and there in the far faraway the clouds looked like mountains, because they touched the ground.

It was Masaba, or as some call it "The Great Breast." A wide highland with occasional peaks where the air was thinner, where plants grew slow and far too patiently for farmers. It was where the Elgeyo people once lived before they disappeared from their caves to find better land, closer to the herds of the Maasai, which meant war for them. There's a cave there in the Masaba, that Elephants visit to find salts. And, it's the land where Jung in his search for examples of the purity of 'primitive psychology' spent months of traveling and questioning his own identity before wandering on to the Hindu whose interpretation seemed better suited to his own.

Jung would have called Masaba or the Great Breast, Mount Elgon. But I didn't because I was stubborn before I bowed down to English.

It's a demon that hides in the stomach, a swallowing that sends a mind to crying or sleep. But as the masters smoked cigarettes, drank beer and laughed away the first hours of a new term in their common room, my friend in the uniform of an Armenian private soldier came through the moonlight to visit with me. I could see him loom on the other side of the mosquito net. He was still looking for his Hippo tooth, he smelled of the earth that Okanya slept upon, and as he told me, he had just dined upon a large plate of white ants, fried in oil and onion, delicious they were. And I can still smile at the idea of Walking Stewart, who had died about two hundred years before I expect to die, enjoying a dinner of white ant.

"Tomorrow for breakfast, you'll have porridge, and there'll be bread and jam. Margarine from a great tin in the kitchen. Your masters will sit at the head of each table. They'll have toast, butter from the refrigerator, and a boiled egg. The guilty will give you some of their butter when it's your turn to sit next to them. And those of your fellow pupils who accept the master's offer are the boys to be very wary of."

We'd been told, once the electric lights in the dormitory had been turned out, talking or noise of any kind, wouldn't be tolerated. A failure to obey would have dire consequence. Not one of us newcomers to such a discipline had dared to open our mouths, most especially those of us unfamiliar with the electric light, which had a quality to it so magical a person could barely prevent himself from touching the switch that turned the light on and then off again. Awe, I guess. Fear and wonder. But an obedient silence from me didn't trouble Walking Stewart. I could see the mosquito net move as he sat on the edge of the bed. I could hear the creak in his boot, and I could hear the rasp of age in his breath and I could hear the weight of him on the bed springs.

"Can you read, yet," he asked. I told him that sometimes I pretended I could but really the effort was beyond me, and that more likely my skill would reveal itself as an ability to ride a bicycle, or read the hoof prints of Cattle, because a Bull had gone missing to the old men who sat down, and that I was bound by blood to return the Bull to a path of righteousness. "It'll never be," Walking Stewart answered me.

The Wazungu, I assured him were "small minded," and that he, being a Wazungu, was also "small minded." But quite what "small minded" meant I was not fully able to explain, beyond suggesting that it was a frailty of purpose associated with a paucity of honor and should be pitied for the considerable and often peculiar ceremony required to maintain it. "Objects such as shoes, and most certainly socks reduce the foot, prevents it from understanding itself, causes it to become idle, and begins the downward slope that gradually reduces an otherwise complete being to a condition of dishonorableness that cause them to wander aimlessly."

These were the words of the ancestors I thought. And always out of generosity, Okanya's mother's father would end his sermon with the word 'less able,' rather than 'tragic' or 'sad' or 'pathetic.' He did so, because in me, a pink person, he had seen hope, which meant that fate of the Wazungu had not yet been totally written. And I reckoned this opinion of his was a particular responsibility upon me, and I had sworn an oath in blood with Okanya before saying goodbye to him. We would both of us remember our ancestors, Okanya through his willingness to accept circumcision, and clearly I already had been circumcised so my path had been set before either Okanya and I could even remember.

"It's thoughtless of you," I told Walking Stewart, "to assume the wind has taken me so far from home that I'll never return."

"I was six years old once." Walking Stewart reached for the book under my pillow that I thought was very well hidden. He opened its pages as though looking for something that he couldn't find, so he tossed the book onto my bed and he said, "I too was sent away to a boarding school. It was far away in the blessed land of England. I was taught to read, to write and to calculate. I enjoyed sporting activities, which are good for the body. So make sure you do well at them. Everything else I learned at school failed to summarize the world for me."

"I'm not used to wearing shoes," I whispered to him. "Now I have to wear socks. And I have a pair of shoes that have laces like yours. I don't know how to wear them. Can it really be that these people know what they are doing."

I could feel Walking Stewart's kindness toward me. Like a memory of Okanya's grandfather, he made warm tears come to my eye. It was physical, in that way of wishing to be hugged, as though part of a mind was drifting toward emptiness and needed to be held together otherwise it would get utterly lost in the confusion of loneliness. I can say with some confidence that I was already well practiced in the art of a being unwished for, so I knew better than to hope for such a warmth to realize itself upon my behalf amongst the Wazungu. And that first night at boarding school there was still flesh on the bones of my heart that believed I myself would take back the Bull the old man had lost to the old men who sat down. I knew that Bull well. It had the one back leg which was lazy and consequently when he walked he dragged an unmistakable hoof in the dust. For hours I had looked at that print, knew it with an intimacy, yet too quickly it had become uncertain in my mind, jumbled amongst other things, like laces and bed making.

"Tomorrow," Walking Stewart told me. "After breakfast, you'll have to polish your shoes. Watch the other boys, they'll show you how it's done."

"I am most afraid of the slipper," I admitted.

Walking Stewart laughed at me and as he did so the door to the dormitory opened, the light switched on and Mr. Runnymede demanded to know who had been talking. I had no hesitation, I told him that I had. He told me to never talk again after lights were switched out. I told him that I had tried to remain voiceless but it was proving difficult considering I was in a bed with sheets and under a mosquito net which felt entombing, claustrophobic, because I couldn't feel the breeze from the window, nor could I hear the night and silence in the dark was unnerving, and that generally speaking I would much rather be elsewhere.

"You will speak English." Mr. Runnymede raised his voice at me. He was angry. Angrier than was natural.

But you have to know that to get six of the best from a school master's slipper on your fist night at boarding school, while it unnerves the teaching staff, it mightily impresses one's peers.

"Whatever you do!" Walking Stewart said to me, "Don't cry."

And it's not so much the pain that makes you want to cry, it's more like the indignity of being served up to more powerful muscles than yours. Nor was there a forgiveness of me, from Mr. Runnymede, which as Walking Stewart pointed out made it ever more important that I should learn how to read. And to the question why, Walking Stewart answered, "So you can read my account of how men will recover their nature and we might together build the joyful dispenditure of heaven here on earth."

But Mr. Runnymede hadn't been blinded by the dormitory's electric light. He'd spotted the book on my bed. "What's this," he'd asked me. Again I had briefly lost my English, so I said not a word. He'd taken the book with him to the study where boys where punished, and when he'd finished with me, he'd not returned the book to me. It was on his desk. I could see it in my mind and it was lonely without me, nor could I remember a time when I hadn't slept near it.

"If I just had my chance to write that book again." Walking Stewart had a tremble in his voice, his wide eyes on fire, the scar on his forehead glowed as though freshly healed. "I got lost in the drawing room with merchants and chemists. Wordsworth thought me common, and I resented that from a man who took from the public purse and gave nothing in return. And I'll eat my tunic if Coleridge ever entered a seraglio as I have done. Or severed the head of a rival, as I have done. Or walked the surface of the globe across eight of its languages, as I have done. And perhaps had I contributed such vignettes to my philosophy they might have opened their eyes to my thinking. Instead of dismissing it as untutored. We have work, my little friend! Yes indeed, we have work to do. I'll never again be called 'traveler.'"

"How do I get the book back," I wondered aloud.

There was bitterness in Walking Stewart as he answered, "Was a time when I'd tell you to ask for it."

I was at the junior table. It was lunch time, and my turn to sit next to Mr. Runnymede. He said nothing to me as he poked at his potato and worried at a lump in his gravy, that he'd push at with his bread. There was a fleck of well boiled cabbage on his mustache. His teeth were bad because his breath smelled like termites. There was the noise of plates and of knives and forks, and there was aimless chatter from those who found silence disagreeable. Senior boys had seen a snake and had called for the school dog to help hunt it down, but the snake had sideways into the copse of trees under which coffee plants grew, where no one was permitted, not even the dog because it distressed the ambience of the coffee plants, we'd been told. Senior boys claimed the snake was a Mamba, but it wasn't, because it was green and slow witted, and had it been a Mamba the school dog would have been dead by now. Slow and painful it would have been, and everyone would have rallied like feathers. And there was a fly in the dining room which settled upon my face, a something I didn't discourage.

When Mr. Runnymede noticed the fly, he assumed I'd wave my hand at it, chase it off, so he went back to his plate. I could hear his stomach belch, and I guessed it was the little things about me that rankled Mr. Runnymede, because most of all I did not wish to be a part of him, or his clan and that tends to trouble people, makes them uneasy from the challenge of it.

"When I was sixteen, I was sent on a sailing ship from England to the Bay of Bengal to work as a writer for the East India Company. It was my father's idea. He'd decided I was an idiot. A dunce, he called me." It was a difficult memory for Walking Stewart.

"We should run away from this," I said to him.

"As soon as you can read, we shall," he answered.

It was a Mr. Corduroy who taught the junior class. He was younger, fresh faced from England, his skin like chalk and spotted, his right leg made shorter than his left leg by polio, he wore an odd shoe to compensate, but he could run like a Rhino and he seemed filled by an energy, or cheerfulness that put the smile of an escaped prisoner into him, nervous sometimes but happier and curious. He didn't smoke cigarettes in the break from lessons. In his class I learned slowly to read. My enthusiasm, just a little beyond Mr. Corduroy's comprehension, he thought it either unnatural or special.

"What is it you want to read?" Mr. Corduroy eventually asked me. I told him the book was in Mr. Runnymede's study, on the desk by his bed, next to the picture of himself with medals.

"This general averfion of man to thought and reflection confines him to the animal scale of exiftence, and stunts, as it were, his growth to perfectibility, graduated on the higher scale of intellectuality; though moft men are convinced of this truth, how few there are who desire to increase or elevate their exiftence; they all seem submerged in their predicament, and like the mifer prefer the trepidating weeping care of amaffing gold to a cordial and joyful difpenditure."

Walking Stewart had listened impatiently through the half hour or so Mr. Corduroy had given to my reading of the second paragraph of the introduction to The Revolution of Reason. My friend had stamped and paced his suggestions to the empty class room during the midday break. Others from my class were out in the fresh air, running around or taking their turn to leap about on the monkey bars. Mr. Corduroy with his 'told you so' over my shoulder as I sat at the desk, Walking Stewart's open book in front of me. For all I knew it was the language of the Karamajong written into words.

"Well done." Mr. Corduroy was that way with his encouragement. And then he suggested I try reading books written for those my own age.

"And that's how it begins," Walking Stewart spluttered at the enormity of Mr. Corduroy's suggestion.

"I did read," I answered Walking Stewart.

"Your getting there." Mr. Corduroy was remarkable for his patience.

"You'll need a satchel to save my revolution of reason from rain and ruin. You'll need food and a water bottle." Walking Stewart instructed me. "And the kitchen is locked up at night to prevent pilfering."

There was a story of the Cold Masaba I had heard from Okanya's grandfather. He told me, the English themselves came from a very small and oddly shaped Island on a part of the globe that was apparently very much colder than even the land of the Sabeans. So cold in fact that at certain times it was colder than even the highest slopes of Masaba, where water could become transfixed by cold and where without adequate shelter a person could become similarly transfixed. It was a story Okanya had no great faith in, he thought it unlikely the English called a small oddly shaped island home. But in Mr. Corduroy's class room there was a map of the world on one of the walls. Possessions of the English were marked in pink. And the land of the English themselves was indeed a very small oddly shaped island, it too was pink in color. Okanya's grandfather had been correct about the shape of the English Island, and most likely he was correct about the cold. Walking Stewart had his own magnificent tunic, but, so as to protect me from possibility of transfixing cold, I would need to add both my woolen sweaters to my list of needs, one of which, the one with the long sleeves was locked up in a cupboard beside the bathrooms.

It was a Sunday, well into the term. The Day of Rest. No classes, or football after the lesson from the Headmaster who would lead us in a prayer and song that promised salvation to our souls in the name of a gentle Jesus. There was no dancing or the call of drums, instead we would kneel in the courtyard, under the shade of a tall Acacia tree, bow our heads. The school master's wives would be there with their elegant hats, their pale skin, lipsticks and perfume, their daughters who'd skitter around the Headmaster's own daughter, because she had horses that would gallop and bray and leap fences, and she drove her own motor-car, carried a riding crop wherever she went. Walking Stewart too would stare at her until the Sunday lesson was read, then he'd listen to the words from the headmaster, hear them fall as though from the sky, he'd frown, shake his head in frustration.

"When you're finally able to read my work," he'd remind me. "I wish to make a number of corrections before you translate the work into the language of the Sabeans and bury the translation in a safe place so future generations might recognize me as the First Man of Nature. Place my statue beside the Pyramid. Enter my name into the encyclopedia."

"We Ateso are not Sabeans," I'd assure him.

Between that hour of church service and the bell for lunchtime, we school boys were given our own free reins to walk the school grounds. I'd wander with Walking Stewart to look for the Sabeans, because we both needed their wisdom, which sometimes meant breaching the school boundary lines, which was an offense infinitely worse than conversation or noise of any kind after the electric light was turned out.

I had heard that beyond the school boundary lines, somewhere to the north, there was a settlement of men and women who worked for the Headmaster in his sisal fields, carried wood for the kitchen, washed the clothes we lived and slept in, swept and tidied. I had heard that the school was not their home either, but more like a place to be for the cash money the Headmaster paid them. Then, when acres of the sisal was done with, the coffee beans plucked and dried, and the term was through, they, like us, would go home for a spell. They were mostly silent and often sad faced, like whispers of people. Bowed by a reluctance similar to my own, I had decided. An opinion parsed by my peers and more especially by the older boys who described them as dangerous and better to be wary when around them. Which was an opinion neither Walking Stewart nor I wanted to accept.

"They are Sabeans," Walking Stewart had decided. For my part, I had expected a magnificence and a command from the Sabeans. And I told Walking Stewart this.

"The Sultan of Mysore had all the trappings of magnificence. A more unpleasant man it would be difficult to find."

"Did you cut off his head?" I asked.

He was genuinely surprised by the question, and a little hurt by it. "No," he replied. "I have led men in battle, and I have sacked villages, and I might have wished to cut off the Sultan's head, but I am no dunce."

He'd run on about his adventures through our Sundays together as we searched for the Sabeans. He'd escaped from service to Hyder Ali, Sultan of Mysore. An injury to his leg, wouldn't heal. It was in his mind to find a surgeon from the East India Company to cure the wound, but the Sultan had become nervous of Walking Stewart's prowess on the battlefield and would not grant permission. So Walking Stewart, afraid the Sultan would have him killed, set off on a walk that took him half way around the world.

"It only made sense when I tried to understand that I was engaged in securing my future," Walking Stewart told me. "Otherwise there was no purpose to it. All the same I could indeed have killed Hyder Ali, taken his thrown. He was a brute. But there is movement in the world, we are all going somewhere. And soon enough my question became where?"

"Tell me again about the bird cage," I'd often ask him.

"The Persian sailor is a suspicious creature, his dhow like his religion built more on faith than sound principles. And even though I was aboard as a guest, when one of our number drowned in a storm, I was blamed. They wanted to throw me overboard, but I had sufficient Farsi to explain to them that killing me might bring ill omen upon us all, and better if they suspended me from the bow, along with the chickens in the chicken coop, where I could be stored as the chickens were stored. I was there for two weeks. I sang songs for the scraps they fed me and the chickens, and one of those songs was Cutty Wren which pleased the sailors greatly and it amused me to think of Richard the Second as a little wren, so I changed the lyrics and sang it them in Farsi. Instead of the Wren or Richard the Second, I had Red Nose and Mozie feed the Sultan of Oman to the poor. I knew then it was Pirates, I'd fallen amongst. Windrals of the Persian seas. I knew this because they greatly enjoyed my summation of their earthly master. Yet morning, noon and sunset they'd pray to Allah, and as each day passed I'd die a little. From want of food and water you might think. Not so. The thing that nearly broke me was waiting to die. I'd look into the eye of the plump chicken beside me, and wonder at the difference between us. I'd hear the call to Allah the merciful, and I'd gaze into the far blue looking for reason. We should go to the Persian seas one day. I'll teach you to ride a Camel."

But despite Walking Stewart's wisdom and knowledge of The Globe, as he called our world, I didn't think the people who worked for the Headmaster were Sabeans, until close to the lunchtime on that one Sunday far into the term. We happened upon a tall man seated with his back to the trunk of a Banana tree. He'd been harvesting the leaves for basket roofing, his hands sticky with black gum and the panga at his side was sparkling from his work. He'd been sweating, his chest and arms glistened through the shade which the Banana leaves cast as they took to dancing in a sudden cool breeze down from the higher lands.

When he saw me, he was annoyed at first, as though to say "What new hell have you brought me." And I reckoned that like me he was far from home and disgruntled because of it. Then he looked away, as though to ignore me, pretend I wasn't there. And I knew then he could have been a Sabean made sad and robbed of his pride, like a saddled horse. When I sat down near him, he waved a hand at me, "Shoo," he said, which was a word I'd heard enough to know it was English for "Irritation be gone."

"I am from the other side of Masaba," I pointed in a somewhat self important manner toward the higher land, but he had no apparent comprehension of what I was saying. So I took from my memory words that I'd heard of the Sabeans. They'd had wheels, I'd been told. They'd had robes of orange. They had brought with them coffee, sugar cane and the cannabis plant. They could tame Elephant. Finally, the word Bull in several of its incarnations produced a smile in the Sabean that a man gives to a child who is trying to impress.

"Left, Right, Left, Right, Wield, Halt, Bloody Idiot, General Salute," he said softly. Then he added, "You can see I have a little English."

"An impressive impudence," Walking Stewart decided.

"An English man might walk across Masaba or die trying." The Sabean decided. "My advice is to walk around it. Or if you had any sense you'd choose to walk from here to the railhead. It's not that far, a good day along the road unless you have a bicycle. They'll be moving sisal and cows soon enough, so there will be trains Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. You're a little small to climb by yourself into the rail car, and don't try to do it if it's moving. So you'd have to manage the feat from a platform. I am certain you have heard how we Africans are more adept at pilfer than Arabs, so your chances of finding a rail car at the platform at night are not good. As for the water bottle, there's a fine one in the headmaster's horse stable. It hangs from the door on the office. I have enjoyed watching the headmaster's daughter drink from it, so you know it is clean. None of you school boys are allowed near the horse stable. I could take it for you, but when they catch you, as they will, you'll tell them I gave you the water bottle, and the headmaster will send for me and I'll be returned to jail. And you will return to your dreaming."

It was uncomfortable to listen to these words. And if I did cross the Masaba, get home to Okanya, in whose embrace would I fall. Okanya's mother would tell me I did not belong with her. I could see the confusion my appearance would put into her. She was proud of the pair of shoes she owned, would use them sparingly so as not to wear them out, or risk injury to them. She owned a bicycle which she would push all the way to market day, but would not ride because she never had wanted to learn how to. And my mother with her new husband, when they found me, would simply return me to the boarding school, a journey of seven hundred miles, an accomplishment that had already aggravated them once.

"I understand your disappointment," the Sabean spoke up.

"We'll die trying," Walking Stewart answered him.

I heard the bell for lunchtime, which would be followed by an hour of afternoon rest, in the dormitory with no talking permitted because we were supposed to look at books. Walking Stewart's Revolution of Reason, his Apocalypse of Nature, was back with Mr. Runnymede, it was considered Unreadable Nonsense. Which left me with nothing to do in the afternoon rest but try to swap my Picture Book for something like White Fang or Conan Doyle's, Lost World. Which I'd heard were both ripping yarns. Nor was my Picture Book that popular with my peers, it's characters steeped in a truly incomprehensible series of events, one of which had to do with carrying water, another falling off a wall, but at least I had learned that Sheep were creatures to be wary of. Like Goats, I guessed. As well, trade of books with me was on the controversial side of any equation. I had quickly lost the gains I'd made that first night at the boarding school. They said I was tar brushed and not to be trusted, and sometimes this meant fighting, which gets easier with practice, especially when you occasionally win, and so long as you never show fear or tell tales or inflict or receive injury requiring medical attention.

"It's being a Gentleman!" Walking Stewart explained it to me after I'd been particularly broken. And he reminded me that while at school, he too had been good at sporting activities, not so much because he'd enjoyed them but because they had provided him with a constitution that had enabled him to walk half way around The Globe, an experience from which he had emerged as a man of unparalleled genius. "Javelin, discus, fencing and Cricket for your intellect, but it's rugby that will serve you best. That's were intellect meets the brute world and its beasts."

I forget the day, sometime in the midweek, the school dog was claimed by the night. We heard the dog bark, then it yelled and then it was silent. I read the sign, when the dawn came, which impressed the Headmaster's tearful daughter as well as her father and Mr. Runnymede, most assuredly Mr. Corduroy and eventually my peers who at first thought me "Full of It." A blood trail that disappeared into grass, but I persevered, found the Leopard's pugmarks in the dust, saw how she had traveled, and where she had paused to savor her meal, purr and dream of her full stomach as Hyena will. The dog's corpse was in one of the trees deep in the coffee grove, where no one was supposed to go. The Sabean was called to climb the tree and dig a deep grave. It was a learning for us scholars, they decided, so we missed class to watch and pray. Grown men bowed heads, but not one single full throated wail of anguish in that "Valley of the shadow of death."

Then when the hole was filled, the Sabean took his chance to say to me, "I'll get you your water bottle. Tonight. I'll leave it for you by the Leopard's tree." The Sabean spoke Ateso.

"What did I tell you!" Walking Stewart came alive with joy. He slapped his knee. He had found his Sabean, and breathless it made him.

I'd heard Mr. Runnymede's laugh and the sound of drinking in the master's common room. I had rescued Walking Stewart's book from Mr. Runnymede's study. I had it wrapped safely in the blanket from my bed, which I carried in my arms. I'd found the full water bottle by the leopard's tree. I had it hung from my neck, where it soon became heavy, but I could smell horse and riding crop on the strap.

"The Sabeans brought leopards with them to their Promised Land" Walking Stewart was happier than he'd been for a long, long time.

Half a moon, bright against the Milky Way, my feet cold against shadows of rocks and thorn. They had already become soft soled and lazy from wearing shoes, but I'd not care if they started to bleed, it would serve both them and me right for having fallen so far. The night, I told myself, was fearless. But I too had seen the leopard, I had heard her tracking me, and I had stolen from her. Her wide paws are only silent when she wishes them to be.

"When I was in his employ The Nawab of Arcot," Walking Stewart told me, "He would take his annual hunt to the Saranda Range. A Leopard does not appear large from the back of an Elephant. But to lift him for the taxidermist takes two good men. For a Tiger I'd anticipate needing four men, otherwise there's risk to the hide. Our master was a terrible shot. Blind in one eye I always thought. Never shot anything himself, he'd raise his jeweled Brown Bess and pull its trigger at the same moment his marksman did. His imbecile sons no better. He prized Leopards, because unlike Tigers who are scavengers by nature and hunt only out of necessity, Leopard's take joy from hunting. The hunt is in their dreams when they sleep, which is why they take poorly to cages. A Tiger on the other hand is like a Lion, he will live happily in a cage. He'll flaunt his worthlessness when he sees you. Salivate as you throw horse meat at him. But a Leopard will stare you in the eye as you approach his cage and he'll hate you for imprisoning him. It's when they get old and toothless, that Leopards develop a taste for people, and barking dogs."

The road had been damaged by rains, it had yet to be graded smooth again. I could see the headlamps from a motor-car before I heard the noise of its engine. I hid in the brush, watched it slowly pass, and when it was gone from sight, the Leopard stepped out into the road before I did. I could see her ears against the stars, her eyes blinked. I guessed that no matter how still I remained she'd smell me, and I guessed she had watched as the Sabean took her meal from her tree, buried it deep in the ground. I should have reached for the motor-car when I had my chance, waved arms in surrender. But it was too late, I decided, my bones would end in a tree, around which Hyena would purr as they waited for the Vultures to find me. There'd be no tear from the headmaster's daughter, no walk in the valley of the shadow of death. And if I had to do it again as I am now, I'd run to the leopards arms, feel the strength of her, and fall quickly to acceptance.

Instead, I heard Walking Stewart say, "You are as much a shade to the Leopard as she is to you. If she is as certain of you, as you are of her, you'd be gone by now. Consider her predicament and yours, not as a miser weeping for gold. The Leopard is joyful, we should be too."

I stood up from the ditch in which I had cowered, gathered my blanket and water bottle and led the way toward the railhead.

"I wonder what I might have become had I taken my chance, been more like Hyder Ali." Walking Stewart was saying. "I could have cut his head off. I could have become Sultan. Powerful on earth. I might have ruled all of India. But once you become a king, there is no happiness, because always there is an enemy that keeps a mind cruel and charming. Imagine, my little friend, how the world would be if it's only enemy was ignorance."

"Did Hyder Ali hunt Leopards like the Nawab of Arcot."

"No," Walking Stewart replied. "Hyder Ali had no time for gentleman's sport. He skulked over the design of new weapons. His iron jacket rockets. He plotted and made war. His victories as numerous as his defeats. I was first wounded while with Hyder Ali's expedition against the British East India Company in Surat. A fine adventure it was. We had seven War Elephants and ten thousand men. But, me an Englishman! At war with the British East India Company. If Wordsworth knew, he'd have called me a traitor as well as a buffoon. As would all of London, except perhaps the wretched and those radicals in whose hearts lay more than pamphlets. But it's never the poor who rage against their king, it's those who expect more from him. Which is an intellect most noble, until it becomes greed. It's not that I deceived anyone when I tell them my journey has been a journey of the mind. I don't tell lies when they asked me about my travels. I simply omit that I was paid handsomely to discourage the corrupting scourge of the British East India Company. Not only in India, but also in England. Indeed I am and will be, the only man of nature, until we rewrite my book."

"You defied your Chief!" It was revelation in my mind. I had always thought that when Okanya's grandfather began to know he would defy his own Paramount Chief and was to die for his Lead Bull, he had rustled the wind, called forth spirits from the great beyond and had conjured Walking Stewart to guide and comfort me, in the way The Headmaster claimed God had sent Jesus to guide and comfort those called upon to be Christians. But in all the world that I knew in those days, there could have been no two people more opposite than Walking Stewart and Okanya's grandfather. Which set me to wondering about Walking Stewart's leg wound, as well as the scar on his temple that would pulse when he was aggravated by the passion of his thoughts. "Jack's broken crown," he'd call it.

"A Mysore Rocket fragmented, it scattered the Elephant, and a small piece of it deeply penetrated the calf of my leg. I removed it myself. A metal shard about the size of my thumb. But no poultice from Hyder Ali's witches would suck the poison. It turned green, smelled rancid and I had a fever. I needed the advice of an Edinburgh surgeon, or lose my leg, and worse lose my mind. Which would have been catastrophe for humankind."

And while his leg wound had caused him to seek forgiveness from his Paramount Chief, his head wound belonged to a less gallant incident. A Tamil village had failed to produce tribute, a disobedience that could not go unpunished. "I should have guessed at the trap laid for us. The women and children had scattered. Livestock nowhere to be found. We burned the village and in the last moments an elder came at me with a saber. Had he been stronger he'd have cut my head into two. I killed him. I took the old man's life." And even though it was dark, I guessed that wound on Walking Stewart's temple was pulsating fit to explode.

"Did Wordsworth kill people."

"Not in the blood of face to face, but rest assured my little friend, when it comes to killing all of England, including her poets, are as guilty as I. Nor should there be shame in that."

"My own father," I said. "Was buried without his head."

"Much wiser than laudanum, which is how I evaded mental decline."

The moon was ready for its horizon. Electric lights swimming with flying things, some the size of pin pricks others like flying Dinosaur, announced the railhead. It was victory, I'd go no further. I turned and beckoned, but the Leopard would not follow me out of the shadows, which caused a strange loneliness to come over me. She was wiser than I, and she was real.

"No such thing as railways, when I was your age." Walking Stewart leapt from the red clay into an empty boxcar that was waiting for milk cows too old to make butter. Try as I did I couldn't catch his hand when he held it out to lift me, which distressed both of us.

Morning always comes with bird song, unless land is barren, and even there in the sand and rock of waterless deserts you'll hear the call sometimes, open an eye to the world and decide it's friendly, unless you are locked in a cage behind curtains. I don't know what it's like in those parts of the globe dominated by ice, but I guess that if there are Polar Bears there are also scavengers that fly. But where land is bountiful the morning call is puff and blow, and you can enjoy it in the idea of a Swallow's tail, dancing across the sky like a feather and never think it's food the Swallow's after. Then in the evening you can sit and watch the night come and the Swallow tail still dances in your mind, without you ever having to leave the ground or open your eyes. I had finished the last drop of my water, was peeing against a cold iron wheel, the blanket warm around my shoulders, when I heard the call not of the Bee-eaters quarreling around insects that had become dazed by the electric lights, but of a railway guard who had spent his night more asleep than I had been. He wore a turban I remember, his eyes green as mine, but kinder.

"I am Sabean," I told him, and I would have walked on had my feet not been so ravaged by cold and thorn bush.

"You look more like a little lost English boy to me." He then locked me, my blanket, my book and the water bottle in the confines of the railway station's ticket office.

It was small window, but if I stood on the bench I had a good view of the parking area. A Bucks Wagon was there it's engine steaming, a mechanic cursing at it, its cargo hidden by the canvas, mooed and grumbled, and as they did so the wagon trembled and swayed. I saw The headmaster's car trail red dust, it had been moving fast. The Headmaster stepped painfully out of the front passenger seat, hobbled a while as he collected his walking stick, he'd damaged his knee from falling off a horse. Mr. Corduroy too was unhappy. As I waited for the key to turn in the ticket office lock, I decided that I would walk through the valley and that I would feel no pain, because that walking stick in the Headmaster's hand troubled me.

"Whatever you do, don't cry." Walking Stewart was to his attention, his back stiff, his head high, his chin firm.

"You're a troublesome little rascal. I've not had my breakfast yet!" The Headmaster told me, his voice not as angry as I thought it might be. And Mr. Corduroy had a worry in his eye for me, that I have since decided was respect. "You don't just run off," The Headmaster shook both his head and his walking stick at me. "It upsets the women folk. It's an unmanly thing to do."

And even though Walking Stewart was a man of superior intellect and genius and he was some years older than the Headmaster he shuffled his feet, pursed his lips and gave every appearance of apology.

"Removing confiscated literature from Mr. Runnymede's study is bad enough. But My daughter's water bottle!" The headmaster went on. "Did her reprobate syce give it to you? Did he steal it for you? Don't think I haven't seen you talking to him! He's bad news and a worse rascal than you are, but I owe him my life. Go on! Tell me!"

I said, "I stole it."

"From the locked saddle room! Where did you get the key. Go on! Tell me!"

"We've never been to the saddle room," Walking Stewart muttered in a more than despairing manner. And as I tried to imagine what a saddle room might be, or how it would look, I guessed if it had a window there'd be square bars upon the window just as there were in the window of the ticket office. But possibly, saddles eschewed sunlight, and had to be stored in darkness. I could feel my heart beat cruelly, as it does sometimes when the emotion of disgrace is upon it.

"The window of the saddle room was open," I said.

"So you somehow squeezed through the bars." Which in the world of the Wazungu were supposed to be proof against any intrusion by Humankind.

"Yes," I said.

"Go on! Show me!" The Headmaster hobbled over to the ticket office window, unlatched and pulled back the glass pane, leaving only the square bars between us and the outside.

And it is the case, as Okanya had found out, that until a body reaches a certain maturity, it will pass through wherever the head will pass through. Okanya had developed beyond that point, and I had envied him that advantage, but in the ticket office I was happy to demonstrate to the Headmaster, and to Mr. Corduroy and to the Rail Guard, how small I still was. The feat required more of a squeeze than it might once have done, the food at school was extraordinarily good, and once accomplished I looked up from the pavement to find Walking Stewart beaming down at me.

Then while Mr. Runnymede's slipper did it's work, I was warmed by the memory of the Sabean. He had been unaccountably busy at the school entrance, worried for his reputation, concern in his every movement, and had I not waved at the Sabean in that confident way so as to assure him I had not betrayed him, The Headmaster might have continued in ignorance.

"You'll end your days on the gallows, my boy." But there was no animosity toward me in The Headmaster's voice, that I could hear. I had sensed an equal-ness between us, an understanding that turned a page in me.

Mrs. Pinkerton, in her white uniform, took tweezers to the thorns that had buried themselves in my feet. She apologized each time she caused pain. "You should have worn your shoes," she said. "That's what shoes are for."

The sport was to play tricks upon each other, talk when the electric lights were out, throw pillows. An ill-discipline expected from us by our masters, who'd not stamp the corridor with threats unless they heard screaming, or glass breaking, or saw hose pipes in dormitories, or saw little boys hung by their ankles from windows, or older boys creeping about on roof tops. "A Joyful dispenditure," as Walking Stewart called it.

I was thinking about my mother. I'd packed up my locker into my suitcase, her letters all of them unopened, because my hand would shake at the breakfast table when letters from home were dispensed to the school boys. "Do you need help with reading your letter," Mr. Corduroy would look at me.

"I'll read it later," I'd smile at Mr. Corduroy and I'd pocket the envelope, while others were, "Sadie has a puppies," between spoonfuls of their porridge.

"She was Shiva as I remember her. Terrible and beautiful." Walking Stewart would refer to his own mother.

"I came hatched from an egg," I'd tell him.

"If only it were that easy," Walking Stewart would sigh at the account in his own memories. "I look like my mother. I have her eyes, but unlike her I am not a Goddess. I am not fruitful, except as a banner to intellect and the furtherance of idea in the promotion of our inevitable purpose. If I were here again upon the earth I would endure the metamorphose of being born again as female. I would grow teats and a womb. My children would be Emperors. And I would have no husband. It's the spiders who have it right, my little friend. Their women are seven times larger than their men. And once the embrace is through, he has not the wit or strength to escape her jaws. She is nectar to him. He is in the arms of ecstasy. A happiness without parallel. Don't forget, I have seen the seraglio, the harems of Sultans, I have heard the word of Allah, and no accident the Catholic Priest declares himself celibate because however saintly he might become he cannot give birth to perfection. Indeed mothers are both terrifying and beautiful to men. Their half of the world is more ancient. You'll find when the integer is deciphered, men will be banished to the nursery of negatives. I lost my testicles to the torturer, so I am in flux. Neither one nor the other. A painful good fortune."

That night in the junior dormitory, exhausted by excitement and on the verge of sleep, Cheadle heard slithering. "Enough, I'm too tired," he called out. But the sound Cheadle heard wasn't yet one more example of a joyful dispenditure it was a long snake climbing down Cheadle's mosquito net. When the electric light went on there was high pitch and panic. I could have taken the lead and pointed out the snake had no black maw when it opened it's mouth, its skin green, it could climb and it was too afraid of us to be a Black Mamba. But I didn't. I jumped up and down on my bed along with the others, recalled how a Black Mamba could grow toward sixteen feet in length and how when riled it could raise a full two thirds of it's body length as it lunged for the jugular. Cheadle succumbed to a faint, an unforgivable error of manhood. Damon jumped so high on his bed, he popped springs tumbled into his mosquito net, became entwined by it and both he and the mosquito net fell to the floor just inches from the terrified snake, who had suddenly chosen motionlessness as his best defense. We threw pillows and we threw shoes and howled like baby Baboon. It was wonderful.

Then Mr. Runnymede appeared. He picked up the snake by the scruff of its neck, yelled loudly at us to stop destroying school property and to stop being cruel to the innocent, otherwise end of term or no end of term the slipper would find busyness.

"When I return that net will be properly hung and there will be absolute silence."

He marched the snake down the corridor to the Senior Dormitory where he spared his voice not one little bit for the trick they had played on us. We in the Junior Dormitory remade our beds, hung Damon's mosquito net, gave Cheadle a sneer.

As sleep came to me, I told myself that on the train journey home I'd read the letters my mother had sent to me. It was blue ink she used to address the envelopes. I could taste the smell of her, whenever I touched them. Like Walking Stewart's mother, mine was both terrifying and beautiful, and sometimes she'd pass details of the day to day along to the care of others. More like a Lioness than a Leopard. My train ticket hadn't been paid to the full extent of a first class fare, so there would be no bunk bed for me to sleep upon, no crisp white sheets, no access to the dining car, as there would be for the other boys from the school who began their journey home by train.

Mr. Corduroy had whispered, "I could make up the difference. No one need know."

The Headmaster, in his office, gazed across at me, he had the walking stick across his desk, a cigarette in his hand. On the wall behind him a weathered cricket bat that had been signed by Wally Hammond of the Gloucester Cricket Team. "My daughter's syce has relatives in your direction. He will accompany you in the second class carriage." The Headmaster had decided. And in his eye there was a spark that Walking Stewart thought 'fishy.' Mr. Corduroy was uncomfortable, he didn't like the idea.

"Not one of these segregationists are you, Corduroy?" The Headmaster offered.

"Not all, sir," Mr. Corduroy answered him. "He's just a little young. His parents might not approve."

"From what I've heard, the boy's father, rest his soul, would most certainly approve." And The Headmaster's reply to Mr. Corduroy was a like a glass bell to my ear. Amongst the Wazungu discussion of my father wasn't something that occurred when I was in the room.

Two Bucks Wagons trailing the dust of the dry season, like demons down the driveway they were, and we school boys in polite straight lines, with out felt hats and belts and ties and correct socks, like Penguins we raised a cheer. We climbed aboard, and as we did so Mrs. Pinkerton, in her Sunday dress, started to cry. "She always does that," we were told by those of our number with more experience than we novitiates who belonged to the Junior Dormitory. The Bucks Wagons hadn't been completely swept of cow trace, so we sat upon our suit cases, and were directed to remove our hats, hold tight to them, remain seated and if any one of us erred by losing a hat or by falling out of the back of the wagon, we would miss the train.

"These are Bedford Lorries," Cheadle told Damon. Damon replied, "No they are not! They are Chevrolet." It was an argument that would occupy the two of them all the way from the school to the Rail Head.

For my part I was wondering where the Sabean might be and I was nervous of the loneliness that I might find in the second class carriage. A relief when he appeared, tall and strong, a basket for his own travel suitcase. I could see Oranges, Banana and Pawpaw through the woven sisal. Around his neck the water bottle that belonged to The Headmaster's daughter. And he had soldier boots with sisal string for laces, no socks on his feet. I jumped up to hold his basket so it wouldn't tip, as he climbed into the Bucks Wagon. I made space for him beside me.

"This many white faces puts the fear of Jesus into me." He mentioned as he settled his long legs. He'd had a hair cut and he smelled of Lifebuoy soap. And for those who may not know, it is the case that to keep dust from smothering a well dressed cargo when it travels dirt roads, a Bucks Wagon must be driven at high speed, it's air horn tested regularly and ruts in the road ignored.

When the time comes for separation between Me and the tapestry of being alive, and if my petition to be buried as a Zoroastrian falls foul of the magistrate, I suspect cremation will be one of the compromises contained in the final judgment. The idea of being buried, six foot under, is at best a misallocation of ground and at worst a sad failure of imagination. Cremation too has it's inconsistencies, it's major flaw somewhere in the word 'dispassionate' or 'resigned.'

There is however a railway, or there was one, that winds around an escarpment in the Great Rift valley and upon its tracks, or what might remain of them, my own ash could add ballast without affront to whatever it is I am slowly becoming. The railway was built in the 1890's by the labor of thirty thousand men shipped from the Indian Subcontinent. They were under the guidance of their own Gods, and of English military engineers and they were subject to the financial acumen of the Imperial British East Africa Company, headquartered in London. There had been massacre and indignity, rebellion, as well as local resistance from lion, on the railways path to The lake. Then before the Depression of the 1930's, following the railway's success at hindering German ambition for Africa through the course of the First World War, the rail line was extended into the territories of the Ateso.

"At the time," the Sabean explained it all to me. "We Ateso were disinclined to assist or interrupt the manifest destiny of the European tribes." And Walking Stewart had nodded approvingly.

Beside me on the bench in the passenger carriage, a little boy about my own size looked enviously at the felt hat upon my knee. I gave it to him to wear, he strutted up and down the throughway between seats, causing stir and laughter, which encouraged him further. His mother in whose company he was, became especially amused, and she'd glance at me to judge my reaction. I got the sense she hoped I would become upset.

"She is of the Nandi," the Sabean acknowledged as though nothing further was needed to explain her child's behavior.

"The Bull Shiva rode upon," Walking Stewart suggested, and he was as confused as I.

"Not so long ago," the Sabean explained to me. "When the railway was first built, the Nandi made war upon the English King's Cattle Thieves, and one of the English Kings officers, whose name I forget, murdered the King of the Nandi under the pretense of truce while his Cattle thieves gunned down the Nandi King's escort."

The little boys mother didn't understand Ateso. It was gibberish to her, and it unnerved her, so the Sabean repeated what he had said in English. And maybe, when I think about it, I felt a certain shame for the color my skin shared with a king's officer who had called a truce so he could murder a Paramount Chief.

The little boy's mother looked down at the Sabean's soldier boots, the leather well polished, the soles worn. "My employer gave them to me," the Sabean explained. She nodded her head in that understanding manner, called to her child, who returned my felt hat in exchange for an Orange which the Sabean had reached from his basket in the luggage rack above our heads.

When the train began to move it did so through the power of boilers fired by wood. We could hear the shunt of pistons and the blasts of steam. All afternoon, all night and into the following day we would travel, and in that time the train would stop thirteen times for water and fuel and a walk-about for its passengers. And I was real pleased when the little boy and his mother declared the first stop their destination, gathered their luggage and left our part of the carriage almost empty.

I followed the Sabean out into the haze that lingers before the rains. The land was without green for as far as an eye could see. There was no platform at that stop, we walked along the gravel to watch the engine pant for the water it was being supplied with, it was maroon in color and huge it was. Walking Stewart climbed up into the driving compartment, so as to better examine the dials and levers. "The Philosopher must bow down to the microscope," he'd often remark. "The wheel was a product of intellect," he'd say when he saw the fantastic. "Now look what a splendor it has become." He thought us living things could be explained. He saw our being as motion, moving equation by equation toward an improvement, and when he'd left the earthly plane he preferred to think the integers out of which we were made were drawn to a oneness. In the arithmetic class he'd pay special attention, and he struggled mightily with the multiplication tables. "What are four fours?" I had whispered. "Sixty four," he'd reply with confidence. And Mr. Corduroy had asked, "How on earth can four times four by sixty four." Which had led to a very poor grade for me and to diatribe from Walking Stewart, who despite his immense intellect and genius, is one of those in our number who react poorly to any suggestion of incorrectness on their part.

I looked toward the rear of the train, where the first class carriages were. I couldn't see my comrades from school. I guessed they had got out on the other side of the train for their walk about. I crouched down to look under the carriages in the hope of seeing some sign of them, but there was none, so I walked round the front of the engine, crossed the rail lines. There was no one to be seen, not even Mr. Runnymede, under whose charge the other boys were. It was unnerving.

"There's been killing. Wazungu prefer not to get off the train at this stop." The Sabean words produced a dark suspicion in me that I too should have remained aboard the train. When at last the whistle called, I was the first in our carriage to return to my seat.

The late afternoon was hot. After the rail guard had passed through our midst examining our tickets, the Sabean closed his eyes, and when I thought him asleep, I retrieved my suitcase from the luggage rack. The unopened letters from my mother had drawn me to them, I could hear their chatter from inside the cover of Walking Stewart's book, and I could smell her scent, and I could read the envelope with it's capitals, but her handwriting that followed "Dear Inky," was beyond my ability to decipher. I found myself waiting for the Sabean to wake so that I might ask him whether he could read.

"Sirens," Walking Stewart remarked, "Have wings of an Owl. They fly silently."

I looked across at Walking Stewart, who was lounged on the seat opposite mine and he was filled with the song of train engines and the rhythm of their carriages upon steel railway lines, it was a sound he'd conduct with one hand as though he himself was the driver.

"Dear Dinky," Walking Stewart read. "How wonderful to think that you'll be coming home on the same day as your birthday. I have been struggling with colic. We are all very busy with the packing and throwing things out. Looking forward to seeing you again. Love Mummy."

"Colic!" I said. "What's colic?"

"I can only imagine your mother must be unwell," Walking Stewart replied. "A little gin helps, I believe. Although as a rule colic is an ailment of babies. At my age I'd prefer it to be called intestinal discomfort, but as we are aware the English Language changes with a regularity that will ultimately result in its extinction. Which is why it's critical you translate my own treatise on The Revolution of Reason into languages more enduring."

"Why is she packing," I asked, and I quickly opened another letter for Walking Stewart to read.

"Dear Pinky, I do hope you are well. We enjoyed reading your letter. Such a pity about the school dog. Your dad won the tennis singles, and we are very proud of him. We had trouble with Hyena in Matilda's Banda last week. We have decided to take the airplane rather than go by sea. All is well here. Love Mummy."

"Who is Matilda?" I asked. "And where are they going?"

"I think it says Matilda," Walking Stewart answered. "Your mother's lettering is casual. It could be Malinda's Panda. Or Malati's hanky. Or it could be Matoki something."

My anxiety and fidget roused the Sabean. He looked down at my suitcase and he saw the opened envelopes on the bench beside me. "I've not seen the spirit that haunts you," he spoke with firmness. "Be sure to discourage it soon. Or it will lead you to witchcraft and a life of misery."

"Can you read," I asked him.

"Unfortunately I can," he replied. And though my mother's handwriting was difficult, together with the Sabean, I discovered that during my absence at the boarding school, my mother had given birth, and that her new husband had not only won his tennis singles, he had been reassigned to England. "A promotion for us," my mother called it. They had moved their possessions, and where staying with old friends near the airport. "Perhaps you remember Fetrid and Clotina," she'd written. "He was best man at our wedding."

Across from me Walking Stewart was listening to the train and its carriages, his hand like a metronome, his eyes closed, a smile of moral motion upon his scarred face. The Sabean gathered up the letters, returned them to my suitcase and hefted the suitcase back onto the luggage rack. He offered me water from the flask, and when I refused he offered to peel an orange for me. He said its goodness would strengthen me against the valley of evil and the endlessness of that valley's winding path.

Up into the air we traveled, aboard an airplane, which landed at Khartoum, Cairo, Beirut, Milan, Paris and Heathrow. It's engines drove propellers, and on the tarmac you could walk all the way around it to look at the landing gear, wonder at it's black tires, stare at the pilot smoke cigarettes by the "No Smoking" sign, listen to him worry about his "Dilapidated old crate, fit only for the drink."

Chapter Four : Dandelion and Abdul's Book

When the magistrate emerges from a careful reading of my argument in favor of the Zoroastrian tradition, and gives his pronouncement as "burial or nothing," I will reply to the magistrates dictate with the retort "Burial And Nothing." And I know the magistrate will not find the least humor in it, because I have seen him in his black car on the way to the golf course, at the same time every single Saturday, the same smile upon his face. I am told he tips his caddy well and sometimes has to be driven home from the club house. I'd guess, he's not a man with anything from Stiegler to Heidegger or Nietzsche or even Hegel on his mantle beside his Gospel of Saint John, his respect for Plato, and his copy of the Commonwealth's Statutes, all fourteen hundred and thirty un-amended and well bound pages of them each one of them devoted to treatment of the dead.

All the same I don't consider the magistrate a viscous, cruel or evil man, which is why, deep within my acceptance of his decision, I'll have one final gambit to play. Which is the burden placed upon the conscience of those steeped in the Latin word for Equal and this last gambit of mine may be summed by the sentence "A last wish to a dying man." Pathetic I know, but if I am to be buried, six foot under, I will wish the grave dug by the sweat from a long handled shovel on a moor where the Heather grows. Picturesque it'll be, the work of no more than one afternoon, which usually comes as a surprise to the armchair bound in the fatter lands of the backhoe operator because for them it's the exercise bicycle, the gymnasium and the expensive cup of coffee that has come to comprise physical activity.

As for the prettiest, they should cover their eyes, run gentle fingers through their hair and wail when my body, uncased is tossed into the emptiness like a bag of rice. Then before the shovel does the remaining work of filling the void, the prettiest will scatter the pages from Walking Stewart's Apocalypse of Nature and Abdul Bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage so I am covered by words of men wiser than I.

And you're correct, as I gather strength for the confessional, my mind wanders from fortitude toward the easier task of offering others their epithet. Nonetheless, however much my own remoteness might grant me a license to enjoy poking fun in the waning days, I have far too much still to say.

I was on the corner behind a bakery, I could smell the flour and the oven. Hot bread. I was up early to wait for work. But Walking Stewart wasn't hungry, "I know my button is close." Then as morning grew wider, familiar faces joined us, all of us tired and worn. I had a smattering of language I could share with them, a little French mixed with German, bits of Portuguese, some Modern Greek and English which wasn't much spoken and little understood.

The big news amongst us that morning was gossip. A construction project due to break ground, about three hundred miles to the south, where it was even hotter and drier. There'd be three meals a day, we'd heard, and much better pay, because down there where it was hotter and drier few ventured without excellent reasons.

My comrade, Jerry, who was a German, he'd worked in a Ford Factory in Dagenham, England. An experience he'd disliked with an intensity, it still made him snarl about losing the Second World War. A Cypriot of Turkish ancestry, made homeless by troubles with the authorities, he'd traveled to avoid them, his uncle in England was a tailor. The Turk dreamed of joining him. A small raft of displaced European Jews, who'd endured concentration camps while children and who had managed to escape the Allied refugee camps to go fight in Algeria and on to Indo China for a French Government. They'd lived long enough to claim their soldier's pension. But that sort of money didn't last when there were pretty girls, cold beer and large hunks of meat to be eaten, roast chicken and raw egg eating competitions and no guns to carry. "Sitzpinkler, furn arsch, boch, drecksau, deine mutter shwitzt beim kacken." Terms of endearment they became, even when Jerry translated them for me.

And I'd guess, if you included the two outsiders, there were about ten of us, watching the sun rise, ignoring each other. I'd seen these two outsiders before. They were my age, I had decided, only a hundred, maybe a thousand years younger. I'd watched them tracing the routes of newcomers to the town, wandering around in that dream state of lost, not certain what to do, staring at things, and the occasional hopeful smile at those of us busy about our day, as we crossed the street to avoid them. It was probably the innocence of their ignorance, I thought. They had no clue they were standing among us, adding to the labor pool, like fresh drips of water in a pond already stagnant.

Walking Stewart was anxious I speak to them. "They're Americans," he said. "And their demeanor is of an educated class. And goodness knows what a backward and deluded people the Americans were when I introduced them to my genius. Their cast of Mullahs so dominating I thought them a people in a hopeless retreat. Worse than the Irish I considered them. But in my day, English was their common language, and as I listen to you talk I increasingly hear not much more than grunts and groans. A beast in the forest you are becoming. Much more of this and you'll be as incoherent as the Ottoman, the Prussian and the Jewish legionnaires for whom there is no hope left. You should at least speak with the Americans."

I glanced at the newcomers. My appraisal of them wasn't a happy one. I guessed they had made the unwise choice of sleeping down along the gravel shore, too close to the town, and they'd been happened upon by vigilant town's folk. One of the Americans had a blackened eye, the other a swollen nose, and they looked nervous, their movements hesitant and twitching. I decided they had been robbed of possessions they had brought with them, which would have included whatever money they might have had. However they still had a packet of imported filtered cigarettes, an enviable luxury. They had the blue jeans, which would have cost any one of us behind the bakery more than three month's pay and which set them so far apart they might as well have been wearing cowboy hats and gold tie pins. The boots on their feet were a long way from being used. I guessed too they were of that breed that had accustomed themselves to breakfast. Coffee perhaps. Their minds, I reckoned were spinning in the alarm of their circumstance. They would have described themselves as desperate and hard done by, I'd decided.

"Most certainly they are educated young men," Walking Stewart was saying. "Well trained intellectually and superior. But what are they doing in this forsaken place if not in search of a living adventure to match wits against and come away victorious. How I wasted my own youth on such foolishness. Imagine what I might have achieved had I not been declared a dunce. And look where I find myself now."

"Sir, I have read your work," I muttered at him in Ateso, or the language of the Sabeans, as Walking Stewart preferred to refer to it through the interminable hours it had taken me to teach it to him. "And I have read your work with care enough to have heard your stated opinion on the matter of established education. What was it you said? 'I was turned out of school for a blockhead, because I would not stuff into my memory all the nonsense of their erudition and learning.'"

"The nature of a Lead Bull," he replied. "Is his ability to instantly recognize nonsense. At a young age I recognized nonsense and would hear no more of it."

"The English word 'genius'," I corrected him. "Does not translate into 'Lead Bull.' There is no equivalence this side of witchcraft to the English word 'genius' in the language of the Sabeans, except 'a know all.' And I have heard your views on every religion that lays claim to an understanding that lurks somewhere beyond understanding."

But he recognized that defining his genius in the language of the Sabeans was an argument both of us had become exhausted by, and he retreated from the matter by repeating his insistence that I speak to the Americans, "..for the sake of sanity between you and I."

"I'll first watch them at the work of brutes in the forest, before I decide to speak to them." I was irritable and ill tempered.

The Turk, was the least aloof of us that morning. He, with the casual confidence of a pick pocket, gingered closer to the Americans. "What the fuck?" he asked them.

"We're just looking for work," the blonder of the Americans answered the question, shuffled his feet, meek and harmless, apologetic. And had he been alone, he might have received greater sympathy from those of us gathered behind the bakery.

The Turk nodded his head in that understanding way and said, "It's a Mother fucker." The two Americans nodded their heads in agreement and they both tried a smile.

"Dumb shit's slept on the beach, A-holes got to you." The Turk's sympathetic attitude toward the newcomers appeared designed to produce an American account of the ordeal awaiting an uninvited guest who chose to spend their night within half a mile of the tourist hotels which had the fresh running water, both hot and cold. Baths, showers and fresh water swimming pools. And we knew this because it was our work had built the damn things. But the Turk, who preferred to chew cigarettes, he thought smoking them effeminate, had suddenly a pack of imported cigarettes in his hand, which he tossed toward Jerry who caught it with one hand.

"Why?" Walking Stewart asked me. "Are you so proud of having become a brute?"

I accepted a cigarette from Jerry, handed the pack to the Legionnaires in exchange for a flick from their 13th Demi-Brigade monographed Zippo. The lighter was their crown jewel, cosseted with no expense spared, so no matter the circumstance it would always provide fire. The legionnaires took one cigarette each and returned what was left of the pack to The Americans.

Walking Stewart muttered something about "rapine" and "the gallows," so I gave the Americans an appreciative wave, a smile and I wound my tongue around a cheery, "efcharistó polý." Which is the Modern Greek for, many thanks. They were Americans, certainly, and I had no chew against them, and yet no way did I want them to know I spoke English, with all the burden of explanation and questions and advice and sharing and the "where are you from?" which invariably follows between English speakers.

In my long travels with Walking Stewart, I had developed attitudes to guard me against those who had had particular class of the English language written on their tongue in an accent so indelible it marked even their gestures and movement. I had endured this voice at the boarding schools in England and each time I'd heard it since leaving that place my fingers would shake, my mind would cower and I would be made craven by the desire to run from the sound of it.

Easy enough to be voiceless when ambling through the language of Flanders toward the incomprehensible Walloons. Or sharing the mouth of a culvert with souls made restless by the white sheet of penance in the German coal towns, which an argument suggests Charlemagne the Great killed his brother to rule. On down the Rhine Valley through the Being and Time of Freiberg with her trams and colorless students speaking French and smoking weed. And you'll find there's a cold sky above The Bodensee, its water clear and cold enough to drink, but it's the Swans a person remembers because they'll chase you if you stare at them. "Like the Armenian Lakes, but much wetter," Walking Stewart insisted, while we gazed at shivering pink bodies determined to wallow and splash.

Moving east and south through Europe, I had stuck out my thumb for a ride through Walking Stewart's land of the Illyrians, the Western Balkans, the armpit between Europe and Russia. Back in those days I called the land of the Illyrians, Yugoslavia. It stretched all the way to the Greeks. It's border with Austria difficult to breach especially when alone and on foot. So I was pretty much doomed to the company of Walking Stewart and shotgun wielding rural Austrians whose cabbage and wheat had fed the Boche hordes in the name of purity. And there in the forest and fields, I might have remained, enjoying a hunger that reduces a mind to a series of not unpleasant dreams, until the wind blows, the body complains of cold, and is made wary by thirst.

The couple had visas, a destination and a schedule to meet, but a punctured tire on their rented Italian sportster had brought them to a halt just yards from where I had been standing for what might have been days. I could hear the Crows laugh when I offered to help. The male part of their couple thought my offer unnecessary, so I stayed my distance, and watched their struggle with suitcases and shopping bags turn to alarm. The spare tire bounced, became a bowling ball and rolled toward me. But the couple had failed to grasp what I had guessed, the car jack was under the back seat. She caught my eye, and she smiled at me and she was pretty enough to turn cartwheels for.

When he said, "A bloody stupid place to keep a jack," and she agreed, I knew the Couple had between them an accent so engrained they defined those who did not share it as owning a reprehensible condition of being. Despite all else, I could feel my hand shake and wanted to run from the sound of it.

"The landowning class," Walking Stewart described them. And I, as their dishwasher and kitchen hand, would belong to the "peasant class." My traveling companion also insisted I understood my responsibility to the progress of moral motion, which was to advance my intellect, and its capacity to reason, so as to better challenge the more ambitious and sometimes reactionary assumptions The Landing Owning Class were so prone to make.

"I'm not your experiment," I'd told Walking Stewart. "It's winter, I am cold and need both food and shelter, or I'll freeze to death."

"When you're speaking to your employer, do not grin inanely and shuffle your feet," Walking Stewart ignored my own reasoning. "At least occasionally give them cause to question themselves."

She was pretty and flirtatious, if you like Dandelions, as I do. He was older, he'd been a banker and he'd been married before. His grown children kept threatening to visit, so sometimes the airmail from England would go missing, and I'd wink at my Dandelion as she guiltily fed the incinerator. She'd put a finger to her pretty lips, and say "Shush, Bo-Bo." Which was her name for me that tickled like fingers down the spine of my back. And exactly why she called me Bo-Bo, became apparent to Walking Stewart, when I was cleaning the windows of the bedroom My Dandelion shared with Mr. Whatever His Name. We spotted a photograph of a small dog on the mantel. "Marie Antoinette's dog was a Papillion," Walking Stewart murmured. "Your heart's-ease must have loved a Papillion called Bo-Bo." I dismissed it as coincidence.

They ran a cafe on a Greek Island where English of their own class would gather, to hobnob through winter time and yarn about Empire. I had a bed in the basement, where the wines, the whiskeys, the beers and the cheese were stored. They lived upstairs above the feeding and drinking area. But not once during the months of my employment did my employers know that I was fairly fluent in the English Language, and could even count to ten. They thought I was from Poland, or possibly Latvia and had escaped the Iron Curtain in search of what they assumed was hard work and freedom. And I have to agree they treated me with a much greater respect than they gave to the Island's indigenous peoples, who, if they were not worthless Albanians, then they had clearly grown imbecilic through inbreeding since the events at Troy and Salamis. Views heartily endorsed by my friend Walking Stewart.

"He's a splendid worker, very honest, clean and not expensive, he'll unclog the toilet for a packet of cigarettes," My Pretty Dandelion would say of me to her customers and friends. And then she'd offer to lend me out for the tidy up after somebody's evening event in one or other of the villas that had the sea view with private beach, the driveways, the dressing up, and constant nagging complaints about this or that little thing, as guests slowly became drunker and drunker, less and less palatable, and messier and messier.

When I left this gainful employment, I liberated the contents of the English Couple's safe. It was where they kept all their spending money because local bankers were as disreputable as their hours were inconvenient. I knew the lock's combination because My Pretty Dandelion, would always forget the numbers so Mr. Whatever His Name, would shout them across the kitchen at her.

My contemplating theft was an action that shocked my traveling companion. While I waited for an opportunity to accomplish the deed, he had humphed on about my intention, and to shush him, I told him that it was no more than my contributing to moral motion and suggested he consider my action an occasional question he had asked the Peasant Class to offer the Land Owning Class. But in the getaway, I'd failed to collect all my possessions, my canvass had felt empty, and my friend Walking Stewart had had a hard time forgiving me for leaving his translation of Abdul bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage to the barbarism of English ex-patriots.

"At least consider an annuity for your ill-gotten gain." Walking Stewart would berate me for endless days. But instead I ate well for a good while, I smoked imported cigarettes, drank the expensive dark brewed Austrian beer with it's head like whipped cream. And I listened while Walking Stewart tried to explain the devious financial restrictions The British East India Company had used to bankrupt the Sultan of Arcot. A maneuver that allowed a legal proceeding, one byproduct of which had been ten thousand Geordies, a portion of the back-pay the Sultan owed to him.

"I'd collect my dividend on the Friday of every quarter," Walking Stewart would happily reminisce. "'I'm still alive! I'm here for my money.' I'd tease the speculator's clerk. And the older I became the poorer the speculator became. Damn me it might have been worth living longer."

Behind the Bakery, morning air had drifted east and a sun which by noon would make little shadow had filled the sky, the sea already glittered and sparked. My cigarette was gone to the filter, The Turk was still chewing his. I looked again at the Americans, they were lost to a reluctance, which made them awkward to look at. Too proud to shuffle their feet, perhaps. Jerry and I worked for a painter that day. It's an attitude, I guess, a willingness to please, something the intellect learns or the body goes hungry.

Next morning, the Americans weren't waiting in the shade. Jerry had seen them around the Post Office. "Got money from home," Jerry suggested.

In the evening we'd cross the road to sit high on the bluff stare down at the sand beach, watch tourists frolic. Then with the sun gone, the electric lights would bring cool air from the East, the smell of kitchen would drift from the Patio Restaurant. Voices and laughing, music and bodies that would sleep in sheets. Our own domicile was a rusting water tank, that you could only enter through a hatch on the top, and through the daytime it would get so hot inside a person would have to wait for the sun to have set at least a couple of hours before he could think of sleeping safe from a night breeze that could rob him of warmth. The Legionnaires didn't call a water tank their home, they'd built shacks in our valley from supplies gleaned from construction sites. The Turk and Jerry would wonder why we didn't do the same. But Walking Stewart and I, had been there a while, and knew the answer.

"On the Moor blooms a small flower and that means, Erika." Or if you're drunk and sing it in German, "Auf der Heide bluht ein kleines Blumnelein und das heibt, Erika." Sometimes on that high bluff above the frolicking we could hear the song deep in our valley, along with "Ja, unser Sinn" and you could both hear and feel the stamp of feet in sand. And, with the maudlin hour at the bottom of a Vodka bottle, the Legionnaires would chant the eighty step rhythm of Le Boudin, a blood sausage. "La mort qui nous oublie si peu. Nous la Légion." Which doesn't sound the same in English, "Death which forgets us so little. We are the Legion." And these men were no longer young.

"The Legionnaires are permitted to take supplies, and even if we pay for them and kept the receipt we are not." I'd explained to my own comrades.

"What the fuck?" The Turk would say.

"It's just the way it is," I'd replied.

"Dumb shit's, A-holes got us." The Turk would answer.

And I'd agree with the Turk.

"Kannibalen," Jerry would spit at the sound of the songs from the valley behind us. Then he'd hand round cigarettes.

There was no one left from Jerry's family either, he'd watched allied bombs and Russian soldiers kill all of them. And it's just as well we took no vodka up to the bluff when the Legionnaires chose to drown their memories, because a sip or two and Jerry would be on the path down the bluff toward the gallivant and dancing on the Patio Restaurant. In the morning the Turk and I would have to go begging to the Legionnaires to borrow money from their Jean Danjou kitty, to pay the fine that would fetch Jerry from the jail cell.

On the beach below us a band was playing. I keep thinking it a steel band, it wasn't, because that was somewhere else with Palm Trees and coconut. But there was a drunken happiness happening down there, a slender girl was high pitched, chased splashing into the wave-less sea, out beyond the electric light. Behind us our valley disappeared into darkness, and if we looked up we could see the Milky Way stretch across the sky. The Plough, Orion's Belt. The Pole Star low to our left. All of them bright enough when the moon was gone. In those days too I was strong from youth, it didn't take a half hour to dig a single potato. "Ein kleines" or "pouco," Jerry called me. The Legionnaires called me "kid."

"What the fuck they do when they come?" the Turk gestured toward the Legionnaires who were silent around the flicker of their paraffin lamp.

"They claimed the contractor shorted them an hours pay." It was an old story that could improve with the telling, none of us liked contractors, but Walking Stewart kept me mindful. "They beat the contractor senseless, and when the police came the Legionnaires held a knife to the contractor's throat. There's history and not that many laborers here, so the magistrate was called. Now, if you or I had done such a thing, the magistrate would have shot us himself. Look at your arm, there is no number tattooed upon it. The magistrate settled the matter, he paid the contractor's debt from his own pocket."

The Turk said, "Fucking Gibraltar." Which for The Turk was, an expression that encompassed his universe, from The Americans, through big girls to airplanes and loud noises. And, as is the case amongst strangers who become comrades, both Jerry and I found ourselves using the expression with greater and greater frequency. An annoyance for Walking Stewart. But I didn't care, which was perfidious of me, and most short sighted. But I was young, I owned the fickleness of youth, and I was happy in the knowledge that maybe I'd grow old in the sand and rock of the valley I'd come to call home.

But "Fucking Gibraltar," while sauntering home, through the Memorial Park where the trees I had dug the holes for, now cast shade as memory to the war dead, I saw the park bench I'd poured concrete for, and upon it was My Dandelion, whose safe I had robbed. She was reading a book through her sunglasses, her long yellow hair had been cut shorter. On the other bench, the bench Jerry had poured concrete for, were The Americans. I had traveled a thousand miles, a good few years and across water since I'd stolen from her. "Fucking Gibraltar," I repeated.

"Please," Walking Stewart begged, "Stop using that expression."

"It's my Leopardess come back to me," I answered him.

Walking Stewart was smug, he laughed a fat laugh of the innocent. "So it is," he snorted at me. And I enjoyed the sound of his voice, familiar in my ear, an old love, too easily taken for granted. Then he said, "And oddly, your heart's-ease is reading a familiar work by Abdul Bin Abdul. Note it's yellowed pages and uncared for condition. Why I endured the sweat of translating it from the Armenian into dying English, paid for its printing, so you might steal it from a seller of second hand books, carry it around through storm and stress, then desert it in basement amongst the cheeses, without ever actually reading it, I'm not at all certain. But there it is, in her pretty little hand. You should speak to her, apologize for the harm you have caused her, and beg for its return."

The impossibility of Walking Stewart's suggestion was obvious to me. "That's not your button," I said to him.

His silence added to my uneasiness. He was irritated with me, disappointed, I could hear it in his manner, I could see it in his walk. All the same, I would have turned away in retreat from the possibility of My Dandelion recognizing me had the two Americans not nodded shyly in my direction. A softness to their gaze, an innocence to a place where weakness was anathema. It was like honey in my mind, it was the touch and smell of warm earth that I'd had no sense of since the long ago. And I paused.

"And what of My book The Revolution of Reason?" Walking Stewart sulked. "It's safe," I snapped at him.

"Bo-Bo. Is that you Bo-Bo?" It was like butter on me. Her voice curious, unafraid and a little demanding. I was leopard, lying down to the leopardess. The American's grinned at me as though to fold their arms in anticipation. Walking Stewart sighed, and the ghosts of Memorial Park laughed. But suddenly I didn't care, I raised the palm of my hand and smiled. Into the arms of vengeance and had I seen a flower in bloom, it would have been "the sweetest thing in the world to give."

"You were a bad boy, Bo-Bo." She made no pretense at any privacy between us. The Americans grinned wider still. And then she smiled at me. "But I can understand why you did what you did. I should never have sent you to clean up after Cynthia's party."

I felt soft and weak and beautiful.

"Silly me! You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you!" She put Abdul Bin Abdul's on her bare knee. Took her sunglasses off. I was hoping she'd invite me to sit next to her, so as to stop her voice from harassing the spirits of dead warriors and providing the Americans with an entertainment.

I looked hard at Abdul's book. Walking Stewart convinced I had not the wit to secure it's return he rattled on. "You have fallen to rut, like musk driven Elephant. I beseech thee with the will of my very being to make certain you do not leave the work of Abdul Bin Abdul to the mercy of this fickle emotion. Who knows what path Abdul cut through time so as to present you with your chance to again possess his book. Steal it if you must. Through slight of hand if you can, and if that fails, then knock her on the head, grab it and run."

"I'm her Bo-Bo," I replied to Walking Stewart in the language of the Sabeans, and I moved closer to where she sat.

"No idea where you got this book from," My Dandelion gabbled on. "Can't understand a word of it, but I am told it's a very rare edition and worth a great deal of money to a collector."

I made an attempt to appear uncomprehending. I could feel Walking Stewart preen just a little at the suggestion of value in the book he had translated from the Armenian, and how much, much more of a peacock he might have become had the book on My Dandelion's knee been his own "Apocalypse of Nature."

But My Dandelion had become impatient, she glanced across at the Americans. "Do either of you speak Latvian, or something European?"

The Americans were clean, their clothes fresh from newness, their boots had traces of shine, and their nails were un-torn by brick. They didn't smell like an antelope.

"I took a Spanish course in High School." The blonder of the two Americans offered. His manner obliging and wholly obsequious, he wanted to kiss My Dandelions knee, feel her body pressed against his.

"Bo-Bo, do you speak Spanish," My Dandelion raised the decibel in her voice, because in her experience volume often aided communication. "Avez vous Spanish," She said, her head nodding, her lips desperately pretty around the shape of her words.

"I don't speak Spanish," I replied in the language of the Sabeans. "Give me the book, so that I can be done with you as you are, that way I may dream of you as I would like you to be. Through a long winter, I heard your love making two floors above, as I tried to sleep, and I still hear it when I go to sleep."

The American, shook his head. "Don't believe that's Spanish," he told My Dandelion. His voice not in the least like that of a cowboy.

Walking Stewart had become exasperated. The scar on his forehead palpated, his eyes widened, and I began to understand how it was he had once so impressed Hyder Ali with his prowess on the battlefield. "One O'clock, two O'clock, three O'clock, four," he counted time in Dandelion, because I was losing to a rotten and irrational stubbornness.

"There's Sven!" My Dandelion had suddenly waved a slender arm toward the east where the path through Memorial Park wandered peacefully down toward the beach and its hotels. Sven looked nothing like the Mr. Whatever His Name that I remembered. Sven was bronzed and youthful, his bathing suit immodest, his hairless chest glistening and oiled against sun.

"Bo-Bo, do you speak German?" She asked me as she stood up to kiss Sven, his hands upon her waist, just where it curved into buttock and the possessive, which are words that fail miserably to describe the sight of it.

In my own mind I had "Sitzpinkler, furn arsch, boch, drecksau, deine mutter shwitzt beim kacken" chasing meaning. My comrade Jerry considered these words insult, but I would guess a person has to be born to an insult, because I heard no offense in the words.

"See if Bo-Bo speaks German." She slipped from Sven's grasp.

"Wei geht es ihnen?" Sven gave me the eye of a rival, which was soon dismissed when he had a better appreciation of my condition.

"Goot," I answered him. Nor could I remember whether "Buch" or "Kampf" was Book in the German language so I frowned and said, "Mein Buch, Mein Kampf."

"Nicht gegen dich kampfen sie fur das Buch." Sven became alarmed and admitted he'd not fight me for a book.. And I answered, "Deine mutter shwitzt beim kacken." Which I vaguely understood to mean 'your mother sweats when she shits.'

Sven glanced at the Americans, they grinned. Sven then turned to My Dandelion and spoke endearingly to her in English. "Nette Sache, give him his book. He needs it more than us. And shall we go have our langouste und hummer."

She squirmed happily, then she raised her eyebrows. "Book's worth money. And Bo-Bo did steal."

Sven cupped Abdul Bin Abdul's book in his large clean hands and handed it to me. "Besten Dank," I thanked him, and I could feel Walking Stewart's amazement muscle up against my own. An extraordinary relief, I felt. Abdul Bin Abdul's book in my hand, I felt full and forgiven by the victory.

My Dandelion turned once to look at me as she walked hand in hand with Sven, down the path toward the Patio Restaurant. Breeze from the sea, caught the smell of charcoal and butter, and Diana Ross again singing "Baby Love."

I sat down on the bench My Dandelion had sat upon. Opposite me the blonder American crossed his leg turned to his friend and said, "Did her Kraut really say hummer?" The blonder American's shorter friend smirked and then shrugged as their gaze turning toward me.

"Hummer is German for Lobster," I found myself determined to release a 'know it all,' which I knew to be dumb of me but it delighted Walking Stewart. "They have them flown in from somewhere called Maine. Cost you a months wages. They catch the crayfish down south a bit. There's months, maybe years of work down there if you want it. A hotel to build, fresh water swimming pools. We'll get three meals a day, and the contractors promised water for showers."

The Turk and Jerry had no desire to leave our valley, they'd borrowed a welding torch, to cut doors and windows in our water tank, they were nesting around discussions over chairs and beds and tables, like newly weds. The Legionnaires had promised themselves to the magistrate in exchange for apartments in town, which they'd rent to own with a view to producing little Legionnaires. "Kid," they'd answered me, "Nous sommes Nicht younger. Olden. Alt. Understand!" I'd understood, and we drank their Vodka to the bottom of the bottles, and we'd chanted "La mort qui nous oublie si peu. Nous la Légion." Blubbing like babies until overcome by unconscious, even Jerry.

So I guess it was loneliness, and a hangover, as much as anything that took me to the Americans, we boarded the contractor's truck, south to where work was plentiful. An error, a haunting error, more fearsome than any book.

Chapter Five : Windrals and Long Handled Shovels

I'd visited my long handled shovel too often. We'd discuss the better place for a grave. Good earth near a hardwood sapling. An Oak would be pompous. A Maple too common. I thought Sassafras. So around and around we'd walk until the time came when my long handled shovel increasingly became something like the Staff of Moses.

He'd hung in the shed, his steel blade sad from under use, his wooden handle smooth as a soft thigh. He was a Christmas gift, from a customer, if I remember. He has a wide forward facing step, which is where the boot goes to drive him into earth. And I have spent hours, days, weeks, months, perhaps even years, in company with him. It had been my intention to move him closer to the window of his shed, so he might look out on a good day, and remember our time together. But when I reached him, I noticed that he had been moved. He stood limp in the corner, instead of hanging and proud on the back wall where he kept my tobacco hidden from the eyes of those who for some reason give a damn.

So I have sneaked him into the house, and up the stairs to the room where I sleep. No doubt if he's discovered, there will be questions. And really there has to be a time when a person smokes his last cigarette. Which might not be today, or tomorrow.

We had long handled shovels and cartons of cigarettes in the back of the Contractor's General Service Bedford that took us south to a place Walking Stewart began to recognized. After hours of slow going, the road quite suddenly breached high desert walls that had dwarfed us. It gathered a down hill pace toward a curve of sand and gravel and sometimes gold that had been swept into a coral sea by centuries of irregular rain. There were date palms to the north end, and a settlement that gleamed white. To the south end, a hot wind from the south blew sand at a group of camels, some of then nursing. "It's Gat Thabo," Walking Stewart announced. "Damned me, It's Waggat Thabo. The timeless place."

The Bedford ground its gears to manage the downhill incline. It was overloaded, the brakes hot enough to smell. I stood up, to breath the view which stretched magnificent with that emptiness of people that can fill a mind. I had to brace myself against the roof of the driver's cab, my knees on fifty gallons of petrol we'd brought with us. One sway from the steering or an ill managed rut in the road and I'd have been thrown.

"This is where pirates released me from their chicken coop." Walking Stewart sounded afraid. "We took anchor in the bay just before the sun rose, waded ashore, and as the sun rose we advanced upon the town. We had muskets, they did not. It's no wonder I hid my past and preferred to engorge my mind with a defense of reason. A dialectic. A passage to perfection. But seeing this place again, I have to ask, what possible good is there in any one us. Damnation to Wordsworth, to Coleridge, to Dequincy and that host I so wanted to impress. But I did once know an American who thought I was touched by genius. His name was Palmer. I inspired him to prove his God. His books are still read. Not mine."

But, as we gazed at a blue sea and up and down a turquoise coast, I knew well enough that no flattering from me would have eased Walking Stewart's mind.

As the road leveled, it began to head toward the town, but instead of gathering a triumphant pace the Bedford slowed almost to a halt, then gingerly it turned right, to head south across sand. Soon enough we lost sight of date palms as we groaned closer and closer to the beach. To our west. tall rocks of a desert that would hide a setting sun, cast an evening shade that would draw the cooler breeze. The camels followed us, they could smell the one hundred gallons of water we had with us.

"You once told me you'd show me how to ride a camel," I reminded Walking Stewart. But he was lost to the idea of a timeless place, where nothing had changed.

Then a spit of sand, curled like an eyelash, far out into the sea, creating a bay where the water was crystal clear. The Bedford lurched to a stop, the engine silenced. "That's where I came ashore." Walking Stewart pointed at the smooth wet curve of bone white beach about a hundred feet ahead of us.

"Is this where you lost your button." I joked, my mood strong, I could love this desolate, beautiful place with its constant sea.

"Gat Thabo was occupied by the Ottoman, their Sultan needed a bulwark against Oman. We were here for plunder. The Turk garrison was sick from the black vomit. Their resistance to us negligible. 'Why,' I asked, and after we had finished, my captors answered me. Oman had promised amnesty for Windrals in exchange for our act here in Gat Thabo. I should have given my genius to a history. But I am too late for that."

I unloaded myself from the Bedford and walked toward the sea. I took my boots off, my feet black from months of waterlessness, and I longed for the fresh water shower we'd been promised. It's an error to bathe in seawater, a cruel lesson to learn. The salt gets into you, it's a good rinse for wounds, then unless it's washed off with freshwater, it attacks the skin causing an all over discomfort. But the Americans didn't know this yet. They thought I was going swimming. They had bathing trunks in their heavy rucksacks, changed their clothes in the lee of the Bedford and then splashed into the salt water. Happy at a chance denied us by Hotels further north. At last, I guessed from their laughter and joy, they'd briefly swim in Eden.

The Architect and his contractor, saw something else. They were pacing and gesticulating as they counted money. Their language gibberish to me, but I could read their sign. "Along here will go Kabanas, over there the kitchens. We'll cook with gas. The swimming pool here. The septic along there. The bar and the dance floor, here. But first we need fresh water tanks. They'll be buried up close to the hills. A hundred gallons a day per person. Two tankers a week gives us ten thousand gallons. That's fourteen or fifteen guests per week, and when the electric lines arrive, we'll be set to expand."

The Architect wore a straw hat, he had his plans and his pointing stick. The Contractor had his measuring tape and multiplication tables. "It's going to be a labor of love," they said to each other. "No effort sparred."

Walking Stewart inspected debris washed to shore, each bit of wood he found might have been a part of the chicken coop that had caged him for two weeks and had altered a dimension in him. And, as I watched him lost in his past, I felt sad and broken for him.

"The Lead Bull, is wise," I spoke to Walking Stewart. "And I'd agree that if there was a word for 'genius' in the language of the Sabeans, it would be 'Lead Bull.'"

"I am a Lead Bull," he answered .

"You have the quality of a Lead Bull," I corrected him. "Apocalypse of Nature is guide through darkness into tomorrow."

"Make Tent!" The Contractor yelled at me. His voice demanding, self important, and he was shorter than he would have liked to have been.

"Shower," I yelled back at him.

"Bowser tomorrow," he sounded confident.

I left the cool wet sand to the Americans, walked back to the Bedford for stakes and canvass, the Architects camp bed, his new Tilley lamp, his map table. The Contractor would make his home in the cab of the Bedford, with his shaving brush and razor, his picture of his children and his revolver. The only shelter for miles around was under the vehicle, which was where the Americans would finally decide to put their bright blue sleeping bags.

"Moral Motion," I spoke to Walking Stewart, his reply was a callous laugh. And before the dark came we ate well from tins of beef, and pickled cabbage, and loaves that had been bought fresh from the bakery earlier that morning.

The Architect and the Contractor were up late around the hiss of the Tilley lamp, arguing about this and that. Under the Bedford, the Americans smoked hashish and giggled. With my blanket and canvass, I moved off to settle closer to the lap of sea, so I could hear the waves scatter against sand and not have to listen to the wandering talk around the camp site. Off, far to our north, the lowest star was a single point of light in Gat Thabo. It too seemed to twinkle, causing Walking Stewart to become agitated by a memory that would not stay silent.

"The pirates had sailed off with their plunder, women, children, swords of Damascus Steel, and all the cloth they could find for the markets in Muscat. An Ottoman caravan with provisions and reinforcements found me. Their provisional commander was Artak Mefropian. A excellent mind, and an Armenian in the service of the Ottoman Sultans. I was burying the dead and as you know, I am very fluent in Armenian. They believed me when I told the Ottoman I was bloodless in the killing. Artak and I discussed every matter encompassed by the Globe, including the Pythagoreans whose understandings Artak had devoted himself to, and which I can sometimes persuade myself have had a small influence on my own thinking, especially when I labored to translate Abdul Bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage into the English language. And had the Ottoman remained here, I might never have left this timeless place. But the Turks had need of all their strength to confront the Russian and Austrian threat. When they withdrew their garrison, I was persuaded to go with them. But I had made the mistake of discussing Hyder Ali's Bangalore rockets with my friend Artak. I knew the recipes for gun powders that launched them, and while the majority of Sultan Selim's officers and prefects were traditional in their distrust of new fangled contraptions of war, a growing influence amongst the Sultan's soldiery were most aware that it's not enough to be courageous in battle."

"You are the first man of nature." I reminded him of his own thesis on the purpose of his and our existence. His Moral Motion, his dialectic, his revelation from physics. We are matter, bound toward perfection, in that same way that we are bound to the grave, our work done, our role played out. And the more I had begun to understand the magnitude of my friend's thinking, the grand sweep of his idea, the more I could see why he suspected his life's work contained error. His presence in my own life was testament to that error. His domination of my living, the comfort he'd given me through the course of years, was all of it a debt I could never repay.

It was well dark, all the same I reached into my canvass for The Apocalypse of Nature. The feel of it served sometimes as warmth for our souls. My friend suggested I return The Apocalypse of Nature to it's plastic bag where it would be safe from salt air.

"You should read The Earthly Voyage," he sighed. "Artak Mesropian assured me that his translation from the original Greek of Abdul Bin Abdul's work was diligent and accurate. My own efforts at translating the book from Armenian to English were similarly inspired."

We stared at the blackness, out into the shallow bay, looking for phosphorous on the waves which Walking Stewart had seen so much of while the night took its toll on his chicken coop. "A good wave and I'd be sprayed by salt, which I thought might reduce my bindings, give me a chance to swim. But I'd have to wait until the last chicken had been consumed because had I broken out of the coop in the darkness, fallen to the sea the chickens would have sounded their alarm. My fate would have been worse than drowning. So I'd watch for phosphorous, it's a creature that lights up in contact with air. A Firefly of the tropical seas."

"The contractor's a liar," I said. "There'll be no water Bowser until they need concrete. There is no brick to build with. No masons. They'll put us to digging foundations in sand. The architect must be a dreamer. I don't feel good about this. Just in case, we should walk to Gat Thabo."

"Abdul Bin Abdul was a just and brave man. He bathed regularly. He refrained from sexual congress during summer time, as Pythagoras had done. He eschewed beans, he made his own bed and in almost every respect observed the stranger rituals imposed upon a being who sees in their observance the possibility of transcending the earthly plane while retaining sufficient consciousness to enjoy the experience. These days such behaviors may be considered peculiar, but these days peculiar behaviors remain subject to punishment by the uninitiated. And why Abdul chose to engross himself in a dangerous heresy, rather than become a scion of Islam, he never explains in any good detail. But I do sometimes think that I too could balance on the fence of his choice, until I leap to the safer ground at the prospect of dying for my choice."

"The Sabeans will include your name in their understanding of Genius," I assured Walking Stewart. Which was a deceitful strand in me that had emerged as a result of a struggle I was having with a sudden fear I had that my friend would soon find his button, and when he did, he would desert me to an emptiness of being without him. "When you leave," I wanted to say to him, "I'd like to come with you."

"I did not wish to give the Turks a gunpowder that would permit their armories to build Bangalore Rockets. But I did."

"You lost your testicles to the torturer?" I asked him as a child might have asked him.

"There are tears in the nature of the species you and I belong to my young friend, which never will go away. As a Man of Nature, I see this. As beast in the forest I would not have to. Yet I have heard the cry of a wounded Elephant, heard the wail from the Mahout as the Elephant died, and I have seen men squabble like vulture for the Elephant's flesh."

"Your tunic looks well enough without all it's buttons." I suggested, and I added, "Look, I have replaced my own trouser button with a belt made from mason's line. Serves just as well to keep my trousers attached to my waist."

In the morning when I woke to the cold that precedes sunrise, there was a two mast schooner anchored in Walking Stewart's bay. It was called The Windral, it belonged to the architect, and my friend was staring at it, an awe in his stance. "We must read Abdul's book."

"I thought you'd read it years ago." I was sleepy from the cold

"I translated it. There's a difference." His voice commanding a regiment of Elephant.

I cast about in my canvas for Abdul's Earthly Voyage.

"As I await execution," Abdul's book comes to its conclusion just before the finis with JH in royal blue ink, "I put my trust in the stars, I will enter the limitless, I will experience the unbounded, and I will return again renewed."

Which was an idea Okanya's grandfather had shared with me.

My own preference for the Zoroastrian tradition would have done away with any question I might have for the fate of my few earthly possessions. It would allow me to conceive of myself as wandering and present in the world. Sometimes I'd be here, sometimes be there there, and possessions which I might once have called mine, would still be available for me to stare at and wonder about. But, if I am to be bound to the grave, my hereditaments left to be squabbled over, then I am considering a spiteful legal contrivance that will provide overtime payments to the Sheriff's men, so they might ensure that all objects I own be buried along with me.

This will however require the effort of a list from me. I have my television. I still have a telephone, I believe. My propelling pencil, which it's impossible to find lead for. My Cowry Shell. The Paper Wasp that stung me in the early part of this century, and which I dispatched and have mounted on the wall beside the table in the room where I sleep. There's a drawer full of winter socks that I don't believe have ever been used. This list would stretch a ways into what the gentler minded might consider ridiculous. And indeed, when I remove myself from the canker of the magistrate's incomprehensible refusal to grant me the Zoroastrian exception, and when I put his bull headed intransigence aside in order to attempt more rational thinking, I realize that of my worldly possessions I have nothing I hold dear enough to consider forcing into an exile from their potential, save four objects.

The first object, is a single ragged volume of Abdul Bin Abdul's "Earthly voyage." Which has as it's forward: "Written in the year 4901 of recorded knowledge, as afcertained by aftronomy in the Chinefe tables of eclipfes, then tranflated from the Greek by the Noble Armenian Artak Mefropian and into Englifh language by John Stewart in the era of intellectual exiftence or the publication of the Apocalypfe of Nature." It's a book which in the libraries you might find under the 'A's,' or if that fails search for Abdul Bin Abdul under "Orphic and Pythagorean cults during Umayyad and Abbasid Caliphates." If that fails, probably you can find the book in a dusty basement, where the microfiche has failed and the index cards made green by time. And if that also fails, then like me, chance and a moment of avarice might one day bring Abdul's "Earthly Voyage" into your possession.

The second object, is my friend Walking Stewart's wish to secure a translation of his life's work into languages other than the English Language, so that future generations in the passage of Moral Motion might resurrect them and marvel at the prescience of his genius. This second object has become "The Collected Works of Walking Stewart," translated into the Language of the Sabeans and done so as faithfully as my own competence permits. It's a marvelous sight, stacked in four neat loose leaf piles, each pile exactly one thousand numbered pages. And my handwriting, so as to make fewer mistakes, was initially an easily corrected pencil, then to ensure legibility I overwrote the pencil with durable blue ink from a thin nib fountain pen.

"My Boy," Walking Stewart would often say to me. "I'll have you know me as I am."

Which I recognize as an ancient wish within my species, expressed in a thousand different ways from the stamp of a small foot, to any of a thousand utterances from the inheritors of Socrates. And yet in my years of translating Walking Stewart's writing, I began quickly to learn the sincerity of his understanding that as The First Man of Nature, he perceived the future of us Hominins, not our present. Which in more generous moments persuades me that possibly my own grave is not the place for this translation of Walking Stewart's life's work. It contains an optimism.

All the same, if I am to be forbidden the Zoroastrian tradition and I am to be bound to the grave so that no part of me might wander, then my translation of "The Collected Works of Walking Stewart" is too precious a part of my own mortality for me to leave it here, unattended upon the earthly plane, where it might be squandered to whim of a "tidy up," which I have noticed usually follows the departure of "being alive." Better perhaps to leave so massive a decision in the debt I owe my friend to the toss of a coin, than to such a fate. And who is to say where future incarnations of perhaps better designed Hominins might chose to research their past. Although frankly it is my hope that while the language of the Sabeans might flourish on, far into the future, my own sub category of Hominidae will have long since been dismissed as an unfortunate anomaly hardly worth the effort of investigation. Call this an indecency on my part. Or, if you feel kindly toward me, call it an over reaction to magisterial authority.

The third object, I will take with me into exile, will be my copy of my friend's Apocalypse of Nature. This third object is no gift from me to the future, rather it is a gift to me, that will for ever relieve the present from a temptation to delve into my own experience of time with life.

And this I suppose leads me to my shovel, the fourth object. Which, soon after I retrieved it from the shed, was almost discovered by Mrs. Bigelow. I have it now under my bed, which hardly qualifies it as a trophy to be proud of. Yet within it's shape and feel there is a memory, which try as I do I have not yet found the ability to expound upon. A crassness on my part. Deceptive of me, wholly unworthy of an open hearted and decent exploration of my own moments with time.

And here, despite the potential for confusion it's necessary to return to a second hand bookshop in a small town in the lowland hills of the English Island. Eason III had gone, he was off to whatever, but I was still a schoolboy, engrossed in the dames and G-men of a writer called Peter Cheyney.

"Well, I reckon that there's a lotta dames playin' around like Cactus Lizzie. They're afraid of spiders but they'd just as soon stick a stiletto into their boy friend as call for a chocolate sundae." But it was Henrietta, not Cactus Lizzie, Lemmy Caution, fell for in "Dames Don't Care."

"Me," Lemmy Caution insisted, "I could go for Henrietta all right. But I do not make a play for dames that are suspects in murder cases. I think that it would interfere with business." At the end of the story Lemmy tells Henrietta, "I am not the sorta guy who you can trust around the place having breakfast with a swell dame like you. Especially if you are good at makin' waffles. When I eat waffles I just get goin', an' they tell me that when I get to be the sorta guy, then dames ought be warned against." But Henrietta leans up against the door and tells Lemmy that she was going to give him fried chicken, but had a better idea. "Such as?" Lemmy asks her. "Such as waffles," she answers him. Lemmy looks at her again, and starts to think about his old mother, whom he called "Ma Caution." "Ma Caution usta tell me when I was a kid that I always put food before everything. An' for once Ma Caution was wrong."

I'd read them all from the second hand book shop. This Man is Dangerous. You'd Be Surprised. I'll Say She Does! The best story Cheyney ever wrote was when Lemmy had to go under cover, so deep undercover that to get there he had to drown himself in quantities of what he called Kentucky. So much of it, that when he awoke finally to purpose it was in a field of haze where he might have preferred to remain, but as Lemmy so often put it, "I think it would have interfered with business." He was driven by his calling I guess, though what that calling might have been came under scrutiny when he fell for Kentucky, or smoked a cigarette, or thought about dames, or Ma Caution and her waffles.

"The monstrous man," Walking Stewart would insist upon calling Peter Cheyney. "A relative of Wordsworth, no doubt!" All the same, in our reading of Lemmy Caution's many adventures, Walking Stewart took on an addictive joy. Not so much from the story, or the dialogue, or the description of a dame, but from the evidence Peter Cheyney's writing provided Walking Stewart's often criticized claim that the English Language was doomed. "I predicted the demise of the English Language. Let them laugh at me now!" He'd snort a while, congratulate himself, and then he'd suggest we might visit the second hand book shop when next the chance arose.

I could buy these books for six pence, and so long as a book was undamaged when I returned it, I could sell them back to the book shop owner for three pence. The book seller had a name for me. Mathurin. Which Walking Stewart had suggested sounded like a French name.

"Saint Mathurin," the book seller informed me was the "Patron Saint of Clowns." And this, both Walking Stewart and I had considered a rather refreshing insult from a town's person well steeped in the ire our school's uniform had produced in the souls of those who had called the town 'home' since a royal son of Wessex had established the role of scholars.

"Or," the book seller had flirted, "perhaps I just like the name Mathurin."

But in the back room of the second hand book shop, where the light was poor, where the roof leaked on piles of London Illustrated News and even higher piles of National Geographic was a glass front cabinet, which the book seller kept locked. On the shelves inside the cabinet, lines of hardback books, which I guessed had a greater value to the book seller than a shilling, or two shillings. However, one of the books, on the middle shelf, was titled, "A Tough Spot for Cupid." It's author was Peter Cheyney.

"I don't believe it's a Lemmy Caution tale." The book seller had followed me into his back room. He was a wide man, his fingers short and fat as he chose a key from his key ring.

"I like the way the Americans write," I said.

"Cheyney wasn't an American." The book seller laughed and as he reached for Cheyney's book. "He was a cockney boy. His father a drunk. It was his mother put him through a good school. He wrote the first Lemmy Caution tale, because he said that anyone could write an American thriller. The Yanks, didn't go for it. But the English liked Cheyney. And so did the French." The book seller held the book a while, gazing at it, as though wondering. "This isn't a Lemmy Caution story. This is a collection of stories. A couple of Sonia Carew stories, but mostly Slim Callaghan stories."

And there was a very good looking dame in high heels on the tattered dust cover. "A Cactus Lizzie," Walking Stewart suggested, and I had to agree because I had shared Walking Stewart's disappointment when in "Dames Don't Care" Lemmy Caution had fallen for Henrietta. Henrietta wasn't a name to conjure, it was more like Caldwell's sister, who both Walking Stewart and I had earlier that day seen at the commemoration, her ankles might have put envy in the eye of a boy Hippo.

"Why aren't you enjoying the festivities?" The book seller suddenly asked me. "Isn't this the big day. The end of Summer term. Isn't your family visiting?"

I figure I'm going to start getting sentimental, an' I figure the book seller's been doing some heavy thinking about me, so I give the glass cabinet a hard look, an' I say to Walking Stewart, "How much do you reckon a book like that would cost."

"Ten Shillings," The book seller replied. Which I figure is a lotta dough to pay for a picture of a dame, even if she does look like a Cactus Lizzie.

The book seller pulled open the glass door to his cabinet, and while returning Tough Luck for Cupid to its place on the shelf of books, one of the books fell to the floor, near a pile of Tatler magazines, the top one of which contained a black and white photograph of a divorced Mrs. Simpson and Edward the Eighth. I immediately knelt down to pick up the fallen book. It felt old, and heavy with value. It had no title that I could see, but it had mustiness, and I thought I could smell Marmite. So, before handing it to the book seller, I opened it. Walking Stewart's name was in the forward. There it was, John Stewart, the name exploded from the yellowed paper with a force that was physical.

"We have to have this book," my friend's voice became a knife edge against my throat. And I would have disagreed, but when I flipped pages to find the end of the book, I found the initials JH, in blue ink from a fountain pen, neatly inscribed in the bottom right hand corner of the last page. The ink hadn't bled into the ancient paper, the JH was crisp and clear.

"Now that books worth money!" The book seller spoke to me as though sharing a secret. He could sense the sin of avarice in me. "A real investment," he added, his voice soft as a snake. "An end of term gift from your parents perhaps." Which he'd guessed was unlikely.

But I couldn't return the book to him. It was hot in my hands when he reached for it, and the book sellers smile suggested his disappointed at having to take the book from me. "Or if you don't have ten pounds, you could do something for me?" A conspiracy, I guessed from his voice.

Walking Stewart paused to recalculate the worth of ten pounds Sterling, which in nineteen sixty something was an equivalent to ten maybe thirty days labor. This realization caused Walking Stewart to enter a tirade. "This rapscallion would have found welcome in the service of the East India Company. A Banker in another life. A cheapskate and footpad in this life. I did not spend the better part of my time on earth acquiring knowledge sufficient to translate a great work of genius for less than single Geordie. The man should be flogged and gated. Or was my life entirely wasted, a circumstance I will not conceive of as possible."

However, Lemuel H Caution was strong in me. I could feel the weight in my shoulder holster, I could see Cactus Lizzie's tight ass an' long legs in red high heels, an' I took the force of Hoover's FBI along when I asked the poor sap what it was he wanted me to do. He gave me this tale about the main school library, that was in the annex of the abbey, an' how on the top shelf, just to the right of five hundred year old door, was a book, third from the left, an' if I wouldn't steal that book for him in exchange for Abdul's Earthly Voyage then I could wrap his dick in silver foil an' stroke it with a silver fork until he came in my mouth. Stealing books would be bad for business even if I could throw a cricket ball, but for stroking his dick with a silver fork, and sucking up his cum I'd just have the memory of it, an' no one needed to hear nothin' about it. An' I can tell ya from experience, those are the sorta odds that gets someone smacked in the kisser.

Either way, I'd carried Abdul's book with me across continents, unable to enter its words, except to look at the last sentence of Walking Stewart's translation and wonder at the initial's JH in blue ink from a fountain pen. Carelessness on my part had mislaid Abdul's book, yet it had found its own way back to us.

Chapter Six : Saint Timothy

There's an academic whose popular work on Consciousness includes a book that contains the suggestion that the less familiar with his subject skip chapters five through seven. And he was right. He was quite correct and I was hard headed. I didn't know enough to understand what he was taking about until years later. But I'll not spare you the ordeal of traveling through Abdul's book as I have done.

It was in the shade under the contractor's Bedford that we open Abdul's book, Earthly Voyage, and I can tell you right now it was no ripping yarn. But the contractor's promises of fresh water enough to bathe and all the food we could eat fell foul of the Architect's dreams. And I was a beast in the forest as I read, but my friend was erudite, he was learned and he had the luxury of not being hungry or thirsty.

Abdul's life came into being a little under thirteen hundred years before my own. His father was a distant cousin of the Umayyad Caliph Al-Walid I. Some might recall him as the Caliph whose many contributions to the reputation of Islam was the destruction of Zoroastrian temples. When Abdul was seven or eight years old, his father was sent west, across North Africa to translate his Caliph's ambition to secure the territory of the Visigoths for Islam.

Ten years later as the fair skinned and blue eyed Berber clans from North West Africa were being gathered for an invasion of the Pyrenees and on northward toward wider and richer territories of the Franks, Abdul received a letter from his father. It was time for Abdul to join the great adventure. "The Berber are numerous in our ranks, but they are not to be trusted," the scribe had written. "If we are to secure Al-Andalusia for Islam we need Arabs and learning. You my son have both these qualities. Your Brothers are dragonflies, they will go to Damascus, where I need friends near the Caliph."

"I wanted to run and hide," Abdul records. "Some of my tutors told me that I should do just that. They even offered me refuge in my city of Alexandria, where I could read and write Greek, where I could know the world was a globe, where I could discuss Homer, dream of Odysseus and of Achilles, where I could follow in the footsteps of Pythagoras in my search for the infinite. I could recite Euclid, I could calculate the distance from my father's palace to the moon. I ate no meat or fish, and I was ready to become a novitiate in the greater calling of mathematics. And this calling I betrayed. I was coward to the Mullahs, to my father, to my mother, to my rancid siblings, and to the vast error that had occupied my people."

One of Abdul's mentors, a Greek slave named Coleus, gave Abdul a lambskin upon which had been etched, then inked, three poems. "These are the words of Alqamah al-Fahl." Coleus told Abdul. "He is of the Tamin tribe. Well considered by the Imam, and even the Mullahs, he's adored by your own clan, and your brothers too have Alqamah's name on their tongue. But don't think with such camp followers Alqamah's words are without virtue. They will comfort you when the hardship of your earthly voyage suggests a retreat from your genius. They will inspire an obedience, when you are tempted to bite at the hand that feeds and protects you. An error you are prone to. Read these words. Hold to them. Use them. And be humble in your awareness of how passing our earthly nature is. This way your willfulness might not betray you to the wolf and the lion. And this way I might see you one more time before I return to the infinite."

Abdul left behind his city of Alexandria. Four thousand palaces, four thousand baths, twelve thousand gardeners, twelve thousand dealers in fresh oil, four hundred theaters, and a population of forty thousand Jews so dogged they'd rather pay full tribute to the Caliphate than submit to Allah. Or so Abdul claimed. But more magnificent, in Abdul's mind, was a great library of books which Coleus had acquired from street vendors. "A store of value so rare and so ancient," Abdul claimed. "I trembled in it's presence."

West of the Nile Delta, Abdul joined with a caravan that had gathered to transport arms, bodies and treasure across two thousand miles. "We moved as a city into a desolation of sand and rock. Children played, babies wailed and in the high sun there was a silence save the pads of camel, the fly whips of horsemen and the bleat of complaining goats. At the sun set, before the prayer, the city would come to a flurry of tents and cook pots, singing and dancing. Our city was briefly the moon in her orbit, untroubled by stars."

Just weeks into his journey to join his father, the caravan reached a coastal well that had been poisoned. "My traveling companions claimed it was the work of The Slit Nosed Justinian, Emperor of Byzantium. We were taking treasure to pay for the Caliphs ambitions for Hispania, and we had arms and numbers to fight off any barrier that might have been laid across our path, except the enemy of thirst. "To arms!" the commander called. Our city moved south into a blazing fire, where water was promised us."

Amongst the dead and dying, and convinced he too would soon "no longer be constrained by the limited," Abdul read from the lambskin, Coleus had given him. "Towards thee the Pole-stars led, and there where man's feet had passed a track plain to see that wound cairns over ridges scarred. Bodies of beasts outworn lay thickly along the road, their bones gleaming white, their hides all shriveled and hard and dry. I bring her to drink the dregs of cisternal mire and draff, and if she mislikes it, all the choice is to journey on."

"I arose from the dust," Abdul records. "I journeyed into the limited as a sleep walker might, and indeed of our once joyous city, I was one of few who reached the dregs of cisternal mire. To this day I remember the silent courage of children and the loud call I made from deep in my heart for Allah to take pity upon me."

From my own experience of translating the Collected Works of Walking Stewart into the language of the Sabeans, I am very aware of the temptation to change the meaning of a phrase or sentence. To sit in another's place and diligently attempt to translate meaning from one language to another without succumbing to what I'll call a personal political impulse, is a unique ability. When I read my friend's translation of Earthly Voyage I am tempted to see Walking Stewart's own temptation to promote his own materialist understanding.

"I am ashamed at the memory of how quickly and how far I had fallen from the ideal novitiate to my master Pythagoras. I envied the faithful their impossible belief that offered serenity even as death from thirst encompassed us. My own mentors when they appeared to me in my delirium, simply smiled as they performed their duties in the cool shades and corridors of my home in Alexandria. In my dream Coleus had acquired a manuscript, it's writing indecipherable and he was happy as puppy, not in the least concerned for my welfare. 'Are you not afraid,' I asked the child in my arms. 'No,' he replied, 'I am the will of God.' And when he was gone to stillness, my call to Allah was heart felt."

Many years later, the Kingdom of the Visigoths was conquered, and Abdul Bin Abdul had secured a position as a tax collector for ambitious Governors of the new province of Andalusia. Abdul reports that soon after the conquest many already had their minds set upon independence from the Caliphate of the Umayyad. "The true conqueror of the Visigoth Kingdom of Hispania was Berber." Abdul claimed. "Yet the Umayyad reserved no respect for the clans of Berber." And in his work as a tax collector for the new rulers of the Visigoth Kingdom, Abdul had few illusions about the genuineness of Berber converts to Islam. He'd watch them at prayer, mouthing the words, without any true understanding of the meaning of those words. He would wonder at the path of a Berber convert's thinking as they observed the ceremony, then smiling round-faced, new converts would laugh with each other, as though it were a game of chance that had brought them to Allah and wealth and rich land. Abdul saw in this bounty of new recruits an opportunity and a dilemma, neither of which was resolved by the unholy yet politically expedient choice of hastening the process of conversion. Thousands and thousands had flocked to the flag of Islam, and more often Abdul believed this wave a profitable mirage, rather than the will of a God. He developed a contempt for the masses, I guess. How easily they had been tricked into service, then led to slaughter by greed. Yet often Abdul's understanding of Islam, a faith he would adhered to only when called to public prayer, included his memory of a child whose dying words were, "I am the will of God."

And I can forgive Abdul for this lingering doubt he expresses with regularity throughout his Earthly Voyage. Even up to his moment in court, his sins against God annunciated and his execution date set. "I belong to mathematics. Not God" he claims to have boldly told his judges. "And though it meant death for my body, I felt proud, as though new born."

Abdul and his escort were in the Village of Berobi, which is or was in the Pyrenees, nearer to the Atlantic Ocean, between what is now France and Spain. He had heard of a recent death by boils, and fearing a rumor of plague he and his lancers had gone to investigate. Abdul saw a child staring down at the earth into which his mother had been sent to her rest. "The child had bound his dead mother in the tradition of the Visigoth," Abdul reports.

There had been no ceremony, and no help with digging her shallow grave, and without her support the child had little recourse but to listen to the tales of a time before he could remember. He'd found a golden lizard and had offered it up to the Masters of Andalusia as payment for taxes levied upon those who remained reluctant to follow Islam.

"Never forget it was a miracle," Alaia had told her son Timothy. "Few of us would have survived that winter."

Then there was the afterwards. Those who believed it was a miracle, and those who believed Alaia's child had found a Roman Hoard left over from the days when the earth was more settled, populated by noble giants whose crumbled legends remained as a mark of their grief, and of their failures and of their dreams.

"The Christian child turned his back on me," Abdul Bin Abdul records. "He then made the sign of a cross over the earth, and if only to impress me my lancer would have skewered him. How I hated the land, its people and its climate. It was the edge of the civilized world, I longed to return from this aimless purpose, and its savagery." And during those times when Abdul Bin Abdul became distracted by the fluids of purposelessness he'd reach deliberately for the last line of Alqamah's poem, "I bring her to drink the dregs of cisternal mire and draff; and if she mislikes it, all the choice is to journey on."

Yet Abdul Bin Abdul saw in the Christian child an admirable spirit, that warranted fostering. It was a set in the child's emotion and being much absent from Abdul's own daily associations with people in the flux of new ideas and under the rule of new masters, a flux as much chaotic as it was a sphere of purpose and unity. And there was the legend that had grown up around this child which had spread to the court in Cordoba, where there'd been some suggestion amongst advisors that the child should be brought to Cordoba, so that claims that surrounded him might be better examined. These suggestions had been rejected. There was trouble enough in the North from Frankish incursions, pirates and barbarity, without offering further encouragement to the myth of a grave robbing Christian child upon whose behalf miraculous deeds had been claimed.

At their meeting, by Alaia's grave, Abdul could tell the boy was hungry, half starved, a predicament a miracle worker would certainly never be prone to. Abdul Bin Abdul offered food from his own ration. "In those eyes I saw no fear, nor rage." Abdul records. "I thought for a moment he was imbecile. But upon reflection he was looking at me as an equal might. A rare quality in the troublesome people who inhabited the northern hills. Their core given to brigandage and secrecy, a dangerous and deceiving mix. Yet no matter it's origin of birth, an undaunted being is work of The Limitless."

Then to Abdul's astonishment, the child declined bread from Abdul's own ration and in a fluency that might have been heard at Umayyad Caliph's own dining room far away in Damascus, said, "I'll take no bread, no sustenance of any kind from followers of a carrion crow who has left bodies of beasts and persons outworn, thick along the road, their bones gleaming white, their hides all shriveled and dry and hard."

Abdul Bin Abdul's lancers where from Berber clans well west of the Nile, they continued stubbornly to speak the dialect of that region, so the child's words made little sense to them, which Abdul Bin Abdul thought fortunate, otherwise Abdul might not have been able to control the ferocity of his lancers' reaction to the sullying of Mohammed's name. "An ill-defined offense my Lancers took pleasure in ruthlessly punishing."

However, the child's words hit Abdul very hard indeed. He became rigid in his saddle, his spurs sliced against the sides of his fat European mare, who lifted her head in a pirouette that caused Abdul to nearly fall off her. Abdul, had not been bred to the saddle, so his Lancer's were not in the least alarmed by yet one more example of poor horsemanship. But Abdul had been stricken by the content of the child's words because they appeared to contain phrases from Alqamah's poem, the last verse of which had for years been a source of comfort to Abdul.

There is an adage that one should make pictures at times such as this. Bring the scene to comprehension, so that all elements of Saint Timothy's "Miracles of Berobi" might be minutely examined, inched together, because it's not that easy to become a Saint, and in most every respect becoming a Saint is and was probably easier to accomplish than the feat of laying so lasting an impression upon Abdul.

It was springtime in Europe, leaves new on the trees, grass green and Dandelion bloom. The air heavy, the sky patched by dark clouds, and wisps of whiter cloud. Abdul's lancers, accustomed to the flowing robes of sand and bluer sky had struggled with winter from the Atlantic long enough. They had learned to adopt the leather habit of people more accustomed to long marches through cold rain. Metal helmets lined with felt, that were made from copper, because copper is lighter to carry, yet resilient enough against a glancing blow. And also as Abdul explained to his Lancers, copper had great value to appearance, especially when kept polished. The Lancers wore boots made from goat hide, soft, supple and dyed blue with an indigo which Abdul had procured at great expense from merchants in Cadiz. Abdul, himself preferred a more traditional cotton tunic, which he felt gave him the understated humility that inspired obedience from the souls of true believers. A kanzu, Okanya would have called it. But because it was cold, an all pervading dampness, Abdul was wearing an oilskin cloth cape that reached down to his ankles, and which his daughters complained left him smelling like Sheep. Across the hill, on the other side of the valley, reluctant levies brought up from the south were felling trees for a stockade against sea pirates and the Francs and against remnants of unallied Visigoths for whom treaty meant absolutely nothing, and whose antics had assured them a position in the deepest regions of God's anger. But Abdul wasn't optimistic. It wasn't going to work, none of it was going to work. Short of killing everyone, this land, its hills, its valleys, its people were all of them unmanageable. Abdul could hear the axe, and yelling of overseers, so could the lancers and so could the child, and so could a red squirrel, still as a leaf and red as chestnut.

In his account of that moment in spring, near the village of Berobi in the northern marches of Islam, Abdul Bin Abdul, records the dread the child's words had produced in him. "I surrendered to the ire of a man who had control of his senses but refused to believe them."

"I did not become curious as to how the child had acquired a familiarity and fluency in Peninsular Arabic, or how he might have heard the words of Alqamah without having drifted from one plane of space to another, as Pythagoras had been able to do. This child had never traveled beyond the bounds of his village. He had not gathered the years necessary to study any language, let alone his own, to the point where he could pass for the first born of an Umayyad courtier. An Imam, even. Instead of considering the possibility that I was in the presence of brilliance, I became impatient with the boy, told him to take food from me, if not for himself, then for someone less able. But he would not."

Abdul Bin Abdul's account continues, "I led the way back toward Berobi, leaving the child by his mother's grave, and I concluded that between the child and I, one of us had succumbed to a momentary derangement, and more likely it was I, not the half starved boy in front of me. Aware suddenly that I was alone, I looked back. The lancers had dismounted and were kneeling, as though in supplication to the Christian child. I saw an orb of light, or fire above the boys head. It moved as though weightless, yet it had substance. Then I heard a thunder, I saw a lightening bolt. And the orb was gone. How I missed the company of Greeks, with whom I might have shared the joy of such a phenomenon. But I was in the company of an ignorance which fell swiftly to a supernatural interpretation that not even the horses would have leaped toward. My mare was docile, the Lancers trembling, and the Christian Child above whose head the orb had paused without his seeming to be aware of it, stood there blinking like an Ostrich. I'd been in Al-Andalusia too long. As I watched my Lancers in supplication to the Christian child, I knew that even if I'd been able to, had I returned to Cordoba without the Lancers, there'd be no escaping suspicions of my loyalty. The Lord of Cordoba saw me as ardent in furthering the glory of God, which ran contrary to his own determination to free himself and the Berbers in Andalusia from the Caliphate of Damascus. I was concerned for my future, of ever returning to Alexandria, and had the Lord of Cordoba also known I was a follower of Pythagoras, he'd have had me quartered and fed to his wolves. I had no option but to dismount from the horse, and when I heard the distant clamor from the work gangs resume, I too knelt before the Christian child. As I did so I was aware of an odor, that contained not the causticity of decay from within the grave, or of ash from flame, or of lightning, but of sweet perfume from pink roses....."

"My Lancers became uncomfortable when I too kneeled before the Christian child. My supplication to a half starved urchin served to confuse them by reminding them of their oath of loyalty to the Caliphate and to the God of Islam, out of whom they had been promised all things came, including the miraculous. It was my supplication that made the Lancers aware of their treachery. My teachers would have been proud of me. And I felt elevated, as though the minds of my teachers were watching me from other surfaces in the universe. Thus emboldened, I proceeded to lock together a new harmony that might reorder the sphere in which my lancers had their understandings. 'God,' I said to them in their own language, 'Has appeared as a ball of light above the head of this child. God is the God of all things and all people. Let us remember this moment in our time of trial.' I then stood, reached my full height, put my hand on the child's head and mouthed words from the creed, 'There is no God, But God. Mohammed is the messenger of God.' The Child looked up at me as I spoke, a wonderful confusion in his face, and when I smiled at him, he smiled back. This sufficient act of contrition on both our parts, accomplished, he said to me in perfect Arabic, 'I find myself amongst grown men turned to a lunacy by thunder.' Which would have made me laugh, and still does. That child remains my sole and lasting regret for leaving the service and making the long trek home from Hispania. I am convinced he too had a golden thigh bone, and had I asked him to take me to his teacher, he would have instantaneously lead me to the tomb in Croton where the earthly remains of Pythagoras rest. Often I wonder what became of Timothy, and I might soon know."

It was dusk when I closed Abdul-bin-Abdul's Earthly Voyage, returned it to my canvass, lay back in the sand under the contractor's Bedford. There was a smell of oil from the vehicle's oil pan, the direction of the breeze must have changed. My eternal friend was silent as we stared up at the Bedford's rusting exhaust pipe. There'd been a night of cold rain, it was a rare experience, there might even have been ice in the rain. In the morning The Camels had huddled, their bones as chilled as mine. Lapwings looked fluffy. Seagulls cried.

I don't know whether you have existed amongst hedgerows and hills, or in desert, for any period of time. It's not the gentler challenge of camping out with that knowledge of a warm bed after a day or so, and then back to the grind, refreshed and ready to count for beans again. Rather it's the understanding that there is nowhere else to go, and after a while of such a conclusion, a person takes on a flavor and an appearance that robs him of a civility to others. Or to put it another way, a mother hides her child from you. Youth of a certain age take turns to beat on you, and sometimes you wake up bloody and missing a tooth. Constabulary ask you ludicrous questions like, "Where did you get that bottle of milk?" And all of this is reasonable, because anything you can eat, you do eat, and you have eaten, which makes you as wanted as a fox in the house of a politer hen. All of which is a long, long way from John Habberton's "The Fat Nurse with the frilled cap, snatched it away and told her, "It's bad luck to cry over a baby.'"

It was the numbers 280 and 220, which was the decision of jurors at the Trial of Socrates. His accusers wanted him gone, he'd worshipped the wrong Gods, corrupted the youth, yet he was given his chance to recommend his own punishment. A beautiful choice, a most wondrous moment, a dream that were it to come true would cause the Globe to cease on an axis of forgiveness. But not all of us can end our time on earth with the words "Crito, we owe a cock to Asclepius. Do pay it. Don't forget." On the day of his death he was about as old as I am, now, a wit to the end, before he drank his cup of hemlock, he asked the slave who handed it to him, "Is it customary I pledge this drink to anyone?" The slave replied, "We allow reasonable time in which to drink it."

Hemlock kills by gradually paralyzing the central nervous system. And I have to say, that I think probably so does hunger, but before hunger incapacitates, your body seems to warm, you become overly active, and your mind runs marathons of memory and idea, you lose the touch of your canvas and you decide it really doesn't matter anymore. Nor is it unpleasant, until some fever reminds you that this is not the first time such a predicament has occurred, and last time it had happened you had behaved rather poorly. A precipice into what should have been impossible, if it were not lodged in a memory. So much of it that my mind can still see it in the sand as the flies gathered, and feel it unexpectedly hot on my hands, as it becomes oily, before it scabs as though the blood had belonged to me, and anxious it was to fulfill a purpose, driven to do the right thing. "Clotting" I guess it's called. A good servant, that was suddenly headless, without mind and yet faithful. Instinct you can call it. A long handled shovel in my hand, staring back at me, as together we wondered what it was I had done and what it was I should now do.

Socrates, I still think would have waited out the sensation, accepted it. He knew how to stand still, when all around was terror. I have never been able to do that. It comes in a blur at first, and I ask that part of my mind that categorizes experience to turn away, but it says 'no.' Then some sorrow fills me, and I see it all real, as though it was happening, not once but time and time again. Yet call it regret, and I'd not be here today. Instead I'd have been gone long years past, my bones bleached by a desert sun, the heirs of the maggots to whom I gave life, probably even now flocking to Camel dung and the scream that is either hatred or the thing that we are. Not so poor a fate in comparison to the one which now awaits me. But I had dug graves to conceal the flesh and every sign of its earthly presence, the good boots, the rucksacks and their pictures of home. Ma and Pa, I'd guessed.

The fishing settlement of Gat Thabo was devoid of people, they'd been moved out to make way for tourism, their fishing boats gone, all that remained of them were the Camels the smugglers used. And with cartons of cigarettes and my canvass Walking Stewart and I sailed away alone aboard The Windral, which had fresh water enough for Abdul's caravan. It had white nylon sails, that filled the sky, it's wooden hull freshly painted, all the food a person could eat, and fortunately it had an engine.

"Agree to go sailing with the House Master," Walking Stewart had urged me. "Win his sailing races, otherwise Eason III will have his way and you'll be expelled. Then what'll happen to us."

An anguish I guess it would be called, a biting knowledge that maybe I had been the cause of disappearance. Off toward the Ottoman, back to Armenia to find the button for his jacket to trade tales of mathematics, gunpowder and Bangalore Rockets with Artak Mesropian because I had become a dullard and beast of the forest. Yet oh my god, if there was a limb that could have been removed, I'd have done it then and I'd do it today.

But still there was purpose, no need of words between Walking Stewart and I, we both knew what to do. Out there in the Timeless Place, during that reading of my friend's translation of Artak Mesropian's translation of Abdul bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage, toward the end of the book we'd found a scrap of lined paper that had stuck itself to the page. Handwritten upon it was a name and an address "This book belongs to JH Woolley, White Cottage, Fawler Road, Kingston Lisle, Oxfordshire."

Chapter Seven : Escape and a Haircut

No good has ever come from a vacuum cleaner. They are noise and puff, and obvious to me they belong to a an unnatural obsession. I have been separated from my shovel, it was clinked against and discovered by a vacuum cleaner's nozzle feeding in the darkness under my bed. And I am out of Cigarettes. One a day, two a day, three a day. None.

"Why do you need a box of matches," I was asked.

"They are good for dexterity," I replied. "The act of lighting a match presents an opportunity. A chance to put my wits to use by exercising my hands. Each time I light a match I risk burning myself. Imagine the incentive."

But all is not lost, I have what I'll call an intern. A youth, sallow and small for his age. Once a week he cuts the grass. And when I asked him why, to my delight he told me he was a Christian engaged in charitable work. I'll sell one half of my soul to him for a carton of cigarettes and the other half of my soul I'll exchange for my shovel.

This bargain will not easily be made. And I am prepared to compromise, but I suspect my intern still has much to learn. So I must tempt him as I have been tempted. And how much easier this bargain would be to make, if I knew what it was my intern wished for. My questions so far have produced a disgusting purity from him, which I suspect is a rote learned act of mind. So you can imagine my predicament, far too easy to concentrate on the less important things, few of us can multitask with any degree of adeptness and I have often wondered what part of us assumes the multitasking of climbing stairs is a rote learned activity.

It was aboard the architect's schooner, as we hastened for a friendly port in which to ditch the craft, that my friend Walking Stewart began to struggle with what I believed at the time to be an inconsistency. He developed a terrible fear of drowning at sea. My own arguments against such a possibility had as much to do with my fear of losing him as it had to do with anything a logician might consider reasonable. Not only had I seen my friend swim like a Dolphin and emerge from the water without appearing to be in the least wet, no glisten in the sunlight, no drip from his Armenian tunic, but history records that John Walking Stewart's lifeless body had been "discovered by friends on February the 20th 1822."

"Our best plan," he'd been restlessly pacing the decks of The Windral. "Would be to go to the Mound of Fish, follow the coast north, then take a sharp turn west. We'll cross the Cattle Passage, visit a Turkish Delight factory, have a bath, then we'll follow the setting sun until we see White Cliffs. It doesn't get easier than that!"

It was confusing, he was describing a land route from our location adrift upon the Turquoise Sea to the English Channel, and there was in us a determination to get far, far away from Gat Thabo as quickly as we could. We had a door to knock upon, White Cottage, Fawler Road, Kingston Lisle, Oxfordshire. Sounds ordinary, a less than romantic image of a retired accounted and his wife would be hard to find, yet that was our goal.

"Not even the English Crusaders walked to and from their two Jerusalem's." I suggested. "They traveled on ships."

"They were doing the work of their God."

An uncharacteristic petulance in my friend's voice that I chose to ignore as I again counted the currencies we'd found in The Windral's unlocked safe. There were nine hundred and seventy five US dollars, a fortune which in those days, in that part of the world, retained their value in the way that gold does, or did. There were a variety of other more local currencies, all of which were subject to dramatic fluctuations of value, and unlike US dollars didn't cross borders. To be useful local currencies would require a visit to back street money changers. There was also a passport that had belonged to the Architect's son. He was about my age, clean looking, we shared the same eye color, height and he looked a little like me. It was a British Passport, and like my passport it was worth a great deal of money to those in search of identities other than their own. All this wealth gathered before my eyes had a comfort to it that mingled into confluence with an indecency and became a sadness in which a sense of safety shone brightly. We could have flown in an airplane to the White Cliffs, taken a taxi to White Cottage.

"There is no worse a fate than to be returned to the earthly dimension as a Shellfish!"

I looked up from our hoard of avarice. My alarm was intense, the Windral's engine was out of diesel fuel and my eternal friend had transformed himself. It was him, his face unchanged. But his boots were gone, his long linen trousers were gone, his Armenian tunic had gone. On his feet he had cloth sandals, he was dressed in a white robe, more flowing than a Kanzu, around his waist was a platted belt made of soft rope.

"I have found my button." And with his hand, three fingers pointing to the heavens, he attempted to make what I guessed was the sign of the cross, but it was a muddled, uncoordinated gesture, and such was our circumstance, adrift at sea, one sail motionless waiting for a breeze, I found myself smothering a laugh. Then my friend went on to say, "I am Saint Timothy."

We where in the narrow Gulf of Aqaba, we'd made good way toward the north, a mile to our east we could see the rocky coast of Jordan, to our west was the Sinai Desert, and in those days possession of the Sinai was in dispute. The Windral was drifting toward Jordan, which was the wrong side of the Gulf for us. I'd set the anchor, deep as the chain would allow it to go, it had yet to snag a hold that might end our drift east. To reach the safety of the Sinai, we'd have to swim.

"A Saint," I suggested, "could probably walk on water if they really wanted to."

"It was a pure and beautiful moment when I turned that lizard into gold," my friend was faraway in his memories and he admonished me. "We Saints are the instrument of the Lead Bull's will, we do not perform miracles for personal gain, my child!"

Given our predicament, none of this was helpful. Aloud I wondered what my friend might have been doing during our years and years of religious instruction. Clearly one of us had missed several possibly central themes within the Christian message. And uncertain what to say, but determined to commune with my friend, I suggested, "Fear of being returned as a Shellfish could be considered a cardinal sin by several Popes."

"When I look back," my friend was suddenly passionate, "it's been thirteen hundred years of toil, trouble and discordance. Never has the Lead Bull granted me a life of ease. It's rude! Simple enough thing for him to return me to earth as the only child of a Merchant Banker or a Celtic Prince. Was I ever returned as the youngest male heir of an Eastern Potentate, granted a stable full of ponies for my entertainment. Have I ever inherited a title? The answer to that is 'No I haven't!' Have I ever ruled over an empire? 'No!' I was once a man of gold and I have been treated shabbily. The Lead Bull has become a decrepit old fool and it's time things changed."

I decided that my friend had become a little too involved in Abdul bin Abdul's, Earthly Voyage. The account must have reconnected his imagination to his search for the Sabeans and their idea of death as a moment to follow the Lead Bull into the night, return again, renewed as a child. I made no mention of "bowing down to the microscope" or my friend's own work of erudition and learning contained within his Apocalypse of Nature. My object in those moments was to find a safe passage from the decks of the becalmed Windral to the friendlier of the two coastlines. I busied myself in hunting around the schooner for waterproofing inside which to keep two books, my passport and our hoard of avarice safe from the salt water as I considered an attempt to swim to safety.

As I searched the schooner for waterproofing I glanced at Walking Stewart. He looked almost broken. He was again attempting that gesture the Bishops have learned to make when blessing a congregation. There was a debate in the church once about how many fingers the gesture should point heavenwards, the result had been a Trinity schism in the early Christian Church, so no wonder the gesture required more than an afternoon of practice. I was shy for my friend and the ordeal and loneliness he appeared to be struggling with, then he caught my glance in his.

"How else do you explain my predicament?" He asked.

I had no answer other than to recall when first I had seen him as a wisp around the Lantana. Okanya's grandfather had responded to my description of my friend back then. "What you are seeing are parts of a being in a search for reunion. And it could be that some of those parts of a being wish to speak to you, and you alone. Otherwise I too would see them."

A quick breeze chose to move the air. The Saint credited himself with the miracle of causing the breeze to blow, but I was at the sail, tightening the boom and at the wheel, not an easy navigation, and when we finally beached The Windral in a cove on the safe coast, I too was subject to the idea of a miracle. We'd take the bus, north to the safety of port town on the Mediterranean Sea.

It was three days on a ferry from the Port of Haifa to the Port of Piraeus with a brief stop at a port called Limassol which is a port on the southern shores of the Island of Cyprus, which my comrade The Turk called home. The ferry a little claustrophobic, the overhead a little low, everyone jammed together, and because of my appearance and scent I was given what nautical folk call a wide berth. But there were washrooms with fresh hot and cold water, and something else I'd not seen for a while, flushing toilets with toilet paper. There was money changing, there was a little shop that sold toiletries and souvenirs, Turkish Delight and Greek chocolates, there was dining area where a person could buy ready cooked food, there was a whole thing happening with alcohols being served at a bar, a wealth of different types of people including backpackers who were all soft hands and clean nails with their foreign adventures and talking loudly about their two weeks on a Kibbutz, their own personal experience of the West Bank, the Wailing Wall, which Youth Hostels were better than others, and on it would go.

My friend and I could sit for hours on a back deck, watch the propeller churned sea, which oddly enough was something the older members of the ferry traveling public were also fascinated by. More convinced than ever of his origins Walking Stewart was attempting to seek reunion with his many parts by becoming Saint Timothy, the child of Alaia. His past mingled with a jumble of memories, a log jam in his imagination, prime of which was his growing conviction that the Lead Bull had somehow failed to take proper notice of his passing from the earthly plane. He saw it as an appalling affront, his purgatory remained unfinished as a result of the Lead Bull's decrepitude. "He's a doddering old fool, past his time!" And indeed it had begun to occur to me that my eternal friend fully intended to meet the Lead Bull on his own terms. The expression "I have performed miracles, for God's sake!" became his "Fucking Gibraltar." Nor would he be convinced that whether he was returned as a Butterfly, a Shellfish or Saint wasn't his choice to make. At the same time, the idea of him gone from my world was more than I wanted to contemplate.

"You look too dangerous a brigand for the journey ahead." He told me. "I cannot meet the Lead Bull in a Napoleonic jail cell. We all know what happened to Jean Genet. He was reduced to writing love letters on toilet paper. It's the sort of thing that not even the Pope would forgive."

At the front end of the steerage class deck there was a cabin with a porthole that was a barbershop. It had a barber's chair to sit in, a cracked mirror to look at, basins, a hose pipe with a shower end, hot towels that came out of device that steamed, a cut throat razor, shaving cream and hair cutting scissors, all for a very reasonable price tip included, the barber insisted.

He was a Greek, his family had been shipboard barbers since the days of the Ottoman he claimed, but he himself understood the modern hair style, and he had a whole bunch of black and white photographs in an album of somewhat nervous looking young men sporting the types of haircut Mr. Halas was familiar with. In his chair with a white apron round my neck, I looked through the album, while Mr. Halas busied himself with sharpening straps and whipping up froth in his barber's mug to get rid of my beard.

"You like Clint, I do Clint. You like Burt Lancaster, I do Burt Lancaster. You like Beatle, I do Beatle. You like George Formby, I do very good George Formby."

"What do you think?" I was overwhelmed by choice so I called to the artist in Mr. Halas whose response was most professional.

"You want to look tough, you want to look pretty, you want to look like a mountain man."

"I want to look pretty for girls." I admitted

"Bad girls, good girls, what kind of girls?"

"She's upstairs." I was thinking of the Dandelion who always traveled first class on public transport.

"First class girls?" Mr. Halas raised an eyebrow.

"She once married an older man, Mr. Halas."

"Ah!" Mr. Halas was most knowledgeable on the subject of first class married women. "You need new clothes, not boots. You need good lazy man shoes, smell clean. I'll make you look like Rock Hudson, no sideburns."

"Lets go for it!" I felt enthusiastic.

"You got dollars?"

"Yes."

"Fifteen dollars."

"That's a lot of money Mr. Halas."

"Keep the boots, no socks, no underpants, twelve dollars."

"You mean you've got trousers and shirts and stuff."

"And boot polish and a belt. People leave baggage, I pick up." And noticing my reluctance to commit to anything Mr. Halas gleamed and said, "Like Rock Hudson. Ten dollars."

Mr. Halas kept his stores in one of his cupboards. He had several sets of excellent trousers, a great many pairs of shorts, some very good shirts with collars and long sleeves that had hardly been worn and a whole array of wares that included an electric razor and an alarm clock.

The shave was a little nerve-racking, the ferry rolling against the sea, and my skin had a few bumps on it from the attention of Sand Flies. And my hair hadn't seen a brush or a comb for a very long time, it was washed in shampoo, then when it was cut it came away in great long knotty clumps that fell to the floor, and which Mr. Halas reassured me would be sold for good money to a wigmaker. I could see it all happen in the mirror. And indeed Mr. Halas was so pleased with his work he threw in a pair of socks and because in Mr. Halas' opinion married women liked men who owned clean underwear, Mr. Halas threw in a pair of underpants, along with a thing that looked like a toilet freshener but which apparently was for rubbing under the arms so as to smell irresistible.

When I was all dressed up, Mr. Halas admired his work, and then he made the claim that I would look exactly like Rock Hudson if my new trousers had the assistance of a belt, an assortment of which where available for very reasonable prices. I gave Mr. Halas twenty US dollars, which pleased him mightily. We shook hands, became best friends and I returned to the general population where I spent a good couple of hours trying not to look at himself in reflections from glass.

"Do I look stupid?"

"Next time you meet your Dandelion she'll use you, she'll squeeze you dry, she'll throw you away." My old friend was well into his exploration of his new revelation, most of which was Dutch to me. "The Witch of Ithaca squeezed me dry. Not once but three times. We Sphinx Sabeans never learn. It's a curse the Lead Bull has placed upon us. We might just as well be tadpoles for all he cares!"

"But do I look stupid!"

"You look very handsome."

Piraeus was mostly a small island connected to the mainland until over time it became one with that region of Greece called Attica, the heart of which is the great city of Athens. By the time Socrates walked the earth, Piraeus had been fortified, the Athenian fleet was docked there and indeed it was from Piraeus that the Athenian fleet joined fleets from other Greek City States to meet the Persians at the Battle of Salamis, which all happened a couple of miles to the West of Piraeus in the September of 480 BC, ten or so years before Socrates was born into the world.

As we waited to disembark, shuffle down the gang plank onto the dock, my friend looked forward to having his sandaled feet on dry land. He'd had a number of very difficult moments while at sea. He'd convinced himself that a particularly tall and active backpacker who kept endlessly walking around and hitting his head on the bulkhead door jambs looked unwell, likely to fall down dead at any moment and in steerage there would be no hiding from the Lead Bull. This meant that to avoid being close to a possibly dying backpacker we'd spent more time than was necessary finding different places to sit.

"He looks healthy enough to me!"

But there was something else. My friend was impatient to get on with our journey, avoid awkward and unnecessary interruptions and arrive safely. At the time I believed it was JH that drove him onward, and I guess in a sense it was.

"You understand, my child, that we Sphinx Sabeans have had some very cruel words for the Greeks over the years. So let's tread lightly around the Battle of Salamis, avoid all mention of the Olympics, and never point out that Plato was a fascist pig, or suggest that Pindar had a particular penchant for adolescent boys, or that Menelaus of Sparta beat his wife so she was bound to run off with a good looking Trojan. We are after all visitors in their fine country."

"Those were Ancient Greeks!"

"The dinosaurs are ancient."

"Try to calm down!" Nor was waiting for immigration and customs any easier for me.

"I know it goes against our Sabean nature, but I'm just suggesting that if we do end up in the hands of the Greek authorities best not to mention the word Sphinx or Sabean to local magistrates. Or to any kind of Greek legal mind for that matter."

I had my passport in hand as we advanced toward the immigration officer who might indeed have been related to Plato. He was a large well fed, hairy man in a uniform who kept looking at his wrist watch and generally glaring at anything that moved too slowly. However, I'd developed a certain affinity with the officer's attitude toward us visitors to his ancient civilization. I'd noticed he was particularly impatient with backpackers. The backpack is carried on the back, sudden turns or impatient twitching by a nervous backpacker can result in a backpack bumping into things and into people. I'd made certain I was close enough to a one of the more jittery backpackers so the immigration officer might witness my aggravation following an unwarranted bumping into. The backpacker apologized, the immigration officer grunted and I felt considerably more confident about the relationship between Saint Timothy's Sphinx Sabeans and the Greeks.

"English?"

"Yes."

"Holiday?"

"Acropolis." I attempted to look both studious and serious.

The officer stamped the passport and he called "Chelone!" Which, though it sounds like a tentacled foodstuff, is a Greek word for Tortoise.

Chapter Eight : Freckles

My intern has followed the trail of bread crumbs. After the grass is cut he now visits the kitchen, to sit a while. He is a big, soft boy, his face red from the heat, his canvass shoes are well used, his trousers worn, he brings me cigarettes which I pay him for, and he's nervous of the old Tobacco Barn that lies two hundred yards from where I live. It's where his grandfather had hung himself.

"You don't go anywhere when you do that." He drank a Pepsi Cola, it was cold from the refrigerator.

"He's probably glad to see you." I suggested.

"Doubt it."

He has that dour of pickup trucks, guns, church on Sunday, girlfriends and his single enthusiasm, his constant companion, is a small hand held device that not only takes photographs, it tells him the time of day, it converses with him and he tells me it is out of date. Upon the device he has shown me a series of pictures of a very similar looking technical device which from the awe in his voice suggest he has fallen to a lust. We all have our preoccupations, I guess, but with such an entail I sometimes understand why it was my intern's grandfather chose to shorten his sojourn upon the earthly plain. Yet my own arrangements for an infinitely more glorious end time are in progress. Whether the magistrate likes it or not, I will have my Tower of Silence in exchange for what my intern calls a New Phone. He's choosing colors, I'm choosing suitable lumber, and Mrs. Bigelow is suspicious.

Both Walking Stewart and I have seen a Zoroastrian Tower of Silence. We were in the Sindh, near a murky pool which contained Crocodiles where a Sufi Saint had once rested. The Saint had bathed in the pool, and as he scratched off lice from his skin, tossed them into the water, they had turned into Crocodiles. The Saint's poems still linger in that part of the Globe. Off in the distance was the Tower of Silence, the stones of its platform had tumbled to rubble, but high in the air Vultures still soared. I can see it now, a long way off in the haze. Call it a happier time, or a simpler time and it was long before our reading of Abdul bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage. An event which appeared to have precipitated a stream of troubling memories in my eternal friend that would flash and ignite in him a passion to confront the Lead Bull.

It was early 1970 something, we were in Macedonia, the land of Alexander the Great, and my friend and I were again approaching the Balkans. This time our journey was north westward, toward the Austrians, and onward. We'd been waiting all day and most of the night by the big road, E75 it was called, a good few miles north west of the port town of Thessalloniki. It was late spring chilly. We could hear the roar of diesel trains hauling goods and passengers. We could see the lights of a border crossing which took E75 into Yugoslavia where E75 became Marshal Tito's Brotherhood and Unity Highway. I was cold and hungry, the Saint was impatient, his simple flowing robes, his sandals, he'd grown a beard, his hair was long and from a distance he looked a little like an aggravated Christian Profit.

"My child!" he'd blessed me. "The Pope uses public transport. He doesn't beg lifts off strangers from the side of the road."

The vehicle that pulled off the highway was a French vehicle called a Deux Chevaux, or two steam horses as it might translate. It had seen better days, it had a canvass roof, no heat for a cold spring night. Yet when a traveler is given a lift by a stranger there's motive. Good hearted sometimes. Some motives less pleasant, and the extremes of the less pleasant can end with a person writing love letters on prison toilet paper.

Our host and owner of the Deux Chevaux was a Croatian called Dragan, which means "Precious" in the language, and I was hoping for a swift passage through the Peoples Republic of Yugoslavia, comfortably achieve the 800 miles to the northern borders with Austria. But the journey north was rapidly reduced to a confusion of languages, broken promises and back roads through lonely places with names as beautiful as Blagaj and Sipivo. Soon enough my eternal friend had nothing good to say about Baltic Nations, Baltic peoples or Baltic scenery, but I quickly discovered the joys of Dragan's professional calling. Precious smuggled counterfeit American cigarettes, Marlboro and Winston, from the border with Greece near Albania into all parts of the People's Republic. He drank a fruit brandy out of an unlabeled bottle from morning until night and he generously encouraged me to follow his good example, breakfast, lunch and supper. The brandy tasted a little like methylated spirits but it did sterling work at keeping the cold at bay, it calmed the mind, it reduced most things to a soothing ordinariness. For the Saint it was all just the Armpit of Europe, which apparently hadn't changed one iota since he'd been a Croatian farmer who in the tenth century had done his bit for King Tomislav against the Bulgarians. Pretty much single handedly he'd won the Battle of The Bosnian Highlands where he'd lost both his eyes and a leg and he'd died in an agony so great he could sometimes still feel it. "Being a Croatian farmhand in any century was bad enough, but to die the way I did! It was no way for the Lead Bull to treat a former Saint!"

From the hillside town of Sipivo, Precious had one final stop to make, it was off up there in the woodlands as you take the lonely bandit roads north through the hills toward the City of Zagreb, near a great metal monument to the Patriots who'd given their lives in wartime to Tito's Yugoslavia. Precious himself had been too young and frail to engage actively in the hostilities against the German and Italian menace but he could remember a song that had something to do with a Peregrine Falcon flying the wounded over the mountain. Comrade Precious' mother would sing it to him whenever the German or Italian air force tried to bomb his home which apparently they used to do regularly. The bombing from an airplane was animal behavior, lacked any kind of dignity, there was no honor in it, not even cowardice, then in a moment granted by God, Precious' mother had shot one of the attacking airplanes out of the sky. When the excitement was over the younger boys of the town had found the wreckage along with the pilot, and they'd spent many happy hours pillaging the remains until a commissar from Tito put an end to the fun so that photographs could be taken of a downed and defeated enemy. And it was on a muddy road through dense woodland north from Sipivo that Precious was able to explain the purpose of our final stop before visiting the civilization of Zagreb for a well deserved break. We were going to visit the pilot of the airplane his mother had shot out of the sky.

"He dead?" I'd assumed it was grave we were visiting

"Nix dead. Boche nix dead." Precious sounded a little sly as he added. "He tata for me."

"Tata?"

"Tatika. He mek for me!" Precious persisted.

Comrade Precious' diet was such that he was a thin person, he'd watch and look, his eyes a light grey, his fingers were long, creative, his nails were clean and he was prone to moments of reverie, like a squirrel, but he was well armed, no one's fool, and when a misunderstanding occurred between us I'd learned to be honest, shrug my shoulders and say, "No compren Comrade."

Precious would then bring his gallant Deux Chevaux to a stop so as to better explain. It usually took a while but with the assistance of refreshments, a couple of Winston cigarettes and on this occasion with the help from the German word for work and the Greek word for secret I was able to gather that Precious preferred Tata or Tatika to believe that he was a very busy gainfully employed "Stoler" who earned a fair living working in Thessalloniki.

"Stoler?"

"Like Isus!"

"You're pretending to be a fisherman like Jesus?" I was inspired.

"Nix, nix fish!" Precious was frustrated and it was a frustration that made him threatening. "Tata, he speak English. Nix, nix fish! I stoler."

"Our savior was a carpenter by profession, everyone knows that!" The Saint's contribution came from the back seat.

"Tata, he speak good English." Precious repeated.

The route north from Sipivo to Tata's domain was a rarely used broken down road, with deep ruts, the land through which the road attempted to traverse included steep inclines. The woods were mainly pine, tall older trees, a tangle of newer growth, rock, and all of it abandoned, given over to fairy tales and witches. There were ferns and eyes staring back from each side of the road, possibly hungry wolves and no sign of any other vehicle or habitation.

Then it was downhill, a slalom for Precious' two horses, their narrower tires skidded and swerved, but Precious was fearless or he'd been made so desperate by the prospect of reuniting with Tata he was looking to end it all. Small comfort were the two gallons of unlabeled fruit brandy and twenty cartons of Winston cigarettes concealed under the back seat.

"You understand, my child, that we'll probably be seeing the Lead Bull shortly. Let me assure you I fully intend to tell him exactly what I think of him."

There was a break in the clouds, the curtain of cold trees parted to reveal a shallow valley, small grey stone walled fields, a gaunt black milk cow, a timber barn with a stone foundation, a homestead with smoke in its chimney and there carrying an armful of wood up a muddy path was a large, much older woman. Her head was covered in a black scarf, her winter coat touched the ground.

"Mama," Precious whispered. I'd heard a great deal about her, her wonderful singing voice, her fierce prowess, her general no nonsense attitude. Now the sight of her seemed to have touched an unexpected set of emotions in Precious. He stubbed out his cigarette which had a good few puffs left, put both his hands on his steering wheel. "Nix fish, I stoler," he glared at me.

"Je big time compren, Comrade!"

Her name was Marta, she had a well healed scar on her left cheek, something had happened to her nose, and she had no intention of dropping the heavy armful of wood she was taking indoors for the stove. Her smile was a judgmental smile. Comrade Precious quivered beneath it, his debonair deserted him in his attempts to look innocent, and he suddenly became a little boy, the smile in his eyes too sweet to be true.

When Marta curled a lip and thrust her jaw in the direction of her son's guest, Precious looked disappointed, he shook his head sadly and answered his mother with a short sentence which included the word "Englander." The news raised a suspicion in Marta, and as she stared at me the look in her eye contained no warmth whatsoever, it was a silent reptile glare.

"Tatika?" Dragan suggested.

Marta softened a little, she gestured with her chin at the homestead. Precious gave me a crooked frown of warning. Gallantly I offered to help carry wood for Dragon's mother. Marta considered this a terrible insult, and it was almost as though she had a strong desire to kick me in the shin and might well have done had Precious not uttered another short sentence, which included the word "Englander" in a tone that was clearly derogatory. The sentence, whatever it might have been, Marta wholeheartedly agreed with, and she laughed. Nor was it a jovial laugh.

Tatika was a good eighteen inches taller than Precious and about two foot taller than Marta, who was about three inches shorter than me. Tatika was square, his hands were big, he was blond, his eyes were blue, even when he spoke Croatian he sounded Germanic and in every respect he resembled an older, weather-beaten and slightly balding Aryan super male who had a knee that would not bend. He greeted Precious as a loving European father might, by giving him a big hug and then jostling Precious' curly dark hair. I gained the impression Dragan was very fond of his stepfather and had every intention of one day finding the necessary energy and determination to impress the former Luftwaffe pilot, but in the meanwhile Precious wasn't quite ready for the commitment which that sort of effort would have required of him, deceit was so much easier.

Then Precious mentioned the word "Englander" to Tatika, Marta grunted in a most rural manner, and I felt my heart sink to the soles of my boots.

"You speak English?" Tatika had long since given up on believing what anybody told him, and the stranger thing about the ex pilot was that his English accent despite its Germanic-ness had a very broad hint of that class of English who not only aspire to win at charades and play scrabble but have walked the halls of higher learning and have a way of pronouncing Oxford and madam that riles.

"Yes I am English."

"I haven't spoken English for years." Tatika was full of the joys, it was as though English was a happier time for him, plenty of good memories and like an old expatriate maid it seemed Tatika was longing to chat.

"Haven't really spoken English for a while myself." I felt dwarfed by Tatika and was convinced that nothing good was about to happen.

It was very warm inside Marta's home, there was a big kitchen which smelled of bacon, cabbage and fresh bread, it had a wood burning cook stove, there was a big furry dog on the kitchen floor that was either dead or uninterested. There was an indoor bathroom with gravity fed running water and a flushing toilet in a room off the kitchen that served as a laundry and dishwashing station. There was an upstairs with bedrooms. There was no electricity. And down the hall there was a large room that had a very fine looking carpet which meant a person had to take their boots off to enter from the hallway. I could see an iron stove in the room, a couple of very comfortable chairs, a desk, there were black and white photographs of younger looking people all of whom seemed to be dressed in uniforms of one kind or another and there were hundreds and hundreds of books all neatly arranged on beautifully made shelves.

Tatika took off his shoes and suggested that Precious and his young friend join him in the comfort of his living room while Marta, bless her rugged soul, replenished the fire places and made them all a fresh pot of Kava, which was one of the few Croatian words I'd mastered, it meant coffee. But it was apparent that Precious wasn't that keen on the idea of taking his shoes off, or of entering the living area, or of leaving his English speaking guest alone with Tatika. Marta had some cruel words to say about something and was glaring at Precious, who in his turn glared at the Englander. It was the case too that Tatika must have been immune, he seemed oblivious to the developing impasse in the hallway between his stepchild and his wife.

I felt confident, I decided to take my cue from Tatika rather than Precious. Indeed, I was pleased with the condition of my feet, I'd had access to a warm shower in Sipivo at the home of one of Comrade Precious' many female admirers. When it had been my turn to shower, I'd found a pair of what must have been soviet nail scissors in the well appointed bathroom, I'd cut my toe nails. My feet still looked a little pink from the scrubbing I'd given them, they'd picked up a little grime, but I reckoned they both looked fine. I unlaced my boots, placed them neatly in the hall beside Tatika's very large walking shoes and followed Tatika into the room, the carpet soft and cozy.

"No Socks!" Tatika's comment was maybe no more than an observation.

"I see you like books, Mr. Tatika." I changed the subject.

"Tatika!" The ex-pilot snorted. "Tatika is a word for father. My name is Vilbert Oberst. My English friends used to call me Willy." Then with a brief glance at Precious who was still in the hallway engaged in what could have been a heated debate with his mother, Vilbert asked, "Do you work with my son?"

"I'm trying to get to Zagreb and he gave me lift. He's a very good carpenter, I've been told. I'm more of laboring kind of person, and I've worked in hotel and catering."

Marta had dropped her armful of wood in the hallway and was making a beeline out through the front door toward her son's French motor vehicle.

"You do understand, it would break his mother's heart, if she thought he was smuggling American cigarettes." Vilbert was grim and kind of wistful as we watched Marta tromping toward Precious' car. "Greek cigarettes, fine. Turkish or French cigarettes, or even Russian or German cigarettes, no problem. But American or Italian cigarettes..... It would break her heart. I do hope Dragan doesn't have American cigarettes anywhere in his car. Marta's a decorated hero of the Socialist Republic and she will find them."

Marta had the badger's quality of determination and I knew well enough that Precious and his French motor vehicle were possibly the only way I'd ever get to Zagreb, and if I wasn't careful there was a good chance I'd end up as a Croatian farm hand, get called up to do my bit for one or other of the inevitable Balkan wars that had plagued the area since around the time of the Romans.

"I have a couple of cartons of American cigarettes and two bottles of brandy under the back seat of Dragan's car."

Vilbert Oberst wasn't taken in for one little moment, he hastened to the front door and with few wide ranging sentences all of which included the word Englander, he explained to his decorated hero of the Socialist Republic that the carton of Winston cigarettes she was holding didn't belong to Precious.

Marta was a scary person who was obviously passionate in her honest opinions and probably dangerous. Quietly I decided that my welcome had come to an end. Should I survive Marta's wrath I anticipated a minimum of exile from the house, nor would it be the first I'd slept the night in the Deux Chevaux while Precious was engaged in satisfying his prodigious appetite for "snosaj" as it translates into Croatian. But Marta, far from being angered by the idea of having a reprobate capitalist sympathizer as a guest in her house, became calm. Very carefully she replaced the carton of cigarettes in its hiding place, lowered the back seat, she grinned broadly and she then cuffed her son around the head with the palm of her hand, pretty hard and several times, which caused Precious to smile in a manner I decided was either relief or bliss.

"Supper will be good tonight!" Vilbert muttered to his English savior as they watched mother and son make friends again, and then the ex-Luftwaffe piloted added, "Did you say brandy."

"Unlabeled!" I advised.

The evening meal was in the kitchen. Herr Oberst's dog acknowledged his master's presence and then went back to sleep. Marta didn't eat with the boys, she preferred to smile kindly upon them as they enjoyed her venison, turnip, kale and potato stew. While Vilbert's appetite was in splendid form, the younger men had been feeding sparsely through the course of the past few weeks. Our main diet had been brandy and cigarettes which meant our stomachs had shrunk. And Marta was one of those stalwarts who considered lack of appetite a commentary upon her cooking. It was alright for an Englander and a very foreign smuggler of American produce to pick away at his plate, he wouldn't know the meaning of good food as he went around warping the minds of young impressionable Croatian carpenters. But it wasn't alright for Comrade Precious, who had to eat at least two large bowls of his mother's stew and four thick slices of fresh buttered bread.

Then Precious, who must have been getting on for forty years old, put a painful expression upon his face and he did a very good job of appearing to be suddenly taken by a sickness that could have been whooping cough or a terminal head cold but had nothing to do with his mother force feeding him.

Herr Oberst expressed a polite concern but Marta was worried, she ordered her son upstairs to his bedroom while she set about concocting potions from a series of rusty looking tins she kept in a cupboard in the bathroom. But before scampering obediently upstairs, Precious nodded in comradely manner at me. I nodded back, I'd been there, it was difficult, the whole mother and son relationship was rough on the emotions and on occasion masculinity and self respect just had to be sacrificed in the interest of maintaining harmony.

"Last time I tasted Virginia tobacco was in London, before the war." It was Vilbert. "I studied at the Royal College of Music. Seven wonderful years."

"Have you been to Germany since the war?" I was suddenly very curious.

"I'm a Berliner, I made the trip a couple of years ago." Vilbert was yearning to talk, he must have been lonely and he'd made assumptions about me. "Marta didn't want to come. I had to cut short my visit. It's depressing how much the Fatherland has changed."

Marta yelled something that sounded like Allahu Akbar, or at least it had the insistent resonance of a call to prayer and duty. Vilbert rose calmly from his seat at the kitchen table and proceeded to busy himself with lighting paraffin lamps. I had my own nagging worries and I wondered where Vilbert got the paraffin from. The idea of a purveyor within walking distance of the homestead seemed unlikely, which meant that somewhere Vilbert or possibly Marta may have had a vehicle. The paraffin was in a big fifty gallon drum, that lived in a little hut, just outside the back door. The drum, Vilbert explained, had belonged to the Germany army, it was a very good quality steel drum that would last forever. It was a gift from Tito and because Marta was a decorated war hero it was refilled once a year by the State. It was then that Vilbert looked across the field up toward the head of the valley, late sun low on the horizon and he said, "It was Precious who saved my life. The other boys were for slitting my throat."

"You'd been bombing their town, as I understand it." I was polite

"I was flying a Fieseler Storch. Not much more than a glider with an engine. An unarmed reconnaissance aircraft. Maximum speed a hundred and sixty kilometers an hour. A hundred miles an hour. Walking speed almost. I was over a hundred kilograms in those days, a third of the Storch's payload. Goring couldn't even fit inside one, let alone take off in one. But don't tell Marta she thinks she shot down a Junkers 87."

"A what?"

"A Stuka....." Vilbert's voice trailed into an emptiness to visit places only he could understand. I realized that I knew the feeling well.

"How about a bottle of unlabeled brandy," I commiserated. "And we should break open a carton of Winston."

Marta was upstairs ministering to her boy child, we could hear her from Vilbert's warm library singing what could well have been patriotic songs.

Then Herr Oberst said, "I once flew a Junkers 52 over England at night."

"You were in The Blitz!" I was conversational, and Vilbert was enjoying his brandy.

"Blitz?"

"That's when you chaps bombed London. We called it The Blitz. Don't know why, but that's what Londoners call it, and they can go about it."

"A Junkers 52 is a transport plane."

"I thought it was Stuka diving bombing airplane."

"That's a Junkers 87." Herr Oberst insistence that everyone knew the difference between a Junkers 52 and a Junkers 87 didn't fall well upon my eternal friend's saintly shoulders. "Typical arrogant Hun behavior. It's no wonder they lost the war." he insisted.

"Must be difficult to fly an airplane at night." I too could feel a slight surge from the blood of ancestors, but even though I could easily out run the ex-Luftwaffe pilot in a foot race should it prove necessary, I was a guest in Herr Oberst's home.

"It was in the early days of the war," Vilbert took a long elegant drag from his American cigarette. "We had to wait for a clear sky over England."

"Must have been quite a long wait!"

"It was. It was a difficult wait for the passenger. She was anxious to get on with it. Me too."

"You had a passenger?"

"She was a very strange young woman. It was all very peculiar. But what can you do in wartime. Orders are orders."

The Saint went on about jackboots, gas chambers, the Teutonic Horde and how Herr Oberst was a prime example of the Lead Bull's incompetence.

Then Herr Oberst said, "The woman had an English code name. We called her Freckles."

"Interesting code name." It wouldn't be the first time I'd endured the endless tribulations of those for whom war had become a definition of why it was more youthful generations had become almost pointless. "How old was she?"

"Not more than twenty, twenty one. Something like that."

"How tall was she?"

"A tall girl." The question surprised Vilbert. "Why do you ask?"

"Just trying to get the picture."

"She was very ugly in the face." Herr Oberst sternly advised his strange young house guest. "The ground crews used to make jokes about how ugly she was. The Secret Weapon, they called her."

"Why were you taking her to England, Herr Oberst?"

"Often wondered myself." Vilbert helped himself to another brandy, his tin cup steady as he poured. "The High Command often had silly ideas about the English. There was a rumor that she was on good terms with radical elements in your country and she was taking a suitcase of money with which to fund an insurrection amongst your people. But I stayed away from all the gossip, all I wanted to do was fly the Junkers 52 make certain she jumped out of it somewhere near Wales, and then get home without being shot at."

"Was she a German?"

"She spoke German as well as I speak English, but she wasn't a German or even an Austrian. It's going to sound strange, but I've always been convinced that she hypnotized me on the outbound flight."

"That does sound very strange."

"I am or I was a good navigator." Vilbert leaned forward in his chair, his voice lowered several octaves. "I was chosen to pilot the aircraft because of my navigation skills. I could have panicked, had some sort of blackout, but for all I know I could have dropped her in the sea."

"It was dark." I suggested.

"Not that dark. It was a good moon. I remember seeing the English coast. I recognized Chesil Beach. I've played the Cello on Chesil Beach with the Knightsbridge Quartet. It was at the Portland end, where the larger gravel is. I had no doubt where I was. Next thing I could remember, Code Freckles was gone from the Junkers 52, and I was over the coast of France."

"Gosh." I was more than familiar with older people telling long unlikely tales of wartime.

"I've been in war," Herr Oberst continued in a most somber and ominous manner, "I've been shot down, nearly had my throat cut by murderous nine year olds, married the woman who shot me down. I've seen it all my English friend, but Code Freckles was the most frightened I've ever been."

"Wow!"

And quickly Vilbert changed the subject. He cleared his throat and announced that he had a letter to write. I was tired, warm and well fed, and I carelessly missed Vilbert's gentlemanly cue. Thinking the letter had something to do with our conversation, I expressed interest in it.

"I'm writing a letter for Marta to Broz."

"Broz?"

"Marshal Tito. He's the President of this country!"

"Probably none of my business then." I finally realized that something was amiss, my host wanted his privacy.

"Marta has an objection to the Cadillac." Vilbert was willing to explain his business and he spoke in a manner that suggested the Cadillac controversy was common knowledge. "She thinks it's a mistake, sets the wrong tone and that Broz should never have accepted it, he should send it back."

"What do you think?" I was confused but had no desire to appear ignorant.

"I agree with Marta on many things, but not this." Vilbert reached for the bottle of brandy, very firmly he closed the cork and he handed it me. "Broz has well over a hundred decorations from all parts of the earth. He has a Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honorable Order of the Bath. As you know that's a British order of chivalry. He has the Grand Collar of the Order of the Supreme Sun with Sash, from Afghanistan. You name it Broz has won it. But nothing from the Americans. Least they could do is give him Cadillac. Last letter I wrote for Marta, she was objecting to Broz accepting a Knight Grand Cross with Cordon from the Italians. On that I agreed wholeheartedly with her. That was an easy letter for me to write, but not this one. I don't mean to be rude, but I must get on with it."

When Herr Oberst got up from his comfortable chair and moved toward his desk, I wondered a while and then the ex-Luftwaffe pilot cleared a questioning throat.

"Marta suggested the barn for you to sleep in." Vilbert explained. "I suggest Dragan's French car, you'll be more comfortable. Marta loves her pigs, they can be noisy. I do have to thank you for sharing your brandy and cigarettes, but Marta won't have a smuggler of American cigarettes sleeping in the house. I'm sure you understand."

"No problem." I tried to look cheerful.

"Don't worry," Vilbert continued. "Dragan will be in a hurry to sneak out of here before sunrise. His fellow carpenters have their head quarters in Zagreb. And If you're already in his vehicle, he won't leave without you."

The night was cold in the outdoors. A damp cold that soon begins to chew on a person's bones, nibbles his ears. I curled up on the back seat of Dragan's vehicle, wrapped in a thin blanket, my clean pink feet ice cold. The Saint sat in the front passenger seat and while he was again trying to remember the words to the Lord's Prayer, my eternal friend said, "The Witch of Ithaca was ugly of face and behind her back we all called her Freckles."

I didn't think much of it at the time.

Chapter Nine : Monda's Fair City

Mrs. Bigelow has always insisted I bring her soup to the boil and leave it simmering for a solid five minutes prior to ladling it into a correctly washed soup. She insists that any intestinal discomfort or terminal illness that might follow from my failure to observe these simple instructions will not be her fault. In her fifty-six years upon earth she's never known an existence that hasn't included a refrigerator. And Mrs. Bigelow can be a little boastful about her own refrigerator, apparently it works. My intern insists the failure of my domicile's refrigerator is the fault of either a dead rodent of some kind or the thermostat is "effed." An expression he never uses when Mrs. Bigelow is present. He is, as I sit down to discipline, taking direction from his phone as he tinkers in the kitchen. But in the Croatian city of Zagreb it wasn't improperly prepared food that had upset me, it was Marta's Turnip and Venison stew that had proved too much for a stomach unaccustomed to rich food. I'd vomited behind the Art Pavilion in Tomislav Square.

The pavilion had been designed by Austro-Hungarian architects in the 1890's. The Saint and I sat on a ornamental stone bench in shadow of King Tomislav. The king was way up on a plinth, he had a crown on his head, he was riding a bronze horse, his entire demeanor was stern, in his outstretched hand he held a spear, his horse had one foot high off the ground. And I listened as my friend recalled his time on earth as a Croatian farmhand.

From the bench we could look beyond a stream of blue and white trams, traffic and busy pedestrians toward another magnificent structure. It had all the makings of some kind of Modern Greek Temple, possibly Doric columns. It had robed statuary in learned poses standing high on the roof. Above the building's entrance large lettering read "Glavni Kolodvar." In alcoves on either side of the building's tall wide doors, there was another community of statues, one of which was a winsome lass who had what might have been a large lamb at her feet.

"Could be the Croatian Bo-Peep." I suggested.

"That's probably Monda." My friend sounded confident.

"Really?" I was disbelieving. "Who's Monda?"

"She was famous when I was a Croatian. A lot of people called their girl children Monda. I might even have had a sister called Monda....."

"I think you're just making Monda up." My challenge hurt the Saint, and I apologized almost immediately. Felt like an Iscariot.

"Everyone knew the story of how Zagreb got its name...." He gazed at me. "She was a peasant. Tomislav was no more than a gleam in the eye a wealthy prince, waited on hand and foot. Thirteen centuries have been and gone. All around us was dry pasture. Monda was minding her own business, probably helping her father with his flocks when a large man on a horse at the head of the Bulgarian army approached her. She was a Croatian, she didn't runaway. The man gave her drinking cup and told her to fetch him water to drink."

"That's very interesting."

"In the Croatian that I spoke when I died for King Tomislav, scoop it up Monda is "Zagrabi Monda.""

"How did the Bulgarian know Monda's name?" It just jumped out, I couldn't help myself.

"I don't know what Monda means in Bulgarian! No one did!" He was alarmed by my ignorance. "The Bulgarians were an unpleasant, foul mouthed people, almost as bad as Serbians, so it probably didn't mean sweet little girl..."

From our seat in the park, we could hear trains and the occasional squawk from the diesel horns of locomotives. But mostly it was the trams, and car engines and bustle of a city coming to the end of its hectic work day, street lights flickering into life. A long cold night ahead, no food, no water.

"What does Glavni Kolodvar mean?" I was uneasy in the gathering dusk and a modern Greek Temple, or a Glavni Kolodvar, was well lit.

The Saint had no idea what Glavni Kolodvar meant, but between our concerns and my own instincts we'd both noticed that there'd been two kinds of people in the park that day. Those hastening through it on their way to or from important business. We'd seen a group of younger comrades disembark from a battered old bus to stare at stuff, point up at Tomislav, giggle and then visit the Art Pavilion. And there'd been a shuffle of well escorted geriatrics who'd reluctantly circled the park before being herded back to the tram stops. The other kind of people in the park were less colorful, they were dour and plodding, they had the grayness of those who had no real intention of going anywhere quickly. They wondered around, from one bench to another, attempting to look occupied, sometimes in groups sometimes alone. I guessed this second group had no homes to go to, and because we'd spent most of a cold afternoon just sitting at the foot of King Tomislav, this group had developed a certain interest in me. Both my eternal friend and I sensed the potential for Jean Genet antics of one sort or another.

I possessed nothing that reached the status of silk handkerchief, nonetheless it was a smile René had, he was cheerful in his abilities, nothing was impossible to him, nothing too sacred or too small. He'd take what he wanted and if he couldn't have it, he'd hurt it or kill it. More often it was a game he played to boost his confidence in the loyalty of those who were afraid of him. A leader of men, my friend had once called him. And one younger man was scary. He had René written all over him, he had no warm coat and darkness was circling. I couldn't quite decide whether this incarnation of René was new to the experience, a René in progress so to speak, or whether he was an authentic brute of the forest plotting a course toward becoming the new owner of my canvass, the architect's money and passports hidden away inside it. All of it more than enough for the residents of Tomislav's Park to feast upon, drink, get warm, celebrate and plenty left over for a good breakfast.

"Are you sure you don't know what Glavni Kolodvar means?" I made a second attempt to pronounce the words on the splendid building on the other side of the busy road from the tram stops.

"It doesn't even sound like Croatian. Anyway, I speak Ancient Croatian! I don't speak this modern Croatian. Languages change......."

"I don't think we can stay here much longer." I tried to appear relaxed as I slowly reached my icy feet. "We need to find somewhere else before the dark. And Glavni Kolodvar sounds welcoming at the moment."

"When you pronounce it like that, it could be a railway station!" The Saint cheered up a little at the prospect of an express train ride. He was more anxious than I to get on with our journey. But I had no desire to waste money on train tickets, nor was I much looking forward to returning to the English Islands, but as darkness loomed upon Tomislav Square the night brought with it a lurking menace.

From the corner of an eye I spotted what could have been the reason the residents of the park were all suddenly heading toward the tram stops. A line of men in dark blue uniforms, gold belts and peaked hats, advancing through the park with special attention to the park's several shrubberies, and as though hunting down a lost cat they were cheerful in a manner the guilty might have found threatening. Boldly I maintained the steady pace of an innocent traveler with a heavy canvass and the funeral of distant relative to attend, and I joined the residents of the park hastening to the line of tram stops. Except one man who was in no hurry. He sidled up beside me in a most suspicious way and he clearly said "Giovanni." He was older, grey, thin and remarkably energetic. I was convinced the man's eyes had a snake-like quality and the gleam a street light had put in them was pure, unadulterated René, the kind of René the patron saint of thieves could only ever dream about in his wildest attempts to impress the good church of Sartre and his entourage of incredibly well educated people. Yes indeed, every book a tombstone and libraries are graveyards.

"You Inglese?" The man was kind of insistent, he had a limited understanding of personal space, a characteristic I chose to believe was common to anyone who'd spent time as a galley slave, as an English Boarding Schoolboy or in an over crowded Bonaparte era prison cell. "You Inglese!"

"I might be." I was rather prim as we reached the safety of the tram stops where both the Saint and I dutifully examined an incomprehensible notice that could have been a timetable.

"You come!" The man had glanced toward the police sweeping the park and he gestured toward the handsome Glavni Kolodvar building across the road.

"I'd rather not." I gazed intently at the notice, it all felt much safer shoulder to shoulder with the traveling public, the sensible people who had work and homes to go to where supper and hot running water could be waiting.

"Is Ok!" The man touched my shoulder with the palm of his hand, his fingers trembled a little, his voice a sinister whisper. "Is OK! You come. I Broz, like Tito."

"That's all very well," I sounded a little like a schoolgirl. "But why would I do that?"

"You look a-like Giovanni." The man stared at me a terrifying intensity in his face.

"I'm not a Giovanni." I shot back, nor did I really wish to think about what a Giovanni might be. "I'm certainly not a Giovanni, even if I might look like one."

"You sound a-like Giovanni." The man laughed, he was confident, he was suddenly joyous and he spoke quite loudly. "You sound a-like Giovanni. You look a-like a little Giovanni!"

The remaining vagrants from the park had chosen to stand at the far end of the tram stops, as far away from me as they could. It was as though they were afraid of Broz, which was unexpected and especially worrisome. Clearly Broz was far too dangerous and excitable to be associated with. As well, the traveling public, the civilians, had made their own appraisal of Broz and were giving him an increasingly wide berth. They were deliberately taking no notice, except the occasional nervous and possibly guilty glance.

"They might as well be English Speaking for all the good they're going to be!"

"My advice," the Saint offered. "Is to punch this Tito character on the nose and make a run for the British Embassy!"

"Broz!" I decided. "I am an Inglese......"

"Giovanni Inglese." Broz appeared delighted with himself, it was a eureka moment for Broz, he reckoned he'd demonstrated his point.

"Not many Inglese chaps are called Giovanni, Broz."

"You say chaps, Giovanni say chaps. He say chaps all the time. He say not cricket chaps, he say OK chaps. You little Giovanni."

Broz beamed and then he kissed me on the cheek, quite close to my lips and he hugged me. Nor did Broz smell like a vagrant or a homeless person, his face was shaved and he smelled as though he might recently have bathed in Life Boy soap.

"One thing about us Inglese, Broz!" I released myself from what was beginning to feel like a loving embrace. "We don't hug each other, and under no circumstances do we kiss each other!"

"You are Little Giovanni!" Broz had the tilt to his head that spoke of affection. "You come. We go see Rafael. We eat, we drink, we have good time."

I looked for reasons, but Broz was too excited to even consider taking no for a answer.

"Tratinska, we walk, no problem." And he headed across the street toward Glavni Kolodvar, where the lights were bright.

And I have to admit I did have a hankering for the taste of methylated spirits from an unlabelled bottle.

"Rafael he strong man." Broz had a note in his voice I couldn't quite place. It sounded resigned, regretful, it contained a sadness. And Broz was fast walker, keeping up with him not easy, I had to almost run to hear what he was saying.

On the far side of the street Broz took a right turn, down the pavement. We were heading west, past a botanical gardens toward an older part of the Monda's fair city.

"Giovanni, big strong. He like this." Broz raised his hand about two foot above my head.

"He must have been very, very tall!" I felt a little challenged by the comparison.

"Nix strong man like Raphael." Broz couldn't find the shared word. "Giovanni, he big strong. He... how you say.... bezazlen."

"He was a fat man." I suggested and I blew up my cheeks, held my breath as a visual example of what I meant by "Fat man."

"Nix, nix! He like baby in arms of woman!"

"He cried a lot?" I offered.

Broz was prone to the passions, and in frustration at the difficulty he was having attempting to explain what he meant by "bezazlen" he added, "Italiano innocente! Parli Italiano?"

"I don't speak Italian, but I know what innocente might mean!"

"Giovanni, he speak Italiano." Broz managed an accusatory glance at Little Giovanni and I found himself wishing that I did speak Italian.

Our destination was further than Broz had lead me to believe. He'd chosen a short cut, which in the evening light made it harder and harder to get a sense of where we were relative to Tomislav's Park. We crossed fenced railway lines, not by taking a bridge, but by knowing where the gaps in the fence were. An attempt had been made by railway authorities to repair one of the gaps, which Broz clearly considered an affront to the dignity of Monda's city, and on Broz's advice I helped him undo the repair. An act of vandalism witnessed by the driver and the passengers of a slow moving commuter train. Broz didn't seem to care, like a man in his own back yard he waved the train on as though telling it to mind it's own business. It was Broz's confidence that made for adventure.

"Just between you and me." I suggested to my old friend. "I don't think this saint thing is going to work on the Lead Bull."

Rafael lived in a room at the end of a long corridor on the third floor of an apartment building in Tratinska Street. It was an elegant building with tall narrow windows, some of which had narrow balconies. Broz had a key to the front door of the building, and it was interesting because when Broz unlocked the front door he did so warily, and when he'd closed the front door he did so quietly. It was as though he wasn't supposed to be there. Inside it was old newspaper messy, few of the electric lights worked, it smelled a little of campfires and rotting wood. We used the stairs to reach the third floor, and as we were walking down the third floor corridor it was almost as though Broz was tiptoeing. His knock on Rafael's door was almost inaudible, he turned the door's handle and slowly opened it.

The room was small, it was warm and it was a blaze of electric light, a made up bed in the corner, the window firmly closed, there was small table by the bed, a couple hardback chairs, no carpet on the wooden floor, it was neat and tidy, and there, just inside the door, asleep on a padded armchair, was an old man, his skin wrinkled, his body broken and a color to him the Saint and I recognized.

"Raphael is circling the drain, my child." My friend crossed himself, he looked wary, but at the same time he looked prepared.

It was a gentle, gentle touch from Broz on Rafael's shoulder that woke him. The old man's eyes were very poor, but he knew Broz was beside him, blinked a little in the light, he smiled, he raised a finger and he whispered "shush..."

Broz for his part was more like a worried son, a favorite son, a youngest son, drawn to touch Rafael, stroke and pat him, make him live forever. It was then Broz seemed to remember the purpose of his visit.

"Giovanni," Broz was excited as he spoke to Rafael. "Little Giovanni."

The old man peered through the dim and blur at me.

"Speak, speak!" Broz directed me.

Not easy to come up with something on the spur of the moment like that. I was thinking about doing the Camel poem from Alqamah, the Saint was a little possessive of Alqamah's ode it had something to do with his claim to have spoken in tongues, so I went for the old stand by. "Bunny was hungry, bunny popped out, had a bit of parsley and then Brussels Sprout."

The old man lit up, he seemed to get younger, he fiddled around in the breast pocket of his wool jacket while Broz found his pair of glasses on the bedside table. "Rafael, he look a-like Giovanni." And through his glasses, one lens of which was cracked, Rafael agreed with Broz.

"You have name?" Rafael asked.

I gave him my answer. He ran the name around his tongue. It was great joy when Rafael decided it was a good name. He liked it. But he continued to peer at me as though doubt remained

"When did you chaps and Giovanni know each other?"

"He say chaps!" Rafael beamed at me, and in his excitement Rafael spoke very loudly, his blood had been stirred, he tried to stand up and no amount of shushing from Broz would stop him from loudly adding, "Giovanni say chaps, all the time!"

In the near distance a door slammed, we could hear the thump of heavy footsteps heading along the corridor toward Rafael's door. It was a woman, about Broz's age and she was in a fury, not so much with Rafael, but with Broz. It was difficult to watch and harder to listen to. Her voice had a pitch to it that bats would have avoided, and briefly it did look as though she was going to drag Broz into the corridor, knock him to the ground and kick him.

The Saint was visibly moved by the woman's fearlessness, her overall magnificence, and he'd gone on a little about how he'd given his life to Tomislav's cause without ever having had the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of being a Croatian male, and it was all too typical of how both the Lead Bull and the Pope had treated him over the course of the past dozen centuries. "We Croatians didn't have much to look forward to in those days!"

It was Rafael who came to Broz's rescue. He said three words, two of which I could make no sense of, but the third word was "Italia" which I guessed was Italy. The woman ceased her yelling. She examined me suspiciously, then she looked at Rafael. The old man had a sternness in his face, a seriousness and with the dignity of a high priest, maybe even the Pope himself, he nodded his head.

"Ach!" The woman tossed her splendid main of dark hair, her darker eyes had the leopard flash, it's a kind of blue and green flash, and this time it was an expression of intense disappointment combined with an understanding of the world as a better place without the male of any species, and as she left the room. Broz seemed very relieved, and Rafael, a twinkle in his wicked eyes, said "shhhh..." to Little Giovanni.

We could hear doors open and close, Rafael remained still. Broz took his opportunity to gather his wits, and when the woman returned she had with her a small rusty tin that once might have contained biscuits. She glared at me, it was a no uncertain glare, she gave the tin to Rafael, she kissed Rafael on the head, she turned to Broz, she pointed a long, elegant and somewhat threatening finger at him, he trembled a little, and then the woman disappeared into the corridor, closing the door quietly behind her.

"Jolly good chaps!" It was Rafael, whispering, his grin had no teeth, but it was wide and old man happy. Broz smothered a laugh, and then the door to Rafael's room inched back open. It was a thin little boy about nine maybe eleven, pale as a fish, carrying a large unlabeled bottle of the clearest brandy I'd ever seen and an expensive unopened packet of twenty authentic Winston cigarettes, not the kind packaged in Albania, but the true import, the genuine article all the way from Virginia.

Brandy and cigarettes weren't good for Rafael and he knew it. Broz took to brandy but he didn't smoke, never had done. Broz found short drinking glasses in the drawer of Rafael's bedside table, he then opened Rafael's window and directed me to smoke a Winston cigarette, make certain to breath some of it on Rafael, but not too much. He then uncorked and poured three glasses of brandy while Rafael's frail fingers took the lid off the biscuit tin. The three of us took our sip of brandy, the tribute was a silent one, it was somber, and it seemed to be addressed to the contents of Rafael's tin box. Nor did the brandy taste like methylated spirits, it was sweet, it nourished dreams, and brought a tear to both Broz and Rafael.

But I wasn't listening. I had my own tear for own tin trunk, its everlasting moth ball, its book and its collection of buttons. I sat down beside the Saint on Rafael's bed and he watched.

"Is good?" Rafael smiled across at his Little Giovanni.

"I could stay here forever." I answered

And there was a little envy from me because as Rafael took each item out of his box and as Broz arranged them on the bedside table, both men knew what each thing meant. There was a black and white photograph, yellowing from damp, a little crumpled. It was a picture, bleak winter time, hills with no trees, a lonely stone house with a woman in a fur coat standing in front of it. Two men on either side of her, they had no furs to keep warm, their faces thin, eyes wide and they were wearing long double breasted great coats.

"Is Countessa." Broz explained as he showed the photograph to Little Giovanni, and he went on. "Is me and Rafael and Countessa."

"Giovanni, he take snapshot." Rafael contributed cheerfully.

"Giovanni had camera?" I was horribly curious.

"Nix Giovanni camera!" Broz was adamant. "He take cizme, I take camera."

"What is cizme?"

"Cizme like this..." Broz pointed at Little Giovanni's boots. "Giovanni, he like cizme. All the time cizme. Where is cizme, this cizme no good...."

"I take this." Rafael lifted a wristwatch without a strap or a lens from his biscuit box.

"Where did Giovanni get his cizmes from?" I couldn't help but ask.

"He take from Svaba." Broz was most informative.

"Giovanni call Svaba, The Hun." Rafael explained. "He call Italiani, The Wop. He no like The Wop. They not cricket."

"He like Countessa." Broz sternly reminded Rafael. "She big time The Wop."

"She puskast. She big time puskast." Rafael touched his lips and blew the memory of The Countessa into his room and Broz handed the photograph across to Little Giovanni who stared at Countessa. Despite her furs, she looked cold, nor was she really smiling after the manner of a happy person, she looked downright miserable standing between Rafael and Broz both of whom had rifles slung across their shoulders and they looked more like mountain bandits than uniformed men.

"Where was this snapshot taken?" I was uneasy.

"Italia." Broz shrugged.

"What were you all doing in Italy?"

Rafael took what could have been battered and well used driving licenses from his tin, he gave them to Broz who handed them to me. They were identity cards from Comune di Balognia which is a town in the northern part of Italy. They were dated OTT 1943, which was probably October 1943. All three identity cards had the pertinent information written into them in a very nice, elegant, swirling handwriting that had used blue ink and all were signed by the town's mayor whose signature was illegible. But one of the identity cards had no photograph and nowhere had it been stamped with the mayor's seal.

"Giovanni no snapshot!" Broz seemed to have been made uncomfortable by a memory and I looked more carefully at the mayor's seal that had been ink stamped across the edges of the photographs.

"Is rat!" Broz had watched me and he added, "Is wartime, Little Giovanni. We kill, they kill more."

Rafael explained that he and Broz had been engaged in the important work of destroying the Fascisti in Italy in order to prevent them from spilling over the borders and running amok in Croatia. The Hun apparently were in those days very big time fascisti, The Wop were less big time in their fascist leanings, and rather ominously for me, Rafael made a strong point about Giovanni not being a fascisti even though he was an Inglese.

"I think we were on your side in the war!" I was emboldened by the brandy.

"Churchill Inglese fascisti, Roosevelt Amerikanci fascisti!" Broz was quite adamant about it, and then with intense bitterness he added, "Roundtrip big time Inglese fascisti!"

"Roundtrip?" Our hero looked to Rafael for guidance.

"Giovanni call him Roundtrip. He Inglese patty-sneaky, he mouse, he no like Tito, he no like Gramsci, he no like Raul, he no like Giovanni. He want Yugoslavia, he want Croatia, he want Zagreb for Churchill...."

And it all seemed to pour from the old man. He became agitated and Broz advised Little Giovanni to calm his old comrade by directing a couple of puffs of cigarette smoke toward him. And indeed it was a confusing account of who did what that had led to The Hun executing the women, children and old men of a hamlet not far from Balognia, and then when younger, more agile survivors of the massacre returned to bury their dead and tend to the wounded, The Hun killed them as well.

"Roundtrip very bad man! He Inglese fascisti for Churchill!" Broz summed the circumstance, called an end to the topic by placing the three identity cards on Rafael's bedside table then he refilled the glasses.

When Rafael took his drink he still had a rage in him. I chose to believe the older man felt bad about something, a distant moment which when it come into his mind stuck there and stabbed away. Broz felt it too, but Broz was younger, still able to put such things aside, let them be until tomorrow or the next day, he spoke Croatian to Rafael, a long sentence that soothed Rafael enough to look into his biscuit tin for happier memories. It was half piece of lined paper, eaten by the mold and time. Upon it, in pencil, there was a drawing of a rabbit scratching its ear, and it really did look like a Rabbit scratching its ear, one eye closed in the passion of itching. Beside the rabbit, as though watching, there was a friendly Hedgehog.

"Giovanni, he good cook!" Rafael smiled at Little Giovanni.

"He catch zec all the time!" Broz contributed, and then he laughed. "He cook golob for Countessa... How you call golob?"

"Is like bird?" Rafael suggested

"Like a chicken?" I offered.

"No like chicken. Golob say coo-coo coo...."

"A Pigeon!"

"Maybe," Broz was happy. "Countessa ...." And it was a long funny story about The Countessa and how she didn't know anything about cooking and how when Giovanni showed her how to pluck feathers and gut a zec she'd fainted.

"She aristo," Rafael explained the Countessa's frailties and he went on a bit about how she'd refused to let them eat her horse when it was accidentally killed by a stray bullet until Giovanni spoke kindly to her. "He big, strong man like baby," Rafael added.

"Innocente?" I suggested.

"Is rat," Rafael looked sad. "Is wartime."

Rafael carefully took three shell casings from his tin, handed them one at a time to Broz who lined them up like soldiers on the bedside table. There was no marking on the shell casings, each looked identical to our hero, yet each shell casing had a name engraved upon it. Giovanni, Rafael and Broz. Sadder still when all the casings were lined up, Rafael had tears in his old man eyes. Not look at me tears, but silent and lonely "Take this away from me" tears as though he was talking to his God. Broz looked down at his comrade his eyes so empty it was almost as though Broz was saying "I can't." It was like witnessing the last days on earth of a man who knew he was bound for hell, and it was indeed a little more than Rafael's heart could manage, he couldn't let it be. Yet the old man was brave, determined, what was left of his hair was brushed, his whiskers shaved, he wanted to leave the earth properly. All the same, maybe Rafael's mind had faltered, the last item in his biscuit tin was a knife, it had an ivory handle, one long brutal blade that was spring loaded.

Rafael handed the knife to me, his hands had no tremble, they were strong, "You give to Giovanni."

Chapter Ten : Glavni Kolodvar

Mrs. Bigelow has decided that I should have a pet. She tells me that pets are good for those in our number who might on occasion stray a long way from righteousness. Pet's teach responsibility she assures me. I was thinking maybe a hamster in a cage, or something. My options however are either a dog or a cat from her sister in law. I told her that of the two options neither was appealing.

"Kittens are nice." Mrs. Bigelow made her decision. "Would you like to chose one."

"No." I'd answered.

"You'll have to have it fixed. You know what that is don't you."

I assured Mrs. Bigelow that even though I remained a stranger in her country, despite having lived in it for getting on thirty years and taken my oath of citizenship, possessed a signed letter from the President to prove it, I still understood the nuances of neutering pets and how important it was to put butter on their paws when they were first introduced to a new domicile.

"I suppose you want a boy."

"No." I'd answered.

"Boys are cheaper to fix than girls." Her eyebrow danced a little.

"I don't care."

And I'm inclined to think there's a possibility I might have risen a little in Mrs. Bigelow's estimation. No longer am I little more than a shallow hearted infidel, I am a shallow hearted infidel that wants a girl kitten.

This interlude, a couple of mornings ago, has made it difficult to concentrate on discipline. The kitten could be here any day. My intern thinks I should have gone for a dog. Dogs are loyal, he insisted, and yet again my intern recalled how when his grandfather chose to move forward into the universe the older man's dog had devoted the remainder of its time on the earthly plane to barking at the barn that I've had the deed to for far too long. My own reasoning however has suggested that a Kitten, whether it be male or female, is infinitely more likely to get snapped up by Fox, or one of the many Coyotes that so often sing a strange and haunting unison to the night in this place where I live. And should both Fox and Coyote fail me, then I might find solace in the understanding that Cats don't bark.

Whether he be foul or perfect, my intern had shared a name with his grandfather's dog, which for hours and hours had barked at my barn. A disappointment in his grandchild you might think. Not at all. So convinced of their certainties my intern's clan had surrendered to a long gone generation which had struggled to find a meaning by turning free land into farm. The dog was mourning his master, and would have been allowed to continue to do so, had a bolt and long handled shovel not put an end to him. Coyote were blamed, and I'd grown wondrous Potato that year. Nor does a mind travel far on the earthly plane without wondering what and who it was Socrates' own intern, Plato, meant by Men of Gold.

It was bright light inside Glavni Kolodvar. It took a little getting used to after the dark and street lights. Sitting on a bench opposite the ticket offices were two young men with backpacks at their feet. The boys were clean, well shaved, they looked tired, they looked uneasy, and through the course of my own voyage through the years I'd developed something of an allergic reaction to the sight of backpackers. A reaction the Saint preferred to think of as the cardinal sin of jealousy.

"Thou shalt not want what backpackers have, nor shalt though lust after a puppy tent, a sleeping bag or a foldaway spoon. It's one of the ten commandments! And Public Transport is one of the ten virtues!"

Broz also seemed to have had a poor reaction to the sight of backpackers. He stopped dead in his tracks, from his coat pocket he took a notebook and what looked like a propelling pencil that had to be licked. He advanced upon the backpackers and with notebook in hand, pencil ready, he proceeded to question them loudly. For a moment I wondered whether Broz was losing his mind to the worry of Rafael's imminent departure from the world and was looking for someone or something to blame. I glanced at the occupant of one of the ticket booths, the man seemed oblivious to Broz's antics and so did a proud looking elderly, uniformed ticket collector at the entrance to the railway platforms.

"Yes we do have tickets!" The accent from the backpacker was south east England, tennikoit posh, a little like the accent Vilbert Oberst, the former Luftwaffe pilot and cello player, had chosen to master.

"Deutschland?" Broz yelled as he examined the tickets.

"We're on our way home to England via Germany." It was that slow well enunciated English which in most languages translates insultingly.

"Passport!" Broz commanded.

"They're English!" The Saint whispered, he sounded relieved, almost happy. "We should introduce ourselves."

"I think Broz might be about rip them off. Get ready to run, British passports are worth a lot of money." I found myself deeply depressed and he did my best to look as Croatian and as communistic as possible.

It took Broz a while to examine the passports. He looked at the documents very closely, flipped through the pages, suspiciously compared the photographs, glowered, appeared doubtful. Then he muttered something that didn't sound in the least consoling or welcoming. And as he grudgingly returned the passports to their owners, it finally occurred me that possibly Broz was employed by the railway station.

Broz had a spacious office on the second floor. It was warm, clean, tidy, no carpet and no dust. The walls of the entire room except for the back of the door and above the five filing cabinets were covered in mug shots. Many of them ancient looking, as though the film had been developed at the dawn of photography, a few of them were in color, otherwise it was a sea of black and white faces, not one of which looked happy. It was a sight to see, thousands of faces, many of them bound for cells or the death chamber. The whole thing, with Broz apparently being a policeman of some sort and the pictures of desperate men, unnerved me, but for reasons I couldn't understand, it all seemed to sooth the Saint.

"Sinners my child. We're all sinners." He sounded content in his understanding.

Broz was more interested in the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept a bottle of well labeled Johnny Walker Export whiskey locked away. It was half full. Tin cups were in an unlocked filing cabinet.

"I show you Tito." Broz was restless, it was frustration.

"Tito?"

"Josip, Broz Tito." Broz was stern with Little Giovanni. "Marshal Tito."

"The President?"

In a corner of the office, in no great place of honor, was a mug shot, a side view and a front view of Broz Josip. The picture was taken in 1928, some time in March, the prisoner had a number. The man didn't look like President Tito, he was younger, maybe in his thirties or perhaps forties, he was thin, his shoulders a little hunched, his eyes staring at nowhere, he looked resigned, as a martyr or a hungry man might look. He was wearing a jacket over a white tee-shirt, he was probably cold, and he looked a little as though he might have had hangover.

"He good man!" Broz raised his tin cup

And I began to worry about my own legal status in Marshal Tito's Socialist Republic. I didn't know what day of the week it was, or how long we had been in Yugoslavia, but I did know my three day visa had expired long ago. Broz had no uniform, he could just go up to people, ask to see their passports, and as I thought back, to less savory residents of Tomislav Square and to the good men and women waiting for their tram home from work, I realized that most people except Rafael and Rafael's daughter preferred to avoid Broz, seem to know that it was better to keep their distance from him. It was a sobering moment. I didn't know whether to be impressed or frightened. I could feel the ivory handled knife Rafael had given me, it was in my pocket, it felt hot and guilty of something. Broz was fondling his tin cup as though he was in a daze, still staring at Tito's mug shot.

"You know I'm not Little Giovanni don't you Broz."

"You look a-like him." It was far too simple for Broz.

"But you do know I'll probably never meet Giovanni and even if I did I'm not really certain what he looks like, so I might never be able to give him the knife."

"He look a-like you!"

"Giovanni's older now." I suggested. "I'm sure he doesn't still look like me. Look at Marshal Tito as he was when he was younger and a prisoner. He doesn't look like that anymore, Broz."

"Where your mama?"

It was an excellent question, I had no idea. "She's in England."

"Where your papa?"

"He's in England too." It was a terrible lie.

"Where you been?" Broz turned to look at Little Giovanni.

It was a long story from me. I explained to Broz that I'd been working in hotel and catering, and was on my way home to England.

"What you work?"

"I was a cook." I was surprised, and yet under so many circumstances being a cook was somehow less criminally inclined than being a kitchen hand, housemaid or a construction worker.

"Giovanni very good cook!" Broz was pleased by the news.

"The thing is Broz," I was getting nowhere, and I went on to explain that in order to save the money I'd earned, I'd hoped to hitch-hike back to the English Islands.

"Giovanni no like spend money!" Broz laughed, it all seemed wonderful, miraculous, and he was looking forward to taking Little Giovanni back to visit with Rafael in the morning, tell his old comrade all about how Little Giovanni was not only a stingy miser in the same way that Giovanni was or had been, he was also a cook.

"I don't think I can do that Broz," I concluded, "You see my mother's not well."

"She sick. You want telephone?" Broz was concerned and anxious to be helpful. The Saint for his part appeared more concerned with my immortal soul, he muttered incomprehensibly.

"No need, I spoke to her before I left Greece. I should really be on my way."

"This very sad."

"It's my mother." Our hero hung his head in agreement.

"Giovanni he talk to his mama all the time." Broz was comforting and again he was able to see similarities between Giovanni and Little Giovanni. "She come to him in night."

"You mean, like in his dreams?"

"He sleeping," Broz agreed that like so many things about Giovanni, it was confusing. "He talk to her."

"Did she talk back?" I had a small voice.

Broz rolled his eyes, he ran a finger round and round as a person does when raising the issue of unstable behavior. "Giovanni good man. He... how you say lud?"

"Giovanni was nutty in the head?"

"Not big nutty in head," Broz was reassuring. "Maybe little, little nutty in head. Innocente nutty in head. Giovanni good, big man."

"Sounds like Giovanni was a giant simpleton!" The Saint was really no help.

It was a moment, seconds, might even have been milliseconds, but long enough for me to make up my mind. I told Broz I was a concerned about the expired visitor's visa in my passport.

"No problem. Come, come! I fix for Little Giovanni." Broz locked away his imported whisky, he adopted the air of a man who could solve any problem and we headed for the door, out into the second floor corridor.

The war which Rafael, Broz and presumably an English person called Giovanni fought had found a conclusion some quarter of a century previously. A long time ago for a younger generation of men and women who'd heard the tales of daring, seen the medals, the memorials, they'd observed the niceties. On the ground floor of Zagreb's magnificent Glavni Kolodvar, right next to the Station Master's office was immigration. He was a smart young man with pointy, well polished shoes. Like Broz he was on the night shift, but unlike Broz he was sober and in uniform. His new looking peaked hat placed neatly on his tidy desk. Nor was the young man pleased to see Broz whose reputation up and down the long corridors of the railway station, I guessed, was less than stellar. Broz drank expensive imported whisky while on duty, and despite having his own office upstairs with a view of the park he could easily have been mistaken for a homeless person.

The young man had that "I will go far" look about him. A set to his jaw, ice in his eyes. And while Broz recognized the young officer, Broz hadn't expected to see him sitting behind the night desk beneath a giant portrait of a well fed, contented and highly decorated Marshal Tito.

"Passport!" It was the immigration officer, he had his hand out, it was a clean hand, his nails manicured and he was still sitting at his desk.

As he looked through the passport the immigration officer became quickly suspicious, and like so many of the more ambitious, the young officer was actively yearning to improve his status within the Socialist Republic's immigration service by giving himself the opportunity to uncover and then punish evil doers. Broz was already uncomfortable, he hadn't expected an immigration officer do very much more than give Little Giovanni's passport a cursory glance before adjusting the date on the rubber stamp.

"......Inglese!" Broz was suddenly irritable and he went on a bit, a tone to his voice that was far from friendly toward the young officer, it was dismissive.

"Pakistan!" The immigration officer had examined all the pages of the passport and he had a question which he asked Broz to translate.

"Yes. I have visited Pakistan, Broz." I felt frozen.

"Karachi, Pakistan. Piraeus, Atina?" The immigration officer raised the palm of one hand in the way that a God might on judgment day. And Broz was also interested in how his little Giovanni had traveled from Karachi to the port town of Piraeus in Greece. There was a discussion between Broz and the keen young officer which ended with Broz himself examining the pages of me passport.

"I flew to Pakistan to get work on a ship as a cook, Broz...."

"What is ship?"

"Boat on sea." I offered.

"Boat on sea!" Broz shook his head in a most patronizing manner at the young immigration officer. It was all too obvious that the new officer was more like a plank of wood than a sentient being, but such were the burdens for a man of Broz's experience and position. "Little Giovanni, how long you want stay in Yugoslavia?"

"My mother..."

"You take train?" Broz raised both his eyebrows

"I think that's the quickest way....." And I was well into the roll of a person preparing for the funeral of a loved one.

It was a reluctant immigration man who updated the visitor's visa. Broz inspected the young officer's work and it was a great relief when Broz escorted me into the corridor.

"Giovanni innocente. He like baby. You no innocente!" Broz was grim, and it must have been years of practice for Broz because he was still holding my passport. "You get train, compren?"

I pulled the ivory handled knife from my pocket, and handed it to Broz. It had been nice being Little Giovanni. He wouldn't accept it. He shook his head and said, "You give to Giovanni."

In the almost deserted railway station's foyer, on their bench opposite the ticket offices, the backpackers still looked sleepy, yet they stared at Broz as he escorted me to one of the ticket windows where a ticket out of Yugoslavia cost every Greek drachma I had. There was no change from the Glavni Kolodvar ticket counter. Not even a brass five para coin. Broz returned the passport, he directed me to wait with backpackers for the train to Munich.

"You tell your mama, tell her Giovanni." Broz smiled softly, and before he disappeared up the stairs to his whisky bottle, he added. "Maybe..."

Briefly, I was tempted to walk out into the cold air, take my chances with Jean Genet in Tomislav Square rather than sit on a bench anywhere near English speaking backpackers. They had a whine to them, a silent noise that was either fear or superiority.

"They can't help it, my child. It's the weather in their new Jerusalem." My eternal friend was very excited about the train ride. "Don't forget first impressions are always important. Never say anything stupid to English people!"

"I'll sit near them because I've been forced to, but I'm not talking to them."

I sat on the bench as far as I could from the backpackers. I'd deliberately placed my canvass on the bench beside me, it was like a sandbag, protection from the flood and having given both of them an open faced stare, I lit myself one of Dragan's cigarettes.

"If they say something to me, I might smile politely." I advised my eternal friend. "Certainly not going to open up any sort of conversation."

The silence that followed was painful, and again I cursed the day I'd left the turquoise seas, where even now I could be under a contractors truck, wrapped in blanket, warm sand and hard, hard work for the morning. Jerry on about some song no one had ever heard of before, and the Turk cutting his toe nails between mouthfuls of canned tangerine.

The backpackers had a newness to them. I could see it in their shoes, their clothes, their clean hair, the fat in their cheeks, nothing used or worn about them, they looked fresh from the grocery store. They probably had several pairs of socks and clean underpants tucked away somewhere. They'd each have their own wallet, they'd say things like "Obviously" and "To be honest with you" and I knew their first question would be "Where are you from in England?"

"I'll let you into a secret, my child." The Saint decided.

"Obviously you're going to be honest with me." I thought it funny.

"I'm not fond of the English."

I was shocked. I'd been forced to read Revelation of Reason, a monument to erudition and learning, not once but several times and I knew well enough that in his single most erudite and learned life upon earth the Saint had claimed that except for perhaps the Laplanders the English Speaking People, despite their many flaws, were high up there, as close as it was possible to get to being a people unto whom the inevitability of reason had been revealed.

"So where are you chaps from in England?" And maybe it was a moment of weakness or want or hope that persuaded me to bite that lead bullet, open my mouth.

The backpackers became very suspicious. It was as though they'd been warned about this sort of thing, especially when traveling in communist countries. Then the blonder of the two backpackers bravely said what sounded like "Gillingham."

"Gillingham!" I knew Gillingham. "A Saxon town, near Shaftsbury in Dorset. Has a church with a thatch roof, if I remember. Badger beer, lovely stuff. Used to go to school near there. Best Geography field days were to Gillingham, didn't have to spend hours in a bus. Still don't know the difference between a terminal moraine and a Stone Age Barrow....."

"We're from the Gillingham in Kent." Neither backpacker had a smile.

The pause that followed was awkward. I realized I'd been rambling and both backpackers were staring at me as though I was likely an agent of the East German Stasi sent to undermine the foundations of freedom and goodness.

"Are you English?" It was the blonder of the two backpackers, he was almost whispering and he sounded doubtful.

"Obviously." I was defensive.

"They made us sit here!" The less blond of the two backpackers spoke out of the side of his mouth. "We told them we wanted to wait for our train on the platform. We told them we didn't want to leave the platform, but they made us sit here."

"Who was that man you were with?" It was the blonder of the two backpackers.

"Which man?"

"You went upstairs with him, after he'd looked at our passports."

"His name's Broz." I spoke slowly. "Nice chap, decent sort. Gave me a drink upstairs in his office. The walls are full of mug shots, black and white mostly, I think he's with the Yugoslav Gestapo, or something...."

"I thought so!" It was the less blond of the two backpackers, disdain from his lips all the way to the back of his throat.

Not certain what demon had possessed me, but I leaned closer to the blonder of the two backpackers and taking my cue from the less blond of the two backpackers I also spoke out of the corner of my mouth, "Why are we whispering?"

There was no reply to my question. Instead there followed a silence which my eternal friend considered rude. The two young men just sat there, staring at the clock above the ticket windows, it was a little after two in the morning and apart from the occupants of the bench and the ticket collector the railway station's foyer was empty of people.

At the narrow entrance to the platforms the ticket collector looked at his watch, he adjusted his peaked cap and his shirt cuffs, he looked at his watch again and he gave every appearance of a unformed man preparing to examine tickets of arriving passengers who could well be running late. Then, we could hear the roll and whistle of a heavy train, it didn't stop, it thundered northbound through the station, on into the night, and when the sound was gone to the distance, the ticket collector raised a noble chin, gestured toward the bench full or foreigners.

"Tally-ho chaps, this us!" I chose to persevere, I gathered my canvas, advanced toward the ticket collector, the backpackers right behind me. And still determined to demonstrate my Englishness I suggested to my fellow countrymen that they might like to go first through the gate. But the ticket collector would hear none of it. He held up his hand and in the lingua franca of mid twentieth century European railways, except in Germany, the ticket collector, in a heavy Croatian accent yelled, "Premère Classe!" Which for those who may not know, means First Class.

I was as much resigned as I was aggravated. But the thing of it was, of the three passengers at the Zagreb railway station waiting that early morning to board the long distance express train from Athens in Greece and on to Ostende in Belgium it was I who had the first class ticket.

In the scheme of things I reacted well, I maintained the icy calm which a Sphinx Sabean adopts particularly when under intense pressure from profligate spending of hard earned money is involved. I didn't leap to the conclusion that I'd been ripped-off by Broz and the ticket office. There was no foot stamping on my part, no reach for higher authority.

"Frightfully sorry chaps! I just assumed you'd be traveling first class."

"Ostende vlak peron jedna, gospodar." The ticket collector smiled gracious as a head waiter as he permitted me to pass through his gate, directed me to platform one. Which was bright with the electric light and covered by a long narrow canopy. A cold wind had chased clouds from the sky, it was a bitter outside

"What did the ticket collector say?"

"Something about Ostende." The Saint was vague and unhelpful.

I didn't know that I'd bought a ticket all the way to Ostende, the best I could do was point out to the Saint that should the Lead Bull happen upon us in a first class carriage, the Lead Bull would never believe that my friend might once have been a saint.

"Pope's always travel first class, they probably have their own train, and I'll have you know Popes often become saints."

I glanced back at the ticket gate, the backpackers were having some problem with their tickets, and hadn't yet been allowed onto the platform. I could hear protestation from me fellow countrymen and I guessed the night shift at Glavni Kolodvar like night shifts the world around were playing loose with the rules of their employment. It was just disappointing that Broz had participated in theft and brigandage against hardworking Little Giovanni who'd brought life, if only briefly, into the eyes of a dying man who like Precious' mother might once have been some kind of war hero.

Then as I waited on a cold iron bench, staring into the night I saw a figure approaching from the west end of platform one. It was Broz, he seemed in a hurry and he was carrying a paper shopping bag. Broz didn't join Little Giovanni on the bench. He handed me the bag, it contained a loaf of bread and a generous portion of a hard white cheese that smelled of mushrooms. He said nothing as he kissed me on the head and, and when he was gone in the direction from which he'd come, the ticket collector concluded his discussion with the backpackers from Gillingham, permitted them to pass through his gate and onto platform one of Zagreb's Central Railway Station.

Chapter Eleven : Mrs. Woolley and Miss Weston-super Mare

I'd explained to my intern that a Windral is like a beacon on a reef so shallow it's where Seagulls feed. He'd not seen the sea, only on the television or at the movies. My explanation was inadequate. I told him it was a movement, a rustle in a bush, that suggests there might be something there, but you won't know until you look, and necessary to be wary in the event the something is dangerous. Nor did Mrs. Bigelow or her sister in law think much of the name Windral for a Kitten in whose yellow eyes I had seen a terrible danger. Windral didn't sound like a Cat's name, which I was told has to contain a quality that responds affectionately to being called to its supper.

Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law, who in every respect was golf club elegant despite what could have been animal hairs on the back of her cardigan, had declared that no kitten of hers would be exiled to a barn. Mrs. Bigelow too had growled at the very suggestion of it. The Kitten was to share the domicile with me. Anything else would be unacceptable. I'd confronted this Iron Curtain of womanhood for less than a blink or two before conceding.

My intern saw abject surrender, he looked disappointed. Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law had victoriously stared out the window toward the field, where three ten foot poles stood tall, their footings brown earth.

"That's our project." My intern had explained it to her in the way that I had explained it to him. It was the "Our Project" in my intern's statement that might have granted the Tower of Silence an innocence, but that didn't prevent Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law from delving further into the habits and practices of her kitten's future primary caregiver.

"It's geometry." My intern had advised her, and I was so proud of him.

The Kitten, however had taken to Mrs. Bigelow who in her turn appeared to have gone feral in her desire to impress the little creature. Then some secret message passed between them and I'd found myself having to hold the Kitten. Correct diet, good hygiene and regular handling during formative years was import, Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law informed me. Mrs. Bigelow has explained the cat pan, the purpose of something called Kitty Litter. It's not complicated, I was to follow and play with the Kitten and if I suspected "Kitty" needed to "Do her business" I'm to straightaway toss her into the cat pan. "She'll soon get used to it" apparently. And there's an entire case of small very expensive tins of special Kitten Food.

In many ways, even if the Kitten's name might not be one she will ever respond to, she is aptly named. A dangerous reef, I suspect. I saw it in her yawn, and I can see it now, wrapped up in her blanket and tail. A Windral she is and you can call me Ahab as easily now as you might have done all those years ago when I was hunting for JH, in blue ink beside, and just below a "finis."

It was the time of Vietnam, Londonderry, movements of civil rights, riots in Trafalgar Square, syndicalistic moods in the Paris of France. All of them fed by a direction in the world eager for change, a well funded derailment, a business opportunity for many, and there was a fashion of wash-less-ness, the tired blue jean trousers, American made by Hollywood and the colorfulness of the student class, pop festivals, weed. For a short while anyone who appeared likely to be part of all that was probably not yet dangerous in the public imagination, not bent upon mayhem, yet sometime in the early 1970's the changes in fashionableness was getting to that point where it would smell up the family motor-vehicle, introduce lice or bedbugs, possibly gonorrhea. Fewer and fewer would stop for a traveler hopeful on the side of the road. It was an auspice of a new age that invented hungers so that greed might flower. Maybe, maybe not, but it was a long way from the town of Swindon to White Cottage near Kingston Lisle and the Vale of the White Horse.

"Whoa Neddy" kind of summed it up for me. The fingertips of London had reached far into the Saxon heartland. It was all very pretty-pretty, the landscape and chalk uplands of rolling fields and quarried stone in the vales and perfectly dressed little old ladies who'd say thank you. And quite how or why I concluded that Wessex and possibly the world ended somewhere in Wiltshire, I've never been able to explain. The Vale of the White Horse, which at one time was mostly in Berkshire and for some reason is now mostly in Oxfordshire, is a part of England where people in their attempt to mark a place in the world have preferred to express themselves through rhyme rather than prose. Many have come away from that Vale with tales of Alfred's time on earth, tales which make the one time Paramount Chief of Saxon Tribes sound purer, more wistful and fragile than the Great Briton, King Arthur himself. And indeed while there might be debate about who invented the lantern or the British Navy, there's little doubt in the minds of modern scholars that Alfred inspired the words "Beautiful half-witted men from the sunrise and the sea" as well as, "The rook croaked homeward heavily." It's paradox from GK Chesterton's often refreshing Ballad of The White Horse.

Kingston Lisle, near to where Wessex defeated the Danes from Reading and pushed them back to London, is only about ten miles from Swindon. But ask anyone in the Swindon back then where Kingston Lisle was and there'd have been a long search to find someone who'd begin to know or care. And it occurred to me that this would be especially the case when a Wessex Saxon entered the lands of the Mercians which Oxfordshire does begin to feel like. The Mercians more practical and boring but they owned England once, probably still do.

Yet there are only a few horizons on the walk east of Swindon, toward the White Horse. It's kind of a big sky confusing place to enter, ripe for burial mounds and Wizards rather than witches, it's more of a boy place than a winsome girl place, and a long way from the Welsh Marches which sing female and dance to the whirl of mists, hilltops and heathers and moorlands. Around the White Horse of Uffington, the next hill might produce a view of an horizon, but they're not real hills, they're rolls of land, and it's hard to begin to think of the Vale of the White Horse as a valley through which the River Thames flows on its path to its estuary.

Then dusk comes and there's a thirst for food and water and a silent hedgerow with which to surrender to tiredness, safe in my blanket and tail as the Kitten is now, I was well hidden from the eyes of others. A listen to the cry of far away, the rustling of voles and mice, the headlights from motorcars, the distant roar and rumble of a Deltic Locomotive on its way to or from the Celts, an ambulance on its way to a hospital. I felt cozy as I avoided nettles to make my nest. It gets chilly too, around the head, there's no familiar pillow, clouds across the moon look like rain, but English land had long been tame, not riven by tic, mosquito, biting ant or slithering creatures that have fangs. No crocodile or wild boar, the wolf long gone. The beasts of the fields were tender footed sheep and ruminating cows. The enemies of the farmer more like the life cycle of an aphid, the slug, the snail, butterfly, caterpillar and rusty poxes, all of which could be sprayed away before birds of the air had their chance to feast.

Then as the sun breaches an horizon there is often a stillness from the first part of a dawn. It's the land, hungry for a last drop of night dew, yearning for the tickle of some kind of wind and gale and sleet, and while no two mornings are ever the same, each one has a moment of colder air which is a relative cold, indeed the hotter the desert, the colder the sunrise. But amongst chalk uplands in temperate and greener regions robbed of their own meaning by wide fields of sameness it's during that cold hour that ghosts of Stone Age settlers still wander the Chalk Downs and the hearts of dead soldiers call out to be remembered. It's a spooky silence.

On the road toward Uffington, it's a north west turn, I began to wonder a little about the propriety of knocking upon a complete stranger's door. And having had my chance to gain a sense of the area, its stares and its little dog suspicions, I guessed there'd be no welcome from a white cottage with two chimney's, slate roof and green door, right beside the road. Least of all, I suspected, would there be an offer to refill my water bottle, and my mind was loose from being tired.

The cottage had been well described by Kingston Lisle's Postmistress. It's walls were white, it's flaking paintwork around the windows and doors was green, the ground to either side was overgrown by nettle and dock and escapees from the yellow fields of Rapeseed, or perhaps Treacle Mustard. There was a motor vehicle with a learner plate on it's back window, parked in long weedy grasses that grew on what once must have been a gravel drive. The cottage was indeed right by the road, with just a narrow pavement, wide enough to open the front door without necessarily becoming a victim to a motor vehicle in a hurry along Fawler Road to get to Uffington. And if it weren't for the car in the driveway, I might have reckoned on the cottage having been recently abandoned. The curtains in its windows gone to spider web, and upstairs where the book shelves might have been, the dust of forgotten wood, a table maybe, a chair staring at empty shelves.

It was just one step further, but I walked on passed the White Cottage. "Hello, I'm looking for JH Woolley" like a mantra traveling through my mind, and I almost reached where the television aerials of Uffington's roofline come to view, a mile at least beyond the cottage.

"I'm not afraid of knocking on the door. It just might be a little bit early."

"It's well after nine o'clock, my child." The Saint's patience was thinning.

The girl who opened the door looked to be in her twenties. Though hard to tell with girls. I'd noticed they often seemed older than they actually were. She was wearing a long blue, cloth dressing gown which had reindeers prancing upon it. She had one hand clutching the dressing gown's collar, the other on the door handle. She was pretty, her hair was long and didn't seem to have been recently combed, dark circles under her eyes, and a slight smell of stale beer to her breath. She looked tired, her eyes slow, her eyelids drooping from the early hour.

"Who is it!" It was an older woman's voice from toward the back of the cottage. Somewhere near the kitchen, I guessed.

"Someone looking for Daddy."

"Tell them to go away." The woman's voice was distinctly aggressive, and on edge.

"Go away!" The girl spoke, she was resigned, not in the least troubled by an impoliteness on her part.

"Can I at least trouble you to fill my water bottle." I needed water, I laid it down smart and thick as I reached the water bottle out of my canvass.

"Has he gone?" The woman's voice called again. Nor was the woman's voice touched by the T's and R's of the Wiltshire farmer, or the whoa Neddy of a country boarding schoolboy's female parent. The accent was town mother, elegant hat, shoe collection and Pavlov's reaction to the tears of others in her social class.

"No mother! He wants water!"

There was a crash of chair against stone floor from the back room, and into the narrow hallway the girl's mother came with some haste. The woman was also wearing a dressing gown. It was a very light blue with big Panda's all over it. It was tied at the waist, and she was kind of large. She had one of those "could have been a wig" hair styles that needed some attention. Yesterday's lipstick. Her eyes red, and probably not from crying. Fuzzy slippers on her feet.

"I've told Justin!" the mother put both her hands on her hips, her red fingernails tapping out the nervous rage that was in her. "If he wants to contact me, he must do it through my legal council. So go away. Go on. Shoo!"

The daughter however, hadn't developed the same mistrust of her father that her mother appeared to have done, and she offered to fill my water bottle. It was a gentle move on her part, I smiled at her. She disappeared toward what must have been the kitchen.

"Well! What does Justin want?" There was a great sulk in the older woman.

"I was hoping to meet Mr. JH Woolley." I realized I'd confronted a biblical wrath that had combined with terrible curiosity in the mother of what might have been JH's girl child.

"You'll not find him here!"

It took no time to fill the water bottle, and the daughter returned with it dripping wet from the kitchen tap.

I smiled warmly at JH Woolley's daughter.

"What business have you with Justin?" Mrs. Woolley had decided I might not be an errand boy.

"I wanted to know whether he'd read Walking Stewart's translation of Abdul Bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage."

"Don't try pulling the wool over my eyes. I know exactly why you're here and you can go back to wherever it was you came from!"

"Do you drive?" JH Woolley's daughter asked.

"I have no vehicle."

"How did you get here?"

"I walked from Swindon."

"You walked from Swindon!" Mrs. Woolley was in no mood to be impressed. The stranger's long journey on foot was a clear sign their visitor was up to no good, and as everybody knew, Swindon was filled to overflowing with the disreputable. But Miss Woolley appeared more impressed by my athleticism and grit.

"Mummy's driving license has been suspended, and I haven't yet passed the test, so we're stuck here."

"Really Carol! Must you tell everyone!"

"Any chance you could use our car to take us grocery shopping," Carol ignored her mother. "The local taxi driver rather takes advantage of us and our telephone seems to have broken. Not easy to fix when you can't make a phone call."

"Carol! Stop telling everybody our business!"

"I'll be happy to drive you." I was at my most gallant.

"What about insurance. He's not insured!" Nor was Mrs. Woolley as adamant as she might have been. The taxi driver, like everyone from Swindon, was a bandit and a thief, he charged a fortune to drive them to the better grocery store in Wantage, where the scoundrel would keep the meter running while he waited for them to finish shopping. It was daylight robbery, and probably illegal!

"I promise to drive slowly and carefully." I'd became like oil. It was kind of disgusting of me, "Venal" the Saint called it. But the scent and sight of hangovers suggested to me that the Woolley's were out of whiskey, or gin, or white wine and camembert cheese. Probably all four. I guessed it had been a long journey for Mrs. Woolley, her world had shattered, she'd been marooned in a rural squalor, a hell hole surrounded by fields and the inarticulate. It was miles from anywhere and when Carol had left the kitchen to answer the front door, Mrs. Woolley had picked a cigarette butt out of the ashtray on the kitchen table fully intending to smoke it. The butt was still unlit, and it was still in her hand. Then looking at the stranger in her front doorway, Mrs. Woolley spotted a packet of cigarettes my shirt pocket.

"What's you name?" Carol decided to ask.

"Mathurin." I decided to answer.

It was Carol who invited me into the cottage so that I might accept an offer of a cup of tea, sit at the kitchen table admire her ankles while she busied herself with a little dishwashing, kettle boiling and chatter. Uncertain what to do with my canvass I'd placed it by the kitchen door, so I'd know where it was on the off chance I needed to escape quickly. Mrs. Woolley sat heavily on the other kitchen chair and she looked as though she wanted to say something.

"Just ask Mathurin for a cigarette!" Carol suddenly barked at her mother. "Then go upstairs and change!"

The cottage had had concrete poured on the floor in the kitchen. The old fixtures and fittings had been returned to their original locations before the work had been finished. Splatters of concrete could still be seen on the walls, and around the sink. From the scent, the work had been done recently. I guessed the original floor had gone to rot and damp, the project of renewal had been abandoned after the purchase of a refrigerator which stood there against a wall, all shiny and new, and a little embarrassed. The kitchen table and the two chairs were wooden, they were dinged up, and might once have been varnished. The kitchen window faced south west, and from my seat at the kitchen table, I could see a Hawthorn hedge at the end of the back garden. The hedge hadn't been trimmed for many years and it was now happy in breeze.

Mrs. Woolley had gratefully smoked her cigarette and obediently she'd gone upstairs to change. Carol had made a pot of tea, and she would have offered milk, but the milk bottle had gone sour in the brand new refrigerator, so she'd cut a slice of lemon to offer her guest.

"Daddy loves books." Carol decided as she sat down on her mother's chair

I nodded and smiled, I said nothing. So Carol removed her dressing gown, underneath which were her day clothes. A collarless yellow shirt, and blue jeans that reached a little below her knee and which looked faded, but this fading was not a distress from wear, it was a fashion.

"Mother hates this outfit." Carol was pleased with me. "She'll make me change it before going to town. It's good of you to drive us, I hope you're not busy."

"Free as the wind," I managed a reply.

"So, you walked from Swindon? Gosh!" It was a question from Carol. No doubt about it in my mind, but I was unable to give an answer. Then without warning, Carol became distressed, emotional, and she said, "I'm very worried about mummy."

Kind of frail and weak, she sounded, as though there might soon be tears. I found myself asking whether Miss Woolley had a photograph of her father. It was an enquiry which further upset Miss Woolley.

"I don't have any photographs of Daddy. Mummy burned them all! I think she's losing her marbles. And I don't know what to do about it?"

"Do you know where your father is?"

"He moved and mother sold the house." Carol was a little vague. "And I've been stuck here for months! I'm the child, for god's sake."

"How old are you?" I found himself asking.

"You're weird!" Carol decided. "You're very weird."

I'd drawn some confidence from Miss Woolley's accusation, it was territory I understood. "You being stuck here with your mother is a little weird."

"I was supposed to be having a year off in France before going to university!"

"You speak French?"

"No! I'm going to study psychiatry." Then Carol thought a moment. "What do you want with Daddy anyway?"

"I wanted to know whether he'd read my grandfather's translation of Abdul Bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage." And as I spoke I realized I probably did sound very weird.

"You walked here from Swindon to ask whether Daddy had read a book! Why didn't you just ring him up!"

"I've never met him." And cunningly I added. "Your telephone doesn't work."

"You're not one of Daddy's patients are you?" And as Carol sipped her tea she seemed more amused than she was alarmed. "If you are don't tell mother!"

And it got worse. I could ride a bicycle, I was pretty good with the foot peddle gearing of a three wheeler rickshaw, so long as it was around Lyari Township where the police presence was absent, but the closest I'd been to the driving wheel of an actual motorcar was the passenger seat. When Mrs. Woolley appeared all dressed up for her shopping trip to Wantage, I knew I needed inspiration.

"This might be an opportunity for Carol to get a little driving practice." I suggested. Miss Woolley's eyes glittered excitement.

"Carol is not driving to Wantage!" Mrs. Woolley, dressed up as she was in her hat, her sensible skirt, her little jacket and shopping heels was a commanding figure.

"Mother!"

"King Alfred was born in Wantage." I was confident, and apparently an authority on the area, having lost my own way more than once on my walk from Swindon. "It's only about five miles! The B4057, the Ickleton Road, shouldn't be a problem at this time of day!"

"Well she's not driving to Wantage in that outfit. Go upstairs and change!"

Miss Woolley rushed up stairs, and I offered Mrs. Woolley another cigarette. It was my last cigarette, but she didn't seem to notice, she thanked me and waited for me to light it for her. I could see the powder on her face, smell a perfume that I guessed was expensive, she'd done something to her eyes which had entirely rid them of the tiredness. Her fingers shook a little as she pulled smoke into her lungs and her lips curled into a smile. Then when Miss Woolley returned to the kitchen, she looked like a younger version of her mother, all dressed up and properly uniformed for shopping. And as Miss Woolley passed by me, I realized that while upstairs changing Carol had also had a cigarette.

"I'm pretty good at parking!" Carol explained as she grabbed the car key from a hook by the front door, and she was very excited about her driving. "Perhaps I could practice three point turns in the Lintern's Grocery car park."

But Mrs. Woolley was nervous. Before the driving conviction some months before that had so cruelly robbed her of her driving license, she'd managed just the one driving lesson in the seat beside Carol. It had been a most unpleasant experience for both mother and daughter. Yet getting Carol through her driving test would certainly open horizons for both of them. The driving test had been conducted in the traffic of Swindon rather than somewhere sensible like Wantage, and despite vast quantities of money being spent on a series of professional Swindon driving instructors, Carol had failed the practical side of the driving test three times. She was just like her father, pig headed and no common sense. And as Mrs. Woolley allowed me to open the back door of the motorcar for her, she gave me a maternal glare.

"Don't say anything until we get to Wantage, mother!" Carol settled herself behind the driving wheel and she switched the engine on. Nor was the overgrown driveway very easy to reverse out of. There was no view of Fawler Road from the driver's seat and realizing this I suggested I stand on the road where I could give the all clear. Carol, being a sensitive driver, considered my offer a commentary on her driving ability and dismissed it out of hand.

As the trip to Wantage progressed, Miss Woolley seemed to relax into her driving. She increased her speed, put very little space between her and a vehicle ahead of her, who she claimed was driving far too slowly and with no regard for other road users.

"I think I'm going to overtake!" Carol announced confidently and in the back seat Mrs. Woolley could be heard closing her eyes.

It was a big relief when the rustic charm of urban Wantage surrounded us and Miss Woolley could see double white lines in the middle of the road that relieved her of the responsibility of attempting to overtake anything. Fortunately, very fortunately, Lintern's grocery store car park was almost empty. As I opened the back door of the vehicle for Mrs. Woolley, she smiled rather sweetly at me, suggested I stay for lunch.

Lintern's Grocery was modern. Not only was it an Off License, it sold cheese, meat, vegetables, bread, toiletries, light bulbs, cocktail onions and the list was endless. Both Mrs. Woolley and her daughter took on a sort of hunter gatherer mode, they seemed blissfully happy and they developed a oneness as each took a shopping cart from just inside the front doors. And as I followed them around the shop it was kind of beautiful to watch the harmony between them. They knew exactly what they needed and were in perfect accord as to brands and choice of cheese, sausage, ham, wine, gin, tinned beer, paper towels for the kitchen and unsalted butter. Then at the corner of an aisle, while Mrs. Woolley was wholly engaged by a contemplation of toothpastes, Miss Woolley whispered to me.

"If I give you some money will you buy me two hundred Benson and Hedges cigarettes and pretend they're for you!"

"It's much easier if you just tell her you smoke."

"She'd tell Daddy if she knew I smoked. It would break Daddy's heart!"

It was a folded twenty pound note Miss Woolley had in her skirt pocket. It did seem like a great deal of money to me. Benson and Hedges were a more expensive brand of cigarette and I guessed the twenty pound note must have found its way to Carol from her father rather than her mother.

Ahead in the queue for the cashier Mrs. Woolley and Miss Woolley were possessed by an extraordinary contentment. They were proud and smiling. They had two shopping carts filled to the brim. Bottles of this and that, tins of stuff I'd never heard of, meat and shrimp, bacon, potatoes, spring greens, onions, eggs, an astonishing variety of cheeses and it was as though the Woolley's were either preparing a feast for the Houses of Parliament, or perhaps they'd become a little carried away in the presence of such bounty and had fallen to some sort of tragic Pavlovian response over which neither had any control.

"Have either of you seen the Blowing Stone or the White Horse?" I managed to impress myself hunting around for polite conversation as I admired the professionalism with which mother and daughter stowed shopping into the boot of the motorcar.

"The what?" It was Mrs. Woolley.

"Alfred's Blowing Stone and The Uffington Horse."

And Carol went on about having seen them with her father and how it had been raining, and there wasn't anything really to see because the stone didn't look like anything much more than a big stone with holes in it, and a person had to really be in a helicopter to see the horse because from the ground it was just a bunch of white patches nobody was supposed to walk on. And each time Carol mentioned her father Mrs. Woolley became more and more restless.

"If you can blow the Blowing Stone," I spoke cheerfully, "and they can hear it on White Horse Hill you become king or queen of England."

"That's what Daddy says!" Miss Carol Woolley was pleased with me.

"Do stop going on about your father!" Mrs. Woolley was in the back seat, her window was open and she was trying to enjoy her own Benson and Hedges cigarette

Lunch was fresh shrimp, some kind of long thin loaf of white bread that had to be heated in the oven and then buttered, there was a little plastic tub of some kind of swamp weed and there was a cheese that smelled vaguely of armpit but which was very special cheese, and once opened wouldn't keep. Knives and forks which looked a little tarnished, china plates, paper napkins and wine glasses. It all looked kind of strange, neatly laid out on a table in a kitchen which despite it's new concrete floor had signs of a mouse infestation around the foot-pedal dustbin by the back door where I'd had placed my canvass. And a chair had to be brought down from upstairs for me to sit upon. I offered to help, but Mrs. Woolley insisted and when Carol struggled down the stairs with the chair, it was the wrong chair.

"Paper napkins are bad enough, Carol!"

I didn't fully grasp the implications of Mrs. Woolley's strange set of preoccupations until there was a knock on the front door.

"What now!"

"It's the laundry man, mother."

And blessed as she had been by the arrival of her laundry from the laundry in Swindon, Mrs. Woolley chose a bottle of wine followed by another bottle of wine for her main course during her lunch. She nibbled a shrimp, she declared the cheese excellent and because I didn't wish to appear greedy most of the long thin loaf of bread was thrown away. It didn't keep apparently, yet Mrs. Woolley became relaxed and jovial, she held out her hand to shake mine and said, "I'm Carol."

"And I'm Bunny Carol!" Miss Woolley interjected as she agreed to her mother's offer of yet another glass of wine.

I planned my escape. In no conceivable world would JH have named his girl child Bunny Carol. I'd make some excuse to leave by the back door, and if it was possible to do so without being seen I'd liberate the large quantity of buttered bread that had been thrown into the foot-peddle dustbin along with the content of the several ashtrays, the shrimp tails and a plastic tub that still contained swamp weed.

But with the lunch cleared away, dishes stacked in the sink, Mrs. Woolley said, "We'll do the washing-up later!"

"You mean I'll do the washing-up later, mother!" Bunny Carol who'd had several glasses of wine was thinking about the cigarette her mother had offered their visitor and had lit for him, and she excused herself for the ladies room.

"Another beer for you Matthew," Mrs. Woolley suggest. And she wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I should really be leaving," I suggested.

"You look too nice to be from the press, Matthew!"

"The press!"

"I thought you might have been spying for Justin's solicitor until I noticed your interest in history. Which I find rather charming by the way."

"I'm not from the press!" I tried again.

"Very wise!" Mrs. Woolley winked. "Best to keep it from Carol. She has this misplaced loyalty to her father. But let me assure you and your employer that I have no loyalty to him whatsoever! What do you want to know?"

There was just a little slur to Mrs. Woolley's speech patterns, yet she asked me to uncork another bottle of wine for her and when Miss Woolley returned from the ladies room she noticed a third bottle of wine on the kitchen table. Miss Woolley filled her own glass with wine, her mother smiled at her, and Miss Woolley asked, "You don't really want to see the Blowing Stone, do you?"

"I've read a lot about it." I'd replied.

"So you live in Swindon, Matthew?"

"His name's Mathurin, mother!"

"No I don't live in Swindon. I came from Swindon. I don't mind being called Matthew."

"And you walked here from Swindon?" Mrs. Woolley was interested.

"Yes." I replied.

"You don't have a car?" Mrs. Woolley smiled.

"No." I answered.

"And you came here to meet Justin?"

"Yes." It was a developing impasse, and I chose to change the subject. "But I'll let you into a secret. I don't have a driving license."

"You're kidding!" Bunny was shocked.

"I'm not kidding."

"You could have got us into terrible trouble!" Bunny didn't react well to the news. "I could have been banned from driving before I even passed my test!"

"But you weren't, where you?" Mrs. Woolley leered at Mathew.

"I think Matthew is one of Daddy's patients mother, and I think we should report him!"

"What does Mr. Woolley do?" I asked.

"He's a psychiatrist." Mrs. Woolley answered, and she added. "He's been in the newspapers. It caused a bit of stir."

"Mother! Stop telling everyone our business! He asked me if I had a photograph of Daddy! So he must be one of those obsessive compulsive patients we've been warned against."

"Would you mind?" I reached for Mrs. Woolley's packet of expensive cigarettes and she handed me a little new style red plastic lighter she'd bought from Lintern's Grocery, it would be thrown away when it was empty. With the cigarette lit and smoke on my lips, I smiled at Miss Woolley who understood precisely why it was that Mathurin, or Mathew, was not to be trusted with secrets about who was and who was not a non-smoking person, and in those moments Miss Woolley hated me.

"Where is Justin Woolley these days?"

"He's somewhere in Wales," Mrs. Woolley was delighted with Mathew. "Shacked up with a bimbo half his age."

Miss Woolley swallowed down her glass of wine and helped herself to another one, she now hated her mother.

"A crisis?" I'd heard the word applied to older men who ran away from their own womenfolk to shack up with bimbos half their age. It happened often enough apparently and it was a source of great shame and embarrassment to everyone except the bimbo.

"It's not a crisis." Bunny Carol was trying to remain calm.

"Oh my dear, trust me it's a crisis. Your father is in for a rude awakening. He'll be lucky if he ever works again."

"She's one of his patients." Bunny nobly defended her father. "He's trying to cure her. It's a new therapy he's experimenting with. There's no shacking up involved."

"And if you're interested Matthew," Mrs. Woolley beamed. "I've got a flying carpet in the sitting room that you can have for half a crown. It doesn't require a driving license you'll be glad to hear."

"Mother, you never understood Daddy! He's not shacking up with anybody. He's conducting an experiment."

"Matthew, would you care to see a picture of the experiment?"

"Very much."

Mrs. Woolley rose unsteadily to her feet and she wobbled her way out of the kitchen toward the front door. Bunny turned to look at me.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know whether JH Woolley read a book." I was honest.

"You don't have to pretend!" Bunny Carol whose mind was awash in several varieties of French wine had had a strange revelation. "It's the divorce isn't it. Daddy's trying to get mother certified as unfit, isn't he. Then I won't have to live with her. And they can pop her into Afon-Bedd for the rest of her life and I'll only have to visit her on her birthdays."

"Afon-Bedd."

"It's an Institution. Daddy's in charge of it."

"Why would it break your father's heart if he knew you smoked?" It was mean of me but I'd been hunting for JH through time and space for as long as I could remember.

"His mother died of lung cancer. He was very close to her."

"And he married a woman who smoked?"

"She's got oodles of money. She's controlling and she's a narcissistic bitch. This house isn't much, but it's the only thing Daddy owns. It's the only thing he's got. She wants to hurt him. And all this about a bimbo is something mother cooked up with her solicitor. None of it's true!"

A crash from the front of the house suggested that Mrs. Woolley had found what she'd set out to find and was staggering back to the kitchen. Mrs. Woolley had an entire page from a newspaper which she gingerly unfolded and offered to Matthew. Then she stood back and waited grimly for him to announce a verdict.

The page was dated April 15. The reporter's title, "A Woolley Indiscretion." There were two photographs. The first was of an older man who was grinning, he certainly didn't look like the image of JH that had grown up in my mind. A truly nubile young lady wearing very few clothes seemed to have attached herself to the older man. The other picture was of a much younger looking and smiling Mrs. Woolley who seemed to be holding a lipstick and the reins of a friendly looking donkey on the back of which was chimpanzee wearing a fez.

"Cosmetics Heiress Carol Babbage(43) has separated from her husband and man about town Professor Justin Woolley(52) who is facing a hearing with the Royal College of Psychiatrists. Miss Bartlett Pothecary(21), the former Miss Weston-super-Mare, claims her relationship with the renowned shrink is purely professional."

"I'm not forty three." Mrs. Woolley was steaming and she reached for the wine bottle.

"She's forty five." It was a small victory for Bunny.

"What's with the donkey and the chimpanzee?" I asked

The experience of sitting around a kitchen table, smoking cigarettes, tossing back an inexhaustible supply of wine and tins of beer was a new to me. I knew the behavior was an error, and that Miss Woolley was giggling, and that Mrs. Woolley could be very humorous when it came to her stories about bimbos and the life she had known as spokeswoman for the cosmetics industry. The chimpanzee was called George. George was actually a girl chimpanzee, she'd once bitten Justin Woolley, took quite a chunk out of his ear, and that was how Miss Woolley's mother and father had met. A story JH Woolley's girl child hadn't heard before. And true, children take pleasure from hearing how their parents met, an account of happiness in the new bloom of a friendship that should have gone on until death and yet in too many respects Miss Woolley was just a little girl who wanted her mother and father to be as one.

"Well Bunny, all I'm saying, it's a funny kind of thing to call an experiment!"

I'd laughed, Miss Woolley had giggled and the next thing I could remember was waking up. It was early dawn, my mouth was dry, my head ached, my bladder felt as though it was about to explode. I was in a big bed and beside me in the bed someone was snoring.

"Your shoes and socks are in the kitchen." The Saint explained. "Your shirt is in the front room and you'll find your trousers and underpants at the bottom of the stairs."

"Who's beside me?"

"I suggest we get an early start, my child. We should try to avoid the highways or being seen by anybody."

I inched out from under the blanket. I crept down the stairs, which creaked. I collected my clothes, dressed myself and despite the poor light, as I laced up my boots in the kitchen it would have been impossible for me not to have noticed a carpet on the kitchen table.

"That's the flying carpet that doesn't work." The Saint hurried me along.

Then as I picked up my canvass at the back door I remembered the buttered bread that had been thrown away.

"You and Mrs. Woolley ate that last night after Miss Woolley agreed to retire for the night." The Saint blessed me.

We chose to walk cross country through a light drizzle. It must have been an odd sight in the early morning witnessed only by a few wandering crows, croaking heavily, as they watched us skirt around a chalk field of yellow rape seed, and there where the woodland ended, Dragon Hill came into view. And probably, where the galloping White Horse of Uffington has its eye I threw-up the contents of my stomach, lay down in the wet grass, stared toward the heavens, made those promises that substitute for forgiveness. Such was my condition that even the Sheep, well employed to graze White Horse Hill chose to make way for the arrival of the Lead Bull.

Chapter Twelve : Beetroot Sandwiches

When Windral first woke up from her dreams she looked at me. A strange place it was for her. Her sole comfort was the smell of her past which she found in her blanket. But she was proud. She's not permitted to drink milk, it's bad for her. There'll be no butter on her paws. It is I who must care for her being. It took her less than two hours to learn this lesson. I can think of it as a burden placed upon the Saints, or I can resist. But I was familiar with how she felt. And it's a hearts ease this gift of flowers that settles a while upon the soul, the thing that is, the I Am.

I'd woken only once as Windral had. I recalled nothing of the journey there. Still can't. I could hear the past, but I had no idea where I was. It was bitter cold, the heather had yet to bloom, I'd been corralled by some very bad tempered sheep, it was raining, there was a twenty yard fog, there was new growth on bracken, no shelter and I thought I was dreaming about the Romney Marsh, but I wasn't. I was on the border between England and Wales. How I got there I had no clue. My head ached from a wound in the side of my head, you can feel it if you want, the scar's still there, shaped like a horseshoe. I had my canvass, my blanket and all of my possessions nothing was missing, except my own passport. The other passport, the one that had belonged to Edward Hanian, born in London, was still tucked away in the lining of my canvas. But of my eternal friend there was nothing, no sign, no voice, no wisp in the Lantana. A difficult experience to describe, but little Windral on her blanket can.

Days turned to weeks, it happens even to the lonely. To say I was undaunted, would be a grave error of accuracy. Yet, when I think back, to retreat further and further into the mind, instead of crying for the help, was excellent training for what lay in store for me. I explored the territory as Windral has begun to her new territory. I moved all the time looking for food and water, both qualities essential to nutrition which Windral knows where to find. She comes to me, not as a thief, more like an empress, and her request for tribute can be a tad demanding. North to south, westward into a bleakness of higher and higher hills, I moved far as I dared. Then to the north and east toward rolling land where headlights dominated the nights, then south again. It was an expanding rectangle that matched the shape of the hills and gentle valleys which ran north to south beneath a gray sky in which Kestrel and Ravens or Crows could often be seen when it wasn't raining. And necessarily to keep moving as the Coyote do, because remaining in one place too long raised a curiosity in the more sedentary.

The importance of Tuesday had all started when I became more practiced in my new world. It was like clockwork because Mrs. Sanders was possibly mad. Deciduous trees considering leaf, the dandelion were tasty, the roots stringy but sweeter on the tongue. The clouds had cleared a little, a pale sun wept in the sky and a breeze from the north had caused even the upland Sheep to huddle. I was staring down from the scar of Black Darren, looking across the Olchon Valley toward Longtown near where the bracken water of the Olchon River met the mystery of the Monnow and it's Vestry. And I'll give you the names of these places, they may sound strange, they might not even be real, but they sound well enough to the ear.

It was the sight of a Crow that roused a curiosity, I stood up from my own huddle with land, laced up my damp boots and I ventured toward the castles of people. One house in particular that belonged to a close of three other houses. It was an older house that dwelt uncomfortably amongst younger more sprightly neighbors, its trappings included a television aerial which had swung loose from its mooring on the chimney, it had a washing line for clothes, a patch of dug ground which still had Turnips and a wooden shed in its back garden which ran adjacent to a hedgerow that concealed an approach from a pasture on its northern side. But more important was the abundance of food stuff upon the older home's bird tables. There were four of them, daily replenished and each had a pedestal from which hung things like coconut shells, well stocked peanut cages and green bacon rinds hanging on string. It was temptation which not even Lot could have resisted. It was an old and established temptation. The house seemed to belong to two women, one of whom, a younger dark haired girl, would leave for the day, sometime for the night, in small noisy old car that was parked in the driveway. The other woman was much older, she had the gray hair that she kept long when she wasn't wearing a hat. Her face when I saw it was weathered and whiskered, a powerful face undefeated by her time on earth, and she was fierce in the manner of a thin and wiry honeysuckle.

"Gwningen!" Her voice had a command, an authority written into to it. Unexpected from one so vulnerable and doddering, and wearing a maroon men's dressing gown, no shoes on her feet.

I froze, stock still, a single full unadulterated Turnip blushing beautifully in my fingers, my guilty boots soiled by the mud of someone else's vegetable garden, my stomach singing so softly it was almost a purr of anticipation.

"It's no use pretending!" Her accent was Welsh, wonderful to listen to. "I can see you Gwningen. Put that back this instant!"

Very carefully I returned the Turnip to its place in the row, pressed it gently in, and when I stood I told her I was very sorry.

"I should hope so! It's disgraceful behavior, and stop stealing from my birds, they'd go hungry without me. And Gwningen I have this to say to you, never touch the bowl for the Hedgehog. What would she have to eat if ever she wakes up. You're a thoughtless Gwningen!"

"Hedgehog?"

"Don't go pretending to me, Gwningen!" She wagged a skinny finger. "It's you been at her bowl for the milk and bread crusts. It's a shocking thing to do, even for an Englishman!"

"Who's Gwningen?"

"You're right of course." The older lady sighed after the manner of one resigned to her own folly in the world. "But you're secret's safe with me. Don't worry, it's for me to know others to find out. It was a sad say when you didn't get your Vestry."

"Vestry?"

"Vestry of Monnow. Don't flim-flam me by pretending you've forgotten."

It was then that I heard the familiar engine of a car maneuvering into the old lady's driveway. The younger woman had unexpectedly returned from wherever it was she spent her days.

"Hide, Gwningen." The old lady whispered, and with the speed of an antelope she ran to her garden shed, she unlatched it and she motioned for Gwningen to get inside it.

"Someone else must have taken your hedgehog's food. It wasn't me." I was as honest as I was pleading when the garden shed door shut behind me, and its latch close.

"You stay in there and don't fidget or make any noise, Gwningen." There was comfort and assurance in the older woman's voice. "She'll not be here long, whatever it is she'll be back off soon or sat there with her television set. And don't worry, I've not changed like the others."

It was dark in the shed, a few cracks of light revealed a disorderly scene, it would be difficult to move around without the risk of noise. And outside in the colder air, the younger woman was having a bit of a go at her mother, in a language that was foreign to me.

"I'm eighty two, and I'll wear shoes when I want to!" the older woman answered in English.

"Get inside, mother! You'll catch your death out there, dressed like that!"

A door slammed, must have been the kitchen door, and it was silence locked in the garden shed except for the breeze. "I bet that old lady's a Sabean. She probably counts her turnips." But there was no answer.

I settled to a rotting wooden floor between a hand mower, and a new looking, blue one gallon tank that smelled of paraffin. A comforting smell gone to shadows beyond the busyness of always being hungry. In the still air with a sun on the garden shed, four walls and a roof, it felt warmer and sheltered, the smell from the blue can was calming. I removed my always damp boots, quietly took the dry socks from their dustbin liner in my coat pocket, fitted them on to my feet and with my head in my arms I slept. It was the dreaming sleep of cold and exhaustion, where a mind can't settle as it looks for comfort, seeks out places and visions to get lost in, tempted to resign from the game of existence. But even in sleep a Sabean is the stuff of true heroes, they can play with dreams, make suggestions, and whenever my mind wandered toward the crocodile of acceptance I fought back with visions of Marmite, bacon and egg sandwiches, rich gravy and mashed potato, dry feet and the smell of comradeship, sweat and dust, sun high, no rain. These are the long dreams that roll like clouds across landscapes that might once have been inconsequential. They're not scary to wake from, and always it's little things that spring from the land, the patience of a Leopard on the back of a hill and far away the bark of a dog as it finally chased the engine noise of a motorcar. There were images of unlabeled bottles of brandy, and regret for having left the past so faraway. I was little Giovanni, smoking a genuine Winston cigarette out the window while Broz and Rafael recalled the Countessa, and how Giovanni had persuaded her to let them eat her horse.

"Gwningen?" There was a knock on the shed door. "You can come on out, she'll be gone for a bit, off to her man friends and tobacco smoking."

When the older lady unlatched the door, opened it to the cold, I remembered where I was. The older lady had changed from her night clothes, she had a crooked hat, her long hair wrapped away, a light blue dress, a white cardigan, a raincoat that reached her knees. "You're wearing Wellington boots." It seemed important to me

"Rubber boots, Gwningen. If they were Wellington boots, I wouldn't be wearing them."

I took my dry socks off, put them away and when I looked up from putting my boots on, the older woman motioned me to follow her around the back of her garden shed where a hedgerow of wintering hawthorn still protected elderberry and briar.

"I just give her a taste, you understand." The old lady explained. "Until I know she's awake then it's full cream and the fresh bread for her."

A person had to lean down to see the hedgehog's bowl. It was a tin bowl, tucked away beside a gap in the shed's block foundation and the bowl was empty, licked clean.

"It wasn't me!" I insisted. "Could have been somebody's cat or a ferret or a rat or something."

"Don't flim-flam me, Gwningen!" The older lady had a spark to her eyes. "A cat, or a ferret or a rat wouldn't have broken last year's blackberry like that. I mean look at it!"

It did seemed as though something big and clumsy had trampled the briars to gain access to the hedgehog's bowl, and had I known about the Hedgehog's evening meal I would have been tempted.

"It's been a cruel winter Gwningen," the old lady nodded a wise head. "I can understand it. What with their suffering from the Australian myxomatous your rabbits are short, but there's no excuse for this. There's no room for carelessness! They'll find you, Gwningen. And probably they'll lock you away again, but at least you'll get fed." The old lady looked deep into me. She thought hard and mean. "You've not been greedy with the bacon fat. You always leave a peanut or two. You never were a squirrel, Gwningen."

"Certainly not a squirrel." And it did seem to me, as I raised a dignified chin, that the old lady was probably insane from age, her mind trapped in some kind of addle that contained both true things and false things.

"You'd best run along, Gwningen. But be here every Tuesday, early mind you, before the crow and I'll have a favorite snack for you. You'll find it right there by the hedgehog's bowl. It's a risk worth taking Gwningen, so be careful. Not like last time."

"Last time?"

"Quite right! It's for me to know and others to find out. Now be off with you!" Like an officer commanding, she pointed to the hills.

"When's Tuesday?" I'd turned to leave.

"It's tomorrow. She's out of her bed late on Tuesdays. So don't be too early!"

It was a long wait of hiding in the bracken for that first Tuesday morning. I chose to settle, rather than wander. I took my canvass from its safe place and moved to the other side of the moor, to the west side, where I could stare down from the higher escarpment at the valley of a sweet tasting easy Welsh river. I watched for the cars that would come and go from the hotel or homestead that had a smoking chimney attached to the giant ruins of Llanthony. Despite the cold, the sunshine often caused a bloom of activity. Backpack types from the car park with their walking shoes that had to be properly laced. There'd be stamping around to settle their dry socks, there'd be maps and pointing, then they'd wind their way up on foot to the moors, sometimes with their dogs, they'd talk loudly and often out of breath despite the girth on their bellies and pale in their cheeks, but they'd stick to the paths and preferred their dogs at heel which suited me. As I waited for the morning to advance I rambled happily toward a conclusion that suggested it was entirely possible that a woman driven by madness of old age who believed I'd been denied what she called the Vestry of Monnow, might come up with the idea that several bacon and egg sandwiches and maybe a tin of sweetened condensed milk along with a pack of cigarettes could be a suitable snack for a Gwningen struggling with the consequences of Australian myxomatous.

Next day I was well prepared. I watched the lights in the old lady's house come on, upstairs first, then the downstairs, a twitch to the curtains in the kitchen. I watched the younger woman leave in her motorcar and I was breathless as through the early light I saw the old lady open her kitchen door, sneak out of her house into her back garden, along the cut grass by her Turnips toward her garden shed. She was wearing her gumboots, and it was almost like a bad dream for me, both her hands were empty, she was clutching the warmth in her dressing gown. Like a Leopard or a Kitten in doubt, I didn't move. I didn't give up in disgust, I was heroic in my stillness even if my mind might have wondered a little toward the folly of becoming wishful around listening to the words of an eighty two year old.

When I saw the old lady again she was on her way back to her kitchen door with the hedgehog's bowl in one hand. I saw her at her kitchen window, curtains open, all the lights on, and I decided she must have been washing dishes, and forgotten about Gwningen.

All the same, the hymns were loud, and like a slinking creature against the field side of the hedgerow I edged closer and closer to the old lady's shed. The hedgehog's tin bowl was gone. In it's place was a white china plate upon which was a large, large sandwich. Thick cut bread, slabs of margarine, red from the juice of pickled beetroot.

"I'm going to eat this slowly," I was determined. It didn't work that way.

Through April, May and June Tuesday became the bright spark. The land and its weather were warming, the rain less chilled by ghosts from the north. This wasn't a part of the world were change happens too quickly, damp isn't sucked from the earth until well into July or August, the sun has frailty, it occasionally offers rainbows, more often it's skulking behind clouds as though ashamed of the planet. High on the moors the Kestrels become more active, they have that Spanish dash of both corsairs and Swallows, strutting the air, cruising for girls. Boy Larks had taken to the their dance, a practice in a sky which for them was increasingly blue, and as though to join the celebration I put away both my pair of socks.

There's an older border between the English Kings and the Princes of Powys. There's a path that follows an ancient ditch dug by a Paramount Chief of the Angle tribes called Offa. The ditch, or dyke, or hedge that Offa had men build for him, ran all the way from what the Welsh called Sea River in the south, due north, winding straight as it could along the hill tops, down into the valleys then up again, to a sea cliff a little west of an English port town called Liverpool. The ditch was dug wide, sixty five, eighty feet wide, and all the soil from the ditch was piled up like a defensive wall on the English side. It's around a hundred and fifty miles of digging, it must have been a mud hole for a long time, until the grass and the hedges grew back.

Twelve hundred years later the Mercian Ditch was a line on a map that called out to hill boots, good socks, sensible clothes, an anorak. Get in a motor car drive for hours, find a place to park and go for a long refreshing walk. The mystery of the ditch gone to scholarship and in its place an addiction to good exercise, fresh air and brief glimpses of what life for people might once have been, or not. Call it a new opinion of my own worth, but I'd developed a fondness for hill walkers, almost as though they'd come to visit me, especially those hill walkers who had the heavy backpacks, a clatter of aluminum canteens, folding spoons, tins of bully beef, shots of chocolate and the little stove that heated water with something that looked like a candle but which had no wick.

It was the smile on their faces more than anything. They seemed happy. It was probably like a holiday for them. The farmers were always angry about something or other, they were like dogs along their fences. There's the homeowner from somewhere like London with a little weekend cottage, another difficult sort of person, they'd locked their garden shed, but forget all about their upstairs window. They're different to the locals who are less nervous, more curious, and most of the locals in the smaller places were old, kind of settled around themselves, they had washing lines and tin buckets that might have been fixed with a bit of tar from the road, except in towns. Towns were more like the farmers, they had plastic buckets, and in towns the boys and girls seemed more interested in fighting and what they looked like and the next bus.

The hill walkers were more like me, they came from outside to visit and they were polite in a friendly way. They were more watching than belonging, but the important thing was they didn't walk too far without reckoning it was time to do a little cooking or maybe stop and stare at their maps, point at something and then decide to have a refreshment. It was always the same place they'd do their stopping and map reading. And the other thing about these backpackers, if you asked them a question they'd go on for hours about this and that and themselves and the north face of something or other. They'd reckon you were just from around and about instead of wondering where you were from before suggesting you'd like half a sandwich. So good practice was to make sure your hands and nails were clean and your hair combed, smile with your eyes not your mouth, otherwise they'd get kind of nervous. It's the little things. Nestle in a likely spot on a clear Saturday or a Wednesday afternoon, ready a passage or two from Earthly Voyage. Then following the greeting, Earthly Voyage came in very useful as a conversation starter that might even lead to a hot cup of tea with plenty of sugar. But not the army boys doing their exercises over there toward the bleaker hills, they were all "look at me aren't I tough" walking around carrying heavy weights trying not to get lost.

The days get longer and longer, the sun higher and higher, the land dryer and dryer, and it can be moments so pretty a heart stops for a while as it rests in the kind of peace that gives a person a great big hug. The boots are dry, there's nothing biting except nettle, it's luxury, and no dilemma for me on a Tuesday as I wandered through the early morning wrens toward a beetroot sandwich.

But, that last visit to the hedgehog's shed was different. I'd had to approach my sandwich from a safer direction. The field to the north and west of the old lady's back garden had been cut, the hay had been taken and that morning the young beef cows idling amongst the stubble appeared particularly taken by the kind of disgruntlement that lends itself to a curiosity which in my experience can, in the absence of a wise lead bull, result in the kind of herd mentality which for English speaking cows satisfies itself by chasing other living things with intent to lick or trample them to death.

The more southerly route, along the cleared fence, avoided the possibility of such a fate, but it was a more vulnerable route, less cover to conceal a vagrant from the watchful eyes of the proud newer homes that ran along the road toward the English church in Clodock with its masses of gravestones and on down to the wealthy dustbins behind the angry holiday club house near Pandy where nothing was saved for the pigs, it all went to the landfill if I didn't get to it first.

The old lady's rows of Potatoes had been hilled up just in time for their flower. I was wondering whether the old lady had done the work herself, and as I was thinking these thoughts I saw a Hedgehog at the sill beneath the garden shed door. The little creature was smaller than I'd pictured her, but more enchanting. She'd seen me, she was shuffling a little crew of baby Hedgehog under the old lady's shed. It was one of those tiptoe moments for me.

On the way back up to the moor, the sandwich consumed, I'd paused to digest. I was stretched out in a copse of trees, where I'd hidden my canvass. I was staring toward the English border with Wales, knowing that the Welsh side of the border was safer for me. It was Rabbit making it's way down the moors toward me. A new day's sun in the Rabbit's eyes, it was sniffing this clod of grass then that clod of grass, closer and closer it came, apparently oblivious to my presence. I reckoned this lack of caution in the Rabbit suggested it was suffering from the illness, but it wasn't. There was no pus in it's dark shiny eye, it's fur gleamed as it moved, it was velvet instead of falling away to sores of the Australian myxomatous.

The Rabbit was an easy six foot from me, and still heading slowly toward me. It would sniff the air, fine looking whiskers, ears in splendid shape and it was well fed. I reached for an idea I'd often had. I could catch the Rabbit and I could eat it in just the same way Giovanni or Gwningen must have done. I was no stranger to gutting Chicken, I'd done it often enough, the first time had been harder than the second, third, fourth, fifth time and the fur of a Rabbit would be like the skin of a Chicken. Once the head and feet had been removed from the carcass, the skin and fur could be pulled off with a little help from a knife. I had several almost empty throw away cigarette lighters of the kind I'd first seen in the town of Wantage while shopping at the big grocery store with JH Woolley's wife and daughter. Given a good shake and a bit of warm up in the hand the lighters would shoot a brief flame. I had Giovanni's sharp knife, the land was dry, there'd be kindling and the leavings of trees would most likely burn with little smoke, so even if a person was to smell the flame they'd not necessarily know where the fire was. I slowly removed Giovanni's knife from my pocket, snapped the switch which unlatched the blade. The Rabbit ignored the sound and my murderous leap when it came was a disaster.

The rabbit jumped aside, it didn't hare off back to the hills, it sat there, on all its four feet staring at me. I was lying face down in the grass clutching a blade that was impaled into earth. Driven by the fever of ambition I tried again and then again to earn my supper. But the Rabbit repeated its elegant maneuver and it still didn't run off. Instead it stared at me with a sneer haughty in its disdain.

"I must still be in Wales!"

"You're not in Wales." My reply was prompt. "You're in England."

I was a long way from innocent. I was no Alice in the game of cards, no clock and hurry, no maneuverings around the tea time. I have argued, why not talk to the color blue, discuss the game of chess with Bluebirds. I have comforted the Mockingbird, as all night he sang in search of love, a meaning for him, a purpose. And high he danced above the tallest tree, his joy in a child plain to see, until a rain squall knocked his pairing's nest to the ground. Next time, she chose her nest site in a thicket of Cedar, it was safer there.

"You're a Rabbit?" I decided, and I felt cheerful.

"Oh dear!" The Rabbit answered, it was a kind of charade playing professorial English accent. "I thought in these more enlightened times they locked you people away."

"What do you mean us people?"

"Parish idiots and the brain damaged! I can't possibly be in England."

"It was you who left!" I reminded him.

For all of it the Rabbit didn't appear to recognize me and the thought of being in England instead of Wales made him very uneasy.

"Wales is on the other side of that hill." I gestured toward the moor that filled the horizon to their west.

"That's not possible." The Rabbit appeared deep in thought, a calculating worry as it looked up toward the scars.

"We're in England." I was determined. "But if it's any comfort to you, I have just eaten a sandwich that was made for me by a Welsh Speaking lady, and she lives in England."

"That comforts me not in the least!"

"You're in trouble, aren't you?" I spoke gently to the Rabbit.

"No idea what you're talking about." And the Rabbit did have a slightly saintly tone to his voice and stance. His egg shaped body was a good two foot from nose to tail, his ears were easily a proud five maybe six inches, his front paws were quite elegant, four toes and sharp looking dew claw, his hind quarters powerful and a thoroughly superior bead to its eye.

The Rabbit turned his head, he looked up the endless slope toward the hills. "Borders change, you know!"

He was making a point. In some ways it was a familiar point, but I'd just eaten well, my body disinclined to move. My eternal friend had most certainly changed, he was a Rabbit. But I too had changed. Couldn't we just sit together a while, I wondered

"I don't wish to break any laws." He informed me. Then slowly and with a wariness he headed east toward the flatter land where the bigger roads were always busy. I followed him toward danger. I was excited, renewed, filed with a purpose. I was tall and noisy beside the Rabbit, my presence encouraged him and his presence encouraged me. It was in the last line of Alqamah's poem which Abdul bin Abdul had taken such comfort from. All the choice is to journey on. Madness, you may call it. But little Windral, waking from her blanket to question me, doesn't think so. She cares little how transient her life will be.

Chapter Thirteen : Shire Hall and Road Signs

Mrs. Bigelow is critical of me. She insists the cat pan be attended to at least twice a day. Three times a week she arrives with a flit can, with which she casts a most unpleasant scent throughout the domicile. Windral is nervous of the flit can, it makes sounds she finds objectionable, and she's taken to hiding whenever she hears Mrs. Bigelow's vehicle approach. My intern's vehicle has an opposite effect upon her. Windral picks up her ears when she hears it in the driveway and she heads for the kitchen door. It's an astonishing capacity in one so young, and inevitably with such an intellect she is more than curious about the outdoors. Clearly in her ancestry she possesses Leopard. Not for her lounging in a Lion's Cage waiting for horse meat. But Mrs. Bigelow has assured me that Windral is from a long line of what she calls "House Cats" and most important to Mrs. Bigelow is the opinion of her sister in law.

It was my intern's idea to install what's called a Cat Flap, which is small breach in the domicile that will enable Windral to come and go as she pleases. And I have to say my intern has come far along the trail of bread crumbs since those first vegetative moments within our relationship which saw him struggling with a venerable mowing machine he'd had the nerve to regularly describe in a far from Christian manner. Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law is my intern's great aunt, three, maybe four, possibly five times removed depending upon definitions of legitimate birth.

"What if she visits?" And Mrs. Bigelow went on. "I'll never live it down. I'll get the blame."

I'd cast around for a suitable argument that contained a sense of the often cruel consequences of endless atonement following a simple deceit, and how much easier it would be to tell Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law that Windral was more like Leopard than she was like Lion and sooner rather than later she'd be yearning for the freedom of her own entrance to the domicile. This argument wasn't easy to place within a single short sentence. Fortunately my intern had a better idea.

"We'll put it in the wall round the back. She'll never know!"

The boy has genius in him. Tempted I was to offer him insight into the possibilities of error in his scheme by recalling my own experience in Shire Hall. A deceit on my part had led to wholly unexpected consequences. But my intern has no patience for stories unless they came to him on his telephone.

Things must have changed in Shire Hall, but when I knew it, there was an established protocol that required the jailor to always remain behind the prisoner rather than in front of him. The steps to the basement were a long way from standard. Planks of wood laid on top of rather than fastened to the brick would move and creak when stepped upon. Peeling whitewash, the smell of dank and a sense of doom from the chill, but there was food, regular food, three meals a day, I'd already had a supper and a breakfast in Shire Hall, and I was keenly anticipating a lunch.

In the brick walls of a long dark corridor in the basement an assortment of cell doors, some made of solid wood with a square port, some were iron, and all of it black with the grime of ages. The holding cells were small, ceilings low, hard worn slate floors, slop pale in the corner and there was the electric light which even in 1970 something hadn't been there long. It was an older place, might even have been modeled upon the Napoleonic dungeons from which Jean Genet had written his love letters. And there was something else.

The Rabbit had to be careful what he said. He couldn't just wax on, he was wary of being heard, he had to mind his tongue. And he'd had trouble negotiating his way down the narrow stairs which were far from rabbit friendly, downright dangerous for a small four footed herbivore, especially the left angle turn, and the smell down there in the cells was far too much like a graveyard for the Rabbit's keen senses. There'd been an oath that required a witness to swear to The Lord God Almighty, and indeed the entire proceedings had put the Rabbit into a condition of considerable discomfort which he was able to relieve by endlessly repeating a sentence or two in a loud monotone that had a dirge like quality. "God-bearing Maid, rejoice, grace-filled Mary, the lord with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, for though hast given birth to the savior of our souls."

"It just sounds rather disgusting!"

"It's the Hail Mary!"

"Are you sure?"

At the bottom of the narrow stairs the jailor suddenly ordered his charge to "Step aside face the wall stand still." It sounded like one long word. And even though I thought the command totally unnecessary, there was strange joy in my heart as I watched the Rabbit do exactly as the jailor had commanded.

"No one can see you!"

"There's no talking."

There were two jailors on duty in the holding cells, they had their own headquarters at the far end of the corridor. Their office might once have been a cell, but it had excellent lighting, desks with ashtrays, comfortable chairs, a typewriter, an electric kettle, a radio, an internal telephone and an external telephone. And as we were waiting at the wall for our jailor to unlock our cell, the internal phone rang. It was answered by the older and wider of the two jailors, man who went by the name Mr. Holland. The telephone call from upstairs sent Mr. Holland into a fury so loud it could be heard up and down the basement.

"It's just the two of us! We can't have him down here. If they don't want him at the Station, send him to County!"

Mr. Holland had spluttered and he'd gone on about inadequate facilities, his own retirement and he'd mentioned something about shackles and the good old days. Then when he hung up the internal telephone he stormed out of his office into the corridor and in a low, ominous and very miserable way, he said to our younger jailor. "Paddy's back! And he's got Philter."

"I can't do a double shift, Mr. Holland! I got choir practice."

"I can check on that!" Mr. Holland no nonsense.

"Is that like a church choir practice?" I found himself contributing to the discourse.

"There's silence in the corridor!" The younger jailor was fierce with his prisoner.

But Mr. Holland had an idea. "Put Hanian in gate five, Angus."

"Are you sure, Mr. Holland?"

"Either that or you cancel your choir practice!" Mr. Holland sounded confident.

I'd not yet become accustomed to the idea of being called Hanian, but one thing had led to another and it could have been a great deal worse.

Gate five was one of the larger cells near the jailor's office. It had grates instead of wooden doors, it had two benches that could be slept upon, it had a very new looking concrete floor instead of one of the ancient slate floors which still wept of fear, vomit and urine, and because gate five was nearer the jailor's office the slop buckets were emptied more regularly, so it didn't smell so bad.

"Who's Paddy?" I decided and I was wondering a little about the wisdom of Mr. Holland's decision.

"You'll get on fine with Paddy!" Angus was soothing, but it was more of a menacing soothing than it was a calming soothing and I found myself locked up in gate five, sitting on one of the benches, a folded grey blanket on one side of me, the Rabbit on the other.

The circumstance wasn't easy. I'd tried everything. Charades. Rabbit's don't have the capacity to make the gestures that we people have. He could raise a paw, shrug a little, he could turn round and round, blink, twitch his ears. He was clearly determined to offer me the solace of an explanation but something was preventing him. I tried twenty questions, with special reference to a possibly fictional saint. It was like talking to a small wooly Mammoth, and whenever I thought I was getting somewhere he'd mutter, "I don't know the rules." I tried "I spy with my little eye" and that got nowhere. I suspected that if indeed the Rabbit was my eternal friend he must have had some kind of argument with the Lead Bull, and rather than the Lead Bull doing the decent thing by returning him as a Shellfish or maybe a Fruit Fly, the Lead Bull had decided to make an of example out of him. It was when I suggested that we should never have read Earthly Voyage that he became agitated almost to the point of explaining himself.

"I don't know!" there was a frustration in his voice. "There's no literature, no manual. I haven't even been given a handbook."

And it seemed to me that some part of his punishment was always watching him and listening for utterances and actions deemed blasphemous, which was an area of doctrine he had yet to master. Nor was blasphemy something my eternal friend had ever have troubled himself with, but wary of a disagreement between myself and the Rabbit I agreed that a short story, a few bullet points from the Lead Bull might have been useful.

Our moment in court had been first thing that morning. It hadn't taken long, everyone had been polite, businesslike and even though it'd all gone smoothly upstairs, downstairs in the cells it was a different story. These were professionals, they had their own language, their own way of doing things, their own eccentricities, but I'd understood that the basement cells of the courthouse were holding cells, and not really supposed to have remanded people spending the night in them unless there were problems. Nights were supposed to be spent in what Mr. Holland called the Station or the County Jail, up there in the Town of Usk a little way from Monmouth. The basement cells had no assigned nightshift, and the rules clearly stated that if there was a remanded man or woman in one of the Shire Hall basement cells you weren't allowed to have just one jailor on duty.

Mr. Holland, once he got over the indignity of having to do overtime, seemed to settle into the idea of it. He had a good chair in his office, a night shift didn't necessarily interrupt his sleep. Angus, who had his choir practice, would, when the pay checks arrived, contribute his overtime payment to Mr. Holland in the form of cash. And when Mr. Holland himself asked whether Hanian would like a cup of tea before his lunch, it became particularly obvious to me that Mr. Holland and Angus were engaged in deviously plotting the night that lay ahead. And, in their plotting, I guessed, both my jailors reckoned on my cooperation.

"I am partial to sugar in my tea, it'll settle the stomach." I advised.

"Two spoons or three?" There was just hint of menace from Angus.

"Three please."

While Angus was boiling the kettle, Mr. Holland did his best to smile in a friendly way at me. "You're not from Monmouth, are you?"

"Just visiting."

"Well this isn't Bristol, we have our own way of doing things."

"Who's Paddy and who or what is Philter." I decided it was best just to do away with the niceties.

"That's not just your problem, Mr. Hanian, it's my problem too." Mr. Holland was serious.

"Perhaps I might be of assistance." I offered, and the Rabbit seemed pleased with my offer.

"Paddy's got his flaws but he's a good man at heart." Mr. Holland did sound calm. "The trouble is he gets a little nervous down here. It's the old story about Shire Hall being haunted. Of course it's not haunted, it's just that when Paddy's cut off the drink and sobers up a little Paddy gets to start seeing things. He's a drunk, a bad drunk, but there's no drinking allowed down here. So keeping the peace is up to you and me, if you get my drift."

"What about Angus?"

"He's got choir practice."

"Choir practice is very important," I nodded wisely. "I'd say it's worth a couple of packets of cigarettes."

"You're not as stupid as you look, are you Mr. Hanian!"

"I'm deaf, dumb and blind when I have to be." I was well fed and cheerful.

"I'll see what I can do." Mr. Holland seemed friendly. "But don't get me wrong this isn't a sporting event! Paddy can't be in his own cell, it's not good for him and none of our cells are padded, which is why we can't leave Paddy in a cell by himself, else his solicitor, Mr. Philter, has us all up on bodily harm charges for hurting his client. So between us, you and I, we're going to work on keeping Paddy calm until he goes to sleep, which he will do soon after his supper, and then we can all get a little shuteye, fresh for the morning."

"Is Paddy a big person?" I was a little wary of Paddy.

"He doesn't like to be called Paddy. Not down here. You call him Pat or Patrick."

"Just to be clear, Mr. Holland. If I were to call him Paddy, would he hurt me or would he hurt himself?"

"Let's not try to find out, shall we."

It took two large men in the uniforms of police constables to get Paddy down the stairs to the basement cells. The language was very blue from Paddy, he had a deep voice, a preaching quality to it, and between the sounds of scuffling and the grunts of authority from the two policemen, I got the idea that Paddy was a very big, very heavy man. I couldn't fit my head through the bars, so I couldn't look into the corridor, but I did see Mr. Holland come out of the jailor's office, stand there in the middle of the corridor with his arms crossed, a frown of concern on his face and from the mixture of expressions in Mr. Holland's stance there was just a suggestion of merriment.

When Paddy came into my view he had constable on either side of him, their strong arms holding his, they'd lifted Paddy off the ground, his shoulders up near his ears, his feet dangling. Paddy had flannel trousers, he had no socks between his feet and his shoes, he had a white color shirt under a grey jacket that was too big for him, he had a black eye and he looked very much the worse for wear, as though he might have been run over by something. But he wasn't a big man, he was short and skinny.

"Do you see this, Mr. Holland?" It was Paddy.

"It's a great tragedy when a man loses the ability to walk." Mr. Holland agreed.

"I'm a man of my word!" Paddy fired back. "Last time I saw you Mr. Holland I swore to both you and the ghosts of the Chartists I'd never set foot in your cellar again!"

"I understand, Patrick." Mr. Holland was sympathetic.

The constables on either side of Paddy were losing patience, no one from upstairs liked it down in the basement, Paddy was a difficult customer, always had been, and Mr. Holland was way too old fashioned and slow paced for the more modern policing methods. Then, as they lowered Paddy to the ground one of the constables whispered something about frost into Paddy's ear.

"They were hung, drawn and quartered!" Paddy vehemently insisted, and even though he kept his composure he was clearly nervous of standing on the floor. "The history books might tell you otherwise, but don't you believe it. There was no trip to Tasmania for Frost, Williams and Jones. The different parts of those fine men are buried down here, not all in one place you understand, but dotted around. They come up through the floor. I've seen them."

Angus unlocked the grate to gate five, Mr. Holland waved Paddy into Hanian's cell.

"You know I don't sleep well down here." Paddy spoke confidently to his jailors. "It's cruel and unusual place to put a sensitive man like me!"

"We'll feed you right." Mr. Holland called from his office. "A saveloy and chips should suit you."

"A couple eggs on top might be nice." Paddy was negotiating. "And you're aware Mr. Holland how important a good breakfast is to a man who can see the dead rise."

"Can't promise butter, but I'll do my best for you, Patrick!"

Paddy suddenly seemed to notice our hero. "Who's this?" he asked Angus

"A sure fire for a column in the evening paper." Angus replied, his mood foul, and Paddy seemed to cheer up a little as the gate closed.

There are few secrets in courthouses, not even in the basement. Rumors, gossip, alarm spread through the winds of chatter, then fall like leaves. Amongst those who served the court, Hanian's appearance and his case were fire to the monotony of the day to day of drunks, petty theft and careless road users.

Paddy, dazed and exhausted, his eyes flame red from the drink and the injustice of his situation, sat on the one end of the bench opposite me, his back to the wall his feet off the ground. When I met Paddy's eye, Paddy glanced into the corridor to make sure no one was watching and then he winked. "I heard you're a mumbler?"

"I might be."

"My father was a mumbler."

"Some of us do mumble." I suggested.

"I've no objection to mumblers!" Paddy was sensitive to the nuances and he was confident. "My father was a merchant sailor and a fine man, good provider, gone for years at a time when I was a nipper. When he came home on leave, he'd sit in his chair mumbling. The call of the sea, I suppose. Drove my mother to distraction. She couldn't wait for him to be gone."

"It must have been difficult for your mother."

"It was. She was a Welsh woman. And I don't mean Welsh, I mean Welsh/Welsh, so far Welsh she came from the heart of the north. We spoke nothing in our house but Welsh when father was away. He didn't speak any Welsh much beyond the lechyd da and when as a family we'd visit the grandparents in Llanuwchllyn, he'd make not the least effort to pronounce Llanuwchllyn. It infuriated my mother....." Paddy paused a while with his memories and then he added, "I blame a lot of my own troubles on being a multilingual person."

"It's not easy." I was sympathetic. "I'm multilingual myself."

"It's as good as a prison sentence, I'd agree, but if I may say so young man, you do speak excellent English."

"Thank you very much." It was the best I could think of.

"My mother, god rest her soul, spoke excellent English, when she chose to....." Paddy didn't finish his thought. He put his head in his hands to close his eyes and he began to sob. "It would break her heart to see me in here...."

The Rabbit had no sympathy for the crying man, he sneered in the only way a Rabbit can. I didn't know what to do, it was uncomfortable, it was awkward, a grown man loudly crying was difficult, and there was no way Mr. Holland and Angus could be unaware of what was happening in gate five.

"Do a lot of people speak Welsh in Wales?" It was the best I could think of and as soon as I'd spoken I realized it might have been the wrong direction to take. Paddy instantly stopped blubbering and glared at his cell mate, tears on his unshaved cheeks, his eyes redder than ever.

"I'm not a Nationalist!"

"I don't think I am either." I retreated.

"You're not from round here, are you?"

"I'm just a visitor."

"From an alien planet, no doubt." Paddy was kind of dismissive.

"Maybe!"

"Perhaps I was hasty." Paddy was all of the diplomat. "I've been too often accused of being a Nationalist and I'm a sensitive person. Self taught, you know. A burdensome education which because of my class and my Welsh speaking has me written in the book as a Welsh Nationalist. The ignorance of the assumption drives me to distraction, my father's side of the family came here to Monmouth to dig the railway tunnels under the River Severn. I'm not a Smith or a Jones or a Frost, I'm a Connelly. My dearest wish was to help lay tarmac for the road bridge built recently across the river to Bristol, make the Connelly's proud of me, but I'm not a physical man so I didn't get the job."

"That must have been a big disappointment."

"My life's been one disappointment after another." Paddy glanced into corridor and lowered his voice. "But don't get me wrong, as a man who has his own problems with the English I understand the Welsh Nationalist sentiment. My mother was a follower of Hywel Harris."

"She was!"

"She was a Methodist." And Paddy reading a confusion in his cell mate continued. "I'm non-denominational myself."

"So Methodists are like Nationalists?"

Paddy shook his head at the wonder of the extent of ignorance which surrounded him.

"I'm not from round here, Patrick!" I was hungry, wondering about supper.

"You're part right I suppose." Paddy conceded. "Mother did block the traffic in Abberystwyth. She took me with her, and I'm pretty certain my troubles began on that day. Got my name in a black book somewhere in Whitehall or wherever the English spooks keep these things. But I'm not a Nationalist! Nor have I ever been a Nationalist and I've never so much as touched a road sign. It's purely accidental that Young Mr. Philter has taken to representing me in the courtroom. It's really not my fault I speak Welsh."

It was a grim moment for me, I felt confused. I had no real idea what a Methodist was, I had no idea what Paddy meant by a Nationalist, I had no clue why Paddy's mother had taken him to block a road bridge in somewhere called Abberystwyth, I had a vague idea what Whitehall meant, I suspected English spooks were Political Officers, I was dumfounded by Paddy's claim never to have touched a road sign, I had no idea what Paddy meant by being accidentally represented by Young Mr. Philter and I could smell the cigarette smoke from the jailor's office.

"May I ask you a question, Patrick?" I leaned closer to my cell mate

"That would depend." Paddy was noble.

"Do you smoke?"

"I might."

"It would be nice to have a cigarette, wouldn't it?"

"I can take them or leave them!" Paddy was even more noble.

"We're not accidentally sharing a cell." I decided.

"I didn't think so for one minute!" It was a moment of intellectual victory for Patrick Connelly.

"I'm supposed to stop you from hurting yourself or me if you happen to see a ghost. That's why we're together in this cell. And Mr. Holland suggested there might be a packet of cigarettes for us if I was able to keep you calm."

Paddy shook his head in slow disappointment, then he raised an eyebrow and he said, "Angus has choir practice."

"He does."

Again Paddy shook his head. "A word of advice, young man. I don't know where you might be from, but in Monmouth you never trust a jailor or a magistrate. They have a crooked and mean history."

"Are you saying that when you're down here you don't actually see ghosts?"

"I'm not a Nationalist, you understand. I don't vandalize road signs. I may be a drunk, but let's just say you'd have to be a plank of wood not to see the ghosts down here." Paddy gestured toward the jailor's office.

"We're not going to get cigarettes?" I was disappointed.

"I didn't say that!" Paddy winked. "It's not the cigarettes, young man. It's lighting the cigarette that's the problem down here. They don't allow matches, you have to beg for a light. I don't know what it's like where you're from but with the Monmouth jailor it's best not to beg, otherwise you understand, they start taking advantage of their position and it's our duty not to allow that."

Then suddenly, as though by magic, Angus produced the supper. Paddy was most disappointed to discover two cold thin sausages on his tin plate of cold chips, two cold fried eggs, well doused in salt and vinegar, and two slices of white bread with margarine. My mouth watered with the excitement.

"No saveloys!" Angus made no apology and was remarkably bad tempered for a man hurrying to get to choir practice.

"I was rather hoping for saveloy." Paddy appeared crushed by disappointment.

"No saveloys!"

"Mr. Clarkson's chip shop always has saveloy. It's no more than a mile further to walk, Angus."

"I got friends in Usk!" It sounded like a horrible threat from Angus

"So have I." Paddy replied.

From his uniform pocket Angus took an unopened packet of twenty cigarettes, Number 6 brand, and a box of safety matches. In a most ungallant way he flung them onto Paddy's bench where they bounced before settling near Paddy's feet. And possibly Angus misinterpreted Hanian's expression at the prospect of so delicious a meal because as he slammed and locked gate five he yelled at me. "You can shut up too, you mouthy little bugger!"

Paddy wasn't really hungry, he had few chips, he nibbled at one of his fried eggs, but he did eat all of his sausages. When I'd cleaned and licked my own plate, Paddy agreed that food was a terrible thing to waste and Paddy suggested the two cell mates exchanged plates.

"My mother, god bless her," Paddy stared at the ceiling, "always believed it was rude for a person to smoke while other's were eating."

"My mother," my mouth was full, "thinks that too, unless she herself wants to have a cigarette when others are eating."

"Only polite to make you feel at home, my boy." Paddy carefully opened the packet of cigarettes Angus had purchased. Paddy removed two cigarettes, placed one on the bench beside Hanian and as he lit his own smoke Mr. Holland emerged from the jailor's office. He had the evening paper with him.

"You both made the news!" There was a chuckle in Mr. Holland.

"Lies, statistics and more lies." Paddy was far less impressed and he went on to explain to his cell mate. "Mr. Holland is in amateur theatrics. A very fine Town Crier in the annual Dick Whittington pantomime."

Mr. Holland took no notice, he opened the paper to page three, just above the second hand car sales and he cleared his throat. "Who wants to go first?" he asked.

"As the mood strikes, Mr. Holland." Paddy reached across so that his cell mate might get a light from his cigarette rather than waste a match, and there was something about Patrick Connelly that a person just had to like.

"Patrick Connelly, 39, of 22 Arcadia Street, Monmouth, pleaded innocent to causing grievous bodily harm to his common law wife, Trisha Jones, 36, of 22 Arcadia Avenue, Monmouth."

"Taglan Paresh, prosecuting, said Connelly had been apprehended in a neighbors tool shed."

"'I knew something was up when I noticed the door to the shed was open,' Clarence Albany, 65, of 24 Arcadia Street, Monmouth, said. 'I'd heard the kafuffle. Difficult not to when those two have a go at each other. I guessed Pat was sleeping it off again.'"

"The court heard Connelly has a string of 172 convictions from 42 court appearances, many of them vehicle related offenses, and he was at the time of the new offence already subject to a suspended sentence for having an offensive weapon, theft and going equipped with intent."

"'He just can't help himself,' Miss Jones admitted to the court. 'But it's got to stop, and it's my house he lives in.'"

"Clovis Philter, defending, said Connelly was a long term drug addict but was trying to conquer his addiction, he had replaced it with alcohol and was battling with other problems. But he had not returned to drugs despite his grief over the death of his pet Tonypandy, an African Parrot and a constant companion of twenty two years."

"Sir Evelyn Hughes remanded Connelly in custody pending sentencing."

Mr. Holland looked up from his paper. "What the paper doesn't mention is that Trisha Jones had one black eye and broken wrist when she appeared in court."

"I'm being framed." Paddy was resigned. "I never touched Trisha."

"Did you really have a Parrot called Tonypandy?" I was inclined to believe that my cell mate was innocent. The Rabbit recited his Hail Mary, and mentioned something about not admitting to a sin was an even more serious sin than actually sinning.

"Tonypandy was the only Parrot in Wales who could speak Welsh." Paddy's sense of loss was real and present in his mind and there was something angry about it. "He was taken in the prime of his life. He had a good twenty or thirty years left to him...."

"What happened to him?" I had to know.

"He was assassinated!" Paddy's anger was unmistakable.

"He was confiscated." Mr. Holland was uneasy. "You were serving three months for possession, Patrick."

"Tonypandy was ripped from his hearth and his home. He had many friends who would have been only too willing to take him, keep him company." It was a powerful voice from Paddy, a regal authority to it. "He was confiscated alright! He was put in cell and there the poor creature died of loneliness. It was a barbaric assassination. Unreasonable, Mr. Holland. Unreasonable!"

Mr. Holland returned to page three of his newspaper.

"Eddy Hanian, of no fixed abode, was unrepresented when he appeared before magistrates at Shire Hall, Monmouth."

"He was arrested on August 6th, following reports from residents of Longtown and vicinity of a shadowy figure who was apparently living in the area. 'We get the odd hill walker in the summer months,' Percy Sledgemere, 72 of The Grange, Olchon Brook, said. 'But this one was first spotted in January, and didn't go away. I mean, January's no time to be up in the hills, so I thought he was military training. We get them, sometimes. Nice fellows usually.'"

"'It was a worry,' Alice Primrose, 53, of 3 Greyhound close, said. 'We started hearing about him. Things went missing. Not from my house, but I heard from neighbors. I found myself locking the backdoor and canceling the milk.'"

"Police were first called in March, but were unable to locate Hanian. 'As soon as police were gone,' Tommy Pratt, 18, of Turnant Longdown and Brass Hill, said. 'I saw him over in Barn Wood. I was with the dogs, so I thought I'd let them lose on him. Give him something to think about. Move him on. But the dogs paid him no heed. And Little George is a Doberman. So a fat lot of good that did.'"

"'I called him Cysgod,' Braith Bidder, 83 of Wirral Cottage, said in a written letter that was hand delivered to the court. 'He was as much on the Welsh side as he was on the English side of the border. I saw him near Llanthorny when I was searching for my cat, Aled. He was staring at the north wall of the ruin. Enthralled by the sight of it. My cat in his arms. He carried Aled home for me, I made him a cup of tea, offered him my last McVities, he drunk the tea but wouldn't take the last biscuit. Aled would have followed him back up to the Tump, had Cysgod allowed it. A magical shadow, not a thief or a madman.'"

"Police Sergeant, Gethin Salmon, apprehended Hanian under the power granted by the vagrancy act of 1824, the controversial Sus Law which permits stop and search of a suspected person. Hanian was found in possession of a knife. 'Otherwise there was nothing I could have done,' Sergeant Salmon admitted."

"The court would have confiscated the knife and dismissed the case, but Hanian had been unable to give the court his date of birth, or tell the court how old he was and he appeared to be taking advice during the hearing from an invisible councilor."

"Hanian was remanded pending his acquiring council."

"'A rum business.' Sir Evelyn Hughes said, as he concluded the hearing."

Breakfast next morning was good. Milk, some kind of cereal, sugar, sliced white bread and margarine, and a good mug of strong tea. Patrick Connelly wasn't a man who woke up quickly, he preferred egg, bacon and buttered toast for breakfast. Trisha apparently was a very good breakfast maker. Then when the internal phone rang it was for Angus to take Eddy Hanian up the jailor's narrow stairways to the courtrooms on the floor above Shire Hall's open market.

In the upstairs corridor there was strong light from the tall, tall windows, the floors were so well polished a person could almost see the reflections of shackle and chain, hear the groan of the gallows and the whisper of the peaceable awaiting their entertainment. When we appeared in the upstairs corridor, Angus and I were surprised by the sheer number of casually dressed rowdy civilians, both male and female, who'd jammed themselves into the narrow corridor outside courtroom one. The sight of them, alarmed Angus, he bristled a little, straightened his back and he chose an expression for his face that was far from welcoming.

"Is that him?" It was a fierce looking woman. She was short, her hair was long and dark, she was very pretty to look at, her accent was Welsh and she seemed to be staring directly at me.

"I thought he was taller!" One of the fierce woman's male companions contributed.

"Any nonsense from you lot and the bailiff will have you removed from the Hall." Angus had the authority of God as he grasped my shoulder to hurry me along.

"This is a public space!" The woman answered Angus and there was considerable agreement from the woman's companions, all of whom appeared to be badly aggravated, and none of them had any great respect for Angus's uniform. The gathering of civilian men were mostly beards and longish hair. The women shorter, dark haired and incredibly beautiful.

"Consider yourselves warned!" Angus had a powerful voice, probably a baritone, but it had little effect upon the mood of the crowd, except perhaps to upset them further. They grumbled in a language I was beginning to recognize as Welsh.

"Fanatics!" Angus muttered beneath his breath. "We could do without bloody fanatics."

"No one takes a couple of missing bottles of milk this seriously." I couldn't understand it. "They must think I'm someone else!"

"We're in Wales." The Rabbit sounded relieved.

Toward the end of the corridor, beyond the large black wooden doors to courtroom one, a very young man, dressed smartly in a gray suit, white shirt, black tie and carrying a very new looking briefcase was staring nervously at Angus. Angus, for his part, ignored the youth, he pushed his prisoner onward and opened a door at the far end of the corridor, where he directed Hanian to step into a room which was about the size of one of the holding cells, but it had a table and couple of chairs, and there was a little daylight from small narrow window.

"Is that Patrick Connelly?" It was the youth with a briefcase, and he stared in a worried manner at me.

"Who are you?" Angus sounded irritated.

"Dana Driscoll. I'm from Philter, Philter, Hammond and Rose." The youth's voice had hardly broken, his accent was a wonderful Welsh that trickles like the sound of a silver spiral, he was shorter than me, his hands small, his shoulders narrow, not built for the quarry.

"What happened to Young Mr. Philter?" Angus was suspicious.

"He's indisposed." Despite his choir boy appearance, the youth had a grit to him. "And why hasn't this man had a bath, a shave and a change of clothes?"

"We don't run a hotel!" Angus was even more irritated.

"I'll have a moment of privacy with my client." The youth stepped into the room, took a hold of the door handled, he raised his chin at Angus. Angus glanced at Hanian, then back at the youth. But Dana Driscoll was determined. "I need some time alone with my client before his court appearance!"

When Angus finally stepped out of the room and when Dana Driscoll had firmly closed the door, I whispered, "I'm not Patrick Connelly."

"You understand that as your solicitor I'm required to maintain your confidences."

"Confidences?"

"It means I'll keep your secrets."

"It's not a secret, I'm not pretending. I'm not Patrick Connelly."

"My apologies. A bit of a last minute. Hardly had time to study the notes. I was rushed this morning. Take a seat." Dana put his briefcase on the table, briefly he rummaged through it and produced a couple of sheets of lined yellow paper. "Edward Hanian?"

"That's me." I didn't feel confident.

"Young Mr. Philter would have been here himself," Dana Driscoll didn't stop reading the notes as he explained himself to his client. "He was interested in your case and chose to offer you the firm's services pro bono. That means free."

"That's very nice of him."

"He has an interest in the Welsh language." Dana smiled. "And I do too, but the lingua franca of the English Justice system is English, so you understand we don't speak Welsh in legal proceedings...."

"I don't speak Welsh."

"I see!" Dana was disbelieving. "That rowdy bunch in the hall have nothing to do with you?"

"I don't know who they are."

"Anxious relatives perhaps?"

"I'm not from round here, Mr. Driscoll." I paused. "But I might have taken the odd bottle of milk from a doorstep...."

"I don't see here that you've been charged with taking milk from doorsteps..." Dana anxiously busied himself with his notes.

"It was in the newspaper....."

"I saw that, Mr. Hanian. But nowhere in the article does it say you were charged with taking milk from doorsteps. In my experience it's not an offense that causes the reaction visible in the corridor outside Sir Evelyn's courtroom."

"I just don't know who they are, Mr. Driscoll. And I don't speak Welsh."

"It says here," Dana glance at his notes, "that you were mumbling in Welsh in court."

"I was a little under the weather in court." I defended himself. "But I wasn't speaking Welsh, I don't know how to speak Welsh. My other main language is the Sabean Language and for all I know it might sound a little like Welsh."

"Did you say Sabean?" Dana was adding to his notes.

"Yes." I didn't quibble with the pronunciation. "It's a very ancient language. Like Welsh perhaps..."

"Why don't we agree to leave that aside for a minute." Even though Dana Driscoll looked and sounded young, well accustomed to being treated like a teenager, he had the confidence, the memories and the opinions of a very much older person. It was disconcerting, especially when it came to whether or not Dana believed me.

"It says that at your last court appearance you had intestinal discomfort. You were clutching your stomach and loudly belching. A food poisoning perhaps?"

"It wasn't so much discomfort. I wasn't sick or anything. I'm not used to rich food. I ate my supper too quickly."

"Were you offered medical attention?"

"People were very helpful." It was the best I could think of.

"It wouldn't be the first case of food poisoning among men remanded in the Shire Hall." Dana shook his head and then his eyes narrowed. "The facility's a disgrace even Sir Evelyn Hughes agrees, and he's a man who'd cheerfully bring back the prison ships, the stocks, deportation and the chain gang for Welsh Speakers so long as he could keep his Portuguese gardener."

"I'm not a Welsh speaker!" I felt a little like Patrick Connelly claiming not to be a Nationalist.

"Have you been able to recall your age and date of birth?"

"They think I'm nuts."

"You do understand Mr. Hanian, that even if Sir Evelyn thinks it might be, it's not his or his court's role to make that decision! There are unbiased, highly trained, a-political professionals who fulfill that role."

I glanced at the Rabbit. He was mumbling his Hail Mary's and attempted to cross himself.

"Am I right in thinking that you might have been to America?" Dana had that trick question look in his eyes.

"As I told Sergeant Salmon," I was wary, "I am not an American. I have briefly met Americans, I have conversed with them, but as far as I know none of them came from Boston or Miami."

"You did have a considerable number of American dollars concealed in the lining of your luggage?"

"And I know exactly how many." I was defensive. "Nine hundred and seventy five, and I do hope none of them go missing."

"I would imagine they are safely lodged in evidence. But, Mr. Hanian, you do understand there's a bigger question here. What was a homeless man doing with nine hundred and seventy five American dollars?"

"As I told Sergeant Salmon, in England you can't go into a shop and buy something like a packet of cigarettes with American dollars. I converted my money into American dollars so that I wouldn't be able to spend it."

"Monmouth is in Wales!" It was a point of pride for Dana. "I believe such a principle would also apply in Wales. I think even in Wales there's nothing stopping you going into a bank and converting your American currency back into Sterling."

"As I suggested to Sergeant Salmon, banks don't usually allow people who look like me anywhere near the inside of their bank. Think about it Mr. Driscoll, I haven't had a bath for months, I smell like a dead buffalo, my boots have seen better days....."

"Our time is short, Mr. Hanian! You would admit to eccentric behavior?"

"American dollars hold their value and are highly sought after....."

"I must warn you, Mr. Hanian, that the crown does not look kindly upon some of the more radical ventures by the Welsh Nationalists. The Irish Republicans get much of their financial backing from brigandage and contributions from sympathizers in Boston. In some quarters there's an anxiety that such tactics are prevented from spreading to Wales."

"As I told sergeant Salmon, I'm not smuggling or importing rare books or American dollars. I've met Welsh people and they've all been very nice to me, much nicer than English people in fact, but I'm not Welsh, I don't speak Welsh and I still don't know what a Welsh Nationalist is..."

"In your first court appearance," Dana looked down at his notes. "You appeared preoccupied by a conversation in which you clearly repeated the name Saint Timothy several times. Who is Saint Timothy?"

"Excellent question." I saw my opportunity to reengage the Rabbit in an episode of twenty questions. "As I understand it, and no one can ever be certain of these things, Saint Timothy was a humble medieval man who was very honest and never told any lies not even to The Almighty, though there might well have been misunderstandings, he did perform two genuine miracles...."

"Four genuine miracles!" The Rabbit interrupted. I felt cozy for the first time in a long while. I knew who the Rabbit was. A joy that made me invincible.

"I see." Dana Driscoll looked at his watch. "It's not for me to decide these things, but let me advise you, Sir Evelyn Hughes despite his own Welsh origins has a low opinion of Welsh Speakers, he doesn't believe Monmouth should even be in Wales and when it comes to the Catholic faith he has similar opinions to those of Henry the Eighth. The Catholics are little better than Methodists in his view. Mention of Saints or speaking Welsh in his courtroom should be avoided at all costs."

"Justice is blind!" I suggested wisely and I smiled down at the Rabbit.

"Mr. Hanian, how do you feel about a psychiatric evaluation?"

"You seem to know a great deal about Sir Evelyn?" I changed the subject.

"He married my mother's older sister." Clearly it had been an emotional event for young Dana Driscoll. "It nearly broke my grandmother's heart. My grandfather died soon after the wedding."

"A person can get very attached to their grandfather, can't they?" I shook my head sadly. "It's the little things, isn't it."

"Dewi Sant." Dana Driscoll gleamed in a most peculiar and suspicious way

"What?"

"Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd."

"That's as may be, Mr. Driscoll." I was confused. "If you're speaking Welsh, I don't speak Welsh, so I've no clue what you've just said."

"Be certain to mind the little things in life. The words of Saint David."

"I didn't know that!"

Mr. Driscoll looked at his wristwatch and he said, "In my professional opinion, Mr. Hanian, we would do well to seek a plea that will result in psychiatric evaluation for you. Would you have a problem with my doing so."

"I'm as sane as the next man." I insisted. "I might have had a knock on the head some time ago. But there's nothing wrong with me now!"

"An evaluation would have the advantage of getting you out of Sir Evelyn's clutches which is something I strongly advise you to consider. And in my understanding of your last appearance before Sir Evelyn it's a plea he won't hesitate to accept."

"Mr. Driscoll, is Patrick Connelly a Nationalist?" Our hero broke the silence.

"Mr. Hanian, I'm not at liberty to discuss the business of other clients with you."

"He had a Parrot called Tonypandy, you know."

"I'm aware of that." Dana looked up me.

"Tonypandy was killed by the English."

"The Parrot was mistreated while in custody."

"That Parrot spoke Welsh."

"Parrot's are endearing mimics, Mr. Hanian. They don't speak languages."

"Tonypandy must have been quite famous?"

"Tonypandy's gutter mouth got him banned from the Llangollen Eisteddfod!" Again it seemed like a painful memory to Dana. "It's a fame of sorts I suppose."

"Was that like at a church service?"

"An Eisteddfod is a Gathering of the Bards, Mr. Hanian. The Eisteddfod has been held off and on since long before Rhys ap Gruffydd."

"Well there you go!" It was a moment of victory. "If I was Welsh, or a Welsh Speaker I'd know that, wouldn't I? And I'm pretty sure those people who were waiting for the court to open aren't here to see me."

"I got the distinct impression they recognized you, Mr. Hanian."

"I didn't recognize them. Unless they're angry about their milk being stolen from their doorsteps, I can't think of any reason....."

"What were you doing in those hills?" It was as though some kind of dam had burst in Dana.

"I don't really know! Call it eccentric."

"It's beyond eccentric! Make a bold attempt to say nothing when we're in court, Mr. Hanian. Try to keep your mouth shut! If Sir Evelyn asks you a question, refer him to me. Do you understand?"

Courtroom One was smaller than a person might imagine. The judge's chair was up on a dais behind a bench table, no view of the judge's footwear or legs. Above and behind the judge's chair was wood paneling that achieved a sort of peak which made the judge look a little like the cuckoo in a cuckoo clock. The clock's face was the shield of the English kings and Queens. A Lion rampant and a chained Unicorn. Around the edge of the shield two mottos. The French, "Dieu et Mon Droit" which means "God and My Right" and the more Norman, "Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense" which means "shame upon him who thinks evil of it." There was a dock for the accused. Two bench tables, one for the prosecution, one for the defense and there were two seating areas, one for a jury if there happened to be a jury and the other, larger seating area, was for the public.

It was a little before nine o'clock in the morning when Angus collected Edward Hanian and Dana Driscoll for Edward Hanian's second court appearance. As we entered the courtroom it was straightaway apparent that the public benches were full, and they were boisterous. The bailiff, a large man with loud voice and a smart outfit, was directing the public in the correct behavior and it was clear that prior to Eddy Hanian's arrival the bailiff had been having some difficulty with his task.

"Don't tell me it's a public proceeding! I'm aware of that. But you should know for a fact that I'll have silence in this court! You'll stand up when the judge arrives, if you don't I'll have you removed...."

"It's for the Judge to decide who clears the court, not you....."

"You'll sit down after the judge sits down." The Bailiff ignored the interruption. "Any noise from you lot, chattering or sighing or sneezing or unnecessary movement from any of you and I'll clear the entire court. If I hear a pin drop in this court it will be cleared. Is that understood.."

Welsh Speakers, who might well have been Nationalists, didn't take kindly to direction. These were not a lowland Romney Marsh Sheep, these were more like the Hill Sheep I'd had so much trouble with and had never quite been able to outstare or outwit. I'd often find them nosing around my canvass whenever I chose to hide it in the bracken. Nor had my attempts to chase them off ever been very successful. And it was no wonder the Bailiff was on the point of boiling. In the collective eye of the public benches the expression was as much a contemptuous appraisal as it was anywhere near respect or fear. The Bailiff's stature, his status as an officer of the court challenged by what many would think to call dumb insolence and shame on him who thought it a punishable offence. I was greatly impressed, and I smiled shyly for the pretty Welsh girls whose ferocity of purpose far outshone that of their male companions.

"Blushing is a cardinal sin!" It was the Rabbit.

"A person can't help blushing!" And what with the tension of the courtroom and unnecessary remarks from the Rabbit, I may have been a little loud.

"What did he say?" It was a wonderful Welsh accent speaking English. It was girl's voice, the female part of which sent a shiver down my back, and unfortunately I felt obliged to raise a hand in polite and rather regal acknowledgement of the public benches.

"Control your client!" The Bailiff was ill with rage as he bellowed at Dana Driscoll and with a whisper in his client's ear, Dana asked, "How determined are you that Sir Evelyn conclude you might be a Nationalist."

"I'm not at all determined. What do you mean?" I whispered back.

"If you're looking for a martyrdom, let me know!" Dana was serious.

"I'm not looking for martyrdom!" I was shocked by Dana's earnest suggestion. "I'm Church of England."

Sir Evelyn Hughes, in his robes and comical wig looked like a man who ate devilled kidneys and poached eggs for his breakfast. When he entered his court that morning he found an intolerable circumstance. He raised his mallet, made a hammering sound that would have chilled the bones of the Chartists. Then, in a voice that took pleasure from sending people to jail for a long time, he ordered his court cleared. The Bailiff was delighted to oblige and with the assistance of Angus the public benches were persuaded to leave the court in a dignified manner. It was however an opportunity for Welsh speakers to engage in a dialogue that could only be adequately expressed outside of words. A familiar problem for me, I'd often struggled to persuade my eternal friend that the words Plum-Pudding and Spaghetti were both entirely reasonable introductions into the Sabean language, and necessary if ever we were able to translate his seminal work, The Apocalypse of Nature, into the Sabean language. And indeed, had the situation been less dire, I'd have had a perfect opportunity to point out to my friend that Welsh which was clearly a very ancient and venerable language that sounded like the Sabean language, clearly didn't have a word for "fascist-pig" or "jack-boot."

"Who's up, Bailiff." Sir Evelyn, despite his girth had the face of a hamster under his wig but he had the mannerism and the voice of the crown.

"Edward Hanian and his solicitor, your honor."

"His solicitor?"

"Dana Driscoll, your honor." Dana bravely announced himself and poor Dana's accent wasn't quite as Welsh sounding as it had been. "I'm with Philter, Philter Hammond and Rose."

"Young Clovis Philter's got himself involved in this." Sir Evelyn did seem a little exasperated. "I don't know why his father puts up with him. Where is Young Philter?"

"He's indisposed, your honor."

"What's it this time, some ban the bomb festival!"

"I wouldn't know, your honor."

"You look familiar! What did you say your name was?" Sir Evelyn lacked any kind of charm.

"Dana Driscoll, your honor."

"Is your client behaving himself this morning, Driscoll?"

"As I understand it my client was a little under the weather yesterday, he had a digestive issue...."

"He was behaving like a tom-fool and he was wasting the court's time, Driscoll. Am I correct, Bailiff?"

The Bailiff knew better than to say any thing much to Sir Evelyn, so he simply nodded.

"Your honor," Dana was stubborn, "Mr. Hanian was in possession of a gravity knife, which in and of itself is not against the law. He had no intention of breaking the law by hiring it out or selling it."

"In and of itself, Driscoll, a gravity knife is an offensive weapon otherwise why else have a gravity knife. Nor in the opinion of the arresting officer was Hanian carrying an offensive weapon with good reason or lawful authority."

"Your honor, my client's gravity knife was not upon his person when he was apprehended, it was in his luggage."

"Don't tell me the law, Driscoll. A vagrant doesn't have luggage and if he does he carries it around with him which means it's on his person. Your client is a danger to the community and God knows what else......."

"Your honor," Dana was very nervous as he interrupted Sir Evelyn, "my client was apprehended under powers granted by the Vagrancy Act of 1824. He was arrested for carrying an offensive weapon, and for nothing else."

"Nothing else! Any thinking man would agree with me that it's a little difficult to ignore everything else!"

"Your honor, the police can find no evidence of anything else."

"That's not good enough Driscoll, the police are undermanned and overworked, they need more time. I'm not releasing a possibly dangerous vagabond on his own recognizance!"

"I share your concerns for my client, your honor. But Mr. Hanian has been in custody for over forty eight hours without a formal charge."

"I'm aware of the law, Driscoll!"

"Your honor." Dana Driscoll reached his full height. He looked proud and strong. "In the event of doubt as to mental stability a psychiatric examination may be in order."

"Nudeogov." Sir Evelyn pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow.

"Newydd Ogof." Dana, unlike Sir Evelyn, was a stickler for correct pronunciation, particularly when it came to Welsh place names.

Chapter Fourteen : The Facility

I've suggested to Mrs. Bigelow that prior to letting my intern's enthusiasm loose upon the Cat Flap project it might be advantageous to all our interests if she were to suggest to her sister in law that she visit with Windral, so she might see for herself that Windral is well settled and comfortable as a House Cat in her new home. Mrs. Bigelow, who has a constant nervousness of her sister in law's "turning up unexpected" is mulling the idea.

"She'd got this ledger. Got all her kittens written down. She'll just visit one out the blue. I know her, you don't."

"She's what you'd call a Nutter." My intern explained to me.

"Probably time for her to be fixed." Mrs. Bigelow was gazing fondly at Windral. The little creature has gained weight and stature, and she has taken to strangely seductive and mysterious behaviors whenever she sees my intern.

"The veterinarian?" I wasn't looking forward to it.

"You should take her in." Mrs. Bigelow knew all about these things.

"I'll give them a ring and give you a ride, when you're ready." And I sometimes wonder about my interns future.

Mrs. Bigelow and my intern have gone for the day, and Windral is down the stairs staring out the window. From the noises she makes she appears to be mourning my intern's departure. For me, mental balance is discipline, and I believe the Rabbit and I were on a bench in the back of a transit van, no windows but there was a smoked Plexiglas skylight. It was an older van, its back door seals had perished and at the traffic lights on the way out of Monmouth Town, we could smell fumes from the vehicle's noisy exhaust system.

"The Hail Mary sooths the troubled soul. You should try it."

"I'm not saying anything about Mary's womb!"

The driver of the transit van was in a hurry. His name was Albert. He'd told Mr. Holland that he had no real desire to drive a "nutter" all the way to the Nudeogov Unit so close to the end of his shift. Mr. Holland had been very patient, he'd signed Edward Hanian out and he'd given the paperwork to Albert with the reminder to collect Mr. Hanian's possessions from the Shire Hall Clerk's Office. Albert considered this an unnecessary waste of time, but Mr. Holland had pointed out that regulations required it. Patrick Connelly had cheerfully confirmed Mr. Holland's understanding of the regulation by announcing "A man's stuff is like stirring the tealeaves to a shrink!"

Paddy was a free man. Trisha had decided not to press charges which I guessed had served to further upset Sir Evelyn. Then Albert's departure to the Newydd Ogof Facility was further delayed when Paddy, in a hurry to collect his own stuff before the pub closed for the afternoon, reached the Clerk's Office first, and there'd been something about Albert that Paddy had taken exception to which meant Paddy felt obligated to spend just as long as he could at the clerk's window. "I enjoyed your company, my boy!" Paddy had said his farewell to me. "Never forget you're going to a better place."

The Newydd Ogof Facility was a single story, new concrete building. A wonder of the 1950's investment in public works projects, the very latest cost cutting building techniques fashioned by architects for whom the idea of a concrete jungle was magical. The setting was rural, green fields and hedgerows all around. From the car park I could look off to the north east then to the west. I could see the sunny profile of hills I was most familiar with. I knew exactly where I was. I knew the building well, had often wondered what purpose it served because despite it's volume of dustbins this particular building never threw any foodstuff away much more than the odd empty tin that had been rinsed prior to disposal. It was in the valley of a sweet tasting easy river in which I could sometimes see fish, wonder a while about how to catch them. This familiarity with place was a soothing moment, and while Albert escorted me to the main entrance of the facility I was briefly overtaken by a temptation to grab the big black plastic bag which contained my possessions, make a run for the hills.

"No loitering! You're worse than a cat! Get on with it!" Albert gave me a wide berth as he opened the facility's glass front door.

Inside the reception area, the ceiling was low, there were modern looking chairs, a table, two wilting potted plants, the foyer was all very civilized and completely deserted. I could see two well lit, short corridors stretching to my left and to my right, and my imagination ran a little wild as I wondered what happened beyond the swing doors at the end of each corridor. Albert rapped on the receptionist's glass window, he punched the receptionists bell, he huffed and then he yelled for attention.

The woman who answered produced an awe in my that suggested she was no distant, cold creature. Her skin had a darkness to it, her hair was long and contained by an arrangement that kept it far away form her face. Her eyes, her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her nose, her lips and the shape of her face contained qualities I couldn't stop staring at. It was a magnetic. She wore a white uniform, she wasn't that tall, when she spoke her voice was pure as a glass bell and I was very convinced that she was probably a Welsh Speaker so wondrous to look at I'd probably fall to a familiar complaint and become quite unable to speak the English language in her presence. It had happened when first I'd seen The Dandelion and it would happen again, but I couldn't afford to let it happen at a time when an inability to share a language might result in terrible consequences.

"Obliged if we could get on with the transfer, I'm running late!" Albert had the mind of a walrus, he was totally unaffected by the vision I'd seen.

The woman said something to Albert, the words precisely enunciated and obviously in English, but I could only listen to them one word at a time which meant I found myself unable to make any sense of what it was she might have said. Albert didn't have that problem, he led the way to the double doors at the end of the left side corridor, a right turn into a much longer corridor, then a second right turn through a door to a narrow green room that had a window with a view of a grass courtyard containing a couple of benches, a tree and what looked like a picnic table, but no conveniently located dustbin. The green room had a metal table, no chairs, it had a filing cabinets, no pictures on the wall, but there was another door which must have given access to the receptionist's office. Albert dumped the big plastic bag on the table, he muttered "what's keeping her" several times.

She had a clipboard in her hands, she had elegant wrists, her nails were short and clean, her fingers were both powerful and delicate, her hands, I decided, were capable. "This must be Edward Hanian?" She smiled at me.

"His possessions." Albert handed the woman a type written list which he'd signed for at the Clerk's office in Shire Hall, and with the words "Here's the list, it's all in the bag" Albert made as though to leave.

"One moment." The woman's instruction to Albert didn't sound fierce and yet contained an unexpected authority. Albert heard it too.

"It's all there, in the bag, sealed by the Clerk of the Court!"

"You won't mind opening it." The woman clipped Albert's list to her clipboard.

"Smell him!" Albert couldn't believe it. "The man has nits, probably fleas, we could both catch something from him! At the very least he needs a good scrub in sheep dip..."

"I could try opening the bag, if you like." I'd spoken aloud, in English and without quavering, my enunciation had been confident, and my joy at being able to contribute to the conversation was such that a smile spread through my entire face, it encompassed my eyes, my mouth and my ears.

"It's quite alright Eddy. Or do you prefer to be called Edward?"

There was something testy, almost judgmental about the way the woman had said Edward, and I might have even been able to respond had Albert not nosily ripped open the big black plastic bag, and had one been readily available, he'd have used a stick to spread my possessions across the table. It was a shock to see them all. Each item was in its own sealed clear plastic bag. Each clear plastic bag was labeled.

"One comb, black." Albert had grump in him.

The woman glanced at the bag containing the comb, she made a mark on her clipboard, then when she nodded Albert dropped the comb into a fresh big black plastic bag the receptionist had produced from one of the filing cabinets.

"One book titled Earthly Voyage, in poor condition." Albert had Earthly Voyage in his hand, he'd read the label and he was poised, but to Albert's distress the woman chose to closely examine the book.

"I did get it wet once or twice!" I found himself anxious to defend my care of Earthly Voyage. "I did try to always keep it in a plastic bag in my canvass so that it wouldn't get wet."

"It's an older book." The woman suggested.

"It's a book, it's in poor condition! Nothing else need be said about it." Albert did his best to hasten the proceedings. He wasn't on overtime, he explained, he couldn't just hang about nattering about books and such, he had to get on before his shift ended.

Then, after the last item on the table, Giovanni's knife which Monmouth's justice system had called a gravity knife, found its way into the receptionist's big black plastic bag, the bag was ceremoniously sealed. Albert signed the woman's clipboard, and as soon as he'd witnessed the woman's signature he beat his retreat.

"Are you alright, Eddy?" The woman had returned to the green room after putting our hero's possessions in lockup.

"I'm fine. I'm as sane as the next man."

"Of course you are Eddy." She was so calm, and so very, very good to look at. "How about we try to tidy you up. Make you look more like the next man, shall we."

"I'd like that!"

I was escorted into the long corridor, where the walls were a yellow green and the ceiling was white. The floor was concrete, had a greenish sheen to it, and as we walked the woman's shoes made a kind of quacking noise on the floor's shiny surface. Along the right side of the corridor were windows with views of the courtyard. On the left side were doors with numbers and peepholes, and behind these doors, I decided, could be found mental patients in various stages of distress, probably well medicated, hopefully quite harmless and if they happened not to be harmless, I hoped they were safely wrapped up in straight jackets that had been chained to the wall.

When the woman finally stopped walking, she unlocked a door, directed me to enter. It was a small room, it didn't smell bad, it was like a little bedroom, with an unmade bed, a folded mattress on top of which was a grey towel, a metal urinal in the one corner, a metal hand-washing sink in the other, and there was a high window with bars.

"Geralt will be along in a minute with a gown for you."

"A gown?"

"While you're here, you can't keep your clothes or your shoes." The woman reached into her uniform pocket, produced yet another big black plastic bag which she expertly flicked open before handing it to me. "Can't promise your clothes won't be sent to the incinerator, but we'll do our best. In the meanwhile, you put all your clothes in the bag and Geralt will be along with a gown for you to wear."

When she left, I could hear a key turn in the door lock, the scent of her lingered like a spell, and then it was gone, almost as though it was saying goodbye to me. "She thinks I'm just a thing, doesn't she?" I spoke to the Rabbit.

"I have sinned!" The Rabbit whispered.

I was ruthless. "You've sinned mightily unto the Lord and the Lead Bull, and you certainly deserve to be a shellfish, but much worse than that you have been lying to me!"

"I must confess my sins."

"On thing's for certain, I hope you've got some pretty good excuses for lying to me!"

"I traveled the seas on a ship called The Bearded Goat. It was a Long Ship. It had the one sail and oars..."

"If it was a Long Ship, it was a long time ago. Far away in the mists of time, where your memory is not as good as you think it is!"

"I hadn't the strength to manage an oar by myself...."

"Where you sick?"

"I was a frail youth, so I sat with a young fellow called Agni, we pulled together. That way we earned our ration. And to keep warm we slept in each other's embrace. Agni sinned, as some of the holy fathers would have it. And Agni did so quite regularly. Not a pleasant experience for me. I was stony ground, very stony ground...."

"If you were stony ground then it wasn't your fault. Any way the Greeks used to do it all the time to each other....."

"I am in confession, my child!"

"And I'm sure it's very accurate and honest confession...."

"Agni was larger and stronger than me. One day, during foul weather, he told me he couldn't swim. So I took my chance when he was shitting over the bow. I caught the back of his heel with my foot. He fell overboard and drowned. He was a slave like me. The Pirates were not in the least perturbed by his absence. Agni's owner didn't even notice until the wind blew calm again..."

"Did all this happen when you were working your miracles."

"Yes." The Rabbit admitted. "I'd already performed four miracles. I'd turned a lizard into gold, I'd caused there to be a ball of fire, I'd spoken in tongues, and I'd caused a grave to smell like Roses."

"Agni sounds like a nasty piece of work, and he probably deserved to die..."

"The pirates," The Rabbit continued, "gave me to the Witch of Ithaca in exchange for safe passage through her land."

"So you were sold, as a slave, to the Witch Of Ithaca."

"I wasn't sold, I was traded. And the Witch of Ithaca's birth name was Freckled."

"Freckled!"

"Yes." The Rabbit was pathetic sight, it was almost as though he'd suddenly come down with the Australian myxomatous.

"You mean like Freckles." I was uneasy. "Your Witch of Ithaca was called Freckles!"

"Freckles was a pet name. You couldn't just go round calling her Freckles in front of others. It was her secret name, for you know what...."

"I don't know what!"

"It was the Medieval Period." The Rabbit was defensive. "They had different customs back then. And Freckles was partial to younger men. Much younger men. Very young men......."

"What do you mean, partial to much younger men.....?" I didn't even want to think about it.

"All I meant," The Rabbit spoke loudly, "she liked the company of young people, for games...."

"The Luftwaffe pilot who'd married a decorated hero of the Socialist Republic....."

"Yes." The Rabbit pulled himself together. "And I've not really been the same since he told us he dropped someone called Freckles from a parachute on a clear night over England during wartime."

"You've not been the same since we read Earthly Voyage. A book you yourself translated from the Armenian, I'll remind you. And we all know how involved a person can get when they try to translate someone else's book!"

"It was an erudite and learned translation. I was in the world at the time of the translation. I had no memory of my past lives, but when we read Earthly Voyage I was awaiting the Lead Bull and I could remember that particular past life."

"Well I'm in the world," I conceded the point, "And you probably know more about the bigger picture than I do. But I think confessing sins is about confessing sins, and what you're trying to tell me is that long ago you were being... shall we call it handled against your will. I don't see the sin."

"I never thought of it as a sin either. But often we don't know whether we've sinned or not."

"Lying is definitely sinning, always has been, and it's hurtful." I stared down at the Rabbit.

The Rabbit was very silent, he was reluctant, and even though it's difficult for a rabbit to look guilty, he looked guilty.

"I've seen the Witch of Ithaca."

"Really!" It was the kind of really from me that suggested total disbelief.

"She's in the Tri-County Lunatic Asylum." The Rabbit appeared to swallow. "She's in Avon-bed."

"It's pronounced Afon-Bedd!"

"I saw her."

"You saw someone who looked like her. Who reminded you of her. There haven't been pirates sailing around in long boats for centuries. There's no way you saw the Witch of Ithaca. You're stuck as a Rabbit, you probably saw her through Rabbit eyes, and to Rabbits we people probably all look alike."

Someone was walking along the corridor outside the cell. I could hear the quacking of shoes against the shiny concrete floor. The peephole in the door opened with a clicking sound, when I turned to stare at the door, the peephole closed with clocking sound and whoever it was quacked on down the corridor.

It occurred to me that sane people knew how to follow instructions. I sat on the bed, felt shaky, my fingers trembled when I unlaced my boots. My feet had no socks, the skin was gray almost green from dirt and my toenails looked very peculiar. As I undressed, I put my clothes in the big black plastic bag. I realized how filthy I was. Scars from barbed wire on my legs, pin pricks from briar all over most of me. It was the grime that would need a scrubbing brush and bleach to remove.

"She looks like Freckles, she sounds like Freckles, they even call her the Witch of Ithaca in Avon-Bed, and Bishop Aldulf calls her Freckles." The Rabbit insisted.

"Bishop Aldulf?"

"Aldulf would have been made a saint if he hadn't had so many children!" The Rabbit was emotional, but he was able to add, "Bishop Aldulf's in Avon-Bed, and so is Saint Chad....."

"It's not Avon-Bed!" I was doing my best to grapple with the enormity of these horrible circumstances. "It's Afon-Bedd. Why can't you say Afon-Bedd or Newydd Ogof, grandfather?"

"It might be a sin."

"A sin!"

"I'm in exile as an English rabbit in Wales." There was a pleading quality to The Rabbit's tone. "I don't want to break any of the rules, and I'm not sure what the rules are, but I don't think I'm supposed to pronounce things like a Welsh speaking person."

I had my own set of more immediate worries. I hadn't seen myself in daylight without any clothes on for a very long time. I looked less than attractive, skeletal, more like a stick insect with a big head and nobly knees that had crawled out of a coal mine, and the idea of the extraordinarily pretty Welsh woman seeing him like that was depressing. Nor was the towel on top of the folded mattress one of those large encompassing towels it was more like an oversized wash cloth.

The peephole in the locked cell door clicked open. It was strange because I hadn't heard the quacking of shoes along the corridor. Bravely I straightened my back, and stared at the peephole. The peephole clocked shut, a key turned in the door lock and very slowly the cell door inched open. It was a large square man in a white tunic, white trousers, he was well bearded, his hair was a little longer, his eyes very serious, in his arm he carried what looked like an orange dressing gown and he was wearing cloth shoes on his feet. He didn't enter the cell, he didn't say anything, he chose to stand there staring me.

"May I help you?" I decided.

In reply, the man handed me the orange dressing gown, and in a genteel manner he turned his head toward the corridor. It was a polite thing to do because there was no way I could have shrugged myself into a dressing gown without losing control of the towel around my waist. Then a quacking up the corridor announced the approach of rapid footsteps.

"I can't do it, Betrys." The man was clearly a Welsh Speaker and he didn't sound confident. "I won't do it!"

"It wouldn't be the first time for you, Geralt! You've been trained, I haven't!" It was the voice of the receptionist.

"I'm not doing it!"

"It's either you or Nurse Hartlepool, Geralt. And we can't have Nurse Hartlepool doing it. We'd never hear the end of it."

"I don't care!" Geralt was determined.

The orange dressing gown reached just above my ankles. Betrys would only be able to see my feet. I decided there was a good chance that Betrys was far too decent a person to even look at my feet or saying anything about my toenails.

"Pull yourself together, Geralt!" Betrys was gently reprimanding. "You've been trained."

"I can't." Geralt seemed miserable.

"What won't you do, Geralt?" I decided.

"I'll not shave you." In vain Geralt tried to hold his head high, as though a great principle was at stake and he was ready for martyrdom.

Anxious to demonstrate sanity at every opportunity I spoke up. "I can do that myself. Happy to do it, Geralt! No need for you to trouble yourself or nurse Hartlepool. "

"That would be against our regulations!" Betrys walked passed Geralt, she entered the cell, she looked down at my feet and she said. "Oh dear! You do need a scrub, don't you Eddy?"

Newydd Ogof must have been built around an ancient decaying bathhouse. It was down the left hand corridor and off to the right. It even had wooden duckboards stacked against the wall in the showering area, a drain in the middle of the floor and a giant trough that was filling with water. One of the shower heads dripped, the tiles were cracked, some of them missing. It smelled of a pine disinfectant that seemed to serve as fertilizer for the patches of green moss that grew on the inside of the skylights. Not unfamiliar sight for me or the Rabbit, both of us had spent many interesting years in the English Boarding School System.

All the way from my cell to the bathhouse there'd been vigorous debate, often conducted in Welsh, between Betrys and Geralt around the wisdom of introducing Nurse Hartlepool to the impasse. But no words could be said that would persuade Geralt to shave Eddy.

"No need for anyone to know!" I was confident in the simplicity of my own solution. "I won't tell. I look forward to having a shave and I know how to shave myself. I've done it before. All I need is a razor, a little hot water perhaps, a mirror and shaving cream would be nice."

"That's not permitted, Eddy." Betrys was adamant. "If Geralt is going to be a baby, I'm just going to have to get Nurse Hartlepool!"

She stomped out of the bathhouse, her shoes quacking fiercely. Alone with Geralt, he couldn't bring himself to look at me. He chose instead to make a valiant attempt to stop the shower head from dripping, when that failed he brought a chair into the middle of the showering area, placed it neatly above the drain, he addressed the stack of duckboards to make sure they were secure and then reluctantly, very reluctantly, he attached a rolled up green hose pipe with sprayer on the end to a hose-bib low on the wall of the bathhouse. Then, with some dignity, Geralt attempted to explain himself.

"I've manhandled inmates before, you know. I'm not afraid of it. I've been trained in manhandling. I was five years in the Tri-County before I came here, so I've had plenty of experience."

"Tri-County is Afon-Bedd?" I tried to ignore the hose pipe.

"Yes. Afon-Bedd means the River Grave, in Welsh."

"The Tri-County Lunatic Asylum is called River Grave!"

"I agree." There was a hint of a smile in Geralt. "This facility, Newydd Ogof means the New Cave, in Welsh."

"Tell me something Geralt, is there a patient in Afon-Bedd called the Witch of Ithaca, or Freckles?"

"We're not encouraged to discuss the affairs of other patients." Geralt glanced toward the corridors.

"Bishop Aldulf, Saint Chad? You know how it is, probably just rumor. But one does hear things."

"Afon-Bedd is a Lunatic Asylum." Geralt had a gentle manner. "A good number of patients struggle with their delusions. Indeed Dewi Sant has two representatives in Afon-Bedd. They are often at loggerheads and one of them is a Scotsman."

"There's a Saint Winifred!" The Rabbit chimed in with unexpected enthusiasm.

Nurse Hartlepool was a powerful, no nonsense, bitter and angry sort of English woman. She arrived with a rubber apron strapped around her neck, it was already tied at her waist. Betrys, behind her, was carrying what could have been a doctor's bag. Geralt attempted to look noble, but he did quail a little when Nurse Hartlepool told him he was better suited to knitting circles and hen parties than to the rigors of life as an hourly paid orderly in psychiatric facility.

"It's no wonder you didn't cut the mustard at Avon-bed, Gerald. You're worse than useless here!" Then Nurse Hartlepool looked in a somewhat contemptuous manner at me. "So this is what all the fuss is about!"

Nurse Hartlepool reminded me of a cruel interbreeding between a boarding school matron and a chairwoman of a Hitler Youth Entertainment Committee. I found myself wishing that I'd never left the Turquoise Sea, had instead traveled south to the Wash joined with the gentle Sages Bernice and Morgan in their enterprise of selling weed to the tourists.

Unlike Betrys Nurse Hartlepool had been well trained in manhandling, and it did seem to me that unlike Geralt, Nurse Hartlepool really enjoyed the work. My orange dressing gown was removed, I was made to sit naked on the chair, the hose pipe was turned on, my head showered with cold water, my hair and beard were then clipped, after which my head and face were expertly shaved, no more than a nick or two around the scar on my head and amongst the pimples that had been under my beard.

Geralt's lack luster contribution was to switch the hose pipe on and off. Betrys' contribution was to pour and a measure of Lindane into the trough. Nurse Hartlepool ordered me into the trough then took a long handled scrubbing brush and bathed me, making sure to thoroughly scrub every nook and cranny. When satisfied, Nurse Hartlepool ordered me to close my eyes, and she then held my head under water long enough for her to count to ten. After that I was told to stand without a towel, I was to "drip dry," my skin tingling from the Lindane, the scars and pin pricks biting from the insecticide.

Throughout the ordeal I'd made no attempt to hide my manhood, dignity demanded it. I hadn't even blushed, I refused to feel the cold, I hadn't felt ticklish. And while Betrys and Geralt swept the floor of hair cuttings, and while the Rabbit gazed in a most un-saintly awe upon the her, Nurse Hartlepool stood there, wide in her rubber apron, holding her scrubbing brush in her rubber gloves, appraising me, a sneer in her round face.

"There's your fairy tale!" Nurse Hartlepool enjoyed the power she had.

"I'll get his fresh gown and booties." Betrys was nervous.

"Let him stand there, Beatrice!" Nurse Hartlepool ordered.

There was an unnecessary tone in the way the Head Nurse spoke to Betrys. It was smug with a fatness, bullying and worse there was a defeated mood in the bathhouse. Betrys, particularly Betrys, and Geralt were both of them uncomfortable from the obedience they felt obliged to observe in the presence of Nurse Hartlepool. I guessed it had to do with the reason Geralt had refused to shave Eddy Hanian. I remembered the Welsh Speakers removed from the courtroom in Shire Hall. And again I wondered why the beetroot lady had called me Gwningen and why it was she'd promised to keep my secret.

"You afraid of fairy tales, Nurse Hartlepool." I spoke up.

"You're a back door thief! That's all you are."

"Maybe, maybe not." It was spur of the moment for me. "But you'll never know, will you?"

As I posed my question to Nurse Hartlepool the mood in the bathroom changed. Geralt straightened up from his dustpan. He was prouder as he swept up the last of my collectable hair and popped it quickly into yet another black plastic bag. In a manner most demur Betrys draped a fresh dressing gown around my skinny shoulders with the words, "If you follow me into the dry, Eddy, your booties and pajama won't get wet, and Geralt can hose down the floor."

The Rabbit approved of my new outfit. The pajama trousers were quite snug. Geralt had been sent to the storeroom to find a smaller pair, the pair Betrys had originally picked had been standard issue for men and the elastic wasn't tight enough to keep them from falling down. The pajama top was a little long in the sleeve and little wide across the shoulders. I had gallantly agreed to roll my pajama sleeves up so the sleeves wouldn't cover my hands. The Orange dressing gown was elegant, it was colorful, it had no pockets but it did have a belt. And indeed, if an uniformed yet objective observer had watched Geralt escort Eddy to the East Wing of the Newydd Ogof Unit he or she would have had no doubt that I was the subject of a peculiar examination. But for me it was something altogether different. After I'd cut my own toe nails, Betrys had presented me to a mirror. With my head shaved and the scar shaped like a horseshoe on the left side of my skull and the little blotches of redness here and there. It was an unpleasant surprise to my heart. I recognized my eyes, nothing else.

"Appearance is half the battle." The Rabbit's words were meant to comfort.

"I'm not a mental patient!"

The East Wing was offices, the canteen, storerooms and the infirmary, and it was better appointed than the West Wing. What Betrys had called The Eest Wing Waiting Room, in that beautiful voice of hers, had chairs, there was a wooden table, a nice window without bars through which could be seen a view of the hills and fields, all of which were the other side of a tall chain link fence. The fence had no barbed wire across the top, it was easily climbable.

"I'd sit if I was you." Geralt yawned and gestured to a chair near the one he'd chosen to sit upon. "They can take forever!"

"Who's they?"

"The doctors."

"There's more than one doctor!"

"It's the regulation, Eddy."

"How many doctors are there?"

"There should be three, but they had to wait on Doctor Friedman to arrive. And if she doesn't come soon you'll have your appraisal tomorrow."

"Three doctors seem like a lot."

"Between you and me, Eddy, it's just as well," Geralt looked grim. "The resident psychiatrist here at Newydd Ogof, Doctor Hawthorn, is a little old school."

"Old School?"

"Lock them up, throw away the key." Geralt explained

"I don't suppose he's a Welsh Speaker."

"He's not from round here." Geralt yawned again.

"You must be tired." I didn't want to lose a mine of information by letting Geralt drift off.

"We had a Language Society meeting last night. It ran a little late."

"Have you always spoken Welsh?"

"My grandmother speaks Welsh. I myself came to the language later in life. It's our heritage you know, we should keep it alive, it would be a shame to have it lost to the tea party academics."

"Who's the third doctor?"

"Doctor Jaspers." Geralt cheered up. "He's a young man, just married and has twins. He's down here from Afon-Bedd. Doctor Woolley himself usually comes, but he's busy I'm told."

"Did you say Doctor Woolley?" I felt ice in my veins. The Rabbit seemed very quiet.

"Interesting fellow, Doctor Woolley. Doesn't get along with Nurse Hartlepool or Doctor Hawthorn....."

"Doctor Woolley! Doctor Justin Woolley"

"Do you know him?" Geralt was surprised.

"I don't know him. You know how it is, Geralt. You do hear things."

"Doctor Woolley is eccentric, shall we call it." Geralt chose to agree with Eddy. "His techniques are considered experimental, but somehow he gets away with it."

"You mean like lobotomies?" I'd been worried, I was now very worried.

"No, no, Eddy. Nothing like that!"

"Experimental, like what?"

"Calm yourself, Eddy." Geralt was alert. "It's quite fun, actually."

"You had to stop working at Afon-Bedd, didn't you Geralt?"

"It had nothing to do with lobotomies or electric shock therapy!" Geralt was agitated. "I became a little involved, that's all it was. I was told I needed a break from the place, so they sent me here."

"Nothing wrong with being involved....."

"I'm not really supposed to be talking to you Eddy!" Geralt was a polite sort of person. "If Nurse Hartlepool caught me...."

"If I could, just a couple more question, Geralt?"

"Quietly." Geralt was nervous of the door to the waiting room.

"Is Doctor Woolley married?"

Geralt glanced at the door. "He has a daughter visits occasionally....."

"Occasionally! What do you mean occasionally?"

"Off and on. A week here, a week there....."

"What about his wife?" I could feel myself trembling badly.

"Never seen her...." Geralt sighed.

"I don't suppose his daughter ever goes to work with Doctor Woolley, or anything like that."

"She has a great interest in her father's work. She's studying to follow in his footsteps. Spends a lot of time in the wards when she visits...."

"How's her eyesight?" I reached deep into the possibilities. "Does she wear glasses or anything like that?"

"Not glasses, but it's possible she has the contact lenses......"

Geralt's answers were all so far from satisfactory it was difficult and while I was trying to recover from the prospect of a forced reunion with one of the Woolley women, Nurse Hartlepool, resplendent in a starched white uniform and clipboard, stomped into the West Wing Waiting Room. She glowered at Geralt, she curled a come hither finger at me and she commanded, "You too Gerald."

It was a short walk along the West Wing corridor to Doctor Hawthorn's office. Armed with the information that there was near certainty of bumping into Carol Bunny Woolley should ever I find myself in the Tri-County Asylum I renewed my determination to never go near the place, and then when Nurse Hartlepool knocked on the door, I heard the word "Enter" issuing from inside the office.

Both the Rabbit and I knew that word well. It had always meant a prelude to some kind of awfulness from an authority on the nature of obedience, and it was usually followed by a disciplining of the unruly. My own reaction wasn't good, it made adrenalin run toward anger. When I looked down at The Rabbit, it was clear to me that he was scowling.

"Empty the mind so as to be ready for anything."

"Your mistake, if I may say so, was not to follow your own advice when the Lead Bull came for you. Had you done so, you could well be on your way to a good looking nanny and an electric train set or shares in a racehorse by now."

Doctor Hawthorn's office was the stuff of nightmares for me. Like stepping back in time. There were bookshelves, the volumes of which lined an entire wall, weighty tomes which I judged to be academic in nature, book spines without creases and long titles, the place to go to confirm a diagnosis, prepare for an examination. The walls on either side of the window had pictures, black and white renderings of sheep, turnstiles and horses leaping fences. The furniture had to be antique, brought in to the Newydd Ogof building from the more Victorian circumstances of Doctor Hawthorn's previous place of work. And on the carpet in front of the window, there was a wooden desk, long as the Last Supper. It had two sets of what had to be drawers reaching to the ground with a gap in the middle where there was a waste paper basket made of wicker that blocked the view of Doctor Hawthorn's shoes. It all reeked of punishment and the divinity of power, a place to set rules, turn proud Sabeans into snuffling porcupines.

Sitting behind the desk, to Doctor Hawthorn's left, was a woman of uncertain age. She had long fair hair that was arranged into a knot on the top of her head that was kept in place with what looked like a wooden knitting needle. Her face seemed to be totally without creases, and she had the blinking eyes of a person constantly wondering where the smell came from. To Doctor Hawthorn's right was a young man who looked like an enthusiastic temporary schoolmaster. He had a mop of dark hair, he wore glasses, and he was the only one of the three professionals who looked up or smiled at the subject of their interview.

Nurse Hartlepool, with her clipboard, sat on a chair next to me, she crossed her legs, she had little white gym socks and a pair of clean white plimsolls on her large feet. Geralt stood clumsily at the door. The Rabbit, who appeared determined to participate and even though he claimed it was most undignified, insisted he had to sit on my lap in order to better see the examiners. But much more interesting, carefully arranged on the long desk between myself and the doctors, where my possessions, all of them still in their clear plastic bags.

"Everything in order, Hartlepool?" Doctor Hawthorn even had the voice of a headmaster.

"Yes, Doctor Hawthorn." Nurse Hartlepool unclipped a sheet of paper from her clipboard, and as she reached it across to the great man, I suspected that Hawthorn's world didn't really operate with out Hartlepool. The Head Nurse at Newydd Ogof was good help, the stuff of England, roast beef, birthing hips, the kind of gal Bulldog Drummond would consider introducing to his mother but would never lust after.

"Has this chap been fed?" Doctor Hawthorn introduced himself to me. Nurse Hartlepool looked at Geralt. Geralt shuffled his feet, he shrugged his wide shoulders, pursed his lips.

"I missed lunch." I was determined to demonstrate my absolute grasp on sanity.

"No Lunch!" Doctor Hawthorn directed his remarks at Geralt. "That's not right! Pop along to the canteen. Tell cook to rustle something up."

The Rabbit, who like me had struggled just a little with the word "Enter" had recovered, but to my alarm The Rabbit had suddenly taken to Doctor Hawthorn. And despite being wary of conversing with the Rabbit in these circumstances, I did find myself mentioning that in my humble opinion, no saint, and certainly not a medieval saint, would ever find it in their bones to say anything nice to a Doctor Hawthorn. "He's evil incarnate! He's a Pontius Pilot."

"He ordered lunch for you." The Rabbit was serene.

It was an inauspicious beginning to my interview. Doctor Freidman was staring at me, impossible to tell what she was thinking. Doctor Hawthorn had that "I know a malingerer when I see one" written across his face in capital letters. And young Doctor Jaspers seemed inspired by the strange joy of a stamp collector who'd happened upon the imperforated collectable.

"I spend a lot of time on my own!" I tried to explain myself. "And I do sometimes talk to myself. It happens to people who spend a lot of time on their own!"

"You're homeless!" It was Doctor Hawthorn, he glanced down at the sheet of paper Nurse Hartlepool had handed him.

"I wouldn't say homeless."

"You are of no fixed abode. That means you're homeless." Doctor Hawthorn was rather smug, his instincts had been correct, the subject was idle, Edward Hanian was up to no good and a waste of his time.

"I'm more nomadic than I am homeless!" I'd no intention of being thought of as a homeless malingerer. "My abode changes from day to day! Or at least it did until......"

"You know why you're here, don't you?" Again it was the dominating Doctor Hawthorn.

"The reason I'm here is because I sometimes talk to myself out loud. Everyone does talk to themselves. I just do it out loud sometimes!"

"Do you speak Welsh?" Doctor Friedman had what I'd decided was a German type accent and she had a most distracting double blink when she asked a question.

"I don't speak Welsh. I am not a Welsh speaker."

"What languages do you speak, Edward?" Doctor Jaspers was soft spoken, gentle of speech and frightfully well educated.

"It's an ancient language." I was wary.

"It's not Greek or Latin." Doctor Jaspers raised both his eyebrows.

"We're not here to judge Hanian's ability as a linguist!" Doctor Hawthorn felt oblige to reassert his control of the proceedings.

"I'd be interested in knowing what languages Eddy is familiar with!" Doctor Jaspers was considerably tougher than he looked or sounded and I couldn't help but like him which was possibly an error.

"You're obviously not yet fully informed, Jaspers." Doctor Hawthorn's many flaws included impatience. "It's as simple as this. This man who claims to be an Edward Hanian and who is of no fixed abode and who apparently has no living relative or home to go to was arrested and when searched he was found to be in possession of items deemed suspicious by the arresting officer. The court, for reasons that frankly escape me, determined he be sent to us. I suspect Evelyn Hughes has lost his nerve. Time for him to retire....."

"What happened to the side of you head." Doctor Freidman was dangerously astute.

"I had a bit of a bonk."

"Your bonk looks recent. Did it receive medical attention?"

"It was a while ago." I hemmed a little. "I didn't want to trouble anyone with it."

"Possibly you weren't in a position to trouble anyone with it." Doctor Friedman blinked three times. "Do you recall what happened?"

"I think it was a horse, or maybe a Bull!" I thought it a reasonable assertion.

"Of no fixed abode, you found shelter from a cold night in a horse stable?" It was a suggestion from Doctor Freidman. "Did you lose your consciousness by any chance?"

"I think I probably did."

"A loss of consciousness that may have resulted in a loss of memory?" Doctor Freidman was sneaky, a conclusion that was confirmed when she picked up the clear plastic bag containing the knife Raphael had taken from his biscuit tin and she announced, "This is a Luftwaffe Pilot's knife."

"Probably has value as memorabilia." Doctor Hawthorn cheered up. "I don't suppose you remember where you got it?"

"I remember exactly!"

"Care to tell us?"

"Tratinska Street, a mile or so from Glavni Kolodvar in Monda's fair city of Zagreb."

"Really!" Doctor Hawthorn had never liked a Smart Alec, and especially one wearing an orange dressing gown.

"You know the story of Zagreb?" Doctor Freidman didn't blink when she smiled.

"Scoop it up Monda." I found himself grinning. "She was either a shepherdess or a Turnip farmer's daughter. Myself I've never been fond of Sheep, Doctor Freidman. I'd much rather Monda was a Turnip farmer's daughter..."

"What about this?" Doctor Hawthorn waved the clear plastic bag containing United States Dollars.

I was, I believed, eloquent in my promotion of ways to avoid spending money, and as I spoke Doctor Jaspers, who wasn't good at concealing his thoughts, had a eureka moment which he revealed in what I considered gobbledygook.

"Not this again, Jaspers!" Doctor Hawthorn picked up the clear plastic bag that contained Earthly Voyage, and the clear plastic bag that contained The Apocalypse of Nature, waved my books at the younger doctor.

"A bonk on the head could well have exacerbated an underlying condition." Doctor Friedman seemed to agree with Jaspers.

"Petty larceny and bank phobia!" Doctor Hawthorn waved my books around. "A co-morbidity that's hardly within the remit of this panel."

Despite my growing dislike of Doctor Hawthorn, I chose to believe my interview was proceeding toward a successful conclusion. The idea of being returned to Sir Evelyn's courtroom had its distractions, yet it was infinitely preferable to being sent to the uncertainties of a Tri-County Lunatic Asylum where most likely one of the Carol Woolley's would recognize me and I'd end up getting something like a lobotomy or electric shock treatment from Doctor Justin Woolley rather than a long peaceful discussion that might enable me to determine whether he was the JH who'd haunted me for untold years.

But the interview wasn't going well for the Rabbit. I was failing, less and less likely to be even considered as a candidate for his Avon-bed. Doctor Hawthorn clearly shared Nurse Hartlepool's view that I was no more than a back door thief who'd had some kind of minor head injury. Young Doctor Jaspers was far too young to be able to form any sort of sensible opinion. And Doctor Freidman wasn't an English Doctor, probably Teutonic in origin and therefore unqualified to determine the very obvious distinction between a insane person and a scoundrel.

It was Doctor Jasper's who spoke next. "Is there someone sitting on you knee, Eddy?"

"Are you sure you don't speak Welsh?" Doctor Hawthorn contributed.

When the door to office opened it was Geralt. He was balancing a tin tray upon which was beaker of milk and a covered tin plate. As Geralt moved across the room toward me there was a glitter in Geralt's eye. The problem for me, as I took the tray from Geralt, was The Rabbit who seemed to have glued himself to my knees, preventing me from placing the tray on my lap.

"Return to your station, orderly! Let him work it out for himself." There was a level of excitement in Doctor Hawthorn's voice which the doctor more often reserved for his game of golf. Doctor Jaspers appeared delighted. Doctor Freidman didn't blink, she didn't want to miss anything. I held tight to the tray, I stood up. The Rabbit fell clumsily to the carpet and when I sat down, I felt the growl in my stomach. "Just getting myself comfortable." I explained to my audience

The beaker of milk was excellent, then when I took the round tin top of the tin plate I found a beetroot and white bread sandwich carefully cut into two halves. Not quite the same as the beetroot lady's sandwich, I could smell both mustard and vinegar on this one.

"Is that a beetroot sandwich?" Doctor Friedman's curiosity contained a memory. "I haven't had a beetroot sandwich for years. Ate my share of them when I was with the Land Army during the war."

"Would you like some." I was charming.

"No thank you, I've had lunch. I didn't know the canteen served beetroot sandwiches."

"The canteen doesn't serve beetroot!" Doctor Hawthorn glared at Geralt and he looked to Nurse Hartlepool for confirmation.

"I'll be checking stores just as soon as we're finished here!" The Head Nurse made a mental note and somehow she managed to do it in a fashion that suggested heads would role.

"It's a pickled beetroot." My mouth was full, but nonetheless it seemed like the sane thing to say.

"Is there a problem with beetroot?" Doctor Jaspers was way out of the internal loop at Newydd Ogof.

"They are messy!" Doctor Hawthorn, explained. "A burden on the laundry, Jaspers."

"Ah!" Doctor Jaspers smiled. "We get the odd food fight in Afon-Bedd."

At this juncture in the proceedings I felt a sudden, sharp pain. It was as though something with a large mouth was attempting to bite my right big toe off. My reaction was a long way from calm. My right leg took on a will of its own, it kicked forward, it kicked again and in the process I lost the tray, which clattered to the floor and even though I almost fell off the chair I was able to hold on to the last half of the sandwich along with the last drops of milk that remained in the beaker.

In other circumstances my dexterity might have been considered impressive, but not so in Doctor Hawthorn's office. Nurse Hartlepool leapt into action. She yelled for Geralt and well trained as she was in the art of manhandling, she placed Edward Hanian in a wrestling lock that required her to put an arm around my throat and attempt to squeeze me to death. By the time Geralt trundled across the room from his station, I'd dropped the beaker of milk, I was struggling for breath, I couldn't speak, but I still had hold of half of the sandwich.

"There's blood on his bootie." Geralt was impassive, really no help standing there staring at my foot.

"It's beetroot juice, Gerald!" Nurse Hartlepool was certainly surrounded by incompetence.

"It's oozing." Geralt offered as he picked up my beaker and collected my tray.

Nurse Hartlepool glanced down at my right foot, she released her victim, she leaned down for a closer examination. She removed my clean white bootie, then she calmly told Geralt to, "Fetch Beatrice, and a towel, tell her he might need stitches."

"Hartlepool!" Doctor Hawthorn wasn't fooled for second. "What is going on down there?"

"Looks like a bite."

"A bite!" Doctor Jaspers pushed back his chair, leaned across the table. "What could possibly have bitten him?"

The Rabbit was nowhere to be seen. He was later to claim the sight of my bleeding big toe had reminded him of his Savior's agony, and he'd felt obliged to squeeze himself behind the books of a lower book shelf in Dr. Hawthorn's office. As we waited in the infirmary for the supper time I accused him of biting me, and I went on to suggest that his passion to return to Afon-Bedd was possibly a very great evil which both the Pope and the Lead Bull would deem monstrous, and certainly both of them would hear about it from one or other of their many spies.

"I must have inadvertently conjured a Mongoose." The Rabbit was still shaken by his own terrifying experience of miracle working. The creature had been inches away, great big teeth, smelly breath and savage eyes.

"The mongoose is not a Welsh native!"

"You didn't see it, I did!"

And despite everything there was a swelling joy in me, my eternal friend had his misconceptions, but he appeared to be slowly returning to a semblance of his former self. No question of him explaining what had happened to me while he was confronting the Lead Bull. To do that , he claimed, would make him guilty of the top Cardinal Sin on the list of Cardinal Sins.

Geralt finally escorted us from the infirmary to join the queue for supper. Geralt's mood placid, yet he kept staring at my bandaged foot. He explained to me that there'd been a thorough search of Doctor Hawthorn's office, after which Nurse Hartlepool had agreed with Doctor Hawthorn that the only possible explanation was that somehow the wound had been self inflicted. Geralt wasn't convinced, he'd been in the room and as he'd tried to explain to Nurse Hartlepool that throughout the whole episode I'd held on to my sandwich. "You didn't even lose a bit of beetroot, now you can't do that and bite your own big toe at the same time!" Betrys, apparently had agreed with Geralt, the bite on Eddy's toe which she'd attended to wasn't anything like a human bite. Something else had been in that room.

"I don't want to say it, Eddy."

"Say what?"

But we'd reached a queue of three men waiting outside the canteen where the orderly's role was to ensure an obedience to the rules of Newydd Ogof. There was to be no talking. The men in front of me all wore the orange gowns, but none of them had had their heads shaved. Immediately ahead of me was a very tall stooped, professorial type man, his face was more eagle, his hair was grey and long enough to reach the collar of his dressing gown, and he seemed ill at ease, in a restless and outraged way.

For me, as we waited for supper, it was the idea that the Rabbit had bitten my toe which dogged my thoughts. I'd decided that for reasons entirely of his own he wanted me in the Tri-County Lunatic Asylum, and I realized that one of the causes of my being in this place was my inability to prevent myself from conversing with him in public. I needed a distraction, anything. It might not have the wisest move but I made a little humming noise deep in the back of my mouth. The tune was Some Enchanted Evening from the Rogers and Hammerstein musical, South Pacific. When the man directly ahead of me heard the noise he turned to face me and in a loud voice he said, "As the senior man, I should be at the head of this queue!"

"Piss off!" It was the wide bellied man at the front of the queue.

"There's no talking in the corridor!" Geralt who'd not been able to hear Some Enchanted Evening, did his best.

"The new chap was humming!"

"Try to set a good example, Mr. Crabtree." Geralt was very reasonable.

"He's welcome to go in front of me." It was the frail blond haired man just ahead of Crabtree.

"It's bad enough to have to queue up in a corridor for supper!" It was a problem for Crabtree. "But having to queue up with the mentally defective...."

"Piss off!" It was the wide bellied man at the front of the line.

To Geralt's great relief the door to the canteen opened. Afon-Bedd candidates shuffled into a large room with windows that had a good view of the Newydd Ogof courtyard. There was an assortment of tables, some longer than others, there were chairs. To the right side of the room, running from wall to wall there was a food service counter manned by two women, one older than the other. Beyond the counter was the kitchen. The canteen was a democratic canteen, it served both Newydd Ogof staff and clients. The staff tables were closer to the door, the client tables were over by the window. Supper time lasted an hour, which gave the canteen staff plenty of time to clear up, wash dishes and sort the kitchen before the end of their shift. To get their food, the four candidates being tested for the Tri-County Lunatic Asylum had to pick up a tin tray from the tray station, advance in an orderly manner, one at a time down the counter. The older canteen lady would give them a china plate and the younger canteen lady would serve out portions with a big spoon, or tongs, or a long fork. That evening, super was mashed potato, green beans, a beef stew and a beaker of milk. For me, the idea of such a meal was kind of like being in heaven, not so for Crabtree or the wide bellied man, and both of them would have mumbled in a complaining manner had Nurse Hartlepool and Betrys not entered the canteen. Nor would Nurse Hartlepool and Betrys join the line for food until the Afon-Bedd candidates were safely seated around their window table.

When it was my turn to present me tray so that I might receive my plate from the older canteen lady, she smiled at him and in a soft spoken Welsh accent she asked whether I'd liked my beetroot sandwich.

"It was a lovely, thank you very much."

"I just happened to have a jar of beets in my weekly shopping. They did have the mustard in them."

"I thought the mustard was very nice." I beamed. "I love mustard. Never thought of it going with beetroot, but it really does."

"You need feeding up!" The older lady addressed her next remark to her younger assistant. "A strong wind would waft him away, and we can't have that, can we Emerald?"

"No Mrs. Rees." Emerald was dutifully dominated by the cook at Newydd Ogof, but she couldn't bring herself to look me in the eye.

The Rabbit went on a little about the Welsh obsession with beetroot, a trait amongst many he felt obliged to disapprove of, but I'd decided that no matter the circumstance I wasn't going to talk to him ever again. Then when I arrived at the Afon-Bedd candidate table, my plate was better stocked with mash potato, green beans and stew than any of my fellow candidates. This didn't go unnoticed.

"What's so special about you?" It was the wide bellied man, his mouth was already full.

"Obviously Bingham, like you he suffers from an eating disorder!" Crabtree lacked the social graces.

"What's your name, anyway?" It was the frail blond man.

"Eddy Hanian." I insisted.

"I'm Josh Chilcot." The frail man wasn't that interested in his food. "What they get you for?"

"Who knows?" I went to work with my spoon.

"Why'd they shave your head?" It was Chilcot.

"I'm sorry chaps," I was adamant, "but I'm not answering any questions until I've finished my supper."

The speed at which Bingham finished his plate was astonishing to the point of almost being impressive. Crabtree described Bingham's eating habits as being "more like python than monkey." Bingham told Crabtree to "piss off." And then to my great disappointment Chilcot surreptitiously, so as not to be observed by the nurse's table, exchanged his almost full plate with Bingham's empty plate.

"I guess you know how to get cigarettes?" I addressed Chilcot.

"I might, but I'm not answering any of your questions until you've finished eating."

"Look!" I felt surrounded by amateurs. "We're all in the same boat here..."

"Same boat!" Crabtree was outraged. "I can assure you I'm not in the same boat as you three!"

"Piss off!"

"I think we all know why your here, Professor!" I was trying not to look at the Rabbit.

"I had a disagreement in traffic court!" Crabtree could sound noble and perfectly sane when he chose to.

"And I had disagreement with the barber!" I shot back. "I asked for short back and sides, and look what I got!"

Josh Chilcot thought this interesting and despite my peculiar look and my equally peculiar scent, he warmed toward Eddy. But Crabtree didn't.

"I'll have you know, the magistrate was my wife's mother!" Crabtree remained calm. "She never liked me, and when I suggested a couple of miles an hour over the speed limit was hardly dangerous driving she became irrational. I'm a victim of a vengeful mother-in-law! Certainly not in the same boat as you three. She had no right sending me here."

"Well Professor." I was on a roll. "Sounds like a classic case of one man's boat being a mother-in-law's torpedo!"

"You're an imbecile!" Crabtree thought a while before dismissing me.

"What happened to your foot?" It was Bingham.

"Not a pretty story." I felt confident, and a little light headed from the pain bill Betrys had given me and from large quantities of food. "I was at the interview, and something nearly took my big toe off."

"I heard about that." It was Chilcot. "Did they find out what did it?"

"It's the usual. They blamed the victim of course. Said I tried to bite my own toe off. Now you'd think in a room full of people with me sitting in the middle of it, if I'd tried to bite my own toe off, someone might have noticed and tried to stop me. Not easy to get you're big toe into your mouth without making a big fuss about it, unless you're an oriental guru, or something."

"So what bit you?" Bingham was fascinated.

"Two theories doing the rounds at the moment." I glared at the Rabbit. "One theory thinks it was a mongoose that did it. It's very stupid idea, that makes no sense whatsoever, but as we all know if you'd rather get yourself sent to a mental hospital instead of paying your traffic fine..."

"There was a principle involved...." Crabtree was almost regal.

"And the other theory," I ignored Crabtree, "suggests that a rabbit, a very horrible and bad tempered rabbit, might even have been a carnivorous rabbit, bit my toe!"

Chilcot smiled, Bingham didn't know what to think, but Crabtree said, "A rabbit bite can be very serious."

"Who knew they went round biting innocent people!" I again glared at the Rabbit.

"A buck rabbit is capable of inflicting a savage injury." And there was something about Professor Crabtree's voice and manner of speaking, that made it almost impossible to tell whether he knew what he was talking about or was just making it all up. "Not to mention the possibility of the bite spreading a disease. You could be in serious trouble if inadequately treated!"

"Didn't know people got myxomatosis!" The word disease from Crabtree alarmed Chilcot. He was on the same side of the candidate's table as I was, and he moved his chair so as to put a little more distance between himself and Eddy Hanian.

"You're a simpleton, Chilcot! Of course people don't get myxomatosis. Only rabbits get myxomatosis." Having dismissed Chilcot, the Professor turned to Eddy. "I hope they at least gave you a tetanus shot."

"I got a pill." I wasn't unduly alarmed.

"That won't help you against rabies." Crabtree seemed very pleased with himself. "It's in the spittle of the infected creature, it would only have to sneeze on you and you'd be infected. A couple of days later and you'd be gone. A painful and horrible death, and it might already be too late to get you inoculated."

"There's no rabies in England!" It was Bingham.

"First of all we're in Wales." Crabtree sighed. "Secondly if you think there's no rabies in Britain you're more demented than you look."

"Don't you call me demented!" Bingham was an aggressive sort of a person, and he stood up from his chair to better confront Professor Crabtree.

At the nurse's table, Geralt had been aware of a growing tension at the candidate's table and he mentioned his concerns to Betrys. I saw Betrys shrug her very graceful shoulders, she had a green bean on her plate and just a little potato dipped in stew on her fork. So it was down to Nurse Hartlepool, who stomped over to the candidate's table and yelled, "If you lot don't behave, there'll be no pudding."

At the canteen service counter Emerald roused Mrs. Rees from a reverie so she'd not miss any excitement.

"He's no right being at the same table as us!" Bingham pointed at Eddy. "He was bitten by a rabbit or something and he's got rabies!"

"There's no rabies in England!" Nurse Hartlepool put her hands on her hips and confronted the Afon-Bedd candidates.

"My good woman!" Crabtree remained supremely confident. "You're mistaken on two points. First of all it comes as a shock to me that you don't seem to know we're in Wales and secondly there have been at a least a dozen cases of rabies in the United Kingdom since the war."

"There's no rabies in the United Kingdom." Hartlepool sounded less confident. "It's just foreign animals brought back from abroad that get rabies."

"Pipistrellus-pipistrellus is a rabies vector, it crosses water without getting on an airplane, Hartlepool." Crabtree sounded authoritative, the blank yet doubtful expression on Nurse Hartlepool's face gave him further encouragement. "The common pipistrelle is a bat, Hartlepool. It crosses the English channel from France where there is rabies and bats carry Rabies! Apart from which there's no reason to assume that all rabbits are born and bred in the United Kingdom. One might have hopped off a boat in Chepstow."

I didn't believe a word Crabtree had said, but Nurse Hartlepool was moved by Crabtree's professorial skills and his apparent mastery of the more pompous use of technical language.

"Gerald!" Hartlepool pointed at me. "Take this one to the isolation room in the infirmary. Betrys, you'd better go too."

It was a lonely walk along the corridors to the infirmary. Neither Betrys nor Geralt really wanted to say anything to a possibly infectious person. The Rabbit on the other hand was talkative. He'd taken my advice about miracles being nice things rather than things like biting people's toes, and he went on about whether or not conjuring a rabid animal would count as the sort of miracle a Pope might take notice of. He harped on about how much he hoped I didn't have rabies, which would turn a more straight forward a perfectly respectable mongoose conjuring miracle into something a Devil's Advocate might disapprove of and would certainly ask a great many questions about, and he mentioned what horrible sickness rabies was.

"Much, much worse dying in the service of a Croatian King. With the rabies just before you die you turn into the creature that bit you. There's only one real way to put you out of your misery, and that's to throw a couple of buckets of cold water at you. I've seen it done, there's a lot of screaming and fussing, but it's quick. Don't suppose these modern doctors will make that sort of generous effort to help you, so there's a still a chance you'll find out that I was correct and that you were bitten by a mongoose."

"The only Rabbit that hopped off a boat in Chepstow around here is you."

"I didn't hop off the Bearded Goat. I was dragged off the Bearded Goat. And I wasn't exiled as a Rabbit. I was tall and good looking young man for my age, and I had excellent teeth. That's the first thing Freckles looked at when she was trading for someone."

The infirmary was peaceful. Six beds in two rows, each bed surgically made and each with a white pillow and cheerful orange blanket. It all smelled hygienic, the floor shone, the windows which opened, had bars. Down a narrow hallway beyond the nurse's station, Betrys unlocked the door to the isolation room. The door was Plexiglas, it rattled when it was opened or closed. The door frame was metal, and on either side of the door frame were long, tall Plexiglas windows that reached almost from the ceiling to the floor. Inside the isolation room was a single well made bed and once inside the isolation room there was no escaping or hiding from the observation windows or the electric light in the hallway. It was like being in a fish tank.

"You'll be the first to use this room, Eddy." Betrys was less familiar with the procedure for handling isolation room patients. She patted my shoulder. "It's supposed to have curtains, but they never put the railings up. And the lights in here have never worked, but there's plenty of light from out there."

"It all looks very nice." I attempted to be cheerful.

"You do understand, I'm going to have to lock you in here?"

"But what if I want..."

"You'll have to use the bedpan in an emergency, Eddy. But I imagine, so long as you're in here, someone will be assigned to the nurse station and you can call for help."

Geralt took some pleasure in beating his fist against the Plexiglas to demonstrate just how much noise Eddy Hanian would be able to make should there be an emergency. The noise gave Betrys a bit of start.

"It's unbreakable!" Geralt explained his actions.

"So settle yourself in, Eddy, and I'll bring you your pudding as soon as it's ready."

When the door to the isolation room was locked Betrys and Geralt both paused a while to smile encouragingly through the Plexiglas. As they walked away Geralt whispered to Betrys, "I didn't know we had rabies in Wales." It wasn't a loud whisper from Geralt, but in the isolation room Geralt's whisper was loud enough to be megaphone audible.

Alone with the Rabbit I decided to sit on the bed. I looked down at the bandage on my injured big toe. It was a mystery and it was worrying. I'd eaten very well and I was tired. It had been a long and interesting day, and I could feel waves of sleep. Then when I tried to make myself at home in the bed, I couldn't find the comfortable spot, the lights from the corridor were far too bright, and I felt unsafe. I tried covering my head with the blanket which didn't work, it was too hot, so I took the blanket and the pillow off the bed and I settled down under the bed, curled up and was soon fast asleep while the Rabbit droned on about some relative of ours from the long ago in the time before the Pillars of Pharaoh who'd been bitten by bat and had turned into a beautiful gazelle.

When Betrys, true to her promise returned with a large bowl of warm rice pudding with a generous dollop of raspberry jam on top, she found Eddy under the bed, and she wondered whether or not to disturb him. But I'd learned the instincts of constant vigilance and I'd been dreaming of the beautiful Betrys, in my dream I'd decided I knew who Betrys was. I woke quickly, I opened my eyes in alarm. Betrys had a mask across her face, she was wearing latex gloves and she was on her hands and knees, staring at me, the bowl of pudding on the floor beside her.

"I brought your pudding." Betrys was understandably nervous, incredibly brave and her eyes gazelle-like in the depth of their shine and wonderfulness.

"Do you smoke cigarettes, Betrys?" I was sleepy.

"No I don't, Eddy."

"Do you live with your mother?"

"Yes I do."

"Do you have a boy friend?"

"No I don't?"

"Your mum thinks you've got a boy friend and she thinks you smoke cigarettes with him."

"Some of the brothers and sister in the society smoke." Even with the mask on her face, I could tell she was smiling.

"Say thank you to your mum for all the sandwiches. And tell her I saw her hedgehog with her baby hedgehogs. They were all going under her shed, soft as little hair brushes."

"I can't do that Byr Gwningen. You're her secret. If she knew you were here, she'd think I betrayed you."

"I'll probably not be there for the sandwich this Tuesday."

"I've get the sheets and blanket. Why don't I re-make the bed for you."

I came to my senses, I got to my feet, and with the expertise and energy of hospital porter who was familiar with hospital corners I made the bed, I fluffed the pillow, took off the gown, and got into the bed. Betrys might even have been impressed, it was difficult to tell as she handed me pudding. "I'm supposed to wear the gloves and mask until you're cleared, Eddy."

"Can you tell me who Gwningen is?"

"Well, in the Welsh Language as we have it left to us today, Gwningen just means rabbit. But in the older times there was a particular rabbit who went by the name of Mae Gwningen Brynbuga, and he was magical. He'd be The Rabbit of Usk in English. Centuries ago he saved the border valleys from a great evil. Many a story of people who have seen him since. My mother, god bless her, thinks you might be him."

"What does you're mother mean by the Vestry of Monnow."

"It's an old story! Get some rest."

"But what do you think, Betrys."

"I have great respect for the old understandings. You were in those hills a long time. People wondered...."

There was slamming of doors, and the sound of heavy feet. From the hallway, Nurse Hartlepool and Doctor Hawthorn stared into the isolation room, neither looked remotely happy and neither of them was wearing a mask.

"This is going to be a staffing nightmare, Hartlepool." It was Doctor Hawthorn, who reckoned he was talking quietly, but some quality in the Plexiglas amplified sound.

"The church is booked for tomorrow, Doctor Hawthorn. But I could possible postpone the honeymoon...." Nurse Hartlepool whispered back.

"Don't be silly, Hartlepool. A gal only gets married once." Doctor Hawthorn was most generous.

It did come as a something of a surprise when Betrys suddenly took the spoon from my pudding bowl and started feeding me. "This is Hartlepool's second go round!" Betrys whispered well under her breath and she seemed kind of fierce for so delicate and beautiful a masked person.

"Thank you Nurse!" Even though I spoke with my mouth full, the closeness of my imminent demise was easily loud enough to be heard in the hallway outside the isolation room. "I just don't feel very well at the moment."

"We need to feed you up." Betrys sounded very professional. "We need you to be strong. The specialist from Bristol will be here very soon."

Chapter Fifteen : Crabtree and Rabies

Mrs. Bigelow has fallen in my estimation. She bumped into her sister in law while visiting the better of the two grocery stores. "It's closer," she explained, "And I was in a hurry to get Dwayne his pork chops." Dwayne is the other half of Mrs. Bigelow's wedding vow, and for some reason I take great pleasure from her description of him as "worse than useless." Nonetheless, despite Mrs. Bigelow being in a hurry she found time to exchange gossip with her sister in law, and as a result Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law will be accompanying me, my intern and Windral to our appointment with the veterinarian.

"You don't have to come." I have assured my intern

"I'll not leave Windy alone with that woman."

My intern's relationship with Windral is increasingly strange. But no stranger than some of my own relationships have been. They have their ups and downs, and on occasion the downs are such, the ups are forgotten. It was like that for me when the Rabbit and I were in the Newydd Ogof Facility. My eternal friend's obsession during that time was no more a higher or lower calling than any of his other obsessions. I think too my own reaction to his understanding might have been blinded a little by a certain selfishness on his part which contributed to the idea in me that I was being used.

"Hail Mary, from whose womb all sins are forgiven, I might have sinned. I conjured a Mongoose, it was perfectly nice miracle but the devil could have given the Mongoose rabies. Being a saint, I take full responsibility, and should this unfortunate child have the unspeakable pox give me the strength to perform what could be my seventh miracle. I will do a laying on of hands and cure him miraculously. But it must be obvious to everyone that whatever I might have done or said in the past, it would be much easier for me to do a laying on of hands if I wasn't exiled as an English Rabbit....."

I'd opened my eyes. In the gloom of the hallway were two figures. They were completely silent and they had their faces pressed against the Plexiglas. It was unnerving.

"They've been here a while. Don't discourage them, they could be angels." The Rabbit spoke into my ear.

The light was poor, but it looked like a man with a beard and a tall woman. There was no sign of anything like wings, and I knew I was awake rather than dreaming, I could feel the dull throb from my big toe, I could still taste toothpaste. Betrys had insisted I brush my teeth, she'd produced a toothbrush, toothpaste and a beaker of water. But the main reason I knew I was awake was that I needed to release an alarming pressure on my bladder.

"Are you specialists from Bristol?"

"They're not here yet, Eddy?" To my relief the man with the beard was Geralt

"Geralt!" I was stern. "I might become a zoo creature in the near future, but I'm not one yet!"

"I was put on the night shift until I was relieved." Geralt explained.

"I need to use the facilities, Geralt." I got out of bed. "And it's a bit of an emergency."

"I'm not allowed to open this door!" Geralt was alarmed and then he became wise. "You could use the corner of the room."

The idea of using the corner of the room, though appealing, was more than I was prepared to do. Odds were Betrys would find out, and under no circumstances was I prepared to have Betrys think I was the sort of person who'd urinated in the corner of rooms.

"Doesn't he have a bedpan?" It was the woman beside Geralt.

"I have a bedpan!" I was almost rabid in my desperation as I hunted around. "It's too dark, I can't find it!"

"I'll switch the light on!" The woman had high authority in her voice.

When the light in the hallway came on I nearly tripped over my bedpan and I yelled "Don't look!"

It was a metal bedpan of the urinal type, like an upside down trumpet, and my initial relief that the bedpan didn't tinkle too loudly soon gave way to a conviction that it wasn't large enough to contain the volume of liquid in my bladder. Then as the stream came toward an end and every thing looked as though it was going to work out, I began to wonder what Betrys would think of a person who didn't wash his hands after using a facility, no matter how primitive the facility might be. There was no hand washing station of any kind in the isolation room, so it wouldn't really be my fault. When I'd returned the full urinal to its place under the bed, and looked toward the Plexiglas windows, the woman staring back belonged to a category of power that someone like Zeus or King David might not have dared to lust after.

"You don't look like the stuff of myth." Goddesses are matter of fact people, no beating around bushes, they just said what they wanted to.

"English Harold's in reception." Geralt was bleary from his long hours. "Don't forget, Ystwyth! He's a Senior Orderly. He'll take care of the West Wing. It's three o'clock now so Betrys will be here soon....."

"Go home, Geralt!"

"You'll be alright and you won't let him out, will you?"

"Be gone, Geralt!"

I knew why Geralt was reluctant to leave the isolation patient to Ystwyth's care. She was dressed in more civilian type clothes. She was wearing a black blouse with long sleeves and an old looking waistcoat that might once have been black but which had clearly been regularly washed. She wore blue colored trousers, that fit her in a goddess sort of way. She had leather boots on her feet, not ammunition boots, they were more commanding somehow. Her hair was long and dark. She had no Welsh in her accent when she spoke English. But it was her blue eyes that contained her power.

"I'll get back into bed."

"Where are you from?"

"I'm not from round here." I agreed.

"But where are you from?"

I couldn't find words

"You don't know where you're from?" Ystwyth seemed pleased by the idea. "It's a shadow or a shield you have. Strange how alike you are. As I remember he was taller."

There was a burning question. I wanted to ask Ystwyth who she was comparing me to, but there was a passion in her that was driven by a kind of anger which made her a little dangerous to trust. A righteousness, I guessed, and this was no rum business kind of righteousness, she wasn't for bringing back the stocks, and on about hanging being too good for the unrighteous. Call it a fence, her eyes were bright from the dark places that lurked within her, and her lips contained a joy of the kind that definitely launched ships and I floated a while as I contemplated how fine it would feel to hear a kind word from her.

"Do you want the light off?"

From down the hallway footsteps were approaching. It was Betrys speaking Welsh, she wasn't happy with Ystwyth, she said something about Bristol, and there was drift across Ystwyth's face that suggested an increase in her determination. When I saw Betrys, she was all dressed up in her uniform, she had the anger of a worried person and it looked a little as though Ystwyth was to blame.

"How you feeling, Eddy?" Betrys contained her concerns in a truly professional way, but despite the magnificent flush in her face, she looked tired.

"I'm fine."

"There must have been a holdup of some sort, Eddy." Betrys couldn't help but glare at Ystwyth, and then it was almost as though she stamped her foot at Ystwyth which caused Ystwyth to toss her long fierce hair and disappear on down the hallway.

"Is Ystwyth your sister?" I'd seen no likeness whatsoever, it was more the manner of their interaction.

"She's just filling in, and she should be wearing a uniform!"

Betrys did look guilty of something.

"So she is your sister?"

"I'm so sorry about this Eddy. The specialist has to be here soon. How hard can it be for him to find his way here from Bristol!" Betrys moved closer to the Plexiglas, her voice an anxious whisper. "I lied to Nurse Hartlepool, Eddy. I told her that Ystwyth had had some training as a nurse. My sister needs the money, but she's going to be worse than useless if she can't even put on the uniform I found for her."

"She's your younger sister?"

"She is." Betrys nodded her head sadly. "But keep it to yourself."

"I remind her of someone."

Betrys opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out until her heart reached beyond her own predicament and she laughed. More of a chuckle, it was a gentle sound, no cruelty or smugness in it.

"Our father died soon after the war ended. He'd been badly injured. Our mother, who was always a little on the eccentric side, was hit hard by the loss. Ystwyth was very young, difficult for her. Anyway, to cut the long story short, it was a struggle to eat. We had no electric back then, couldn't have paid for it anyway, no telephone, it was a cruel cold with no wood or coal, and little food. Best as I remember it, our mother fell to a sickness of the heart, or the mind, I don't know. She told Ystwyth and I to get our warmest clothes, climb the Black Darren, which as you know we could see from our upstairs windows. When we reached the scar, we were to call to Gwningen....."

"How old were you....."

"It took Ystwyth and I a good while just to cross the hay field. She was exhausted, hungry, thin as a whip. And then we saw him on the edge. Like a shadow he was. Never seen anyone move so quickly. He'd seen us of course, difficult not to. A tall man, not much with words. English he was. He carried Ystwyth and I home to our mother. One under each arm. He seemed to know where we lived. A time of plenty for us. He got wood for our cook stove, kitchen warm, and every other day there was skinned rabbit to eat, he'd find Turnips, god knows where, and sometimes milk. I think he stole it. But he never sought shelter with us, never ate from our table. Like a shadow. He was probably a deserter, but he looked like you, Eddy. Only a great deal bigger...."

"Did he say things like not cricket chaps?"

"Get some sleep." Betrys dimmed the lights.

"What happened to him?"

"Get some sleep!" Betrys quacked on down the hallway toward the infirmary and I did as I was told until footsteps in the hallway roused me. I thought it was Betrys come to check on me, but the footsteps didn't belong to Betrys.

"I don't care what you say, Doctor George." It was Doctor Hawthorn. "Wherever your sympathies lie, there is no excuse for the behavior. It's vandalism, pure and simple!"

"It is my fault." Doctor George was remorse ridden. "I took the case out of the boot to get the spare tire. It was pitch black and when I was finally able to change the tire I forgot to put the case back in again!"

"Not your fault, easy done! You were miles out of your way."

"I'm unfamiliar with the roads this side of the Estuary." Doctor George was still trying to make sense of it all. "Nudeogov isn't easy to find."

"That's what road signs are for." Doctor Hawthorn was furious. "How is anyone supposed to find their way around if the road signs are vandalized! And in the middle of the night too."

"My assistant, Miss Egger, should be here soon with serum, I told her to make certain she had a map." Doctor George peered through the Plexiglas. "I just hope we're not too late If I could examine him, I might be able to get some sense of what bit him."

I opened my eyes, a little. The Specialist from Bristol was a mild, gray looking person with very pale skin that clearly only occasionally saw daylight.

"Get a move on nurse!" Doctor Hawthorn suddenly called down the hallway toward the clatter of an approaching trolley.

The trolley was being pushed by Ystwyth. She was all dressed up in an ill fitting uniform. She was wearing a hat that made her eyes look bigger.

"Who are you?" Doctor Hawthorn was surprised to see a stranger and he added, "Your footwear is inappropriate."

"I'm temporary." Ystwyth made her station sound like a badge of honor.

Ystwyth did her best to assist dress Doctor George in the correct manner for a medical professional preparing to examine a potentially rabid patient. I remembered that Betrys had had no mask around her face, and no latex gloves on her hands when she'd addressed my damaged toe. I felt terrible with a guilt, I could have given her rabies.

"Where's Beatrice?"

"Who's that!" Ystwyth wanted to know.

"Beatrix." Hawthorn was tempted to shout at Ystwyth, and might have done had the Specialist from Bristol not been present.

"Betrys is on her way!" Ystwyth was struggling with the correct ties for Doctor George's face mask. Doctor Hawthorn, who had suffered the incompetence of the temporary nurse rather than doing anything to help her, turned to glare into the isolation room at the awful reminder of the crisis which had gripped Nudeogov.

"It's been well over twelve hours since the incident!" Doctor George had looked at his watch. "It would be so helpful if we could track down the creature that bit him, run a few tests."

"The door to my office has been kept locked." Doctor Hawthorn was defensive. "Whatever it was is still in there. An animal control office was called immediately. He said he'd be here right away, but who knows where he might have got to. These nationalists will have a lot to answer for."

Doctor George, for his part, seemed excited by the prospect of at last entering the isolation room, coming face to face with the pox of his dreams, a real life case of human rabies, he could write papers about it. Then when Doctor George pushed on the door to the isolation room it wouldn't open.

"Well!" It was Doctor Hawthorn addressing Ystwyth.

"What?" Ystwyth wasn't to be messed with.

"Unlock the door."

"I would if I had a key."

"Where is the key?" It was far too early in the morning for Doctor Hawthorn, he'd not yet shaved or had his breakfast and what sleep he'd managed to get had been constantly disturbed by the telephone ringing.

"I'm temporary." Ystwyth explained.

"Just go and find Beatrice!"

"Who?" Ystwyth couldn't help herself

"The Nurse on duty!"

"You mean Betrys."

"Go and find her!" Doctor Hawthorn erupted.

It was an effort for Ystwyth to hold her tongue, she must have needed the money, with no great enthusiasm she plodded off, and Doctor George said something to Doctor Hawthorn that sounded like a criticism.

"We can't leave doors unsecured!" Doctor Hawthorn was brittle in his reply. At the same time, Doctor George had had a very difficult night. At the end of a long day in his laboratory he'd received the telephone call about a possible case of human rabies, he'd got lost in the rural byways, he'd ended up miles from his destination with a flat tire, and possibly I decided that being a little at the end of his tether Doctor George was a tad impatient when he reminded Doctor Hawthorn that isolation wards should never be locked from the outside. "It's a standard protocol!"

The silence that followed the exchange in the hallway between the two professionals was English icy and finally Doctor Hawthorn came up with a feeble excuse about "Finding out what the hell was going on with the key" and he marched off to investigate.

Doctor George victoriously glued himself and his face mask to the Plexiglas window and he wordlessly stared at his patient, his eyes looked bright and eager. I was wondering what to say to him, I was thinking more in terms of a pleasantry rather than just coming right out and asking whether a person could get rabies from bandaging another person's big toe, but in Doctor George's eyes there was an expression that caused me to feel more like a fascinating specimen than a patient on the verge of succumbing to a cruel and terrible sickness. I found myself choosing instead to distract Doctor George by making mention of further possible irregularities within the facility Doctor Hawthorn pretended to be charge of.

"I was bitten early afternoon yesterday, Doctor George. Not until the evening meal, several hours later, was I placed in quarantine. And as far as I know the door to Doctor Hawthorn's office wasn't locked until some time after that, so who knows where the creature that bit me might have got to."

"Several hours, you say." Doctor George was rightly alarmed,

"The initial assumption from Doctor Hawthorn, was that I had bitten myself on the big toe. Dare say had you not arrived they'd be tossing buckets of cold water at me by now."

"Buckets of water?"

"A traditional solution, as I understand it." I warmed to my subject. "Hastens the end. Puts the sufferer out of his misery. Can't have me turning into the creature that bit me. What would the newspapers say."

"The lore on the subject of rabies is rich." Doctor George had no sense of humor. "But let me assure you, young man, the remedy is on its way. My assistant will be here any minute now."

"Science is a wonderful thing. And as a doctor I imagine you're familiar with the symptoms."

"That's a very interesting area! In the early phases of the infection the symptoms are often difficult to diagnose. Fever, headache, aggressiveness are early signs, then as the disease progresses through the brain, symptoms include partial paralysis, insomnia, a number of abnormal behaviors that can include paranoia, terror, hallucinations followed by delirium and coma..."

"And being a specialist you're probably very familiar with the current ideas on how Rabies spreads."

"It's another most interesting area of study." And it was very clear that rabies was such an interesting area of study that Doctor George probably never left his laboratory unless provoked by a rabies related incident. "The virus is present in the saliva of the infected creature, our current research suggests it can be spread through sneezing, not just bites. Indeed, one could conceivably contract rabies by kissing..."

"Kissing, how interesting! But, in your opinion, after being infected, or bitten or sneezed upon, how long before the infected patient or creature becomes capable of transmitting the disease?"

"Another very interesting question. My assistant is doing her PhD thesis on that very subject..."

"How long?" I interrupted.

"That's hard to answer with precision..."

"Are you talking ten minutes or closer to five or six hours." I was visibly agitated, almost to the point of being aggressive.

"My assistant will disagree, but I'm firmly of the opinion that no matter the physical condition or size of the infected creature, it's at minimum four days, more often three and a half to four months and has been known to take up to six years....."

"Have I infected anyone yet!"

"Difficult to know with certainty...."

A quacking sound from the direction of the infirmary announced Betrys' arrival. She looked worried. She nodded in a perfunctory way at Doctor George and as she unlocked the door to the isolation room she introduced herself to him, "I'll be assisting you!"

Doctor George entered my room, Betrys followed pushing the trolley. The patient had his temperature taken and while the thermometer was still in my mouth Doctor George proceeded to un-bandage my big toe. It wasn't badly swollen, a little puss oozing from the bite marks and when Doctor George said "Gosh!" it seemed to me that Betrys momentarily rolled her eyes before gently suggesting, "It's not as bad as it looks and your temperature's perfectly normal, Eddy."

"What on earth could have done this?" Doctor George had a poor bedside manner. "It's almost like a Baboon bite. Long canines and sharp incisors. It must have been a largish creature. I hope Miss Egger remembers to bring the camera."

"What about a Rabbit bite?"

"I think not." Doctor George pointed with his tweezers at my big toe where a little below, to the left and right, of my big toenail where two particularly deep angry looking wounds. "Rabbits don't have the canine teeth, they nibble like sheep, they don't stab. And look at the result of the creature's incisors. Right into your sinus."

"My sinus?"

"That's your toenail root, it's where the nail bed grows from." Doctor George was filled with wonderment. "The creature had a powerful bite. A carnivorous animal I'd venture."

"A mongoose, I'd wager." It was Rabbit.

"So what you're saying!" I raised my voice for the benefit of the audience that had gathered in the hallway, Doctor Hawthorn had been joined by Doctor Jaspers and by Ystwyth. "I didn't bite my own big toe."

"Unless you're possessed by a genetic anomaly, I highly doubt it."

I opened my mouth to demonstrate that despite a few problems with my own biting parts, I wasn't a freak.

"Obviously the patterns all wrong for a modern human bite." Doctor George agreed. "Our own canines are further apart and certainly not much longer than our incisors. We couldn't possibly produce bite marks like this with our mouths."

"What about something like a Mongoose?" I suggested.

"You're on the right track there, young man. That's a powerful biter. A Mongoose could easily have inflicted such a wound. But a Mongoose is not a native of the United Kingdom. Could be a zoo escapee or an exotic pet running loose. Of course it could have been a badger...."

"There was no badger snuffling around in my office!" Doctor Hawthorn was outraged.

"The bites a little large for a weasel......" But Doctor George was interrupted by a commotion in the Newydd Ogof infirmary that had followed the loud slamming of the infirmary's main door. It sounded as though something was running around, knocking over things and barking in a manic way. From my bed, I was aware that the commotion in the infirmary had caused an alarm in the hallway outside my room that seemed almost to be panic. Doctor Hawthorn quickly made a decision. Even though he was improperly dressed, he wasn't wearing a mask or latex gloves, and without any kind of dignity, he forced his way into my isolation room. Doctor Jaspers and Ystwyth follow him just as quick as they could, the door to my room was slammed shut, and everyone except me lined up along the Plexiglas wall where they peered into the hallway.

"Who in god's name let that man out of his room!" Doctor Hawthorn had recovered his sense of authority. "Which one is he?"

"That's Hugh Crabtree." Doctor Jaspers seemed more interested than alarmed.

I couldn't see a thing, I stood up on the bed to try get a better view of Crabtree but it was no use, so I decided to get off the bed and join the throng at the windows.

"What's going on Betrys?"

"Mr. Crabtree's chasing something!"

The idea of being improperly dressed while shut in the same room as a potentially rabid person had soon put the heebie-jeebies into Doctor Hawthorn and to some degree Doctor Jaspers. Ystwyth, for her part was quite without fear and she appeared amused as she watched Eddy Hanian advance in a determined manner toward the door of his isolation room.

"Stop him!" Doctor Hawthorn had no intention of laying his own hands upon Hanian so he pointed at Ystwyth.

"You stop him!" Then Ystwyth said something in Welsh that might not have been complimentary.

And there are times when a Sabean who'd made the error of having ancestors who during the Diaspora had chosen to travel north instead of south, can develop a take charge kind of attitude. Once at the door I was able to see into the hallway. Crabtree was on his hands and knees, he was crawling around barking and chasing a cat. It was clearly a neatly groomed, quite large, well fed and polite domestic cat which looked vaguely familiar. In no way had the cat gone native, and the cat was clearly a little confused by Crabtree's crackpot antics.

"I'll handle this!" Without anyone trying to physically prevent me I opened the door to my isolation room, and when I was in the hallway I confidently locked the door behind me.

The Rabbit took a moment or two to grasp what was happening, then in the hallway when he finally spotted the cat he not only took the Lord's name in vain, he succumbed to the instinctual fears possessed by real rabbits. He leapt a couple of feet in the air and tried to climb the Plexiglas window. "Mongoose!" He yelled.

There was no doubt in my mind that Crabtree was doing his best to avoid having to pay his speeding ticket by attempting to present his examiners with a demonstration of just how insane he was. And all power to him, but it was Cat's predicament that caught a soft part of my heart. It was wrong, ignoble and cowardly of Crabtree to subject a small creature to so mean and unusual a predicament.

Locked inside the isolation room there was some loud grumbling and a few threats but more important Betrys' eyes had a sparkle to them that could well have been encouragement, and Ystwyth I decided, was down right impressed by me. Unfortunately the infirmary commotion hadn't gone unnoticed by the remainder of Newydd Ogof. An older, very burly male nurse, who I hadn't seen before, was approaching the isolation room hallway. The nurse had a most determined expression upon his face that suggested a great familiarity with, and fondness for, manhandling. Then when the male nurse saw the cornered little cat being barked at by Crabtree, he seemed suddenly reluctant to engage in any kind of physical contact with man or with beast.

"Harold!" It was Doctor Hawthorn, his voice a fever of frustration. "Restrain these two men, dispatch the animal, then unlock this door!"

"But be careful!" Doctor George warned.

"That's good advice English Harold!" Ystwyth seemed cheerful. "You're improperly dressed, if one of them spits on you or kisses you, you could catch the rabies."

Grownup men who don't make a habit of crawling around on all fours and barking at cats find it difficult to maintain the charade for extended periods of time. Crabtree's bark was very real, possibly a cross between a Pekinese and a Doberman, a combination of truly irritating sounds that don't come naturally to adult human vocal chords. But in attempting to maintain the levels and quality of his barking Crabtree must have damaged something, he suddenly spluttered, which became a squeak before deteriorating into what must have been a swallowing fit that nearly robbed him of his ability to breath. When he stood up to catch his breath, it looked for a moment as though Crabtree had come to his sense, then he leaned down, gently grasped the cat by the fur on the back of it's neck, lifted it into his arms, and like a rugby player in possession of the ball Hugh Crabtree ran toward English Harold. Harold chose to follow Ystwyth's advice, he stepped aside. But fearing for the fate of the cat, I followed Crabtree who charged like a less than athletic Giraffe out the infirmary swing doors, down the West Wing Corridor toward reception and the Newydd Ogof car park.

I caught up with Crabtree in the reception area. With a nervous cat in his arms, he was having difficulty opening the glass doors that led to the car park. He was pushing against them with considerable force and making a great deal of noise doing so.

"We're locked in!" He was breathless from his exertions, and it sounded as though he might have broken one of his vocal chords. "You know what this means?"

"You'll be paying your speeding ticket?" I had no sympathy for a man who'd tease a cat.

"It means curtains for Tigger!"

But I'd been around far too much to be taken in for one tiny moment by Crabtree.

"If they get their hands on Tigger there'll be no stopping them!" Crabtree explained in a desperate manner. "We have to get him out of here!"

I was beginning to wonder whether the rabies had caught up with my judgment.

"They're not going to test Tigger for rabies, they'll execute him and dissect his brain!"

I'd been grappling with the idea that I might have given Betrys rabies, still hadn't determined whether I might have done or not, and the idea of a small, rather familiar looking cat losing it's life following some whimsical notion that I had been bitten by a Cat was more than I wanted to be responsible for. The main entry doors to Newydd Ogof, opened from the outside inwards. Crabtree pushing against them from the inside outwards wasn't getting anywhere.

I pushed Crabtree aside, grasped the handles of the glass doors and pulled on them. The doors opened, the air outside was early summer morning fresh, a touch of dew, sunshine on the hills, the birds singing glory to on high. It was a little chilly, but beautiful. I followed Crabtree into the middle of the car park where Crabtree released the cat. But rather than seek his freedom Tigger looked up at me, he crouched down, twitched his tail and with great interest he sniffed my bandage-less injured big toe before attempting to settle himself and his tail so that he might lick at my injury. Nor did a sporty, blue and white vehicle, shattering the calm of a peaceful morning, distress Tigger. The vehicle entered the car park from the main road and it came to dramatic halt just yards from the two men and a peaceful Cat.

"Is this Nudeogov?" It was a younger, blond girl, brisk and businesslike, educated English accent, she didn't seem perturbed addressing her question to two men wearing orange pajamas, the one without slippers had an injured head that looked as though it had been recently shaved.

"No madam!" It was the Crabtree. "This is Newydd Ogof."

"Could you direct me to the isolation ward?" The girl efficiently opened her vehicle door, she had a big black leather physician's bag in her large hand, she was a towering woman, she seemed to be wearing a tennis dress of some sort, she had white gym shoes on her feet, she had white healthy looking socks, she looked very bronzed and agile. I spotted a tennis racket on the back seat of her car, and I reckoned that this was Doctor George's assistant come all the way from Bristol to give me a series of painful injections. And I was on the verge of making the suggestion that Nudeogov, though is sounded like Newydd Ogof, was in fact a good forty miles up the valley beyond Crickhowell, but the glass doors to the main entrance of the facility were flung open and into the car park poured a stream of mental health professionals, some of them wearing face masks and all of them apparently very anxious to net Hanian and Crabtree. Who both bravely turned to face the onslaught.

"Give Tigger a sharp kick, it'll move him on." It was a suggestion from Crabtree, who'd noticed my attempting to encourage Tigger to make a run for it, but Tigger thought it a game.

Doctor George's assistant, Miss Eggers, wasn't one of those who panicked easily. In the course of her research into rabies transmission from one creature to another she spent a great many hours conducting unusual experiments upon animals of different sizes and characteristics, and yet the explosive scene in the Newydd Ogof car park that early morning reminded her of an incident at the university which had involved a direct action by the ACL an Anti Cruelty League. The incident had been traumatic for Miss Eggers, it had involved a breaking and entering of her research facility by reprobates, some of them quite elderly, badly disguised as laboratory technicians. She'd lost months of data, had had a terrible time replacing a particularly cooperative Gibbon, and when she saw the Newydd Ogof staff charge through the glass doors into the car park, she took a second look at Hanian and Crabtree, and she leapt to the conclusion that this was yet another direct action by the ACL. Her reaction was instantaneous. Holding fast to her physician's bag, she unlocked the boot of her vehicle and produced a field hockey stick, which she brandished in her left hand in a manner that suggested she was of Berserker Viking stock.

"Surround them!" It was a masked Doctor Hawthorn waving his arms, issuing instructions to English Harold, Doctor Jaspers, Betrys and Ystwyth.

Miss Eggers, though greatly outnumbered, had concluded that Doctor Hawthorn was an ACL direct action cell leader and she advanced toward him with every intention of striking a blow for common sense and decency, and she might well have succeeded in doing so had the familiar figure of her thesis supervisor also wearing a mask, not emerged from the Newydd Ogof facility.

"Well done Miss Eggers you found it." Doctor George seemed delighted to see his assistant. "Everything in order?"

And while Miss Eggers was reappraising the situation by mechanically listing aloud the contents of her black bag, Doctor Hawthorn was rallying his reluctant troops with loud, incomprehensible instructions, many of which had military sounding undertones. And it was Ystwyth who soon voiced the mutiny in Newydd Ogof ranks by suggesting, "They don't look as though they're going anywhere, so why are you bellowing at us!"

"We should at least all be wearing masks." English Harold ventured, until Betrys gallantly offered him her mask.

"There's no time to shilly-shally," Doctor Hawthorn bellowed louder. "If that cat gets away there could be an outbreak!"

"What sort of a hospital is this?" Miss Eggers raised the question to her supervisor.

"Not sure..."

Doctor George's answer was interrupted by Doctor Hawthorn announcing that he'd just have to deal with matters himself and without really asking he suddenly attempted to wrestle the hockey stick away from Miss Eggers which was probably an error on his part. She was far too cold bath English tough to let anyone use her personal sporting equipment without first being introduced to them.

"Hold up Hawthorn!" The voice of reason was Doctor George. "Miss Eggers is eminently competent and experienced, she'll deal with this...."

"I do play golf!" Doctor Hawthorn defended himself, but the careful listener might have heard relief in his voice.

"Slight crisis here, Miss Eggers. No time to catch you up on the situation." Doctor George calmly explained to his assistant and then he pointed at Tigger. "That domestic cat could be rabid. You know what to do....."

I was suddenly aware that a blond from Bristol was approaching me with a field hockey stick and I guessed at her intention. Ystwyth was on exactly my wave length, she said something that didn't sound in the least complimentary in Welsh to Betrys. Betrys demurely covered her eyes, but Ystwyth put both her hands on her hips and was quite determined to be a witness to yet another example of English barbarity. I picked up the cat, held the little creature in both my arms, the creature had a familiar feeling and smell I couldn't quite give a place to.

"Stick your index finger up Tigger's anus!" It was the Crabtree and he was whispering in a conspiratorial manner.

"Stick your own finger up his anus!" The very idea of it was unnatural.

Crabtree always sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. And there was Ystwyth watching me, judging me, and Betrys was peeping at me through her fingers, which made me very much the center of attention. I too must have developed a touch of the Viking Berserker, it's character flaw, without rhyme of reason, and to make my point as clearly as possible I came to Tigger's defense by loudly declaring, "Take one step further and I'll forget I'm a gentleman!"

Stirring stuff in some quarters, Ystwyth seemed impressed enough to frown. So did Crabtree, but the reaction in the Rabbit's strange world, and in Bristol to my warning was a great deal more than disparaging. The Rabbit embarked upon a series of pleading Hail Mary's. Miss Eggers took both hands to her hockey stick, and as though she was juggling for a hockey ball, her tongue found her cheek, her eyes widened in anticipation of good old fashioned sporting event, she'd always preferred hockey to tennis, and she was much taller than the little man in front of her. Indeed, all might have gone badly for Aled had an ancient rusty Bedford van not juddered to a halt on the main road, reversed loudly before pulling into the Newydd Ogof car parking area. The vehicle had a ladder strapped to its roof rack, the letters on the side of the van read, "Fychan Riddle, Humane Animal Control" and there was a short telephone number.

When Mr. Riddle got out of his vehicle, he seemed quite unmoved by the nature of scene, not in the least alarmed, clearly a man who had seen it all in the course of his professional career. His demeanor and calmness produced a stillness in the car park that soothed Miss Eggers' hot running blood. But it was Mrs. Rees from the Newydd Ogof kitchen that put a smile on Mr. Riddle's face. She was wearing her apron, she had a grease spatula in her hand, she was in the doorway to the reception area, and she was in no good mood.

"Breakfast has been ready for half an hour. The scrambled egg is now rubbery, and the tea is cold!"

"Not now, cook." Doctor Hawthorn had few charms, but he always knew better than to upset cook. "We're a little busy here."

But Mrs. Rees had spotted me, she took no notice of Doctor Hawthorn and waving her spatula she advanced toward the impasse between myself and Miss Eggers.

"Is that Aled you've got there, Gwningen? Braith Bidder's been worried sick about him."

"Is Aled chasing shadows again, Mrs. Rees?" Mr. Riddle had more of a Portuguese or Spanish accent.

"Send Aled home this instant, Gwningen!" Mrs. Rees was all business and with her spatula she pointed to the south west.

I looked down at the cat in my arms, I knew why the little creature was familiar. Aled lived with a lonely little old lady who'd made a cup of tea and had offered me her very last chocolate covered biscuit from the tin. Carefully I maneuvered my index finger into Aled's anus. Aled became alert, he looked briefly surprised, then he gave me a look that suggested shock, before leaping from my arms and racing off toward the hedgerows. Miss Eggers, flailing her hockey stick, chased after him, but, and to the cheers of delight from Ystwyth, Aled outran his pursuing hound, his high tail off into the distance toward Wirral Cottage. When the last flurry of him was gone, Miss Eggers gave up the chase, and Ystwyth turned to her sister. It's difficult to explain the expression on Ystwyth's face. It was almost as though she was a little girl again.

Miss Eggers, like all truly competitive people, expressed her frustration at having failed to remove Aled from the world by practicing her hockey swing as she returned from the chase.

"No clue what the protocol is now, George!" It was a mournful Doctor Hawthorn. "Issue an alert, I imagine?"

But Mr. Riddle had some kind words for a depressed long legged blond.

"Don't distress yourself, Miss. Not your fault. The pussy cat is related to the cheetah. He can run very fast over short distances, but no stamina. I can show you how to follow him if you like. We'll try to get him with the dart gun."

"You're not here for Aled, Mr. Riddle." Mrs. Rees was loud and important. "There's a Stoat or one of those Minks escaped again from the farm. They come in through the roof you know. Why anyone has a flat roof, I don't know! The creature's locked in the Doctors office."

"I assure you cook, there's no stoat or mink in my office."

"I heard it on my way out to find you lot." Mrs. Rees was more interested in her dashing Spaniard. "It's in there alright, it was scrabbling at the door. You don't hear them unless they're hungry, do you Mr. Riddle?"

"The Mink can be cunning, Mrs. Rees. I'll get my gear."

"I'll put the kettle on, heat some milk." Mrs. Rees, who was definitely an older woman, shot at glance at young Miss Eggers. "You'll have a cup of the instant coffee, Mr. Riddle, before you start?"

"That's enough!" Doctor Hawthorn, who felt the weight of his authority, particularly in the presence of the majestic Miss Eggers, called the proceedings to order. "There'll be no boiling of kettles and no one gets breakfast, until Hanian and Crabtree are both isolated and vaccinated!"

"Strictly speaking it's an inoculation!" Miss Eggers was ever determined to impress her supervisor. "Human rabies immunoglobulin is not a prophylaxis, but it will be followed by four doses of rabies vaccine over a two week period."

"That should do it!" Doctor Hawthorn attempted to sound knowledgeable.

Ystwyth, listening to Miss Eggers, had made the sort of face that could well have put her in detention had she been in something like a math class rather than a car park. But I shuddered at the news from Miss Eggers, I had to struggle to prevent myself from running after Aled.

"What if someone has already been inoculated against rabies?" I spoke up.

"Any medical man worth their salt and who's had the presence of mind to bring a human rabies immune globulin with them can test the blood for the presence of the rabies antigen. Bring your bag, Eggers. I'll show you how it's done!" It was Crabtree at his best, and he politely gestured with a wave of his arm that Miss Eggers lead the way to the infirmary.

As we approached the entrance to the Newydd Ogof Unit, I noticed that Miss Eggers had caught Doctor George's eye with an unspoken question which I assumed had to do with the legitimacy of the Crabtree's assertion that blood could be tested for a rabies antigen. Doctor George had then pursed his lips before nodding his head imperceptibly. In the area of rabies, I decided, Professor Crabtree seemed to know exactly what he was talking about, but very difficult to be certain.

"Don't worry." The Rabbit contributed. "Crabtree is a dangerous lunatic and he's a troublemaker. He belongs in Avon Bed's Secure Wing, not the general population."

"What if I end up in the Secure Wing at Afon-Bedd?"

"We can't have that!" The Rabbit was alarmed by the prospect.

"What happens in the Secure Wing?"

"It brings back too many bad memories." The Rabbit was uncomfortable.

"I have a few bad memories of my own! While I, through no fault of my own and more likely it was your fault, was nearly dying of cold in the wilderness being chased by sheep, you were hopping about with your fellow saints in Afon-Bedd....."

"The Secure Wing is like Freckles' brewery. It was horrible, dandelion all over the place, and the smell! Some of us boys liked it but very few of us escaped."

"You escaped from Freckles' brewery?" I was disbelieving.

"We weren't making altar wine, my child....."

Doctor George was carrying the black physician's bag Miss Eggers had arrived with. She took the chance to expertly tie on her own face mask. Doctor Jaspers, English Harold, Betrys and Ystwyth where behind me, and bringing up the rear was Doctor George who was listening to Doctor Hawthorn loudly voicing his struggle with the prospect of managing not just one but two suspected rabies patients for two whole weeks.

"Out of the question!" Doctor George was confident, he was impatient from sleeplessness and he sounded fed up. "You have a perfectly adequate and extensive twenty four hour, seven day a week facility here. All you have to do to meet protocol standards is to move another bed into your isolation ward and have a key readily available!"

"Our experience doesn't extend to infectious diseases!" Doctor Hawthorn tried again. "This is not a medical facility."

"What are you?" It was Miss Eggers leaping bluntly to her supervisor's support.

"We are an understaffed mental evaluation and overflow unit for the Tri-County Asylum." And then ominously, as though to explain the enormity of his problem, Doctor Hawthorn added, "We serve Hereford, Monmouth and Brecon."

"That explains a lot." Miss Eggers couldn't help herself.

"That explains everything!" It was Crabtree, he stopped in his tracks bringing corridor traffic to a standstill. "I'm from Gloucestershire. I've obviously been sent to the wrong place."

"Obviously, you've got no business being here! And, by the way, neither have I." I'd always had a slight problem with Gloucestershire, like Wiltshire it was like a bit Kent in Wessex.

"Move that man along, Harold!" Doctor Hawthorn sounded resigned, almost disinterested.

"I'm not going near him without proper equipment!" Harold was greatly encouraged by the solidarity of the sinuous Ystwyth. "You should ask Mr. Riddle to do it."

"I'd rather struggle with hydrophobia than share quarters with Edward." Crabtree sounded determined.

"Perhaps you see the gist of our problem in the mental health field, Doctor George!" Doctor Hawthorn reckoned he had a moment of victory, he sounded smug.

"I do!" Doctor George answered and another one of those invisible messages must have passed between the specialists from Bristol.

How she did it, I've no idea. Experience gained from her dealings with out of control laboratory animals, I imagine. She put an odd, expectant yet innocent look upon her face, and from out of nowhere Miss Eggers produced a giant syringe with very long thick needle. It looked more like an Elephant tranquilizer dart than something one might consider suitable for a person. As soon as I saw it I felt a little as though I was going to faint, so I looked away. I was aware of Crabtree gasping, the next thing he was wobbling around trying to keep his footing and Doctor George took him by the arm to keep him from falling to the hard floor. I'm not proud of it, but I panicked and made a run for it. Quite pointless effort on my part, she had gorilla grip, she smelled of sun tan lotion and all I can really say with confidence is that Aled was very, very lucky to get away from Miss Eggers.

Doctor Hawthorn was impressed by Miss Eggers' solution to the problem Crabtree and Hanian had presented his inadequately staffed facility. English Harold was less impressed, he saw in it the lamplighter's fate for the occupation of a mental health orderly and it wasn't his fault, he could easily have managed his responsibilities, but he was inadequately equipped to deal with the infectious. Ystwyth went on a bit in Welsh then said something in English about civil rights and she might have continued had Betrys not called her to order. For Miss Eggers and Doctor George the entire procedure was a regular event in their own profession, it didn't seem in the least special or unusual to apply so obvious a solution to unfortunates creatures possessed by a number of mental anomalies that prevented them from fully grasping the consequences of their behavior.

But Miss Egger's tranquilizer didn't send it's two victims into an anticipated peaceful oblivion. As the chemicals took their toll it soon became apparent that while both Crabtree and Hanian if left unaided would, as anticipated, have crumpled slowly to the ground, they were nonetheless, clearly both a long way from unconscious. Their eyes remained open, they were both capable of blinking, neither responded well to verbal commands and despite having been robbed of the power of speech both seemed agitated as though plotting an uneasy vengeance. And there was a quality in their stare that Ystwyth described as "unnerving to witness."

"The dosage was for an adult chimpanzee!" Doctor George spoke confidently.

"What is it?" Doctor Hawthorn spoke with enthusiasm.

"It's a my own benzodiazepine compound designed to work quickly." Miss Eggers was prompt. "It normally just knocks them completely out!"

"It does work quickly!" Doctor Hawthorn agreed. "But what compound of benzodiazepine is it?"

Miss Eggers was again prompt in her determination to impress, and she mention proportions, percentages of a whole range of long arduous words, difficult to pronounce without a familiarity with perhaps Latin or Russian. But Doctor Hawthorn was unimpressed, he knew a great deal about the effects of chemicals upon his patients, he was considered an expert in the field, and he was concerned.

"I have to say this!" Young Doctor Jaspers, who was well rested after a comfortable night in his Uncle's holiday home, could hardly contain himself. "Hugh Crabtree and Edward Hanian were sent here for a simple evaluation and they have now been given a compound which even I know is unlikely to ever be authorized by the MCA..."

"Oh do shut up Jaspers!" It was Doctor Hawthorn reacting poorly to his own difficult situation and his lack of sleep. "We all know you're one of Woolley's toadies. Get off your high horse, show some initiative and assist in getting these two into the isolation room."

Doctor George suggested Doctor Jaspers assist him with the burden of Crabtree. But Miss Eggers would take no assistance from the Nudeogov staff, she leaned down, thrust one arm between my legs and she smartly lifted me onto her shoulders with the technique I recognized as a fireman's lift. Crabtree, who unlike me was considerably larger and heavier than a charging adult chimpanzee, and for whom the dose from Miss Eggers' syringe was possible insufficient, began to feel his bones much sooner than I did. Even before Betrys and Ystwyth had moved the second bed into the isolation room Crabtree was already struggling to disentangle himself from Doctor George and Doctor Jaspers. And Crabtree seemed to be snarling and hissing rather than vocalizing his complaints.

Miss Eggers suggested a booster shot of her patented medicine for Crabtree but Doctor Hawthorn aware of the increasingly fragile reputation of his facility, muttered something about the risk of heart failure and he dismissed Miss Eggers' idea as irresponsible. Instead he directed English Harold to fetch the old fashioned bed restrains from the infirmary storeroom, a task which once he was given a mask and latex gloves he was delighted to perform.

From my vantage point, across Miss Eggers' shoulders, I could feel a certain excitement in Doctor George's assistant and with some effort I was able to look up at her face. She was, it seemed to me, enjoying herself as she watched Doctor George and Doctor Jaspers struggling to get Crabtree onto what had been my bed. Crabtree was like ticklish jelly that could not be spooned, neither of the two Doctors dexterous in the area of manhandling, they couldn't get a hold of Crabtree, he'd become slippery of body which seemed to me yet another reason to suspect Crabtree of dishonorable behaviors. Then when Betrys and Ystwyth had at last wheeled a second bed down the hallway into the isolation room, and when Betrys suggested sheets, a pillow and a blanket for me, Doctor Hawthorn declared such creature comforts completely unnecessary, given the circumstances, and Miss Eggers essentially tossed me off her shoulders onto the mattress.

"Are you present in the world?" The Rabbit preached. "If so, be exceedingly wary of Hawthorn's potions. The secure wing at Avon-Bed is awash with his victims. Escape difficult, even for Freckles."

I was very much in the world, I was unable to move and Miss Eggers plunked me onto the bed in such a way that I was forced to watch her assist in subduing Crabtree.

Harold was breathless when he returned to the isolation room with two sets of bed restraints. Three leather straps that were first buckled to the bed. Then one strap for the chest. One strap for the waist which included cuffs for both wrists. The strap for the feet included cuffs for both ankles. And oddly, even if the procedure for attaching a person to bed restrains was a mystery to Doctor Hawthorn and to Doctor Jaspers, both of whom were mental health professionals, English Harold had no need to show Miss Eggers how bed restraints functioned. Once strapped in, Hugh Crabtree and Eddy Hanian had nowhere to go, they were defenseless, an ugly feeling for both men, a humiliation against which Crabtree could only move his mouth and tongue sufficiently to rasp something that sounded like Chimpanzee.

Still unable to say anything, my talking parts frozen, my mind torn by various glimpses and voices of womankind. I noticed that Miss Eggers was preparing syringes for Doctor George and I heard her saying "The bigger one's over a hundred and ninety pounds, the smaller one's not much more than a hundred."

Ystwyth, who was attempting to follow Miss Egger's instructions to her, was saying, "If it's got to be in the his arm why didn't you take the man's dressing gown off before you strapped him in?"

But it was Betrys, she was anointing my injured big toe with a cold stinging liquid that brought the squirm into me. "Try to hold still Eddy. It's for your own good."

"He appears to be able to hear you, Beatrice." Doctor George was interested.

"He can feel too!" Betrys shot back.

Miss Eggers handed a prepared syringe to Doctor George who injected very expensive human rabies immunoglobulin into the area of the wound on my toe, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that I could feel the needle. My foot wiggled around as best it could in its attempt to escape and I yelped in a manner Crabtree would later describe in unflattering terms. But neither Doctor George or Miss Eggers had had an opportunity to physically examine Crabtree for scratches or bites and Crabtree was, according to protocol, to be inoculated in what Miss Eggers insisted upon calling the deltoid region, or the upper arm as Ystwyth preferred to call it.

"How can I take his dressing gown off without untying him!" Ystwyth was on the verge of revolt when Miss Eggers, to Doctor George's delight in the quick thinking of his protégé, had the obvious solution. She took a firm grasp of Crabtree's dressing gown sleeve with one hand, with the other hand she held on to Crabtree's shoulder and without any apparent effort she ripped off the dressing gown sleeve. Crabtree's pajama top was easy enough to roll up so as to reveal his deltoid region which had at one time in the more distant past been blessed by an ink tattoo.

Despite my own delicate situation I was able to read per ardua ad astra on Crabtree's shoulder and distant though the memory might have been, I still knew what per ardua ad astra meant. It was the Latin motto of the Royal Air Force.

It was Ystwyth who voiced the layman's opinion in the isolation room. "I think Eddy might have gone delirious!"

"He does that." It was Betrys, uncertainty in her voice.

"He shouldn't be able to say anything!" Miss Eggers was fascinated. She stared down into my face, she still smelled of suntan lotion.

"He spent a lot of time alone!" Betrys explained. "Talking to himself is a habit he's got."

"The point is he shouldn't be able to talk. It's a muscle relaxant, a high dose, he shouldn't be able to move any skeletal muscles let alone the muscles that enable him to talk." Miss Eggers then leaned over me and she said in a loud and commanding manner. "Repeat after me. The quick brown cow jumped over the lazy hen."

It wasn't so much what Miss Eggers said to me, it had more to do with the know it all authority with which she said it. In the course of my years upon earth I'd spent many painful hours in handwriting detention, writing out that same pangram Miss Eggers had asked me to repeat. I must have written the sentence hundreds, perhaps thousands of times, and for so consummate a professional as Miss Eggers to have got the sentence incorrect, somehow demanded a reaction from me. With both Betrys and Ystwyth anxious for my well being, I reached deep into my being, but the best the I could manage was a cruel, somewhat menacing grin. And it was Crabtree, with slightly slurred yet perfect annunciation, who was able to answer Miss Eggers.

"I think you'll find it's a fox that jumps over a dog. That gives you the F and the X."

Doctor Hawthorne snorted in a chortling manner, it was sound of joy from a professional, but he was too dizzy from want of his breakfast to take full vocal advantage of the chink one of his patients had spotted in the Specialists from Bristol. It was down to Doctor Jaspers to again remind everyone of the perils of plugging the gaps in the social maze by resorting to random acts of chemistry. He murmured somewhat scathingly about the unfortunate creatures who might happen to find themselves in Miss Eggers's care. I was increasingly aware, that there was a chasm between Doctor Hawthorne and Doctor Jaspers over the use of medication as a primary instrument in the care of the mentally ill.

Nor had Hugh Crabtree taken kindly to the realization that Miss Eggers had chosen to use a tranquilizer designed to be effective against a charging chimpanzee upon a perfectly reasonable person. It was an offensive practice which now that Crabtree had found his voice he felt obliged to vigorously denounce. "You chaps from Bristol are the bitter end!" And he went on about how his wife's family was from Bristol, and how he should have known never to have become involved with anyone from Bristol, and how during his younger days one of his sole pleasures had been to watch the German Luftwaffe dropping their bombs on Bristol, and how he fully intended to seek legal advice just as soon as he could find a fountain pen with a medium nib and some lettered paper which he pretty much guaranteed was a level of sophistication well beyond the knuckle dragging mental capacities of anyone from Bristol particularly if they happened to be engaged in laboratory work.......

"I'm from Bath." It was Miss Eggers

"No wonder!" Crabtree would not be stopped. "Bristol is an Olympic standard of sportsmanship and fair play compared to Bath......"

Doctor Hawthorne had had enough. He opened the door to the isolation room, he gestured toward the hallway and in commanding terms he reminded his fellow professionals that neither Crabtree or Hanian was going anywhere in a hurry, there were six other patients in the facility who were still locked in their rooms and needed to be attended to, they were short staffed, Mrs. Rees' kitchen was probably closed and it was well past time to regroup around a refreshment.

"Might be a good idea to have someone keep an eye on these two for the next couple of hours." Doctor George wasn't keen on the idea of deserting suspected rabies cases. Tentatively he volunteered his assistant, Miss Eggers, but she was dagger and claw at Crabtree who had strong opinions about Bath and anyone who lived in Bath who'd clearly deserted the Mercian cause following the Battle of Edington..... This was of great interest to me, because I had a familiarity with the Battle of Edington and I also had very strong opinions about the ruin King Alfred had wrought on an otherwise green a pleasant land by winning the battle of Edington.

"I'll hold the fort here." It was Doctor Jaspers.

"No you won't!" Doctor Hawthorne would hear none of it. "There are better things for you to be doing, Jaspers. Nurse Beatrice has a great deal more experience at recognizing an adverse reaction to an inoculation than you and your note book!"

English Harold was most gallant, he had sometimes cozy relationship with the canteen and he promised Betrys to bring her one of Mrs. Rees' special cups of instant coffee in hot milk. Betrys was grateful, she'd just have the one sugar.

"And Miss Eggers, I will remind you, the Treaty of Wedmore is no excuse if you're thinking about using it....." Crabtree hadn't noticed that everyone but Hanian and Betrys had left the isolation room, he was rambling on around the events of ninth century with the passion of a Shiite.

"Try to calm yourself." Betrys hovered a little. "Miss Eggers is gone."

"Of course she's gone!" There was a victorious sigh in the Crabtree's tone. "Classic Bristolian, can't hold up to a well reasoned argument......."

"You have to calm yourself, Mr. Crabtree. Muscle relaxants aren't good for your heart, your heart's a muscle, and over-exciting yourself isn't good for you!"

"You're right Betrys. But as a proud Welshwoman you must share similar emotions about Powys and the degradation wrought upon your people by the Saxon and the Dane, not to mention the wretched Norman."

"I think of myself as a proud Saxon." I was able to splutter.

"Of course you do!" Crabtree was all riled up again. "Named after the English King who put the last nail in the coffin of Welsh Independence. Edward the First. Edward Longshanks. He was Joan of Arc's father. Says it all........"

"I'll hear no more of this!" Betrys was tired, she was hungry, her ability to care was running thin. "It was a long time ago. Neither of you are doing your case any good, jabbering on about Bath and Saxons. Stop talking! You must both rest! If rabies is what they say it is, you'll need all your strength."

"Edward didn't bite me, Betrys. So I've not got rabies."

"It's in the spit. You can catch it by kissing. I could have sneezed on you." It was an effort to speak, but I couldn't stop himself, and I suspected the reason had to do with Miss Eggers' syringe.

"There's no talking sense to either of you." Betrys left the isolation room, she closed the door behind her, she locked it, she took off her mask and she went to fetch a chair to rest her weariness upon. The English, even when they could pronounce her name correctly, were an exhausting people. There was something unstable about the lot of them, and she cursed the day she'd agreed to leave her job at Princess of Wales hospital in Pen-y-Bont to work at the Newydd Ogof unit so as to be closer to her mother.

"You've upset Nurse Betrys!" I attempted to glare at Crabtree.

"Nonsense!"

"I don't exactly know what you're up Crabtree!" Despite the intensity of the effort involved in speaking, I was on fire. "But whatever it is you're not very good at it. Thanks to you we'll probably never see breakfast, we'll be lucky to get lunch! And I bet you were never in the air force. Per ardua ad astra, I bet you don't even know what it means. And why were you running around pretending to be a dog, frightening poor little Aled. He's very brave but he hates dogs....."

One of the side effects of tranquilizers, and especially those devised to quickly sooth charging chimpanzees is what the professionals casually call dry mouth. The salivary glands become idle, the mouth begins to feel like cotton wool and in my case too much talking led to a coughing fit, during which the straps that tied me to the bed made breathing difficult and I decided I was probably going to die. Betrys, smelling of coffee and milk, rushed into the isolation room with a cup of water. "I told you not to talk, Eddy!"

"It means through hard work to the stars......" Crabtree too was croaking, his voice an unnatural pitch for an older male.

"And you shouldn't be talking either, Mr. Crabtree!" Betrys was right of course.

"Doesn't mean you were in the air force!" I managed.

"What is it with you two?" It was frustrating for Betrys. "I know you're both a little worried. That's understandable, but try to pull yourselves together."

"I'm a veteran of the Royal Air Force, not afraid of anything and I don't have rabies. Had I known Miss Eggers was from Bath, I never would have offered to help her......"

"As a veteran of the Air Force," Betrys fired back. "You'll know all about hurry up and wait. Well, Mr. Crabtree it's time to wait this out......."

"I'm pretty sure I've already been inoculated against rabies," I struggled.

"Pretty sure?" It was Crabtree. "Not something a person forgets."

"I remember the booster shots...."

"Betrys!" Crabtree spoke calmly. "Take no notice of Hanian. Like most Saxons he's obviously delusional, and if he survives we all know where he's going....."

I would have pressed the matter had it not been for a doubt. I understood my own circumstance. I'd lost part of my memory. I could remember passing into unconsciousness in the eye of the White Horse of Uffington. I woke up miles and miles away in the hills that border Wales with England. My eternal friend was gone from me. I had my canvass, everything I possessed was in it, except of the two passports in my possession my own passport was missing. I'd been well occupied by events, little time to concern myself with it. I'd usually carry my own passport on my person to keep ready. Easier to assume my own passport had fallen from my shirt pocket, than it was to sweat around the issue. When I thought about Sergeant Salmon at the police station and Shire Hall, the politics of road signage, money, rare books, the Welsh Nationalist cause, Boston and Florida, it seemed to me that the forces of law and order had every reason to do their due diligence and sooner or later follow up the information contained within the pages of Edward Hanian's passport. I know they photocopied it, it was a new fangled device for Sergeant Salmon, he'd had to seek assistance from a younger officer. It was a little chilling to think of the possibilities should Sergeant Salmon become curious, cast around make a few phone calls, find out who Edward Hanian was. All I knew about him was that he was born in London and his father was an architect, wealthy enough to own a Schooner called the Windral, who was working abroad, his son along with him. It was Dana Driscoll, who'd pushed me toward taking full advantage any opportunity presented which might keep me from the decisions of the legal system by persuading sir Evelyn to seek an opinion from mental health professionals. What would happen, if through a set of circumstances far out of my control Edward Hanian's family was informed that their Eddy had been found. He was fine, he was alive, and he was in the care of an institution devoted to the well being of the mentally challenged. How hard would it be to die of rabies, I wondered. How hard would it be to follow my eternal friend into the Tri County Lunatic Asylum.

"I won them fair and square!" Crabtree was saying. He had medals from the air force, and he would show me his uniform just as soon as he'd secured a legal representative who would "Take Miss Eggers for everything she's got."

"You'll be telling me you've played a Cello on Chesil Beach with the Knightsbridge Quartet next?" I was at sea in a mist heading toward a storm

"I'm not a musical person. But I've flown a Dear Old Stringbag over Chesil Beach on numerous occasions. Don't suppose you even know what Fairey Swordfish is."

"Ever seen a Junkers 52 flying over the Chesil Beach on a moonlit night?"

"That's another very silly question....."

"Trying to have a conversation with someone who crawls around pretending to be dog, and why weren't you locked safely away in your cell."

"Oh that."

"Yes that. I was locked in the isolation room. The other candidates were all safely locked up in their rooms. But not you. You were wandering around being mean to Aled. You're an agent provocateur, which is a French word for a snitch who should be shot at dawn. I don't know about you people from Mercia, but no Saxon would be seen dead behaving like that....."

"Candidate?" Crabtree interrupted. "You said candidate!"

"If I said candidate, I meant candidate."

"Candidates for what?" Crabtree, despite the rasp in his voice, sounded genuinely confused.

"For the Tri-County Lunatic asylum."

Crabtree made no reply. He was silent for a long time. The silence dragged on. It was as though a great sadness was coming from Crabtree's side of the isolation room. Then when Betrys and Ystwyth, both of them masked and gloved, arrived with breakfast, Ystwyth cheerfully said, "Cat got your tongues?"

Crabtree said nothing, not a mention of the cold porridge with what tasted like powdered milk being no substitute for bacon and eggs. It was a beaker of apple juice with a straw, rather than coffee of any sort and naturally there was beetroot sandwich from Mrs. Rees for me, a jam sandwich for the Professor. Crabtree didn't even mention the indignity of being restrained, unable to use his own hands, and having to be fed by Nurse Betrys. I didn't mind so much being fed by Ystwyth. Her mouth and her moods had already cast a spell upon me. She had long fingers, well kept nails, and it could have been the apple juice, but close up she did smell a little of paint thinner.

"I've done quite a bit of painting." I found the silence suddenly uncomfortable.

"That's nice for you." Ystwyth was unimpressed.

"I'm pretty good at painting chairs." I advised. "They're not easy to paint without leaving drips and getting paint all over yourself."

"Never painted a chair." Ystwyth's eyes were silent. "Don't see a reason to paint a chair."

"I painted a bathroom once......."

"Stop talking, Eddy. Eat your breakfast." Ystwyth's eyes were still silent.

"Odd thing about gals, Edward." It was Crabtree. "If they're not interested in a subject they are most adept at letting you know. Clearly your social skills need work."

"I just thought you might have been painting, Ystwyth. I thought I smelled turpentine."

"Describing the scent of a gal is another area you need to work on." Crabtree was delighted with himself, but the smile was gone from Ystwyth, and Betrys was well aggravated, she told the Crabtree she didn't have the rest of the day to sit around waiting on him

"I like the smell of turpentine!" I offered.

"Have to be careful near turpentine!" It was the Crabtree, he was very cheerful. "Ask a laborer in Australia, if there any of them left. It can cause renal failure, it can damage the respiratory system and the nervous system. Not recommended as a perfume. So I hope you've been careful, Ystwyth. "

Ystwyth reacted poorly. She said, "You know something Mr. Crabtree, you're a nosey old git."

"Merely concerned!" Crabtree didn't laugh.

"No need." Ystwyth stuffed the last crust of beetroot sandwich into my mouth.

"It's the little details." Crabtree persisted. "Miss a few and you're in the drink. Try to follow me on this......."

"I'd rather follow a duck!" I contributed, and Ystwyth might have smiled but it was difficult to tell.

"First World War. Lusitania sunk by a torpedo, bought the Yanks into the fiasco. There must have been conniption fits in Berlin. It's not often an Englishman succumbs to the Rabies virus in his homeland, and I'm sure Miss Eggers will be only to happy to dissect him, but consider the mood in Whitehall when it transpires that an unfortunate mentally deranged individual dies of whatever cause while in the care of Her Majesty's Mental Health Service....."

"Eddy's been inoculated!" Betrys was standing up, Crabtree's tray in her hands. "You're going to be fine, Eddy."

"The inoculation was delayed, Betrys." Crabtree made his point. "When Eddy dies a painful and horrible death it'll not be as a result of the incompetence of Mental Health Service, but as a result of a political activity. In other words, the Lusitania was torpedoed by an activity that might well have involved turpentine."

"Look Crabtree!" And it sounded a little like a threat from Ystwyth. "Just because Eddy thinks I smell of turpentine doesn't mean I go round painting over English road signs."

Betrys said something in Welsh to her younger sister. "I'll take all the notice I want of him," Ystwyth answered in English.

"It's the little details, Ystwyth!" Crabtree was unmoved. "Especially when dealing with the English political establishment. They didn't forge an empire out of the generosity and kindness of their hearts....."

"I can vouch for that!" I attempted to contribute.

"Don't get me wrong, Ystwyth. I am only speaking in an advisory capacity. I'm a member of the Mercian Independence Movement. Thanks to the Pretender Alfred we no longer have our own language, but trust me, if we did I'd be smelling of turpentine and if I was smelling of turpentine under these circumstances I would be jolly sure to have a damn good alibi........"

"It's not illegal to smell of turpentine!" Betrys contributed.

"Legalities never troubled the agents of the state....."

Betrys rattled her tray, she dragged her sister out of the isolation room, she locked the door and she made certain it was locked before disappearing into the infirmary. When Crabtree and Hanian were alone, I found himself saying, "I do have quite a good sense of smell."

"Exciting, isn't it?" The Professor was bubbling.

"Depends where you are. There are places you'd be better off without a sense of smell."

"Not everything's about your nose, you idiot. I meant, here we are in the front lines of what is clearly a major operation by the Princes of Powys. It's a devious and brilliant scheme. My hats off to them!"

"It was your idea I'd been bitten by a rabid animal!" I was confused.

"And look how fast they swung into action. No messing about. No shilly-shallying. A tribute to their grit and determination. Nurse Betrys is a born leader. I'd put her up against Hannibal, Tamerlane and General Montgomery. She's an Alexander the Great of the Welsh Marches. Thank god she wasn't around in the sixth century when the Iclingas took charge of the Mercians..."

And while the Professor rambled on about the strategic and military genius contained within the remarkably attractive form of Betrys Sanders, our hero cast back in his mind to the Sages South of the Wash. They often took to various remedies for their sometimes monotonous existence of staring at the turquoise seas waiting for something to happen. It was a habit that frequently frustrated the Sage Bernice, especially when one or other of the remedies produced odd behaviors that usually followed peculiar hallucinations and again I wondered whether contained within Miss Eggers' chimpanzee tranquilizer there may have been a substance that was adversely effecting my own mental processes.

"Are you telling me that Betrys is up to her neck in the politics of road signage?"

"My dear boy! She's not up to her neck in it. She's a master of it."

"Talk like that could get Betrys into terrible trouble." I found himself muttering at Crabtree.

"I might as well be in the confessional with you old chap."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're not long for this world, Edward. I'm sure Eggers will make it painless. She'll probably just take you out and shoot you."

"Before that happens, Professor," I couldn't decided about Crabtree. "You could tell me honestly how your psychological evaluation went."

"I passed with flying colors." Crabtree was confident.

"So you're probably going to spend the rest of your own days on earth in Afon-Bedd."

"Can't help it old boy." He seemed resigned, and he might have been insane, I didn't know enough. "In the Royal Air Force my competitive spirit was often remarked upon."

"And all because you didn't want to pay a speeding ticket."

"Principals, my boy. You've probably never heard of them."

"So let me get this straight. You will be going to Afon-Bedd."

"You really are a Silure Remnant, Edward? So will you."

It must have been a dream I was having, no worse than some of them, and the day turned to night as time slowly passed. Interminable it was, jammed together in so small a space, yet Hugh Crabtree kept it interesting. We had our rules of behavior, we had our games and each morning we knew it was daylight by the rhythms of the men and women who worked in the facility. Through it all the Rabbit was restless and it was on the first day of our isolation from the world as I asked the Rabbit to tell me what a Silure Remnant might be, Crabtree began to question the veracity of my mumbling. He assumed I was talking to someone, he wanted to know who. A day, maybe two days, and it might have been possible to avoid answering him.

"It was a different age." The Rabbit was saying. "You can't make the comparison. When I was working miracles, my own mother could well have been a Silure, so what does that tell you?"

"I am fresh in the world, my mind is less cluttered and I remember things better than you do. When you were or might have been Saint Timothy, your mother was called Alaia. You were born in a cornfield....."

"It might even have been a virgin birth!"

"That's blasphemy! You were more likely the bastard child of Frankish nobleman because you claimed, and so did Abdul bin Abdul in his Earthly Voyage, that you didn't have the flat face of a Visigoth...."

"In all my lives, I've never had a flat face." The Rabbit sounded confident.

"In many of your lives you didn't have mirrors. So how do you know you never had a flat face. And when you were born, you could apparently see crows and, apparently, you could see the invaders burning Visigoth fields...."

"My mother was very frightened, she didn't know what to do, so she gave me the name Timothy and she was probably going to palm me off to the monks...."

"No mother palms their newborn child off to monks! Monks don't have breast milk....."

"How many times must you be told. It was a different age!"

"Keep your voice down." I hissed. "You'll wake Crabtree!"

"It's a little late now." Crabtree had been awake for some time. "I thought we had an agreement. No talking before breakfast!"

Crabtree was never happy when he woke from sleep, and he was especially irritable when he deemed it too early to wake up. But at the same time, after nearly two weeks of being locked up together in the isolation room of the Newydd Ogof infirmary, sharing a set of primitive conditions that required Crabtree to reveal some of his stranger toilet habits, Crabtree had developed an interest in what he referred to as Edward's Bunny Rabbit.

"He wasn't always a Rabbit!" I'd explained.

"What sort of rabbit is he?"

"He just looks like a Rabbit."

"Presumably you went to school at one time or another, Edward!" It was little things exasperated Crabtree. "There are many different genera of rabbit. They're not all the same. They don't all look alike!"

"They do to me!"

"Perhaps you could describe him to me."

"He's got the long ears. He's got four legs....."

"What color is he?"

"He's brownish." I suggested.

"I'm not brownish!" The Rabbit was incensed. "I'm gray brown with a speckled white tummy."

"Brownish isn't really a color is it, Edward! Is he more brown than gray, or is he more yellow than brown. If he was sandy yellow colored, he could be Bunyoro rabbit, which is a Central African rabbit."

"He's got a speckled white tummy." I suggested.

"Now we're getting somewhere!" Crabtree cheered up. "Are you sure he's not a Hare."

"He's a rabbit."

"Are you sure?"

"He's a Rabbit." I at least was confident. "He's been exiled as a Rabbit, not as a Hare."

"You don't know for sure whether he's a Rabbit, do you Edward? Is he plump or thin to look at?"

"I'm not plump!" Again The Rabbit was incensed.

"I think he's very healthy." I suggested.

"How long are his ears?"

"I don't know."

"Hare's have the longer ears. Measure his ears with the span of your hand!" Crabtree commanded and the Rabbit picked up his ears, he was ever ready to have his ears measured, like me he was very confident he was a Rabbit.

Fortunately, Betrys and Geralt chose that moment to arrive in the hallway outside the isolation room. Betrys with the midmorning tea and biscuits tray and Geralt with the trolley that contained fresh bedpans as well as the clean water for a temporary hand washing station. In my attempts to impress Betrys I'd insisted that under normal circumstances I was a clean and fastidious young male.

It was always a big event when anyone appeared in the hallway and obediently all three of us sat on the bed, both feet off the floor, arms to our sides. In the hallway a duty nurse and orderly dressed themselves for contact with the potentially infectious, and this even though Miss Eggers and Doctor George had declared Crabtree and Hanian unlikely to be rabid, but protocol demanded the two patients remained isolated, a something Doctor Hawthorne approved of on the understanding that in the event of disorderly behavior the bed restraints remained attached to the beds.

"Take note Betrys." It was Crabtree. "I'm not even mentioning the delay in our midmorning refreshments. I'm quite sure you're all very busy."

"Very grateful for that Hugh." Betrys smiled at her Gwningen, I smiled happily back and Geralt clattered away about his orderly work.

"But there is one thing, Betrys?" I asked.

"And what might that be?"

"We need a measuring tape.".

"You're not authorized to have measuring tapes." Geralt was all business around the two residents of the isolation room, but Betrys again smiled at me and she asked me why we needed a measuring tape.

"We just need to measure some ears, Betrys." It was Crabtree.

"I see." Betrys nodded.

"It's one of these little disagreements, so easily solved with a measuring tape." Crabtree advised. "I'm sure English Harold is also very busy and we don't like to disturb him, do we Geralt?"

"I don't think he minds too much!" Geralt shot back.

"Whose ears will you be measuring?" Betrys was coy.

"The more I hear about him, Betrys, the more convinced I am that Edward's Bunny Rabbit is actually a Hare."

"What makes you say that?" Betrys was polite.

"The Hare is a quarrelsome, combative, argumentative sort." Crabtree sounded knowledgeably. "Whereas the Rabbit is an affectionate, sociable creature, who suffers his children with a degree of affection."

"I'm very confident he's not a Hare, Betrys." I was well supported by the Rabbit.

"Of course he's a Rabbit!" Geralt was also confident. "And best not to go round measuring his ears. Anyway, Nurse Hartlepool's due back from her honeymoon sometime today, so getting you two a measuring tape is out the question."

"Doctor Jaspers will be with us today." Betrys reminded the Isolation Room.

"That's right!" It was as though Geralt had woken from a dream. "I've been doing my grandmother's curtain rod, I've a tape measure in the saddle bag on the bicycle."

It's not often people spend two weeks locked up together, and I'd become very aware that in the interest of harmony between myself, the Rabbit and Crabtree, it was always necessary to make certain that Crabtree had something to think about. Otherwise he became silent, nor was it a companionable silence, it was more of a lurking silence as though any moment something very unpleasant was going to explode in Crabtree, turn him dangerous. And Crabtree's toilet habits were weird. He couldn't defecate unless he sang the nursery rhyme "Round and round the Mulberry bush" which could have been manageable, but he sang the rhyme in the voice of a four or five year old. He wasn't joking about it, when the Rabbit had made a somewhat humorous remark about rabid weasels, I'd a giggled, but I never giggled a second time. Crabtree's reaction had been unbalanced to the point of being totally insane. When he urinated, he'd sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and again he'd do so in that little boy voice of his. Even more irritating, Crabtree was an expert on everything which made it very difficult to engage a conversation with my cell mate without it deteriorating.

Betrys, who'd had some experience herself of dealing with Crabtree and who knew a great deal more about him than I did, was most impressed with my capacity to manage Crabtree. "You're so like Gwningen, Eddy!" She'd whispered her praise. "It's the patience of a saint, you have. Ystwyth's right to call you Byr Gwningen." I had floated a while, and in those moments I would have climbed Mount Everest for Nurse Sanders.

Then on that last full day in the isolation room, around lunchtime, Doctor Jaspers appeared in the hallway. He was by himself, his eyes were sparkling, he looked very clean and crisp, he had his note book and he had a measuring tape that Geralt's grandmother probably used at her sewing table. It was an old fashioned cloth measuring tape rather than one of those fancy carpenter's steel coil measuring tapes. All the same, the sight of any kind of measuring tape while it was problem for me, filled Crabtree and the Rabbit with delight.

"This is a bit rich, Doctor Jaspers." I had to react. "I've asked you chaps several times for my copy of Earthly Voyage, but oh no! Ask for a measuring tape and it's like magic...."

"Good man, Jaspers!" Crabtree was so overjoyed he got off his bed, and despite the rule, he approached the Plexiglas. "Come on in. Don't rest on ceremony. We have ears to measure."

"Waiting on a key, Hugh." Doctor Jaspers did seem unnaturally cheerful.

"How are the twins?" Crabtree, whenever a certified psychiatrist was anywhere near him gave every outward appearance of being as sane as the next former pilot who'd once flown a Fairey Swordfish over the Chesil beach at night during wartime.

Doctor Jaspers had been a regular visitor to the isolation room, he didn't usually enter, preferring to remain with his notebook in the hallway. He had small hands, the standard latex glove was a little unwieldy, he'd explained, and note taking was part of his process. Naturally Crabtree had opinions on the importance of legible note taking and he had a wealth of experience of people who were wholly inadequate note takers and generally speaking such people were worse than incompetent. But I was wary of Doctor Jaspers. In my heart I really didn't want to be sent to Afon-Bedd as an inmate. And it was Doctor Jaspers who kept going on at me about the Hanian family, and whether I could remember anything more about them. Where I might have lived, where I went to school, a whole set of impossible questions. And it was Doctor Jaspers who had generously made it quite clear to Eddy Hanian that he would, when time allowed, spare no effort to investigate the Hanian Family. "Family is important" Jaspers would often insist, a perfectly understandable mantra for a paternal side attempting to come to terms with recently born English Speaking twins.

"You and I both know," Crabtree was laying down the law to Doctor Jaspers, "the obvious difference between a Rabbit and Hare are their personalities....."

"If I might say so, Hugh. The issue isn't so much whether Eddy's grandfather is a Hare or a Rabbit...."

"Of course it is Jaspers! Everyone knows this for goodness sake! It's called acceptance. If Edward could just admit that his Bunny Rabbit is a Hare he could give up drinking....."

"Drinking?"

"Alcohol, Jaspers! It's the source of Edward's emotional dependence upon me. He's obviously got an addictive personality, he can't go twenty four hours without at least one beetroot sandwich, let him out into the world and he'll be back to snuffling around dustbins and terrifying the elderly."

"I just happen to be stuck in here with you..."

"I'm not rejecting you, Edward!" Crabtree was professional. "I'm far too caring a person to toss you aside like that. I've just got better things to do than be the center of your attention. Don't take it personally."

"Ear measuring might be a solution." Jaspers also knew a great deal more about Crabtree than did I.

"Happy to measure ears!" I offered.

"And no cheating, Edward. I'll know if your cheating!"

"Betrys is on her way with the key." Jaspers almost waved Geralt's ancient cloth measuring tape in his excitement, but from where I sat, Doctor Jaspers was clearly doing his youthful best to remain objective, he very obviously had no intention of betraying his true opinion of Crabtree's very apparent mental abnormalities.

"Crabtree's beyond nit-wit, he's a dangerous Mercian lunatic!" The Rabbit volunteered boldly. "Of course I'm a Rabbit."

It was Geralt who arrived with a key, he looked flustered. Another valuable mink had escaped from the fur hat farm and Mrs. Rees, while chasing it around her kitchen, had somehow got it trapped in her refrigerator.

"I sometimes miss Afon-Bedd," Geralt admitted as he unlocked the door to the isolation room. "Don't damage my grandmother's tape!" He charged as he locked the door after tossing Mrs. Bidder's cloth measuring tape onto Eddy Hanian's bed.

"How's Aled?" I asked Geralt, I was playing for time, wishing for a blissful inspiration, Doctor Jaspers had a strange look on his face.

"He's taken a shine to chocolate biscuits, otherwise he's still nothing but trouble!" Geralt was grim. "Mind you, Eddy, it's more than my life's worth to lose sight of my granny's tape measure, and I got stuff to do, so can we get on..."

The Rabbit jumped onto my bed and he was very willing to be measured until suddenly it occurred to him that he was engaging in some kind of vanity which apparently was a serious cardinal sin in the brotherhood of saints. Nor was I that certain where the nape of a neck might be.

"What's the matter, Edward?" It was Crabtree, and he sounded genuinely concerned.

"Is his nape near his chin."

"It's the back of the neck." Geralt was in a hurry.

"Japanese men find the nape very attractive in their women, don't they Jaspers." Crabtree contributed.

"I wouldn't know." Doctor Jaspers was in a slightly different sort of a hurry, he was engrossed.

"Edward, it's close enough if you measure your Bunny Rabbit from where his tail joins his body to where his ears join his skull."

"It does feel vain." The Rabbit offered up saintliness. "And if it feels vain it probably is vain. I don't think I can risk it."

"It's only vanity of you measure yourself." I had a length of cloth measuring tape in both my hands.

"It's not your fault if someone else measures you." Geralt suggested, and this came as a bit of an eye opener to Doctor Jaspers.

"Lie flat!" Crabtree was one of those people who reckoned that if you spoke slowly Hares or invisible Rabbits, they understood you better. "Just pretend you're crouched down on your belly in the grass, hiding from a Whippet or a Barn Owl."

The Rabbit was awkward, perhaps a little shy, but he did as Crabtree suggested, and I was able to lay Mrs. Bidder's measuring tape along his back, from his sturdy little puff ball of a tail to just near his ears. Crabtree was making absolutely certain there was no cheating.

"Twenty five inches to my thumb!" I announced.

"Methinks, he's beginning to look like a hare, Edward!"

"Everyone knows he's a bigger than average Rabbit!" Geralt dismissed Crabtree. "Measure his ears Eddy! Once and for all let's put an end to this nonsense."

"In all my lives I have been on the tall side!" The Rabbit was just a little vainglorious as he picked up his ears, a sparkle of pride in his dark eye.

"Looks like a tiny bit over three inches." I showed Crabtree

"He's a Rabbit!" There was no doubt in Geralt's mind. "Always has been a Rabbit. The full grown hare has a four inch ear. Easily!"

"Does he have scars on his ears?" Crabtree wasn't convinced.

"Give it up Mr. Crabtree!" It was Geralt.

"I'm just suggesting that if he did have scars on his ears, he'd be a Hare. An adult male Hare always has scars on his ears from being seen off by unreceptive female Hares..."

"He's a Rabbit." Geralt shook his head sadly. "You're a bad loser, Mr. Crabtree."

"Perhaps you're right." Crabtree was far from happy. "The ratio's correct for a Rabbit....."

But Doctor Jaspers was having none of it. He chose to believe there was a conspiracy to tease him. Some kind of conjuring trick. He'd watched closely and to his eye he'd seen Eddy Hanian drape the cloth measuring tape over something. The tape hadn't lain quite flat on Hanian's bed as it should have done. It had seemed as though something was there. It was a clever trick that irritated him because it made him feel stupid. Eddy Hanian was smiling sweetly, Hugh Crabtree was shrugging off his own disappointment at having failed to cure Edward of an affliction, and Geralt was demanding the return of his grandmother's measuring tape.

"I wonder how much your Rabbit weighs, Eddy?" Doctor Jaspers suggested.

"He's not in the world." I was quite serious. "So he doesn't weigh anything."

"May I ask a question, Eddy?" The young doctor was most polite.

"He's not always been a Rabbit." I was aware of the sinister potential in my answer, but having been locked up in an isolation ward with Crabtree for almost two weeks, I no longer cared. And however difficult those two weeks had been, Crabtree had never teased me once about The Rabbit or thought it peculiar.

It was a slow and unusual dawning for the father of twins. I was too interesting to lose. My cell mate, on the other hand, had a warped genius that had gone off the rails and almost all the way down the cliff. Crabtree just wasn't safe in the outside world. Doctor Jaspers had a soft heart. He couldn't say "No" to either of us.

Chapter Sixteen : The Saints of Afon Bedd

The veterinarian was a struggle we'd prepared for. Our boots mud-less and polished for the ride into town with Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law. We'd waited, my intern and I, Windral in her Cat Carrier. "It's for the best," Mrs. Bigelow had watched our discomfort as she checked for animal hairs on her apron. When we got there, Mrs. Bigelow's sister in law talked for hours with the veterinarian, some wedding invitation she was expecting and smug she was when the veterinarian admitted he wasn't expecting one. It was a carnivorous scratch and crawl and I fought the urge to remove Windral from that ludicrous conversation in case she caught something lasting that would stay with her through her days upon earth, turn her sour to being alive.

The veterinarian decided to keep Windral overnight, just to be sure, I forked out more money than I'd spent in years, and glum we both were when my intern and I returned to the more sacred places, where the air is clean, the breathing easier, and no one stares.

"I knew a man who during torture had been castrated." I tried to comfort both myself and my intern.

"Windy will be alright." My intern had been engaged by images of plenty on his new telephone. "It's for the best."

It was very much like those first moments at Afon-Bedd. It felt like a terminal farewell to Windral. Through the grate of her Cat Carrier she'd peered, her eyes two bright curious stars, and then we were gone, leaving her to the unfamiliar and amongst strangers. I could smell the fresh paint at the veterinarian, it was clean, everything in its place, windowpanes crystal clear and no bars.

But even when I knew Afon-Bedd it had already been in the world for a great many years. It served two hundred and seventy five beds, most of them on the north side of Courtyard's Public Parking. The north side was the Secure Wing where the sun rarely troubled itself. A sad, sad place. To the west of the courtyard, the dining hall and the bathhouse, the kitchen, and the isolation cells or punishment block for the Dayrooms. The Dayrooms and Dayroom dormitories were called the South Wing, here the better able spent their days. They had the good views, south facing, a stream of light wandering across floors, shadows from the windows cast by chairs, sofas, and the craft tables. A knowledge that was still in the future for Crabtree and I, but the Rabbit was familiar with it all.

The three of us were in the back seat of a saloon vehicle moving very slowly in strict observance of the 5 MPH speed limit along a winding white pebble driveway guarded by a gatehouse large enough for a family of six. The four story buildings of Afon-Bedd lay beyond the trees ahead of us. It was a huge structure, the quarried granite still crisp but blackened by time and coal, slate from North Wales on the roof had taken to moss were the trees around the asylum were especially tall. Extensive gardens, vast overgrown Victorian shrubberies whispering to the August breeze, well kept lawns, flower beds, a rose garden and little white grass daisies marked a path beside a long iron framed greenhouse to a walled cemetery just this side of the perimeter hedging. Windows on the main buildings were ornamental, tall elegant shapes that reached up, as though this place was a palace set on well tended grounds where funerals had replaced gowns and ball rooms, but an astute observer might have noticed that most of the windows had bars and some of the windows in the South Wing had broken glass panes. Looked like recent hail damage.

"There must have been an incident!" Geralt had reluctantly accepted Nurse Hartlepool's instruction to drive the Newydd Ogof vehicle.

"What's an incident?" I was nervous.

"It's when we all let loose a little." The Rabbit volunteered, he was in far too good a humor. "Great fun, really."

"I didn't much like the incidents." Geralt was a touch somber, troubled by a memory.

"I'm right in thinking," Crabtree was in a positive frame of mind, it was like a day trip for him, "that your Bunny Rabbit has been here before, Edward?"

"Yes, he has!" But I had a point to make, I glared at Crabtree. "Let's try to keep that between ourselves. No sense in showing all our cards. Is there Geralt?"

"Not really my business, Eddy. But I would say, some staff will have more sympathy for your predicament than others, so watch yourselves. And whatever you do don't misbehave to the point where Doctor Woolley washes his hands of you, gives you to Doctor Hawthorn's fiends in the Secure Wing." Geralt shivered at the memory of the North Wing at Afon-Bedd, and he added "Secure Wing's a Death Sentence in my view, and I've seen it from the inside. Get yourselves into the Dayrooms, behave and play along, would be my advice."

"He's right." The Rabbit agreed. "I hope they put us into Dayroom Three and keep us as far away as possible from Bishop Aldulf's Dayroom One......"

The Courtyard parking at Afon-Bedd was public parking and deliveries. Staff, Doctors, orderlies and every one who received a wage from Afon-Bedd parked around the back, except Doctor Hawthorn who on the rare occasions he visited the asylum insisted on parking in the courtyard. As we approached the main buildings Geralt had a moment of doubt, he wasn't sure whether to park in the Courtyard or go around the back. He brought the Newydd Ogof vehicle to a halt by the "Strictly No Admittance Staff Only" sign so as to better consider the problem. It was a security issue, Geralt explained to his passengers. Transporting patients was a big responsibility and he didn't want to get into trouble by taking two new arrivals through the wrong entrance.

"Everyone's a little on edge after an incident!" Geralt was flustered.

"I remember when one of the Saint David's made a run for it during an incident." The Rabbit's winter in Afon-Bedd had left him with fond memories

Crabtree was becoming impatient with Geralt's dithering until Geralt finally decided that strictly speaking as the driver of the Newydd Ogof transit vehicle, he was in fact making deliveries, he took his foot off the clutch and the vehicle moved very slowly into Courtyard Public Parking, crunching gravel as it did so.

"I can't believe he's still here!" Geralt bought the transit vehicle to careful stop, found neutral and applied the parking brake, turned the engine off, then he just sat there in his driver seat staring at a much, much older slightly insane looking man with long white hair who was smoking a cigarette in an entryway, staring in a rather guilty manner at the arrival of a saloon car in the otherwise empty public parking.

"Is he one of the patients?" I cheered up a little, there were cigarettes in Afon-Bedd.

"I think we're referred to as inmates, Edward."

"No Eddy, he's not one of the patients." Geralt was conversational, he appeared to have no intention of getting out of the vehicle. "That's Alwyn the Keep, he'll die on the job if it kills him. Not even sure they pay him any longer but he's in charge of the Dayroom Isolation Cells. He's a little odd. He never seems to go home. He's usually busy after an incident."

"Geralt!" Crabtree was frustrated. "I know you're not suited to your chosen profession, but we can't sit here all morning. Shouldn't we at least present our credentials!"

Alwyn, who wasn't a fast moving sort of person, finished his cigarette, but the butt behind his ear and ambled toward the Newydd Ogof vehicle. Despite his slow pace he had a determined manner. "No visitors until after four!" He had a soft Welshman's voice. "And there's nothing to be done about, so be off until then."

"It's me!" Geralt insisted and he opened his driver side window hoping to be recognized.

"You could be the Duke of York, for all I care. Go on! Be off."

"It's me." Geralt leaned further out his window.

"So it is. What are you doing back here?"

It was a long, slow, emotional story from Geralt, all of it in the Welsh and there was much commiseration from Alwyn the Keep. The Rabbit rambled on a little about the rude and impertinent nature of the Celtic Peoples, and how convinced he was that he couldn't possibly have been a Silure during his miracle working days, or any kind of Celtic person for that matter, and more likely he'd been sired by a man who later went on to become at least a Bishop, if not the Pope himself. But it did seem to me that Crabtree was listening intently to the conversation between Geralt and Alwyn. It's pretty language to listen to, but it was almost as though Crabtree understood what was being said and was trying to pretend it was all just French to him. But with Crabtree it was impossible to know.

"So what you got in the back here, Geralt?" Alwyn finally spoke English as he stared at Geralt's delivery, he sounded calm and relaxed.

Geralt couldn't get away from his Welsh speaking, he grumbled on about this and that, he used the English word "Paperwork" several times, and when he at last handed Alwyn an official looking manila envelope Geralt said in English to Alwyn, "You understand I'll not be able to get out of the car."

"You'd be tempting the fates to do so!" Alwyn answered and got down to business. "There'll be no pudding for anyone after the incident, but I'd best get these two along to the lunch time!"

Alwyn accepted the manila envelope, adjusted his glasses and signed away Geralt's responsibility for Hugh Crabtree and Edward Hanian, both of whom had already been issued with, and were wearing their Afon-Bedd smock and trousers, which were yellow and white striped on a material which did feel like the kind of sturdy canvass that once sailed ships. Alwyn, however wasn't prepared to process two new inmates at the same time. He explained there was a rule about it, and what with the morning's incident Afon-Bedd orderlies were on high alert, it would take an eternity to find someone who wasn't already occupied by the lunchtime.

"Who wants to go first?" Geralt gazed into the back seat.

"I'll go first." I made a big fuss attempting to open the vehicle door, which couldn't be opened from the inside because the inside handles had been removed, and as I suspected, Crabtree, particularly if it involved someone else opening a door for him, spoke up. "Don't be so silly Edward! Of course I'm going first."

Alone with Geralt, I was able to address an issue which had bothered me since our first meeting which now seemed like years ago. It was the question of why Geralt had refused to shave my head, and stranger still, why it was Geralt couldn't get out of Newydd Ogof transit vehicle in the Courtyard Parking at Afon-Bedd. Geralt was a delicate sort of person, very willing to discuss all manner of things, so the problem for me was how to approach these particular questions without upsetting Geralt, turning him clam-like and defensive.

"I'll miss you, Eddy." Geralt was the first to break a difficult silence. "You'll look after yourself, won't you?"

"I'll be fine." I suddenly felt lonely. "Not the first time I've been dropped off like this. And some of the places I've been dropped off you wouldn't believe....."

"Don't get yourself in the wrong crowd, will you?" Then Geralt added, "You understand I'm not saying you're a nutter."

"No problem, Geralt. But tell me one thing, why can't you get out of the vehicle, has it got something to do with not wanting to shave my head."

"You'll probably laugh, at me. Everyone does! But there are some very strange people in Afon-Bedd..."

"It's a nut house, Geralt! You can use all the polite words you want, but it's a place where they send very strange people...."

"You'll laugh!"

"You're like a brother, Geralt! Why would I laugh at you?"

"One of the patients might have put a spell on me." It was a resignation Geralt had.

"That's nothing to laugh at, Geralt. It's a cruel fate, and I know all about that sort of thing, happens all the time to me. I bet she was pretty...."

"Not that sort of spell, Eddy. It was dark spell....."

"You mean an evil witch type spell that stops people from shaving other people's heads?" I was astonished and just a little disbelieving of Geralt's assertion.

"It would have been indecent to shave your head... I have my pride....But I've said enough. Just don't get into the wrong crowd, Eddy. It's not worth it. And I'd advise you to be a little wary of Alwyn." Geralt had spotted Alwyn the Keep, he'd found someone to process Crabtree and was returning to collect Hanian.

Dining rooms are like pneumonia or dysentery, something you don't forget easily. The noise, the smells, the hollowness of it all were entirely too familiar, like traveling back into the far reaches of memory where there was a lurking menace from a wide range of possibilities that stretched from napkin rings to the horrible prospect of having to sit next to a matron at lunch. Inevitably I had a poor reaction to being escorted into the cavernous Afon-Bedd dining hall where I was to be introduced to a big man called Magnus.

"Eyes front, don't look at anyone." Seemed like the right thing to do and I grasped for the idea that at least this wouldn't be a first, second, third or fourth experience of being forced into a community of others. I thought I knew what to expect. I was an old hand at the game and I felt confident I'd find a niche that would suit me and hopefully one that had access to some sort of tobacco product.

Magnus stood on a dais in front of a lectern, he had view of the entire room. It was tall ceilings, long wide windows, a mismatch of tables and chairs, some closer to the windows than others, the floor was stone and it might not have been cleaned for some time. On the one side of the hall, very similar to the smaller, more intimate canteen at Newydd Ogof, was a serving counter from behind which kitchen staff served food. A person lined up to collect a tray and waited patiently for the queue to shuffle onwards. In the event of an alarm during feeding time those behind the serving counter could quickly pull down rolling, solid metal slats that appeared to be well used and which had been in place for so many years I could see cobwebs in the grease bearings.

"Why my Dayroom Two for this one?" Magnus was in no good mood as he first glared at Eddy Hanian and then glared at my escort.

"It's a doctor's signature on the orders! And that new doctor what's his name is supposed to be here, but he's not. Nothing I can do about it."

The Rabbit, who seemed to know everyone in Afon-Bedd, was in full support of our escort against English Magnus.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Crabtree, who was in the queue for the lunch counter and he'd already attracted the ire of orderlies who kept shouting at Crabtree about how no one was permitted to talk until they were seated. Then something terrifying happened. I couldn't help but notice the man Crabtree was trying to talk to.

This man appeared to have part of his head shaved. A nervous glance at the remainder of the dining hall and I was suddenly aware that a high percentage of the more relaxed looking inmates of Afon-Bedd also had parts of their heads shaved. The entire head wasn't shaved in the way that Nurse Hartlepool had shaved my head. Some of the men had the very top of their head's neatly shaved into a sort of circle of baldness, like Friar Tuck from Robin Hood. Others had hair on the top of their heads but the sides of their heads had been shaved, way up, above the ears, they kind of look like the truly sinister Mohicans from Last of the Mohicans by Fennimore Cooper. I quickly concluded, these men had undergone two different kinds of lobotomy.

"Try and control yourself!" The Rabbit was stern. " I know neither of us really wants to be in King Offa's Dayroom Two with Magnus, but we'd never get to Dayroom Three if we'd been shunted off to Aldulf's Dayroom One...."

I might have fiercely interrupted the Rabbit's criticisms had Crabtree not become agitated. The man Crabtree was attempting to talk to, and who'd clearly endured a recent lobotomy from the neat circle of shine and large fresh looking band aid on the top of his bald head, must have done or said something irresistible to the collection of peculiar passions that coursed through Crabtree's mind.

"You should be ashamed of yourself..." Crabtree was hissing, or whispering very loudly rather than yelling, which was a sure sign Crabtree was at least trying

Magnus could take it no longer, he gestured to the orderly in charge of the lunch queue, he advised the orderly that Alwyn had a customer for the punishment cells and to Edward Hanian, Magnus said "I don't want any trouble from you, go get a tray, stand in the line for your food, no talking or you'll join your friend."

"Glad you're happy!" I had my mouth firmly closed and I was attempting to remain calm. "Here we are waiting for lunch, standing behind a man who's had half his brain removed."

"I don't like saying this, but Crabtree is correct. Saint Chad should be ashamed of himself...."

"Are you telling me that this is one of your saints?" I felt doomed as I tried not to look at the bandage on the top of Saint Chad's head or to allow my gaze to wander around the dining hall.

"Saint Chad," The Rabbit was beginning to sound like Crabtree, "Is of the Celtic church, he's got the wrong tonsure. Donning the Roman tonsure is an unforgivable betrayal of his calling."

I took the opportunity to promise myself that under no circumstances would I do anything other than what was expected from a well behaved and obedient Afon-Bedd inmate. I might even volunteer to help orderlies during incidents, bundle someone like the Crabtree off to the punishment block, something which would probably happen quite often.

As I waited for food I decided that the prospect of a lobotomy was actually rather a relief. I welcomed the possibility.

The kitchen staff manning the serving counter were all older ladies, they had the white uniforms, their hair a good distance toward grey, they had the neat old lady blue bobble hair styles, "permanents" they were called, a long way from the more rustic type hairstyles of Betrys' mother, who went for the more tousled look.

It was the turn of Bishop Aldulf's Dayroom One to enter the dinning hall, and they were doing so in what Magnus deemed a noisy manner. He banged his lectern several times, he glared and in a loud, commanding way he said, "Attend!"

It was as though a spell of stillness had been cast upon everyone. No one moved, except behind the serving counter. From the inner workings of the Afon-Bedd kitchen expectant faces emerged, they seemed more excited than curious and one of the older ladies manning the serving counter put down her mashed potato and cauliflower spoon, she wiped her hands and slowly she moved toward the rusty chain that closed the serving counter slats. I froze. I had no intention of getting myself into trouble, I looked down at my empty tray, I made a valiant attempt not to think about anything, and I might have succeeded had the Rabbit not spoken.

"You are aware that Bishop Aldulf took credit for one of my miracles"

Given the circumstances it was wrong of the Rabbit to say anything, he was breaking the rules. But I'd heard so much from him about the evils of Bishop Aldulf and the vileness of Dayroom One that from the very corner of my eye I glance at the new comers. They all looked well fed, some of them very well fed, and had it not been for their Afon-Bedd inmate attire they all looked normal in a disciplined kind of way. It was interesting also that while some of the men from Aldulf's Dayroom Two were completely bald, not one of them appeared to have endured a lobotomy, and if any inmate in Afon-Bedd knew how to get hold of a cigarette, that person was more than likely in Aldulf's Dayroom Two. I found himself warming to group.

At his lectern, Magnus was going on about broken windows, black hearted behavior, trust and how following such an unforgivable transgression the withdrawal of pudding was an inadequate response. It was all familiar stuff to me and then, in a more conversational manner, Magnus called out the name, "Oswald."

As a newcomer I had no idea who Oswald was, and from the look of him as he joined Magnus at the dinning hall lectern, I reckoned that Oswald was a fellow inmate who had managed to worm his way into the good graces of the Afon-Bedd orderlies in a desperate attempt to save himself from JH Woolley's forceps and scalpel. Oswald was wearing an Afon-Bedd inmate outfit, only it was the wrong color and much softer looking material. He was a very overweight, pale skinned, short, middle aged man, who looked as though he probably spoke with a lisp. But The Rabbit knew exactly who Oswald was and he took some pleasure in telling me that it was important to impress Oswald, who wasn't an inmate, even if he dressed like one, he was a superintending orderly, employed by Afon-Bedd, he was the member of staff in charge of Dayroom Three, or Freckles' Dayroom as The Rabbit called that apparently sacred and blissful place.

I could smell mash potato and cauliflower, I could see carrots and there was something that looked like thick gravy, and had it not been for the rapt attention the Rabbit paid to Oswald's every word I might have drifted toward wondering whether the Afon-Bedd pudding matched up to the puddings served by the Newydd Ogof canteen which were delicious.

Oswald's contribution to the lecture on inmate behavior from Magnus did suggest that like Geralt, Oswald might have gone native in Afon-Bedd. He sounded far too involved, and a little nutty, but he did have a fine, theatrical kind of speaking voice, he had a soothing Welsh accent.

"I think," Oswald was saying, "everyone gathered knows my opinion, Magnus. I hardly think that Dayroom One can be held responsible for the mole damage to the dyke. An over reaction, Mercian hi-jinx in my view...."

"What?" To my mind it was lunacy incarnate.

"I've spent weeks discussing this....." The Rabbit was exasperated with me. "The Dyke is Offa's Dyke, it's a boundary that runs from the Freckles' Rose Garden to the Three Oaks. It divides Mercia, who are increasingly under the spell of the Roman Church, from the Welsh who are firm in their allegiance to the Celtic Church. We want to be part of the Celtic Church, which is why we need to be in Freckles' Dayroom, and not stuck in the limbo of Dayroom Two with Offa."

"The Lead Bull, exiled you to Wales as an English speaking Rabbit and as far as I can see your main job is to say rude things about Celtic people....."

"There's no talking in the queue!" The tray orderly didn't raise his voice, he hissed.

I was disappointed in myself, I couldn't understand why I couldn't stop muttering. Despite every effort it just came out of me, sometimes loudly, and from the expression on the faces of Bishop Aldulf's crew they must have heard at least some of what I'd said to the Rabbit. Nor could I take much comfort from the knowledge that unless there was a proficient Sabean speaker amongst them, whatever Aldulf's crew might have heard would have made little sense. The Sabean language was both beautiful and ancient, but it lacked its own words for Celt, Wales, England and it was a long list.

At the dining room lectern Magnus was losing patience with Oswald's interpretation of why it was, moles, entirely under their own volition, would tunnel in and around Offa's Dyke. It was really very absurd, Oswald insisted, to leap to the conclusion that because Dayroom One's Rose Garden was never troubled by Afon-Bedd moles, a spell must have been cast upon them by someone in Dayroom One. And it seemed to me that a great majority of inmates and orderlies in the dining hall were actually listening intently to everything that was being said from the lectern, but what struck me is most peculiar, so were the kitchen staff..

"Very well, Oswald! Thank you." Magnus couldn't take it any more, and then, when Magnus called the name "Stanley" everyone in the dining hall turned to gaze at Aldulf's crew. From the looks on some of the faces, I couldn't help but suspect the withdrawal of pudding might have had something to do with Dayroom One.

"Stanley" was the superintending orderly in charge of Aldulf's crew. He was thin and tall, he had the long skinny nose, he had the small ears, the long arms and the deceptively soothing voice of a man who always wore a tie. As Stanley joined Magnus at the dining room lectern, I chose to think that unlike the chief orderly of Freckles' Dayroom, who looked like a mental patient and dressed like one, Stanley's contribution to the lecture on behavior would be more supportive of Magnus' overall and familiar theme of cooperation, understanding and threats of further punishment, which in Afon-Bedd, as I understood it, included very regular inhuman surgical procedures, a permanent sojourn in the Secure Wing, and who knew what else. With the ever-presence of such punishments hanging over the inmates it was astonishing that anyone misbehaved, but listening to Stanley I began to feel a little sorry for Magnus.

"It's well known here in Mercia," Stanley was saying, "that there's no shortage of sorcerers on the other side of the dyke! A great deal of our own anxiety would be much alleviated if we could be assured that there's nothing fishy going on. A regular inspection by the Bishop and his advisors of Dayroom One's greenhouse would go some way toward relieving tensions, either that or a work crew should be raised from among the Welsh to repair damage done to the dyke by their moles that are clearly and obviously tunneling into Mercia from Welsh territory ....."

"Very well, Stanley!" Magnus called a halt to Dayroom one's contribution and then after advising everyone to eat their lunch before it got cold he said in a manner that sent a chill down my spine, "There may well be interviews."

Almost instantly the dining hall returned to the hubbub and clatter of feeding. It was though nothing much had happened, no one seemed remotely concerned about the prospect of "interviews." Saint Chad presented his tray to the serving counter, he got his beaker of milk, his well chipped white china plate, his plastic spoon, a dollop of mash potato and cauliflower, a helping of carrots and from the younger of the three kitchen hands behind the serving counter he got his splash of the gravy.

I'd absorbed a few phrases of the Welsh language and it was the younger of the kitchen ladies who after a brief glance at me muttered to the carrot serving lady, "are you yonder nave." My pronunciation of the Welsh language is appalling, but in the English language what sounds like "are you yonder nave" means "Is that him?" The carrot lady's reply sounded like "de nave," which means "That's him" in Welsh. I saw Gwningen written all over the exchange, I recalled Geralt's advice, I smiled and all three kitchen counter ladies smiled back. Despite my circumstance it was my opinion this return smile contained a quality of bashfulness, and the gravy lady took her time with her ladle hunting down morsels of what turned out to taste like beef from her gravy pot. As I turned away from the serving counter to find a place to sit, I heard the tray orderly yell "There's no talking in the queue!" at one of Aldulf's crew.

The dining hall was big, a great many tables to chose from, some of them empty. I was very aware, that as with any other dining room, there were sacred traditions and protocols associated with who sat where. Saint Chad was by himself at table for four, he was staring at his plate of food as though wondering what to do next, and always possible JH Woolley had accidentally taken out the food recognizing part of his brain. I had no intention of sitting next to him. Of the other empty tables one was large and close to a window, some distance from a group of orderlies who leant against the room's east wall and from the looks of the wall that same group of orderlies probably always gossiped through the feeding process from that same spot. This large window table had a good view of the outdoors, it was well lit from the daylight, in every respect it was an excellent table and I assumed it would be occupied by Aldulf's crew, a wild guess on my part. The Rabbit had a few opinions of his own. He mentioned Saint Chad, he went on about Freckles, he mentioned taking no notice of good advice being a cardinal sin, he said something about the folly of sitting at the wrong table, but I took no notice whatsoever, I marched across the hall in a determined and professional manner toward an empty medium sized table that was close to the chattering orderlies on the south wall. Then when I sat down at the table with my tray, the orderlies lost interest in the topic of their conversation, their sudden silence was ominous.

It was moments later that an older, well fed member of Aldulf's Crew, a man by the name of Geats put his tray down on the table and without sitting down he stared at me in a less than friendly manner. I'd swallowed a couple of carrots, I looked up and politely I said, "Hello."

"You don't fool me for a minute." Geats had a tongue that was well connected to his eyebrows, his accent was very different, it was more English than Welsh, he had natural baldness, he might even have had a speech impediment and he looked aggravated.

"Well, I'm not from round here." I decided.

"I know where you're from. I did my bit in North Africa, picked up a bit of the lingo. Can't fool me, I heard you jibber jabber plain as day, recognized it straight away. An old Desert Rat never forgets that kind of thing."

"One of Monty's boys!" I pretended to look impressed.

"Monty was an embarrassment, he couldn't tie his own shoelaces!"

I was very familiar with the ramblings of veterans of the Second World War and Korea. Afon-Bedd was probably full of them, and even though the auspices for my choice of table didn't look or sound good I was emboldened by a second man from Aldulf's crew who put his tray on the table and actually sat down without barely a glance at Afon-Bedd's newest inmate. Nor were the orderlies very much more than amused.

"I'm not sitting down with a hodgie at the table." Geats planted his hands on his hips.

"He doesn't look like a hodgie."

"What would you know, Wiggins? You never left Blighty! A lot of them over there look like us. But I can smell them."

I could smell something on both Wiggins and Geats. It was the scent of recently smoked cigarettes. And while the Rabbit went on at me about taking my tray to Saint Chad's table, and how, even if Saint Chad was the devil's spawn it was better than risking eternal damnation of Dayroom One, and despite my determination to be a model inmate, perfect in every way, I was very interested in securing a better understanding of those of my fellow inmates who appeared to have access to things like Cigarettes.

"I'm sure the Bishop knows a hodgie when he sees one!" it was a third member of Aldulf's crew who'd joined the table. "But the question you got to ask yourself is, whether the Bishop wants a hodgie sitting at his table."

"Course he doesn't want a hodgie sitting at his table. They're throat slitters!" Geats was on fire.

"I'll give you odds on the Bishop's opinion, Burgess." It was Wiggins.

By the time the remainder of Aldulf's crew had arrived at the table there was a great deal happening, and though I couldn't quite determine whether the stakes were cigarettes, chocolate bars or tins of sardines, I was very much the center of attention and I'd learned a great deal about hodgies, none of it very flattering. Then the table went silent, the Bishop was on his way.

Aldulf was a gaunt looking person, he just seemed grey and craggy, made of stone, completely without humor or joy. The old man slowly approaching the table carrying a lunch tray did indeed look like an old fashioned fire and brimstone kind of bishop who'd pray for the soul as he set flame to the pyre that burnt witches alive and wouldn't dream of washing someone else's feet. A scary man, who planted himself at the head of the table, looked around then stared directly at me.

"Your spoon has touched food before the grace!"

Clearly, from where I sat, the crime was worse than high treason and being drowned in a duck pond was an insufficient punishment for the offense. The Rabbit drew a deep breath of worry, and I felt a stir in me that contained a potential to turn Viking. Fortunately Geats, with some satisfaction in his voice, came to my rescue by informing Bishop Aldulf that the new face at their table belonged to a hodgie.

"Would you care to rephrase that Geats!" The Bishop sounded like a very well controlled Crabtree.

"Not sure how to, Your Excellency!" Geats didn't seem to be smiling, he looked nervous.

"That answer will cost you two red Smarties, Geats. They're not called hodgies here! They are called Allah Akbars."

"I should have known that, Your Excellency, but there's one sitting at our table." Geats had a great deal more than two red Smarties to win or lose on the Bishop's decision, and unlike the more astute members of Aldulf's crew, Geats had failed to notice that I had eaten the better part of my helping of carrots before grace had even been mentioned.

"Claiming to be an Allah Akbar to avoid retribution for defiling the grace is an apostasy." The Bishop was stern, he had his own priorities and a few grunts of approval went around his table.

"I knew he was an Allah Akbar before I even sat down." Geats was an excitable sort of person, not well suited to the sport of betting and he had yet to take his hands off his hips.

"I'm not a hodgie and I'm not an Allah Akbar. I'm multilingual." Then, in a moment of inspiration, I quickly added, "I said my grace in the lunch queue. Nearly got into trouble for it!"

"That's typical of an Allah Akbar!" As far as Geats was concerned the matter was over.

"What's typical?" It was a question from a younger man who sat at the Bishop's right side, he had good hair, his dark eyes were very close set, and clearly Bishop Aldulf looked kindly upon this contribution to the debate.

"If you'd seen a bit of the world as I have, Gribbins," Geats spoke up. "You'd know that being a half breed and saying grace in the lunch queue is typical of the Allah Akbars."

"I don't think Allah Akbars say grace." It was Wiggins, he was addressing the Bishop. "The lunch queue is the wrong place to say grace, we all know that. But look at him. He's young, might not have been taught properly."

There were some at Aldulf's table who were very aware that the Bishop had deeper issues of a political nature on his mind, and they knew well enough that in the matter of the Bishop's ambition to have access to the Afon-Bedd greenhouse, expand Mercian territory, it wouldn't matter who the new boy was, where he came from or what he believed in, so long as he could be of service. Geats, who struggled with an unprepared mind that had witnessed an agony, wounded men having their throats slit before being robbed of their personal effects, had a simpler understanding. Young Gribbins for his part was far too in love with the Bishop to have an opinion of his own. Of the other inmates at the table many shared Wiggins' view that it really was intolerable for Mercia to cede access to the Graveyard, which was deep in Mercian territory, in exchange for Mercian access to Dayroom One's Greenhouse which was only just inside the Witch's Territory

"The boy could be a spy." It was Burgess.

"He's far too young to be a spy." Wiggins sounded confident, but he was worried

"Whatever he is, better not risk it!" Geats cheered a little.

"I'm not a spy!"

"He might not know he's a spy." Gribbins had detected competition for the Bishop's affections from the skinny little newcomer

"It's true. The young are more susceptible to the witch's spells." Bishop Aldulf crossed himself, he patted Gribbins' knee, and when the Bishop closed his eyes in silent prayer his table went still, no one spoke, a person could've popped the tension with a knitting needle and I was very certain my food was getting cold, the gravy had skin on it. When the Bishop finally open his eyes he turned his attention to the orderlies aligned along the wall. He raised a finger and he pointed at me. A short man with a most unattractive mustache unglued himself from the wall, he approached me and directed me to take my tray to the table where Saint Chad was all alone with his band aid and he was still staring at his lunch plate.

"I believe King Offa's Oaf smokes cigarettes." The Rabbit had struggled to find words of comfort.

"Chad's fasting." My orderly advised me. "He'll give you his lunch if you ask him nicely."

Saint Chad's lonely table in the Afon-Bedd dining hall was like a foldaway picnic table. It was flimsy, its uneasy legs were shorter than average, it could have comfortably sat four small well behaved children, but it would have been a tight fit for four adults who didn't know each other. I chose to sit opposite rather than beside Saint Chad.

The saint was hardly a threat, but being anywhere near someone who might recently had a lobotomy was unnerving. A little like being near someone who could have been a leper, or in someway infectious and at the same time it was fascinating, in a truly evil way. Chad seem not to notice that someone had joined him for lunch, so I did away with the niceties, I took a swallow from my beaker of milk and tucked into my food which was excellent, especially the gravy which was good and salty. When I'd finished, I looked up from my plate to find that Saint Chad was staring directly at me, but it was difficult to tell whether there was anything behind his eyes and I found himself moved by the man's predicament. It was entirely possible JH Woolley had taken out one or two of the more central parts of Chad's brain.

"Did it hurt?" Was the best I could do.

The Rabbit had opinions on the agony of sainthood, and how difficult it was for perfection to exist upon the temporal plane, he was clearly very bitter and angry about so unworthy a man being elevated in the way that Chad had been.

"Did they give you an injection?" I suggested.

Chad blinked, his eyes widened as though he'd woken to a pleasant surprise, and he blinked again.

"I was far away." His accent was English rural, from somewhere like Somerset, long round r's rolled slowly from his tongue in a soothing way, his s's were z's. It was a pretty voice. "You look new?"

"I think I'm in Dayroom two."

"I always take to the fast afterwards. Some don't, but I do."

"Happens more than once!" I was genuinely shocked, until I realized that Saint Chad was staring at the fuzz of hair that had started to grow on my own head, except around the horse shoe shaped scar. "I had fleas!" I found himself very defensive.

"It appears unsanctioned." Saint Chad was suspicious.

"A head nurse did it!" I insisted. "She had a uniform, rubber gloves, a rubber apron and everything. It was definitely sanctioned."

"A pagan rite." It was Saint Chad's turn to be shocked.

"It was in the bathroom at Newydd Ogof."

"A Celtic pagan rite." Saint Chad turned to stone.

The Rabbit was thrilled and astonished by the nuances and subtleties of my deft maneuvering. I'd managed to get myself cast from the Bishop's table for either being a hodgie or a spy, and now I was engaged in the process of getting myself labeled as a Pagan Celt by King Offa's religious advisor. And all this before the end of my first Afon-Bedd lunch period. I was a genius, and by tomorrow morning the Rabbit felt confident we'd be assigned to Freckles' Dayroom, where the real work of ridding himself of exile could begin. "I'm so proud of you!"

Saint Chad crossed himself, he closed his eyes and started audibly praying for my wayward soul.

"It wasn't a pagan rite!" I was badly frustrated. "I had fleas, or lice or something. I'm not a hodgie or an Allah Akbar or a spy or a pagan. I'm Church of England. This mark on my head was caused by a bonk. My whole head was shaved. Not just parts of it like yours. It had nothing to do with surgery."

Saint Chad opened his eyes, and although he was only a small man there was a determination in his face that contained the empty eyes of fanatic. I heard the words 'devil's spawn,' I wondered how Saint Chad had earned himself a place in Afon-Bedd and as calmly as I could I decided that whatever had resulted in Chad being sent to Afon-Bedd could well have been throat slitting related.

"Well, I'm sorry." I retreated a little bit. "But you do have quite a large bandage on your head."

"My tonsure was freshened." A sliver of saintliness returned to Chad's face.

"That's a tonsure?"

"Jacques from Pontypool is normally so careful. But he was distracted by the recent Welsh outrage."

"It's like a monk hairstyle?" I was having difficulty believing. "They gave you a Friar Tuck hairstyle."

"You may wish to challenge his understanding of The Word," Chad knew all about Friar Tuck ministering to forest dwelling thieves. "But Friar Tuck had seen the light, his tonsure sanctioned by Rome."

"What about those other chaps?"

"Other chaps?" Saint Chad had a schoolmasterly quality.

"You know what I mean."

"I don't know why Jacques is permitted to indulge the heretics, but like Our Lord, Doctor Woolley moves in mysterious ways."

I sat heavily on my chair, I tried not to look at Chad's uneaten lunch, I tried not to wonder what Betrys had done with my ammunition boots, where my stuff was. My heart heavy from the ache of wishing to be somewhere else, far, far away. It was a familiar feeling, which drew comfort from the knowledge that a highly educated man like JH Woolley might know exactly where it was and would be able to remove the part of my brain that existed in the present.

"What happened to the windows?" I spoke loudly.

"It was an incident." Chad gave every impression of being devastated. "When the king doesn't require my presence at meal times I usually have lunch with Saint Judith, the Mistress of the King's Craft Table."

I had difficulty fathoming the Saint's words, yet Chad's reference to a mistress of the king's craft table was indeed a crayon sharpening moment.

"Are you saying there are girl inmates in Afon-Bedd?"

The Rabbit was alarmed by my utterance, he didn't know whether to be impressed by my theatrical abilities or whether I had actually been unaware that women were present in Afon-Bedd. I was a little slow, my capacity to listen and comprehend were a long way from being strong points, even if they were all good qualities. Saint Chad, for his part, stared deeply into my soul and sighed.

"So there are girls in Afon-Bedd." I was strangely fierce.

"Let me assure you!" Chad appeared defensive. "The Mistress of the King's Craft table is not a sorceress. But following an incident the rules are clear...."

"We don't share dormitories, do we?"

It was as though Saint Chad had seen a cruel vision of me turning into a snake. He crossed himself, he stared up at the mottled ceiling of the Afon-Bedd dining hall. He closed his eyes, he then put a smile on his face that was a little frightening. "Consign the fallen to the flames of hell, strike terror into the beast now laying waste to your vineyard. Fill your servants with the courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon..."

"I'm so proud of you!" Not easy for a rabbit to look both relieved and blissful but somehow my eternal friend managed it.

I was very concerned about the sleeping arrangements in my new home and with Saint Chad now convinced he was in the presence of a practitioner of the dark arts, neither of us had appreciated that the lunch period was drawing to a close. I noticed two very strange looking people confidently approach Chad's table from the north side of the dining hall. The slightly taller man had a Humpty Dumpty shape, tiny little legs, no neck, not a hair on his head and his face was covered in red pimples, and stranger still there was a chain made from silver wrapping paper around his neck. The other man was so short he must have been a dwarf of some variety, he had unnaturally large ears and was suffering from what the Rabbit called "The rarer of the two squeaking poxes." Both men wore the uniform of inmates.

"Chad!" It was the taller, Humpty Dumpty shaped man, his voice had authority, his accent was nasal from somewhere like Birmingham. "I've told you once, I've told you twice, I've told you a thousand times the dining hall is not the place to perform your useless exorcisms."

"Sire." Chad was jolted into the present, he rallied well.

"You're an incompetent, Chad! Why do I put up with him?"

The shorter man twitched, held his breath, he squeaked and then he might have shrugged.

"That's all very well, Cedd." Humpty Dumpty patted the dwarf's head. "But I have a kingdom to protect, and I fail to understand how a simple request for divine intervention resulted in windows, our windows mind you, being broken. And I'll repeat that, our windows, Chad! The cost to our treasurer......"

Cedd had a twitching and squeaking attack which was difficult to watch, but again the king quickly soothed his Oaf with another pat on the head and he directed Saint Chad to hand over "Jacques' chocolate" which the king gave to Cedd, who hid it away in his tunic and seemed to calm down.

The dining hall had almost emptied of inmates and orderlies when Magnus wandered over to Saint Chad's table. He addressed the Humpty Dumpty shaped man as "Sire" and I wondered whether I was losing my hearing.

"Perhaps you could tell me who this is, Magnus." The king pointed at me.

"An addition to your court, sire." It was difficult to tell whether Magnus was serious.

"I have not been informed of a new addition. It's an unacceptable lapse, Magnus. I cannot, I will not accept any new addition to my court until the protocols have been correctly followed!"

"A useful addition to your court, sire."

I was made uncomfortable by being referred to as useful, and I noticed that Cedd was beaming, or at least looked as though he was beaming.

"How useful, Magnus?"

"In more ways than one useful, sire." Magnus patted the bulge in his jacket pocket, and then he said, "Marshmallows."

Cedd clapped his chubby little hands, King Offa pursed his lips in the kind of way that a king might if his suspicions were roused. There was a brief pause, during which King Offa made an appraisal of me and then he directed the occupants of Saint Chad's table to follow him.

It was Magnus with his clipboard who brought up the rear and as Magnus was locking the dining hall doors it became apparent to me that a posse of angry looking orderlies where hastening along the corridor in a manner that suggested another incident might have occurred. The King took no notice of the bustling and loud whispers, his own position demanded that he paid little attention to staff. Cedd twitched a little. Saint Chad was probably worried about Judith, he frowned and crossed himself. But both Magnus and I wanted to know what was going on.

"We got a runner."

"Whose?" Magnus was very professional.

"I'm told he's one of yours." The orderly was uneasy, a little breathless.

"I know exactly where all mine are!" Magnus was initially appalled by the accusation, he leafed through the pages on his clipboard and then with a darkness in his voice he said, "Alwyn."

"All I know, Alwyn came back from his lunch, door was open and Alwyn couldn't find his keys." The orderly had no desire to get too involved.

It was then Magnus noticed that Hanian was loitering. "Don't just stand there, get on with you." Magnus gestured toward the far end of the corridor where King Offa was allowing Saint Chad to open the large double doors to Dayroom Two.

"This probably means the Secure Wing for Crabtree." I couldn't help but feel a little relieved.

Magnus was on edge, his patience thin, I chose to hurry along and at the same time I found myself with a peculiar admiration for Crabtree. The man was no Lemuel Caution, he was more of skinny Bulldog Drummond and like Bulldog Drummond, Crabtree had a potential for endless trouble, a prime source of those kinds of aggravating and wholly unnecessary puerile, wild eyed histrionics I had no desire to become involved in.

"I'll be walking the straight line here!"

"Rightly so."

"Crabtree is no friend of mine."

"I would hope not."

"He's a misfit and a troublemaker."

"Quite agree."

"And he's up to something which we don't want to be any part of!"

"That's correct."

Dayroom three smelled of dust, horsehair, old pillow cases and a kind of musk from plaster gone to bloom that usually follows a leak in a roof. The large room looked more like a secondhand furniture shop, a mismatch of tables, an assortment of stuffed armchairs, hard chairs and a couple of sagging sofas. The walls had been hung with what may have been the paintings of school children. Horses, cows, houses with chimneys in permanent springtime, grass green, flowers everywhere and not a demon to be seen.

All the members of Dayroom Two were silent, not a word was spoken. The king was sitting on a sofa staring at a checkers board on a low table in front of him. He seemed lost in a game he was playing against himself. Cedd had curled himself up on the sofa beside Offa, his eyes were closed, there was no twitching from him or movement and he looked as though he was fast asleep. Over at what could only have been the Judith's craft table, two of the larger Mohican type saints were staring at Saint Chad. Saint Chad was trying not take any notice, but the silent exchanges didn't look friendly. When Chad glanced at me, I felt a trickle of ice, it would be typical of Chad to succumb to the ancient rule that you succor favor by picking on the new boy, especially if you think he's a hodgie or an Allah Akbar or had engaged in some kind of satanic rite in Newydd Ogof.

I slunk across the room toward an unoccupied whicker chair that was all by itself in one of the window bays. There I thought I might be left in peace with a view out through cracked window panes, their iron bars rusting around black paint work. The sun shining upon the Afon-Bedd gardens. I could see the greenhouse, I could see the rose garden, I could see three ancient giant trees and I could see what looked like a very shallow trench of disturbed earth that wound a path across the lawn from the roses to the trees. I guessed it had something to do with plumbing.

From my perch on the wicker chair I couldn't see much beyond the gardens which were walled by high, unkempt hedging. I guessed the eastern end of the garden where the greenhouse backed up against the hedge was that part of the Afon-Bedd grounds that belonged to Freckles' Dayroom. The western part of the grounds belonged to a combination of Aldulf's Dayroom Three and King Offa's Dayroom. And I assumed, from my own experience of many years spent institutionalized by the English Boarding School system, that on occasion Afon-Bedd dayroom inmates were permitted to wander around the grounds and during that time supervision would be less present. Inside Afon-Bedd I was beginning to realize a person couldn't so much as blow their nose without raising the attention of one of the orderlies. I also guessed, that on the other side of the tall hedge there'd be a wall or a wire fence to stop people just coming and going according to their mood. Crabtree, I decided, if he was able to climb the wall or the fence wouldn't last a minute out there by himself in the elements. Flyer of the Fairey Swordfish or no flyer of the Fairey Swordfish, Hugh Crabtree wasn't made of that sort of stuff. He was clumsy, he had difficulty remembering which way a door opened, he was way to opinionated and he'd probably end up quarrelling with something or someone. The poor chap was probably already being hung from the rafters and poked with sticks or whatever cruel thing it was they did to people in the Secure Wing.

My chair was far from comfortable, it had a high back, it had arms upon which to rest the palms but if I moved, parts of the chair creaked. Under normal circumstances the noise would have been ignored, but the silence in Dayroom Two was one of those silences where a pin if dropped could be heard, and I was reluctant to draw attention to myself, I kept as still as possible.

In my judgment, given the nature of Afon-Bedd as a place to contain those less capable of functioning in a disciplined manner, it was astonishing that such a silence could be maintained for what was beginning to feel like hours. Yet I was aware that the silence in Dayroom Two was enforced by an authority rather than something arrived at through agreement. Over at the Craft table, Saint Chad and the two Mohicans might just as well have been shouting at each other from the looks on their faces. More likely it had something to do with Judith and possibly, following my brief insight into the nature of the recent incident, the Mohican type saints were blaming the Friar Tuck type saint for Saint Judith's absence. But whatever it was, I didn't feel good about any of it, I reckoned that somehow, someway the force of any ire lurking in Dayroom Two would fall upon my shoulders.

Of the other members of Offa's Court present in Dayroom Two that afternoon, I could find little inspiration. Each of their faces contained the dourness of that peculiar contentment which had long since stopped asking questions, it wasn't so much an absence of curiosity as it was a kind of shrug. None of them looked helpful. Always possible some gallant act from me might have raised a bright shining star around which we could all coalesce, but essentially this whole new world seemed to revolve around pudding and Marshmallows, something I was beginning to suspect King Offa was adept at providing.

As I plotted, I wondered whether the two Mohican type saints had potential as allies. Both seemed possessed by smoldering opinions of Saint Chad's recent contribution to the betterment of their society, but without more knowledge it was difficult to be certain.

"Those are the Saint David's." The Rabbit explained Chad's rivals at the craft table. "It might be the case that for them it's the little things that matter, but let me assure you they are meat eaters."

"What are they doing in Mercia if they are Celtic Saints."

It was a long story that had to do with an exciting incident that had occurred while the Rabbit was exploring his exile by thoroughly enjoying his own winter in Afon-Bedd. The incident had involved a dispute in the dining hall, and such was the excitement that one of the Saint David's saw an opportunity to express himself by trying to climb out of the dining room window. In the aftermath both Saint David's had laid claim to being the nobler Saint David who'd attempted to climb out of the window. The conundrum, which of the two Saint David's were to spend time in Alwyn's punishment block, was solved by a pronouncement from JH Woolley. Both Saint David's would be removed from Freckles' Dayroom and lodged in King Offa's court until one of them owned up. I saw potential in the story, I took another look at the craft table, and the Rabbit went on about there being two March the First's in Afon-Bedd so that each of the Saint David's could have their very own Saint's Day.

"We Saints get a chocolate cake on our Saint's Day....." The Rabbit reminded me.

The doors to the dayroom opened, the tension of the moment revealed Magnus. Cedd stirred, but King Offa's mind remained firmly on his game of checkers. Magnus walked silently over to the Dayroom Two lectern, quietly he placed his clipboard on the reading shelf, and it was clear to me that everyone else in the room, including the duty orderlies and the Two Saint David's, were looking intently at the king.

But Offa took his sweet time, then he moved one of the black pieces on his checkers board, he stood up from his sofa, he raised his short arms and he declared in a royally satisfied rather than a victorious manner, "One thousand and twenty one."

Everyone muttered appreciatively, Cedd clapped his hands and so did Saint Chad. Magnus in a far from enthusiastic way said "Congratulations sire" and I took my chance to stand up from the wicker chair rather than trouble myself too much with what had just happened. Being able to move was nice but it was the sudden appearance of Young Doctor Jaspers entering the king's court that again set my nerves on edge. I reckoned it had something to do with "interviews" and was anxious in the event that I'd be one of the interviewees. I had no desire to meet JH Woolley or become involved in a conversation with young Jaspers. Nor was Magnus that happy to see Jaspers.

The king took not the least notice of Jaspers' arrival, he was basking in his glory by tickling Cedd's tummy and it did sound a little as though Offa was saying "walkies" to his Oaf. Whatever it was Cedd was excited by the prospect. Then Magnus said "Sire."

Offa looked across at the superintending orderly of Dayroom Two, a reprimand could be read in the king's face and Cedd leapt off the king's sofa, raced to window, stared out into the Afon-Bedd gardens. Whatever it was he saw filled him with disappointment, and slowly he tromped back to Offa. Offa's own reaction was fiercer.

"Magnus!" The king raised his voice. "I've told you once....."

"Another matter, sire!" Magnus always sucked his teeth when something amused him, and over time the more astute inmate in Afon-Bedd learned that Magnus had an odd sense of humor.

"I'll remind you Magnus," the king cast an evil eye upon Doctor Jaspers. "Members of my court, however useless they might be, are only interviewed by senior staff. "

Instead of replying, Magnus stepped off his lectern and with the wave of a gracious arm he invited the young doctor to take his place. It was an action from Magnus that young Jaspers hadn't expected. From my own experience I knew that Jaspers was a confident person, well able to comment adversely on the use of such things as a chimpanzee tranquilizer on human subjects, so it came as a surprise to me that Jaspers seemed uneasy standing at the Dayroom Two lectern being stared at by Afon-Bedd inmates.

"We don't just throw people into the deep end...."

It wasn't a good start from the father of twins. Cedd became very agitated and noisy, there was a kind of growl from the Saint David's, a general sense of restlessness and outrage in Dayroom Two. Then Magnus whispered something into Jaspers' ear.

"I begin your pardon, Sire." Jaspers apologized

"Don't let it happen again!" The king was magnanimous and Cedd calmed down.

"Sire." Jaspers continued. "Doctor Woolley is off on fishing trip at the moment, otherwise he would have been here. As I think you'll agree, sire, we don't just throw people off at the deep end. We give every new admission a leniency period so they may become familiar with their new home. I should have been here for the new arrivals, but I wasn't. It's my fault."

I came to the conclusion there was something big going on, probably lost keys or Crabtree related and Jaspers was out of his depth. The king however turned to the superintending orderly of his dayroom and he said, "Can you translate, Magnus."

"We had a cock-up with two new ones, sire."

"Oh dear!" The King didn't seem too upset, but Cedd looked hard at me

"Doctor Jaspers was supposed to talk to you about them, but he wasn't here when they arrived, so he didn't."

"I find manual labor the best punishment for incompetence, Magnus." The king was regal. "I suggest a spell on the ditch for the man."

"Sire!" Magnus was stern. "The fault doesn't lie entirely with the new, young and inexperienced Doctor. Alwyn the Keep did the receiving and he should have known better."

At the mention of Alwyn's name Cedd became still, and though it was difficult to tell, it appeared to me that king's Oaf looked guilty of something. But Offa was suave. He shook his head in a most regal way and he said, "Alwyn's an old retainer, Magnus. We don't speak ill of old retainers, do we?"

"No sire. But it does present us and your court with a problem."

"I'll remind you that Woolley's a stickler for protocol and so am I, Magnus!"

"Yes, Sire!"

"Heads may roll but there'll be no docking of Alwyn's wages, you understand."

"Yes, Sire."

"Boy or Girl."

"Male, sire. And he's under guard in the hallway."

Both Magnus and Offa looked rather pleased with themselves, but Magnus did take the opportunity to stare across the room at me and in that stare I saw problems.

Then when Jaspers escorted Crabtree into Dayroom Two it was very obvious that Crabtree was either under the influence of a spell, one of his darker moods or something approximating chimpanzee tranquilizer. He could move of his own volition, but he seemed lost from the world and as Crabtree stood as though in awe before the king, I held my breath.

Offa stared up at Crabtree, he frowned. Cedd folded his little arms and glared. And then the king turned to Magnus, a look in his face that suggested intense dissatisfaction.

"One of Hawthorn's." Offa suggested.

"Not privy to such details, sire." Magnus was prompt and he took some satisfaction from adding. "But if so, he'll not be with us for long."

"Kindly introduce yourself." Offa waved an arm at Crabtree.

"Crabtree of Gloucester, at your service Sire." Crabtree bowed.

Jaspers was uncomfortable as he left Dayroom Two, but the young doctor's discomfort was as a feather compared to the feelings that pounded through me.

Chapter Seventeen : Offa's Dyke

Windral's return from the Veterinarian was greeted with music and dancing, or at least I gave her a cuddle when she finally chose to drag herself away from my intern in order to give me a perfunctory nod. The disagreement with Mrs. Bigelow endures, but my intern declared his intention to acquire a Cat Flap from a store called Big Lots. Mrs. Bigelow reacted to his determination by explaining to me that anything from Big Lots was "rubbish."

"Cheap Cat Flaps can kill." There was worry in her eye as she gave Windral one of the very expensive Cat Treats Mrs. Bigelow had persuaded herself to spend my money on.

My intern went directly to his telephone and produced a picture of an endless assortment of Cat Flaps, some considerably more expensive than others. A long discussion concluded with a Cat Flat that had a life time guarantee, it had wind proof double doors, and a Cat Collar that was money back guaranteed to ensure no entry or exit to any creature that wasn't wearing the collar.

"You don't want Raccoons coming and going whenever they feel like it, and I'm not coming anywhere near this house if there's a Skunk in it."

My "Cats don't wear collars" was dismissed as heartily as my objection to spending hundreds of dollars on a Cat Flap. When we were alone, carefully without risking her stitches, I lifted Windral onto the Kitchen sink, we stared out at my Tower of Silence, which needs more timber for a platform, and a winch to aid an elderly male hominid reach the platform without the assistance of others.

She purred at the prospect of double doors on her Cat Flap, and I wondered what had happened to my world. It was different, but no more different to my own first footsteps into the gardens of Afon-Bedd. Those gardnes had matured, endured storm, drought, survived the arrival of the petrol engine mowing machine and in their more recent years had struggled with that classic element of dotage that includes poor help.

There'd been a time when the better able inmates worked a vegetable garden, potato, peas, beans and carrots. From the greenhouse came bedding plants for the borders, bitter cucumbers for the kitchen, but no longer. The stone walled graveyard was well gone to briar but was still used for both recreation and burial of the forgotten. All the same, consistent through the years for the dayroom inmates had been a period of afternoon activities. AA it was sometimes called.

As the after lunch rest period came to an end, dayroom inmates would collect themselves. Orderlies would determine that everyone was correctly attired for the outdoors, and then each dayroom would walk in a sensible manner down the corridors to spacious vestibules with good windows that granted access from the South Wing of Afon-Bedd to the gardens. The South Wing had three such vestibules, or Sunrooms as they were called. The Main Sunroom was shared by Dayroom One and Dayroom Two. The East Sunroom was Freckles' Sunroom. According to the Rabbit, Freckle's Dayroom was a place of harmony, clean window panes, well kept floors and palm trees.

"They are palm trees in pots!" The Rabbit explained.

Aldulf's Crew and their superintendent Stanly were discussing temperatures when Offa led his court into the Main Sunroom. Some claimed it was far too hot for AA. My nemesis Geats, despite the scarf round his neck, claimed it was well over one hundred degrees. Stanly disagreed. Burgess was a considering a wager on what the temperature actually was and Aldulf was bald-faced as he reminded his men that the Witch had a thermometer in her greenhouse that only she was able to consult. It was the short, pimple faced, Humpty Dumpty of King Offa and his twitching Oaf that brought silence to Aldulf's Crew. They slouched to attention, each said "Sire" as the king passed by them while Magnus had a whisper for Stanley and Cedd, ignoring the protocols. attached his nose to the glass panes, he almost seemed to be panting.

I'd kept close to Crabtree along the corridor. He had developed a peculiar gait, his stride hesitant, but it did seem to me that either Crabtree's mood was beginning to change or the tranquilizer he'd been given was wearing off. We'd been two weeks, day and night in each other's company and, no matter his many faults, I felt a peculiar responsibility for him. I was anxious to be present and by his side when he returned to the present where more than likely he'd find the energy to engage his mind and utter one version or other of his nonsense.

Outside, under a blue sky, a light breeze with fair weather clouds, Dayroom One had already been released into the fresh air. They seemed somehow more skipping and gay than Offa's lot. From the Sunroom it was possible to see a hunched figure picking a way through the red, white and yellow blooms of the Rose Garden where there wasn't a weed or a loose end to be seen. Amongst the Dayroom One's Roses, and it was difficult to determine, but I suspected from the length of the inmate's long grey hair it was an elderly female and I wondered whether the inmate was Freckles. The Rabbit was excited by the prospect of seeing his Witch of Ithaca again, he was glued to the window pane and with disappointment he announced that Freckles must have been in her greenhouse.

"I thought Chad said that after an incident the women were separated." I muttered.

"They are separated."

"Why wasn't Freckles' Dayroom separated."

"Freckles' Dayroom wasn't involved in the incident!" The Rabbit was shocked by the depths of my ignorance.

There was third sunroom at Afon-Bedd. It was at western corner of the South Wing where it caught the afternoon sun. It was well out of view from the gardens behind a thick hedge of Beech, near the punishment block. Following an incident the women from Offa's and Aldulf's Dayrooms were escorted to the West Sunroom, where they were well supervised by Afon-Bedd female orderlies. The third sunroom was well appointed, it had a craft table, very comfortable chairs, good atmosphere and there was even a kettle for tea making.....

"Where do Freckles' men go?"

"They have their Dayroom." The Rabbit explained.

"Where did they have their lunch?"

"In the dining hall!" Again The Rabbit was having doubts about me.

"I didn't see them."

"We were having our rest period!"

It was all too obvious to The Rabbit, but I had more immediate concern. Magnus had unlocked the sunroom doors, opened them and Cedd had raced out into the gardens. No one else moved except for Crabtree who was blinking, staring around in a most ominous manner. And what with Crabtree about to say something at any moment, and Aldulf's Crew staring at me, and Offa standing still as a stake watching Cedd galloping toward three giant trees, I had a bleak view of my future. Then as Cedd suddenly came to a squeaking halt near what I'd guessed was a shallow excavation that had to do with the plumbing, there was a palpable tension in Offa's Sunroom which was exactly the sort of thing that would set Crabtree into some tirade or other. Finally, after getting down on his little knees to better examine the scratch of bare earth, Cedd returned to his king. And you could always tell when Cedd had bad news to report.

"I'll need volunteers for a repair detail." Offa didn't turn to face his men, he just stared out through the windows as royalty does when confronting the more onerous burdens of their position, and safe to say there was no great enthusiasm from either the king's court or Aldulf's Crew. They shrugged, looked uncomfortable and stared hard at the Allah Akbar.

It was a complicated story from Cedd, his medium of communication was more visual, a most expressive series of gestures and noises followed by a whispered word or two in Offa's ear. The King's eye widened a little, he patted Cedd's shoulder in a comforting way as he said, "Don't you trouble your little head about the Welsh." And then he turned to address his Sunroom.

"Carnage!" Offa paused to allow the depth of his feelings to materialize. "A violation of my dyke like no other violation of my dyke. I've a good mind to excommunicate you for incompetence, Chad!"

"Not in your power, Sire." It was Bishop Aldulf quick to defend his turf.

"I know that!" The king shot back. "Doesn't mean to say I can't have a good mind to!"

There was a wide ranging to and froe between Offa and Aldulf, during which I realized that Offa's Dyke was the shallow, very shallow trench that ran from the rose garden across the lawn to three ancient trees. The trench had been excavated some years previously during an afternoon of exuberance and volunteerism by members of dayrooms two and three. It had been a well regulated and cooperative bonding experience as well as an irritation to the Afon-Bedd gardener. No doubt in anyone's mind that the dyke was central to the security of the Mercian side of the Afon-Bedd gardens, yet no member of Dayrooms Two or Three had any enthusiasm for their king's insistence that his dyke be subject to regular maintenance by volunteers. Before the recent outbreaks of wanton vandalism by the Freckles' Dayroom, the king had been only to happy to reward service on his dyke with yellow Smarties and the odd Coconut Bar.

".......I've told you once, I've told you twice, I've told you a thousand times volunteers don't get paid they do it for their King.......!"

"I think it's time Chad did something useful for a change!" It was Gribbins, Aldulf's young love interest.

"Don't tell me why, but Aldulf exempted Saints and Bishops." Offa dismissed the absurd suggestion.

"The Saint David's aren't real saints, are they Sire?" It just came out of Geats. "They've never done anything for the dyke!"

"Good point!" King Offa cheered up a little and he glared at his religious advisor, Saint Chad, in a most threatening way. "A ruling please!"

"They're certainly not sanctioned saints!" Chad was adamant and spitting.

"But they are hostages, Sire." The Bishop reminded the King of Mercia. "And hostages are exempt for fear of sabotage."

"There's only one way to solve this!" Offa stamped his foot. "I'm going to close my eyes, count to five and if a volunteer isn't standing in front of me when I open my eyes, I'm going to fine the lot of you!"

While Offa had his eyes closed there was some commotion in the ranks of Aldulf's Crew as I stepped in front of the king, and before he reached the count of five, Offa opened his eyes.

"He's an Allah Akbar, Sire!" It was Geats, he was genuinely alarmed. "An Allah Akbar can't work on the dyke, that's sabotage waiting to happen!"

"Sire." I was quick. "I have seen the pyramids and so has the Liege Lord of Gloucester. But that doesn't make us Allah Akbars."

"What?" The king's patience was frayed, but he was both curious and confused. "Did you say Liege Lord Crabtree of Gloucester."

"He's standing right here, Sire." I grabbed a hold of Crabtree's elbow and squeezed as hard as I could.

I'd expected a reaction from Crabtree, an utterance of some sort, a degree of vehemence, or at least an opinion, and my plan had been to trust my own Leopard-like reflexes to respond in suitably satisfactory manner. It was possibly an act of desperation on me part. Crabtree did little more than stare at me, it was a haughty stare that contained the distain of aristocracy for lesser mortals, but there were no words.

"I don't remember a Liege Lord of Gloucestershire." Offa looked at Cedd, who shrugged his little shoulders. The two superintending orderlies glanced at their wrist watches. Bishop Aldulf raised an eye brow. But Crabtree recovered, he leapt at the moment which had tickled some equation in his strange mind

"Sire. On the eve of Candlemass in the year of our lord 772 in our city of Tamworth, you dubbed me Hammer of the Bristolian, Subjugator of the Silures, and you made me Liege Lord Crabtree of Gloucester with Oak Leaves and Swordfish."

Magnus wasn't happy, Bishop Aldulf seemed suspicious but King Offa nodded wisely, and I found myself saying, "He's a great warrior with many head wounds. Sometimes they get the better of him and he drifts off a little. But he's a very big fan of the Iclingas and their golden age. We're both looking forward to doing our bit for your dyke."

"You're both volunteering for the work detail?" Offa seemed glazed by the dawn of realization that there was a good chance the skinny head shaved inmate in front of him was either retarded or a horrible little weasel, and he added, "You'll need supervision!"

A very elderly man by the name of Penda was assigned the role of supervising the work detail. Clearly Penda was hard of hearing, he didn't quite get what it was his king had asked of him until Cedd picked up a small metal trowel that was kept by the sunroom doors. Very slowly, Hugh Crabtree and I followed Penda who was led by the king's Oaf to that point in the dyke that required attention. Strictly speaking neither Penda nor the Liege Lord of Gloucester were sufficiently present to be interested but I was able to persuade Cedd that I'd grasped the problem, I knew the correct way to repair the damage which I'd determined had indeed been caused by a large tunneling subterranean creatures. I took the trowel from Penda, I set to work and when Cedd was convinced I'd understood that the excavated material whether it be soil or stones had to be piled on the Mercian side of the border, he scampered off to engage in a strange entertainment with his king that required him to run around in circles with his eyes closed.

"You have to get with the program, Crabtree." I was determined. "Otherwise you'll end up in the Secure Wing for not paying your speeding ticket. We're in some kind of Medieval Period, so play the game, or God knows what's going to happen to you."

And it was difficult for me not to notice Aldulf's Crew disappearing toward what I guessed was the Afon-Bedd graveyard, they were followed by Stanley and one or two orderlies. Magnus had taken a seat on the bench under the three giant trees, where he was joined by the Dayroom orderlies all of whom were enjoying cigarettes. When Saint Chad wandered toward Magnus' bench the two Saint David's stopped following him and they plumped themselves down in the grass. It was wonderful to be outside in the warm fresh air and birdsong, far from the madding crowd, on the borderland between Mercia and the Dragons of Wales. I had a sense of freedom in the familiar if unsettling company of Crabtree and the ancient Penda.

"There's no talking across the dyke." Penda had a soft voice, he was staring toward Freckles' greenhouse, he seemed suddenly agitated.

I looked up from my careful work. A figure was approaching the King's Dyke. It was winsome, youthful, very female, it was alone, its very fetching inmate tunic was more flowing than standard issue and the woman was completely bald in an elegant sort of way.

"Is that Freckles?"

"That's Saint Winifred..." The Rabbit went on a dismissive manner about a series of very self serving and paltry miracles Winifred had been responsible for. Her head had been cut off by a frustrated suitor, naturally it had been reattached and the suitor had been swallowed by an earthquake, there'd been thunder and lightning, but the miracle was far from perfect because it had left an indelible necklace around Winifred's neck and she'd developed a capacity to divine wells which in Wales wasn't a difficult thing to do "....I was constantly divining wells when I was a saint, never even thought to count them as miracles, it was the decent thing to do..."

I wasn't really listening to this appraisal of his sister saint, because Saint Winifred was considerable more than somewhat. Crabtree had an entirely different reaction to the apparition floating toward the repair detail.

"How do you do." Crabtree's voice sounded gallant.

"Hello." Saint Winifred's voice had child like qualities

"There's no talking across the dyke." Penda struggled.

"Take no notice, my dear."

"I'm Winifred."

"Charmed to meet you...."

"There's definitely no touching across the dyke." It was almost as though the elderly Penda was on the verge of a heart attack.

I didn't dare look up to see what Crabtree was doing.

"I'm the Liege Lord Crabtree of Gloucester."

"I've never met a Liege Lord, but before I was a saint I visited Gloucester."

"You're a saint. Never would have guessed."

"It wasn't easy..." Saint Winifred sighed. "A girl has to give up so much, but it's worth it."

"Where are you from originally?" Crabtree was smooth.

"Weston-super-Mare." Saint Winifred replied. "You might have seen me when I had my crown. A lot of people did."

For those who might not have been blessed with Geography, Weston-super-Mare is pretty much Bristol to anyone from Gloucestershire. And while The Hammer of the Bristolian was able to maintain his composure I was roused to a terrible curiosity. I peeped at Saint Winifred's face, who despite having had all her hair shaved off, did look vaguely familiar, she'd worn a crown, she was from Weston-super-Mare, and I remembered vividly it was a beauty Queen from Weston-super-Mare that had caused the rift between JH Woolley and Mrs. Carol Woolley.

"And who's this?" I was aware that Saint Winifred was leaning down staring at him. She smelled of rose petals and something that could have been frankincense or warm wool rather than tobacco. "He seems very shy."

"I wouldn't pat him Winnie. There's a beast in there somewhere. I bought him in the slave markets of Cairo near the Pyramids. It was either that or statue of Queen Nefertiti. He is an Allah Akbar, but I just couldn't resist it. I call him Edward."

All very well that Crabtree was becoming engaged in the Medieval Period but I was furious with him.

"Freckles!" The Rabbit leapt, all four feet off the ground.

From the Greenhouse, heading toward Offa's work detail, were three tall athletic looking older women of the kind that enjoyed long walks and picnics. Two had long grey, flowing hair. The third had unnaturally red hair.

In all the years the Rabbit had gone on about the Witch of Ithaca, I'd never truly had a sense of what she might look like. On occasion I'd thought her gnarled, stick wielding and terrifying. Other times I'd understood her to be devious and icy cunning. She'd been ruthless, very cruel in most unpleasant ways. But there was a degree of certainty in my understanding of two things. The Witch of Ithaca had red hair and during one of his lives upon earth the Rabbit had had a relationship with her of a kind that I didn't feel comfortable thinking about. But no way was the Afon-Bedd Witch of Ithaca anything other than some sort of an imposter who may or may not have been dropped from a Junkers 52 near Chesil Beach. Nonetheless The Rabbit had declared that there was a person in Afon-Bedd who looked and sounded just like his Witch of Ithaca.

"Herr Oberst was correct."

"You have no idea, my child." The Rabbit had a lump in his throat

The group was too far off for me to get a sense of, but Freckles had a voice. Its accent was uncertain, it was clear as a frosty morning yet warm as silk, I could almost see the sound of it as it called sweetly for Saint Winifred. The Rabbit claimed that the voice belonged to Freckles and it could be heard clear across Mercia.

Cedd opened his eyes, he was dizzy from running in circles and King Offa yelled "Attend!" The ground trembled as Mercians from all around the realm who had been busy with important afternoon and mostly unsupervised projects obediently gathered to address the threat to their king.

"We're in trouble now." Penda was deeply depressed.

Magnus stood up from his bench, orderlies put out their cigarettes, saved the butts for later before preparing themselves for what had the potential to by another incident in an already busy and exciting summer day. I got to my feet, looked across the border into Wales where the colored stripes of the standard issue tunics looked more blossoming in the green of the Afon-Bedd gardens.

"I was the wrong man for the job, Sire!" The ancient Penda bravely defended himself against Mercian wrath.

"You know the rules, Penda!" Offa was stately as he fumbled with how best to manage his outrage. "There's no talking across the dyke, and there's certainly no touching across the dyke."

"I wasn't doing the touching or the talking myself, Sire. It was the lanky one."

"High Treason! That's what it is." Geats' contribution went down well with the gamblers in Aldulf's Crew.

"An opinion, Chad?" Offa didn't sound confident as he gave Saint Chad an opportunity to redeem a ravaged reputation.

"If I may, sire!" To my horror Crabtree stepped forward. "I'll remind your court, that I am the Subjugator of the Silures and Hammer of the Bristolian as well as being the Liege Lord of Gloucester. I hardly think that an upstanding and righteous Mercian who is possessed of the Oak Leaves and Swordfish would either touch or talk across the dyke without a jolly good reason."

I was surprised by the speed at which Crabtree seemed to have grasped the intricacies of the Medieval Period. The king was very impressed with his liege lord, but Bishop Aldulf, supported by his crew, wanted to know what Crabtree meant by "Jolly good reasons."

"It's an Oak Leaves and Swordfish matter." Crabtree always sounded as though he knew what he was talking about, and I felt doomed.

"What you on about?" It was Geats, and at the same time he was curious.

"If you don't know I can't risk the security of Mercia by telling you." Crabtree seemed supremely confident. "Let's just say there's fish in the soup and it's not Friday."

There was a degree of confusion in Mercia, more so in Aldulf's Dayroom than in Offa's Court. Then Geats had the certain knowledge that he'd been correct all along. "I told you the Allah Akbar was a spy."

"I wish it was that simple!" Crabtree sighed and he draped an arm across my shoulder. "If my slave was a spy, I'd have loped his head off long ago! But when rules are broken, I do see the need for punishment. A spell in the stocks or the duck pond would do you good, wouldn't it Edward?"

"I wasn't the one talking and touching over the fence!" I defended myself and Penda did his best to agree.

"He cost me more than he's worth, Sire! I'm sure you know frustrating that can be."

"Yes I do, Crabtree." The King rambled on a bit, he didn't mention names but he was looking at Saint Chad. Amongst Aldulf's Crew building plans for both a duck pond and stocks were already being made. Then Offa brought the discussion to a close by yelling, "Magnus Attend!"

"I'm right here, Sire."

"I'd be obliged if you sent the Allah Akbar to punishment."

"Are you certain, Sire......"

"I'm well aware of the problems Alwyn is having at the moment, Magnus."

Cedd growled at me and there were cheers from some in Mercia when two burly orderlies escorted me to the Punishment Block.

It was a lonely trip from the Afon-Bedd gardens to Alwyn the Keep's part of my new world. But I was warmed a little by a growing conviction that an Allah Akbar in a Tri-County Lunatic Asylum would probably be much safer in a punishment cell.

"I can't believe what an unpleasant human being JH Woolley is!" I made an attempt to concentrate my thinking around something useful. "You don't just shack up with a bimbo half your age and when you've finished with her you call her Saint Winifred and pop her into Dayroom Three. He can't possibly be our JH!"

"Winnie is no great miracle worker, but she does have her charms."

"I can't believe you were ever even considered for sainthood." I cursed my eternal friend.

"Blaspheming is one of the worst sins! And so is spreading unfounded rumors. When I was working miracles I was responsible for five definite miracles. I turned a lizard into gold, I caused a ball of fire, I parted fog, I caused horses to appear and disappear and I spoke in tongues. Those are facts, my child!"

"Lead Bull didn't think so. He was probably thinking more about your experiences on the Bearded Goat! Thou shalt not toss people overboard during a storm at sea."

"We're all sinners." But The Rabbit did sound worried, and in the foyer of the Punishment Cells, while one of the many orderlies left the reception desk to try and find Alwyn, I drew comfort from the Hail Mary the Rabbit repeating endlessly.

"You want to watch this Allah Akbar stuff." It was the orderly who'd remained to make sure I didn't run off.

"I'm Church of England!" I offered.

"And I'm the king of Portugal!"

"Was I muttering?"

"I wouldn't call what you were doing muttering. More like speaking in tongues. It had Allah Akbar written all over it."

"I have to stop doing that, don't I." I felt stupid. "I'm multilingual, I can't seem to help it."

"Take my advice." The orderly was kindly rather than gentle. "If you've got to mutter, then mutter in English! That shouldn't be too hard."

"Another bonk on the head might help." The Rabbit's contribution went unanswered.

The escort orderly grew restless waiting for Alwyn and he chose to get things moving by introducing me to a cell. And for those unfamiliar with Punishment Cells in the more ancient mental asylums, the Dayroom Punishment Block at Afon-Bedd was entirely sinister, haunted by practices Napoleon might have been proud of. The doors were thick, they creaked on their hinges. The cell still had iron restraining rings hanging from the tile walls. In past time these rings served as the traditional equivalent to the more modern day chemical tranquilizers. In terms of conveniences, there were none, not even a slop bucket and from the smell it might have seemed that the practice was to occasionally hose down, then disinfect, the floor and walls. But the iron bench had been made welcoming, it had a mattress, a blanket, a pillow with a well used and stained pillowcase.

The cell door was about to close on me when Alwyn and the other escort orderly emerged from an entryway into the foyer which I guessed from the smell of boiled cabbage led to the kitchens.

"Not that one, boyo!" Alwyn was all business. "That's not the one for him."

Both Dayroom Two orderlies were resigned to Alwyn's foibles. I was pulled out of the cell, the orderlies hurried back to their duties.

"I can't find my keys, you understand." Alwyn fussed a little with the papers on his desk, as though he was still looking for them. "I'll have to sit here all night."

"When did you last see them?" I had a whole set of suspicions about Crabtree and Alwyn's keys.

"I'd put the other new arrival in number five. I locked him in. I had my cup of tea and a biscuit. I went outside for a cigarette and when I returned the keys were gone from their hook...."

"Your cells, Alwyn. Can you unlock them from the inside?"

"That would defeat the object of a cell, wouldn't it my boy?"

"Someone must have taken your keys and let him out!" It was a eureka moment for me.

"That's what I told them, but they think I'm too old for the job!"

Alwyn the Keep became suddenly professional, he took a hold of my elbow and slowly escorted me to a cell at the far west end of the Punishment Block. Light from the afternoon sun streamed through the bars, rays sparkled through the dust, no iron rings on the walls, it smelled dry as toast, there was a hard chair, a little table, the bed was wooden it had two blankets. Alwyn stood at the door as I entered the cell.

"He was with me a lot."

"Who was?"

"We often had odd fellows in here. But you do look like him and there's your muttering..."

"I'm multilingual!" I was determined to persist.

"So was he." Alwyn sounded wistful. "He had an armful of languages, some of them sing-song, but he didn't speak Welsh!"

"What was his name?"

"There you have it! No one really knew. He was Gwningen when he was with me. The upstairs didn't like that...."

"Why didn't they like it?"

"If I knew that I'd have a crown on my head, wouldn't I?"

"What did the upstairs call him?"

"We had to call him Rabbit on the paperwork. Everything had to be in English"

"Was Doctor Woolley here during the war?"

"He was much younger back then, of course. He was an advisor, I believe. He had military uniform, a boffin or an officer of some sort." Alwyn paused. "You got a lot questions, haven't you?"

"Yes I have, Alwyn."

"Well, my boy, I don't mind a bit of yarn. You cool your heels. Don't wonder off, it'll do you no good, and how's about I go make us a mug of tea."

Alone in the cell I felt a weight drain from my shoulders. The cell was comfortable and it felt safe. Alwyn's mug of tea already had the sugar in it, it was hot and smelled of honey.

"I was knee high to mother's skirt when I first saw Brynbuga...."

"Who?" I didn't want to miss or misunderstand anything.

"Mae Gwningen Brynbuga. You can look at it anyway you might wish to but he's not the Rabbit of Usk, in the English he's more like The Bunny of Usk." Alwyn thought a while. "Maybe it was to stop the children from being a'feared of him, because he's an unpleasant piece of work...."

"I thought he saved the border valleys from a great evil."

"Depends were you're from, I suppose."

"He could speak to you?"

"The family struggled back then. The Depression, it was. No work, never enough food and what food we had was often stale. Maybe you know, many people don't, but it's the bread that gets damp and on a warm day it can set off a mold that'll make you see things that might not be there...."

"What happened when you saw the Bunny of Usk."

"In those days, my boy, I'd been kept well hidden from the English Schools, so I wasn't that good at the English. Brynbuga didn't speak Welsh, he spoke English to me."

"What did he say?"

"I'm a religious man, you understand! Let's just say he was very rude."

"I've heard that the Bunny of Usk wasn't very nice to Welsh people." I glanced down at the Rabbit. "But why do some people think he saved the valleys from a great evil."

"He might well have saved the border valleys, but from what I'm told," Alwyn lowered his voice, "Brynbuga has always been polite to the girls."

"He's an English rabbit." Our hero suggested.

"No offense, but not certain that follows."

"Don't suppose you know what kind of evil he might have saved the valley's from?" Our hero had a horrible suspicion.

"The old stories were for a winter's night, my mother was full of them, she could scare the pants of us!"

"Dragons and witches." I nodded wisely.

"She always claimed she had a pet dragon when she was young." Alwyn was fond in his memories. "It was kidnapped and sent to the colonies by an English Landlord. It lived in the coal shed, it liked milk and it always ate its cabbage. We didn't have the television in those days."

"What about witches. Did she have a story about witches?"

"She was an encyclopedia of witches. He favorite witch was a Dutch witch, I forget the name...."

"What about more local witches?" Our hero offered.

"There was an Irish witch."

"More local than that."

"My mother's Irish witch was down there near Caerllion, and that's fairly local, my boy!"

"Was this Irish witch a very bad mean kind of witch."

"I'm a religious man mind you, and so was my mother. My father had his own views. But no. The Irish witch was one of the good ones. Especially when the Norwegian witch had her eye on the Usk. The stories boggle the mind when I think about them."

"But some of them could have been based on true things. Like stories in the bible."

"No doubt my mother had a strange imagination, bless her. Her interpretations may well have been based on even older stories. She was fan of Eisteddfod, earned a penny or two telling tales at the gathering. But who knows. "

"Let me get this straight, Alwyn. The Irish witch, could have been something like the Witch of Usk."

"She was the most local witch, as you put it."

"Why did your mother call her the Irish Witch."

"As I say she was a religious woman. Regular attendance. Wouldn't have done her reputation much good if she went on about a Welsh witch, now would it. And they are a little different down there in Caerllion."

"How do you mean different?"

"I'm told I take after my mother," Alwyn was defensive, "But I'm not a story book you know!"

"I'm not from round here, Alwyn."

"There's lot of sitting around in my job, so I read a lot. And the library upstairs contains a wealth of learning on the Welsh. Most of it written by the English minded, nonetheless a wealth of learning. When I first worked here, I learned to read up there."

It was like sitting next to a goldmine for me. Less so for The Rabbit, who'd become engaged in a series of silent prayers an Allah Akbar might have found solace in but which the Pope would definitely have considered alarming in a candidate for Christian Sainthood.

"Did your mother's Irish witch have red hair?" I made a bold attempt to be conversational.

"My mother suffered from color blindness." Alwyn laughed. "It was no wonder she couldn't see the mold on the Saturday rye bread, but we ate it just the same to avoid the attention of Danish witches."

"There's someone in Dayroom Three with very red hair." I felt a little shaky.

"They call her Freckles." Alwyn didn't blink an eye.

It was probably as well that young Doctor Jaspers chose that moment to come looking for Alwyn. My own experience of orderlies had suggested that too many questions from an inmate sent orderlies to some page in their manual that advised against becoming personally involved.

Jaspers called Alwyn's name from the foyer and Alwyn sighed as he rose to his feet and prepared to defend himself against charges of being too old for his job. It was frustrating, I had a whole host of questions for Alwyn but if Alwyn was sent home those questions might never be answered.

"They live on the hook." Alwyn was protecting the practice. "They've always lived on the hook. I could do it in my sleep. Someone took them."

"Why don't we have spare keys?" Jaspers was reasonable.

"We used to have a set of spares in the main office. No one can find them with Doctor Woolley away like this."

"You know there's a limit to the number of hours you can work, Mr. Cadw'n."

"You're welcome to put out a call for volunteers to man the cells."

"Who could possible have taken the keys?" Jaspers sounded flummoxed but in my understanding Jaspers was no Magnus, the young doctor wouldn't just come out and tell Alwyn that he was far too old for the responsibility of being in charge something as important as keys. King Offa had called Alwyn an old retainer, and whichever way I looked at it I was under the impression Doctor Woolley had a loyalty to old retainers. Probably wasn't the decent and upright kind of loyalty, more likely Doctor Woolley owed Alwyn some very large favors.

"I tell you what." I poked my head out of the cell. "You might ask Hugh Crabtree what happened to the keys..."

"What are you doing here?" Jaspers was surprised.

"They think I'm an Allah Akbar!" I answered. "King Offa very wisely suggested I be placed into protective custody with Alwyn."

"They think you're a what?"

Jaspers was well out of his depth in the bowels of Afon-Bedd, nor did I wish to sound too sensible.

"An Allah Akbar is a hodgie, Doctor Jaspers."

"A what?"

I thought quickly. "When the hodgie is not drinking camel blood, they're well known for kidnapping schoolboys and twins who might be on their way to school and then selling them to the fleshpots of Eastern Potentates. They say it happens all the time on the London Underground. So it's just as well I'm safe here with Alwyn. Best thing for me. It's the right thing to do..."

"I see." Doctor Jaspers smiled bravely at Hanian, he gave Alwyn a nod of encouragement and with an air of importance he was off to investigate. But Alwyn was a strange one. The old man had a completely blank expression on his face. It was unnerving and I quickly retreated into my cell where the Rabbit was deep in a series of maneuvers I assumed belonged to the prayer tradition of one of the more obscure religious sects. I sat quietly on the bed and waited silently, determined to say not another word to anyone.

The Rabbit was suddenly still. "What did the jailor mean when he said, it depends where you're from?"

"We're not from around here so we don't know!" It just came out.

"He knows a great deal about the Welsh, he told us so himself." The Rabbit sounded inspired. "If in Wales, it depends where you're from, then that would apply to any number of things."

"I know how important being a saint is to you," I wasn't taken in, not even for a thin second, "But, I don't think the Pope and his church who are responsible for deciding who might be a saint is going to say it depends where he's from when it comes to something like tipping someone off a boat. That's a big sin as far as some people are concerned. Not me because I think you did the right thing, but you're not trying to qualify as Sufi Saint, you're talking about Christians. They went to the lions rather than do things like tipping people off boats."

"Not all Christians. Saint Patrick didn't go to the lions. When I was working miracles, my mother wasn't a real Christian."

"She had you baptized in case she had to give you to the monks, and that makes you a Christian!"

"I never had religious study...."

"We both had religious study, you were never interested in religious study."

"Well the Lead Bull isn't a Christian. And he's the one who sent to me exile. So you'd think...."

"You lied to the Lead Bull because you wanted to take his place rather than be returned as a shellfish. That's what you did. And all this saint business is going to end me up in the Secure Wing."

"I performed miracles!" Not easy for a Rabbit to look miserable.

I attempted to harden my heart against feeling any kind of sympathy for anyone. But it was like being under the influence of chimpanzee tranquilizer. An alarming experience, and at the same time peaceful. A sane person could get used to it.

"I don't think you've ever told me about your parting of the fog miracle." I tried to change the subject.

"Bishop Aldulf tried to steal that one from me and he tried to steal my causing horses to appear and disappear miracle. They weren't just small miracles, they were very big miracles, everyone said so."

"What was Bishop Aldulf like?"

"He wasn't as fat when I first met him, but he was schemer as he is now. But I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not? It might cheer you up a little."

"It won't!"

I found the Rabbit's reluctance to ramble on about his miracles and what a dreadful person Bishop Aldulf suspicions.

"You've been a very good Lead Bull to me." I decided. "You have erudition and learning written all over you, and you always have done. I wouldn't have managed without you. I'd have been a babe lost in the woods and eaten by the beasts of the fields."

"That's very true." The Rabbit straightened up, he put resolve into his whiskers and flattened his ears.

"The Parting of the Fog." I yawned and closed my eyes. "That does sound like an interesting miracle."

"We were running away just as fast as we could, they'd already cut down Geats and Burgess, we could hear them screaming as they breathed their last, but we still had a chance to escape when Bishop Aldulf tripped and hurt his foot. So I caused there to be a dense fog, and in that fog we were able to hide. Trouble was, the fog wouldn't go away. It just stayed, and we had no idea where we were. We were lost and had been so for days. So I caused the fog to part...."

"Wait a minute! Who were you running from and why were Bishop Aldulf, Geats and Burgess there?"

"Bishop Aldulf, Geats and Burgess were their names."

"I wonder if there was a Liege Lord Crabtree of Gloucester? I thought I just made that name up."

"I don't remember a Crabtree back then. There was a Burgess and Geats, a Wiggins and Gribbins. There was Bishop Aldulf. And King Offa and Saint Chad. We all knew about Saint Winfred, but when I was Timothy she'd been gone a long time...."

"Someone must have got these names from somewhere. And I bet you that somewhere was up there in the Afon-Bedd library. And I believe Alwyn when he says he learned to read up there."

"Don't think there was a Saint Judith, or a Saint Barbara," The Rabbit was fumbling with his memory. "We all knew about Saint David...."

"Was Freckles called Freckles back then?" I interrupted The Rabbit's list making. "I know you called her Freckles, and I don't like to think why you might have called her Freckles, but did people like Bishop Aldulf call her Freckles."

The Rabbit was silent, he seemed to again be retreating into some part of himself.

"Why were you and Bishop Aldulf's Crew being chased and who was doing the chasing?"

"I forget." The Rabbit was lying. "Being chased happened all the time in the Medieval Period."

"Where you by any chance running away from Freckles?"

"Bishop Aldulf led a Church Mission from King Offa to the Witch of Ithaca. It didn't work out. Words were exchanged, one thing led to another and we had to run away."

"What was this mission about?" I was scholarly.

"Offa was planning the route of his dyke. The Witch of Ithaca felt strongly that the path of the Dyke was too far west. There'd been a number of incidents. And so King Offa sent Bishop Aldulf to discuss things...."

"And this was after Freckles had inspected your teeth and bought you from the Bearded Goat..."

"She didn't buy me! She traded information for me. There's a big difference!"

"So when Bishop Aldulf arrived in Freckles' land you were already...."

"Yes, I was."

"Then what happened."

"Geats was carrying this huge cross and Freckles' advisors thought it was a bit rude of Bishop Aldulf because it was the wrong kind cross, it was a Roman Cross. So the meeting didn't start well...."

"Geats would do something like bring the wrong cross!" I disliked Geats.

"That first night, the Bishop's Crew had to sleep in the open, they weren't allowed to enter Freckles' presence. But Freckles sent me to give the Bishop and his crew a very generous flagon of her best dandelion brandy..."

"Why did she do that?"

"I wasn't privy to these things! I just did as I was told. Maybe she thought it would loosen them up a little, but they were suspicious, they thought it was poisoned and they wouldn't accept it until I'd taken a drink of it. Several drinks, in fact."

"So you got drunk."

"I told Bishop Aldulf that I'd been baptized. It was silly thing to do, and I regret it...."

"But you had been baptized...."

"Bishop Aldulf asked me whether I'd sworn an oath to Freckles." The Rabbit paused and then added, "He didn't say Freckles, he said The Witch."

"And what did you say?"

"I said yes, and he told me that I was probably going to go to hell. I said I didn't really know what hell was, so he told me about it in no uncertain terms."

"And you believed him!" I was flabbergasted.

"I knew I'd already performed a couple of miracles, I'd turned a lizard into gold, I'd spoken in tongues and there was the scent of roses at my mother's graveside which was supposed to be very special...."

"So you thought you were pretty much set in the after world."

"Yes I did, but the man was a Bishop, I'd never met a Bishop before and he was telling me I was going to go to hell..."

"You were young, you were innocent in a medieval way and what with one thing and another you were worried about your immortal soul."

"Yes I was."

"What happened next?"

"Freckles hadn't been very nice to me. We used to do all sorts of things together. We used to......."

"I don't need all the gory details... Let's just say you were a bimbo half Freckles' age and she got tired of her."

"I was very upset with her."

"And you were feeling delicate."

"Yes, I was. I was feeling delicate and badly used."

"Did you tell Bishop Aldulf?"

"He was a Bishop! Back then I thought Bishop's walked on water."

"Then what happened?"

"Freckles had this necklace, it was gold and it might even have originally belonged to the Virgin Mary, at least that's what everyone said. Bishop Aldulf told me that there was only one real way for me to get a forgiveness for my unforgivable sin of swearing an oath to Freckles and that was to steal the necklace...."

"And Bishop Aldulf telling you to break one of the ten commandments didn't strike you as suspicious or in anyway strange?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"It was late, and Freckles was in her bed chamber. And when she was in her bed chamber with me, she always took her necklace off and put it on her private alter. So I told Bishop Aldulf that I could sneak in there, get it and bring it back to him without her knowing who took it. He told me that if I did so, he would absolve me of all of my sins past, present and future."

"And you believed him?" I was astonished.

"I did."

"You actually believed him."

"I did."

"I'm shocked. But it just goes to show that when we Sphinx Sabeans went north we made a fundamental error, no wonder there are so few of us left!"

"He was a Bishop!" The Rabbit insisted

"Then what happened?"

"I snuck into Freckles' bed chamber and she was with Wiglaf...."

"What?"

"Wiglaf was the name of the boy who took my place as her favorite and they were..."

"Don't need too many details."

"She hadn't taken her necklace off and she was calling Wiglaf, Beowulf!"

"Beowulf?"

"It was her name for his...."

"Then what happened?"

"She always took her necklace off when she was with me and she never called me Beowulf!"

Despite the centuries that had passed since the events surrounding his Parting of the Fog miracle, the Rabbit did sound bitter yet there was confusion as he searched for words. Finally he said, "I had a berserker moment."

"We're all sinners," I reminded the Rabbit. "Some times not admitting to a sin is worse than sinning because it means you're just pretending to be sorry for the horrible things you might have done or said."

The Rabbit crossed himself and he said one of his Hail Mary's

"Did you...." I asked

"Yes, I did. And if I hadn't killed Wiglaf as well, he'd have set off the alarm, the Roman church would never have got the Virgin Mary's necklace, Bishop Aldulf would never have returned to king Offa's court in Tamworth, Offa's Dyke might never have been finished and I would never have been given a hero's welcome in the valley of the Monnow River. Women threw themselves at me....."

The door to my cell inched open. It was one of the blue haired Kitchen ladies, she was carrying a tray upon which was a plate and a beaker of milk.

"Have to feed you up." She whispered as she put the tray on the table. "I heard you preferred the mustard and vinegar."

"I do. Yes. Thank you." Was the best I could manage.

Two beetroot sandwiches on thick cut white bread, buttered with a most generous portion of margarine. It was food, but more than that, a beetroot sandwich had become food that comforted a part of my being. I felt wanted and protected. As I ate I felt soothed by a kindness I couldn't make sense of, yet the comfort it provided me was powerful.

Outside it was a long summer evening, sun slow on the horizon, leaves quiet on their branches and the scent of dry warmth alive through the trees and busy until dark. The Rabbit and I could sense the bliss out there. Both of us silent inside a punishment cell that might once have held a man who'd probably also eaten a great many beetroot sandwiches.

"The reason we die, is so we can forget." I was inspired. "First of all you get old and you start forgetting little things, then you die and you forget everything. It's obvious. But not you. You can't forget anything."

"I can't even get a bonk on the head!" The Rabbit agreed.

"I bet you it's got something to do with a book. And I bet you that book is upstairs in the library. Could be an old book. It's got all the names. Maybe not Crabtree, but Wiggins and Geats and all that lot, and the Witch of Ithaca is called Freckles. That must have been how they came up with the name Freckles. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"I know roughly where the library is....."

"We're not going to even think about sneaking up there to read books. Nothing much good comes from reading books. Last time we read a book, it was a disaster. It's been a down hill slope ever since. I mean what if we did find a book and it was all about your Parting of the Fog Miracle and in the book the Witch of Ithaca was called Freckles and you suddenly decided that you must have either translated the book or written it yourself. Can you imagine...."

The door to our cell opened. It was Alwyn. He smelled of cigarettes and he'd come to collect my supper tray.

"Do you need to use the facilities?"

"I'm fine." I was prompt

"Give us a shout, if you need to."

"I will."

"Did they give you a toothbrush yet?"

"No." The idea of being given a toothbrush in Afon-Bedd gave me a sense of permanence I had no desire to feel.

"Don't worry, I'm sure there'll be one in the bathroom."

"Are you doing nights?" I'd gained the sense that Alwyn was tarrying.

"I am. I'll be at my desk." Alwyn lowered his head a little. "I might nod off, but there's no getting by me."

"Did Gwningen ever try to get by you?"

"We had too much respect for each other." Alwyn just stood there holding the tray. "Some thought he might have been a little simple, but in my view he was a man of his word and a gentleman."

"He was released, I suppose."

"No, he wasn't released. He escaped."

"Did they ever find him?"

"He outfoxed everyone and he completely disappeared." Alwyn the Keep returned the tray to our hero's table and he asked, "Do you think it's too early for cocoa?"

It was a simple question, I couldn't make sense of it.

"I'll make us a mug of tea, instead." Alwyn solved his problem and left the cell without the supper tray.

"I wish I'd asked Broz whether Giovanni liked Beetroot sandwiches!"

The Rabbit sat back on his haunches, he stared up at the tiles on the ceiling and reaching into his wealth of erudition he could find nothing. "When all possibilities are eliminated," my eternal friend got to my feet. "The impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. The Great Detective said that."

"Or a trap."

"A trap! What do you mean, a trap!"

"However improbable, a trap is still a possibility because it hasn't been eliminated."

"If it's a trap, it's a pretty wide ranging trap that includes a socialist republic and a world war."

"Gerald of Nudeogov told us to be wary of Alwyn."

"Geralt couldn't get out of the car in the Afon-Bedd car park!" The Rabbit was dismissive

"He'd become too personally involved in the whole medieval period I'd guess and he was a little nervous of ending up in the Secure Wing."

When Alwyn shuffled into the cell with two mugs of hot tea which still smelled of honey I was about ready to explode from the questions that bounced around inside my head.

"When did the medieval period start?"

"Calm yourself." Alwyn was taken aback by the question. "Sit down on your bed. Have a sip of tea."

I did as I was bid, but I was trembling.

"I'm sure you'll get the idea of it, my boy." Alwyn was comforting. "You'll find your place here..."

"Do they ever let anybody out of Afon-Bedd?"

"I know it's difficult, but you're not normally sent to Afon-Bedd to be let out."

I felt like crying as I stared at my tea.

"You'll find your place."

"But tell me something Alwyn. Has it always been like the medieval period in the Day Rooms."

"It used to be much sadder place, more like Bedlam, I suppose." Alwyn made himself comfortable on the hard chair. "It was one of Doctor Woolley's ideas. We had a big intake after the war. Fewer sadder faces now than in past times, and I'd know. I've worked here since my mother was put away."

"How old where you when your mother...."

"Went nuts." Alwyn finished my sentence. "About your age, a little younger maybe. 1924, it was in the summer. My old mother had told one too many stories, began to believe them. She was found casting our demons in Caerllion. And it's a fair bet she had something to do with Doctor Woolley's decision to develop his new approach."

"What about someone like Bishop Aldulf. Does he really think he's Bishop Aldulf."

"I don't think he asks that question of himself."

"Everyone's afraid of the Secure Wing, aren't they?"

"There is that." Alwyn looked me straight in the face. "But however you look at it, Afon-Bedd is an asylum, a safer place for the mentally deranged."

"I've never thought of myself as deranged, Alwyn."

"In that case, you'll do just fine here."

It was very, very depressing. The Rabbit muttered something about knowing how I felt because he too was in exile, searching this way for a path out, never knowing which way to turn and ending up nowhere. And, for good measure, he made a sign of the cross and gave up a couple of Hail Mary's. Yet it's the case that a Sabean of good standing doesn't just curl up into a ball and pretend to be a something like a Geats or a Wiglaf, or even a Beowulf for that matter.

"You are like Gwningen." Alwyn was smiling.

"As I understand it, Alwyn." I was firm. "He was taller than me, he had all his teeth, and he must have been shy because he didn't talk very much and that's why people thought he was simple, or maybe even stupid! I'm not like him at all."

"Oddly enough, my boy, that's exactly the sort of thing he'd say."

"Did Gwningen know Freckles?" I decided.

"When he was here there was no mixing of the sexes." Alwyn was delighted to be entertained. "The women had Dayroom One and the West Sunroom. They didn't even eat at the same time. Hardly saw each other. The men used to help with the vegetable gardens, and the women worked in the greenhouse, sometimes in the kitchen. Caught a glimpse maybe."

"But did Gwningen know Freckles?" I persisted.

"Boys will be boys, and there was some of that...."

"I'm sure there was, Alwyn! But when Gwningen was with you did he ever talk about Freckles."

"He might well have done. He was an odd fellow."

"You said he was an Odd Fellow before, what does being an odd fellow mean?"

"It was wartime." Alwyn took a sip of his tea.

"Freckles came here during the war, didn't she?"

"She did."

"And at the end of the war they didn't let her out."

"No."

"Freckles was one of these Odd Fellows."

"Yes." Alwyn twinkled.

"Gwningen was one of these Odd Fellows and he escaped."

"Yes."

"Did he escape after the war or during the war."

"It was a long time ago. Staff and officers were all having drinks in the kitchen to celebrate something or other. I wasn't, the drink doesn't agree with me. He was opening the curtains in the Dining Hall, and he was gone."

"So what you're saying, Alwyn. Odd Fellows might not have been deserving of a place in Afon-Bedd unless it was wartime."

"Nicely put, my boy."

"How many of them were there?"

"It varied, but never more than about twenty. We all did our bit here in Afon-Bedd during the war and after the war."

"Were the Odd Fellows the kind of people who were trying to do their bit for somewhere like Germany?"

"I've never been one to leap to conclusions. There was a division between the regular staff and the boys in uniform. Easy enough for those of us who were regular staff to assume the Odd Fellows were on the other side, shall we say. But I was never sure."

"How many other Odd Fellows are still here."

"There's Freckles." Alwyn paused for thought. "And what's her name that does the crafts in Dayroom Two."

"Judith." I suggested.

"That's her. Saint Judith of Bavaria she's called."

"They must have changed her name. Do you remember what her name used to be? Was it foreign sounding?"

"I wouldn't remember."

"Gwningen was English, wasn't he?"

"I was never certain. Gwningen was about as English as an English can be. The intensity of his dislike for the German's wasn't just cricket or make believe, it was almost suspicious. His nights were loud from his memories. Cruel many of them sounded. He dearly loved his mother and would wake sometimes calling her name."

I fell silent. Both Broz and the dying Raphael had mention Giovanni's talking in his sleep about his mother.

"Did he speak Italian?"

"It might have been."

"Could he draw things like Rabbits and Hedgehogs?"

"That's a strange question, my boy!" Alwyn was wary.

"Just trying to get a sense of him. I mean I can't draw for toffees and I don't speak Italian, but they must have called him Rabbit for some reason."

"I see your point." Alwyn relaxed with his tea mug.

"I mean why did they call Freckles, Freckles." I glanced down at the Rabbit. "Seems like strange name for someone, which is not to say that calling someone Bishop Aldulf or Judith of Bavaria isn't just as strange!"

"You'd have to ask Doctor Woolley or that other one that's always pussy footing around."

"You mean Doctor Jaspers."

"That's his name."

"He's a father of twins."

"I didn't know that!"

"And I'll let you into a secret, Alwyn." I was a little emotional. "If it wasn't for him I'd be safely locked up in county jail serving a couple of months, instead of maybe spending the rest of my life here. I could even be an Odd Fellow, for all I know."

Alwyn became very still, as though taken by an anger. "I'm a Welsh speaker. It's my mother tongue, I was born to it. Like my father I believe in the rights and the brotherhood of all men. I'm not a petty nationalist with all that hoopla and their marching bands...."

I was taken aback by the suddenness of Alwyn's passion, nor had I recovered my thoughts when Doctor Jaspers peered into the cell.

"I'm afraid I can't find a volunteer to relieve you Mr. Cadw'n. But the good news is that Doctor Woolley's back, so we might be able to find a key."

"Doctor Jasper." Alwyn stood up from the hard chair, his old knees stiff from sitting. "There's a set of keys to the punishment block running around Afon-Bedd. Another set of the same keys isn't going to do us much good, is it?"

"Possibly not." Young Doctor Jaspers was clearly out of his depth. "Magnus won't hear of persuading King Offa to postpone Hanian's isolation until all the keys are found."

Briefly, I thought about Miss Western-super-Mare and I wondered whether I was part of cruel scheme to boost Afon-Bedd's revenue stream by deliberately turning entirely sane people into totally insane people in exchange for a generous donation.

"I could come in early," Doctor Jaspers was saying to Alwyn. "Relieve you..."

"It would be a privilege to stand guard over this man until the morning shift." Alwyn collected the tea mugs, put them on the supper tray. "I'm about to make the cocoa. Would you like a cup Doctor Jaspers?"

"I'm sorry this happened on your first day here, Eddy.

"There are Allah Akbar hunters out there and it's a well known fact they do their best work after sunset."

Doctor Jaspers was about to respond to Hanian's wild and irrational assertions, he thought better of it, he declined Alwyn's kind offer of cocoa, he thanked Alwyn for his service to the Afon-Bedd community and before he left for home, he lowered his voice in a most ominous manner and he told Alwyn that Eddy Hanian would be going on a fishing trip with Doctor Woolley sometime after breakfast the next day.

I wondered what a fishing trip meant in the Medieval Period.

"I can tell you this!" The Rabbit had unhappy memories. "It was hard work and you generally got wet, slipped and cut your foot, and sometimes you didn't catch anything. I hated fishing!"

When Alwyn finally returned with a steaming cup of cocoa I was in no fit state to be diplomatic or in anyway cunning.

"Calm yourself, my boy. You'd probably go to Llyn Syfaddon to take his dog for a walk."

"Where's that?"

"It's a mere, it's a lake. Some call it Gorsey. Some call it Llangorse."

"Would Doctor Woolley be one of those people who called it Gorsey."

"He calls it, Dear Old Gorsey." Alwyn sighed.

"He must be a very English sort of person!"

"He certainly knows more about Gwningen than I do." Alwyn raised both his eyebrows, but I wasn't looking forward to the fishing trip one tiny little bit.

That first night in Afon-Bedd, after I'd finished Alwyn's cocoa and after Alwyn had watched me brush my teeth with one of the toothbrushes in the down stairs bathroom, I slept like an innocent. It was a solid, dreamless and happy sleep, until I awoke to the depressing realization of my predicament

"I've been thinking, my child....."

"It's far too early! Unless you've been thinking about your addendums to the Revelation of Reason, or additions to the Sabean language so that your Revelation of reason might be better understood when it's translated, then let's just not say anything for bit."

"I think your jailor put a potion in your cocoa to make you sleep."

I didn't care

"They do that, you know."

But I still didn't care until the door opened. It wasn't Alwyn. It was a younger orderly who barged his way into my cell, roused me for breakfast which, it had been decided, Edward Hanian would take in the Afon-Bedd Dining Hall. It was a horrible thought for an Allah Akbar and it was Hugh Crabtree's fault. Liege Lord indeed! I felt doubly betrayed. I felt dumb.

The Dining Hall was full. Both men and women. At the long table in the western bay window which when first I'd seen it I'd assumed was Bishop Aldulf's table, Freckles was surrounded by her elegant, saints and her dainty courtiers. Bishop Aldulf's crew was already seated and growling, but there was no Bishop Aldulf at the head of the table by the east wall. Oswald, superintending orderly from Dayroom Three was at the lectern. It was hubbub, it was breakfast, there was no queue for the food counter and while Wales took no notice of the late arrival everything went still in Mercia as I got my tray, a bowl of porridge, a beaker of milk, two slices of bread with jam before being escorted around to a table by the Dining Hall doors where King Offa had his meals.

The King's table wasn't as long, and it looked a great deal more plotting than the riot of cheerfulness that was Freckles' table. At the one end was King Offa with Cedd at his right side and Crabtree at his left side. At the other end was Bishop Aldulf with Saint Chad at his right side and Burgess at his left side. Opposite the one vacant hard chair at the center of the table, sitting between Crabtree and Saint Chad, was a powerful and very terrifying yet strangely attractive women. I guessed she must have been a saint of some sort, the front of her head from ear to ear had been shaved, and the hair on the back part of her head was long, straight, unnaturally blond and so clean it kind of glistened. And I was very nervous when I was directed to sit opposite her.

"Get on with it Chad!" Offa was restless and so was Cedd who was staring so intently at his bowl of porridge that he didn't seem to have notice that someone had sat next to him. Saint Chad folded his fingers in prayer, muttered on about being grateful for the earth's bounty and when he said amen, Cedd tucked into his breakfast, his table manners appalling and before King had managed to count to ten, Cedd's breakfast was gone, including his bread and jam and his beaker of milk. The King was delighted, he patted Cedd on the head, and he announced, "There's not a Celt in Dayroom One that can do that! It's a sure thing."

"Sire." It was Bishop Aldulf. "The Witch is very aware of your Oaf's talent."

"And your point, Aldulf?"

"She's unlikely to risk...."

"You're a buffoon, Aldulf." Offa didn't waste his words. "And I suppose she'll risk the sanctity of her greenhouse for an Allah Akbar!"

I realized that Cedd was staring hungrily at the bread and jam on my tray. I moved my two slices to the other side of my tray, as far away from Cedd as I could. Cedd squeaked, and gave me a most vicious look.

"If I may, Your Majesty." It was Hugh Crabtree, the Liege Lord of Gloucester at his most odious. "I won't lose the game of tabular."

"Chad! Is tabular the sin of gambling?" Offa addressed his religious advisor. "And don't tell me it depends! I've had far too much of that from you."

"No, sire." Saint Chad didn't sound confident.

"If I ever find out, Chad," Offa was no one's fool. "That checkers is the sin of gambling unless it's played as a solitaire because you don't like losing, I'll have your head."

I'd finished my porridge, I'd had couple of polite sips of milk, I'd started on my bread and jam, it was black currant jam, and because Cedd was still staring at me, I hadn't paid much attention to the conversation and I hadn't realized that apart from the king no one else had touched their food.

"Bishop!" It was Offa, "Why aren't you and Burgess eating your breakfast?"

"There's an Allah Akbar at the table, sire."

"Crabtree, why aren't you eating your breakfast?"

"Sire, Edward normally eats at a separate table. It's safer that way."

"Remind me, Bishop, why you insisted the Allah Akbar was seated at my table." Offa put his spoon down.

"It's a ploy, Sire." The Bishop lowered his voice. "Everyone knows the kitchen staff are glove in glove with the Celts, some of them even talk Celt amongst themselves. And if you'll notice, Sire, everyone at the kitchen counter can see your table from the kitchen. They'll tell the Witch."

"They'll tell the Witch, what?" The Great King of Mercia was confused.

"That no one in Mercia will eat if they're sitting at the same table as the Allah Akbar for fear of being excommunicated."

"What about Cedd. He did a good job eating his breakfast."

"The good Lord forgives the unfortunates....."

"I wish more of you were unfortunates!" Offa shot daggers at his subjects

"If I may, Sire." It was Crabtree. "The greenhouse is one of the witch's most prized possessions, and she's hardly likely to risk access to it on a game of tabular. But if she thinks that we in Mercia are anxious to be rid of our Allah Akbar because none of us are able to eat while sitting at the same table she might be persuaded to believe that our intention was to deliberately lose the game. Easy money for her, Sire."

"Why would she want an Allah Akbar in her day room!" Offa was a long way from being convinced.

"Offa." It was girl saint opposite our hero, she had deep seductive sort of voice that had a very matter of fact quality to it.

"Yes, Judith." The king was charmed.

"Don't get blind sided by these morons. My information is that Freckles wants the Allah Akbar as a Saint's Day present for Winifred. She'd risk her greenhouse for that."

The Rabbit gasped, went on about Freckles' generosity, and how impressed he was with the speed at which I was finding my way onto Dayroom One. Cedd stopped thinking about food, Offa had a blankness in his face that might have contained rage, and there was a great tension around the King's table as I sucked the last drop of milk out of my beaker. I was multilingual and I no longer gave a damn

"I've said it once," Offa struggled to find his voice, "I've said it twice, I've said it a thousand times, Mercia does not provide Welsh pagans with their Saint's day presents. We never have and never will."

"Your Majesty." It was Crabtree. "I will not lose the game of tabular."

"And what if you do!" Offa was furious, and yet he was tempted. "Think of it! Winifred parading her Allah Akbar around on a leash during Afternoon Activities and at meal times. The shame of it! It'll upset Cedd, it'll upset me, and I'll tell you this much, heads will roll in Mercia, and that means you Chad!"

"At least none of us will miss a meal!" Burgess was well known for his appetite.

"What exactly is he doing at my table, Aldulf?" The king pointed at Burgess.

"I'm an expert on the game of tabular, Sire." Burgess came to his own defense. "We're going to check out the Liege Lord's claims about being as good at the game as he says!"

I didn't even want to know what tabular was. Having glanced at Cedd, I chose to speak. "If none of you want your breakfasts, I'm sure Cedd and I will be happy to eat them for you."

And just as well Magnus sidled up to the King's Table, audibly whispered something about a fishing trip in Offa's ear. Offa seemed much relieved by the news, Burgess picked up his spoon but Crabtree, so far as I could tell, wasn't happy to see his slave leave the dining hall with Magnus.

Chapter Eighteen : Fishing Trip

Mrs. Bigelow has instructed me to accompany her to the grocery store. "It'll be a day out for you." Fortunately my intern has agreed to come with us. The purpose of our "day out" will be a demonstration of Mrs. Bigelow's capacity to shop wisely, and always there's a poor reaction from her when I question the grocery bill, it's a confusion of numbers and coupons and labels. My question I thought had been simple. I'd asked why it was she thought it necessary to get three boxes, each box containing twelve cans of Pepsi Cola for my intern instead of buying just the one box of twelve cans of Pepsi Cola.

My intern has developed an enthusiasm for Mrs. Bigelow's idea, "You could use one of the electric shopping cars, they don't cost anything and I could show you to use them." I told him I was very capable of walking. "Yeah, but they don't know that do they." And briefly the idea of a ride in an electric shopping cart caught an ember in me. It flamed brightly.

"I'm not letting him loose in one of those things!" Mrs. Bigelow will hear none of it.

In Afon-Bedd "Fishing Trips" with the head psychiatrist were mysterious events. They weren't "interviews," they weren't Alwyn's punishment block, but they were a "day out."

There were two vehicles in the main courtyard of Afon-Bedd. One was a bright orange, sporty little number that might well have belonged to a flamboyant Pop Idol. The other was a large saloon vehicle which was a grayish color, it was a much older car, there was no one sitting in it yet it's engine was running in an uncomfortable way, a white smoke from it's exhaust.

The sight of both vehicles frustrated Magnus as he led me along the south side of the courtyard to a long narrow room, with bar-less windows, the door to which had a sign on it that read "Visitors." The room smelled refreshingly of stale cigarettes, it had tables and chairs, a clock that ticked on the wall, there was a calendar with picture of January's Castle, but to my disappointment all the many ashtrays had been emptied

"Sit down! Wait here!" Magnus was in a hurry to be gone. "He'll be with you as soon as he's given his daughter what for."

"His daughter!"

"None of your business!" Magnus pointed at a chair by the window. "Sit there and wait!"

I did exactly as I was told and as soon as Magnus had gone, I moved the chair closer to the only window in the Visitor's Room that was cracked open. I'd decided the smaller, sporty orange car could well have belonged to Carol Bunny Woolley, and tense though I was, I didn't want to miss my chance of seeing what she looked like or hearing what she might say.

"What if he brings her in here?"

"He's not going to do that." I couldn't bear to think of that possibility.

"I thought she took an interest in her father's work."

"You don't give your daughter what for and then start introducing them to new inmates!"

The Rabbit and I stared at the courtyard. I wondered whether I'd be offered a fishing rod. The Rabbit was frustrated, our circumstance in Afon Bed he'd decided had reached a critical point and being dragged off like this was clearly the work of those unseen forces that had allied themselves against him.

There was a rush from the Main Office block. Bunny Woolley marched into the courtyard, she hadn't changed a bit so far as I could tell. She had the same old fidget in her walk that belonged to a person who liked to get their own way and wasn't afraid of showing it when they didn't. A large man in a crumpled suit, who had to be JH Woolley, followed her. He was calling her name, then he stopped and he just looked disappointed as Bunny opened the door to the older of the two vehicles and with very little thought for the gravel slalomed around before disappearing out the main gate.

"I bet she's got cigarettes in that car!"

Doctor Woolley watched his daughter leave, slowly he turned as though to head back to the Main Office, and then he remembered there was something he had to do. He strode toward the Visitors Room in a business-like way, he pushed through the door, spotting me he said, "Ah! There you are."

"Hello." Was the best I could manage as I persuaded myself that my name was Edward Hanian and that Doctor Woolley couldn't possibly be JH so there was no need for me to worry.

"How are you settling in?"

"The food's good. But as I understand it, fishing was kind of a dangerous activity in the Medieval Period, and I don't think I want to go fishing."

"Fresh air will do us both good." Doctor Woolley didn't hesitate. "Let's be off. You'll have to sit in the back. I'm afraid Pierce has insisted on sitting in the front."

"Pierce?" I followed Doctor Woolley into the courtyard.

"He'd never forgive me if I didn't take him with us."

The orange, sporty car was tiny and it only had two doors. To get into the back, a person had to open the front door, pull the seat forward and slither in. Pierce was a dog that looked and smelled like a very large hyena. He was snoozing on the front passenger seat, and he had no intention of putting himself out for the convenience of a rear seat passenger. This meant I had to enter the vehicle through the driver side door, and it was fortunate that I wasn't a large lumbering, well fed person.

JH Woolley drove worse than his daughter. He wasn't a fast driver, but he was a vague driver for whom concentrating upon the driving or keeping his eye on the road didn't figure high. Pierce was a window dog. When the vehicle was moving, he stuck his head out of the window and he kept it there. But unlike so many window dogs who'd make the odd comment out of the window, Pierce was a fierce barker, and if it looked like there was something on his side of the road worth chasing, he barked at it in an overexcited and frothing manner, and he'd follow these exertions by turning his head to make certain a rear seat passenger fully appreciated his capacity to be savage when he chose to be.

"Pierce is a menace to society and should be put down." Was the Rabbit's opinion

"He's a German hunting dog of some sort." Doctor Woolley explained. "Just turned up one day and he's been with me every since."

I chose not to reply. Within the tapestry of equations that determine meaning Pierce had achieved a higher status than I. Quite why I'd have preferred it otherwise, I didn't know.

Conversation wasn't easy, and it was while driving through a little town which had tight and creeping holiday traffic that Pierce had an altercation with a group of elderly people with shopping bags waiting for a bus on the side of the narrow road. I was trying to hide in the back seat, I wanted nothing to do with Pierce's appalling behavior. Doctor Woolley said "Leave them alone Pierce" in a voice that suggested he was offering the German hunting dog a ticket to the opera. Both the Rabbit and I rolled our eyes, but Pierce stopped barking, he just glared at the bus stop and frothed.

"Freckles has the same power over beasts of the field." The Rabbit advised me.

The road beyond the town cleared of vehicles, it became narrow, it had very few straight lines, it had deep hedgerows that needed trimming, and behind us there was a developing logjam of impatience from fellow road users.

"I understand you're multilingual?"

"I am."

"What languages do you speak?"

"English and the Language of the Sabeans." I knew I was opening a kettle of worms.

"You're fortunate. I have a smattering of Ancient Greek, Latin and schoolboy French."

"I can get by in French." I suddenly felt the burden of trying to be someone else lift from my life and I found myself boastful. "I do ok in modern Greek, I got a little Urdu, I know how to ask for a cigarette in Turkish and Croatian, and I know a great many German curse words that I don't really know the meaning of."

Woolley didn't reply.

"Don't suppose you know where my canvass is?" I broke the silence and when Woolley didn't appear to understand, I added, "My stuff. I got a good warm coat, I got boots and I'm very fond of those boots. I was told they'd last me a lifetime and they were second hand when I got them....."

"I've not yet seen your stuff." Doctor Woolley was uneasy, he looked at his wristwatch

"Are you saying you don't know where my stuff is."

"You do know that you're under my care, Eddy." Woolley was hesitant.

"Yes, that was explained to me!" I was prompt. "But perhaps you could tell me why."

"You're under my care because you appear to be suffering from mental anomalies."

Doctor Woolley was driving slower and slower, the driver of the vehicle behind him honked his horn, Doctor Woolley mentioned something about tourists being a stain on humanity and Pierce who'd been on very good behavior, leaned as far out of his window as possible and he started barking at the vehicle behind as though he too was struggling with an imbalance of some kind. The Rabbit, who was becoming very much his old self, mentioned that Sphinx Sabeans had always been extremely proud of their mental anomalies and it was nothing to be ashamed of..

"Mental anomaly or totally nuts," I was encouraged by the Rabbit's mood. "A person's stuff is a person's stuff. I was once told they were like tea leaves to you chaps."

"Can I trust you, Eddy?"

"I might ask the same of you." I was fed up, I was an Allah Akbar and I was about to be the prize in a game of Tabular.

But Woolley didn't answer, he suddenly accelerated took a dangerous left turn off the main road into a field. A whimper of excitement in the front passenger seat, at least Pierce knew where we were going. The dog fixated on the windshield, he'd glance at Doctor Woolley as though urging him on. The road was unpaved, it was unfenced, it had a regular ruts, the field on either side had recently been grazing for sheep. Ahead, the land opened up to a blue horizon of distant hills and soon enough the glittering curl of a lake came into view. It was Llangorse where I had once hunted for food from the car parks and dustbins that were dotted around the lake. I knew about the eastern part of the lake, a person couldn't really go fishing unless they had a boat, or where prepared to get wet and extremely muddy, the land was marsh and reeds.

"We're not going fishing, are we?" I suggested

Doctor Woolley brought his vehicle to a halt, and when Pierce objected, Woolley touched the dog's ear to silence him. Pierce sighed he then curled into a giant heap on the front passenger seat.

I could see the church, the tall yews and gravestones behind walled churchyard near the lake. The long hedge that bounded the side of the road that led to the church had been a good place to hide.

"You may have long term memory loss, Edward. And there's your Rabbit. These are the reasons you're under my care."

"Let you into a secret." I was almost angry. "My Rabbit has been with me for a long time and I haven't yet cut the head off a little old lady for no good reason. Nor am I planning to."

"How long has he been with you."

"For as long as I can remember."

"And how long would that be?"

I saw his point, it was a dilemma for me, and best to put it aside, but neither JH Woolley or Doctor Jaspers were as simple minded as I was. I'd understood that their position on my mental anomaly was that I'd recently lost my memory to both a head injury and a traumatic event. The Rabbit was a figment or an invention from my lost memories attempting to reach into my present. This was the generous opinion from professionals. The less generous opinion suggested that I was an inveterate liar attempting to conceal wrong doing, which even if it reached the level of a pathology it wasn't worth the waste of precious mental health resources when there were so many more deserving cases to be attended to. This latter opinion was closer to the truth, and I knew it as I sat with my eternal friend on the back seat of Woolley's little orange motor car.

The head psychiatrist seemed to make his mind up. He reached under the seat for a pair of binoculars and trained them on the church. Pierce was interested, he was wondering why and so was I.

"Herons." I suggested.

"A two tone blue Ford Capri." Woolley replied. "No idea what they look like. Presumably they are two tones of blue. Spiv cars my daughter calls them."

I was aware that black-marketers were called "Spivs" in the wartime, and felt certain that Woolley's own vehicle might have been considered a "Spiv" car by many. But through the windshield I could see the parking area along the stone wall of the churchyard. It seemed empty of vehicles, and I wondered whether the JH Woolley himself was experiencing a mental anomaly.

"The Spivs were an underhanded lot during the war. You could always tell them apart. They dressed flashy. Rather full of themselves." Then he turned to looked me straight in the face and he asked, "I hope you've been honest with us Edward."

"You're fishing." I was guilty, but I didn't hesitated.

A vehicle was making its way along the narrow road to the church. It was going slowly, hedgerows made it difficult to see from our location. Woolley trained his binoculars. And we watched as a blue vehicle with a white strip running along its side edged into the church parking lot.

"Not the car one might expect a solicitor to drive." Woolley was engaged with his binoculars.

"I could say the same about you." I offered.

He thought that amusing, he put his binoculars away, switched on the engine, engaged a gear and he said. "Avon Bed can be a little intimidating, I thought this a more peaceable location for a reunion."

"A reunion?"

"Your mother and your aunt, I believe."

It would be an error to suggest that I was suave, dignified, kept my wits. My mind went blank, a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror told me I was grinning in a manner most inane. The stubble on my head had fluffy quality to it. My ears appeared large. Hair had yet to conceal the scars on my head. I was colorful in my inmate uniform.

Woolley parked beside the blue two tone Ford Capri. The occupants had yet to venture out of their vehicle, the breeze might have been a little fresh for them. The driver I recognized as Dana Driscoll, of Philter, Philter, Hammond and Rose. In the back seat were two middle aged women, both of whom looked nervously at Woolley's orange car. Curiously, the Ford Capri doesn't have passenger doors, and the two women were stuffed together on the back seat.

Pierce had it right, he jumped out of his window, he landed neatly and then leapt the stone wall into the churchyard were he snuffled at gravestones looking for a place to lift his leg. Inside the Ford Capri the occupants made every attempt to mind their own business, they were simply out for a drive and the orange car that had parked beside them probably belonged to some local yahoo with an out of control and dangerous hound.

"They came all the way from London." Doctor Woolley informed me.

"I know the driver. It's Dana Driscoll. He was in the court with me."

"Your mother and aunt know you're currently in an Institution. They're aware you may have lost your memory. Don't be shy."

Doctor Woolley eased himself out of his vehicle, he stood up, stretched himself slowly. I joined him and so did the Rabbit. It was the sight of my uniform that produced a reaction from the Ford Capri. Dana Driscoll jumped to, he helped the ladies release themselves from the rear of his vehicle, he walked round to shake JH Woolley's hand, I could hear them introduce each other, and that introduction between professionals was about the only normal thing that happened that day.

When Dana looked at me he appeared to be searching for words. I said "Hi."

Edward Hanian's mother and his aunt, both of them staring, wondering, uncertain. I was searching my mind, desperate to find something in it and then in a fleeting moment, almost a theatrical moment, one of the women said "Edward," she opened her arms, ran to embrace me. Hugged me tight. I could see Woolley, he was unmoved, but Dana smiled happily. I stood there being squeezed and fussed over. Then the woman released me. "You don't recognize me, do you."

"I can't remember." What else was I going to say.

The woman's voice and accent were high end English, that class of person that aspires, cleans home in the spring, employs a window cleaner, distrusts foreigners but prefers to vacation abroad. The woman's theatrics might have passed muster, but my "mother's" tears weren't real. Her hug without an element of what I guess would be called relief, a dust of a painfulness shaken out of her being. There was a different kind of emotion in her. I couldn't place it, and I thought maybe she'd never been fond enough of her son. At the same time I realized I had little to compare the moment to, and assumptions on my part more likely would be wrong. Then as the woman had released me, my "aunt" looked relieved. And all of us just standing there in the car park, wondering what next, what other emotion to express, where to go, what to say. The silence was odd. The suddenness of the moment was odd, I found myself suspicious, and I wondered whether it was strategy by Woolley, an established protocol. "Just throw them into the deep end," I could hear his advice to Doctor Jaspers. But there was no time for me to dwell in regret. There was much more to it for me than six months in a prison cell for the theft of nine hundred and seventy five American dollars and a passport.

"I can't remember." I repeated. "Sometimes I think I can remember, and then it's gone."

"What sort of things do you remember." It was Doctor Woolley. He was distant and impassive.

"I remember a sailing boat." I wanted a reaction from the woman who'd hugged me.

"Yes!" The woman smiled eager for me to think harder, but made no attempt to offer me information so that I might indeed think harder. I sensed a trap, one part of which had apparently come all the way from London for a reunion with a boy child, who, along with his father had been missing for years, lost to the world.

"The boat had a name." I waited and when there was no reply I suggested with some agitation, "It must have had a name!"

"May I?" It was Dana Driscoll asking permission of Doctor Woolley. When Woolley agreed, Dana continued. "I believe the boat in question was called The Windral."

I ran the word round and around my tongue, trying to make sense of why it was my "mother" was unfamiliar with the name of well maintained, beautifully kept wooden schooner which in anyone's world should have been an object of veneration and pride.

"I'd like to remind you Mr. Hanian that you're still my client." Dana moved a little closer to me. In the silence that followed I mentioned "pro bono" and there was a brief hesitation from Dana before he cleared an awkward throat and he added, "Your father's estate is in Probate...."

"Probably best to start at the beginning." JH Woolley rescued the young solicitor.

"Of course." It suddenly became obvious to Dana. "Your father is no longer with us Mr. Hanian. His remains have been suitably identified. There's no doubt in the mind of the Probate Court."

My face must have developed a glaze of incomprehension, and my "aunt" leapt to my rescue. "He was killed Edward. And we thought you might be dead. The boat you and your father were living on disappeared. It just disappeared. We thought you were both just up to something. Your father was always getting into trouble with his investors. But a month or so ago they found Herbert. Must have been terrorism, they haven't really told us what happened. But they found his teeth or something, and it was your father. We don't know how they know, but they know..."

"So glad you're alive." My mother looked at me, I guessed she was wondering whether to hug me again

"Your mother and father were estranged when you were very young." Dana Driscoll translated. "You went to live with your father."

"I have another family." My mother looked genuinely tearful. "I wasn't a good mother to you....."

"You're father didn't let you see her." My aunt had her own opinions and she was fierce with what I guessed was her younger sister. My aunt turned to me, "It wasn't her fault she couldn't see you. He wouldn't let her. So what do you expect."

"Do I have a brother or sister." It was my turn to be genuine.

"You have two half sisters." My aunt volunteered and she was clearly a strong willed sort of person with little sympathy for the inmates of mental asylums. "But they don't know about you, and probably best that they don't."

This time my mother's tears were real. My aunt comforted her, hugged her, patted her, told her not to worry, it was all for the best that I'd been confined to mental asylum where with any luck I'd end my days. It was a set of emotions which appeared to affect Dana Driscoll, but not Doctor Woolley who muttered something about "probate" to Dana.

"Mr. Hanian, your father left a will." Dana was all business. "It's in probate. You are the inheritor of your father's quite substantial estate. Had we not found you the estate would have gone to your mother."

Across oceans, seas, empires, territories, wars, languages and land, this was a confluence which were it an orchestrated conspiracy would have had my name written in smoke across the blue sky. But I had my own mother whose whereabouts I had no idea of. And I'd had a father whose history in me comprised one sentence "He was buried without his head." On that brisk day, Pierce had it right, he was chasing a furious Squirrel in the graveyard of the Llangorse church, had it up a tree.

"Anyway!" It was Dana looking at his watch. "We have a train for you ladies to catch. And with the traffic being the way it is ..."

When my mother and aunt were safe in the back seat of a Ford Capri, they talked quietly as they watch me. I wished I could read lips, the expressions on their faces appeared determined. Interesting word "estranged" and possibly in those moments Edward Hanian's mother was the only one of us struggling with regret. Dana pulled me aside, I was his client.

"It's a substantial inheritance." He too seemed determined. "From what I can gather there could be a challenge. Your aunt seems particularly determined. Do you wish us to represent you."

"Young Mr. Philter?"

"No." Dana almost smiled. "Old Mr. Philter. So we'll need an agreement, signed and in writing."

I wondered how Eddy signed his name, I wondered what mental anomalies did to the character of a person's hand writing. "What if I'm nuts?"

"Usually probate would put the inheritance in a trust, and money from that trust would be used to care for you. I say usually, but to make certain you'll need assistance from a legal council. Old Mr. Philter is adept in the area of probate."

Young Dana Driscoll was a slow and sensible driver. He kept both his hands on the steering wheel, he reversed out of the parking area with great care, and he proceeded down the lane at pace which did suggest caution.

"The car does look zippy." Woolley, the Rabbit and I had watched Dana's maneuver with interest.

"It might not be his car." I suggested.

"I shouldn't have bought it for her!" It sounded like another anomalous remark from Woolley as he patted the hood of the zippy little vehicle we'd arrived in. "The salesman told me it was Mango Orange. Not many cars that color. She loved it. But she'll be much safer with my old banger. She's not happy, but it'll get her around."

There'd been no scent of cigarette in Miss Woolley's orange car, no mess, it was clean and scrubbed as though brand new. Not for me to cast an opinion on these things, but I chose to believe that Miss Woolley had received a revelation from her God. She'd given up on her cigarette smoking and devoted herself to cleanliness and good order. A disappointment for me, I'd not have her vices to hold over her should ever our paths meet in a confrontation.

"Let's sort this out, shall we?" Woolley laughed, his hesitancy was gone, it was almost as though he was enjoying himself. Woolley locked his car doors and we headed through the lichgate into the churchyard where Pierce appeared to be digging for either Moles or bones.

The church was called Saint Gastyn's. It was near the marshes on the flat land east of the lake. It was alone inside its stone wall and it had always seemed content. Its graveyard both ancient and modern was cared for and both church and graveyard had been there a very long time.

"Interesting fellow, Gastyn. He recovered the sight of a blind man and converted the king of the Franks."

"There you have it, Doctor Woolley." I sighed. "This whole business of blind beggars being cured of their blindness to impress kings isn't what I'd call a very nice miracle. If you're blind you're probably better situated as a blind beggar than as a beggar who can see, and then some busy-body in a frock comes along and takes away your job. I'm sorry, but that's not what I call a miracle. Apart from which a lot of beggars pretend to be blind."

Doctor Woolley had his own key to the church, which apparently was always kept locked during the tourist season. It was quiet inside, we stood a while so the stain glass windows might ask us what we were doing disturbing them, then we moved toward the alter.

"Tell me about your Rabbit." Doctor Woolley sat in the front pew, on the left side of the aisle and motioned me to sit in the front pew on the right side of the aisle. I said nothing. Doctor Woolley continued, "Don't think I've see a blind beggar. Has your Rabbit ever done any begging?"

I looked up at the stain glass windows. I could see the cherub holding a ink quill, I could see Bo-Beep, or the Virgin Mary, holding her book. I didn't want to think about JH, I didn't want to think about books and I didn't want to think about people who wrote their initials at the end of books, or why they did it. Yet in the silence between us I was expectant and wishful as though waiting for Doctor Woolley to take out his own blue ink pen and with a flourish give me the initials JH.

"Your friend's exile interests me. Ask him what he means by treated shabbily "

Woolley had read Jaspers' endless notes. An understatement to say I was disappointed, but the Rabbit didn't hesitate. He went on and on about what he meant by shabbily. And I thought to hell with it, I was doomed to the Medieval Period, what did I have to lose, and I acted as an interpreter between Doctor Woolley and my eternal friend. When the Rabbit had finished pacing around in front of the alter as he vented his everlasting disappointment in the Lead Bull and other deities, some of whom neither Doctor Woolley or I had heard of before, he sat back down on the pew and looked fiercely up at the left hand stained glass window which contained the figure of male with a halo whose dropping eyes dripped disappointment. I guessed the figure was Saint Gastyn, he had what looked like tiny beggars at his feet.

"Do you think it would have made difference if you'd been recognized as a Saint."

"Yes I do." The Rabbit was back on his feet and he wasn't being that complimentary to the head psychiatrist of the Tri-County Lunatic Asylum.

I wondered whether JH Woolley had gone full blown native in his Medieval Period and for reasons known only to himself he was determined to drag me into it. Again I felt doomed, and I guessed that any attempt by me to make a run for it would serve only to provide entertainment for Pierce.

"We should collect Pierce and head back. Can't have you missing the Lunch Period, can we Edward."

My heart sank. Like a pauper too proud to beg, I followed Doctor Woolley out of the church to the back seat of Miss Woolley's little orange car, and soon enough we were again stuck in the holiday traffic. Doctor Woolley had been silent, Pierce seemed exhausted from his exertions. I'd watched the countryside, it looked parched from August, streams reduced to trickles. When the car stopped in the traffic I was pulled from a reverie of happier times to a wakeful attention that included the word Tabular.

"I'm told the Welsh for Bunny is Gwningen." I chose to say.

Woolley tapped his steering wheel, lost in thought and oblivious to a developing gap in the traffic directly ahead of him, maybe ten car lengths. It was the driver of the vehicle behind honking the horn that pulled Woolley and Pierce into the present.

"There must have been an accident."

"I can smell smoke." I contributed.

"It's this damn traffic!"

"It's something burning." I insisted

"I don't see any smoke."

"Some fires don't make much smoke when it's dry like this."

Traffic began to move again, Doctor Woolley sighed with relief, I began to think about lunch, and what life would be like as an Allah Akbar in the Afon-Bedd medieval period.

"I know you're confused, Edward." Woolley had a gentleness in his voice. "It's an effective treatment. Expensive but effective. The alternative would be to warehouse people, and that would be no fun for anyone."

"I suppose you have to be nuts to really get into it."

"It does suck people in." Doctor Woolley laughed. "Including our staff sometimes."

"All started during the war, I suppose."

"Yes." Woolley was wary.

"Must have had all sorts back then?"

"We did."

We turned off the main round. Doctor Woolley knew another route to Afon-Bedd, this road was even narrower and well cuddled by the hedgerows but it at least the road seemed devoid of other traffic. The Rabbit murmured softly and went on about his understanding of the Sabean as a creature of leopard like qualities rather than something like a German hunting dog or a charging rhino. I had an opinion or two and Doctor Woolley asked, "What are you two talking about?"

"We were wondering whether you knew who Roundtrip was." I decided to cast a fishing line baited with a name which Broz, Rafael and Giovanni had a very low opinion of.

The smoke I could smell became visible as a mist that hung low in the air and drifted through the hedgerows into the road. As the orange car turned a tight corner, Woolley had to slam on the breaks. And it was all very exciting because there was a bright red fire engine blocking the road, its blue light flashing, men flushed from the heat rolling up the hoses.

"You two wait here!"

But it was a stream of fellow road users anxious to escape the slow moving traffic on the main road who had chosen to follow Woolley's freewheeling example and it was a well polished maroon colored vehicle which came around the tight turn a little too fast and was unable to avoid denting the rear of Bunny's orange car. Sadly for the maroon vehicle, the car behind it was also moving a little too fast and what with one thing and another it was a memorable and expensive holiday for some. Spotting the new emergency, firemen rushed to assist and to The Rabbit's great disappointment aside from an upset two year old, no person was grievously injured.

"I could have conducted the last rites!"

In the turmoil and irritation Doctor Woolley and Pierce were professional, their manner was calm yet efficient and while they were marching about taking down names, insurance information and vehicle numbers, I let myself out of Bunny Woolley's now slightly damaged orange car so as to better examine the fire engine. The sight of me, in my mental patient outfit, did put some alarm into my fellow mortals. I wandered casually toward the fire engine, admired it and I could see, hidden a little by trees, the reason a fire engine had been called. A house on a small well hedged plot of land, just off the road, had burned to the ground, it was just black smoking sticks, tumbled roofing and a tall, unsteady chimney. A little down the road, beyond the fire engine, there were two vehicles. One looked like an old Land Rover of the kind I knew were used by more rural people in the course of their work and there was police car, its light was flashing. The policeman was standing beside his vehicle talking into the vehicle's wireless set. The driver of the Land Rover had a grimness to him, he had his hands on his hips and the kind of glare that suggested he might have lost one of his sheep to the blaze.

I knew the house. It was one of those houses that lay empty through the week, but at the weekends on the Sunday night, if I timed it just right there'd often be a feast in plastic bags at the rear of the house, on the back step by the kitchen door. That food was always excellent, sometimes very exotic, but I'd had to be careful, because on Monday morning that Land Rover and it's driver, or one that looked very like him, would arrive in the early hours to check that the house was properly locked. When the man left he took the plastic bags with him.

Doctor Woolley wasn't having a great deal of success, voices were raised, the driver of the maroon vehicle had taken an exception to Woolley's tone of voice and to Pierce. Woolley was saying something about the absurdity of driving like a maniac along narrow roads. And it was this developing discord that attracted the attention of the policeman. I stepped aside to allow law enforcement and the burnt cottage's dustbin collector to pass between myself and the fire engine.

"I'm in fancy dress!" I explained myself to the uniformed man.

When the dustbin collector saw Bunny's orange car I read characteristic symptoms I'd learned to recognize in my dealings with the more rural personality, especially land owners. In my experience, they read anything that moved as suspicious activity. But this landowner who collected dustbins on a Monday morning went so far as to actually point at the orange car and in a loud voice, which Doctor Woolley must have heard, said to the policeman, "That's the car I saw! Exactly like it. I told you it was a foreign color."

It was then I saw something blue. I guessed it to be litter tossed into the hedgerow and it had got itself wedged deep in the Hawthorns and briar. It wasn't so much curiosity that drew me to it, it was more habit. I leaned closer to the hedgerow and as I did so I caught a hint of the familiar scent of paraffin. The litter was a new looking one gallon tank, which reminded me of the can in Mrs. Sanders' garden shed. Looked exactly like it.

"I'll have you all for illegal parking and dangerous driving if you're not careful." The uniformed man was endeavoring to assert his authority. I felt like Magnus from Dayroom Two, surveying the madness and I understood why Magnus sucked his teeth. There was a narrow bridge down the road a bit which the fire engine could not cross. The cars blocking the road were preventing the fire engine from finding its way back to civilization, nor would there be any messing around.

"What if there's a fire somewhere else." The Land Rover driver seemed like an unlikely person to make an appeal to common sense.

From my vantage I could also hear a grumble from the firemen who were well stowed away and anxious to leave. But one of the older fireman, it must have been the fire chief from his uniform, he looked important, was staring at the remains of the building. When I approached him, he twitched a little.

"Fancy dress." I casually explained and added, "What do you think happened?"

"It's weekend home, they're sending someone!" Was the reply and it was quickly followed by. "Go on with you, there's nothing to see here!"

And soon enough it was the orange car's turn to commence the process of reversing to a point where it was possible to turn around and head back to the main road where the traffic seemed hardly to have moved at all. The interlude was over, it had been nice, I was reluctant to leave the scene. But Doctor Woolley wasn't happy, he was running late I assumed.

"Where'd you get the name Roundtrip from!" It came out of the blue from Doctor Woolley.

"Is Crabtree a code name." I answered him.

Woolley stared at the traffic ahead, he said nothing. He had that look, I could see it in the driving mirror, and old hand he was, who'd done his bit in wartime, and I suspected he still followed the manual. Some of his secrets would follow him to his grave.

"It's all bits of paper, isn't it!" I insisted. "All you got to do is sign a bit of paper and I'll end my days in the secure wing."

"Do you know anything about budgets?" Doctor Woolley looked across at his patient.

"Yes, I do."

"Afon-Bedd is looking at drastic budget cuts. Unless I can secure funding, the Dayrooms will be closed, those deemed fit enough will have to find their own way through life and those deemed unfit to return to society will all end up in the Secure Wing, or something like it."

"What about King Offa?" I was horrified. "What on earth would little Cedd do! The Bishop's lot would probably all end up in prison, for goodness sake...."

"If you wish I could release you from my care which would mean that you'd have to return to Sir Evelyn's court in Monmouth."

"You know something Doctor Woolley," I'd thought a while, "Most people would say that my Rabbit was a figment of my mind, and you pretending that he's not makes me wonder what you want from me."

It was The Rabbit's turn to be outraged, and he made his opinions of my ridiculous assertion that he was a figment of my mind very clear by calling me a Judas of the worst sort. He calmed a bit when I told him, "I'm trying to find out what's going on."

"Care to translate?" There was more than a question in Doctor Woolley's voice.

"You're wondering what I know about Roundtrip. I think you probably see a likeness in me that reminds you of Gwningen, but I think most of all you're wondering what you're daughter's car might have been doing near a house that got burned down."

Woolley was impressed, he was very English, he was dour and he was sad, and he wasn't JH.

Chapter Nineteen : A Bit of a Fix

I have seen the Leopard. She has followed my through a long night, and even though I had taken food from her, she'd forgiven me. There is Leopard in Windral, rightly she dislikes the collar she wears to open and close her Cat Flap. The collar makes her look tamed. It was evening, we were down in the field staring up at the Tower of Silence. She'd looked at me, a decision in her mind. And in the early hours I removed her collar, and I have hidden it. When questioned I claimed she lost it, and I'd found her stuck in the outdoors, a pathetic sight and miserable and the both of us with such worry on our tender hearts I laid claim to having seen the end times. My intern was unimpressed, but Mrs. Bigelow checked my pulse.

All morning my intern was set searching for the collar. Nothing was found.

"Oh Dear." And I wondered a while whether Mrs. Bigelow would again check my pulse. But Mrs. Bigelow has learned to like the Cat Flap. She claims the domicile smells better.

My intern speechlessly attached himself to his telephone and announced that it was possible to get a new plus shipping collar for Windral. And my scheme might have failed had my intern not reached out the four hundred odd pages that comprise the Cat Flap manual, flipped through to the chapter entitled "Options for Disabling the Auto Function on Your Deluxe Kitty Flap Mark III."

"It's rainy and wet." Mrs. Bigelow had a shake of aggravation in her head and she reminded us both to "Take your boots off when you come in the house."

The Windral has no collar now, she can come and go as she pleases and from the way she curls up to stare at me, as I sit down to discipline, I have a deep suspicion she has further plans for our relationship.

The same feeling I had all those years ago, returning from a fishing trip. Seemed to me that neither Doctor Woolley or I had caught anything. A series of nibbles. Possibly the wrong bait, blunt hook. And even if my status as Edward Hanian had changed, there remained the challenge of Edward's aunt and a document that I would have to sign with witnesses present that would formalize the legal relationship between myself and Old Mr. Philter who I'd never met. Difficult to tell what might happen. I had the sense that my "aunt" would have preferred it had Edward Hanian perished along with Herbert Hanian. Edward's remains correctly identified, and all would have been well in my "aunt's" world. But I was off to the gambling halls, the game was Tabular, the wager was an Allah Akbar as a Saint's Day Gift for Saint Winifred of Western-super-Mare up against regular Mercian inspections of the Witch of Ithaca's Greenhouse. The players were Liege Lord Crabtree of Gloucester and Bowen the Gardener. Bowen was as old as I am now, he could feel better than he could see, and in Mercia, Bowen was referred to as The Witch's Diviner of Moles, but for all I knew he was Roundtrip.

In Afon-Bedd, the Afternoon Activities period was waiting on the arrival of Crabtree of Gloucester's Allah Akbar, who was having a late lunch, it was a beetroot sandwich, he was in his Punishment cell. Alwyn the Keep all full of the occasion. "We haven't had one of these since the 1950's." And when Alwyn escorted me through the Sunroom out into the gardens there was severity in the Mercian mood, a grumbling from their champion, hints that the late arrival was a sure sign the devious Celts had stacked the deck.

But in Wales, it was clear to me that Dayroom Three had a craft table. Both saints and commoners had accented their inmate uniforms with ornaments, some were wearing colorful paper hats. They cheered my arrival with interpretive dance and a caroling from Saint Winifred who beat loudly on what could well have been a tambourine. A picnic table had been placed across the King's Dyke. On the table was a wooden board with four lines of round depressions, into which rounded stones had been placed. Some of the stones where black as coal, others white as marble, they were all about the same size. The different colored stones seemed randomly arranged.

My own preoccupation was Miss Western-super-Mare. How, I wondered, had she achieved her sainthood in Afon-Bedd. She was young, her brother and sister saints much older. By my estimation she'd not been an inmate in Afon-Bedd for more than a year or two. The Rabbit at my side seemed enthralled by the pomp and ceremony of the event. The ranks of Mercia paraded against the Celts. King Offa stern and regal, seated on a garden chair. Cedd, at the King's feet, had an entire bag of marshmallows all to himself. Orderlies too seemed to have taken sides. But I wasn't that confident, couldn't help but predict abject chaos in the future. A joyful dispenditure, but Mercia would find some excuse to cry foul, they'd stream into Wales, there'd be pillage and much worse, windows would be broken, days of interviews, Punishment Cells chock full. I stared up at the top floor of the south wing of the Afon-Bedd building, the windows were smaller up there, and they seemed to be staring down at us. I imagined a library where Alwyn had learned to read. And I wondered whether there were ink pens and a shelf of H's. Giovanni looked like me and so did Gwningen.

"Attend!" Magnus cut the chatter. It was like a boxing match. "There'll be no accidental moving of the board. No glaring or scattering of spells from either side of the Dyke. If a player puts a foot on the Dyke, that player will forfeit the game...." It went on, a long list of eventualities, and any infringement of the Rules of Tabular would be adjudicated by the Judges, Stanley of Dayroom One and Oswald of Dayroom Two. I had little faith in Stanley and Oswald agreeing on anything. In the mayhem that was certain to ensue I intended to hide in the Graveyard, stay there, out of the way until the whole thing was over.

Tabular was incomprehensible to me. The Rabbit claimed to know what was going on. Everyone used to play it all the time, he assured me. He'd become tense whenever Bowen the Gardener made his move. Crabtree appeared to be a master of the game, his mind deep in concentration he would pause a long while before making his move. Bowen, to my way of thinking had a strategy of some sort, which, when it was his turn required him to give every appearance of wondering where he was. "A devious scoundrel!" was how Bishop Aldulf read it. In me there was a sense that should Crabtree lose the game, unless he was an Odd Fellow, which was entirely possible, his shame would be such he'd end up in the Secure Wing. He seemed to belong in Mercia and the Secure Wing wasn't a fate I wished for him.

"Do you think Crabtree is going to win." I spoke to the Rabbit.

"Bowen is a Diviner of Moles. Crabtree can't win."

"Then this could be our last chance to say farewell." I suggested

"Don't worry, we'll be in Dayroom One by supper time."

"If Freckles recognizes you, not certain she'll be pleased to see you. You did end at least one of her lives upon the earthy plane. People like Freckles don't forget things like that."

"She'll never recognize me!" The Rabbit dismissed the idea. "I'm an English Rabbit."

Across the dyke it was almost as though the Celts were losing interest in the game, they had more important things to do. But there was a great hush in Mercia, and in that great hush Cedd must have swallowed one of his marshmallows the wrong way, he started coughing, twitching and sneezing, all at the same time, his little frame gasping for breath. Then as though propelled by a canon, a soggy marshmallow shot from Cedd's mouth and landed down in the ditch on the Welsh side of the King's Dyke. Cedd would have followed his marshmallow had Oswald of Dayroom One, in voice that might have commanded the specters, yelled "Attend." Cedd held his breath, stock still, and he was just inches from his marshmallow.

"It's in Mercia!" Stanley of Dayroom One came to the defense of the King's Oaf.

Orderlies became alert, Magnus stepped forward. Mercia grumbled about how obvious it was that because it was Mercians who had dug the ditch, the ditch itself belonged to Mercia. Plain as daylight, even a mental patient could grasp it. Let Cedd collect his marshmallow and get on with the game. The Saint David's trapped as they were as hostages in Mercia, saw potential for yet another act of saintly daring. From deep in Wales a figure approached the impasse. "It's Freckles." There was rapture in the Rabbit's voice.

Vilbert Oberst's ground crew had been correct in their description of Code Freckles. "The Secret Weapon" they'd called her. Vilbert had kept away from ground crew gossip, but he'd admitted she was "very ugly in the face." She was tall, slender, her boiling unkempt hair was a ginger red, except around the roots, which were gray. It was as though her head was surrounded by a demonic halo. Her eyes were like two slow burning green fires. She had a power to her, a calm so still it was utterly fearless and without constraint. A kind of freedom, I guessed, and I imagined Herr Oberst, in his lumbering transport aircraft, high above the Chesil Beach, the moon bright, he was flying into enemy territory, he would have been nervous and anxious to accomplish his mission. Driven by an obedience to his cause, I could see him glance across at his passenger, and I could see how Herr Oberst could easily have fallen under the spell of her. I certainly fell under it.

"No wonder the Lead Bull kicked me in the head and sent your into exile." It was the best I could do under the circumstances. I was feeling a powerful desire to pick Dandelions, learn to fly, write the Witch of Ithaca's name on the Moon, so that she might look up and see what I'd done to please her. In a moment of sanctuary I wondered whether there'd been a potion in the beetroot sandwich I'd had for lunch.

Mercia didn't have my reaction to the vision approaching the King's Dyke. Cedd ran and hid behind the King's garden chair. King Offa directed his religious advisor to "Sing psalms or something." But Aldulf was in his element, he crossed himself, produced a very small crucifix, held it high for all to see, he then fell to his knees, and in the area of sinister muttering Bishop Aldulf was well practiced. Mercia heard the distinct clatter of the Greenhouse door opening, an internecine sound of ever there was one, and without being asked, a tall powerful welsh male emerged from the Greenhouse, his cross was a little larger than he was, it was probably made of cardboard, it had been painted with a glittering gold colored poster paint. The sight made Bishop Aldulf reel.

"Judith!" The king was envious. "Why haven't we got one of those?"

"I'll get right on it, Sire!" For a saint, Judith did sound warlike, as though ready to lead the charge into Wales.

I looked at Magnus, he was sucking his teeth. The Rabbit had become overwhelmed by a powerful sorrow, he couldn't believe that once when he was working miracles he'd done away with Freckles. It was an impossible idea, an unforgivable act. But the Rabbit could remember it so clearly it had to be true. I hardened my heart, remorse in my eternal friend had always been very fleeting.

As Freckles got closer, there was concern in Mercia that their Champion avoid the Witches gaze in the event that she'd "do something to him." But Freckles wasn't looking at Crabtree. Her gaze reached across the border attached itself firmly to the Mercian King, her voice when she spoke to Offa contained an astonishing seduction. "The ditch belongs to you, Sire." I remember it so clearly.

Offa recovered fast, an instant it was before he claimed a mighty victory of will, over the Witch of Ithaca, the likes of which had never been seen before. He decided there'd be a plaque to mark the occasion. Cedd less certain, crept toward the ditch, his marshmallow safe in his little hand he raced back to the security of the King's garden chair.

"No cheating." Freckles touched Bowen the Gardener's shoulder before she and her standard bearer retired peacefully to the mysteries of her greenhouse, leaving Burgess to give voice to the mood in the ranks of Mercian commoners. "What the hell goes on in there?" Aldulf fined him one yellow smarty for taking the Lord's Name in vain.

Throughout the incident Crabtree had given every appearance of being totally oblivious to any interruption in his concentration. He'd remained glued to the game, not even a low flying Junkers 52 would have distracted him. There's still doubt in my mind as to whether Bowen was even present in the world for all the attention he'd paid to Freckles' instruction not to cheat. But I became aware that Geats of Bishop Aldulf's Dayroom was taken by a passion. His dislike of Allah Akbars was real, there was no pretense in it. I was a reminder of some event or other that had taken part of his mind and wouldn't return it. He became convinced that Freckles couldn't possibly want an Allah Akbar as Saint's Day Gift for Saint Winifred of Western-super-Mare. No Saint in their right mind would choose an Allah Akbar as a Saint's Day Gift when the alternative was a chocolate cake. And why didn't Freckles make any attempt to "do something" to Crabtree. The marshmallow was in the ditch, she had every opportunity, but she didn't get close enough to even see it. Amongst the gamblers this idea from Geats began to gain traction, and it found its way to Cedd. Who thought long and hard before whispering in Offa's ear. The Mercian King's practice was to take a tribute of two slices of chocolate cake from Mercian Saints, which he'd give to Cedd, and it just seemed a little as though Cedd's own interests might have been in play. In Mercia the idea of any Saint getting a slave on their Saint's Day instead of a chocolate cake began to fester. Saint's Days in Mercia were an opportunity for a Saint to demonstrate the genuineness of their vow of poverty by generously distributing slices of chocolate cake to the unfortunates who had yet to receive the higher calling. Saint Chad had an opinion, it was long and rambling which Burgess interrupted, "What you're saying, Chad. Getting a slave instead of chocolate cake for your Saint's Day might make you more likely to end up in the Secure Wing." Bishop Aldulf, an authority on church matters, nodded in agreement. He suggested slyly that it would be a great victory for Mercia if Winifred of Western-super-Mare who having achieved sainthood at such an unnaturally young age was surely one of Freckles' favorites ended up in the Secure Wing.

"A word with Crabtree." King Offa spoke to the judges. Stanley was uneasy at the thought of interrupting Crabtree's game, yet the King and spoken and Crabtree dutifully presented himself. Nor was the Mercian Champion one to permit interruptions without comment.

"I am a little occupied, Sire."

It was the idea of a new title that brought the Liege Lord of Gloucester around. "For your service to the kingdom, there's a Privy Garter and Feathers." It was difficult for Crabtree, he was convinced he was winning the game of Tabular, but he was Blue Blood Mercia and founding member of the Mercian Independence Movement, he understood sacrifice. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his beloved country. And I chose to believe Crabtree must have been insane to have fallen so quickly for his new world.

The Rabbit's sudden alarm at the prospect of becoming a member of Freckle's Dayroom had paled a little. He comforted himself by telling me that he was doing it for me, and like all true Saints he'd make any sacrifice necessary. I reminded him of the endless possibilities the Lead Bull had had when he chose to exile him as an English Speaking Rabbit in Wales. I suggested that had he chosen to, the Lead Bull could have exiled him in Wales as a Silure from Northern Spain and could have given him a Spanish or Portuguese accent which sounded like Fychan Riddle, made him a humane animal control professional, given him a van to drive around so he could chase down Mink and Mongoose in the green and pleasant land. At the same time I was grappling with the dawn of an ambition. I was wondering whether I could become a Celtic Saint, a fine hair cut from Jacques of Pontypool, chocolate cake on my Saint's Day. Saint Winifred could teach me to play the tambourine, we could dance together and hold hands. A rude awakening for me to realize I'd not yet spent a night in an Afon-Bedd dormitory and already my mind had been taken deep into the witches realm where it debated whether it was better to have a Saint's Day in winter or summer. "I'm a Sabean," I had to remind myself.

"What shall we call him?" Saint Winifred of Western-super-Mare was all over her Saint's Day gift, she clapped her hands. Freckles indulged her a while before reminding her that she was to pretend I was still wrapped up in pretty bows until Winfred's actual Saint's Day, then she could open her gift.

It's the little things that trouble an I Am who wakes in the dawn as an Allah Akbar and before dusk he's a Saint's Day Present. I didn't know where I would spend the night, I wasn't even sure where the dormitories in Afon-Bedd were, and I'd come to the conclusion that if I had to have a toothbrush, I'd rather it was my own, new from a packet, not just lifted from a random mug on a shelf in the toilet facilities of a Punishment Block. Small, unimportant things. Necessary I guess for the calm that allows a mind to rest, have its cigarette and for a peaceful moment or two avoid the great questions.

Ad soon enough the days began to pass, new patterns to oblige. Some comfort I drew from my mistress who wouldn't hear of a suggestion in Dayroom One that I should at least be baptized. Winifred, despite her calling, thought Allah Akbars were "Sweet." I had a bed in Dayroom One's male dormitory, it was between Bowen the Gardener and Freckles' Standard Bearer. My toothbrush wasn't new, it came to me hardly used, and I had my own tin cup on a shelf in the men's bathrooms.

On Winifred's Saint's day, the weather was fair for the hoopla in Wales, a great show of joy and merriment. I had a paper bag over my head, I was ceremoniously escorted from the greenhouse to Bowen's Roses and there Winifred took the paper bag off my head, she expressed her delight and announced to the gathering of celebrants that I was to be called Biscuit.

Throughout it all Mercia tried not to take any notice, but I did see Crabtree inspecting the King's Dyke, and he might have waved a little at me. I wasn't happy with my name, but the Rabbit claimed that in ancient times biscuit meant Baker of Fine Delicacies. By the end of the Afternoon Activities period Winifred was already calling me "Bickie." Before I knew it I'd been a member of Freckle's Dayroom for almost two weeks, and I was answering to the name Bickie. My weekly little box of Smarties, all different colors, I'd given two to my mistress, the rest I had eaten instead of trading. The Rabbit was at ease, he hopped around Freckles, his participation absolute, a thousand opinions on ever question, no doubt in his mind that tomorrow could wait, his nights comprised of minutely recalling that day's events, and how Freckles did this, how she said that. Bowen was teaching me Tabular, which he'd explained to me was a game of skill that went back in time to long before the Sphinx was a gleam in Pharaoh's eye. I couldn't resist that pull from the ancestors, I had to learn the game, and it would have been enough for me to find peace, until Oswald called Bickie to his side during the Afternoon Rest Period to tell me I had a visitor.

It was like an earthquake. I assumed some part of Edward Hanian had returned to haunt me. Or possibly I had papers to sign for Old Mr. Philter. The Rabbit wasn't happy, he'd been looking forward to Afternoon Activities, he had plans to assist Freckles in the greenhouse and to his eternal shame he suggested he might be excused, which wasn't in the realm of possibility for either of us.

"Where are they taking Bickie." Saint Winifred's very vocal demand was comforting, it was nice to be wanted.

It was a bleak understanding, but I hadn't yet completely gone native. I recalled that visitors were not permitted to even park in Public Parking until 4 in the afternoon. Clearly my visitor had had a dispensation from the general rules. It suggested the visitor was important, harmful and unwelcome. And yet, whoever it was, Oswald had referred to them as "a visitor." But there was more than my own set of worries running rampant through my brain as I followed the orderly to the Visitor's Room.

The orderlies in Afon-Bedd had homes, they read newspapers, listened to the radio, it was referred to as the outside world, a place very few inmates could even recall. The orderlies, while at their gainful employment, would share snippets of their other world, a power bill, a television on hire purchase. Not certain they were supposed to share, but they did. The reaction in Mercia to an account from beyond the hedges that suggested vaguely that a holiday cottage had been burned to the ground had been one of rage. Nothing left of house except ashes, but from the photos, the chimney stack stood tall, which however you looked at it was a tribute to the craftsmanship of olden times. Investigators had declared that the fire had been deliberately set. Nationalists. Unexpected to find Nationalists brazen enough to perpetrated an outrage so far east, they normally did it over there, in Welsh Wales. In Dayroom One, not much had been said about the report. The jeers from Mercia were more of an embarrassment, but Freckles' Standard bearer had stared across the Dyke at Mercia and claimed "they got homes of their own and they're taking ours." I'd not been in the dayroom long, but these were more words than I'd heard from him.

It was Ystwyth in the Visitors Room, she looked tall, restless and shy, and she was with her mother. Mrs. Sanders recognized me straight away and her first words to me were, "They got you in the outfit, Gwningen."

I got the sense that Ystwyth had somewhere else to be, one of her men friends, I assumed and there'd be tobacco. "How are the Hedgehogs."

"They'd send you a hug, but that's difficult for them. I'm not here to gossip, Gwningen."

I sat on the chair beside her. I wanted to ask her what she'd meant by Gwningen being denied his Vestry of Monnow. But I didn't. I wanted to ask her a thousand questions, but I couldn't, not with Ystwyth in the room. Instead Mrs. Sanders and I smiled at each other. She'd dressed up for the visit, must have been powder on the wrinkles in her face, her hat looked new. Her leather shoes had been polished, a hint of grass clippings had dampened the shine. There was no vehicle in Public Parking.

"She thinks Betrys betrayed you." Ystwyth had as close to a pleading in her voice as she was capable of.

Once, Lemuel Caution of the FBI had gone deep under cover, he'd fallen so far into the centrality of Kentucky Bourbon to the role he was paying, he'd struggled with a reluctance to pull himself up and get back "business." And I knew all about gossip, how it stretched round the globe, half true, half lies. But mostly people believe what they want to believe. How, or why it was Mrs. Sanders thought Betrys had betrayed me I didn't care to know

"Not Betrys, Mrs. Sanders." I shook my head. "It was she who saved me from the Rabies. Otherwise I'd be a Mongoose by now. I was careless. You'd warned me about being careless. It was a man called Sergeant Salmon who betrayed me. He had the uniform of a policeman. It was the courthouse in Monmouth that sent me to Newydd Ogof. I'd have been dead long ago had it been for your Beetroot Sandwich. I'll be in your debt all the days of my life Mrs. Sanders......"

"It's a simple question, Gwningen. Don't try to flim-flam me. Did Betrys betray you."

"No." I answered her.

"Good enough for me." Mrs. Sanders promised to visit often, and then she stood up to leave.

"Is that it!" The orderly was as surprised as I was.

"Come along Ma." Ystwyth bustling around her mother. "Let's go see Alwyn, he'll have a cup of tea for you."

"He's got an hour!" The orderly was looking at his watch.

At the door Ystwyth turned to the orderly, pointed a long finger at him. "Don't let him go anywhere!"

The door closed, Ystwyth and her mother ambled slowly out of view toward the Punishment Block.

"That was Mrs. Sanders." I explained.

"There I was thinking she was the Queen of Sheba."

He was more of a floating orderly, he never seemed to have a specific role. Rumor was that he was taking a break from the Secure Wing.

"Mrs. Sanders knows Alwyn." I suggested, "She must know the place well."

"Alwyn and Methuselah have much in common!"

It was like talking to an irritated brick wall, but it did seem strange, it wasn't yet the 4 o'clock visitors hour, there was no vehicle in Public Parking and both Ystwyth and her mother appeared to know Alwyn the Keep, and where to find him. The Rabbit wistful for Freckles suggested Ystwyth and her mother had used Public Transport, taken the green bus, then must have walked from the main gates. I found myself wistful for the ashtrays, all of them well used but empty. In a similar position to mine Lemuel Caution of the FBI would have taken a moment to appraise his situation. He would have set aside the problem of which of the many more than somewhat dames in his world could make waffles that most closely approximated those Ma Caution had used to make so that he could give his highly trained consideration to "Business." There were more than somewhat waffles aplenty in my world. Sometimes it was difficult to give consideration to business with not only Betrys and Ystwyth but my ever present mistress now floating around like maple syrup through my mind. Some joy to realize that my capacity for bashfulness in the area of waffles had modified sufficiently to enable me to make words and communicate while in contact with that part of our species that belongs to waffles. The Rabbit would occasionally recall a more than somewhat episode with Freckles. When I suggested to him that Saints don't really do that sort of thing he'd taken to his Hail Mary's, but at least it shut him up.

My predicament, as I avoided eye contact with the orderly in the Visitor's Room, wasn't easy to pin point. I felt like a stranger in the confluence of flows, movements of Beings, clashing around me and I was more like a Rubber Duck in the flowing waters. I'd met my "mother" and an "aunt" and I suspected that my "aunt" at least would find me guilty of murdering my "father" before she gave up on her sister's chance at a substantial inheritance. And there'd been a Nationalist outrage, a weekend cottage burnt to cinders. Ystwyth, I felt certain, was prone to occasionally vandalizing road signs by painting over them in what had to be oiled based paints. It was probably more of an entertainment for her, a fashionableness, like scribbling on the walls of public toilets, and if indeed vandalizing road signs was an expression of Nationalism it was a long way from burning someone's weekend cottage to the ground. Patrick Connelly, of the Shire Hall basement, had suggested he had a certain sympathy for those who vandalized road signs, but he himself, even though he was a Welsh Speaker from birth, was no Nationalist, never had been, never intended to be. The stir caused by my own appearance in Sir Evelyn's Court Room was I'd decided something to do with the stories and myths that had grown up around the Rabbit of Usk, they'd lingered through the generations in much the same way the Sabeans can recall the divisions in their ranks following their disagreement with Pharaoh's interpretation of the meaning of the Sphinx we'd built for him. In times of stress even Sabeans are inclined to reawaken old wounds, do things we'd later wish we hadn't. And I could imagine a damaged soul from the wartime, a man that looked a little like me but was much bigger, finding his way to the borderlands between Powys and the English. The man had ended up in an Afon-Bedd which back then was still doing its bit for the war effort. I suspected that the mysterious Odd Fellows were enemy agents with information to divulge to the uniform staff and where more English a place to interrogate them than in a Tri-County Lunatic Asylum in Wales. Freckles I felt confident was one of these Odd Fellows, she'd found a home in Afon-Bedd, and I suspected that Bowen the Gardener was an Odd Fellow.

My own life as a Rubber Duck in this confluence made little sense to me, but I wasn't without sin. The inevitability of those sins catching up with me was best not thought about, even if it was difficult not to think about them as I waited in the silence of the Visitors room, staring out the window, across Public Parking at the barred windows of the Secure Wing. Ystwyth's long finger still commanding the orderly, her long legs had a more than somewhat to them that had nothing to do with ankles. "They should put something in our food to stop us from thinking about these things," The Rabbit offered. I agreed with him. And, I had to agree with the Rabbit that his own burden of sin was such that it was going to be a challenge if ever he was to achieve Sainthood. "You don't know the half of what you've done yet," the Rabbit replied. And yes, it was companionable communion between myself and my eternal friend which was brought promptly to an end when one of the inside doors to the Visitor's Room opened and JH Woolley walked in.

Our orderly snapped to, surprised and a little alarmed by the arrival of the Head Psychiatrist, he checked the room for anything that might have been out of place. Woolley said, "Ah, there you are," to me, he exchanged a pleasantry with the orderly, asked after a relative, before telling the orderly to "Carry on."

"You mean leave Doctor?"

"Better things for you to do. It's not even visiting hour." There was no hint of anxiety in JH Woolley as the orderly obeyed his superiors instruction to disappear. Woolley's question for me as he sat down opposite me was "How are you getting along?"

"I'm Saint Winifred of Western-super-Mare's Biscuit," I attempted to ruffle the good doctor's nerves. "And I'm sure she's wondering where I am. We Saint's Day Gifts have our responsibilities."

"There's a matter I'd like to discuss."

"If it involves a code word, then I want nothing to do with it."

"Nothing like that! It's my daughter,"

"Your daughter?" I think it sufficient to say my own nerves achieved a ruffling that could be heard in Kingston Lisle.

"She's got herself into a bit of a fix."

With a certain class of English "a bit of a fix" could mean just about anything from a accusation of high treason to shyness around an in-growing toenail. Ystwyth's sudden arrival from the room's other inside door did nothing for my sense of calm.

"How's your mother?" Woolley asked.

"She's a worry, but she's having a good natter with Alwyn."

Doctor Woolley and Ystwyth Sanders knew each other. Nor was it in my view a casual knowing each other. The Rabbit and I both had some impure thoughts and I looked at JH Woolley's ears to see which one of them Mrs. Woolley's Chimpanzee had taken a bite out of. It must have been something in my eye that caught Ystwyth's attention. "Justin's my godfather," she explained.

"Sounds like blasphemy to me!" The Rabbit spoke with a strange combination of awe and disgust, he made the sign of the cross and embarked upon a Hail Mary.

Given the account Betrys had given me of the cruel days that had followed the death of her father, no food, no coal, no electric until Gwningen was pulled down from the hills with his rabbits, his milk and other sundry luxuries it seemed to me that Ystwyth might not have shared my own understanding of the word "Godfather."

"Ystwyth's mother worked in the kitchens before her father came back from the war." Woolley had fond memories of it, he smiled at his godchild. "The girls had free rein in the Officer's Mess. It was good for the uniform chaps, reminded them of home, kept them ship-shape."

"Don't really remember it much." Ystwyth smiled back at her godfather. "I remember chocolate bars. Betrys remembers it was an American fella that had the chocolate bars."

Lemuel Caution at this juncture would have reached for a Lucky Strike to aid his concentration. I didn't have that advantage. I recalled from the years my eternal friend and I had endured the cruel and unusual punishment that was the English Boarding School System how some of my fellow scholars had both a godmother and a godfather. The prime role of a godparent seemed to comprise sending money orders on their godchild's birthday.

"What about Betrys?" I asked Woolley. "Are you her godfather?"

"She's a little older." Woolley seemed to have forgotten all about the fix his daughter was in. "I was there for Ystwyth's baptism. The font was almost frozen, but she didn't cry once."

Ystwyth, while proud of her stoicism, guessed from my expression perhaps, that I had a certain antipathy toward the godparent issue.

"We're Methodists." She thought it an explanation.

Patrick Connelly's mother had been a Methodist, and when he was discussing his mother's Methodism, I'd gained the impression that Methodists, Nationalists and Vandalizers of Road Signs had joined with Saints, and all of them belonged to a class of person deemed suspicious by Sir Evelyn's Court. As a stranger to these parts, I was far from even beginning to grasp the nuances of local lore and custom and I needed common ground, somewhere to begin a better understanding of the relationship between Woolley and Ystwyth, how deep did it go and did it include prowling about vandalizing road signs in the middle of the night.

"Have either of you ever heard of a Parrot called Tonypandy?" The Rabbit thought this an odd question from me, and when both Ystwyth and Woolley raised eyebrows, I added, "He got banned from the Eisteddfod for cursing."

"I'd forgotten that Parrot's name!" Ystwyth had heard about it, a grin on her face, but Woolley hadn't, he looked at his watch.

"You remember that house that was burned down." Doctor Woolley came right out with it. "The police have been questioning my daughter about it. She's young, don't think there's anything to it. She failed her A Levels, all of them, and has been running with a fast crowd...."

"If I may Doctor Woolley." I interrupted and I rattled on desperate to avoid having anything to do with Bunny Woolley. "I am Saint Winifred of Western-super-Mare's Saint's day gift. She calls me Bickie and she appears very fond of me. It's a full time job being a Saint's Day Gift, and I'm really far too busy to get involved in the shenanigans of the outside world....."

Ystwyth did her best but unfamiliar as she was with the inner workings of Afon-Bedd's South Wing, she had to hold her hand across her mouth so that only her eyes would laugh. But I was fierce, angry, how dare JH Woolley ask me to help him with his pettifogging Bunny Carol Woolley who'd been given a car for her Saint's Day gift. Ystwyth must have seen the dull anger in me, it would be something she'd recognized from her own experience of it.

"Byr Gwningen, it's a shadow you have, trouble just follows you. Still laugh about Aled and the measuring tape. It was a fine display." There was a slight curl of a smile to her lips, it was a generous smile. The expression "more than somewhat" didn't do her justice. If anything it was closer to why the Trojan war might have been fought.

"What do you want me to do?"

JH Woolley looked at his watch, he stood up form his polite chair and he stared out the window toward the Secure Wing. "I think the Rabbit might be able to help us."

There are moments when a mind begins to spin a little, it looks up, it looks down, it hunts around for words with which to explain itself, and the best it can do is come up with, "What!"

"It's a little devious," Woolley admitted.

"He doesn't mean your Rabbit, Eddy." Ystwyth translated. "He means the stories about Gwningen."

"Of course!" Woolley turned from the window his apologies profuse. "I do beg your pardon. Certainly not your Rabbit, Edward. Your Rabbit's a most interesting fellow. I meant the series of tales associated with what some refer to as The Rabbit of Usk. Ystwyth is doing her Doctoral thesis on Welsh Border Lore and Symbol."

"The old stories." Ystwyth translated. "My mother still thinks you're Gwningen. In fact she knows you're Gwningen. Whether she actually believes you're Gwningen, I don't know. But she'll go to her grave thinking she met Gwningen, not once but twice. That's a powerful story. Where did it come from? Versions of it came down to her from her mother, and all the way back through time."

"What's this about a fast crowd." I looked at JH Woolley.

"She's taken up with boy, he's hardly a boy, he's much older than she is...."

"He's a radical Nationalist." Ystwyth came to her godfather's aid. "He's up on charges. Arson...."

"I blame myself. I should have guided her. Her grades were excellent. Bunny's taken my divorce from her mother very badly....."

"Sir Evelyn's Court?" I asked Ystwyth, her godfather appeared to be struggling with a crisis.

"Worse. Serious Crimes. It's in Cardiff, of all places."

"Is there a charge against Miss Woolley." I asked Ystwyth.

"Not yet, Eddy. But she has a hankering to be martyr. Follow her heart into Her Majesty's Prison System."

"Has she got Young Mr. Philter to look out for her?" I asked.

"Young Philter wouldn't touch this with a barge pole."

"Bunny needs something to do! Something to occupy her. She's always been interested in my work...." Woolley pulled himself together. "Doctor Jaspers was telling my how you had a disagreement with Mr. Crabtree, and how you measured your Rabbit to demonstrate that he wasn't a Hare."

"He's in exile as an English Speaking Rabbit. Or what once was Wales." I looked a Ystwyth, she seemed amused. "And I am a Saint's Day gift for Saint Winifred of Western-super-Mare who is probably expecting me for Afternoon Activities."

"The question. Why is he in exile?" Doctor Woolley was all business.

"When the Lead Bull came for him, they had a disagreement...." I stumbled.

"You don't argue with Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates." Ystwyth rescued me.

"Apparently not."

"Would I be right in thinking your Rabbit's exile is such that he can't leave Wales."

"I think the Lead Bull might have a different idea of where Wales ends."

JH Woolley, in a most cogent way, chose to explain his questions. Most people who heard voices were mightily troubled by them. Their voices interfered with their ability to function in society. But somehow I'd found meaning in the voices I heard. I had, Woolley suggested, through the course of my life become dependant upon the voices, rather than unnerved by them. And this he declared made me and my voices an interesting case study in the phenomena of auditory hallucinations. A study which, he suggested, offered the possibility of advancing therapeutic solutions through "coping mechanisms" that might replace a growing reliance upon chemical solutions and the often tragic side effects from chemical solutions.

"Tell Woolley I'm not a voice in your head." The Rabbit was incensed by the very idea of it.

"My Rabbit knows things I don't know!" I translated for my eternal friend.

"Curiouser and curiouser." Woolley had the sparkle of science in his eyes.

"My own interest." Ystwyth chose to add. "Is the Gwningen Myth, The university has secured quite generous funding for my research..."

"Boston of Florida!" I suggested

"An apparel manufacturer in Ventura California, I believe."

There was a moment of silence in the Visitor's Room. I felt trapped. A little thing here, a little thing there, and the various truths I'd been concealing would reveal themselves. I wasn't Edward Hanian. I wasn't Mathew who'd given his last cigarette to Mrs. Carol Woolley, nor was I Mathurin who'd been given a twenty pound note by Carol Bunny Woolley so I could buy her an entire carton of Benson and Hedges Cigarettes in grocery store in King Alfred's birthplace of Wantage. It was all just a matter of time before I'd face the torturer, lose my testicles and surrender the secrets of the Mysore Rocket. It was the Spiders who had it right, their women are seven times larger than their men. He has not the wit to escape her jaws. She is nectar to him, a joy without parallel.

But I could see in my mind, a Miss Woolley dressed up in her finest, her solicitor bold against the Lion and the Unicorn telling the court in Cardiff that his client had gainful employment in a study on the Myth of the Rabbit of Usk. And what exactly does that entail for Miss Woolley. Your Honor, it's a lore steeped in the symbolism of an idea of Welsh Identity, she's engaged in gathering folk memories, interviewing those who have been touched by the myth. Invariably, for accuracy sake, an interviewer in so sensitive an area is required to take a sympathetic view of, and develop a relationship with both the subject matter and the interviewees. Are you suggesting your client isn't a radical. Your Honor, Miss Woolley is engaged in well funded, valuable and reputable research.

"Anything you wish to say, Eddy." Ystwyth broke the silence, I got the sense she liked me.

"If you're concerned about the life you're building in Avon-Bed." Woolley was attempting to read my concerns. "It's certainly developing at quite a pace, which don't get me wrong, is a tribute to you. I have spoken with Doctor Jaspers, we've discussed your case, and he feels as I do, you're managing your condition very well. I've also spoken to Doctor Freidman and she agrees. So barring the unforeseen you can expect to be on your way fairly soon. You might have to pay a fine to satisfy the pride of the Monmouth Court, that's a matter between you and your solicitor. It's most unlikely you'll get jail time. Social services will put you in touch with an outpatient facility, and you'll have to report there regularly. Not certain you'll need it but they'll find a place for you to live ......"

"Does Miss Woolley smoke?" I asked.

"My daughter has her flaws, Edward!" JH Woolley was moved. "She has her vices. But tobacco isn't one of them."

"What do I do."

"You get yourself back to Afternoon Activities and in the next day or so we'll find you something to wear and find you accommodation in the Gatehouse. It's very spacious, a little cold in winter, but it has all the amenities."

This idea appalled the Rabbit. He accused me of sins and betrayal, his passion overwhelming and worrisome.

"I don't know about that." I looked at Ystwyth. "Saint Winifred of Western-super-Mare will be crushed if her Saint's Gift just walks out on her. Don't want to think about what Freckles might do. Mercia will be blamed. There's bound to be an incident of majestic proportions in store for you Doctor Woolley."

Ystwyth thought it funny, JH Woolley didn't, he assured me that something suitable would be arranged.

The Rabbit was horrified. His language and his description of me still makes me blush. And he was right. He'd been stalwart at my side for as many years as I could remember, and here he was, eternal in his friendship, noble in his struggle with an exile imposed upon him, a solution to which he believed had something to do with Freckles. We couldn't leave Dayroom One, we just couldn't.

"In the area of my being able to bravely maintain my mental balance despite my tragic condition, Doctor Woolley, you must realize that I am not alone in this decision."

"Your Rabbit." Doctor Woolley looked unhappy.

I didn't hold back, and I found a strange satisfaction in saying, "He and I can't leave Dayroom one until we have found a solution to his exile. If you want my help with your own sets of problems there'll be no living in a Gatehouse "

"That's insane, Eddy!" Ystwyth stared hard at me.

"Then I'm insane." I agreed.

"They say you're just like him." Ystwyth shook her head. "So does Betrys. I see it too."

"He was taller," I reminded her.

Alwyn and Mrs. Sanders were ambling past the windows heading for the Visitor's Room.

"I do see your point, Edward." Doctor Woolley was blaming himself. "Silly of me not to appreciate that. What if we make other arrangements that enable Ystwyth and I to conduct our respective studies and you to maintain your life in Dayroom One until such time as might be mutually agreeable to all parties concerned."

I very deliberately looked down at the Rabbit, I pursed my lips, listened a while and agreed to help the scientists resolve their fascinating case of how a vagrant managed his auditory hallucinations, and had tapped into the myth and symbolism of nationalist identity which researchers had chosen to call The Rabbit of Usk Phenomena. In the brief glance I had from Ystwyth, as she stood up to greet her mother, she'd been made uneasy by me, not creeped-out as my intern puts it, that wouldn't have been her style, wouldn't have matched her boots or the power of her mind. But if not I, then something had unnerved her.

Afternoon Activities were already underway. Alwyn led the Rabbit and I into Freckles' Sunroom and out into the Afon-Bedd gardens. Saint Winifred had been worried sick, she thought I'd been kidnapped by Mercians or worse, her eyes wide when she wondered whether I'd been "Interviewed." It didn't matter, I was back. She wrapped her arms around my neck and she called me Bickie.

No such favors from Freckles for the Rabbit. His words to me in the Visitor's Room when he thought we might leave Freckles' Dayroom for the uncertainties of the Afon-Bedd Gatehouse held a voice that suggested an uncertainty in him which reminded me of how he had been when first we had met. He'd been looking for a button for his tunic. Back then, when he was amongst the Lantana, I could understand him as my grandfather understood him. Those wisps I'd seen where parts of a being in search of reunion. Those wisps had gathered, pulled themselves together, and as they'd done so they'd become a part of me. Except once. Somewhere near Kingston Lisle, and when I awoke many miles away, he was gone, and I was without him. Watching him now around Freckles, he was again searching for a button. But this button didn't share any resemblance to a Hippo tooth. He wanted to be recognized as a Saint, and through the years I'd shared friendship with him, I knew him well enough to have grasped that it wasn't Sainthood he wanted from this world. It was something else. My intern has an expression for it, "Stick it to." My eternal friend wanted to "stick it to" the Lead Bull, but he didn't know the rules, he was in exile, parts of him had been removed as though by a lobotomy and he was trying to find himself.

I was picking Daises for Saint Winifred. She was making a Daisy Chain for Oswald. My mind wandered and I asked Saint Winifred how she'd become a saint. It was one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to her, in her whole life, and she knew what she was talking about, because she'd been a Queen. I'd agreed that being a Queen must have been very exciting and it certainly gave me a perspective on how exciting becoming a Saint must have been if becoming a Saint was even more exciting than becoming a Queen. I chose to risk asking her whether she'd woken up one morning to the realization that she was a Saint. "No it wasn't like that at all, Bickie."

It was more about the quality of the Daises in the Daisy Chain for Winifred, and my choice of which Daisy to pick lacked the expertise she was hoping for. She reminded me that Daisy's didn't grow on trees and I was to concentrate on the Daisies with long stems, otherwise they went to waste.

Eventually I was able to understand that when she was a Queen, she'd been attacked and would probable have been killed if she hadn't given her crown to her attacker. It was unfair and very wrong, you just don't go around attacking Queen's and stealing their crowns. The person who had taken her crown had died. She'd fallen from a balcony. When Freckles heard the story, the fact that Winifred's crown was on the dead woman's head obviously meant there'd been a miracle, and obviously the former Miss Western-super-Mare had been responsible for that miracle. "I haven't always lived here you know, Bickie. And it certainly cheered me up when Freckles told me that I could be a Saint. And you probably don't know this Bickie, but Saints are forever and ever. They don't suddenly stop being Saints, which is why we don't wear crowns and Jacques of Pontypool gives us regular haircuts instead."

Woolley and Jaspers might have had their own interpretation. A personality disorder that kept Winifred child-like, and which for some reason warranted her being locked up. I briefly wondered whether the Rabbit was correct when he suggested that it was Saint Winifred who had pushed her rival for the crown off the balcony.

"Freckles decided to hold a Vestry. You probably don't know what that is Bickie. It's like a very important exam. It's very serious. And there's no cheating. You end up in hell if you cheat. It's sort of like becoming a Queen. You don't have to wear high heels or a bathing suit and walk up and down, but you do have to sit there, so that you can be judged."

At the time Winifred was correct. I'd heard of the Vestry of Monnow from Mrs. Sanders, but I didn't know what a Vestry was. Maybe a building, part of a church, or something like a Doric column, but in Afon-Bedd Winifred's Vestry was the name given to a room on the very top floor of the South Wing.

"My Vestry was the Vestry of Elwy." Winifred was lost to the memory of the great occasion. "There were speeches and books, lots of books, and everything. That horrible Bishop who didn't want me to be a saint. But Freckles stood up for me and she proved that I was a Saint."

"Which Bishop was that?"

"You don't have to worry about him, Bickie! He's over there in Mercia. You're safe here."

"It must be the library where Alwyn the Keep learned to read." The Rabbit and I breathed as one.

And so it was. That night in our dormitory as we waited for the lights to go out, Bowen the Gardener explained his home to me. From Afon-Bedd you couldn't see the Monnow River, or Afon Mynwy as some call it. That river was down a bit, the other side of a fold in the hills. The stream or brook that ran through Afon-Bedd had its source in a spring, and in times past that stream had the English name River Grave, or Afon-Bedd in the Welsh. Afon-Bedd's spring had been tapped to supply water to the facility, the stream was no longer, all that remained of it was The Tri-County-Lunatic Asylum that had been given the stream's name. There was a reason the river was named Grave, Bowen explained, the ancients believed it's source was a portal to another world. I'd looked across at Freckles' Standard Bearer. "That's where were all going." He sounded convinced and at peace with the idea.

Chapter Twenty : Day School

Mrs. Bigelow has informed me that Windral requires "her shots." And she informs me that her sister-in-law intends to take Windral to the veterinarian to get "her shots." But there was a problem, there was a deceit in her.

"As far as I can tell you're a good man!" Mrs. Bigelow suggested. "You're trying your best. I'm not saying it's your fault, my nephew's not much better."

My intern and I had entered the kitchen, our muddy boots were off our feet, we stood there in our socks on the clean floor and we exchanged a silent shrug as wordlessly my intern reminded me that he's only a very, very distant nephew to Mrs. Bigelow.

"I've no time for it myself, you understand." Mrs. Bigelow assured us. "But she's not just a member of the golf club for the gossip, she plays golf herself."

"Happy to drive Windy to the vet. Why's she have to come."

"Not that easy." Mrs. Bigelow turned to face us, she took off her rubber gloves. "What exactly are you two up to!"

"You mean our project." My intern became defensive at the slightest suggestion that our project had no real purpose.

"If it's not a Deer Stand out, what is it?"

"That would be dumb place to put a Deer Stand."

The dispute between distant relatives continued, until finally Mrs. Bigelow asked me whether I had engaged her unwitting nephew in some kind of a Satanic Enterprise, and if I had she could no longer continue in her employment.

"What's that woman been saying about him!"

"He," Mrs. Bigelow gestured in my direction, "wrote a letter. And she accidentally read it while tidying up the office."

"You don't just accidentally read a letter!"

But Mrs. Bigelow had her loyalties. "She wants her kitty back."

"Over my dead body!"

"She thinks he's going to sacrifice it." Mrs. Bigelow couldn't look at me and she could find no other way to express her meaning.

My intern was able to look at me, he had flicker of doubt. Sometimes a flicker is all a person needs to make them wise. My reply to him was silence. He could judge my answer for himself, he didn't need my help.

The Swallows, the Chimney Swifts have already left. Fly catchers linger as the year hastens toward the frost, this earthly voyage for me is nearly done, and soon the freeze will be upon us. My Tower of Silence is complete, my shovel is safely on the platform, so are the half pound of sausages Mrs. Bigelow thinks she mislaid. They'll encourage the carrion, make those shy creatures bold. And the winch that enables me to reach my resting place without assistance works just fine. And indeed the myth of Leopard runs deep in us Sabeans. Windral will find her own pattern, follow her equation amongst the Golf Club Set, they need her more than I do to teach them practice, but she'll take that part of me which is Leopard with her and forever afterwards she'll be a reminder to those who know her story. It's necessarily lonely without her as I sit down to my confession, my books, my pens and my gravestones.

It was at the breakfast time the Rabbit and I noticed Saint Winifred glancing across at me, a quality of concern in her face. She was up near the head of the table beside Freckles. We usually sat next to her at meal times. After restless days of waiting, this flicker from Winifred we decided was the moment. I'd been concerned by the possibilities, the panoply was upon us, everything could hit an ugliness. The waiting is always the worst part.

"I want you to be brave, Bickie." Winifred had me cornered in Freckles' Dayroom. "I don't want any fuss from you. It'll just be for the mornings, and you know how bored you get when I'm busy at the Crafts Table during the mornings. Don't worry, you'll be back for lunch."

Freckles floated over, she'd never really spoken to me. The Rabbit reached his full height and sniffed her, she was a Rose to him, but meeting her gaze made me feel small and useless. She'd fallen out of the sky at night on a silk parachute. The moon had cast a shadow as she glided to earth in search of purpose. Her eyes read everything, it was like standing naked in front of her.

"You'll enjoy Day School."

The ancestors must have reached for my tongue. I looked into Freckles and asked her what Day School was. It was the innocent and expected question for me. She was neither empty nor full. I saw nothing, she saw everything.

"It's just for the morning." Winifred assured me. I suspected her own experiences of Day School had never been pleasurable.

"But what is Day School?"

"It's where you learn the ABC's and how to do your sums." Winifred made little attempt to make it sound like fun. "Like vegetables, you just have to eat them, it's good for you."

Doctor Jaspers collected me. As we opened the door on the way out of the Dayroom, we could hear a murmur. "It's not an interview," Winifred was saying and Oswald called for attention, loudly he said, "Biscuit is going to Day School." "What's that?" Only Bowen the Gardner was suspicious. Oswald's explanation was lost as the door closed behind us.

"It leaks like a sieve round here." Doctor Jaspers, uncomfortable with subterfuge, hardly moved his lips as he spoke. "We thought we'd call you Biscuit for the study, Eddy. We're keeping a tight lid on this. Not even the orderlies are allowed to know."

The narrower stairs to the very top floor of Afon-Bedd were run through by time. Wear on the wooden treads and banisters, dusty from lack of use. A cobweb from a larger Spider who'd made the attempt to span her web across the stairs had recently been disturbed. We'd not be the first to arrive for Day School. And, should Bunny Woolley recognized me, I had an uncertain plan which changed from moment to moment. I was nervous.

It was a long low room. Bookshelves stretch the entire length of the north side. Light from the south facing windows bathed the floor. There was a reading table, and foldaway chairs scattered around. The floor might once have had carpeting or linoleum, the boards unvarnished in places. But there was desk catching good light from the window, the desk had drawers, a comfortable chair, a scatter of writing paper, books and there was a canvass carryall with a well used handle on top of the desk, an arrangement that suggested the desk was regularly used for scholarly purposes.

And there they were. Carol Bunny Woolley and Ystwyth Sanders, more leery of each other than they were of me, staring through the top floor windows down into the garden. Doctor Jaspers took his notebook from his pocket, placed it on the table, pulled a chair up, sat down. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Don't mind me." Jaspers explained. "I'm simply here to observe. I'll be taking a few notes, the rest is up to you. Biscuit has to be back in Dayroom One before lunch."

Bunny Woolley had changed. She seemed older, her hair longer, her face thinner, and it struck me that it was early in the morning for her. It was running with the fast crowd I guessed. When Ystwyth introduced her to me, Miss Woolley saw me as an inmate of Afon-Bedd who'd recently had his head shaved. For a moment I thought she might have recognized me, but one thing was for certain, she was still smoking cigarettes and she didn't know what her new employment expected from her. Ystwyth, however, had a plan. The Rabbit and I had had a quarrel and we both had our own plan.

"It has many names and many faces, but for our purposes it will be Day School. What are we teaching you Biscuit?" Ystwyth was enjoying herself, only Jaspers appreciated her opening remarks.

"I don't mind if you call me Bickie. You're teaching me the alphabet and sums. They are like vegetables, at least that's what Saint Winifred of Weston-super-Mare calls it." I looked at Miss Woolley and I added. "I'm her Saint's Day Gift."

Miss Woolley knew exactly who Saint Winifred was. It seemed her capacity to conceal the content of her mind was poorly developed except when she lied to her father. I felt a little mean watching her discomfort, she didn't know what a Saint's Day gift was and didn't ask about it.

"Outside our purview, I think." Jaspers was polite, and Bunny Woolley nodded obediently. I couldn't be certain he approved of his superior's daughter being there.

"Today," Ystwyth called her class to attention. "We'll be talking about strange and mysterious stories that some people think might be true....."

There was no doubt in my mind, as Ystwyth went on into her definition of a myth and it's relationship to symbol, that one day she would command huge audiences who were primarily there to listen to the sound of her voice, watch the movements of her body, rather than pay heed to the content of her words. And I got the sense that Bunny Woolley agreed. When Ystwyth asked if anyone had anything to add, both the Rabbit and I volunteered.

"I got two things. What do you know about the Witch of Ithaca, she used to be big around here, but she was evil and cruel, she lived in the remains of a Roman Fort down there in Usk. This was a good few years ago, around the time Islam burnt the fields of the Visigoths. My second question, would any of the books in this library have the recipe for how they used to make alcohol out of Dandelions."

My fellow student's eyebrows crossed into a frown, but Ystwyth didn't hesitate. "Many a recipe for Dandelion wine, Biscuit. I imagine the Roman Fort you're referring to is Caerleon which is close to the River Usk. But perhaps for the time frame you could tell me when Islam burned the Visigoth fields."

"The Eighth Century." Doctor Jaspers looked up from his notebook. "Initial crossing from North Africa was 711 AD I believe."

"Ithaca is an Island in Greece and a City in the Americas." Ystwyth seemed interested. "Not heard of a Witch of Ithaca. But I believe Homer's Odysseus was from the Greek Island of Ithaca."

I looked down at the Rabbit, we were amongst the learned, there could be no flim-flam from either of us, but he remained convinced that Freckles had been called the Witch of Ithaca.

"Homer's Odysseus was Trojan War era." Jaspers observed. "I imagine in Eighth Century Briton, even three hundred years after the Romans left, there might well have memories of Homer's Iliad amongst certain classes of Briton. Might even have been a few copies lying around. Roman nobility took pride in having read the classics."

The learned take joy from discourse, it's an opportunity to appraise each other, make judgments. Ystwyth asked me whether I understood the witch of Ithaca to be female. Seemed like an outsider question. It was clear as daylight in the South Wing of Afon-Bedd that the Witch of Ithaca was female, the Rabbit could most certainly confirm it.

"She was definitely a girl." I chose to answer

Ystwyth went on to suggest that had the name been derived from an Eighth Century understanding of the characters contained within the Iliad who hailed from Ithaca then more likely they'd have come up with The Wizard of Ithaca.

"Unless their inspiration was Odysseus's' wife, Penelope. She was also from Ithaca." Jaspers' contribution seemed an unnecessary case of showing off to me.

"Typical male of course!" Ystwyth had an issue with Odysseus. "No offence Doctor Jaspers, but he goes off to war, no news from him, nothing. Comes home many, many years later expecting to find his place and his wife just as he'd left them. He gets all aggravated when he finds out his wife had managed just fine without him."

There was a brief silence, and some confusion from Ystwyth's two students, until Bunny Woolley went straight to the top of Ystwyth's class when she suggested, "Male literature does have a misogynistic underpinning." And from the way she said misogynist it wasn't hard to understand what Bunny meant by the word. I suspected there'd been an ugly dispute between Miss Woolley and her Radical Nationalist. And I thought it best not to attempt to impress Ystwyth with the common knowledge amongst the Sabeans that Trojan War fiasco was entirely the responsibility of a man who having mistreated his wife got all furious when she ran off with a good looking Trojan Pirate. The ignoble Greeks had won by cheating, Odysseus was not much better than a banker and certainly not an heroic figure or even a Wizard.

"So what you're saying is that there could have been a Witch of Ithaca in Usk."

"It's possible Biscuit, but not very probable."

"I can tell you a story about her if you like."

We had all morning. It didn't go well at first, far too many questions from Doctor Jaspers. He seemed to have forgotten his stated role of a simple observer, until Ystwyth gave him a more than somewhat raised eyebrow, enabling me to continue an uninterrupted narrative of how the progeny of an unwed coupling got the Christian name of Timothy and how the child rose to the attention of both the new Masters of Andalusia and the Pope in Rome. He'd turned a Lizard into gold to pay taxes owed by the Village of Berobi, and his mother on her deathbed had told him that he was to never forget he'd performed a miracle. At his mother's graveside the child had caused there to be balls of fire, he'd spoken in tongues, and he'd caused there to be a scent of roses. Then the boy was kidnapped by Sea Raiders. He traveled aboard their ship, the Bearded Goat, through storm and trouble until he was traded for safe passage through the lands controlled by the Witch of Ithaca. The Witch herself had checked Timothy's teeth as she negotiated the transaction, and she grew fond of the fine young man. But all was not constant in the flow of the Witch's world, soon she grew tired of Timothy. She sent him to work in her dungeon at the cruel business of turning Dandelions into hard liquor. Respite from this hellish work came for Timothy in the form of a mission from King Offa who was planning the route of a dyke that would mark the boundary of Wales and Offa's kingdom of Mercia. The Mercian emissaries were very suspicious and nervous of the Witch of Ithaca, they didn't trust her or her pagan ways. Convinced she would poison them, instead of accepting her hospitality Offa's Missionaries made their camp in a field some way from the Witch's house, her grounds and her business interests. Which was unacceptable behavior, but the Witch understood their ill-manners as an example of foreign eccentricity. She decided to send the Mercian mission a gift that might break the ice a little. She called for Timothy and directed him to take a flagon of her second finest Dandelion Brandy to the Mercian camp, offer it as a gift of good faith. The Mercian's however were as devious as the Greeks. Instead of accepting the gift from the Witch of Ithaca, they tricked Timothy into sampling the brandy, and soon enough Timothy was telling them all they wanted to know about the Witch. She had a golden necklace of great value, it might well have belonged to the Virgin Mary, she kept it around her neck accept at bedtime when she took it off, put it on her bedside table. Mercian missionaries persuaded Timothy to sneak back into the Witch's camp to steal that necklace. Should he succeed the Mercians promised Timothy a life of ease and rest. Unfortunately Timothy was probably inebriated when he sneaked into the Witch's bedroom, and in the alarm, the Witch and one of her close friends ended up dead, Timothy was running for his life, and so were the Mercians, through unknown territory. They stood no chance, the Witch's bodyguard knew the land and they were on horse back. Some of the missionaries were cut down and all would have been lost had Timothy not caused there to be mist in which they could hide. Sadly the mist lingered, the Mercian emissaries became lost in the hills, and might even have all perished had Timothy not caused horses to appear. It was on these horses that the Mercians and Timothy were able to get safely to the Monnow Valley, where they were greeted as heroes for having rid the valley of a great and terrible evil. Timothy had slain the Witch of Ithaca, there was music and dancing.

"What happened to the necklace?"

"As I understand it Miss Woolley," I glanced down at the Rabbit. "The leader of the Mercian mission to the Witch of Ithaca was a self serving person, and I think we can all be certain the precious necklace ended up being venerated in unchristian ways."

"What happened to Timothy?"

"Bitter and angry people think he was cheated out of his Sainthood." I translated the Rabbit's vocal opinion and added. "Feeling cheated is a bitter taste that can hang around, sometimes for generations, centuries even. But as Miss Sanders says there's a difference between possibilities and probabilities."

Doctor Jasper's pushed back his chair, he walked over to the book shelves. I could hear Crows in the outdoors, they were calling to each other as they flew over Afon-Bedd. They were on about Crow business, their young ones grown and strong, they still had much wisdom to learn from their elders. From the book shelves Jaspers pulled a huge tomb, heavy, leather bound, it made a thump and scattered dust as he put it on the reading table. It was a volume published in the 1890's. An encyclopedia of Catholic Saints. Jaspers turned pages. "There are seventeen Saint Timothy's." He sounded surprised. "None of them from the Eighth or Ninth Century."

I was thinking about JH and the shelf of H's. I joined Jaspers, starred down at the index pages he'd opened. It was a presumption that didn't go unnoticed, but I turned to the front cover and there pasted inside the front cover was an artfully printed label upon which was written in beautiful hand writing: "This book was loaned to the Library of Afon-Bedd by the Archdiocese of Cardiff in the year of Our Lord 1918."

I was trembling when I closed the book. My copy of Abdul bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage, I decided, had found its way from the splendid Library in Afon-Bedd to the sticky fingers of a second hand book shop in the English shire of Dorset. Once in our life together, Abdul's book had attempted to escape me. I had almost willingly deserted it unread, the memory of how I'd obtained it a grim reminder, yet Abdul's book had returned. It crossed seas, it had crossed desert, and there on the knees of a more than somewhat vacationing Librarian it had found me. A pique, I guessed, had dwelled within its pages, a great sulk that was much, much bigger than I. A most worrisome creature of the Almighty is the subcategory to which we belong. But I was well practiced at fighting back tears. They upset the women folk. Nonetheless the urge in me to find the initials JH on the last page of a book, any book, in the Afon-Bedd library was powerful. And I would have found my way to the finis of each one of those books in that library with a shovel had it not been for Lemuel Caution's suggestion that such a behavior might have been bad for "business."

"It's nearly lunchtime." Jaspers was looking at his watch.

I must have struggled for a suitable expression. "Don't worry, Biscuit." Miss Woolley was consoling. "We're back tomorrow, aren't we Ystwyth."

"Yes we are." And I had to think there was more to Ystwyth's smile than her satisfaction in hearing Bunny pronounce her name correctly.

Doctor Jaspers escorted me back to Dayroom One. He asked me how I thought it went. The Rabbit assured him that it had gone better than expected, and he continued to explain to Doctor Jaspers that he'd confessed all his sins in an honest and truthful manner, so there was nothing for him to be ashamed of. I translated by telling Jaspers that I was looking forward to the morning.

"It's a bit of a treasure the library here." It was more of conversational tone from Jaspers. "All the books were donated. Many of them rare. It's not like the Vatican's Secret Archive. Not even close really. But some of the privately published works on local lore may well contain a reference or two to your Witch of Ithaca. Fascinating to think of a possible Eighth Century connection between Usk and Homer."

Jaspers was young, he was enthusiastic, he was the father of two twins whom he'd nicknamed Romulus and Remus, and he wasn't an inmate. He'd taken a few notes through the course of the morning, but he'd left his notebook on the reading table and I felt confident that when he got back to the library Ystwyth would have found time to glance through them. And restless I was to return there myself. Saint Winifred gave me two green Smarties as a special treat before lunch. I'd been brave she assured me, and she'd wanted to know whether I'd been made to sit in the corner.

But the truth of it wasn't determined by Abdul bin Abdul. Next morning there was high excitement in Day School. Miss Woolley had spent all the previous afternoon searching the Afon-Bedd library. She'd found a small book written by Reverend Arnold Bates. It was dated 1893, it's publishing costs paid for by the Monmouth Antiquarian Society. It was titled A Hunt for Vestry of Monnow.

"I've found the Witch of Ithaca." She explained, and delighted she was. "It's all here. Pretty much everything Biscuit was on about yesterday and much more."

Long miles and time away, you might think. Across seas and territories. Possibly an invention from the mind of a Victorian Antiquarian, you might think. But to Reverend Bates the Vestry was somewhere to the west of the Monnow River, amongst the hills and moors of Wales.

"I began my hunt for the Vestry of Monnow in the town of Monmouth, where the River Monnow joins with the River Wye." Reverend Bate's explained, "It's a peaceful spot, save the thunder of carriages across it's bridges. Then I began the walk upstream, to where the River Monnow enters that part of the world that offered a Sainthood to Timothy who the legend claimed had saved the valley from the evil Witch of Ithaca. At the point where the Monnow meets Vale of Ewyas, which is where the River Monnow is joined by a river called Afon Honddu by the ancient Celts, the Monnow Valley continues north, it runs east of the Cambrian Mountains. Rugged views of the Scars, Red Darren and Black Darren. The best I can do is imagine what it was like in the Autumn of 1092. The Western Marches of England were less peaceful then, and such a walk might not have been so easy, and yet I'd been able to convince myself that in 1092 the location of The Vestry at Monnow might have been well known. The name Bronwyn's Mill was all that I had gleaned from my conversations with elderly parishioners......."

Reverend Bates had read Abdul's book. He'd taken notice of the "Miracles of Berobi" and in his conversations with his older parishioners he'd hear legends of a Timothy who'd been sent from a faraway land to save their valley from the spells and wickedness of a Welsh Witch.

It was in some ways a ripping yarn Miss Woolley read to us as Reverend Bates delved into an exploration of where that Vestry might have been, and what might have happened during the course of it. The Reverend's sources comprised his elderly parishioners, Abdul's book and a manuscript he claimed to have discovered while managing the affairs of his predecessor. And a little tempting to read the Reverend's own frustrations with the new assignment his church had given him in what he called the Welsh Marches. He describes how the Advocate for Timothy begins almost every one of his ruminations with a remark or two reflecting anguish at having to spend any portion of his life on the border with Wales. "The valley of the Monnow River belongs not to the world," the Timothy's Advocate claimed. "It's a portal to hell. In the night I can hear souls of the tormented, and in daylight amongst the living I find it harder and harder to determine who might be the better off. In all of England and Europe through which I have traveled, a more sordid, idle and sullen people, I have yet to meet."

As well, Reverend Bate's makes certain to point out, in the matter of Saint Timothy, there was a political anguish. In 1092, the long dead were not usually called to Sainthood. Rather, the long dead were forgotten to legend. Not until sometime in the fourteenth century, were rules governing sainthood changed. At the time of the Vestry of Monnow, Reverend Bates claimed, the first step to sainthood was a decision usually made promptly after the moment of dying. The pros and cons adjudicated at the graveside by the Bishop and other worthies. Yet, the Reverend conceded, in times of worry legend joins with us people and it often reawakens a spirit that demands recognition, a justice written in stone, a past time come real again, even if only in a statue or a title. "My parishioners," he conceded in tribulation in his parish, "have been much taken by the Jumpers."

"Who are the Jumpers?" Doctor Jaspers had to interrupt Miss Woolley's reading.

"A somewhat derogatory term for Welsh Methodists." And when Jaspers asked for an explanation, Ystwyth fiercely added. "We jump when taken by the spirit, Doctor Jaspers. The Quakers quake, the Shakers shake, we jump."

I tried to picture JH Woolley jumping, but couldn't.

In the Reverend's account the Devil's Advocate was equally un-enamored of the Welsh Marches. "The ugliest women God ever made, no straw for the bed, wheat and barely so precious these borderers make a beer from ivy and nettle that tastes and looks like cow piss."

On the first morning of the Vestry, after the prayers, the Devil's Advocate claimed that Timothy, when confronted by Abdul's lancers at his mother's graveside, had "wished for death." Wishing for death had been declared a sin, not martyrdom, by none other than Augustine of Hippo. The Inquisitor argued that "Timothy's so called speaking in tongues" was recklessly insulting to the Tax Collector, and in fact Timothy finding himself in miserable circumstances hoped to accomplish a self murder or suicide and had therefore committed an unpardonable transgression against the will of God. And he attempted to call a halt to the proceedings. The reaction in the audience was raucous. They wanted their Saint, no matter his transgressions. And whatever God's Representatives upon earth might have had upon their minds made no difference. Up and down both banks of the Monnow they liked Timothy, they wanted their Saint, he'd performed miracles and they insisted he should have been recognized.

Timothy's Advocate then read from what the Rabbit and I recognized as a direct plagiarism of Walking Stewart's translation of Abdul Bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage. It was word for word. "I led the way toward Berobi, leaving the child by his mother's grave, and I concluded that between the child and I, one of us had succumbed to a momentary derangement, and more likely it was I, not the half starved boy in front of me. Aware suddenly that I was alone, I looked back. The lancers had dismounted and were Kneeling, as though in supplication to the Christian child...."

The Devil's Advocate interrupted Timothy's Advocate. He insisted that tax collectors lancers were not of an elegantly definable stock, in the way that Abdul Bin Abdul's own clan could reach back with authority through to noble clans of the Arabian Peninsular, and from there all the way back to Eden....

"Allow me to continue..." Timothy's Advocate insisted on reading further from Abdul's book. "I saw an orb of light, or fire high above the boys head. It moved as though weightless, yet it had substance. Then I heard a thunder, I saw a lightening bolt. And the orb was gone...."

In Reverend Arnold Bate's 1893 account, The Inquisitor, is said to have laughed aloud when Timothy's Advocate produced this first evidence of the "The Odor of Saint Timothy."

"By his own telling," the Devil's Advocate announced to all who could understand his English. "I'll say it again, the word of an un-baptized heathen and self confessed Pythagorean cannot be entered into consideration. Our investigation must proceed elsewhere."

Timothy's Advocate replied, "But will you agree 'the sweet perfume from pink roses' can be considered..."

On it went. The Vestry of Monnow packed by the influential townsfolk both Saxon and Welsh merchants of every kind, each with a sure interest in Timothy's saintliness. "An infatuated gathering," Timothy's Advocate recalled, "Those simple people would have taken the word of the Devil Himself."

Nor was the Reverend himself much impressed with Timothy's "Causing there to be a fog miracle." And he went on to give a clearly personal opinion or two on what he called "Border Weather."

Then, to the relief of everyone in the Vestry of Monnow, sometime around noon on that day of hearings, the Brown Trout had been reported running to their spawning ground. The lure of fish upon fishermen was suddenly dominant amongst the faithful. There was hubbub and restlessness inside the Vestry. Outside the weather was clement "A pale sun on the eternal dew."

Both Advocates sensed the mood of their audience, and they too wanted a fresh fish to eat. The Devil's Advocate wagged a finger at Timothy's Advocate and, according the Reverend Bates, quoted some part of that most faithful of God's children, Job. "You can't hook Sainthood for Timothy with tall tales."

Which sent a rumble of honest approval through the gathering, and most where well content to find better purpose on the banks of the River Monnow, which ran slow with autumn leaves and the flash of silver. And too, with the English King, five hundred miles away fighting the Scotsmen, it was an easier time in the Monnow Valley, a respite in the eternal war between elegant Welsh Princes and the English Tribes.

I too had seen what Reverend Bates had called the "rugged scars" along that edge of the Cambrian Mountains. I'd walked down from Black Darren into the Valley where the Olchon Brook runs into the River Monnow. I have had names like Clodock, Cwmcoched and Loxidge Tump coursing like butterflies through my thoughts. But I wasn't like Wordsworth, for whom these shapes might have been home and out of which he might have produced his host of Daffodil. Nor was I looking for Walking Stewart's Moral Motion, or the reversal of idea, it's upside downing into the material. And sure as hell I wasn't drunk with the sop of meaning, "When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang. Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart." And true, even though I too had been mourning the lost friend of innocence I think probably more likely I was "The sky is blue like an orange."

Black Darren, in the language, means "black edge." He has a sister called, Red Daren. From the fields just east of the Monnow River, both the Reverend Bates and I looked west and when the sun is upon those hills after rain, a person can understand why one of those scars in the Cambrian Range was given the adjective Black, the other Red. I sat for a while to rest, in a pheasant copse, staring up at the hills. I could see sheep, hill sheep, and I could hear the long off toll of a bell I assumed belonged to a church, or it could have been a car horn. I wondered where the Reverend Arnold Bates might have sat. He and I had shared something, quite what I'll never know.

When Miss Woolley closed the Reverend's small book it was nursery rhymes to Doctor Jaspers, he'd not troubled to take more than a few notes. Ystwyth was mighty pleased with her star pupil, and there was love in Ystwyth's eyes when Miss Woolley said, "I'm still searching the library to see if I can find the written sources Reverend Bate's mentions. But this is the legend according to him."

"Legend is beyond my remit," Doctor Jasper's spoke for his own uncertainties. "Does seem to me that Reverend Bate's, a Protestant minister I'd assume, has written down something that more closely resembles an act of imagination. More inclined to think of it as a polemic against the Catholic Institution of Sainthood."

"No kernel of truth in it for you?" Ystwyth gathered Bate's book from Miss Woolley, and sort of waved it at Jaspers.

"I didn't say that. I'd just like to hear that kernel from the Reverend's parishioners. We can't of course, they were probably illiterate. But it would seem that the kernel for Reverend Bates was something like, Saint George slayed a Witch and failed to gain the status of Sainthood despite local demand for his sainthood."

"For God's Sake, Jaspers!" The Rabbit was agitated. "I wasn't called George. I was called Timothy."

Discourse continued into the ethers of what Jaspers called the phenomenological, the actual experiences of the mind as opposed to the more learned interpretations of other possibly more tutored minds. And he agreed with Ystwyth that Reverend Bates' while possessing a tutored mind might indeed have expressed in his account a number of preconceptions concerning the border between England and Wales that might themselves have been greatly influenced as much by Myth as they'd been influenced by the Symbols of the English Crown.

"It was burden for me too!" The Rabbit insisted. "At least I performed miracles, what more do they want from me."

"Physician heal thyself." I suggested.

"Exactly!" The Rabbit was beside himself, and he was perhaps a little too involved when he jumped onto the reading table and yelled, "Why can't you see me!"

And unfamiliar as they all apparently were with both visual and auditory hallucinations, it was just as well they couldn't. It would have been "major creep out," as my intern might have explained it.

Such was the passion in Day School that morning, I was almost late for lunch. Saint Winifred had to examine my knuckles just to make certain there was no damage from a ruler. I felt sad for her, her own Day School experiences must have been hell.

That night for me was one of fierce dreams. I was in Tratinska Street, in Monda's fair city. We were upstairs in Raphael's room. We had brandy, the window was open. Raphael's daughter had let me smoke cigarettes. Broz was crying the tears of unashamed man. Raphael's daughter, stern as a lonely night had no tears in her eyes. Raphael's biscuit box was open, the contents laid out like sentries guarding Raphael's earthly remains, his hair brushed, he'd shaved that morning, he was calm, he was lifeless. They'd dressed him in his suit and tie, clean shoes and matching socks, his medals pinned to his chest. It was Raphael's daughter who placed Giovanni's drawing of a Hedgehog watching a Rabbit scratching itself on her father's chest to hide the medals. Broz said nothing. It was one of those dreams a person wakes from and wished it hadn't happened. An emptiness so large it feels eternal, until the little things fill it with the clutter of day to day. The rattle for breakfast, the ordinary things, and again I wondered whether Broz's Giovanni and Mrs. Sander's Gwningen were the same person. My eternal friend was correct. The Lead Bull was old and decrepit, he'd left too many beings to wander restless across the Globe with no purpose better than to cause upset.

At Day School next morning as we entered the library I had no plan, nothing. It was as though I'd been bitten by something. Doctor Jaspers had been particularly silent. It was an alarm to see Alwyn the Keep standing beside the reading table. Ystwyth and Miss Woolley hovering around him, the women looked not so much distressed as shy from a guiltiness. Alwyn seemed amused, and I could smell the cigarettes. On the table were two clear plastic bags. In one bag was my eternal friend's Apocalypse of Nature, in the other Abdul's Earthly Voyage. Over by the window, staring down into the gardens was JH Woolley.

"We might have a few questions, Edward." From the look of the room, JH Woolley was a master of understatement.

"We're calling him Biscuit." Alwyn spoke with the authority of an old retainer.

It was tense. All such confrontations are and I'd survived many enough of them to hold my peace.

"This book." JH Woolley picked up Abdul's Earthly Voyage. "Went missing from this library in the nineteen forties...."

"1951 to be precise." Alwyn corrected his superior. "It was in the mid-summer..."

"The question really is how it came to be in Biscuit's possession."

"It's a long story." I volunteered. "Would you like to hear it."

"I think we would." Doctor Woolley sat down on the comfortable chair at the desk, the scholarly desk which I'd thought Ystwyth had made use of. In the canvass carryall there was a thermos flask. Doctor Woolley had no takers for his offer of coffee, so he poured himself a cup.

"It was too expensive for me to buy so I traded for the book from a second hand book seller in Dorset..."

"What did you trade." It was Ystwyth and Doctor Jaspers was already busy with his notebook.

Sometimes a little truth doesn't hurt, and sometimes a little truth can do irreparable damage. I compromised, "An unspeakable act." It was an error. Bunny Woolley expressed interest, Ystwyth was very curious and the Rabbit was wondering whether I'd lost my mind. "I'm confessing," I told him. He said a Hail Mary for me.

"It would be useful for us to know how important possessing this expensive book was to you." Doctor Jaspers' contribution made me pause.

"Don't mind us." Ystwyth encouraged me.

Given the relationship I have developed with the long handled shovel and the bleak future that was potentially mine, I chose truth. Not the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but a winding story that negotiated the patterns in a manner deemed honest enough to contain truth.

The account I gave of how I'd come to possess Abdul's book may or may not have reached the stature of a high crime, but it was enough to become a memorable confession to the ears of my listeners. Miss Woolley, to her father's horror, giggled as I described the particulars. Ystwyth, I suspected, saw it as yet another example of Englishness run amok through the green and pleasant land. She'd heard from me an account of those elements within the male of our species that served to confirm her opinion that Eve had through the generations been falsely accused by the myths of Christendom. Methodist or not, her Lead Bull had entered its gerontocracy way before the expansion of Islam into Hispania. Jaspers took detailed notes. JH Woolley had a dim view of an earthly plane that included any possibility of advancement for us beings, we were essentially a condition awaiting extinction.

"That wasn't so hard was it?" Alwyn the Keep had seen it all, his smile was the closest I got to a forgiveness from the gathering of intellects.

At the end of my account I chose to ask whether we might reexamine Reverend Arnold Bate's Vestry of Monnow. Ystwyth didn't want it hand it to me, that might have meant her getting to close to me. So I reached for the Reverend's book and there on the last page, at the bottom and to the right of three little dots was JH. My mind emptied, it was a risk on my part. I could see the Rabbit, they couldn't. It was possible that while I could see the initials JH, they who were unfamiliar with the wisps of being adrift through the ages wouldn't be able to. I had to hold Walking Stewart's JH up to the light from the window, it was still there in pencil, faint but just legible. Abdul's JH was crisp and clear, an indelible ink on the yellowing paper. Each of my interrogators saw the initials, examined them, I felt at home in the flush of that moment, and when it was Miss Woolley's turn she recognized me, but couldn't quite find the words.

"We went shopping in Wantage."

"You wanted to talk to Daddy about this book."

"I wanted to know whether he was JH."

The memory for Bunny extended well beyond the short sentences we exchanged that morning. Possibly she couldn't remember why I was gone when she woke and why there was a carpet on the kitchen table. She'd looked across at Ystwyth before she'd looked at her father. But JH Woolley was hunting around in the drawers of his desk. Whatever he was looking for had an urgency.

"You eventually agreed to put him in Dayroom One with Freckles." Alwyn the Keep walked over to his superior and on to the furthest end of the library. He reached down a stiff cardboard folder, he brought it to the reading table. Inside were a collection of drawings of Rabbits and Hedgehogs. The drawings are in the Edward Hanian Wing of a facility devoted to advances in the of care psychiatric patients which last I heard was run by one of Jaspers' twins, either Romulus or Remus, I don't remember which. It's in Sri Lanka. The Reverend's, A Hunt for the Vestry of Monnow, was the basis of Ystwyth's thesis which she dedicated to her supervisor, to her mother and to "I gwningod ym mhobman" which I believe is welsh for "To Rabbits Everywhere."

There's a faint scar on the palm of my right hand. We had talked about becoming brothers, me a pink aimless wanderer and he a warrior and cattle thief. We'd cut deep enough to draw blood, I'd clasped my hand in his and he'd clasped his hand in mine so that our blood might mingle at least for a while. Only our Grandfather had approved. He told us it would guide me in the new world, and Okanya in the old world. In the Afon-Bedd Day School, amongst the erudition and learning, I looked down at my eternal friend, it was as though we both knew who he was.

"At the end of my last earthly voyage I was buried without my head." He seemed embarrassed by the realization. "I've only just found it."

It's late, a big day for me tomorrow. They are in the barn, waiting for me. Saint Timothy and the Witch of Ithaca. They visit me sometimes. He dotes upon her as she preaches. My intern's grandfather listens as they wait for the great equation to follow its path, he believes his sins have given him to Satin, poor fellow, but it's understandable. Soon, if Freckles can manage to chase off the Lead Bull, I'll be joining them. Or possibly it'll be a life as a Shellfish for us all.

"I distracted that rascal for my Dear Little Dandelion, and don't worry I can do it for you Bickie." The Witch of Ithaca feels confident, and so does Saint Timothy, I've not yet seen my intern's grandfather.

######

About the Author

Born in 1952. Raised and educated by a number of cruel and unusual boarding schools and by a loving family, Tim Candler has lived and worked on several different continents. He is unallied to any particular faith, creed or doctrine. His writing tends toward descriptions of worlds where the only constant is friendship. He now lives in the South Central Region of the Commonwealth of Kentucky in the United States of America. Read Tim's interview at: <https://www.smashwords.com/interview/timcandler>.

Keep in touch if you wish to. http://gentlerangst.blogspot.com

