Today we welcome Chrys Cymri who is offering a weekend read to enchant us.

From ‘The Temptation of Dragons‘

Chapter One

‘Vicar arrested for drunk driving’ is not the sort of headline my bishop wants to read about his priests. So I slowed down my Ford as I saw the flashing lights of the police car ahead. An accident. I hunched low over the steering wheel, hoping to hide the tell tale sign of the dog collar around my neck. My wine-sweetened breath wafted back into my face, reminding me of the reason I must not stop to offer any assistance. I was pretty certain that I was not over the drink drive limit, but possibly very close.

I risked a guilty glance as I passed the accident site. The black Mercedes had come to rest on the hard shoulder, right up against the traffic barrier. The front was caved in, although I couldn’t see what had caused the damage. No other car was nearby, and as far as I could see none of the trees had wandered across the dual carriageway. Two people stood near the police. Neither looked injured. I let out a sigh of relief.

I pulled back into the slow lane. A moment’s inattention made me drift onto the hard shoulder. The car’s front wheels and rear wheels bumped over an obstruction which shuddered and crunched. My throat closed and my heart pounded fast and quick in my chest. I slammed to stop, pulled up the hand brake and ripped my keys from the ignition. The car lurched against the clutch. I stumbled out and hurried back, terrified that I’d run over some animal or, please God Almighty no, a human.

My foot tripped against something solid. I staggered, and my hand slapped against scaly hide. Hide? The shape solidified under and around me. A tail. I was touching the base of a tail. I looked back at the webbed red tip, the scales, the thin spines. Then I lifted my eyes to see a thick body, two legs splayed back towards me, long leathery wings flung away from the road and over the traffic barrier. I forced myself to walk towards the front legs. My mind kept trying to reject the word forcing itself into my consciousness. Dragon. I was looking at a dragon.

For some reason a sense of disappointment crawled over me. The dragon was smaller than any I’d ever held in my imagination, about twice the size of a large horse. From the amount of blood that was pooling around the heaving chest, it was dying. The blood was only a shade darker than the bright red scales.

I stopped beside the narrow head. One large eye opened and looked up at me. Even in the dying light of a summer’s evening I could see that it was reptilian, the narrow pupil black against a wide iris of shimmering green. For a moment I saw myself mirrored on the clear surface, dark hair askew around my frowning face. The jaws cracked open, and a blue tongue slithered from the rows of small sharp teeth. ‘Father?’

I swallowed against my automatic correction. This was not the time to discuss the best way to address a female priest. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m dying.’

‘I could call an ambulance…’ I stopped. Had someone slipped something into my wine? Was I really thinking of arranging medical care for a dragon?

‘No time.’ His voice was fading. ‘Father, will you hear my confession? And give me the last rites?’

‘I’ll get my bag,’ I said. My legs felt rubbery as I stumbled back to the car. What if, I wondered, I were hallucinating a dragon, and it really was a human lying on the ground? The briefcase I use for hospital visiting sat on the back seat. I carried it back to the dragon, then knelt beside the fluttering nostrils. Best to do this properly. I placed the purple stole around my neck, then lifted out the order of service. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Dominic is my religious name in the Order of Saint Thomas. But my hatch name was Endre.’

‘Brother Dominic, our friend Endre,’ I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, ‘the Bible reminds us that “Whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s” and “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” Let’s share together the prayer our Lord taught us. Our Father, who art in heaven…’

The dragon joined in, quietly but firmly, a Welsh lilt to his voice. When they had finished, he added, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. I’ve not been a very good monk, and you know I’ve found celibacy difficult. I particularly repent about Miranda. But for all that I’ve done, and all that I’ve left undone, have mercy on me, a sinner.’

I lowered my free hand onto the dragon’s snout. The scales were warm, and smooth, utterly unlike the skin of a snake. ‘God, the Father of mercies, has reconciled the world to himself through the death and resurrection of his Son, Jesus Christ, not counting our trespasses against us, but sending his Holy Spirit to shed abroad his love among us. By the ministry of reconciliation entrusted by Christ to his Church, receive his pardon and peace to stand before him in his strength alone, this day and evermore. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ the dragon echoed.

Breath was beginning to rattle in his throat. I flipped through my book to the appropriate page. I reached into the briefcase, and opened the small container of oil, and smeared some just below his horns. Then I read out, ‘“Into your hands, O merciful Saviour, we commend your servant Dominic. Acknowledge, we pray, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Enfold him in the arms of your mercy, in the blessed rest of everlasting peace and in the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.”’

‘Amen.’

‘Now, Lord, you let your servant go in peace—‘

The dragon’s voice cut across mine. With a sudden last burst of strength he sent ringing tones into the air. ‘Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace…’

I felt tears come to my eyes. The plainchant rose and fell around me, reminding me of Evensong in my college chapel. Except I’d not known anyone with such a beautiful tenor voice. I put the book down and lowered a wooden cross on the soft skin just above his nostrils. He sang the last few words in a low whisper. Then he sighed, the large eye closed, and his spirit left his body.

‘Remember, O Lord, this your servant, our brother Dominic,’ I said quietly, drawing words together from half-remembered phrases. ‘According to your promises, grant to him, and all who rest in Christ, the light and joy of your eternal refreshment. May the souls of the faithful departed rest in peace, and rise in glory.’

I lifted my hands from the dead dragon. A scrape of boots against asphalt made me look up, and into the eyes of a police officer, his high visibility jacket glowing even in the dimming light. I suddenly wondered what the man thought, finding a thirty-six year old woman knelt at the side of the road. ‘Can I help you, miss?’ Then he spotted the white plastic of my dog collar, and the name tag still clinging to my shirt. ‘I mean, Reverend White.’

His shoes were only inches from the splayed claws of the dragon’s forefoot. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, rising to my feet. He still towered over me, but I’m used to looking up at people. I missed that day at school when they handed out height. ‘Just praying.’

The policeman grinned. ‘No need, Reverend. The driver and passengers are fine. No one’s died tonight, thank God. Are you the vicar here?’

‘No, just visiting some friends who live down the road. Don’t see them as often as I’d like.’ I spoke so convincingly that I nearly believed the lie myself. Never mind that I’d stayed behind after the training conference had finished, having one too many glasses of red wine at the bar rather than go home to an empty house.

I placed the book and stole into the briefcase and snapped it shut. ‘What caused the accident?’

‘No idea. The driver says he doesn’t know what he hit, only it was large and spun his car off the road. He’s stone cold sober, so who knows.’

The policeman’s comments reminded me that I shouldn’t let him get close enough to smell the wine on my own breath. I slowly backed away. ‘Well, if there’s nothing I can do, I’ll get going.’

‘Drive carefully,’ he told me cheerfully. Then he walked back down the hard shoulder, still oblivious to the large body just a foot away.

Home, I told myself firmly. Black coffee, lots of water, ibuprofen, early to bed. As I turned to my car, I thought I saw someone shift behind a tree. My heart thudded again. Then a bat flew up into the night air, and I released my breath. Jumpy, too jumpy. Definitely time to go home.

The next day, when I finally pulled myself out of bed, there was no mention of a dragon on any news website. The traffic accident achieved only one mention, buried deep in a list of overnight police reports. A bad bottle of wine, I decided muzzily. That’s it, I’m sticking to the better stuff from now on.

<><><><><><>

I made one last nervous sweep of the countertops, then stepped back to study the kitchen. Beer cans and wine bottles taken out to recycling, check. Dirty dishes hidden in sink, check. Cafetiere rinsed and ready, check. Doctor Who Magazine replaced by a Bible at the end of the dining table, check. I rummaged in a drawer, found a near-white strip of plastic, and threaded it into my shirt. Priest ready to meet her bishop, check.

Five minutes to go. Bishop Nigel was always on time, never a minute early nor a minute late. I put the kettle on, and studied the Dalek cookie jar lurking near the cooker. Should I put out some biscuits? Chocolate? Single malt whisky? The last would have been for me, obviously.

‘Get a grip,’ I muttered to myself. I’d heard from various people that my bishop thought I was a good priest. Why should I be worried that he wanted to see me? The vicarage was in good shape, the back garden was still visible despite the overgrown grass, and my congregation was holding steady even if not really growing.

The doorbell rang. I found myself singing a quick snatch of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ under my breath. I straightened, swallowed, and then strode from kitchen to front door.

Bishop Nigel gave me a smile. In my twelve years as a priest I’ve learned to tell real smiles from false ones, and this one looked real. Maybe he wasn’t here because neighbours had noticed how many bottles clinked in my weekly recycling. ‘Penny, good to see you,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘You know what I always say.’ I allowed him to enter, and shut the door behind him. ‘I’m all right, it’s the rest of them.’

His chuckle sounded genuine as well. ‘I often feel the same way myself. Where shall we go?’

‘The kitchen.’ I led the way. As he made himself comfortable in a chair, I poured boiling water into the cafetiere. The smell of coffee spread through the large room. ‘How do you like it?’

‘White, no sugar. I’m on a diet.’

Just as well I hadn’t put out any biscuits. I filled two mugs, and joined him at the table. ‘You don’t need to worry about your weight.’

The Bishop grimaced. ‘You’re very kind. My wife would say otherwise.’

‘Hmm.’ To me he looked fine, just a bit of a paunch under his purple shirt. A grey jacket hung from his shoulders, a shade lighter than his hair. I found that his brown eyes were studying me as he blew across his coffee. I said, awkwardly, ‘It’s always nice to see you, Bishop Nigel.’

He smiled again. ‘Even if you can’t work out why. I’ll let you know. I’m here because you asked me a question three months ago, and I didn’t give you an answer. Now I can.’

‘A question?’ I tried to remember. ‘Something intelligent and searching about the Trinity?’

‘No. About holy water.’ He put the mug down and leaned back in his chair. ‘You asked me about holy water and vampires. Whether water blessed by a woman priest would be harmful to a vampire who doesn’t accept the ordination of women.’

I felt my face flush. ‘Oh, that.’

‘We were in a public place, so all I said was, “Only you would ask something like that.”’

‘I watched a lot of Buffy when it was on.’

‘But now I can give you the real answer.’ The Bishop leaned forward. ‘Holy water doesn’t harm vampires. Which is just as well, as it would make it impossible to baptise them.’

I blinked. This coming from the man who preferred Star Trek to Doctor Who, who read serious science fiction and debated in the House of Lords about the ethics of genetic manipulation. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No, I have to beg yours.’ He sighed. ‘Being Bishop of  Nenehampton doesn’t release me from any of the Canons of the Church, particularly the Hidden Canons.’

‘Whisky,’ I found myself muttering longingly.

The Bishop straightened. ‘Yes, please.’

I started babbling. ‘But it’s only early afternoon, and didn’t you drive?’

‘I took the train,’ he replied firmly. ‘I usually I find that the conversation we’re about to have goes better with alcohol.’

Spirits resided in a cabinet in the kitchen. I reached for my favourite, Talisker, and brought it to the table with two glasses and a small pitcher of water. I poured a small portion into each glass. Bishop Nigel took the bottle, and doubled the amounts. He took a good swallow, then nodded appreciatively. I took a smaller sip myself.

‘We aren’t the only intelligent beings in this universe,’ the Bishop said quietly. ‘And I’m not talking about dolphins or whales. There is another world, in touching distance of ours, and their citizens sometimes cross over and walk among us. Most humans can’t see them.’

Some whisky went down the wrong way, and I coughed. The pain made my voice sharp. ‘But you said that fantasy novels were a waste of time!’

‘I prefer real science, real plots, not fantastical worlds with knights riding dragons.’ The Bishop took another swallow of whisky, and refilled his glass. ‘How much do you know about me, Penny? Really?’

I stared down at my glass. ‘I remember you were the vicar who wouldn’t let couples have “I Vow to Thee my Country” at their wedding.’

‘And more than that. I know you do your research. I’ve read your Master’s thesis. All fifty-five thousand words of it.’

That made me wince. Fifty-five thousand words on the theology of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I nearly apologised, but caught myself just in time. ‘You’re a conservative evangelical. You accept the Big Bang and evolutionary theory but maintain a belief in the Virgin Birth and the bodily resurrection.’ Then I looked up at him. ‘You were originally against the ordination of women, but you voted in favour of women bishops.’

‘My counterpart required it.’

‘Your counterpart?’

Another slosh of whisky into his glass. I tried not to look at how steadily the bottle was being depleted. ‘The equivalent of England in their world is called Lloegyr. Each diocese in the Church of England is linked to a diocese in Eglwys Loegyr, the national church of Lloegyr. So Nenehamption is linked to Esgobaeth Llanbedr. We have roughly the same parish boundaries. My counterpart is Bishop Aeron. At our first meeting, five years ago, she told me the Eglwys Loegyr had long ago accepted the ordination of females to all three clerical orders, and if we were to work together I would have to do the same.’

‘She?’ I repeated. ‘So this Eglwys Loegyr has had women bishops longer than the Church of England?’

‘Oh, she’s not a woman.’ The Bishop sighed. ‘She’s a dragon.’

Now it was my turn to take a deep swallow of whisky. ‘And her assistant bishop is a unicorn?’

‘No, he’s another dragon. But one of her archdeacons is a unicorn. The other archdeacon is a vampire. With a soul.’ He gave me a weak smile. ‘That’s why I found reading your thesis so helpful. I needed a crash course in vampires. Not that all of Buffy was accurate. But it helped me to understand why Archdeacon Rhis always asked for evening meetings.’

‘An archdeacon vampire with a soul,’ I said weakly. ‘That’s going to be hard to believe.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘Because lots of people doubt that archdeacons have souls.’

The Bishop laughed. ‘You once told me a joke about a blind rabbit and archdeacons.’

I winced. ‘Sorry.’

‘It was irreverent. That’s one of the things I was told to look for.’ He pushed the bottle and his empty glass away, and picked up the mug of cold coffee. ‘And for someone who has seen at least one of Lloegyr’s more unusual citizens.’

‘The dragon?’ I asked, suddenly shocked into remembering the events of just a few days ago. ‘Did I really see a dragon on the A43?’

‘You did. And I’ve been told you did a good job.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m here to talk about a diocesan role. If you’re interested, there is an application form to complete and you’d be interviewed by senior staff from both dioceses.’

‘What sort of role?’

‘Lloegyr, well all of Daear, their word for Earth, seems to exist in a parallel world, or plane, or dimension.’ I suddenly realised how unwelcome all of this knowledge had been to the Bishop, and in that moment I stopped expecting someone to jump out with a hidden camera. He was absolutely serious, the entire conversation was truthfully meant. ‘My first degree was in chemistry, not physics, so I can’t pretend to understand. But some of their people, and ours, can travel between the two worlds. Some do so with full consent from our respective governments. Others do so illegally, or accidentally. So we need people on both sides who can deal with the fallout from unwelcome visitors. Each English diocese has a Vicar General of Incursions. We need a new one, and I’d like you to apply.’

‘Who was the previous one?’

‘Canon Michael Tedbury.’

‘The one who died of a heart attack,’ I said, rustling up the appropriate tone of sympathy.

‘Not a heart attack.’ The Bishop sighed. ‘He made the mistake of looking at a basilisk. The role isn’t without its dangers.’

‘So. Let me recap.’ The room was spinning gently, and I didn’t think it was only due to the whisky. ‘There is a parallel world of dragons and unicorns and bears, oh my, and they’re Christians–’

‘Some of them are. Lloegyr is as multi-cultural as England. They also have Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, and a thriving community of Zoroastrians living in their equivalent of Manchester.’

‘But the Christians,’ I continued, struck by a sudden thought, ‘do they have, well, Jesus as human? Or as a dragon on a cross?’ Then I felt myself flush. ‘Sorry, being heretical is something I usually do deliberately.’

‘They portray Jesus as human,’ the Bishop responded evenly. ‘Centuries ago the Celtic Church sent missionaries, human missionaries, to Lloegyr. At my first meeting with her, Bishop Aeron quoted 2 Corinthians 5: 19. “To wit, that God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto himself.” She pointed out that the Greek word is “cosmos”, the universe, which surely includes other dimensions as well as our own.’

‘They have the King James Bible?’

‘And the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, which they prefer.’ The Bishop grinned. ‘Sometimes, when I receive yet another missive from The Prayer Book Society, I want to recommend that they all emigrate to Lloegyr. They might be happier there.’

I bit my lower lip. I actually quite enjoy the 8:00 am Communion I offer once a month, even if only six people would turn up for a BCP service. ‘Why me?’

‘You meet many of the requirements. I’ll have my secretary send you the role description and application form, and you’ll see that for yourself.’ The Bishop stood, and I also rose to my feet. ‘Oh, do you remember any of your Welsh?’

I dug deep into my lessons at college. ‘Gallaf siarad ychydig o Gymraeg. Why?’

‘Welsh is the national language of Cymru and Lloegyr.’ He grinned. ‘In their world, the Welsh conquered the English.’ Then he was serious again. ‘Do you think you might be interested?’

‘Yes,’ I said slowly. Once the Bishop was gone, I was going to pour myself a large helping of whisky.

‘It’s just that I can arrange for the first part of your interview to take place this Sunday. You’d have to preach on whether the Bible teaches us that unicorns are real. The text would be Job 39, but the King James Version, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

A taxi was already waiting in the drive. The Bishop gave me one last wave, then climbed unsteadily into the passenger seat. I went back to the kitchen, splashed Talisker into my glass, and pulled over the Bible. Time to read Job 39.

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‘This is the Gospel of the Lord,’ I told my congregation.

‘Praise to you, O Christ,’ they responded.

I turned from the lectern, bowed to the altar, and lifted up the hem of my cassock alb as I climbed up into the pulpit. Then I stepped onto the small box the PCC secretary had made to give me some extra height. I patted down my green chasuble and glanced out across the small church. Twenty five faces looked up at me. All of them were people I knew well, the congregation of St Wulfram’s, people I’d looked after for the last five years. Disappointment rested heavily in my stomach. So much for the first part of the interview. I looked down at my sermon, shrugged internally, and began.

‘I’m not going to preach about Doctor Who today, although we did have that wonderful line in our first hymn, “sovereign Lord of time and space”.’ The congregation chuckled, and I relaxed. These were the people God had called me to serve. That’s what really mattered. ‘You might have wondered why Sally had to bravely read out so much of Job, a book from the Old Testament, although I’m certain a lot of you appreciated hearing the good old King James Version today. Well, I’m going to talk about unicorns. The Bible, in the original Hebrew, seems to mention unicorns. What does that mean for our understanding of the Bible? What did unicorns symbolise back then, in church tradition more recently, and what might it mean for us today?’

I ran through the references, raised issues of translation, and the concerns of biblical literalists. ‘Those who believe that the Bible has to be factually accurate, the Word of God without any error, don’t like finding unicorns scampering through the pages of the Bible. Since unicorns are mythical creatures, does this undermine confidence in the Bible? You all know that I don’t see the Bible that way. I accept evolutionary theory, for example, not a literal six day creation. But what if even literalists didn’t have to worry? What if unicorns weren’t mythical after all?’

I scanned their faces. A number looked interested. One woman had shut her eyes, and was possibly taking a nap. Others, I suspected, were wondering about their Sunday roast and whether they could get any gardening done that afternoon. I bit down on the temptation to throw in a sudden joke, and instead kept to my script, explaining how the mediaeval church had seen the unicorn as a symbol for Christ. The word ‘virgins’ brought a momentary flurry of attention, and I tried and failed not to smile.

‘What about today?’ I asked, reaching my conclusion. ‘We live in a society in which some people argue that believing in God is a silly fantasy. As silly and immature, perhaps, as believing in dragons, or unicorns, or the Fair Folk. But sometimes we can relate better to God as something other than a father, or even as a man. For those who’ve had abusive or absent fathers, God can seem threatening or remote. For those who have been hurt by men, Jesus as a man can be difficult to relate to. So I see nothing wrong with us imagining Jesus as, say, Aslan, the Lion from C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia novels. Or even as a unicorn. The horn of the unicorn carries the gift of healing, and Christ longs to heal each one of us with his love. Let that gift of healing touch you where you need it most. Amen.’

The Creed followed, the prayers, the Peace, and I moved to the altar during the next hymn to celebrate Communion. The words I’ve spoken, Sunday by Sunday for over twelve years, carried me past my concerns about dragons and sermons, and the continued lack of children at the service. Once again I felt privileged to be placing the wafers into the hands of those who knelt at the altar rail. For over eight hundred years people from the village of Beckeridge had come to this church, and I felt lifted by the centuries of faithful worship.

The last hymn was sung. I blessed and dismissed the congregation, and went to the vestry to change. The small oak box which held Alan’s ashes stared at me from the window, and I changed in a hurry. I had become tired of having my husband’s ashes in the house, so now he could only accuse me of neglect every Sunday rather than every day.

I exited to the smell of coffee wafting from the back corner. Real coffee, not instant. A previous vicar had insisted on it. He had hoped it would bring in new worshippers from the housing estates which now linked Beckeridge with Northampton. No such luck. The congregation still only consisted of villagers.

I collected my mug and wandered from conversation to conversation. Information about a member currently in hospital. A request to talk to a daughter about baptising a new addition to the family. A grump about the flower rota. The churchwarden providing a quick update about the repairs to the churchyard wall. I nodded, tapped notes into my iPhone, and made various promises.

One of the older members of the congregation was seated in a comfortable chair in the children’s area. The woman gave me a smile, and I drifted over. ‘And how are you, Margaret?’

‘Oh, mustn’t grumble, mustn’t grumble,’ Margaret replied. Her wrinkled hands gripped her walking stick as she rose to her feet. ‘Just wanted to say, good sermon, Vicar.’

I smiled at the phrase. ‘Glad you liked it.’

‘Yes. I’ll tell Bishop Nigel that I did.’ And Margaret gave me a wink.

I froze. Margaret? Who had lived in Beckeridge all her life? Who had been baptised, confirmed, and married in St Wulfram’s, and would one day have her funeral here? Margaret?

‘Good sermon,’ the woman said again. And I noticed, for the first time, that the silver top of her stick was in the shape of a slumbering dragon. ‘About time we had a woman as Vicar General. I’ll be praying for you.’

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Many thanks to Chrys Cymri for sharing this extract from The Temptation of Dragons with us. Chrys is a priest by day and a writer at odd times of the day and night:

“I live with a small green parrot called Tilly because the upkeep for a dragon is beyond my current budget. Plus I’m responsible for making good any flame damage to church property. I love ‘Doctor Who’, landscape photography, single malt whisky, and my job, in no particular order. When I’m not looking after a small parish church in the Midlands (England) I like to go on far flung adventures to places like Peru, New Zealand, and North Korea.”

Sign up to Chrys’ newsletter on her website and receive an ebook for free! 

You can read about her travels too.

You are old.

Let me give you a tip

Your body’s too saggy to strip

It shouldn’t be you

Showing off your tattoo

At the head of a mass skinny dip

© jane jago 2017

Please give a big Working Title welcome to Christina McMullen

The Minder

The child sat upon her low, roughhewn stool, eyes focused on some point in the distance that only she could see. Her small hands, calloused, scarred, and stained from years of labor, methodically extracted one soft, pulpy berry after another from their spiny husks. Though considered one of the more dangerous tasks, the child shucked berries effortlessly, long past the point where pokes of the razor sharp spines or the burn of the toxic stem sap even registered.
Not long ago, blood berries were considered a rare delicacy and only prepared by a specialist who handled the caustic plants with practiced care and protective measures. But when the high savior became old enough to demand blood berries a daily component of first meal, the specialist refused, accepting a swift death at the gallows over the slow and torturous wasting that came with prolonged exposure to the neurotoxin. And so the child, selected for her small, nimble fingers, was commanded to take his place.
Caesshua stood nearby, gazing through the narrow gap that could barely be called a window, waiting impatiently for her young charge to complete the deplorable task. Not for the first time, she wished carelessness upon the child. Praying to any god who would listen, she asked for some misfortune to take from her that with which she felt unfairly burdened. Her eyes strayed to the child, but quickly she looked away, unable to hold back her disgust at the serene detachment and the precise, methodic movements of those tiny, gnarled hands.
This child, the lowest born being in the village, was her punishment. Caesshua should have been the one in the great house, attending to the high savior, but she’d recently been disgraced. The honor then fell to her sister, Jeussandre, the same wretched harlot who spread the lies of her intimate relations with the stable master that would be her downfall.
Certainly, Caesshua had desires, but she was not a stupid girl. She had taken measures to ensure her purity remained intact, but she had not taken into account the extent of her sister’s devilry. What favors Jeussandre must have bargained in order to have access to Galdorian’s expensive photographic machinery, Caesshua did not wish to dwell upon. The wench was as much a fallen angel as she, but Jeussandre was better at hiding the tarnish of her halo.
The sound of the stone bowl scraping against the wood of the table drew her attention once more. The child knew better than to utter a word in her presence. Snapping out of her malevolent daydream, Caesshua snatched up the bowl, suppressing a shudder as the gelatinous berries wiggled within, and stormed from the cabin, determined to deliver the repulsive fruit before her disgust turned violent. She hated the foul-smelling bits that looked like the gore of a slaughter.
In a measure of distraction, Caesshua turned her thoughts once again to her tiny burden. The child would now be washing up and making sure no trace of the toxic fruit remained in the preparation shack. She supposed it was too much to ask that the imp fall into the washing vat and drown. A slow smile spread as she envisioned the brat, head down in the soapy water, heels kicking uselessly as she took her last breath.
An idea began to form. Perhaps she would insist upon a surprise trip to the lake this morning, claiming the exercise would do them both a bit of good. Caesshua suppressed a euphoric giggle as she imagined the waif sinking into the murky water, weighed down by the heavy, rough spun woolen garments she wore. Yes, a trip to the lake was just what she needed to brighten up what was promising to be a hellish day.

 

For more about Christina visit:
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DELIVERANCE

Maryam sat with her back against the bole of an ancient olive tree and felt the warmth of the earth as a benison. She had stood, dry eyed, at the place of the skull until she was sure her husband was truly dead and then walked away. Walked until she could put one foot in front of the other no longer. She was very tired now.

Her swollen ankles throbbed, and the stranger in her belly moved so that a small hand or foot could briefly be seen pressing the loose linen of her robe. She felt a tear run down her face and wiped it away with her dusty fingers.

“Oh my love,” she said bitterly, “what of your promise now? Did you not vow to be mine for all our days?”

She thought she heard mocking laughter inside her head and recalled the smell of freshly worked wood in his father’s workshop on the day he told his parents he was going to marry her. His father had had smiled and nodded, but the woman who birthed him stared Maryam in the eyes.
“You won’t keep him, he’s not for the likes of you.”

And bitter Mary had been right. He was gone.

Gone, and if Maryam didn’t miss her guess they would be looking for her now. Her and her unborn child. The priests wouldn’t allow them to live to bear witness.

She touched her belly tenderly.
“I’m sorry little one. I’m sorry.”

Looking down the track she had followed from the place of crucifixion, she saw a cloud of dust in the bottom of the valley and knew the temple guard had found her trail. She shuddered with the understanding of the fate they had in store for her, and wondered if there was a way to kill herself before they found her and dragged her by back to the city by the hair.

But she had no way to end her agony.

Knowing herself beaten, Maryam looked towards the glory of the western sky in an attempt to store the beauty of the sunset to buttress her soul against what was to come. For a moment, she almost forgot her fear and sorrow in the splendour of the dying sun. Before the last streaks of orange dropped below the horizon she noticed a dark shape flying towards where she sat. It seemed unusual to her, being too big for any bird she had ever heard of and she stared as it came closer. Maryam caught her breath.

It was a great winged lizard and it flew purposefully towards her,
cupping its wings to land neatly on the grass before her. It dipped its head politely.
“Do I have the honour of addressing Maryam wife to Yesua of Nazareth?”
Maryam heaved herself to her feet and bowed.
“I am Maryam.”
The creature smiled reassuringly.
“My name is S’a’thur and I am a dragon. I am sent to offer you sanctuary.”
“Dragon? Sanctuary?”
S’a’thur gestured with his snout towards the column of dust now labouring up the slope towards the olive grove where Maryam rested.

She sighed. “They won’t let us live, will they?”
“No lady. They will rip the child from your womb and kill you both.”
“And you offer an alternative.”
“We do.”
“Why?”
“Because it amuses us to save the wife and unborn child of a man who was not supposed to have a wife, leave alone a daughter.”
Maryam looked measuringly at the creature then shrugged.
“It could not be worse than the Sanhedrin.”
The dragon bent a knee and the heavily pregnant woman clambered awkwardly into the space between his iridescent wings.

As they took off, the fittest of the temple guardsmen breasted the rise to see only the light reflecting on dragon wings. The man fell to his knees.

“An angel,” he said reverently. “I see an angel.”

Maryam laughed sardonically as her draconic transport turned on a wingtip and headed west.

© jane jago 2017

Magic

Magic, what is it?
To me it is you,
To me it is the mountains,
To me it is the eyes of a newborn,
To me it is love.

Magic, isn’t it everywhere?
One can’t find it if he has greedy intent.
He whose heart is as pure
As a freshly blossomed jasmine,
Whose intent is only to offer,
Need but ask.

Magic, it can’t be sought, but feel,
Its impact is intimate enough.
All sorrows will be forgotten,
Wounds will be healed.

Magic, it’s in her smile,
Only a glance fades away my worries.
It’s in the meal my mother prepares,
It’s in the treat and happiness that we share.

Yes, the magic in life happens
In every moment,
In every life.
It need not be sought,
It is there already,
When you open your heart,
To the magical
And experience…

Kshitij Yadav is a young writer who lives in New Delhi and, amongst other projects, runs the Human Writes page on Facebook.

 

Pure exhilaration.

His hair blown back in the wind, the thunder of hooves on the broad open tundra, racing flat-out to where the sky kissed the ground in the dizzying distance. To someone born and raised in the mountains, the featureless plain was disorienting and despite having lived here now for half a year, Durban still struggled with the odd mix of wonder and uneasiness it provoked. He let out a whoop as his pony reached the lonely, stunted tree that marked the turning point of the race.  Well ahead of his rival, he pulled his mount around almost on the spot, forcing it back on its haunches briefly, before releasing it to spring forward, back the way they had just come.

Now the horizon before him was not empty because the skyline was broken by the city of Keran. Standing proud, in bold-cut silhouette, buildings in all shades of brown and yellow mud-brick against a sky turning from grey to pink as the red sun slid down. The low-rise two or three storey houses were dominated to one side by the proud stone towers of the fortress citadel and to the other by the dual-domed spaceport which crouched like an alien on its edge of the city.

The other rider in this race, shouted a curse as Durban galloped past, flattened along the neck of his mount. Durban raised one hand in an insulting gesture and laughed as his fleet-footed pony galloped back to the start line.

He was standing beside the pony, loosening its girth when the other rider arrived, mount blown. That one was the better of the two beasts and in an even race would have won, but the bearded man who rode it was twice the bulk of Durban. He dismounted shaking his head and uncinched the saddle before leaving the pony to pull at the terse grass.

“Aye, well you won fair and square and I’m a man of my word. But don’t think I like it.”

Durban felt a glow of delight and could not keep the smile from spreading over his face.

“You’ll take me then?”

The other man wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, letting his breath out in a sigh. Then he closed the space between them and put his arms around Durban, holding him close for a moment, his cheek turned to rest on Durban’s hair.

“I’d not take anyone I cared for to the ‘City and I’d for certain and more not take you. I should never have agreed to your wager. I would never have if I’d not been so bloody drunk — ” he broke off and Durban looked up to see the bearded face set in a grim expression. His own smile faded a little and he reached out a hand to caress the back of the older man’s neck, running fingers through the shoulder length hair that was flecked here and there with grey.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Durban told him, “but I’m not. I really want this — need this. I have to get away from here.”

“But why the bloody ‘City? They’ll eat someone like you alive and spit out the pips. Have you looked in the mirror recently? You — you look like a little girl, you are just too bloody young and innocent, you –“

Durban silenced the words by pulling the other man’s face gently down to meet his own for a kiss.

E.M. Swift-Hook

 

 

This is where we offer some longer fiction for those lazy weekend days.

THE DOLL

Some things are built with love. ST/1/KIL was built with hate. She was built with hate, and absolute precision, by a very old man who had been, in his time, the best goddamn mechanic in the country. She was built to an exacting specification in the back lot behind a run-down truck dealership smack in the middle of Bible Belt USA. When she was finished her creator broke her down and crated the parts, sending the crates one-by-one to various accommodation addresses across England.

When the final crate left his hands, the man took a photograph out of his wallet and kissed it.
“They gonna suffer too my boy,” he mumbled.
Then he went and sat in the last remaining truck where he put the muzzle of his Colt 45 in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It was six months before anybody even thought to look for him.

In the meantime, an even older man drove a vintage Volkswagen campervan the length and breadth of England collecting crated parts. It took him the best part of a year to amass them all, but he was in no hurry. Better to potter along looking aimless and harmless than to attract the notice of the authorities. If you are planning a murder, it’s a very bad idea to draw attention to yourself.

When he had collected the final piece of the jigsaw it was time to contact the assembler. A carefully nondescript message was sent to an address in Spain and when the recipient flew into London, there was a hire car and a map awaiting him. The assembler drove carefully through the green countryside, stopping punctiliously at checkpoints and presenting his travel documents for examination. He arrived at his destination crumpled and travel worn and his host fed him and showed him a comfortable bed.

The next morning the Spaniard began opening packing cases. It took him three months to open all the crates and reassemble the American’s master work. When he was done, he kissed his fingertips.

That was the last thing he did in this life, as his host slid a knife through his ribs into his heart.
“Loose ends, amigo. Loose ends…”
When he had tumbled the body into a pre-dug grave and filled it in, the killer made a very short phone call.

In the dead of the night a helicopter landed in a broad meadow a mile or so from the house. It took just seconds to upload one item of cargo and the ‘copter was gone long before anyone even realised it had landed. Once the aircraft was safely in the sky, the old man took himself back to his comfortable home where he sat beside the fire and poured himself a special drink. He raised his glass in an ironic toast.
“You are avenged my darling daughter. Wait for me at the pearly gates, I’m on my way.”
He tossed off the drink in one gulp.

The next morning when his housekeeper arrived she found him in his favourite fireside chair, with a faint smile on his face, quite dead.

In London, the precious cargo was delivered to a specialist dealer in Soho. The man examined the goods then smiled unpleasantly.
“She really is a work of art. Now we just wait for the client.”

It was actually more than half a year before the American ambassador walked into the premises. After the normal courtesies, the dealer led the way to a back room, where three androids stood. Deactivated. The ambassador smiled thinly. He pointed to one.
“Not that. Activate the other two.”

One droid was rolled out on its trolley and the trader activated the other two. One was a lush-bodied six-foot blonde with a slightly trailer trash look, the other was smaller and slighter and somehow a pale reflection of its larger sister.

The ambassador spoke to the smaller doll first.
“Name?”
“Annabelle sir.”
She cast down her eyes with proper modesty.
“Strip!” he ordered and the doll slowly disrobed. She was perfectly formed and pink skinned and the ambassador nodded just once.
“Deactivate.”
The doll stood stock still.

The American turned his eyes on the taller doll.
“Name?” he barked.
“Bella, sir.” The voice was husky, throaty, sexy, and distinctively southern, sounding for all the world as if Scarlett O’Hara had stepped down from the silver screen to tempt a man to his fate. There was no modest casting down of the eyes here. The doll looked at the burly ambassador and dropped him the ghost of a wink.

He felt himself reacting, even though he knew ‘she’ was no more than some circuitry and a great many plastic components.
“Strip,” he snapped and Bella obliged him. She drew her clothes off slowly and with every evidence of a sensuality there was no way she could actually possess. When she was naked under his gaze she pulled back her shoulders making her large breasts stand out even further from her narrow ribcage. As he watched, her nipples hardened and extended. He exhaled swiftly and opened his fly with shaking hands.
“Mouth!” he ordered harshly.
The doll moved towards him with undulating grace, before dropping to her knees in front of him and doing precisely as he ordered. He fisted his hands in her hair as he ground his crotch into her face. When he achieved his orgasm he pushed her away roughly.

Reassembling his clothing, he turned to the trader.
“Stocks. Whip,” he grated.

When Bella was fixed firmly in the wooden whipping frame, the ambassador smiled and laid the whip across her firm rounded buttocks with a will. He was grimly pleased to see the red welts form on what looked like unblemished skin. After six strokes, the dealer grasped his wrist.
“Enough, I think. You have tested the merchandise past what would have been allowed for anyone else.”

It took the red-faced American some several minutes to collect his scattered wits. When his breathing had evened out enough for him to speak collectedly he spoke in a gravelly whisper.
“Battery life?”
“Fifty years. Minimum.”
The ambassador snorted. “Yeah right. And I suppose she eats and drinks too…”
“Doesn’t eat. That will come in the next model. But she does drink. Needs liquid for lubrication. In various areas. No alcohol though.”
The red-faced man cleared his threat. “Okay. How much?”
“Five million.”
The American swallowed. “Dollars?”
“Pounds.”
For a moment the two men glared at each other, then the dealer motioned his men to cut the doll down and disassemble the whipping frame. The crew worked in silence, and the owner of the shop examined his expensively manicured fingernails. The American broke first.
“I don’t have the authority to spend that much.”
“Then you’d better get authorisation. That’s the price. Including your boss’ discount as a valued customer.”
“Okay. I hafta make some calls. How long do I have?”
“I can give you twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll be in touch.”

The ambassador strode out of the room, leaving the dealer to grin and rub his hands together. He turned to his workforce.
“Is there any damage?”
“No. I don’t understand what this one is made of. She should have been damaged badly the way he hefted that whip.”
“She’s a special order. No expense spared.”
The foreman shrugged. “And all for the enjoyment of one spotty teenager…”
“Yeah. But remember he’s a teenager who will one day become the most powerful man in the western world.”
The foreman looked puzzled.
“When his grandfather dies, won’t there be an election? I thought that lot over there elected the big guy.”
His boss lifted a bored shoulder.
“Used to, but not any more. It’s hereditary now. Like our king, only with actual power.”
“Oh.”

It took a month, but the deal was eventually done, and when the only scion of the First Family arrived in England to continue his education (in the only country in the world where it was deemed safe for him to live without at least a dozen secret service operatives in attendance), Bella was part of his household.

Five thousand miles away in California, the richest man in the world rolled his wheelchair to a vantage point from where he could both see and hear the ocean. He was painfully thin, and it was obvious to even the most casual observer that he was sick unto death.

He sat lost in a reverie for a long time, unmoving until a graceful and beautiful woman walked out onto the terrace. He turned his head to give her an effortful smile.
“It begins, my darling, our revenge will be devastating.”
She crossed to the railings on silent feet and only the way the bones stood out in her hands as she grasped the wrought iron gave a clue to her internal tension.
“Do you promise me?”
“Oh yes. The family whose arrogance brought about the suicide of our only child will pay in full. Starting with the President, his blustering blowhard of a son, and his grandson.”
She held his gaze for a long moment.
“If we are not betrayed.”
“I have no worry of that. The lines leading back to us have all been severed. Those who built the weapon chose to meet their own deaths, secure in the knowledge that the First Family would feel the pain of loss such as they have inflicted on so many other families.”
“And will you live to see our vengeance, my love?”
He smiled a twisted smile.
“I can but hope…”

Back among the dreaming spires, Earl proved to be the antithesis of his blustering and aggressive father and grandfather. He was a quiet, studious young man whose preferred mode of operation included politeness to everyone. His Oxford home was comfortable and unpretentious, and staffed only with androids. A lot of his fellow students used the house as a sort of an impromptu cafeteria cum clubhouse, and Earl smiled on their excesses without actually joining in.

There was very little the young American wasn’t willing to share, except Bella. Some of the better-off among his fellow students also had sex dolls, which they passed randomly from hand to hand. At first, these young men were inclined to be contemptuous of Earl’s refusal to share his doll. But then a few of them saw her, and as one guy put it: “Hey, if you had a Rolls Royce would you want to share with a guy who had a Chevrolet Spark?”

As time went on Bella became more of a companion and sexual partner than a toy. It began when Earl discovered just how much intelligence lurked under the blonde curls, and began talking about what he was reading as he lay in bed with his head pillowed on her ample breasts. She listened intently, before making a suggestion in her slow southern drawl.
“If you didn’t deactivate me during the day I could read it myself, then I’d know what y’all are talking about.”
“You could indeed. And I think that would be a big help to me.”

Thus it was that Bella remained ‘awake’ at all times. She learned a great deal about English literature, and an even larger amount about the young man who owned her. Being programmed to crave approval, the android toned down the tartiness and started to dress in a much more genteel manner. It took a while for Earl to notice the change, and when he did he wasn’t sure how to react.

So he said nothing, until one afternoon when he returned home to find his bedmate studiously cleaning his walking boots. It seemed odd to him that a doll programmed for sex should be capable of caring for his other needs as well. He coughed, and she jumped.
“Hey” he said gently “isn’t that somebody else’s job?”
She flinched, and looked at him with what would have been fear in her eyes if she had been human. He put that thought to one side and smiled reassuringly.
“It’s okay, honey. I was just asking.”
She ducked her head as if still expecting reproof.
“The valet is supposed to do it, but it don’t do a proper job. Needs direction but nobody don’t have the authority to make it do its work properly.”
Earl looked at her thoughtfully. “You saying I need a housekeeper?”
“I guess. Though I know it ain’t my place to say.”
He picked up one of her muddy little hands in his big, clean ones.
“You want the job?”
“Master will have his joke,” she said woodenly.
“Look at me Bella” his voice was firm and commanding.
She raised her eyes to his face, to see him looking as angry as she had ever known him to be. She shrank under his fulminating gaze and he sighed before speaking quite crossly.
“When have I ever treated you in a way that gives you the idea I am a cruel man?”
“Never. Master.”
He stopped sounding angry.
“Please don’t call me Master. I hate it. My name is Earl. Please use it. And please will you manage my household for me?”
The sincerity in his voice penetrated the circuits of her brain and she essayed a smile.
“I would love to keep house for you, Earl. But how can it be?”
“Easy. I just tell the rest of them to take their orders from you. My mother’s household is run by a droid and it goes like clockwork.”

And that was pretty much how it fell out. By the end of his first year of study Earl depended on Bella for intellectual stimulation, physical gratification, and a comfortable lifestyle.

As was expected of him, he returned to the States for a month in the summer, electing to leave his household up and running with Bella at the helm, rather than mothballing the house and deactivating the droids as his compatriots did. When he returned on a rainy August afternoon, he found the house clean and welcoming, and if he hadn’t known full well what Bella was he would have sworn she was pleased to see him.

Later that night, having reacquainted himself with the delights of her splendid body, he lay back against a bank of pillows and grinned.
“Did you miss me?”
She frowned at him.
“I’m a construct honey. I’m not capable of emotion.”
“That wasn’t what I asked you.’
“Then I don’t know the answer. I do know that my circuitry runs smoother when you’re about. And I also know that it shouldn’t be the case. Will that do?”
Sensing that somehow he was causing actual distress to a creature that should be unable to feel distress, Earl backed off.
“Sorry honey. Just joking about. Because I missed you.”
“Aww.”
He grinned and drifted into sleep, leaving his mechanical lover to stare into the darkness and wonder why her logic circuits were malfunctioning.

Bella became such an integral part of Earl’s life that there were times when he wondered how he was going to manage when his life in England was over. On his second summer vacation he broached the subject with his grandmother, who looked at him fondly.
“You can keep her boy. In fact I’d advise you so to do. I’ve seen the cold fish your grandfather has chosen for you to marry.”
“It doesn’t seem right to me…”
His grandmother shrugged. “You are an idealist like my own grandpapa. Just don’t let your father or grandfather notice that.”
He grinned wryly and took the tiny indomitable woman in his arms.
“I know Grandmama, believe me, I do know.”

It was while he was away that a very well-manicured gentleman in a Crombie and a pork-pie hat accosted Bella in the park as she walked a neighbour’s poodle.
“I am here,” he said threateningly, “to remind you that you have just one purpose, and that you can be broken down into your component parts quite quickly should you prove a failure.”
Bella stopped walking and turned a pair of cold blue orbs on the red-faced blusterer.
“A clean sweep is required,” she said in a voice wholly devoid of inflection,” and the place and time have been selected”.
He backed away from the emptiness he saw in her eyes and all but ran from her presence. She carried on walking as if nothing had happened.

That night, as she sat knitting a jumper for Earl, Bella thought about her creators and what they had made her for. She wondered at the obsessive hatred that drove some humans, and something solidified inside her breast. Her hands fell still as she began to make her own plan for the time when she was taken to the States to join her owner’s family.

The third year of Earl’s course passed as swiftly as the blink of an eye, and before he knew it the young American obtained his degree. Nobody from America was either interested in, or permitted to attend, graduation so he dressed Bella in a conservative grey suit and had her along to watch him receive his scroll. In a funny sort of a way it felt right to him that the one entity who had nurtured him and watched over him as he learned and grew up should be there, smiling with apparent pride, as he was named Bachelor of Arts.

Packing up the household was accomplished with minimal fuss, and most of the droids were deactivated and boxed for transportation. When Bella would have arranged a crate for herself, Earl put his foot down.
“No. I need you beside me to organise a smooth journey. Besides which I find I dislike the idea of you in a wooden box.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a finger across her lips.
“We’re flying in Air Force One so there are no practical problems. You travel as my secretary. And that’s my last word.”
She shrugged, attempting, he thought, to distract him with the unrestrained movement of her magnificent chest, but he was not to be deflected from his purpose.
“I’ll have your word, miss.”
She sighed.
“I promise.”

And that is how a being conceived and constructed in the USA, and shipped out of the country in tiny pieces, returned to the land of her ‘birth’ on an executive jet dressed in expensively modest clothing, and in sole charge of the disposition of the belongings of the only male child of the First Family. You can be sure that the irony was not lost on certain people who observed her from afar.

An apartment had been set aside in the White House, and Bella set about putting it to rights, while Earl visited with his mother. He returned in a very disturbed state of mind.
“It seems” he said thinly “that I am to meet my intended bride tonight. And, by all accounts, I’m not going to much like her.”
Bella eyed him narrowly.
“Were you expecting to?”
“Well….. No.”
“So man up and smile. If she’s truly impossible we’ll find a way out for you.”
He grinned at her.
“I love you Bella” he said facetiously and ambled off to get his shower.

She stood for a very long time gazing sightlessly at her own hands before making a tiny sound as if something inside her broke.

That evening, as Earl was being scrupulously courteous and charming to the plain, lumpy daughter of one of the richest men in the world, Bella sat at her desk and wrote a long letter explaining her own genesis and the purpose behind her very existence. When she was done, she sealed the letter with a wax wafer and slumped in her chair. For the first time since the day she was activated, she wished she could cry, but of course she couldn’t. Instead she felt the weight of dull misery pressing against her chest as a physical pain.

It was only with a great effort that she could greet her returning owner with tolerable composure. Fortunately, he had so much to share with her that he didn’t notice how unusually quiet she was.
“The girl is plain and overweight, and it was obvious that all the men in the room, except me, held her in contempt for her lack of physical attractiveness. Even my mother and grandmother looked down their patrician noses at her, and the poor thing seemed almost pathetically grateful that I treated her with civility.”
“Poor thing indeed. But not as bad as you feared.”
“No. Not bad at all. Just a bit pathetic. And reminding me just what my family is like.” He shuddered.
Bella petted his head and he turned into her embrace.

The next morning Earl went to meet with his bankers and trustees to hear an accounting of their stewardship of his personal billions. Bella watched him go, then straightened her shoulders, dressed with careful modesty, and trod the corridors of number 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to the door of the Presidential office. She was admitted immediately and the old man behind the desk actually stood up to greet her.
“I have come to report on your grandson’s time in England.”
“Good. I’ll have his father brought here. Unless there is anything he should not hear.”
“No. His life was pretty well exemplary.”
“Good. But we’ll have a report anyway.”

In a very short time, the big thickset bully who had fathered Earl strode into the office.
“Yes” he snapped, and his own father just stared at him. For a moment he met the old man’s icy gaze with his hot brown orbs, then he bunched his shoulders and looked down.
“Better. You are here to listen to an accounting of your son’s time in England. Speak robot.”
Bella spoke for some minutes before reaching into the folder she carried.
“Here is a list of the Master’s social contacts.” She put the paper down on the desk and both men leaned over it. Closing her eyes, Bella put a finger into her mouth and pressed one tooth very hard.

The explosion was surprisingly muted, but it had the desired effect. Two headless things and a bundle of wires and components were all that met the eyes of the security guards who ran into the room with their guns at the ready.
“Oh fuck” the oldest guard said as the other two looked grey-faced at the carnage in the Oval Office.

****
It was very much later that same day when the twenty-two-year-old who was now the most powerful man in the western world firmly waved his entourage away and strode into his bedchamber.

On his pillow there was a folded sheet of paper sealed with gold wax. He picked it up and looked at the elegant calligraphy, recognising the work of the wide-nibbed pen he had bought on a whim at Waterstones in Oxford and presented to Bella. He turned the paper over and over in suddenly shaking hands, before breaking the seal and looking at the words.

‘My dear and only love,’ he read, ‘I will dare to call you that just once in this world before I leave you…’

© jane jago 2017