The Distractions of Hercules, by Peter Shilston

Many thousands of years ago, around the time half of Britain was covered in ice, the River Severn flowed north into the Dee estuary. But then, when the ice retreated, the god Zeus spoke to Hercules and said, “It is my desire that the Severn should now flow southwards. Take your club and beat out a new channel for the river”.

Hercules took his club and began his labour at the northern end of the new river-bed. But the god of the northern marshes, fearing that his wetlands would be drained, sent out his reed-girls to distract Hercules. And the reed-girls said, “Stop your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Come back when I’ve finished!” and he continued with his work. But he was thinking so much about the beauty of the reed-girls that he beat out his channel shallower than he intended, so some of the wetlands survive to this day.

As Hercules worked further southwards, the river god, annoyed that he had not been consulted, sent river-nymphs to distract Hercules. The river-nymphs danced round Hercules and sang, “Stop your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Come back when I’ve finished!” But he was so confused by the nymphs dancing in circles around him that he lost all sense of direction, and the course of the river-bed he was beating out, through where Shrewsbury now stands, instead of being a straight line, ran in great loops and meanders.

Hercules now reached a line of hills and began to beat a passage through them. But the god of the hills, foreseeing that men would come and cut down his trees to fire their furnaces, and blacken his rocks with their smoke, sent woodland dryads to distract Hercules. The dryads sang, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Comeback when I’ve finished!” But he was so eager to sample the pleasures that the dryads had promised that he stopped the work early, so that the Ironbridge Gorge was narrower than intended, and it remains a place of fierce and dangerous waters to this day.

At last Hercules finished his labours, and the Severn now flowed southwards in a new path. And Hercules went and sat down to rest in the Quarry gardens, and he called out, “Ho! Reed-girls and water-nymphs and tree-dryads! I’m finished at last! Where are the pleasures beyond imagining that you promised me?” But there was no answer, for they had all gone away. And Hercules in frustration smashed his club on the ground, causing a great pit which is now the Dingle Gardens. But eventually he fell asleep, tired out by his labours.

The god of the River Severn saw Hercules asleep and thought, “Now I’ll have my revenge! Reject the pleasures offered by my water-nymphs, did he? Not to mention the reed-girls and dryads too! I’ll place a curse on him so that he’ll never be able to enjoy such pleasures again!” And he cursed Hercules, but Hercules did not realize it till he awoke.

Men came and erected a statue of Hercules, which you can still see in the Quarry Gardens. This angered the river-god, and he was angrier still when he realized that, thanks to the labours of Hercules, he now faced a very long and weary route to the sea. His anger continues to this day; and every few years he sends down a flood, which often fills the Quarry Gardens and surrounds the statue of Hercules, but he has never managed to topple it. And if you go to the Quarry, you can still see Hercules, with his lion-skin and his mighty muscles and gigantic club – but if you look closely you will notice that, thanks to the river-god’s curse, he wears only an infeasibly tiny fig-leaf.

The Old Man's Choice, by Peter Shilston

Paul sat in his chair as rigid and motionless as a statue, but inside his head thoughts spiralled endlessly around without reaching any conclusion. In the past he had always had confidence in his judgments; it had been one of his strengths; but not so now. Was he doing the right thing? Was it too late to change? How was he to know? He had always acted in accordance with certain fixed and inviolable rules, but he had never pretended to great intelligence. Throughout his long career, others had always done the detailed and difficult work for him: his function was to provide dignity and stability, and to calm down those brainy chaps when they got over-excited, as they often did. 

He had been respected too, and generally successful. But now here he was, alone. He dimly sensed that the world had changed: the rules which had governed his life had perhaps ceased to exist. The brainy chaps who might have helped him out had gone. He should have gone too: he realized that. More than once he had retired, and then allowed himself to be called back. He should have resisted that last call; in his heart he had known it all along: the only time in his life that he had ever acted weakly. Surely at his age he should have been allowed to live in peace! It had brought him nothing but uncertainty, when every course of action seemed distasteful.

          

Now there was this man he had to meet: a man young enough to be his grandson. Not that he would have wished any grandson of his to turn out like that! He had already met him more than once, and had disliked him intensely. The fellow was common beyond belief; obviously risen from the gutter; ill-mannered, disrespectful, dishonest and consumed with violent ambition: a man who acknowledged no rules of any kind in his pursuit of power. Paul’s oldest friends had warned him against having anything to do with this person. Where were his friends now, when he needed them most? Gone; all gone. He was alone, and what was he to do? For the first time in his life, Paul felt helpless; a mere cork, drifting in the tide of events.

          

The door opened to admit the unwanted visitor. Paul rose ponderously to his feet and, maintaining dignity till the last, stood as ramrod-straight as if still on the parade-ground. The other man was plainly ill-at-ease. He had taken the trouble to dress formally for the occasion, which served only to make him look more ridiculous than ever. The two exchanged stilted and unmeaning compliments, scarcely bothering to disguise the contempt they felt for each other. But the formalities had to be gone through. So the older man and the younger shook hands, and Field-Marshal-President Paul von Hindenburg appointed Adolf Hitler Chancellor of Germany.

The Master of the Angels, by Peter Shilston

When Lorenzo di Prato heard the rumour that his only daughter considered herself betrothed to the young painter Tancredi, he was not pleased. He considered it entirely unfitting that he, a prosperous and respected cloth-merchant, should have his family linked by common gossip to a struggling, penniless artist. This was not the future he intended for his child. So when he confronted Gianetta, and she could not deny her friendship with the young man, he had the girl shut away in a convent until she should come to her senses.

Tancredi was saddened, and also insulted. Admittedly he was as yet unknown, but he was sure his prospects were good. Had he not been commissioned to work on the altarpiece at the new church? It would depict the Adoration of the Virgin, and he was to paint one of the side panels. He was certain that this would establish his reputation as a painter, and quickly lead to fame and wealth. But also he truly loved Gianetta, and now he missed her greatly. As the days and the weeks passed by without her, he became more and more depressed. He began to neglect his work. Increasingly he became aware that it was dull and uninspired, and yet he was unable to do anything to improve it. He took to hanging around the gates of the convent for hours at a time, hoping for just a glimpse of his beloved; but the walls were high and windowless, and no man could enter without permission.

Gianetta was also very lonely and unhappy. To ease her grief, she took to praying in quiet places away from the nuns. Especially she liked to climb to the top of the campanile, where there was a small platform: the only place in the convent from which it was possible to catch any glimpse of the city outside. Here she would pray fervently for help and deliverance. And here one day her prayers were answered; as two Beings descended in majesty from the skies and took her hands; and then, in an overwhelming miracle, glittering wings grew from her shoulders, and together the three of them rose beyond the prosaic earth and soared upwards into the cloudless blue.

The only person who saw them was Tancredi, from his lonely vigil outside the nunnery gates. As soon as they had risen beyond his sight, he rushed back to his church and seized his brushes; and he painted his panel before the vision could fade from his memory. It showed three angels in brilliant colours. It was much the best part of the altarpiece, and its fame spread far and wide, so that his reputation was established and he was known ever after as the Master of the Angels. But he never married Gianetta, for the poor girl was now incurably insane, and was never again able to leave the shelter of her convent. Most of the time she was quiet, but occasionally she would escape the vigilance of the nuns, and then she would climb the tower of the campanile, and would be found there, wildly invoking the heavens with tears in her eyes.

"Fly!" she would call, "Oh, fly! Please, fly!"

Winterwood, by Peter Shilston

Jinna scrambled over the stones of what had once been a wall and looked down the slope to the snow-covered wood below. Not a single print of any kind disturbed the whiteness, and only a gap in the trees like a low arch showed her where the path ran. The light was lowering and gloomy beneath the leaden sky, and the prospect filled her with deep uneasiness. But she patted her coat and felt the slight bulge from the inner pocket. There it lay, the great jewel. She must carry it safely through the wood to the other side, and whatever her fears, she could not turn back now. Setting her face in determination, she half walked, half slithered downwards, and, ducking under the laden branches, entered the winterwood.

Inside it was very quiet. The trees were packed so densely that there was little snow underfoot, but the darkness was greater. She could trace where the path wound itself, and there were dimples in it, as if feet had already passed that way: feet too small for a human, but making patterns unlike any animal that Jinna had ever seen. The path continued to run downhill, until she reached the bottom of a valley. Jinna found she had reached a frozen river which she must cross. She listened carefully for the sound of trickling water, which would mean thin ice that might break under her weight: even if the water was shallow, if she got her feet wet, they would freeze. But there was no sound. Jinna realized that since she had entered the winterwood, the utter silence had been broken only the crunching of her boots in the snow, and her own breathing. Somehow this was even more oppressive than the noise of things moving around her. She sensed that here in the wood it was always winter, and nothing lived. Fighting back her mounting fear, she crept carefully across the ice and up the bank on the far side.

The path rose now, until she came to the summit of a low ridge where the trees opened out. There was nothing in the clearing except an immense log, the remains of a fallen tree, half-covered in snow like the body of a frozen dinosaur. The light was slightly better here, and Jinna paused for a rest. For reassurance, she again patted the lump on her coat, and then, acting on sudden impulse, reached into the pocket and pulled out the jewel. She held it up, and even in this dimness it glowed and sparkled with its internal radiance. Never had she seen anything so immeasurably beautiful. She must save it, at all costs! But its glory only made her surroundings seem more threatening. The trees appeared to close in on her. She sensed that the winterwood hated and feared the jewel; would smother its radiance if it could. Over to her left came a sound, and then another: the first she had heard in the winterwood. Maybe it was only the soft thump of snow falling from overburdened branches, but Jinna feared it might be something far more threatening, though she knew not what. She realized she had made a serious blunder.

Quickly she returned the jewel to her pocket, and pressed on. Now the path twisted round to the right, and then to the left. Fear stalked behind her, and she walked faster and faster, her breath panting with weariness and mounting anxiety, never daring to glance back. Then, up ahead, amidst a thicket of smaller trees, she saw another low archway, and knew this was the end of the wood at last. With her escape now in sight, panic at last overcame her. She ran. Through the archway she ran: branches clawed at her face and snow cascaded over her head and back, but she had escaped now, out onto the open plain, freed from the winterwood for ever.

For a while she simply stood there, panting with relief. Then once again she felt her pocket. There was nothing. She tore open her coat and plunger her hand into the pocket. It was empty. In mounting desperation and terror she searched each pocket; every inch of her clothing; once, twice, many times. Nothing. There was no doubting it: the jewel was gone.

Gradually she managed to subdue her terror and steeled herself. She knew what she must do. Somewhere, somehow, she had dropped the jewel, and now she must find it again. Slowly, reluctantly, she forced herself back to the archway through the trees and re-entered the winterwood, retracing her steps, examining the snow on each side, stumbling with weariness, tears frozen on her cheeks, until at last her strength gave out, and she fell forward on the snow, and she died.

　

But then the clouds rolled away and the snow melted. Flowers blossomed in the grass. Jinna felt the warm sun and looked up in wonder to see birds playing on the budding trees. Then a Voice, so enormous that it filled the horizons but was at the same time gentle, spoke to her.

"You have done well", said the Voice.

"But I failed", said Jinna, "I lost the jewel in the winterwood".

"No. You were victorious. There never was a jewel. There never was a winterwood. But you fought to the very end. You have triumphed. We can now proceed to the next test".

After Dinner in New York: April 15th 1931 - by Peter G Shilston

The two men remain at their table in the restaurant long after the other diners have left. Umberto the proprietor would also like to shut up shop and go home; but you don’t argue with customers like these, and in any case he anticipates being well paid for the inconvenience. The food is good. Joe attacks it with his usual greed and uncouth manners; Charlie is more abstemious. After the meal they play cards and reminisce about old times, and when they are alone in the room they talk business. Eventually Charlie excuses himself to go to the lavatory.

As he rinses his hands and slicks back his hair he contemplates his refection in the mirror over the washbasin. He is only in his early thirties, but his face looks much older: a result of the pressures of his work. The scar down his cheek, which gives his right eyelid a permanent and sinister droop, aches with the tension, but he steels himself to ignore it. He has been given the nickname “Lucky”, which he dislikes: his success has been due to careful planning and determined application, not to luck. He glances at his watch: it’s three o’clock.

There is a sharp retort of pistol shots. Charlie retreats into one of the cubicles, and waits there for some time before pulling the chain and emerging. Only when he is certain the coast is clear does he venture back into the restaurant, where he finds that once again his careful planning has paid off: Joe is dead.

(This describes one of the most famous incidents in the history of organized crime: the killing of Joe Masseria (“Joe the Boss”), chieftain of the New York Mafia, set up by Charles “Lucky” Luciano on this date. It happened as outlined here)