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".

In a Seven Year Old Anxiety Can Present as Boredom, by Barry Tench

2B were doing ‘My Father’s Job’ that week. I recall that the lilac trees in the school playground were heavy with flower and that the purple dripped with April rain.  I searched the grey sky behind the roofs of the terraced houses opposite for some sign of the sun that would mean holidays weren’t far away. My desk lid was scored by the pointed ends of countless protractors, initials and dates scarred the soft wood. What if I made my dad sound interesting, and by implication insurance? Would I be forced to follow in his footsteps, to become an insurance salesman for the rest of my life?

I had watched him return home in the evening, stand in the frame of the back door and blow cigarette smoke out into the garden; walk through the house into the living room, did he ever speak? I don’t remember. He would turn on the television, open the evening paper, light another cigarette. The kettle would whistle in the kitchen but he wouldn’t turn his head to see if someone was going to take it off the stove.

I went to his office once; he’d forgotten to collect me from the dentist and I walked through town to his office. I wasn’t sure which way to go, I traced my steps back, took another street. I asked a woman if she knew where my dad’s office was. I didn’t know the name of the building but said, he is an insurance man. She pointed me up the bank to a tall grey building.

“There are offices in there young man”. 

I used to have dreams of a Tyrannosaurs Rex hunting me, crashing through the rooms of our house to where I was hiding behind a jar of pickles on the top shelf in the pantry.

I stumbled in through the glass door. The lobby of the office block smelled of damp paper, cigarettes and feet. The walls, the windows, the beige linoleum on the floor, everything looked like it was coated with a thin film of grime. I sat next to his desk as he joked with colleagues about forgetting to collect me from the dentist, he smoked another cigarette.

I faced 2B. I wanted to say my dad was a teacher, a bus driver, a shop keeper but I didn’t have time to consider the details. Miss made those ‘go-on’ eyes at me. I looked at the faces of my classmates. Is he going to cry? Is he going to piss himself?

“John what does your father do?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes he does. What job does he do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where does he go in the morning?”

“He’s dead.”

“Sit down John. I’ll speak to you later”.

I walked back to my desk past Brian Evans whose father had been killed last summer when his motorbike had hit a tree. I still can’t decide if he was smiling. 

THE FUNERAL, by Geoff Rodgers

It was to be my first funeral,

Mr Thomas had died, he was 89, and shared a room in a local Care Home with Mrs Thomas, where they had lived for almost 20 years.

They had no family, just the staff in the Care Home who had cared for them.

I asked the staff for some background information as I had not met either of them before.

“You wont get anything from her.” they said sadly, she hasn’t spoken for a long time, she just sits in her chair staring at the floor.

“Thank You,“ I said, and I walked down the plush carpeted corridor to their now half empty double room.

As I was told, Mrs. Thomas was sat in her chair in a semi darkened room, head crouched.

Silent.

I introduced myself, I explained  that I was new to the area, and that I was sorry to hear of her loss.

There was no response.

I told her we would do all we could for her and her husband at the funeral.

I sat in silence.

I looked around the room.

I didn’t know what to do, I wanted to fill the silence, but how?

No amount of training can prepare you for the first time, it’s like going out in a car for the first time after passing your Driving Test. This is where the learning begins.

I sat in silence.

I needed the anecdote, the story, the little nugget about the life of the elderly man who had died.

Something to entertain and touch the congregation who would gather at the village church in four days time.

I sat in silence, it seemed to go on forever.

I reached out and put my hand into hers.

I sat in unbroken silence

Then, I began to pray, very quietly quietly, very slowly.

Our Father, who art in heaven hallowed be thy name

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

On earth as it is in heaven…….

…………Forever and Ever, Amen

Mrs. Thomas whispered “Thank You”

I stayed a few more minutes, in the eternal silence.

I left,

I had my anecdote, I had my story.

Mrs Thomas was unable to attend her husband’s funeral

She died two days later

So began a journey of resurrection.

Copyright Geoff Rodgers 2014

TWO GARDENS, by Pauline Fisk

She cried across the water and her voice was haunting. These were the words spoken by the mother of a murdered girl, reported in the Canadian press. I heard about it over lunch.  Outside there was not a cloud in the sky.  We left the golf club, the three of us, and drove in silence to the cemetery where we found the gate and let ourselves in. 

The graves sloped white against the green lawn, down through woodland to the creek. Here a man who’d been a friend to everyone; there a woman who’d served her country; here a son on whom the sun went down, yet it was still day. 

What struck me, strangely, was how big the headstones were.  Ever since arriving in Canada I’d been noticing size.  Death is but a covered way which opens into life I read on a grave fashioned into a massive stone seat. But facing northwards into shadows - where was life in that?  

Below the seat we found a gravel path between graves. Here William and Johan from Scotland - he the Highlands, she Orkney. There the McDonalds, dating back to the Highland Clearances. Irish Doyles, Calhounes, Hallorans from Cork.  I scribbled down the name Parnaby, thinking I might use it one day. We surveyed Ivor’s plot and thumbs-upped its view, making his day.

As we walked away, I heard a sniff, followed by a distinct and highly unexpected sneeze. They say that death is cold, and I turned cold, because nobody but us was there. I looked around. Sparrows wallowed in the dust. A distant chipmunk did a circus circuit.  Between a screen of perfect trees, Sixteen Mile Creek flowed into Lake Ontario.  

Where that creek came from, I’d no idea, nor what became of it after hitting the lake.  But it was bright, fast and in the here and now and, looking at it, I thought of all those white bones in their graves and hoped the place they’d end up was as bright as Lake Ontario on a day like this.

We left the cemetery by the same gate.  It was good to be back on the street, kicking up dust, sun on our faces. On the way to our hire car we passed what we British call allotments, but Canadians call garden plots. The soil was dryer than back home. Even so, it yielded sunflowers in rows, pumpkins and tomatoes, growing wild, peppers, carrots, peas and beans, dots of marigolds. 

Back in our car we did a u-turn, taking in the cemetery in a single sweep. I hoped that justice would be done and the crying that haunted mother heard across the waters would one day cease. It was my birthday, my sixty-fourth – a point I share because it matters to me, though it’ll be of little significance to anybody else. On the highway, great trucks roared by.

copyright©Pauline Fisk 2014 

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)    

The Nose, by Bill West

Tobias oft told how the fairies stole his nose one night when he was sleeping off the booze under an arch of Welshman's Bridge. But I'd heard that it was syphilis that left him with that hole in his face. Plenty of coves strut around Gay Meadow sporting saddle noses, looking for the world like pugilists or bare knuckle fighters. Tobias just looked a mess. You didn't want to be near him when he sneezed.

He should go to Grindley, the blacksmith, I said, and take with him some old spoons that could be beaten fine and drawn out into a metal nose.  Tobias complained that the whore son blacksmith was a Ranter and was likely to quote the Bible at him before kicking him out the door. 

I felt sorry for him. Or at least I was sick of beholding that face or being in range of his purulent breath. Besides, I thought he might slip me a few coppers if I did him a good turn. I proposed to make a new nose for him out of wax if he could come by some candles.

The candle was a big expensive-looking one, much better than those tallow candles. I didn't ask where he got it from.

Not trusting Tobias to hold still, what with him looking like a fighter and all, I ordered him up to his bedchamber where I tied him to his cot with a length of rope. That done, I wound a length of linen tight under his chin to keep his head still. He wriggled and kicked when I stuck two straws where his nose should be but as I said, if he wanted to breathe through his new nose he'd have to trust me. I lit the candle and dripped wax into the hole in his face, taking no mind of his muffled oaths, stopping every once in a while to make sure the straws were keeping him breathing. Soon there was a large carbuncle of wax where his new nose would be. I took a hot knife and cut and smoothed the wax until Tobias sported such a nose as might have adorned the face of a Roman Emperor.

When I untied him and showed him his reflection in a mirror he seemed well pleased with the result, apart from the two straws sticking out of his face. These I trimmed with a paring knife. Then we were ready to go out to hit the taverns.

We had a fine evening at The Anchor with many a doxie eager to take the arm of the tall handsome man with the Roman nose. 

Things went well until Tobias decided to smoke a pipe. The clay pipe he pulled from his waistcoat had a stem clipped so short it barely poked beyond the end of his new nose. He was well oiled by that time and in no mood to listen to advice.

Likely it was the heat of the pipe that loosened his nose, and the sneeze when it came didn't help. The nose shot off his face and arced across the smoky tavern towards the fire grate. A mangy Turn Spit dog was nosing around the sawdust for food scraps. Quick as a flash it jumped up, caught the nose  and gulped it down.

Tobias chased the dog out the door roaring with outrage and accompanied by  hoots and catcalls from all around.

I finished my ale, and his, and slipped quietly off home.

No one knows what befell Tobias. He was never seen again. But sometimes in the day's gloaming, or in the half light of a Winter sunrise when river mist cloaks the bridge, a hunched figure emerges from the bridge's shadow, picks its way along the foreshore, combs the river's edge, examines and discards small objects. 

Perhaps it is the shade of Tobias, searching for a nose.