*
Harry’s funeral service was everything he had asked for. Few tears and sadness; glorious music, and a dignified exit from church accompanied by Gabriel’s Oboe, Ennio Morricone’s haunting tune. As people followed his coffin I remembered what another friend had told me. “If five or six people gather at your funeral you’ve had a good and decent life.”
Harry had done well – it had been standing room only in church.
Afterwards, as we gathered for a drink at Harry’s favourite hotel, his solicitor handed me an envelope. Inside was a short note: “Thank you, dear friend, for giving me such a wonderful celebration. I was standing beside you and enjoyed every minute.
“As you go about your daily business pause for a moment in contemplation:
‘Why should I be out of mind
Because I’m out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around a corner
All is well’.
Take care,
‘How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again’.
Harry.”
Poems used:
Remember by Christina Rossetti.
Death is Nothing At All by Canon Henry Scott-Holland 1874-1918, Canon of St Paul’s Cathedral.
I joined Angus Writers’ Circle in 2008 and since then have published articles in a number of different publications. I have written children’s stories, some of which were based on my own childhood. Finally, may I record my gratitude to Circle members, whose help and support have helped to improve my work.
Did you spot the condition imposed by Mr Small? He asked us to avoid using the definite article. The quotations from the two poems were the only exceptions.
ESTHER DINGWALL: This short story was written after a challenge to write a tale based on folklore. My thoughts went to the Isle of Iona and my granddaughter, Iona, and I linked that to the legends of the selkies.
A SELKIE TALE
The sea was sparkling in the sunshine, the sand was silver and the waves were gently lapping in the bay on a beautiful June day. But in all this beauty and peace a solitary figure sat hunched up on a rock. Her outline showed the misery she was feeling.
As Iona sat on her special rock gazing out to sea the tears were streaming down her cheeks and she was hiccuping as she sobbed. How could she leave this beautiful place, her island? She knew it was her island because her name was the same. But she knew that in August she would have to go to school across the water and stay there Monday to Friday. She couldn’t bear it. Why did she have to go?
She looked down to the selkies at the shoreline. She had often seen them in this little bay. She noticed the big one lying on a rock close by. Gently, Iona moved, even in her distress taking care not to make any sudden or loud noise. She sat on the edge of the selkie’s rock, looking and wondering.
Her grandad had often told her stories of the selkies. He’d told her how they could shed their skins and take on human form; how they had to spend at least one in twenty-four hours as seals in the water; and how they would listen to a human in distress and often help in their trouble. Perhaps this selkie would listen and help her.
“O, Selkie,” she sobbed, “I can’t bear to leave this place and the folk I love. Even five days a week is too long. What if no one cares or really misses me? Could I not become a selkie and stay here for ever?”
The selkie looked at her with his big, soft eyes. She touched his smooth skin. It was strangely warm and smooth, not cold or wet. She laid her tear-stained cheek on his back. Iona felt calmer, her hiccups eased and she heard the selkie softly say, “Iona, you know you must go away to go to the big school. You must learn so much more. And, dear Iona, your family will wait eagerly every Friday as the little boat reaches the pier. They will run to hug you and rush to get you home. I know how it feels to leave your own people but I also know that when I go back to them they welcome and love me.”
As the selkie spoke, Iona felt his flipper rest around her shoulder. She slowly turned her head to look at him and realised she was looking at her own beloved grandad. He had his arm round her shoulders. The other selkies were still in the bay but the one on the rock had vanished.
Grandad stood up, pulling Iona with him and they walked across the machair towards home. As they went Iona saw Grandad turn slightly and she was sure he raised a hand as if waving goodbye.
Later that night in bed Iona wondered. Was Grandad a selkie who had become human because of his love for her gran? She would always wonder, but she knew now she would manage away at school and her family would always be there for her when she came home.
And she would always visit the selkies in the bay.
This poem reflects my love for constantly moving water scenes, be they rivers, lochs or the sea.
LAPPING WATER
Lap, lap, gently lapping water on the stones.
Dark and light move across the surface;
Through the water I glimpse a myriad of stones
Each one showing three, four or more colours.
All around the shores of the loch is majestic beauty,
Indescribable – blue, brown, green and red.
Surely only a great Creator could make such beauty,
Such grandeur; yet each tiny pebble and leaf so perfect.
With eyes wide open I gaze on the scene,
Try to capture the pictures and hold them for ever.
Then, when busy, I can look and know what life means.
I can see in my mind the images from God the Giver.
That poem is in my small self-published book of poems entitled Promise of the Rainbow, which is available from one or two outlets or from me at the cost of £4.
BETTY DOE: This story was included in a Scottish Association of Writers anthology some years ago.
WEB INSIGHT
It is said that Winston Churchill once asserted he had gleaned an insight into all the secrets of the Universe but then he proceeded to have a wonderful dinner, fine wine and a splendid cigar and it slipped away. Piers, however, would never let it slip away – for he knew – he knew how the Universe was ruled.
Curled up on his bed, a bottle of whisky clutched in his hands, he heard them talking. ‘As you know, Officer, he discharged himself from hospital. Now he’s locked himself in the bedroom. What do you want us to do?’
A calm voice responded to Piers’ distraught mother. ‘Let him rest.’
That was rich. How could he rest? He had to be vigilant all the time or he would be devoured by those sticky, sticky webs. He could feel them now, weaving their way across the palms of his hands; he could sense a black hairy master spinner crawling up his back, across his shoulder, towards his neck.
An image flashed of Sean Connery, as James Bond, who normally treats adversaries with disdain and swift humour, sweating with fear as he becomes aware of a tarantula climbing across his chest. Connery knew, you see. Knew, just as Piers knew, who rules the Universe; who decides our fates.
Piers felt the crawling again, at the base of his skull now. He had to stop it – stop it before the creature got inside his head for then it would be too late.
Unlike Churchill, Piers had made his discovery after, rather than before, an evening of indulgence. It was the evening he had met Caroline, the wild and wonderful Caroline, who could match him drink for drink, enjoy a bit of whacky baccy and drive him home on her powerful black motorbike. To Piers, the raven-haired Caroline in her black leathers was the very epitome of living.
In the early hours of that morning, unable to sleep because of the compelling image of Caroline and the electric excitement surging through his brain, Piers had turned on his computer. Before he even pressed a key, there appeared the face of a huge spider. It seemed to leap out of the screen, then subtly, it drew him in. Myth has it that the Cosmic Spider is the creator – its web, spun from its own body draws in all mankind. It happened to Piers. He was drawn in and could not es
cape.
While the spiders inveigled their way into his unconscious, Caroline became the focus of his conscious – the fast bike, the clubs where anything went, the erotic, exotic evenings at her penthouse flat. He was being taken over on both levels.
He drank whisky straight from the bottle; his legs were crawling now. He daren’t look down. Other cultures knew; they knew all about the spider gods who held together the Universe with webs of invisible force.
Another swig of whisky, another fact; pound for pound spider silk is tougher than steel and more flexible than rubber.
Another swig of whisky, another fact; bullet-proof vests are made from a synthetic silk created from the same chemical formula as spiders’ webs. The Internet could provide all the information he wanted but then the Internet was controlled by Spiders – their Web Sites are everywhere.
There were spiders on his tongue now. He drowned them in whisky. Fortunately, the spiders had not entered his head. Instead, there were Hopi Indians invading his mind, telling him how the web of Spiderman connects heaven to earth and how Spiderwoman created the people of the first world by mixing her saliva with the earth. Piers understands, believes, but still resists. He does not want to be the victim of aggressive saliva: he wants to be free to spend his life with Caroline, at the clubs, in her flat, on her fast shiny motorbike, yet something deep in his mind tells him that cannot happen.
He awoke with webs in his eyes, webs sticking his lashes together. He was scared. He knew something was deeply wrong but he could not conjure up the reason for his fear. He took the whisky bottle from
From All Angus (Angus Writers' Circle Anthology 2015) Page 4