by Maggie Kay
“We’d better get on with it, then!”
This was the signal for them to retire into a nearby hut where, by some miracle, Tor had a crate of Bazzer’s favourite bevy. They settled down to some serious supping, but the melancholic realisation that the project was over didn’t leave Bazzer. Several pints, and a parcel of fish and chips later, he found himself giving details of how he’d constructed the bike.
He threw it all in—how he had come across the improbable double-width engine; who he had found to customize a frame for it. How, at one time, he’d fitted an extended shovel-head front, and why he’d had to alter that when he had welded on what now looked like the back half of a Mini car.
“It’s a trike now,” Bazzer said, “I changed it so I could take my mate Vinny to biker rallies.”
Vinny had driven his machine to the limits and paid the price. He never felt the throb of an engine under him again, but once a biker always a biker. He had lived for Bazzer’s project after that, even suggested how to incorporate parts of his wreck into it, so that it became his project, too.
Mind you, Vinny had laughed long and hard each winter when Bazzer ritually reduced the project to a rubble of spare parts, and began struggling to incorporate ill thought out changes into the rebuild. Most often it was Vinny who came up with ingenious solutions to Bazzer’s self inflicted problems. Vinny had been full of imagination and brimming with suggestions for the final paint job too, but time ran out for him.
“As usual,” Bazzer continued, “I hadn't listened carefully and, what with the grief, I’ve no clear memory of what he wanted.”
“Right,” said Geordie, getting to his feet, “it’s eleven o’clock.”
“Time for the naming,” Tor said. “Put your helmet on, Bazzer, you'll need it.” He led the way out to pull back the canvas from the ride.
Bazzer didn't know what he’d expected. The Waltzers or a Caterpillar ride, perhaps, or even a Wall of Death, but not this.
“A carousel!”
He swore angrily at the sight of the painted ponies, at the gold candy-twist poles which gleamed when the lights winked on, at the stately barrel-organ tune which sprang from behind twin large-eyed statues of musicians at the hub. It wasn't even a modern contraption, with metal or fibreglass horses. These ponies were individually carved, end-of-season flaking paint revealing bare wood underneath.
“Thursdays are more powerful, you know that?’ Tor’s seriousness silenced Bazzer’s protests as he allowed his leather-clad helmeted self to be led up the steps. Bazzer climbed on the nearest painted horse that sported a gold twisted pole like a unicorn’s horn, silently giving thanks that there were so few people to observe this act of stupidity, and thankful that Tor and Geordie were mounting too. The carousel began to turn.
No doubt booze, and tiredness, contributed. Certainly they were bound to exaggerate the effect of the travelling round and round and of the pony dipping up and down, up and down to the ceaseless reverberation of the barrel-organ waltz. But that didn’t begin to explain what happened next.
Soon Bazzer’s eyes could no longer focus, not even on the pony in front, and the music had become so much background noise. Speed was the reason, the sort of speed he had never even dreamed of. The sort of speed that leaves the stomach travelling separately, at a distant point behind its owner. The sort of speed that completely scrambles the brain.
Geordie and Tor were still with him, Bazzer registered, and the musicians still stared, but transformed into Viking warriors. Bazzer seemed to fly off with them into the unknown, traversing a flaming sea in a long narrow boat with a bulging sail that cracked and popped like a motor with faulty timing. Just as his recently returned stomach threatened to rebel against the endless rising and dipping, the boat dematerialised and left him standing, gaping, between the fat candy-twist pillars of a huge doorway.
The hall was lined with spears standing on end against a wall of light and supporting a ceiling of overlapped shields. Helmets were stacked everywhere; Viking helmets, made of leather banded with metal, but there were other types too, of warriors from ages past, and from wars fought not so long ago. And bikers’ helmets of every shape and kind. And bikers’ voices, and engines revving and familiar faces, though long unseen, beneath shining Viking helmets—and Vinny. Not the Vinny who had never really recovered from the accident, but a great strapping healthy Vinny in full Viking gear. Tor seemed to have expanded, too, his face no longer wizened, his eyes brighter and bluer than ever. He was the mightiest one, the sword-bearer, the one in charge of Valhalla, which Bazzer was sure was where they were.
A great cheer went up when Tor was revealed in all his glory, and then the horn of plenty started its rounds. Bazzer couldn’t work out what was in it, but it blended well with what he had supped already. During the mock battle with spears and shields Geordie had to restrain him. “Steady, mate, we’re not immortal, like this lot!”
So Bazzer took it steady after that, much to Vinny’s amusement, and then in came the cattle. Vinny made it look easy, riding the back of a bucking steer better than he’d ever handled his bike, but he was thrown after a few minutes. Nobody managed to make a beast look tameable until Tor took his turn. He easily controlled his mount, looking as good as any Grand National jockey.
“Mount up!” he called, his eyes lighting brilliantly on Bazzer.
Bazzer looked round, but there was nobody behind him. “Who, me?” he queried incredulously, wondering how he could leap high enough in the air to even come close to riding the beast nearest to him.
“Just shut your eyes and go for it,” Geordie advised, eyeing a similar animal.
Bazzer took one more swig from the drinking horn that had miraculously appeared in his hand, closed his eyes, and launched himself. He hadn’t expected to last two seconds on the hard-ridged but glossily hairy back, but the creature settled immediately, then bore Bazzer forward, undulating in a gentle up-and-down motion. Nevertheless, Bazzer kept his eyes closed until the stately barrel-organ sound impinged on his consciousness. He shook his head disbelievingly as the shabby old carousel slid gently to a halt and his wooden mount tilted to gently tip him off.
“So, the theme is named,” Tor, reduced to the wizened original, stated. “Leave the machine with me overnight. You can collect it tomorrow, at noon.”
“Tomorrow? But won’t it take days? For the paint to dry—that’ll take days, even weeks—won’t it?”
“Give him a lift on your machine, Geordie. Tomorrow, at noon,” Tor concluded, firmly.
And on Friday, at noon, Bazzer took possession of his transformed machine.
When he got home to the city, Bazzer parked the trike near the jar on the ledge at the crematorium that was all that remained of Vinny.
“I love it,” Bazzer said, “it couldn’t be better. That Tor is some artist. I should have known, Vinny, he pronounces his name ‘Tor’ but he spells it with an ‘h’ after the ‘T’. Lucky for you I went on Thursday—Thor’s day. You always fancied yourself as Vinny the Viking, didn’t you? I remembered in the end, you see.”
Painted flames licked round the battle chariot that the trike had become, and the towering warrior depicted on the petrol tank looked like Vinny, but now Bazzer knew that the project wasn’t finished at all. At the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month he had seen Tor’s engraved metal armlets, and Vinny’s, and had realised that there were a few vital elements missing.
“I wonder who I can find to engrave the engine casings?” Bazzer said, “and make handlebars shaped like bull's horns, or headlamp casings like Viking helmets?”
As Bazzer gunned life into the engine he heard somebody laughing.
It was the sort of rumbling belly laugh guaranteed to out-thunder the most powerful motor.
The sort of laugh that might echo all the way from Valhalla.
[My fiction ideas often spring from my experiences in the many and varied jobs I have done and people I have met in my journey through
life. This story draws on my experiences over the several years I worked as a part-time social worker in a large bikers’ club at the end of the 1960s. I wrote it twenty five years ago, in the year I met Katy at her, and my, very first Swanwick. Accepted for publication by a biker magazine, but never published, it is a fantasy story about mixed emotions: the grief of loss and the joy of remembrance.]
ZOE’S BIRTHDAY TREAT
Julia Pattison
“One more sleep till my birthday!” squealed Zoe with excitement as she jumped into her cosy bed.
“Not long now,” agreed her Mum with a smile, “which story are you going to choose tonight then?”
“The Lion Who Lost His Roar!” said Zoe without a moment’s hesitation. “My favourite!”
Zoe loved lions. She had a whole collection of cuddly lion toys, and her bedroom was decorated with various pictures and posters of her favourite animal.
So, for a special birthday treat, Zoe’s Mum and Dad were taking her to see the Chinese State Circus, featuring a spectacular Lion Dance. No wonder Zoe was excited!
At last, after all the anticipation, Zoe was sitting in her ringside seat, eating candy floss, eagerly waiting for the performance to start.
Suddenly the spotlights snapped on, and a troupe of acrobats wearing sparkly sequined costumes burst into the circus ring.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls,” a cheerful voice boomed over the loudspeakers, “welcome to the Chinese State Circus!”
After that, everything happened in a whirl for Zoe. The acrobats bounded and leapt around the circus ring, performing daring tricks with graceful ease; Zoe watched, spellbound.
All too soon it was the interval and, as part of the birthday treat, her Dad took her to the souvenir stall to choose a present to remind her of her visit. Zoe was so busy looking at all the lovely items on sale that she didn’t notice her Mum sneaking off to have a word with one of the circus crew.
Finally, Zoe chose a framed photograph of the Chinese Lion due to be performing that night.
As she waited for the show to begin again, she studied every detail of her precious souvenir. The Lion was brightly coloured with a huge body and head—the head particularly fascinated her with its bulging spiral eyes, and large red mouth complete with giant white teeth. Zoe was both nervous, and excited, at the thought of seeing this Lion so close to her soon.
A gong sounded, indicating that the second half was about to begin. How Zoe laughed as the Chinese Clowns fooled around while the Rope Performers prepared themselves for their breath-taking act.
She sat open-mouthed as a young Chinese girl in a sparkly red costume seemed to tie herself in knots, smiling sweetly as the audience applauded.
Then...the moment she had been waiting for—the Chinese Lion Dance! One of the acrobats led the enormous Lion into the circus ring. Zoe felt her foot tapping as the percussion rhythm got faster and faster. The Lion bounded this way and that, leaping high into the air.
Without warning though, it suddenly leapt towards Zoe and stopped just centimetres away from her nose; Zoe shut her eyes and held tightly onto her Mum’s hand, not daring to move.
When she opened them again, she laughed in joy and relief as the enormous red mouth opened, revealing a Chinese acrobat inside, who gave Zoe a friendly wink.
A deep voice came over the loudspeakers: “The Chinese Lion wishes Zoe a very Happy Birthday!”
“How did they know it was my birthday?” gasped Zoe in surprise.
“Aha!” said her Mum with a twinkle in her eye. Leaping back into the circus ring, the Chinese Lion continued to entertain everyone with its antics.
At the end of the performance the crowd clapped and cheered loudly as several very hot acrobats emerged from underneath the Lion costume, beaming broadly.
Zoe thought she would burst with pride when they all winked and waved at her before leaving the circus ring.
This was the best birthday she’d ever had.
[I met Katy in 2004 and we soon discovered we had much in common; a love of music, myths and dance. We both loved letting out the inner child and never reached the age of not believing! This children’s short story is dedicated to Zoe, Katy Clarke’s beloved granddaughter.]
A SURPRISE IN THE JUNGLE
Pat Belford
The animals were upset. After a hot day in the jungle they had come down to the clearing to drink in the river pool and found the water thick with mud.
“Those hippos have been swimming in our pool again,” Lion growled.
“Something will have to be done,” Elephant said. “It’s the third time this week!”
“I’m SO thirsty!” Little Monkey moaned.
“You must not drink that muddy water,” Mother Monkey told him.
The animals turned away, sadly. They filed up a jungle path to a tiny waterfall and took turns to drink, but it wasn’t as good as the river pool.
Little Monkey took a few sips of water then scampered up into a tree and gazed around as the sky became darker. Suddenly he sat up. He could see a pale shape which he didn’t recognise in the distance.
“There’s something over there in the jungle—a strange white creature!” he whispered, scrambling out of the tree.
“What sort of creature?” asked Lion.
“It’s white and it’s moving. Look!”
The animals stopped drinking and stared. Even though it was dark they all saw the white shape amongst the shadowy trees.
“There are no white animals living in our jungle,” Elephant said. “What can it be?”
“I’m going to investigate,” Lion said and he marched bravely down the path. The others followed, not feeling brave at all. The white thing was still flitting through the bushes.
“It’s coming nearer!” Little Monkey shrieked and climbed onto his mother’s back.
“It’s heading for the river!”
As the animals reached the muddy river pool, a beautiful white creature stepped into the clearing. It looked like a small horse but the moonlight gleamed on a pointed horn that grew in the middle of its forehead.
“What is that?” asked Little Monkey.
“It’s a...” Lion began.
“I think it’s a...” Elephant said.
“I’m a unicorn,” the animal said shyly. “Why are you all staring at me?”
“A unicorn? We’ve never seen a unicorn before,” Lion said.
“I didn`t mean to trouble you,” the unicorn said. “I have travelled a long way and I am tired and thirsty. I’m looking for a drink and somewhere to stay.”
“Don’t drink from this pool,” Lion warned. “The hippos have used it for bathing and made it muddy.”
The unicorn seemed not to have heard. It stepped forward and dipped its horn in the muddy water. At once, the pool became so clear that the white pebbles on the bottom of the river could be seen shining in the moonlight.
“Look...it’s magic!” Little Monkey whispered.
“How did you do that?” Lion asked.
“All unicorns can purify water with their horns,” said Unicorn and he took a long drink.
The animals drank, too. The water felt deliciously cool.
“Unicorn, you are welcome to stay in the jungle with us,” Lion said.
“Thank you. Can I sleep here by the pool?” Unicorn stepped out of the water.
“Of course. I’ll stay here too, to keep guard, then perhaps the hippos will keep to their own part of the river,” Lion said.
The unicorn lay down on the grass and yawned.
“Goodnight, sleep well!” Little Monkey called, and he yawned, too.
“Time you were in bed, Little Monkey!” Mother Monkey said and she carried him back into the jungle.
[As a Swanwicker of long standing I, like many others, remember hearing Katy sing at our farewell parties. A few years ago, when we were both tutoring four part courses, we would meet up daily at the end of our respective sessions to compare notes.]
SPREADING MAGIC
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br /> Helen Ellwood
Teasel sighed and stamped his silver hoof in frustration. Another boring evening looking after his baby sister stretched ahead, while his parents pranced about in the lake, gathering moonbeams. He longed to be like them, shining silver-white in the moonlight. He watched as they dipped their slender horns into the water, turning their heads this way and that to harvest the magic. His legs still felt far too long for his body and his coat still had the occasional patch of pink left over from childhood. He’d been busy for the last half hour, trying to pull a tuft out from his flank, but no matter how he chewed at it and tugged at it, a few wisps of annoying fluff remained.
He glanced down at his younger sister. She had the short, fat, dumpy legs and bright pink coat of a baby. Her mane and tail were all the colours of the rainbow instead of the pure white they would become. She was dancing on the pebbles at the edge of the lake, dipping her horn into the water, scattering the moon’s reflections. She tossed her mane, squeaking with delight as droplets of water turned into rainbows.
“It’s not fair,” he said. “Why do I always have to look after you while the grown-ups are busy?”
His sister gazed up at him with huge, bright eyes. “Because Mummy says so.”
“Yes but..."
“And Daddy says so."
“But you’re safe playing on your own, aren’t you?" said Teasel.
“Of course I am. I’m nearly two.”
Just then, she slipped on a rock and fell into the shallow water with a cry. Teasel rushed forward and helped her up again. He checked her knees for grazes and licked her tears away.
“It’s alright, Baby. You’re not hurt.”
“I’m all wet. And my name isn’t Baby.”
“But your proper name is such a mouthful. I like the name Baby. It suits you. Once you’re grown up like me, I shall use your full magical name, but for now, you’re Baby.”
His sister planted her tiny pink hooves on the ground, took a deep breath and...