by Jack Challis
‘You need driving lessons first.’ Blodwyn answers.
‘You have just passed your test – you teach me,’ says Myfanwy. ‘Besides, I remember you said Mr. Lewis the driving instructor smelt of gin, touched your knee, the whiskers growing out of his nose and ears made you feel sick… and he fell asleep while you were doing a three point turn.’
‘I still passed my test,’ answers Blodwyn. ‘Let me think… we have a Sillian to deal with first.’
The old hag nimbly leapt off the rock and held Blodwyn’s hand as they walked up the mountain path.
‘I am not holding your boney, dirty hand, it feels horrible – and I don’t know where it has been. Besides people will think I am also mad, or someone who is half mad and looks after mad people – you smell of pee and puke,’ says Blodwyn. ‘Do you have to smell so realistically?’
Myfanwy giggles, before concentrating and turning back into Grunwalde Angharad – the beguiling Queen of the Fairies. The two friends walked hand in hand up the mountain path. A pair of small cheeky Sislings appeared and hovered in front of their faces, grinning. Blodwyn happened to look down and noticed Myfanwy’s shadow was different; her nose was upturned, looking like a cute little snout; her graceful long fingers were just a little too long: she also had a pot belly. ‘Look down at your shadow!’ exclaims Blodwyn…’something is wrong!’
Suddenly the Queen of the Fairies gave out a little giggle for no apparent reason and held her slim tummy.
‘Now isn’t that the queerest thing,’ exclaims Myfanwy looking down at her shadow, ‘I look as if I am up the spout. I will have to start eating for two now.’
‘Shut-up,’ says Blodwyn. ‘You already eat for two.’
The two Sislings immediately began buzzing around: they could smell a strange life-form. But could not see it.
‘Something was here – close-by,’ says a Sisling in a small voice, its small nose sniffing and little antenna twitching. ‘We could smell a life-form,’ continues the Sisling – but it has disappeared – now we only smell you.’
‘Don’t be cheeky – you little sniveling creep. I do not smell…well not at the moment anyway,’ says Myfanwy. ‘Now wasn’t that the queerest thing?’
‘Stop saying that – it’s beginning to annoy me,’ Says Blodwyn. ‘Let’s not get side-tracked… your shadow has now returned to normal.’
Myfanwy noticed a can of strong lager lying by the path, picking it up she reads the label. ‘Now isn’t that the queerest thing…the label says drink responsibly! Don’t those idiots know only tramps, winos like Bryn Jones, R. C. Nesbit and my Hobs drink the filthy stuff…and my Hobs can’t even read.’
‘Was it your Tartarus Hobs who stole the case of lager from Mrs. Griffiths off license?’ Blodwyn asks.
‘Just think,’ answers Myfanwy, changing the subject, ‘if the Scots had strong lager at the battle of Flodden Fields, we might have a lovely Stewart on the throne now and be obliged to eat porridge with salt for breakfast, lunch and dinner… and drink strong lager instead of tea.’
The two young women carried on up the Mountain path and didn’t give another thought to the strange things happening to Myfanwy’s shadow. More important matters were now on their minds: the Sillian!
‘Be careful now,’ warns Blodwyn, ‘watch where you place your feet – a Sillian’s trap door is always near a foot path. Sillians are extremely quick to rush out if their trip lines are touched and bite – just like spiders – then drag you in.’
‘Spooky.’ says Myfanwy. ‘Now isn’t that the queerest thing.’
Blodwyn checked both sides of the path; she knew exactly what she was looking for. On her first adventure searching for the Alter Dom, she had only just escaped a Sillians trap-door on Tarrea-one, when she was being hunted, scent-trailed by the feline Na Idriss led by a Malis Afar. The sunshine glinting on the silken trip lines made Blodwyn wary: she made a detour.
‘This is boring,’ complains Myfanwy.
‘There!’ exclaims Blodwyn, ‘the trip lines and camouflaged trap-door. Be careful. These aliens can move at lightening speed. If they bite you – your body will begin to rot immediately.’
‘Spooky… spooky.’ Says Myfanwy.
‘Even the Cold-bloods and the Oga-Koya are afraid of Sillians,’ Informs Blodwyn, ‘do not touch the silken trip lines. The Sillian will think you are prey.’
‘Now isn’t that the queerest thing,’ was all Myfanwy could exclaim. Then ignoring her friend’s advice, she boldly walks up to the trap door and stamps on it with her bare feet.
Nothing happens.
‘I demand you to open up… you useless little Silly Ann,’ declares Myfanwy. The two Sislings began flashing red in anger and started biting through the trip lines. Then using all their strength, they began to pull at the trapdoor its self; biting through the strong silken treads of the hinge with their razor sharp teeth until all the strands were cut. It soon became obvious that the trap door was being held shut from inside: by the gruesome occupant.
‘Open up you little runt!’ exclaims Myfanwy, ‘or I will smash your stupid face in… and gob on you.’ The Queen of the Fairies giggled at what she had just said; enjoying the freedom with which she could say it.
‘If you take your time – I will take umbrage,’ announces Myfanwy, giggling at her own little piece of humor.
Before the arrival of Blodwyn and Myfanwy, the Sillian had been resting in its silken bed chamber of dreams and death, following the previous night’s strenuous labors. The creature’s small nocturnal eyes were closed contemplating, pondering times distant past; for that is the nature of its kind. The alien was thinking of the planet Syties-seven, when it was green and beautiful, when Sillians could fly as nimbly as any bat. This alien was also hungry after its all night exertions. Sillians had an extremely high metabolic rate. The putrid sheep carcasses were already well digested.
This misshapen, intelligent alien knew it had arrived on a strange planet, somewhere in the Antares Cluster. A planet not to its liking; the sun was too hot; the strong gravitational pull was giving it wrinkles. For this deformed alien was also vain as well as curious.
Suddenly the Sillian’s dreams were disturbed. Some life form was at its trapdoor, not struggling to escape but trying to gain entry. Instead of rushing out, the deformed alien remained still, unsure; this was not in the nature of things.
For the first time in its long life-span, this predatory alien felt fear. It was not used to any creature trying to gain entry into its dark lair. Sillians had no natural predators; except for the fearsome Nemesis – a giant hornet-like being and first Queen of the Lings; she was now long dead.
What kind of confident, dangerous, life-form was outside the trap- door then, trying to prize it open? The Sillians fear grew – the pounding of its two hearts quickened. Slowly, it began to rise; fear and curiosity demanded it.
Reaching the trap door it stopped and gripped on to its underside with all its strength, using two clawed appendages, the other four appendages gripped the tunnel wall holding it shut, preventing it from being wrenched open; just like the trap-door spider. The Sillian waited, sniffed and listened; its two hearts now beating too rapidly for its own good. The gruesome alien was now over heating.
Above ground the Fairy Queen is becoming impatient.
‘Come out you stupid little faggot…I mean maggot,’ giggle, giggle. ‘I will send my two Sislings into your tunnel to sting and bite you!’ She exclaims.
Down below: ‘Lings?…Did the sweet feminine voice say Lings?’ ponders the Sillian. Now the Sillian knew exactly what life-forms were at his trapdoor – his life was in danger – Lings were highly venomous! There is no known antidote in the entire Antares Cluster to their deadly concoction of poisons. This deformed alien had heard of these small beings with magical and mysterious powers and their beautiful, young, childish but powerful Terasil Queen; this had to be their new Queen, for Sillians kept up with current affairs. Sillians were not just deadly dreamers; they were gossi
p-brokers, and scandal mongers. A good scandal or a piece of interesting gossip could save a trapped victims life.
Lings were admired, respected and feared throughout the Antares Cluster by all the Advanced Races and Primitives alike. No species wished a war with venomous Changelings. Even Shape-shifters like the nervous, stick-like Semmi Tal, bordered on worshiping True Changelings: a True Three Heart. All these thoughts flashed through the alien’s mind and made his two hearts race even quicker.
“I am now feeling rather hot and faint.” worries the deformed Sillian.
Outside in the bright sun: ‘I am getting mad!’ exclaims Grunwalde Angharad, tapping her foot on the trap-door, ‘come out you little web-spinning, moron…you…you deformed little reprobate.’
Blodwyn moved back to a safe distance. She was not taking any risks. If the Oga Koya and the Na Idriss were terrified of a caged Sillian, Myfanwy should show more respect to a free one; insulting the creature was not wise. Even so she could not help admire the courage of Myfanwy and the two small Sislings.
The Sillian listened intently; strong as it was for its size, it did not have the sustained stamina of the radiation-power driven small Lings, still tugging at the trapdoor. If the two Sislings entered his inner sanctum in anger, they would sting and bite: this would mean certain death! (Sislings were the only Lings that could also sting as well as bite; to that effect they had longer abdomens to accommodate the sting, and were more insect-like in appearance).
Every intelligent living creature with imagination values life, even a despised, Bat-faced Sillian. There was still so much knowledge this alien wished to accumulate and ponder upon; so much more gossip to catch up on. What news of the Alter Dom for example? This deformed being had yet to visit the fourth Quadrent. It had not yet seen a Paradise tree or tasted a fat Festus Noope or a juicy, leaping Quilleian wombat: this alien was not ready to die. It was only ninety six thousands years old.
“It must be the Ling’s beautiful new Queen who was addressing him,” the alien reasoned. The Sillian’s two hearts began to go into overdrive, with equal measures of fear and excitement. The greatly admired, beautiful and respected rare Queen of the Star-worshiping Lings was at his trap door demanding its presence. The Sillian’s racing two hearts were now dangerously overheating his deformed body; this was a deadly combination for this lonely and predatory alien. The species was not used to this measure of excitement; Sillians have high blood pressure. Over excitement could kill!
The hideous alien knew it had to concede but not before confirmation was obtained. Proof was needed, for Sillians are cautious beings outside the protection of their deep, silken burrows especially in broad daylight
‘Who is at my trap-door demanding my presence?’ hisses the Sillian, ‘Are you the new Queen of the Lings…? A Changeling…? What are your intentions towards me…? Are your intentions hostile…? Have I offended your species?’ hisses the Sillian.
‘What is this? Twenty Questions?’ Replies the Queen of the Fairies.
‘If you don’t come out at once… I will lampoon you… you little deformed, sniveling cretin…giggle, giggle,’ she announces with glee, hand over mouth, still enjoying her new powers to be able to say what she liked, to whom she liked; this was total freedom – indeed a privilege of her high position and status within the Antares Cluster.
‘Really!’ thought Blodwyn standing at a safe distance. Myfanwy’s turn of phrase was hardly diplomatic, regal or even adult.’
Then movement at the trap-door! It was slowly and cautiously being lifted, revealing the dark, hideous screwed up face of a Bat-faced Sillian. Its half open mouth was agape in a nervous grin, exposing small but sharp pointed teeth. Immediately the two inquisitive Sislings begin to inspect the sinister alien, without fear; tugging, looking inside the being’s ears and sniffing its small head and pulling disgusted faces at the strong smell that rose from the alien, and permeated the still air.
‘Well damn my old boots – flaming hell!’ exclaims Myfanwy in a loud voice. ‘All species have a right and privilege to be ugly and smelly – but you are taking liberties with that privilege…phew what a pong – you smell worse than an old Mrs. Pettingel on a hot day in the library – and she hasn’t had a bath since the last king died.’
Immune to the insults of the Fairy Queen, the alien shaded its small black shiny, shortsighted eyes from the penetrating glare of the hot sun that was smiling down; insults were an occupational hazard and part of the nature of things.
‘Forgive me your Majesty, the strong musk we produce is for practical reasons… to give others of our species good warning to keep their distance…it is not to everyone’s taste.’
‘Phew…or not to everyone’s smell either.’ answers Myfanwy, ‘close your musk glands or turn them off whatever you do… before I puke all over you. And don’t breath on me. Your breath stinks like a rotten stoat with terminal halitosis.’
Ignoring the insults, the alien Sillian nimbly pulls itself clear of the trap-door. The creature quickly raised its long abdomen immediately above its small head in a perfect hand stand position, using its front four appendages. Two large spinnerets on its spider-like abdomen began producing wide bands of silk; moving from side to side it spun a canopy of gossamer overhead, shading its misshapen head and body from the bright, hot sun.
‘Errr…gross – disgusting!’ exclaims Myfanwy pulling a face, ‘the Silly-Anne has the bum of a spider and stinks like a duck’s fart. What a weird mother.’
Blodwyn found it difficult to believe this surreal scene was actually taking place in broad daylight, on the upper slopes of the Pandy Mountain, that warm June afternoon.
The misshapen Alien being studies Grunwalde Angharad, the Star worshiping Queen of the Fairies, with the screwed up eyes of the short sighted and moves a little closer for better focus.
‘Stop imbecile!’ Exclaims Grunwalde… ‘before you cast your shadow on my freckles.’
‘So…it is true!’ exclaims the Sillian, ‘as I was once told by a Dandy Indra… you are indeed exceptionally beautiful.’ The revolting creature then made a deep, respectful bow.
‘Ouccch!’ exclaims the Sillian still in a deep bow, but regaining his upright position sharply and rubbing his rear with a hooked appendage.
‘One of your Lings has just bitten or stung me your Majesty…it is difficult to ascertain which, by the severe pain…I hope it has not injected venom… if so I am done for,’ pleads the grotesque creature franticly rubbing its rear with a hooked appendage.
‘You would be dying by now – besides they need my permission to use venom,’ says the Queen of the Fairies. ‘That was just an exploratory little sting. They are curious little blighters but not stupid enough to bite you… I bet you taste horrid… like a dead, rotten pole cat.’
‘So… you mean me no harm?’ The Alien enquires with relief.
‘Not at the moment… unless… I change my mind of course.’
All the while Blodwyn could see the Sillian was trying to focus its small short-sighted eyes on her: she hoped it was not for future reference.
‘Then, I thank your Highness and I am honored at your presence,’ says the Sillian. ‘I would never have dreamt in all my dreams and fantasies that the beautiful new Queen of the Changelings would appear at my trap-door – commanding my presence.’
‘Well just don’t get carried away with your dreams and fantasies or get any fresh ideas, like trying to kiss my lovely feet in gratitude or asking me to marry you!’ warns Grunwalde, ‘besides what does a Silly-Anne know of Changelings? And keep it short – I don’t have all day.’
‘In far and distant times, you’re Highness,’ answers the deformed Alien, ‘our planet Syties-seven, was beautiful, covered in green forests, the shallow streams were sweet, spring fed…’
‘Already, you are boring me,’ complains Grunwalde Angharad.
‘Shush! Let the Sillian speak Myfanwy.’ Pipes up Blodwyn, interested in what the Alien Sillian had to say.
‘We Si
llians could fly then and loved the sunshine,’ continues the Alien. ‘We soared high in a clear purple sky as the rays of our three small suns gilded the distant mountain crests.’
‘I am falling asleep,’ warns the Fairy Queen.
‘Shut up Myfanwy!’ snaps Blodwyn, ‘listen to the Sillian.’
‘We Sillians,’ continues the Alien, ‘shared our planet with one other life-form – a beautiful blacked-haired Solara Changeling, the last of her kind. Her power saved us from the Yarbies. We worshiped the rare Changeling. She was our Goddess!’
‘Get to the point dick-head,’ says Grunwalde.
‘Stella pollution killed our Changeling and our planet. Pollution deformed our bodies. We lost our wings and became web-spinners. We hid our misshapen bodies underground and developed venom glands.’
‘You are boring me now,’ answers Myfanwy, ‘it’s all me, me, me, poor-me. You will be telling me next you had bulimia – never got any Christmas presents and needed counseling – only there were no counselors on your planet. On Earth however, if you spot a nasty looking spider while you are sitting on the toilet – or come across a frightening shaped tree – or see an aggressive looking cushion – you get counseling. If you tried to murder your parents with a chainsaw and they smack you – you receive counseling - your parents get twenty years.’
‘Myfanwy!’ snaps Blodwyn, fed up with her rambling instead of getting to the point, ‘I am warning you … stop going on. Look…’
Blodwyn continues, turning to the Sillian, ‘Terasils are not ready for aliens – you must leave.’
‘Is this Tarrea-two? In the second Quadrent?’ repeats the Sillian with surprise, ‘the planet called Earth by Terasils – the planet the Malis Afar evolved on and now wish to return to. This planet is not to my liking, the air is too rich in oxygen – I am already getting wrinkles from the strong gravitational pull. The grass-chewers here have wooly fur and are so dirty they have to be skinned…and I like a little skin with my meat.’