Spindrift

by Jonathan Broughton

  “Lovely aura, do you know how crazy that sounds?” I finish my tea with a single scalding gulp.

  “Not as crazy as I’d sound if I’d reported a spirit to the police!” she retorts.

  I leave.

  *

  Another break from work and Celandine calls to me over the fence.

  “Hello Jane. Good to see you.” She frowns. “You look exhausted. Come inside and have some coffee.”

  Celandine makes coffee while I watch the crystals revolving in the window as they refract the watery sunlight and cast rainbows on the freshly painted kitchen walls.

  She pours our drinks, then follows my gaze and tells me; “Phaethon is such a find, so practical and a wonderful cook.” She sips coffee, her bright eyes happy. She picks up a cushion cover and begins sewing on sequins.

  I am envious of her ability to be so relaxed. Having studied and worked hard all my life, my reward is exhaustion. How can it be that she supports herself through ‘alternative practices’ while my shifts become longer and longer? It’s so unfair.

  “He’s still here then.”

  She slips the finished cover over a cushion. “He will be gone soon.” She gives a sensual stretch. “Besides, I like having him here.”

  “He’s a young man, Celandine and you are a middle-aged woman. Your judgement seems even more impaired than normal if you’re suggesting what I think you are!”

  Her look is measured. “I can assure you my judgement is fine. Perhaps middle-aged is something you feel. I’ve said before that you need a proper break.”

  I protest. “My profession doesn’t allow me to just...”

  She holds up a hand. “I know your excuses, Jane. The importance of being efficient. Never making wrong decisions or unsubstantiated claims. No ‘stress leave’ without a psychiatrist’s report, which the very act of applying for suggests that you’re not fit for work.” She collects the empty mugs. “You know my argument: as long as people tolerate unreasonable thinking they will always be vulnerable. Take care Jane, our minds and bodies must always ensure that we get the rest we crave.”

  “Oh, it’s okay for you Celandine, things just slip into place for you.” I sound bitter but her talk of illness has frightened me. I do need a rest.

  She stands, her face flushed. “Nothing has just ‘slipped into place.’ I have trained myself to be open towards life and alternative thinking. Try it, the rewards are well worth the effort. Now excuse me. I have someone coming for crystal healing and I can’t have negative energy near my consultation room.”

  Unable to collect my thoughts and put up a rational argument, I decide that I need a long walk to calm me. At that moment, Phaethon materialises. He looks, well... I suppose... radiant.

  “Jane!” He smiles. “I’m going to the beach. Do keep me company.”

  A perfect opportunity to find out more about this man.

  *

  Hastings beach has that early morning emptiness, free of tourists with last night’s polystyrene containers, chip wrappings and empty beer cans strewn across the pebbles. The rain is holding off.

  Phaethon waves an elegant hand. “How beautiful this is. Look how calm the sea is and see those wonderful clouds sitting on the horizon. Their bases are as straight as if drawn with a ruler.”

  He selects a pebble and in one flowing, unbroken movement sends it skimming out to sea. I count the skips to stop myself thinking about the gracefulness of his body. “What are your plans, Phaethon?”

  He pulls a black bin bag from his jeans pocket. “I have only one plan, to make amends to my father and get back to the world where I belong. Perhaps you will help me collect seagull feathers.”

  I watch him examine feathers and curiosity gets the better of me. “Why do you have to make amends?”

  Looking rueful, he explains. “I disregarded my father’s wishes. It cost him a son.”

  I watch him out of the corner of my eye. I shouldn’t have asked. What a terrible burden. Too late to take it back. “How did your brother die?”

  He laughs. “Not my brother. Me! I am the son my father lost.”

  “Well, why don’t you just return home?” I snap, mortified at my mistake.

  He contemplates me. “Jane, I know this is hard for you, but the only way I can join my father is if I travel back through time the same way I left.”

  “Please don’t,” I implore. “If you and Celandine insist on carrying on this charade you obviously both think I’m stupid.”

  “You’re a rationalist, Jane. It has nothing to do with cleverness. The stories you hear as a child become buried beneath layers of education and unless you determine to hang onto the magic and wonder of such tales, the life of them is lost to you. You are exhausted because rational thinking rules your life. Open up, Jane and enjoy the time you have.”

  This is like a bad dream, full of veiled warnings about my health. I loathe his arrogance. This man has nothing. He arrived practically naked and now, wearing clothes belonging to Celandine’s brother, he is taking advantage of her naivety and thinks that he can fool me too. We drift towards the pier where men in yellow jackets and hard hats swarm wasp-like over its black skeleton.

  I control my anger and focus on finding out when he plans to leave. “How will you achieve this?”

  Phaethon chooses a feather. “I shall make a pair of wings and fly from the West Hill.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I exclaim. “You cannot be serious.”

  He holds the feather up. “Icarus’s wings were made of these and, of course, wax.” He frowns. “However, Icarus flew too close to the sun. I shan’t do that, so I shall succeed.”

  “Of course you will.” I ignore the small, sad feeling deep inside me. “You can do anything except prove who you are.” Turning up like a phantom, behaving like a deity, and treating me as a half-wit. He needs bringing down to earth. “I’m going to sort things for Celandine’s car boot sale. Collect your own feathers.”

  Unconcerned, he waves me goodbye. That evening, I drive to the police station on Bohemia Road.

  *

  Days and nights merge. One afternoon, after I return from work, Celandine calls to me over the fence. “I’ve been waiting for you, Jane. Come and see.”

  Inside her shed, I nod to Phaethon, but as I follow Jane’s gaze I see, hanging from the roof, a huge pair of wings. I stare at masses of tiny feathers, the undersides of fluffy clouds.

  Phaethon lowers the wings and, despite myself, I cannot deny the incredulous beauty of his workmanship. The surface of each wing has layer upon layer of feathers, each graded according to size. Gently, he spreads a wing and I wonder at the perfect reconstruction. How has he managed to make something so intricate, so fantastic?

  He smiles that smile at me. “I am flying first thing tomorrow, from the top of the West Hill as the sun rises. Come with us.”

  I sound like some doom-laden crone, but one of us has to be practical. “The wings are amazing, but you are both unhinged. Phaethon will end up at best badly injured or worse, dead.”

  They laugh. Phaethon takes my hand and warmth floods my body. He lays my hand on a wing; the depth of so many layers of feathers is miraculous. I snatch my hand back. “How will you launch yourself? Your body weight will drag you down.”

  “I jump off the cliff edge using the ‘Ridge lift’ to gain height. I’m lighter than you would think Jane and I shall use thermal currents to stay airborne.”

  Celandine holds up a jacket with dangling harnesses. “I made this for Phaethon. The wings attach to it.”

  He smiles at her and turns to me. “Let’s go and have a drink.”

  Like a sleepwalker, I drift into Celandine’s house where she lights incense.

  “Phaethon’s talents are out of this world and his skills are quite breath-taking.” She gives a deep chuckle.

  I feel bile rise. Incense always makes me nauseous.

  She continues. “Sadly, the police are coming to the house tomorrow to investigate Phaethon. However, f
irst he must try his wings out. The van hired for the boot sale will be perfect for transporting the wings and so it makes sense to go to the West Hill early.”

  About to decline their earlier invite, I hesitate. Accompanying them will allow me to keep an eye on Phaethon and make sure that he doesn’t abscond before the police catch up with him. I’m also curious to see how he will wriggle out of pretending to be a spirit when faced with the reality of hurling himself off a cliff!

  *

  It is still dark the next morning as we park on the West Hill. But in the east, the sky grows light.

  Celandine and Phaethon lift out the wings and attach them to the jacket. We climb to Hastings castle carrying the wings between us. A thick mist adds to the dreamlike quality of the expedition. We halt at the cliff edge.

  “Now we wait for the wind.” Phaethon’s voice is confident.

  “And of course the right wind will arrive.” My voice sounds muffled.

  “Come, stand beside me Jane.” Feeling insubstantial, I go to him. He slips an arm across my shoulders and points west. “See those cumulus clouds with darker bases? They signify active thermals with light winds, perfect for thermal riding.”

  He moves away and I feel the cold morning air. He slips the harness jacket over his shoulders. The wings, sewn along the arms, fold against his back.

  Celandine buckles straps. “I’ve done an incantation and set pebbles as I did the night we found Phaethon.”

  Memories of my nightmare that night flood back, but I dismiss them, preferring to anticipate the moment when Celandine has to face reality and admit that I have been right all along.

  A wind picks up. Phaethon kisses Celandine, waves to me and then runs with surprising speed. I hold my breath, willing him to stop, but to my absolute horror he opens the wings and leaps into nothingness.

  I breathe out as he drifts above Swan Pool then, gaining height, glides eastwards over the fishing boats as the west wind blows him out to sea. At that moment, the sun rises and blinded by its rays, I close my eyes. When I open them again, only gulls move in the sky.

  *

  Back at Celandine’s, I drink sweet tea to recover from my shock. “Well, the wings were certainly well made, but he’ll soon be exhausted. Hopefully a boat will pick him up.”

  She asks; “Do you know about the myth of Phaethon?”

  “Yes, yes. He took his father’s chariot, lost control of the horses, scorched the earth and Zeus, angry at the chaos, killed him with a thunderbolt.”

  Celandine continues. “That’s right. Now, whenever his spirit returns to this world he uses the opportunity to impress his father. You see, it’s always about flying and keeping control. It also happens to be the only way that he can return...”

  “No!” I protest. Trying to think feels like being smothered in cotton wool. “Phaethon is ancient myth. The rest is just poppycock. Give up, Celandine.”

  “Sorry Jane, this is one you’ve lost. Phaethon and I knew you’d go to the police, despite him telling you the truth.”

  I stare at her. “How will you explain Phaethon to them? They’ll think you’re mad, perhaps you are. Maybe you should be locked up, irrational beliefs are very dangerous.”

  “Jane, I don’t have to do anything. You will be the one having to do the explaining, because there’s no evidence that Phaethon was ever here. My concern is for you. Penalties for wasting police time are severe. Then there are the repercussions at work. However,” she smiled. “Look on the bright side, you will get that break you need.”

  I start. Struggle to focus.

  A thunderous knocking on the front door echoes through the house.

  Mountain...

  by J Ballard

  Once I had a mountain,

  a large and lumpy thing.

  I washed and dried and dusted it,

  and kept it on a string.

  I decided, when I had the time,

  to pack a picnic lunch and climb

  and when I reached the top I’d sing

  and shout aloud that I was king

  of all the world and everything.

  I started up my mountain

  and for hours without a stop,

  I stumbled and I scrambled on

  until I reached the top.

  And, as I looked around, I saw

  a million mountains, maybe more,

  and on each one an endless sea

  of little people just like me,

  all shouting out with all their might

  that they alone deserved the right

  to be the undisputed king

  of all the world and everything.

  It seems that climbing mountains is an ordinary thing,

  and everybody wants to reach the top and be the king.

  I turned around and climbed back down,

  and, when I finally reached the ground,

  decided I would just be me,

  the person I was meant to be,

  and so ...

  ... I set my mountain free.

  The Guardian

  by Robin Grady

  Inspired by the one hundredth anniversary of the Great War, I wanted to describe the awful conditions the conflict was fought under and in small measure applaud the bravery of the participants.

  The fantastic element of the story stems from an incident recorded during the Battle of Mons, where many soldiers claimed to have seen legions of angels fighting on the British side.

  Since writing this story, I have been introduced to the Wilfred Owen poem, ‘Dulce et Decorum Est’ which describes the reality much better than my efforts.

  My feet really hurt. I hadn’t unlaced my soaking boots for two days and was frightened of what I might find when I did.

  Four days ago, the section had received an issue of ‘soldiers’ comforts,’ packages from a Home Counties charity. The gift had included knitted mittens, a balaclava and some beautiful thick socks.

  There hadn’t been time to take advantage of any of these before now and clasping the issue, I hobbled to the dugout which was cut into the enemy facing side of the trench and by the light of a sputtering candle, unwound my puttees and removed my boots.

  My feet looked and smelled putrid. Two great white lumps with dirty broken nails and pale peeling skin. As the air reached the lesions in the flayed areas, I experienced a sharp, stabbing pain.

  Thomas Connon, the platoon first-aider, had transformed one corner of the dugout into a store for his dressings and medications. He observed my activities. “They don’t look healthy, Charlie.”

  “If that is the best you can offer, shut up,” I responded.

  Connon contemplated the offending appendages while stuffing his briar with army issue tobacco. He applied a match and was instantly enveloped in a blue cloud of fog. Through the fug, he issued an edict. “Dry them as best you can, then dust them with the powder I have on the shelf. Put plenty in your socks, it will help.”

  I recovered a damp, grimy towel from my knapsack and dried and ministered to my feet as instructed. I rolled on the new socks and stretched my feet towards the brazier that burned in the dugout day and night.

  The feeling of comfort and wellbeing was indescribable.

  “Carter, Corporal Carter, NCO’s briefing in five minutes.” The runner’s call penetrated the dugout.

  Slowly and painfully I pulled on and laced my damp boots and wrapped the puttees.

  “I hope I don’t see you later, bonny lad,” said Connon. “Do try to look after your feet.”

  I fought my way through the double blackout tarpaulins which covered the dugout’s entrance and made my way down the trench to the officer’s bunker. It was already twilight and I had to step carefully to avoid the gaps between the duckboards. Murmurs of greeting and banter accompanied me from the men on stand-to on the fire steps.

  Smoke from the brazier and the officers’ pipes and cigarettes filled the dugout.

  “Pay attention,” said the captain. “We need two forward observati
on posts into no-man’s land tonight. Harris, Carter, your sections. Leave two men at the wire for cover and take the remainder forward about fifty yards. Observe, listen and if Jerry is patrolling, try to nab a prisoner. I want you all back inside the trench before first light.”

  I stared at Harris keeping my face expressionless.

  Since the casualties from our last attack, our two sections were seriously depleted and we were inevitably given the task of forward patrol and observation. The remaining sections could provide more men to defend the trench in the event of an attack. At least that was the captain’s belief.

  “Now, the good news,” he said. “I want you to delay your start by about an hour. We should get a mule train delivery, including hot food after dark and you should get your men fed before you jump off.” Harris almost smiled.

  Hot food, rather than bully beef and hard tack biscuits was a rare treat. The troops boiled potatoes on their braziers and the more competent made bully stew with crushed biscuits, but real food...

  Making my way back to the dugout in the increasing darkness, I was even more careful to keep my feet on the duckboards.

  I called the surviving six members of the section together and briefed them on the intended nocturnal activities. All of them had managed to shave, but their uniforms were filthy. No amount of beating and brushing could remove the mud from their greatcoats and breeches. In reality the mud stains provided a degree of additional camouflage in daylight. The only clean items about their persons were their Lee-Enfield rifles and the sword bayonets that could be fixed to the barrels.

  The food was wonderful, lamb chops in gravy with real vegetables, hot tea with a splash of rum. But then the real business had to begin.

  I selected the two men who were to remain at the entrance to the barbed wire barrier that fronted the trenches. The choice was easy, Johnny Thomas is a rotten shot and very short sighted and Lefty Wright had a cough that he couldn’t control. They brought a length of groundsheet to lie on and made themselves as comfortable as possible. I confirmed that they remembered the password and stressed they must only doze one at a time.

  We mounted the fire step and then slithered over the lip of the trench and through the gap in the barbed wire.

  We stayed low. Both sides fired random star shells at night in an effort to expose parties in no-man’s land and such exposure might result in sniping or a burst of machine-gun fire.