Monkey Business [1]

Image found on Pixabay by Viki B

Guest Fiction by Pamela Cleaver

Peter Newman was afraid of the dark, he had been ever since he was tiny but when they moved to the Captain’s Cottage it became worse. In the daytime he could believe that there was nothing horrible in his bedroom, but as soon as his mother said goodnight and turned his light out, the most terrifying thoughts came into his head. He would lie in bed rigid with fear, unable to move in case the tiniest noise or movement on his part attracted the nameless horrors that he felt sure were lying in wait for him. He couldn’t even call Mum back because he was sure that the very moment the light went out, his voice no longer functioned and that he became mute.

Before they moved it hadn’t been so bad because he had a nightlight beside his bed, a tiny china cottage with a little bulb inside which lit up the windows and made them glow in a cheerful, comforting way: while the light shone from the little rose-covered cottages with its simulated thatched roof, it kept the imagined horrors at bay and he was able to go to sleep.

Unfortunately all that changed when they moved to the country. When he first heard they were going, Peter was quite shocked to discover that the house he’d been born in, and which he’d lived the nine years of his life, would no longer be his home. He resented the house in the country which his parents took him to see. It was an old cottage with creaky floorboards and crooked dark beams that held the bulging walls together and the sloping ceilings up.

His mother was very excited, it was just what she’d always wanted, she said, and gleefully showed him the big fireplace in the sitting room around which, she promised, they would sit and roast chestnuts. His father pointed out how much bigger the garden was than the little one they had in the town.

“Great for football!” he told Peter. 

But to Peter the house seemed big and echoing, cold and somehow menacing, and he felt like a traitor even thinking of leaving the comfortable little house in which he’d always lived. However nothing he said or did would make his parents change their minds.

“You’ll soon get used to it,” his father said heartily when Peter said tentatively that he did not like the new house.

“You’ll soon make new friends,” his mother told him briskly when he had cried out in anguish on discovering that he’d have to go to a different school in the new area. Peter doubted it, he was a loner, not the sort of boy who made friends easily.

As moving day approached, Peter got increasingly gloomy but his parents, although busy packing up and sorting out, were too pleased and happy to notice. Big, burly moving men invaded Peter’s house and began carrying bits of furniture out through the front door, packing books and ornaments into crates and finally rolling the carpets up and carrying them over their shoulders like inert bodies until their whole home was crammed into one vast pantechnicon and driven away. Peter and his parents took one last look round the forlorn, empty house, slammed the front door for the final time then jumped into their car to follow the pantechnicon.

Sitting in the car, Peter could not stop the tears rolling down his cheeks; his mother was tired but not sad like him, and his father showed no emotion at all.

“You’re a funny boy,” his mother smiled, “once we get to Captain’s Cottage and are settled in with all our own things round us, you’ll love it – just you wait and see.”

Peter nodded, but he didn’t quite believe it.

They arrived as the autumn daylight was fading, so the first night at Captain’s cottage was a muddle. Getting the kitchen straight so they could eat was the first job, and making the beds up was the next. None of the big boxes containing their personal possessions were to be unpacked until the following day, so Peter’s bedroom at the top of the house with its tiny latticed window and sloping ceiling under the roof only had his bed, his desk and his chair in it. No little china house to give him the comforting light so his mother agreed “just this once,” to keep the landing light on and the door ajar. 

That allayed his night fears, but he did not sleep very well because of the unfamiliarity of the place and the strange creaking noises the old house made, as if it were stretching and easing its bones, when the central heating went off.

The next day was a turmoil of unpacking, sorting and arranging old familiar things in new places. In spite of himself, Peter enjoyed unpacking his books and toys and deciding where to put them in his new room. But when he got to the bottom of the second crate he let out a cry of horror and dismay. His little china house that had given him light and comfort for so long was smashed into dozens of little pieces.

“Afraid not, old son,” his father said, “just like my shaving mirror – come and see what those clumsy oafs have done to that!”

But looking at his father’s breakage did not make Peter feel any better – especially as Dad could buy a new mirror and his little house could not be replaced; Mum said they just did not make them any more.

“Can I have something else – some other kind of night light?”

His parents exchanged glances.

“I don’t think you should dear,” his mother said, “you’re nearly ten, you’re getting too old for a nightlight now.”

Peter pleaded, but his parents had made up their minds – new house, new ways. Peter had to learn to be brave and go to sleep in the dark. They were not even prepared to let him have the landing light on outside, although they said he could have the door ajar so that he could call out to them if he was really frightened. He tried to explain that his voice just would not work in the dark when he was scared, but his mother just laughed.

“Nonsense Peter, you just imagine these things.”

So bedtime on the second night at the new house was truly terrible for Peter. He tried to put off the evil moment for as long as possible, keeping Mum close by asking for an extra pillow, an unwanted glass of water, all sorts of things. Finally his mother’s patience gave out.

“Look love,” she said, “I’m really, really tired and in no mood for games. Just settle down. Tell yourself a nice story and before you can say Jack Robinson, you’ll be asleep. I’m leaving the door ajar so if you want me you can call out, but please don’t get me up all these stairs unless it’s really important.” She kissed his cheek, tucked the bedcovers in firmly, walked to the door and switched off the light. “Go to sleep, Peter and stop worrying, there’s nothing to be frightened of, truly there isn’t.”

The landing light snapped off and Peter heard her footsteps clicking busily on the uncarpeted steps as she went downstairs. He heard her pause on the next landing where her bedroom, the bathroom and the spare room were. Another light clicked off as she left that landing and went down to the ground floor to join Dad in the sitting room.

Peter was in complete darkness and he’d never felt so alone or lonely before. His throat was dry and he knew that, however much he wanted to, he couldn’t call out for his voice was useless. Nor could he get out of bed and run to the door to put on the landing light, because if he were to move THEY would know he was there, but as long as he kept still he was safe from THEIR attention. Who THEY were, Peter couldn’t have told you, he just felt that shapeless, formless things of a malevolent kind were lurking in his room, intent on doing him harm

He lay stiffly in bed with his eyes wide open, but he could see nothing but velvet blackness; his heart was pounding madly, he wanted to call out, to scream even though it would alert THEM. He opened his mouth and tried, but no sound came out. He tried to take deep breaths and to imagine his little china house with the light streaming from its windows was still beside him, but that only made him unhappier and his fear fed upon his unhappiness. Peter’s ears seemed to  stretch as he listened for sounds of THEM, but there was nothing to hear, no sound in the house at all.

He had lain there terrified and unmoving for some time when he heard soft footsteps on the bare boards of the staircase. What was that? He wondered with a new stab of fear. The steps approached his room then a soft voice spoke.

“Peter, are you alright fella? Are you asleep yet?” It was his Dad.

He opened his mouth to reply: No I am not alright, I am frightened, please take me out of this room. But no sounds would come. He heard the soft footsteps retreating, then on the landing below he heard a murmur.

“He’s OK, fast asleep. It was all his imagination. I told you he’d be alright.”

He heard Mum give a soft laugh and then a door closed and he was alone again – still as frightened as ever.

To be continued …

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Bonnie and the Chico (3)

A sci-fi children’s story about a girl living on a space station with an automated ‘nanny’ robot (written in 1974)

Guest Author Pamela Cleaver

Image of a cute robot from the stock pictures on Pixabay

Read Part 1 and Part 2 first, or dive in here.

Not long after the chico had to step in for her mother, and recount a bedtime story, Bonnie had her eleventh birthday which meant that she had to take her examinations which would decide her future career and what sort of training she should have. There were physical tests, oral tests and written tests and Bonnie was very nervous about what the outcome would be. The chico accompanied her to the education centre but was not allowed to go with her into to examination room and Bonnie had a chilly feeling when she knew that she would have to rely on herself alone. There would be no memory banks to help her this time.

The tests were gruelling and the papers hard. For once Bonnie gave every bit of her attention to her work and concentrated as never before to marshal the facts and express herself clearly. She did not want to leave her parents who surrounded her with love and understanding and go to live among strangers and above all, she did not want to leave her chico, who now seemed almost like another part of herself.

Her mother was waiting for her when she got home after the exams. “Do you think you did well, dear?”

“It’s hard to tell,” said Bonnie with a sigh, “but we shall know tomorrow when we hear the results.”

The chico was behaving strangely. He was rolling back and forth across the room on his castors, he was whirring and clicking as if he had got hiccups. Mrs Aldridge gave him a startled look. If he had been human, she would have said he was pacing up and down muttering to himself, the very picture of nervous anxiety – but she knew this could not be for robots have no emotions. She made a mental not to get a cybernetic expert to check him over.

Next day, Bonnie and Mrs Aldridge had an appointment at the education centre to see Bonnie’s teacher and hear the results of the exam. As her mother was coming too, Bonnie did not have to take the chico with her. When she told him to stay in her room and wait until she got back, she thought she heard a curious humming noise coming from the robot, almost like the buzzing of an angry insect.

At the education centre, Bonnie and Mrs Aldridge were greeted by a beaming teacher. “Well Bonnie,” she said, “you did better than I dared to hope. There is no question now of you having to go to earth to boarding school. Bonnie has been selected to be a story-teller Mrs Aldridge,” she explained to Bonnie’s mother. “We always knew that Bonnie had a vivid imagination but it was very undisciplined and unsuited to our times. Many of the stories that she has written in the past have been totally irrelevant to modern society, but in her exam she produced a piece of work that combined the old with the new, that interpreted old ideas in a new way.

“We anticipate that she will become the creator of talking books and video-tapes. Of course she will need special training but we can have the tapes of the course sent here and she can continue to work at home. What do you think of that Bonnie?”

Bonnie was dazed. She managed to say something appropriate and went off into a rosy dream of the future, scarcely hearing what her mother and teacher were saying as they discussed her future in greater detail.

On their way home, Mrs Aldridge asked Bonnie about the story that had so impressed the examiners.

“You see, Mum, I often used to write fairy tales for my homework,” she said, “sometimes ones you had told me and sometimes ones I made up myself. The teacher used to correct them severely. I was always being told that princes and dragons had no place in today’s world, so in my exam I was very careful. Do you remember the time you couldn’t get home and the chico told me a fairy tale? I explained how he had translated all the olden-day, fairy tale things into modern ones. Well, I wrote that story just as he told it to me.”

“But Bonnie, it was the chico’s story that got you through your exam not one of your own. What will you do when he is not there beside you to convert the stories?”

“Oh I can do it myself now,” said Bonnie confidently, “I see exactly how he did it. Anyway, there will be lots of time for you to tell him and me fairy tales and for him to retell them in his own way. That will give me plenty of ideas.”

When they got home, Bonnie rushed to her room to tell the chico what had happened, while Mrs Aldridge put through a video call to her husband to tell him the good news. While Bonnie told the chico everything that had happened, his circuits whirred and clicked smoothly and contentedly. When she had finished, Bonnie gave the chico a big hug round his metal chest, although she feared he would not know how to interpret it.

“Oh Chico,” she said, “I’m so happy. I shall be able to hear the stories the old way from Mummy and the new way from you and I shan’t have to leave you for ages. You will still be my very own, lovable Chico. I do love you Chico, although I don’t suppose your circuits will understand that.”

But they obviously did for the chico said in his metallic voice, “And we shall all live happily ever after!”

Bonnie and the chico (2)

A sci-fi children’s story written in 1974 about a girl living on a space station with an automated ‘nanny’ robot

Guest Author Pamela Cleaver

Image courtesy of Jhonatan_Perez on Pixabay

You can read part 1 here

Next morning, during the shower / dressing / breakfast routine, the chico continued to ask questions which Bonnie answered until all the unfamiliar terms in the fairy tale had been explained.

“Funny old chico,”Bonnie thought affectionately, “he doesn’t meed t know about fairy tales, but I suppose he can’t bear me to know something he doesn’t understand.” And then Bonnie forgot all about it as the days went by and she continued to do her lessons with the chico’s help, played games with him at the recreation centre, played rocket and freefall (a kind of snakes and ladders) or 3D-solitaire with him at home. She shared with him the bedtime stories Mrs Aldridge told about electronic gadgetry or old-fashioned wizardry. As time went by, Bonnie became fonder of her chico, she could not imagine how she had ever got along without him.

Once a month a big supply freighter was sent out from earth to bring the moon-colonists their supplies. It was a busy day for the adults on the moon when it arrived, they would go down to the unloading bay to collect their own personal freight containers which held their mail and anything they had ordered from earth over and above the standard issue of rations and clothing. The colonists liked to talk to the crew of the earth ship too, to hear all the latest news that was not important enough to appear in the telecast news bulletins, but that was nevertheless interesting.

Usually the whole operation ran smoothly and efficiently and took up no more than a few hours, but on one occasion there was a hitch in the docking procedure which took far longer than usual and Mrs Aldridge found herself still at the unloading bay at the time she was due at Bonnie’s bedside to tell her a story. She called her up on the vision-phone.

“I am terribly sorry darling, but I can’t get home in time to tell you a story tonight; be a good girl and settle down on your own. Perhaps you could play a video tape just this once?”

Bonnie could see from her mother’s image on the screen that she was upset.

“Don’t worry, she said, “I’ll get Chico to tell me a story – he’s listened to all of yours.”

Mrs Aldridge’s frown cleared. “What a good idea! Alright darling, you do that. I’ll look in on you when I get home. See you in the morning, love.” Bonnie said goodnight and the screen went blank.

Bonnie got herself ready for bed and climbed in under the covers. “Chico,” she said, “please tell me a story – one of the ones you’ve heard Mum tell.”

The chico settled himself beside the bed, whirred and clicked a little as he scanned his memory banks and then began to speak in his metallic voice. “Once upon a time, the son of the moonbase director …”

Bonnie interrupted. “That’s not one of Mum’s stories. There isn’t one about the son of a moonbase director.”

“Yes there is,” contradicted the chico. “This is a story about a prince. You told me that a prince was the son of the most important man in the community: the most important man here is the moonbase director so therefore, the prince must be his son. Please do not interrupt, you will disrupt my circuits.”

Bonnie saw at once what had happened – all the fairy story words the chico had learned had been explained to him by Bonnie, and he had substituted words that he understood and was used to. Robots are very logical, they have no imagination and can only interpret the information in their memory banks in the terms they have been programmed to use. Bonnie apologised gravely and promised not to interrupt again.

“Once,” said the chico beginning again, “the son of the moon-base director decided it was time that he made his way in the community so he set out in search of an adventure. He climbed into his speedy white moon-buggy and followed the track that led north, for he had heard that the daughter of a neighbouring planet director was being held prisoner by a wicked genetic engineer.”

“I see,” said Bonnie hugging herself gleefully, “the prince on his dashing white charger rode out to rescue a princess who was imprisoned by an evil enchanter.”

“That is just what I have said,” said the chico severely, “please do not interrupt. When the moonbase director’s son, whose name was Gid, arrived at the dome of the genetic engineer, he could not at first get in for the entire complex was surrounded by an impenetrable force field.”

“The castle was surrounded by a huge, thick thorn hedge,” muttered Bonnie to herself, but so quietly that the chico did not hear.

“Using his government issue laser gun, Gid short-circuited the force field and drove his moon buggy through. There was a small viewing aperture high in the dome,” went on the chico, “and through it he could see the poor prisoner. She had long gold-coloured hair wound in spring coils and scanners the colour of copper sulphate crystals and he thought her very beautiful.

“Then Gid stopped, for placed in front of the entry airlock of the dome was a huge flame thrower with fire streaming from its nozzle, its scanners casting about from side to side. Gid paused and wondered how he was going to bypass this terrible hazard.”

“Oh good, a dragon!” thought Bonnie. 

“Now Gid remembered,” said the chico, “that once he had done a good turn for a female biologist who had rewarded him with a secret formula to render him non-visible to human eyes and non-detectable to electric scanners. A friendly pharmacist had made up the formula for him and he always carried it with him in a small capsule in case of need. Now he saw a use for it and, taking it from the pocket of his life support suit, he carefully poured it over himself. As soon as the solution had penetrated the fabric of his suit, he crept towards the flame-thrower. Its huge scanners cast from side to side, but Gid was undetectable. Taking care to keep out of reach of the scorching flames, he made his way round and behind it to the airlock that gave entrance to the dome.”

Having told, in his own fashion, how Gid used the magic potion given to him by a witch and made up by an apothecary to become invisible and thus bypassed the dragon guarding the doorway of the enchanter’s castle, the chico continued his story, telling how Gid (now visible again) came face to face with a miniature robot (a dwarf) who was guarding the prisoner’s room and immobilised it by removing its activating device (used a spell to turn it into stone), broke the circuits on the door (picked the lock) and rescued the planet director’s daughter.

Once they were outside the dome they met a huge bulldozer whose horrid habit it was to scoop children up and crush them to dust (a child-eating ogre who ground children’s bones to make his bread). But Gid put it out of action with his trusty laser beam (ran him through with his sword) and, disconnecting the flame-thrower’s fuel source (killing the dragon), he escaped with the girl in the moon buggy. When they got back to base, both directors were overjoyed to see their children again and promised that when they were married, they should have a planet of their own to direct (the kings promised them a kingdom of their own) and they all lived happily ever after.

When the chico came to the end of this highly original fairy tale, Bonnie thanked him, told him it was lovely and settled down happily to sleep.

When her mother came to see her next morning, Bonnie said. “Oh Mum, you should have heard the chico’s story, it was marvellous. He told me one of your fairy tales but he converted all the magic ideas into modern things. I liked your version better, but his was fun.”

To be continued …

Bonnie and the Chico

A children’s story in the sci-fi genre written by my mother in 1974. Technological developments have overtaken some of its ‘futuristic’ content, but it still works on most levels

Guest Author Pamela Cleaver

Image courtesy of Jhonatan_Perez on Pixabay

In the year 2084, the scientists put their heads together and invented something for which all children everywhere were very grateful. What they invented was a special robot programmed to be a child’s companion who would play games with him, help him with his projects, tidy up his toys and keep him out of danger.

The robots were known as chicos because they were children’s companions and the inventors took the first three letters of ‘children’ and the first two letters of ‘companion’ to give them their name. The world government approved the invention and had it put into instant production. Eventually there would be a chico for every child, but it was decreed that the first batch should be sent to children whose parents were stationed in isolated, off-earth outposts.

Bonnie Aldridge was very excited when her chico arrived. She was a quiet little girl, inclined to be dreamy, who did not make friends easily. She lived with her parents who were technicians at one of the experimental depots on the moon. Although there were other children among the families who lived under the big dome where earth conditions were simulated, there was no-one just her age and she was often lonely and bored. She spent a lot of time with her mother because her father was a member of the team who were conducting mineral surveys and was consequently away from home for weeks at a time.

But the arrival of the chico changed Bonnie’s life and her mother’s too. When Mrs Aldridge saw how happy and safe Bonnie was with her electronic playmate, she felt able to take up full-time work at the research laboratory.

Bonnie took to the chico at once. Of course it did not look like a person exactly – it’s head was dome-shaped but it had scanners instead of eyes, auditory sensors instead of ears and a broadcasting unit instead of a mouth. Its body was square and solid and made of metal which contained many intricate computer components. Its arms were strong and jointed, but instead of hands it had lifting and holding appliances. Its legs were rigid and it moved on castors. The chico was the same height as Bonnie and in spite of its metal and perspex exterior, it looked very endearing to a child’s eyes; if it had been made of soft material, you might even have said it was cuddly.

Bonnie found that, unlike the children she had played with before, the chico was never bored with what she wanted to do, it never argued or sulked and it never spoke unless it was spoken to. Also, it remembered things that Bonnie forgot, it did a great many of her chores for her and was always ready to help.

To begin with, Bonnie thought of the choco as ‘it’ but as she got to know the robot, as they talked to each other, the chico came to assume a personality for Bonnie and she thought of him as someone called Choco who was ‘he’ not ‘it’.

In the mornings when the pillow alarm woke Bonnie, the choco (who always switched himself off for the night when Bonnie fell asleep) was automatically activated.

“Time to get up, Bonnie,” the chico’s metallic voice would announce.

When Bonnie went into the shower to be sprayed, soaped, rinsed and warm-air-dried, the chico waited outside then handed her her clothes for the day. When Bonnie went through to the kitchen to dial her breakfast, the chico would come too; not to eat, of course, but in case Bonnie wanted a little companionable conversation. After breakfast, Bonnie and the chico would visit Mrs Aldridge in her room to get their instructions for the day before she left for the lab.

Bonnie and the chico would then go back to Bonnie’s room where, sitting at her television console, Bonnie would tune into the school channel for her day’s work. While Bonnie listened and tried to absorb her lessons, the chico stationed himself beside her and listened too, his circuits clicking and whirring as he stored the information. Later, after they had spent the afternoon at the recreation centre together with other children and their chicos, it would be homework time and if Bonnie had forgotten anything, the chico’s infallible memory banks would help her out.

It was very important that Bonnie should do well at her school-work because in the twenty-first century, nothing was ever allowed to go to waste, whether it was raw material or something that had been used but could be recycled, living space or human potential. The authorities tested each child early in its life and demanded that it should achieve the goals of which it was capable. If Bonnie’s work fell below the standard required, she knew she would be sent to earth to a school where the supervision ws close and the conditions strict. Bonnie was too dreamy and too careless to get the necessary high marks all the time and she had already been warned that, unless she improved, she would be sent to a boarding school on earth.

When her homework was done, Bonnie rolled up the sheets of written work, put them in a message shuttle and dropped it into the flow chute to travel along to the central computer where it would be rerouted to her teacher. The teacher corrected the exercise and by morning, it had travelled back the same way to the Aldridge home. Often Bonnie’s work would be covered with red ink marks with comments at the bottom like ‘you have not made it clear what you mean’ or ‘do this again more carefully’ or ‘you have allowed your imagination to run away with you – stick to the facts.’

Her work began to improve after Chico’s arrival, but her teacher still considered that she used her imagination too much. Besides being a dreamy person, Bonnie’s imagination was fed by the bedtime stories her mother told her. Mrs Aldridge knew it was old-fashioned – most mothers used video tapes or talking books instead, but because she was out all day at work, she felt that a shared story hour brought them closer together. It was traditional in their family too – Bonnie’s granny had been a great teller of tales.

Mostly Mrs Aldrige told Bonnie stories about journeys into space, adventures among aliens on far-off planets or tales of engineering projects which were the kind of stories the children of the twenty-first century liked best. But sometimes she told stories about the olden days on earth, when strange people called cowboys rode animals called horses or about pirates, who were ruthless men who sailed the oceans in search of treasure – not the modern robbers of space. Occasionally she told Bonnie even stranger tales handed down through the family called fairy stories.

She had to explain many strange ideas to Bonnie so she could understand them. She told her about princes and princesses, witches and ogres, giants and dragons and about magic; those things were totally alien to a little girl who had grown up on the moon in the twenty-first century. Very few children knew about them as fairy tales were quite out of fashion, but Bonnie loved them and it was because she sometimes used ideas from them in her school-work that her teacher found it unacceptable.

The chico always listened to the stories too. As Bonnie lay warm and content in her bed, listening to her mother’s soothing voice, the chico would glide about the room on silent casters, tidying away the things Bonnie had used during the day and getting clothes out for the next day. As the chico listened, his circuits would whirr as he absorbed and stored the information.

One day, soon after the chico’s arrival, Mrs Aldridge was telling Bonnie a fairy tale and the chico’s circuits whirred and clicked as he listened. Chirr-clk, chirrr-clk went the wheels, dials and tapes inside his metal body. Robots are not programmed to have feelings, but his circuits were unable to process the data, so many words Mrs Aldridge was using were completely unfamiliar and had no meaning for him.

“This does not compute,” he spoke quietly in his synthesised voice, but nevertheless his memory banks stored the story.

After Mrs Aldridge had kissed Bonnie goodnight and left her, the chico took the unusual step of speaking without first being spoken to.

“Bonnie,” he began, “that story did not compute. I have insufficient data.”

Bonnie was feeling drowsy but she was a polite child so she answered. “What do you want to know, Chico?”

“What is a prince?”

“He is the son of a king – that means the most important man in the community.”

Chico’s circuits whirred and clicked. “Thank you. What is a dragon?”

“A very large monster that breathes fire.”

Chirrr-clk  “Thank you. What is a charger?”

“A horse, a horse is a creature that takes the prince very fast wherever he wants to go.”

More whirring and clicking. “And what is a dwarf?”

Bonnie’s voice became slower. She was getting very sleepy. “A very small – magic – person …” and before she could finish her sentence, she was asleep.

The chico, because that was the way he was programmed, turned himself off and would not be re-activated until Bonne woke again.

To be continued …

The Mermaid’s Pearls – A Fairytale

Photo courtesy of Mysticartdesign on Pixabay

by Guest Author Pamela Cleaver

Once upon a time, there was a greedy fisherman called Joel. Everyone thought he was poor because he never seemed to spend any money. His wife, Mara, went about in a ragged dress and his son, Peter, ran barefoot. The fisherman worked hard catching fish to sell, but instead of using his money to buy Mara a new dress or shoes for Peter, he put his gold and silver into leather bags and hid them under the floorboards.

Besides being greedy, Joel was bad-tempered. He spoke crossly to Mara although she kept the house neat and always had hot food waiting when he came home with his catch. He was always scolding Peter although the boy did everything he could to help his father.

One day, Joel and Peter were out at sea, casting the net and drawing it in then tipping the fish into the boat. That day they had done well, the bottom of the boat was a mass of wriggling, shimmering silver fish. Greedy Joel rubbed his hands.

“This is a fine catch,” he said to Peter. “It’ll earn me a tidy sum.” He looked up at the sun. “Just time for one more cast,” he said.

Out went the net into the calm sea, the centre sinking while floats kept the edges bobbing on the surface. Joel waited a while, then began to haul it in.

“Lend a hand, lazy boy!” he shouted at Peter. “The net’s really heavy. There must be hundreds of fish in it.”

Joel was pleased and hauled away with a will, his muscles bulging. Peter pulled too, adding his small strength to Joel’s. Their arms were getting tired, but still they pulled , Peter wanting to please his father and Joel thinking greedily of the money he would put under the floor when he sold his record catch.

What a surprise they had! They hadn’t caught hundreds of silver fish, but one enormous fish with green scales. They were even more surprised as they wrestled with the slippery tail to discover that the front half was like the body of a human woman.

“It’s a mermaid!” cried Joel, “I’ve heard tell of such creatures but I thought they were nought but fishermen’s yarns.”

When the mermaid was freed from the net, she sat with her green scaly tail resting on the pile of silver fish. Her skin was pale green, her long golden hair hung down to her waist and her eyes were as blue as the summer sea. Her hands, tipped with mother-of-pearl fingernails, were clasped together in anguish. There was a pleading look in her sea-blue eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks.

“She wants me to put her back in the sea,” Joel whispered to Peter, “but I won’t!” He spoke to the mermaid. “You want to go back? Nothing doing, my pretty. You’re going to make my fortune.” He grinned nastily and, taking a piece of rope from his pocket, he tied her hands together so she couldn’t get away.

Peter felt sorry for her, but he dared not argue with his father.

All the way home, Joel ignored the mermaid’s sobbing, his head filled with schemes for getting rich. Peter was thinking too, but he was trying to find a way to help her.

Although their cottage was near the quay, it was too far for Joel to carry her, so he sent Peter to fetch a wheelbarrow.

“She’s so beautiful,” Peter said as he helped his father lift her, “but she looks so sad. Couldn’t we let her go?”

“Stupid boy!” Joel said crossly. “Certainly not! She’s going to make me rich.”

“How?” Peter wanted to know.

“I shall sell her to a showman from a fair. People will pay to see a mermaid because they are very rare.”

“Please put her back in the sea.” Peter pleaded, but he got his ears boxed.

“Keep quiet and do as you’re told! Let’s get her indoors before anyone sees her. I shall go and see the showman tomorrow.”

It was obvious the mermaid understood what they said, for when Joel mentioned the showman and people paying to look at her, she burst into a wild storm of weeping. Peter quite expected her to get her ears boxed too.

Mara was astonished when she saw what Joel had brought home.

“Poor thing!” she said indignantly. “It’s a shame to bring a sea creature onto land. Why don’t you put her back where she belongs? What do you want with her?”

“You mind your own business,” Joel said sharply. “Put her in the scullery and don’t untie her.”

That night they their supper in uncomfortable silence. The poor mermaid’s weeping put Peter and Mara off their food but Joel did not seem to care and ate a hearty meal. Then, while Mara and Peter washed the dishes, Joel snored in front of the fire.

Peter tip-toed out to the scullery and offered the mermaid some food. She shook her head but smiled gratefully.

“Don’t worry,” Peter whispered, “I’ll find a way to get you back to sea, even if my Dad beats me for it.”

Mara crept out to offer the mermaid a shawl to keep her warm. She shook her head, but smiled her thanks.

That night Peter hardly slept, worrying about the mermaid, but Joel slept like a log and dreamed of bags of gold.

In the morning, Joel put on his best suit. He gave Mara and Peter strict instructions to keep the mermaid safe, and set off whistling a jaunty tune, his hat on the side of his head.

As soon as Joel was out of sight, Peter ran to fetch the wheelbarrow and with Mara’s help, lifted the mermaid into it. Mara and Peter were determined that she should go back to the sea, no matter what Joel said, no matter how angry it made him.

Carefully Peter wheeled her down to the shore and gently helped her into the water.

“Goodbye, lovely mermaid,” he said. “Take care never to get caught in my Dad’s net again.” He thought ruefully about how angry Joel would be when he found his prize catch had gone, but he thought it was worth it when he saw the joy in the mermaid’s eyes as she felt the water lapping round her.

With a flash of her green tail and a wave of her pear-tipped hand, she dived under the water and disappeared.

Peter sat on the shore and sighed, never expecting to see her again. But a few minutes later, she bobbed up and swam towards him. She beckoned and Peter waded out, waist deep in the water, to meet her. Smiling, she handed him a bag made from thick, ribbon seaweed.

“For me?” he asked. She nodded.

He looked into the bag. Inside were ten, beautiful, gleaming pearls. He stared in amazement, then he understood. She wanted him to give them to Joel so that he wouldn’t be angry. Peter looked up to say ‘thank you’ but the mermaid had gone.

Joel came home that evening in a terrible rage. The showman would not agree to pay him as much money as he wanted. When Peter told him he had put the mermaid back, Joel’s face went scarlet and he opened his mouth to shout. But when Peter handed over the reward, Joel’s anger died. The pearls were worth six times what the showman had offered.

Joel smiled at Peter and patted him on the head. He went straight upstairs to put the jewels under the floorboards. He brought down six silver coins which he gave to Peter.

“Here,” he said, “you’ve done well.”

Peter could hardly believe his luck. Never before had his father given him money to spend. Next morning Peter ran to the market. He bought his mother a dress of soft grey wool, to match her eyes and bought himself a pair of sturdy shoes with shin buckles. There was even a penny left over so he bought himself a stick of candy.

It was just as well Peter spent the money quickly. A week later, when greedy Joel went to gloat over his treasure, he found the gleaming pearls has changed into dull grey pebbles. His fury was terrible to see, and Peter and Mara hid until he got over it.

After that, no-one ever dared mention the word ‘mermaid’ in Joel’s hearing.

Related posts: A True Romantic (about the author)

Teeny Tiny Tyke / The Deadly Game (more by the author)

Don’t Mess with this Mermaid (a book review)

Teeny Tiny Tyke ~ A Fairytale

Image by LLorensen on Pixabay

Guest Author Pamela Cleaver

Lucy and her family lived on a farm. One market day, Lucy was in town to sell their eggs. Once she’d sold them, she tied up the money carefully in the corner of her handkerchief. She was on her way home when she overheard two farmers talking near the butter-cross. One of them was holding, in the crook of his arm, a very small grey dog, with tightly curled hair. It’s eyes had a knowing twinkle, but one was bigger than the other. In spite of this, Lucy liked the puppy right away.

“I dunno what to do with this wretched little tyke,” the farmer said to his friend. “He’s the last one in the litter and much smaller than the six others. I sold them as easy as kiss-me-hand.”

His friend laughed. “He’s too small for herding sheep or guarding the house, he’s too ugly for anyone to want him as a pet. You’ll have a job getting rid of him.”

“Well I don’t want to keep him,” said the first farmer. “I’d give him away, but I doubt anyone would want him.”

Lucy could hardly believe her ears. “Please mister,” she said shyly, “if you don’t want him, can I have him?”

“You want him?” The farmer was surprised. “Right then Missy, the little tyke’s yours. Take him and good riddance.”

Lucy thanked him. She tucked the little grey dog under her arm and ran all the way home in case the farmer changed his mind.

“Mum, Mum!” she cried, bursting in through the kitchen door. “See what I’ve got – a teeny, tiny dog called Tyke.”

Lucy’s mother looked doubtful. “He’s so small Lucy, and his eyes are crooked. What good’ll he be? How will he earn his keep?  he’s too small for herding or guarding the house.”

“Please let me keep him,” Lucy pleaded. “I’ll work twice as hard to make up for him.”

“We’ll see,” said her mother. “I can’t worry about dogs now. The witch has put a spell on the well. I can’t get any water for cooking and the boys can’t get water for the stock to drink.”

Their farm was in a valley, on the hill above lived a horrible witch. Although Lucy’s family were poor, they were happy. This made the witch sick with envy.

Tyke had been sniffing around the kitchen. When he heard about the witch, he sidled up to Lucy and whispered, “I can deal with the witch.” But Lucy was too busy helping her mother to listen.

Lucy’s father stamped angrily into the kitchen. “That cursed witch put a spell on the gate. It won’t let me through to pen the sheep and it’ll be dusk soon.”

Tyke stepped forward, and spoke a little louder this time. “I can deal with the gate,” he said, but no one took any notice.

Lucy’s big brother Tom came into the kitchen, his cheeks flushed with frustration. “The cows won’t give milk, they’re too thirsty. Old witch has put a spell on the well.”

Tyke swaggered forward. “I can deal with the well,” he boasted, but everyone was too busy to listen.

Lucy’s little brother Peter came in looking sad. “Not one egg in the henhouse,” he showed his empty basket. “They’re so thirsty there’s no cackle from the hens nor a crow from the cock.”

“I can deal with the well,” shouted Tyke, having climbed on a chair. “Leave it to me.”

All the family turned to stare at the teeny, tiny dog.

“You!” they cried. “You’re a scruffy grey ball of fur, what can you do? You’re too small to fight and you’re not clever enough to deal with the witch’s spells. Get out! Get away from here.”

The teeny, tiny dog’s boasting had amazed and angered everyone except Lucy. She picked him up and looked into his mis-matched eyes. 

“Could you, Tyke? Would you?”

“I could and I will,” he said firmly.

“All right,” said Lucy, “prove it.” She opened the door and let him out. Tyke ran to the gate.

“You can’t go through, the bewitched gate said importantly. “No one belonging to this farm can pass through.”

Tyke threw back his scruffy grey head and laughed, his little pink tongue hanging out. “But I don’t belong here, they told me to get out.”

“Then I’ll have to let you pass,” squeaked the gate grudgingly.

Tyke scuttled through, ran up the hill, rounded up the sheep and penned them in the fold. Next, he ran to the well.

“No water, no water!” cried the well. “No water for anyone belonging to this farm.”

“That’s all right then, because I don’t belong here,” said teeny, tiny Tyke. Then he hauled up the water bucket with the rope held between his teeny, tiny teeth.

Big brother Tom took water to the cows, little Peter carried a bucketful to the hens and Lucy took water to her mother so she could cook. In no time there was milk and eggs on the kitchen table and a stew bubbling on the stove.

Lucy picked Tyke up and gave him a hug. “Isn’t he clever?” she said to her mother. “Now he can stay, can’t he?”

Just then they heard the gate calling. “Look out, here comes the witch!”

Lucy was still hugging Tyke when her father, Tom and Peter ran in.

“Put me down, I have work to do,” said Tyke. “I’ll deal with the witch.”

“You!” said Lucy’s father scornfully, “you couldn’t outwit her – not in a million years.” But Lucy believed in Tyke and let him out.

The witch was so angry, she was spitting. Her temper had changed from sour jealousy to burning fury. Her broomstick knew better than to dawdle when she was in this kind of meed, it had brought her down so fast that the earth scorched where she landed. She began to walk around the farmhouse waving her arms and chanting a spell to keep everyone inside until she released them. 

“And that’ll be never!” she cackled at her own cunning plan.

“That’s where you’re wrong!” said teeny, tiny Tyke. “I’ve followed behind you every step of the way, brushing your footprints out with my teeny, tiny tail. I’ve broken the spell.”

The witch’s face went rigid with fear. “You’ve ruined it, you horrid little grey mutt,” she cried. “Shoo, scat!”

“No – you go or I’ll bite you and drain all your power.” He began to run after the witch, snapping his teeny, tiny teeth.

The witch was furious, but she knew she was beaten. Muttering and grumbling, she leapt back on her broomstick and flew away.

“And that’s the last time she will trouble you,” said teeny, tiny Tyke.

“Well done, you clever dog, come indoors,” said Lucy.

“You said I don’t belong,” said teeny tiny Tyke.

“We want you to live with us,” said little Peter.

“But I’m ugly and scruffy, said teeny, tiny Tyke.

“A stout heart’s worth more than a pretty face,” said Lucy’s mother, “come, sit by the hearth.”

“But I’m too small to be any use,” said teeny, tiny Tyke.

“Good things come in small parcels,” said Lucy’s father. “You proved that.”

“I need a friend,” said Lucy, “please stay Tyke.”

“Oh, very well,” said the little dog, “I’ll stay for Lucy’s sake, and in case the witch tries to come back.”

But she never did. Teeny, tiny Tyke lived on the farm and made himself useful.  He was Lucy’s best friend. He followed like a shadow when she was at home, he walked her to school and was always waiting when she came out. At night he slept curled up at the foot of her bed. He and Lucy were very content.

“This is the life for me,” said teeny, tiny Tyke. 

The Deadly Game

Picture from Unsplash

The sun was already at its height, yet they had put only 5 miles between them and danger.

Peelo, the dwarf, was beginning to tire: his short legs were not designed for running. Lisette was bronzed and fit but the scene at the stone sacrifice had shaken her badly and impaired her ability to think, she was relying on Peelo and Mikal to lead her to safety. Peelo knew the way to the castle and had promised he would take her there, Mikal had offered the protection of his sword. They all knew that on the way there would be many hazards.

“Let’s stop a minute,” Lisette said. “I’ve got a stitch.” She had seen the strained expression on the dwarf’s face and knew he needed a respite, but would be too proud to ask.

Mikal looked up at the sun doubtfully. “We ought to press on if we’re to reach the castle before nightfall.”

“Only a moment,” Lisette pleaded. She rested against a rock and watched the dwarf drawing deep breaths. What a fool she had been to get caught; although she knew that there was an ever-present danger of Trogues jumping out and stealing unwary maidens for sacrifice, she had never thought it would happen to her: it was something that happened to other people. But this morning she had been captured and carried to the stone of sacrifice before she had time to give more than a few frightened squeaks of horrified protest.

The sun had shone on the glinting knives of her captors, and she could smell the blood of the previous sacrifice, making her believe her last hour had come. She had found herself regretting all the things she would never do, all the sights she would never see, when Peelo had flung himself into the midst of the gloating Trogues. In spite of his tiny stature, he had wrought destruction among them with his burling stick and thrown the ceremony into confusion.

While the Trogues’ attention was concentrated on Peelo, Mikal the warrior had sneaked up to cut her bonds and pulled her off the stone. At that, the Trogues had set up a fearful outcry but, between them, Peelo with his burling stick and Mikal with the two-edged sword, had cleared a path, leaving a heap of dead Trogues. Mikal had pulled her along in Peelo’s wake as the dwarf led the way full pelt towards the mountains.

Peelo had got his breath back. “Come on,” he said, “we’ve got to go. We’ll take this path,” he pointed to a narrow ledge that ran round the side of a rocky outcrop and seemed to lead to the summit of one of the major peaks.

“Must we?” Lisette asked fearfully. “I’m terrified of heights.”

“Peelo is right,” said Mikal, “if we take the lower road, we’ll be waylaid by the helio-monsters. I’ve used all my magi petards and only have my sword. It isn’t much defence against a helio-monster, and neither is Peelo’s burling stick.”

“But the high road goes through the Blurdles’ lands,” Lisette protested, “they’re almost as savage.”

“This is not the time to argue,” said Peelo, “just follow me. You ought to be thankful Mikal and I were passing and saved you from the Trogues. Rest assured, Mikal’s sword and my burling stick are equal to most hazards we could meet on the high road.”

Mikal turned to her. “Have you no weapons for attack or defence?”

“I’ve a cloak of invisibility here in my pouch. It can only be used three times before it loses its power, so we must save it for a real emergency.”

The journey along the high road was as difficult as Lisette had feared.  A lightning bolt came down but luckily missed them. Twice they were attacked by marauding Blurdles, but Mikal’s sword was more than a match for their tiny darts.

At one awkward place, the ledge dwindled to almost nothing. Lisette was struck rigid with fear and took a careless step which nearly caused her to fall, but just in time Mikal’s strong arm bore her up.

Light was beginning to fade but the castle was in sight when Peelo, who was leading, turned and put a finger to his lips. He whispered that there was a sharp-eyed Mindeldrayg lying across the path which, if it saw them, would certainly sting them to death.

Lisette produced the cape of invisibility from her pouch and handed it to Peelo. The dwarf donned it and crept past the Mideldrayg. Once safely out of reach, he removed the cape, carefully wrapped it round a stone and threw it back to his waiting companions. It was deftly caught by Mikal who repeated the manoeuvre and then threw the cloak back to Lisette.

The dwarf and the warrior watched in horror as Lisette fumbled the catch. The cloak flew past her and floated away, down the side of the mountain. Lisette panicked. She tried to rush the Mindeldrayg, but it was no good. As soon as she came within the grey scaly creature’s sightline, she was done for. Its long tongue flicked out, puncturing the skin of her upper arm, injecting venom. She staggered and fell, crashing down the mountain to her death.

“It’s not fair,” Ellen whined at her brother once the die rolled to a stop showing a score of 1, which meant her health dropped to zero. “You always make me be the rotten maiden and it’s really hard for her to win.”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” he said scornfully, “you were Peelo as well. I was only Mikal.”

“And game master,” Ellen sulked. “It’s about time we tried another adventure. I’m sick of this one. Let’s start a campaign with different characters – and this time I refuse to be the damsel.”

Guest Written By Pamela Cleaver

The Harmony Aggro [4]

Image from Pixabay

Continuing a Sci-Fi tale written by Pamela Cleaver in the 1970s, originally published in Space 2, an anthology featuring new writers. While the technology and style references have become out-moded, the plot is intriguing. In a new-town, acts of violence have occurred involving 2 unusual looking groups of males. Inspector Deeping has apprehended the lads in silver clothes. Interrogating them, he must keep a open mind because their story involves time travel – read on to find out more.

“For what purpose is time travel used in your era, Lant? Surely not to visit other centuries and work off your frustrations?”

The boy smiled. “No indeed. The Guardians have it under very strict control. The only people who are allowed to use the machines are researchers. During the great war at the beginning of the 21st century, the last of the wars, many important historical records were destroyed and we know little of what happened before the 20th century. The historians need the time machines so that they can build up their records. We should not have used the one we came in, but when we missed our harmony therapy, we felt all sorts of strange desires hitherto unknown to us and we wanted to steal something. A time machine is what we stole.”

Inspector Deeping breathed heavily and sighed. “All right constable, take him down to the cells and put him with the others, I’ll see him again later.”

He walked from the interview room and out of the station. He did not want to talk to anyone for a while, he needed time to think, to decide what to do. He was still slightly incredulous about the whole thing, but he knew that he had no alternative but to believe Lant’s story. And if he did that, he must decide what to do with them. He could not take them to court, he could not punish them in the here and now. Equally, he did not feel it would be right just to send them back to their own time, letting them get off scot free – they might come back again. And the scarlet-robed Pelleans were still at large, which presented another problem. He toyed with the idea of making them hand over their time machine and using it to go forward into their time to have a sharp word with their Guardians about an appropriate punishment, but there would be all sorts of difficulties and he knew he would never have the nerve to do so.

Then it was that he had his idea. It was a gamble, but if it worked, it would solve all his problems. Briskly he walked back to the station, went into his office in a high good humour and sent for Lant.

“I have been thinking over what you have said,” he told the boy. “Under the laws of this time and this country, you deserve a severe punishment. If I take you to court, you will probably be sent to prison which you will not like, but as the circumstances are very unusual, I am ready to make a bargain with you. You understand what a bargain is?”

Lant nodded his head, shaking the blue and green locks of his hair vigorously.

“I want to rid this area of all time travellers and go back to my ordinary everyday life.”

Lant said, “I think we too would like to go back to our ordinarr, everyday life. We are a little tired of this adventure now we have achieved what we came for. That fight we had with those boys was marvellous.”

“Right,” said Inspector Deeping, “you can go back if you will do something for me first. I want you and your companions to find the Pelleans and persuade them to go back to their time too. I don’t care how you do it, you can persuade them peaceably or you can fight them. Now, can you do that? Will you be able to communicate with them?”

Lant nodded. “I can speak 21st century Pellean a little, enough to do what you ask. But how can you compel us? Once we have left this building, how can you be sure we will seek out the Pelleans and not just get into the time shuttle and go back to our own time?”

That, as Deeping knew, was the sixty-four dollar question; this was where his gamble came in, he had no means of enforcing his will. He took a deep breath. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t make you do it, but I trust you. I believe that you are the sort of person who, if he gave his word, would keep his bargain. Am I right?”

Lant’s face was transformed from pale seriousness by a brilliant smile. “You are right, if we give our word, we will do it and I give my word.”

“Right,” said Inspector Deeping, “and when you get home, perhaps you’d better go back to your therapy sessions again, although self-control is really better, you know.”

Lant looked at him wistfully. “I should like to be able to learn discipline myself,” he said, “but although we managed to outwit the Guardians once, we shall not be able to do so a second time. They will make us report to them daily and give us extra therapy.” He sighed. “After a while, I expect we shall forget this ever happened.”

“It’s more than I shall,” said Inspector Deeping heavily and he pressed a bell on his desk and arranged for the boys to be released.

The next day, a series of unusual reports landed on Inspector Deeping’s desk. Late the previous evening, there had been a curiously inept gang fight on one of the housing estates at the end of the town. Four boys in silver gear with green and blue hair had been seen fighting with three boys with shaven heads, dressed in scarlet robes. One report had not even been sure it was a fight, more like a strange, new ritual dance, the witness said. Another report said that a strange craft had been seen in the moonlit sky, not exactly a flying saucer, more like a monster sewing machine shuttle.

As Sergeant Peel brought the reports in, he looked more and more puzzled. “Do you think the whole of Everington is suffering from illusions?” he asked.

Inspector Deeping received the reports with evident satisfaction and put them in the file he had made for the unusual crime wave of the past two weeks. When yet another report came in from an excitable woman who had seen a silver shuttle in the sky just before midnight, which had suddenly vanished rather than flown off, he heaved a great sigh of relief and marked the file “closed“.

“You can put that away now,” he aid to Peel, “we shan’t have any more trouble from the silver mob or the scarlet robes.”

He told Sergeant Peel the rest of the story. Peel found it hard to accept the fact of time travel, but grudgingly went along with the Inspector. “How did you get rid of them all, then?”

“I simply set a thief to catch a thief,” said Inspector Deeping, “and I killed two birds with one stone. They may be old fashioned ideas, but they work.”

This concludes the story, but look out for more Guest Posts by Pamela Cleaver.

The Harmony Aggro [3]

A Short Science Fiction story by Guest Author: Pamela Cleaver

Continuing a Sci-Fi tale written in the 1970s, originally published in Space 2, an anthology featuring new writers. While much of the technology and style references have become out-moded, the plot is intriguing. In a new-town acts of violence involving 2 groups of youths have occurred. Inspector Deeping is keeping an open mind, enlisting his teenage son to assist in the apprehension of the lads in silver clothes. When questioned, the story they give is mind-bending – read on to find out more.

Peel thought about it. “I suppose that’s possible; if there’s nothing to overcome, nothing to strive for, nothing to stimulate them into action, people do get bored, especially the young ones. But all that stuff about time machines, you don’t believe that, do you?”

“I keep an open mind – who knows what will be possible three hundred years from now? Even a hundred years ago, did people think men would ever get to the moon, apart from Jules Verne, that is?”

“I suppose not, but even if his story were true, it doesn’t hold water. You told me they had harmony therapy or whatever it’s called to overcome their aggression, so how come he and his friends are aggressive?”

“I asked him that and it seems that they just did not report for treatment – it’s some sort of electric impulse which is applied to the brain cells. I suppose it was a bit like playing truant- you know how at that age youngsters are almost automatically against authority.”

“But why pick on us to relieve their tensions?”

“They chose the 1970s, if you please, because they read in their history books it was a lawless age. What do you think of that?”

Peel snorted. “Why didn’t they choose one of the many times when a war was on, or Chicago in the twenties for instance?”

“Their knowledge of history does not go back much before the 20th century and he says they did not want to kill people, just to act tough and destructive.”

“Well, I don’t want to believe it,” said Inspector Deeping, “but there’s a strange sort of logic about it. I’m going to have another talk with Lant. Leave the others for now, put them in the cells and we’ll see what else he’s got to say. Look, you’re off duty now, aren’t you? You push off and I’ll tell about it tomorrow.”

Deeping thought that Peel was looking at him as if he were quite mad. Perhaps he was. But the story he had heard was not quite as fantastic as the one he had thought up earlier when he had wondered if the silver-gear buys were visitors from space. If Lant was making this up, he ought to be writing science fiction, not mugging old ladies and destroying telephone kiosks.

When he went back to the interview room, past the impassive constable standing just inside the door, staring straight ahead, he saw the strange boy Lant sitting calmly at the bare table, his long legs in the silver trousers and boots stretched out, quite relaxed. Now he saw all the gear together, Deeping was not surprised the lab had not been able to analyse the scrap of material. It was obviously something made by a technology far more advanced than anything the 1970s could produce. The inspector felt that Lant’s very appearance bore out his story, but there were still a lot of things he wanted to know before he could be completely convinced.

He asked the boy about the crimes. To his surprise, Lant did not deny them but seemed rather proud of them. He admitted to taking part in three muggings and four of the cases of vandalism.

“Why did you choose old people to attack, not ones your own age? Don’t you think it was cowardly?”

“But it is the old we hate, not the young,” said Lant as if it was self-evident truth.

“But why?”

“Because in our time, people live to very great ages through drugs and skilful treatments not known in your times; the old ones are in charge, they make the laws, they tell us what to do and we may not argue. When we missed our harmony therapy session, we realised we hated them. Hate was a new emotion for us and we found it exciting.”

Deeping was repelled but he had to admit to himself that there was something in what Lant said.

“What about the telephone boxes and automatic vending machines?”

“Please?” said Lant, puzzled.

“Those things you broke up, why did you do that?”

“Oh,” he said, “the teleport stands and the informers.”

It was Inspector Deeping’s turn to be puzzled.

“What did you think those things were that you destroyed?”

“I am having a little difficulty with your speech,” said Lant. “I learned as much late 20th century English as I could from a hypno-educator, but seem not to have it all just right. The red boxes I took to be teleport stands where you materialize and de-materialize when the Guardians summon you, no? And the others, where you press buttons, were for reporting to the Guardians, no? We attacked those because they symbolize the authority of the Guardians. The devices were primitive examples, but we thought we recognized them. Were we not right?”

Inspector Deeping began to be sorry he had embarked on this conversation; he did not like the glimpse of the future it showed. He explained telephones and vending machines as best he could, but felt Lant was very contemptuous of such simple concepts of communication. He tried another tack.

“Who are the Guardians?”

“I think in your time they were called the police,” said Lant, “or maybe soldiers, I am not quite sure which. I have not understood quite perfectly the difference between the two.”

“The Police see that the laws of the land are carried out,” he said, “and I am a policeman. Soldiers are to protect a country from its enemies.”

“You are then a Guardian?” asked Lant. For the first time he seemed apprehensive. “We have broken your laws? What then will you do with us?”

What indeed? It was a good question – Inspector Deeping was beginning to wonder that himself. How could he take these people to court? Even if he believed this strange story, who else would? And there was still another question unanswered. “Are some of your friends dressed in red robes with shaven heads?”

“No,” said Lant, “that is not the way we Lemnians dress, it sounds to me like Pelleans of the 21st century. Are they here too? It was in their era that time travel first began and they may be here to investigate your time.”

“But why did you come to Everington, our town here?”

“The co-ordinates we used to choose a place to land are those of a great city in our time and it was too in the time of the Pelleans. To us and to them it would be an obvious choice.

Inspector Deeping marvelled that the dull little town in which he lived would one day be a great city. It was almost harder to believe than anything that had gone before.

To be continued (here)

The Harmony Aggro[2]

Image from Pixabay

Continuing a Sci-Fi tale by my Guest Author Pamela Cleaver. Written in the 1970s, it was originally published in Space 2, an anthology featuring writers new to the genre. While much of the technology and style references have become out-moded, the plot is intriguing. In a new-ish town, acts of violence have been happening, involving two groups of youths unfamiliar to the culture, which has Inspector Deeping baffled.

Next day, Inspector Deeping sent Sergeant Peel on a tour of Everington’s trendier shops that catered for the tastes of the young, to make enquiries as to whether they sold many silver suits or scarlet robes. He then read the reports through again and tried to assess an analyse the crimes. He thought about his conversation with Tim the previous evening and smiled to himself about the new vogue word “intergalactic”. He knew “way out” and “far out” – he even new that “near in” was sometimes used as an alternative, but “intergalactic” tickled his fancy. He had been a science fiction addict since he had come across his first copy of Amazing as a boy, which was probably why he liked the word.

He toyed with a pencil and stared out of the window. He began to think of intergalactic in its SF sense and a wild thought occurred to him. The silver-gear boys couldn’t possibly be from another planet could they? The first wave of an invasion from space who had landed in Everington? He let his imagination fun free for a few minutes, then laughed, shook off his fantasies and went back to his paperwork.

When Sergeant Peel came back from his tour of the boutiques, he was tired and frustrated and no further forward with the case. There was no call for silver gear or red robes, he had been told by the shop keepers.

“That means they haven’t got any – they always try to tell you things are unfashionable if you want them and they haven’t got them.”

He stretched and poured himself a cup of coffee from the electric percolator in the corner of the office.

“There is one thing, though,” he told the Inspector. “Constable Hobbs has been over the last telephone box they smashed up and he found this caught on a nail.”

He threw a piece of silver material onto the Inspector’s desk. Deeping picked it up and examined it. It was most unusual, not quite like anything else he had ever seen. It was soft and flexible but it was not woven. He crushed it in his hand experimentally and then opened his fingers. The material sprang back at once to its original shape without a crease or mark on it.

“One of these new, man-made fabrics, I suppose. It looks expensive. Better send it down to the lab to see what they make of it and tell them we want some answers quickly. It’s the best lead we’ve had so far.”

Sergeant Peel picked up the fabric with a sigh and went out with it.

The lab rang back the next day, apologetic and chagrined. They were completely baffled. Analysis had not been able to identify the components of the material which answered to none of the known tests. They could only think it was some new, experimental cloth recently, or not yet, marketed. Sergeant Peel got the dreary job of ringing round the fabric manufacturers to see if they could help. Inspector Deeping began to wonder if his “visitors from space” theory was not so wild after all and then told himself severely that if he did not stop thinking on those lines, he would have to give up reading science fiction. He went across to the pub opposite the police station for a beer and a sandwich for lunch.

At about half pat two that afternoon, he received a phone call from Tim.

“Dad, get down here quickly!” said his son, “your silver-geared boys are in the club. They’ve smashed a television set and are trying to pick a fight!”

“Don’t let them get away, Tim,” he said urgently, “even if you have to fight them until we get there. Do you think you could hold them?”

He could almost hear Tim’s grin over the phone. “Yeah,” he said, “they haven’t much idea about fighting and it just happens that most of the rugger team is in here at the moment. Okay, burn down as fast as you can and we’ll hold onto them.”

Inspector Deeping left his office quickly, gathering up Sergeant Peel and Constable Hobbs on the way. When they arrived at the Youth Club, it was quite obvious a fight had taken place; there were overturned tables and chairs, the television set was, as Tim had said on the phone, well and truly smashed and everyone in the place looked ruffled. But Tim and three of his friends were sitting on the chests of the silver-gear boys, holding onto their wrists. The faces of the captives, framed in blue and green locks, were neither angry nor disconsolate as the Inspector had expected, but triumphant and pleased with themselves.

The boys did not resist arrest nor make any fuss when they were taken down to the station. While Constable Hobbs was booking them, Inspector Deeping had a quick word with Sergeant Peel.

“We’ll question them separately,” he said, “you and I will question each one for half an hour and then compare notes, before we go onto the other two, okay?”

Peel nodded and he and Deeping went into separate interview rooms with a boy in each, while Hobbs kept a watchful eye on the other two.

After half an hour, Inspector Deeping returned to his office with a glazed look about his eyes and waited for Sergeant Peel, who joined him within a few minutes looking thoroughly angry. Peel sat down heavily in a chair and said, “I think I’m being conned. I’ve never heard such a load of codswallop in my life.”

Inspector Deeping looked at him carefully. “Tell me what he said.”

Peel was disgusted. “It was trash, you don’t want to hear about it.”

“I do,” said his superior, “because I want to compare it with what I was just told.”

Peel sighed heavily, poured himself a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. “Would you believe he told me he came from the 23rd century in a time machine, and nothing I could say or do would make him change his story?”

“I would believe it,” said Deeping grimly, “because I was told the same thing.”

“Ye gods, they must think we’re green!” said Peel. “Kids like that make me sick. They’ve been caught now, so they might as well tell us where they live, who they are and all that so we can get on with charging them. They must know we’ll find out the truth eventually.”

Inspector Deeping tilted his chair and put his feet on the desk. “Did he tell you why he came here from the 23rd century?”

Peel looked at him curiously. “I didn’t ask him, I just told him not to be such a fool and to start telling me the truth. We never got beyond his first statement.”

“Well I tried a different tack, I played along with Lant, as this chap tells me he is called, and asked him why he came here. It was a remarkable piece of fiction, if fiction it was. He says that in his time, everything is peaceful and beautiful. War has been abolished, there is no crime because everyone’s needs are provided for and there is no aggression because everyone is given harmony therapy.”

“You don’t believe any of it, do you sir?” said Peel anxiously.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Deeping slowly, “but let’s suppose for a minute I do. Wouldn’t you have thought that those conditions would make for an ideal world? I would, so I asked him, if everything is so marvellous, why would he want to leave such a wonderful time and come back to our era?” His pipe had gone out, so he relit it as he waited for the Sergeant’s reaction.

“I bet that foxed him,” said Peel, “if life was like that, stands to reason everyone would be contented.”

“It didn’t fox him at all, he said that was just the point. Life in the 23rd century, he says, is too perfect. There is no friction, no challenge and in spite of all the entertainments provided, he and his friends are bored to screaming point.”

To be Continued (here)