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Short Fat Stubby Finger Stories PRESENTS:
Wind chimes sing – time flies – you have been warned – watch the skies
Episode 33 Part 1
“Frank tells me that you had quite an experience earlier today, Mary?”
The man Frank had referred to as ‘Old Laurie’ spoke in a much softer tone than he had earlier, when he had first learnt of Rosetta’s connection to the man who had been renting Forster’s Farm. A mistake that he preferred not to make again when dealing with outsiders who may prove to be helpful with his gaining a clearer understanding of what was taking place in the village at the moment.
“Yes. It was quite frightening.”
“Would it be too painful to repeat exactly what you saw?”
Mary, whose fear by now had been totally overcome by both excitement and a new overdose of adrenaline, couldn’t tell her story fast enough, much to the delight and interest of both Laurie and Malena.
********
“And you never mentioned this to Doctor James?” Laurie asked after Mary finished telling them about her experience at the garage.
“No.” Mary replied calmly, but inwardly she was still uncertain if she should have mentioned the events that had taken place on the way to the farm. She knew it could be as every bit of interest to Laurie as what she had already told him, but she was still uncertain in her own mind about just what had happened and decided to say nothing about it until she had time to think about it in private. And she didn’t want to mention the strange appearance of Joseph in her mind during the attack that may, or may not, have happened. And she definitely did not want to accidentally reveal the real reason for her being in Trenthamville.
“Perhaps you should have. He is very interested in this sort of thing.”
“I didn’t think that he would have believed me. Frank didn’t think that he would either.”
“Yes, I suppose that the two of you were quite right in your thinking. It is definitely not something that happens every day. Not even around here in the sleepy little hamlet of Trenthamville,” Laurie laughed, and then became a bit more serious. “Peter James, however, does believe in such things. I will tell you something, in the strictest confidence.
When Peter first arrived here in the village a little while back, he sought me out. He had asked around, casual like, as to who was the most authoritative person on the local folklore, and most people that he had asked had recommended me. He said that he was interested mainly in stories of witchcraft and the like. Whether the stories were recent or of a time long ago mattered not to him, only that the story indicated that something strange had happened, but not satisfactorily explained. He told me that he had a long standing interest in such things, because of something that had happened to him as a young man, and he had heard along the grapevine that Trenthamville was full of strange stories from the past. But ironically nobody that he had spoken to had the knowledge, nor the memory, to recount a single thing to him.
I understood their reluctance to tell the stories that they knew, because it was most likely that they were the central character in the tale, or somebody very close to them was. And those that were the central character rarely liked having the horror brought back to haunt them, never mind discuss the details at length. Better off, they thought, to leave the story telling to me. I would know when to mention names and when not to.
I agreed to his request. I told him tales from this century, the last century, the century before that … and many centuries before them. I told him tales from both the past and the present that would set the hairs on a Mexican Chihuahua on edge. I revealed to him many things, but I only told him what I felt safe in sharing with a stranger, and later, as my psychic senses began to accept him as a safe person to talk to, I told him of even greater events that have taken place over the years.
Eventually, as he got to know me better, he confided his own story to me, and it was after this that I really trusted him with some of things that I have knowledge of, but will rarely discuss.
********
Peter had been born into a reasonably wealthy family who badly wanted him to become a doctor: a general practitioner in the up-market area in which he lived, perhaps even a surgeon in time. Peter certainly possessed the mental qualifications for such a career, but he never possessed the correct attitude towards the attention to detail required for him to pass the necessary exams in order to gain acceptance into medical school.
He wasn’t lazy, just simply not interested in becoming a doctor so he could take care of his parent’s rich friends with the kind of discretion that they needed. To treat lecherous old men for sexually transmitted diseases obtained from morally deficient young women a quarter of their age, and to treat it as if it was something as innocent as a boil lancing, or a prescription for headache pills. And overweight, over-bearing women in their seventies and eighties who inebriated in a far greater way than their unfit bodies could cope with. Peter wanted more action in his life: Mountain climbing in the Andes, travelling the still uncharted wilds of North Queensland, the Northern Territory and West Australia. To venture into still active volcanoes – and travel deep under the sea to search for the lost city of Atlantis. His parent’s, however, had been desperate for him to gain the qualifications and thus, eventually, reach the social status that they felt he should have: a status that they would also share in by default of their relationship. Although they loved their son, they loved social status with even more vigour.
But when it seemed that he was never going to achieve their dreams they confided their disappointment in a friend that they had made in more recent years. This friend was a strange choice of a friend for them, as was his choice of Peter’s parents to be his friends. This friend, who described his background as simply being of Asian origin, was part of a group, who, for reasons known only to themselves, never ventured too far out of their own set. The friend, and his friends, all lived in separate accommodations, but the houses that they lived in, in one of London’s most affluent areas, were all side by side. Somehow, when their families had first arrived in England, they had been able to purchase the entire street at the same time. Something about a perpetual gas problem being the reason for the quick sales, the friend had told Peter’s family. Quite a stroke of luck, he had said, especially when the gas problem evaporated even before they had moved in.
It seems that it was a rare experience for anyone from this group to ever make friends outside this circle, and Peter thinks that it was for this reason that his parents felt privileged at being accepted by him.
Maraka was the name of the family that they had befriended, and they were the friends his parents had confided in. In turn, the husband told Peter’s parents that they might be able to help them achieve their dreams.
A few days after his parent’s meeting with their friends, Peter was told to go to Marsden House, the Maraka’s home, at a certain time, on the following afternoon. No reason had been given, but he was told it was important that he went. All would be explained on arrival. The address given was but a dozen or so streets from where Peter lived, however it crossed the boundary into the next suburb; a suburb that Peter was about to find out may as well have been a million miles away, for it was so, so different to his.
Peter was aware that the Marakas were a wealthy family, but when he arrived at Marsden House, Peter was completely surprised at just how wealthy this friend of his parents appeared to be. Instead of the traditional single or double story brick building he had expected in his mind, his wide open eyes were taking in an extremely large, beautifully built, three story, white stone home covered with a soft blue tiled roof which, at this very moment in time, gave the impression that the house reached right up to the sky.
And along the entire length of the house, intermingling with the gorgeous white stone, a series of stunning French doors and windows appeared on all three levels. As Peter looked upwards his attention was immediately drawn to one window where he could see the smiling face of a young woman looking down at him. An attractive young woman, with a lovely smile. Peter reciprocated with a smile of his own, but he barely saw the redness of the woman’s face as she pulled quickly back from sight. Peter grinned and hoped that perhaps they would meet once he had gained entry to the house. In the meantime he returned to his observations of Marsden House.
The upper level doors opened onto large balconies where he could see white cast iron chairs and tables set out for the room’s occupant to share the view in private comfort. However, the ground level was much grander than the upper levels as a mixture of gardens, green grass and the odd small tree grew along the inside area between the wall and the pathway that had begun at the entrance to the grounds.
This open space gave each of the four rooms access to grass on which to rest their feet, and beautiful fauna and bushes to surround them. They too had table and chairs, but they also had access to a long bench should they have extra visitors and it was all set up under the small shady tree that had been selected and planted for just this purpose.
Peter thought it all to look picturesque and inviting. On his entrance to the grounds he had noticed only one set of windows had appeared in the middle of each level at the short side of the house, and presumed that the house was much longer than it was wide, and the windows at the side were purely for internal lighting purposes.
On the other side of the walkway a series of stunning gardens, each with a wide variety of local and exotic plants and bushes, lined the pathway from the main gate to the large oak doors that guarded the front entrance to the house, and beyond.
Peter’s mind went into overdrive as he tried to imagine just how grand the inside of the house would look. To his mind the monthly maintenance of the garden and the cleaning of the wall alone would have cost more than he could ever hope to earn in a complete year … and he had only seen one side of the house and yard so far.
Peter had been taken aback by the house and garden, ‘It was certainly nothing like what he had expected … certainly nothing like his own home.’ He had thought. But it was when the front door was opened to admit him that he really got a surprise, for it was not by the butler he had been expecting to greet him in such a grand and prestigious structure, but the Maraka patriarch himself. The man, of an indeterminable age, immediately extended his hand to Peter and insisted that Peter called him by his first name, Ishmati. Ishmati’s features clearly revealed his family’s origins, but when he spoke it was obvious that the man had been well educated in a British private school, and his mannerisms indicated that he had been born in Britain. And despite his wealth, rather than being dressed to the hilt with the latest from Saville Row as Peter had anticipated, the man was dressed in a pair of light blue jeans, a casual red coloured shirt, and a pair of off-white sneakers. Peter wondered how his parents would have reacted to this display of low key, suburban casualness and dress. It would probably have shaken their class status distinctions to the core, he thought. There was nothing pretentious about the man and Peter took to him immediately.
Peter followed Ishmati through the entrance, completely unaware of the soft brown eyes that had been watching him through a window as he stood waiting for admittance, and then from the balcony that extended inwards from the long staircase that led down to the door that he was currently entering.
“Well, young Peter. I am glad you were able to make it. How did you like the gardens? Were they of interest to you, or is it no longer cool to stop and smell the roses for the modern generation?” Ismati’s tone of voice showed no signs of a challenge being offered and Peter replied as his heart felt.
“No, sir. I found it stimulating, stirring and relaxing all at the same time. It was truly awesome.
“Well, that is truly nice to hear. We are going to the rear garden where I will explain why you were invited here, and if you think that the front garden was inspiring … wait until we get there. In the meantime, as we make our way to the exit, would you like to have a private viewing of this beautiful heritage listed house and its Victorian treasures?”
“Oh, yes, please.” Peter replied without hesitation. This was something that he would never have requested for fear of embarrassment and rebuttal, or both, but it was something to die for in his mind, and he jumped at the chance.
“Right ho, young man. Let us begin.”
Peter had expected Ishmati to talk only about the contents and the history of the house as they travelled from room to room, but instead his words humanised him, and Peter felt an even greater respect and admiration for him. Ishmati had begun his conversation with his eternal gratitude for his forebears finding this house. ‘It is not just a house,’ he had said with a true joy in his voice, it is my home. It has been perfect for me and my wife in every way. All of the furnishings and the paintings, bar the one or two I have added to the collection, have all been in the house since the day it had been occupied by its original owner many, many years ago. My father, as his father before him, left every thing as it had been when the house was originally purchased … and after they had all passed away and I inherited the house, my wife and I agreed that we too would not make changes, with one exception … the garden. My wife and I have changed that rather dramatically I am afraid. We chose the plants and shrubs ourselves, and we also designed the gardens. The previous gardens were pleasant enough, but they lacked the soul and heart that my wife and I put into them. The gardens, along with our daughter, Sharina, are our eternal pride and joy.’
As they wandered in and out of various rooms Peter was overwhelmed by the opulence the corridors and rooms expressed. Victorian furniture and bric-a-brac furnished every room and hallway. Paintings from the era, and occasionally from before that period, adorned the walls in every room, and along every corridor. And, to finalise the effect, the massive French windows that allowed the light into the room, or restrained it from entering, as preferred by the room’s occupant, most resplendently enhanced both the rooms …and the beautiful gardens that they exposed.
The eloquence of the house reminded Peter of pictures of stately homes that he had seen in magazines; its majestic grandeur almost threatening to overwhelm him, and it made him wonder what this visit was all about. Although his family were reasonably well off, both this man that walked with him … and the house and gardens he had traversed over the past few minutes, were completely out of his league, and he could see no value for either one of them to be having a meeting. He doubted very much that they actually had one thing in common, other than a mutual appreciation of the garden, the house itself and its contents. However he refrained from asking questions. He assumed wherever it was that his host was leading him it would soon provide the answer for his being there.
When they had finished the tour of the lower level of the house Peter was escorted outside to the garden at the rear of the house as promised, and was again overawed by his host’s apparent obsessive need for a bold display of his wealth in his gardens. As soon as they had stepped outside the house through one of the four French doors that ran down this side in equal quantity to the front of the house, their feet made contact with a soft grey flagstone walkway similar to the one on the other side of the house, but this time the structure and layout was so different to the front of the house.
Facing the room they had just left, Peter realised that they were at the far end of the back of the house, but the difference in the layout here was noticeable immediately, and it did not take Peter long to realise that what he could see from where he stood facing the French door, cloned itself at every one of the other three downstairs doors … in every detail: in every size, in every shape, in every colour, in every odour.
On the left hand side of the house to where Peter was currently standing – between the end of the house and the beginning of the extended walkway that lay in front of the first French door – green grass grew under a large, white, fan shaped trellis that had been placed on the wall. And growing on to it from the ground upwards was a massively blooming red rose vine, a vine so dense with the beautiful red roses that it bore, the white trellis could hardly be seen.
On the right hand side of the French Doors there were quite a few exquisite plant holders. Ranging from small, thru medium, to large in size, the absolutely stunningly shaped and adorned receptacles contained equally exquisite plants that Peter was certain that he had never seen before. Peter was fascinated at the display that appeared before him, and the fact that both the plants and the pots were all entirely unique, and in a range of colours and shapes all totally palatable to the viewer in their own right – yet each individual plant and its container blended in perfectly with the others in a way he would not have thought possible.
And placed in exactly the right spot to enjoy all that surrounded them were the obligatory cast iron tables, chairs and bench sitting under the large awning that protruded out far enough from the wall to protect all that sat beneath it from both the rain and the sun.
But the masterpiece, the absolute centrepiece of the showcase that confronted Peter was what stood in the very centre of the extended walkway in front of the French door.
The upper levels still had their outside balconies and their white, cast iron chairs and tables, along with an elevated view of the main gardens to die for, but down below, at the entrance to each of the four French doors, between the roses on one side of the extended walkway, and the exotic flowers that guaranteed the attention of those seated at the small table on the other side , situated ten feet out from the door, a marble water fountain sat proudly awaiting admiration as water flew upwards from the rounded bowl that housed it, past the tip of the fifteen foot high spear held by the statue of the roman soldier whose replication ruled over the fallen horse and chariot that lay on the base below him, and gently rolled back down to fill the bowl once again without a single droplet being carried by the wind towards the table or chairs … or any visitor viewing the grand gardens. And, as I said earlier, exactly the same vision appeared in front of all four French doors.
On the other side of the walkway, grass, so green, so lush, so immaculately cut, covered every square inch of the yard that hadn’t already been allocated to the various displays on offer: the gardens, the statues … and the three huge water features. And every single item encased within the lawn was perfectly spaced out so that each individual showpiece received their fair share of the viewing and admiration.
Further back in the yard, beyond the gardens, only a few yards in from the huge white stone fence that protected the house from the outside world, stood a tree whose branches hung almost equally in distance over the street on the other side of the wall, as they did across the back yard.
‘An appropriate sized shaded area for one to sit, relax and enjoy tea with scones, cream and jam. Ahhh, the life of the idle rich.’ Peter thought to himself with a smile as he noticed the small cast iron table and four chairs occupying the shade below the tree, and the gorgeous Victorian child’s swing that hung from one of the long branches that extended forward from the trunk in the direction of the house.
Peter was to observe over a dozen and a half various sized and shaped garden beds spread tastefully and thoughtfully across the lawn as they moved along the walkway, each garden filled with an even wider variety of flowers, shrubs and orchards than the previous one until they met in the middle, then everything was reversed.
But the extras that covered the beautiful lush carpet of grass never once distracted the viewer from the stunning centrepiece once their eyes caught it in their vision: the Maraka family rose garden which lay smack in the very centre of the lawn.
Peter had been dragged off mercilessly to dozens and dozens of flower shows by his parents in their never ending quest to impress their peers of their ‘by invitation only’ status when he had been younger, and he had initially enjoyed the beauty of the flowers that stood proudly on display at these events. But he saw so many such shows that the majority of them soon failed to come up to the standards he had come to expect. Eventually he lost interest and began to make excuses for his inability to attend the shows. By the time he was fifteen he found he could use school studies and special interest events to get him out of attending all shows, and was no longer interested in floral presentations in any form whatsoever by the time he graduated. And he very well may have retained that lack of interest forever, if it hadn’t been for the front garden when he had first arrived. Once the garden had been presented to his eyes, the beauty of nature’s fauna was immediately rekindled in both his heart and his mind. Now his thoughts were full of joy as his eyes tried to take in every single piece of magnificence that was on parade in this ultra-grand suburban establishment.
But it was here, in the middle of the yard, that the pinnacle of the gardens offerings stood awaiting his approval, and in return it gave out an immeasurable pleasure that warmed his heart as no other display had ever done before.
Situated in the very centre of the yard, discreet, lights resting on narrow, non obtrusive poles stationed at the ready for their involvement in a magical display that would begin when the sun had set, a huge heart shaped garden bed appeared before him. Four metres in length and four and a half metres at its widest point, the garden was a miracle in itself, however it was the work of art that consumed the entire garden that caused Peter to not believe his eyes. For it was here that Manor House lay bare its heart and soul. It was obvious that it had been designed with love, thought and care, but it had been created in a way that seemed to verge on the impossible.
Inside the confines of the garden, in the lower portion of the middle of the heart, an image of the most beautiful, exotic, vibrant, red rose was being held, albeit caressed, by a young woman of bewitching beauty: a woman whose features reminded Peter of his host and assumed it may have been his wife, a supposition that was later to be confirmed when Peter finally met Ishmati’s wife Isabella. It had also resembled the fleeting glimpse of the young woman he had seen looking down at him from an upper story window, but it had been a quick glimpse … and he might have been mistaken.
The woman’s face, arms and upper torso all featured in the image, as did the body of a much younger Ishmati. They appeared facing each other, smiling, expressing love for each other through their eyes. The artist had been immaculate with every detail: the colour of their eyes, their hair, the charming idiosyncrasies of their lips and facial expression … and more. Peter had noticed earlier, when he had first met Ishmati, that he had a small scar, possibly a shaving accident seeing as how it was halfway down his neck … even that was displayed. The woman was dressed in what Peter assumed to be a traditional dress of their heritage, a bright dress buttoned to the neckline and featuring a multitude of colourful designs, while Ishmati was dressed in a similar casual way to what he wore today. Peter assumed that the contrast in their dress was a statement that both the past, the present, and the future were all of equal importance to them. Or it may have simply represented them in the way that they normally dressed.
But it was not just the clarity of the image that he was viewing that made his head spin, but the fact that the entire image appeared to have been created with the use of hundreds and hundreds of still living flowers. Each petal had been carefully chosen and planted in a manner that would produce each and every colour needed to produce this unbelievable work of art. Peter felt it impossible to manufacture what he was seeing. There were no roots showing anywhere in sight; no bushes, no way to grow a plant with but a single stem or petal, yet in the middle of the reproduction of Isabella’s face there was a solitary, totally natural appearance of a miniscule shadow that represented her ear canal, and below it a red jeweled earring hung down. Peter could believe that an artist could create the image with the leaves and branches from cuttings, and perhaps some glue, but there were two contradictory factors that he had to take into account. Facts that confused him enough to make his head spin. One was the clear fact that there was not one dead leaf or petal exposed throughout the image, the other, a fine mist was being automatically sprayed across the entire garden through the legs of the metal stands that held the lights for the evening display. It seemed to Peter that if water was being sprayed onto the garden, then there were live plants beneath the fine mist that slowly rained down on them … and if they were living plants, then there would also have been a percentage of dead ones appearing among them … and there were none. Not one solitary wilted leaf or petal anywhere to be seen.
And to make it even harder for his mind to take in what he was seeing, the entire area, between the image of Ishmati and his wife and the outer border of the huge garden, was covered with a humongous display of white and yellow roses, all of an equal height, and again seemingly without bushes. And running throughout this spectacular site were dozens of long rows of bright red roses that all made a bee line towards the centrepiece in a clear replica of the veins feeding into the heart.
And underneath the garden itself, a scroll made of roses of every colour known, spelt out the words, ‘My love … My Isabella … Forever’.
Peter found himself at a loss for words to describe his thoughts and the many questions that floated through his mind. ‘How could anybody create such an unbelievable piece of beauty like this and keep it alive? How can there be so many leaves and petals used in this ornate display, and not one leaf showing signs of wilting or dying? How could the centrepiece be maintained without the intrusion of boots trampling into the roses that surrounded it? Where are the bushes … you can’t just plant a stalk?’
The questions began to roar through his head until they reached the point that he had to know some of the answers at least, and he summoned up the courage and asked Ishmati would he mind explaining how the garden had been so beautifully created, and how was it maintained. But Ishmati’s answer was but a wink, a smile and one word, ‘Magic.’
********
“A rather patronising answer.” Mary interjected.
A very patronising reply to say the least,” Laurie agreed, “however, it would seem that the minute Ishmati had uttered that word, the thoughts and questions Peter still had to be answered were immediately dismissed from his mind, and it was not until after he had moved here to Trenthamville that something jogged his memory back to these events.
********
Immediately after Ishmati had spoken that word, Peter had found himself deeply mesmerised, hypnotised, by the sheer magic and beauty of this awesome display of nature that this house provided. It was magic, it was beautiful and he did not need to know how it all worked. All he had to do was admire its exquisiteness, and enjoy it. And he knew, whatever the outcome of this strange meeting, he was glad that he had come to the house, if only to have seen this amazingly stunning floral display.
“It would appear that you too have a feeling and love for nature, Peter.” Ishmati exclaimed happily, a huge open smile on his face, “I can see it in your face, I can sense the vibes you output. This is good. Now I am certain that you are extremely curious about why I have invited you here today. Well come with me and I will explain everything.
Excited, and still extremely overwhelmed by everything he had witnessed in the past hour, Peter eagerly followed Ishmati as they began moving along the path towards the far end of the house. However, Peter soon became a bit confused as he noticed that the walkway seemed to continue for some distance past the end of the house before it turned left, and he wondered if there was a garden between the house wall and the walkway at that end of the house that caused the walkway to extend in such a strange manner. But it was not until they reached the end of the house that the truth of the natter was exposed.
There were no French doors or windows on the wall that ran from the back wall to the front wall, just a very thick, ugly, green hedge that began life three feet around the corner of the house, and rising ever upwards until it drew level with the guttering that traversed the entire top of the third floor. And the thick, dark green monstrosity expanded so far out from the wall that it completely covered the area where the walkway would have existed had it simply turned left when it reached the corner of the house, and then continued for a further four to five feet onto the lawn itself … and it was at this point that the walkway was once again running parallel with the wall.
Peter was fascinated with this twist in the garden and wondered why it had been planted in the first plac, never mind how it was trimmed. In his mind it did nothing for the garden, and even less for the house, but he felt it to be rude to question his host about his idiosyncrasies in gardening, and said nothing. However he was surprised when they stopped about a quarter of the way alongside the hedge, even more surprised when Ishmati turned to face the hedge before placing his arm inside it … and he was absolutely gobsmacked when a portion of the hedge, just over seven feet in height and six feet in width, suddenly separated from the rest of the hedge and began moving inwards towards the house in two parts, similar to a double door opening. The gate like hedge kept moving forward until it reached a point where Ishmati was able to enter a small lane-way that now existed within the hedge, beckoning Peter to follow him.
Confused and uncertain, Peter did what was requested of him, but he was in for a further surprise when Ishmati unexpectedly pulled out a silver pen from the pocket on his shirt, aimed it at the wall … and pressed the base of it with his thumb as one would do to extend the tip of the pen in order to write. Peter was wondering what he was doing at first, but he quickly realised that the pen was, in fact, a remote control when the wall did something similar to the hedge – only this time a piece of the rock around the size of an average house door retracted into the wall for a short distance, then moved sideways out of sight. And as the door disappeared from view, the now open space revealed a well lit room which Peter assumed to be a study. As he and Ishmati entered the room, Peter wondered what other mysterious and wondrous things were left to reveal themselves to him this day.
“Man cave.” Ishmati said with a smile. “My private room for me time. The door that we came through is the only entry to this room. There is no access to the house from here.”
Peter was astounded to find the walls inside the entire room were constructed of the same white stone that the outer wall were made of, so he supposed that the room must have been installed when the house was built. But the house was built long before modern technology came along with remote controls and the small electric motor that enabled the huge stone door to open and close at the press of button, or the end of a pen in this case … and that didn’t make any sense to him. But Ishmati was extremely rich judging by the house and the unbelievable garden that surrounded it, so he thought anything was possible with money and simply accepted it as it was.
Peter was also dubious about the room being a man cave in the current interpretation of the word, thinking geek cave would have been a more apt description. His thinking this way was mainly due to the presence of the two huge, floor-to-ceiling, L-shaped bookshelves that ran against the wall on three sides of the room commencing at both sides of the entrance, and separated only by the enclosed fireplace which occupied the space between them at the back wall. The book cases were all filled to the brim with a mixture of hard and soft covered books, magazines, rolled up maps and reference books … with the exception of the first two rows on the right hand side of the room nearest the entrance they had come through. Here, an in-built stereo system, complete with a record player, surrounded by several hundred record albums, occupied the shelves. And that was another thing that Peter had to push out of his mind to stop it getting out of control again … how did they get power into the room with a solid stone wall blocking the room off at one end, and a gigantic hedge covering the stone wall on other side. Ishmati had been right … it had to be magic.
As Peter continued taking in the room he noticed the medium sized upright refrigerator that stood next to the entrance on the opposite side to where the stone door was now standing. Alongside it there was a small, front-opening cupboard with half a dozen clean glasses resting upside down on a white doily that covered the top of the cupboard, along with several bottles of partly consumed whisky, scotch and rum … and a soda dispenser.
The rest of the room was filled by a large mahogany desk that had two laptops and a Personal Computer with a thirty inch monitor residing on it, along with several sets of headphones, several large notebooks, a variety of other stationery … and a large, expensive looking, rotatable leather chair that took pride of place between the fireplace and the desk. Placed on the other side of the table between the desk and the entrance, two smaller, but equally comfortable looking chairs, sat facing each other over an equally small round table which Peter assumed were for the benefit of an invited guest such as himself. But he very much doubted that would have been a regular occurrence. Maybe Ishmati was right … perhaps it was his man cave after all.
“You like it, this man cave of mine?” Isahmati asked in a tone that almost seemed to seek approval.
“Yes, it’s cool.” Peter replied
“Cool? That is good, yes?;
“It is good,yes.”
“Thank you, I was uncertain if the word still had the same meaning after all these years.”
Peter gave him a quizzical look as he replied. “How long a time do you mean?”
“It started life in the nineteen forties. It came from the musicians who played modern jazz as a way of expressing their style of music, and grew into a more popular expression of hipness by the nineteen fifties when rock and roll and beatniks ruled the world of the hip generation. I don’t think that the meaning has changed since then, but I am never certain.”
“You seem to be into books and music, Iahmati. Is that what you do here in your man cave. Read books and play music?” Peter asked with interest.
“I like to read and research world history,” Ishmati replied, the smile on his face assuring Peter that Ishmati had certainly approved the question, “I also like to read for the sake of reading. The books on the shelves are varied in content: some fiction, some factual, some research, others are philosophical, and some are simply for enjoyment. The records are mainly classical and jazz for which I have a great liking and prefer to hear them played on vinyl. That’s what the headphones are for. The amplifier has bluetooth built in and it allows me to move freely around the room should I feel the need, and the music never loses a note as I move. The computers are purely for research … and youtube for tracks that are no longer available to purchase in any format.”
Peter, who also had an interest in both forms of music, was about to ask him about his choice of jazz when Ishmati’s phone rang. Ishmati extracted the phone from the back pocket of jeans and quickly examined the information that was flashing on the screen. It only took a second for him to glean the details, and his face became immediately embarrassed as he pressed a button on the mobile. “Excuse me, please, Peter. I must take this call,” he said apologetically, “it is very important. I had expected it earlier. It is an overseas call and sometimes the difference in times gets things a bit mixed up. I shan’t be very long. I apologise for this again, it was not intended.”
Peter smiled and advised his host to take as long as he needed. He would amuse himself by having a closer look at his library, if that was alright, and his host relied in the affirmative immediately. Then just as he was about to leave the room Ishmati turned on his heels and spoke to Peter. “I am most humbly sorry, young man, I forget my manners. May I offer you a drink while you are waiting?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.” Peter replied.
“Then please help yourself. The glasses are clean, I am afraid that my choice is limited to what you see, but I can assure you that they are all of a quality you should enjoy.”
“Scotch will do fine, thank you, Ishmati.”
“Good. There are mixers and water in the refrigerator should you need them. I shall be back as soon as possible.”
Peter had seen no harm in accepting the offer and began the task of making a drink as Ishmati made his way out into the garden to take his call, and very shortly, drink in hand, Peter began to scrutinise the books, but found very little to interest him until he came across a large reference book, ‘True Tales of Hell on Earth’ by Gerry Mander, that claimed to be able to supply the reader with information of every known supernatural event that had occurred up to the turn of the twentieth century.
He took the book and his drink and sat down on one of the chairs that stood in front of the huge writing desk and began to scroll through the book out of curiosity.
It only took Peter a minute or two to realise there was something unusual about the book itself, something not quite right. To confirm his thoughts he quickly went back to the first page, and when he did he knew his instincts were right. The book was in its tenth edition, and the date of this edition was this current year, in other words it was almost a brand new book. The cover was in immaculate order, the majority of the pages appeared to be in fine condition, yet the fold marks on the corner of the top of some pages were obviously caused by a thumb or a finger constantly opening them. Opening them so often they were beginning to fray from overuse, worn to the point that some small tears were beginning to appear in them An awful lot of usage for a book so new, Peter had thought, and it peaked his curiosity. There were several one or two line articles on the first page as well as several longer articles. He settled for the shorter ones to start his journey and began reading.
On his first selection Peter read a rather bizarre story about headless children attacking and killing peasants, possibly devouring them afterwards, but he wondered if the author meant pheasants, not peasants. Though, either way, he wondered how they could devour anything with no head. Another article spoke about footprints found in a market where a large quantity of the fruit and vegetables that had been stored for trade the following morning were stolen by thieves during the night. Footprints that indicated the culprits were somewhere between eight and nine feet tall.
For a moment Peter wondered how the book had received a first print, never mind nine reprints, but he persevered. The third article, which, while being a bit longer in detail, had actually been the first article on the page, but Peter had bypassed it in favour of the shorter stores in his quest to determine some kind of connection to the articles that were on same page as the bent pages as quickly as he could. But he decided that perhaps he would need to allocate more time to his quest – and perhaps he would need to read all of the stories regardless of their length to gain what he was seeking.
In the third article, thieves making their getaway with the authorities in full pursuit behind them somehow obtained the luxury of travelling just in front of the massive dust storm that suddenly blew up out of nowhere with so much force that the authorities not only had to give up the chase, but they were hit so hard by the strength of the storm that five of them were killed by their own camels who had reared in fright at the savagery of the storm … and trampled their riders to death as the men fell to the ground. Peter felt that this article was more relevant to the promise made my the book’s jacket, but he still could not see a connection between any of the three articles.
Then Peter got an idea. This time he began moving backward through the books instead of forwards until he reached the beginning of the chapter which was located three pages back from the first page bend. And when he did this, everything fell into place.
********
Chapter 2
Official reports of unexplained events
(Year-by-year chronological listing)
ASIA (Middle East)
********
Once Peter understood how the chapter was set up, and that a code within each article identified the main region of the incident, he knew instinctively that the reader was only going to selected stories within the chapter. Asia was a lot of land so there had to be a singular connection. What he now wanted to do was discover the connection and see if he could work which country was involved. Perhaps then, he could work out the reason for the reader’s interest.”
********
“Wouldn’t the reader be Ishmati?” Mary interrupted without thinking, “Oh, sorry, wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to speak. Just got a little carried away with the story.”
“That’s alright, Mary. I can understand. I interrupted him and offered the exact same thought when he told me this story.” Laurie said with a smile, but the answer in no … and I will tell you why.
********
Although Peter suspected that Ishmati was the reader, he also knew that was not necessarily correct just because it was his man cave. The six glasses, the three bottles of alcohol, and the three chairs indicated that some visitors came there reasonably often. And, in that case it may very well have been one of the visitors that attacked the book with so much relish and vigour. Peter finally decided, that at this point anyway, who was reading the stories in the book was not important. It was what they were gleaning from the stories that interested him. What was the connection? Were the stories really true, and why did the reader have such an interest in so many morbid things that had supposedly taken place over one hundred years ago – even if they were true? Did he expect one of them to reoccur. Peter thought it was a bizarre type of book to get wrapped up in, and that peaked his interest more than anything. The more that Peter thought about the possibilities, the more excited he became.
Taking a quick swallow from his drink, Peter placed the glass down on the small table, got up and tore out a page from the note book on the desk to record the location of this incident, returned to his seat, opened the book and located the article that had begun its story closest to the bent page which was now proven to have been the last one that he had read. He quickly checked the story for the location code. Once he found it he recorded it on the sheet of paper and marked a number one against it.
He then continued scanning through the following articles, recording the locations of the subsequent events as they were all of different regions, until he reached the next thumb marking. And Peter’s mind went into overdrive as the first story connected to the second thumb mark revealed itself to have taken place in the same location as the one he had marked as number one. Excited, and now confident in his thoughts, Peter stopped reading the articles and rushed forward to each subsequent bent page and in every case it revealed the same location … one particular city in the Middle East.
And it was on the last article that he had landed on that he saw a word he didn’t understand … Punjani! He had no idea what it was or what it meant. It had only been mentioned once in the entire article, and even then Peter was unsure that it was the word that the author had intended to be printed because the sentence that it been associated with was a typesetter’s nightmare. Somehow, it had missed the eyes of the editor and nothing in the sentence made any sense whatsoever. Yet, for some strange reason, it was a word that Peter never forgot.
But regardless of the printing error, Peter’s excitement rose in the same manner as a puzzle devotee’s does when they suddenly realise that they are finally going to break the Sudoku code, or work out the mysterious, purposely ‘misspelt’, word in ‘Jumble’.
Peter put down the book in order to take a celebratory drink, folding the paper with his notes up in his hand and placing it in his coat pocket for no other reason than becoming embarrassed should his host berate him for helping himself to the stationery. And as he did so he noticed a strange odour. He looked around the room searching for the source. There were some Joss sticks burning in an ornamental holder situated on a small shelf above the open fireplace and he assumed them to be the origin of the smell, though he didn’t remember sensing them when they first entered the room, nor did he remember seeing Ishmati light them. However when he had a closer look at them he could see that they had barely begun to burn. The red flame that normally burns at a snail’s pace had moved moved several inches from the tips of the sticks, so Ishmati must have lit them. And to make matters more confusing, the odour seemed to be completely surrounding him – as if it was coming not just from the sticks, but out from the walls themselves.
He walked over to the doorway to take in a deep breath of fresh air where he saw his host still talking on the phone out on the lawn. Ishmati just happened to turn in his direction at that moment and gave Peter a wave and a smile, and indicated with his fingers that he would only be another couple of moments. Peter waved back then went back in the room and added a little more scotch to his glass and continued to sip on his drink. Peter was not wanting to become intoxicated in the presence of his host, for he was only a moderate drinker at the best of times, and could never thoroughly trust his ability to hold his liquor. But he was enjoying the taste that washed down his throat – and it also helped make the strange odour a bit easier to tolerate as he sat back down in his chair to continue his reading.
He took one last sip of his still reasonably full scotch, placed the glass back on the table and opened the book at a random thumb print where one of many mysterious events of the past was about to reveal its secrets to him. Secrets that were but jigsaw pieces that could help paint a much bigger picture which Peter hoped would soon solve the problem he had given to himself … ‘what was the connection between the robberies that the reader felt compelled to read over and over again?’
********
“You can remember all of these details?” Mary asked in awe and surprise.
“Yes, I am blessed with photographic memory. Laurie replied.
“I often think that he had a three hundred and sixty terabyte memory chip installed in his head at some stage.” Malena said with a laugh. “I would guarantee that he could remember the details of the first drink of milk he had from his mother’s breast. Don’t ever get into an argument with him about something he has seen or read. Your head will spin for days after he reels off every single detail he is aware of.”
“Thank’s for the warning.” Mary smiled, and spoke as if she fully understood Malena’s tongue-in-cheek warning, but she had absolutely no idea what a three hundred and sixty terabyte chip was, and hoped that she didn’t need to. “Please go on, Laurie.”
********
“Thank you, Malena, but no, I can’t remember the details of that auspicious occasion all those years ago, but I certainly do remember the story that Peter read … as he told it to me.
Twenty five men had robbed a small caravan train travelling through an uninhabited stretch of land not too far outside of the city.’ the story began, ‘It seemed incredible that the thieves had known that the caravan that, for all sake and purposes, appeared to be currently under the jurisdiction of a raggedy-tag band of gypsies who had decided to see the world in their migration from Roma to Europe were not what they seemed. The gypsies were, in reality, very rich businessmen, mainly gold merchants and jewellers, who were travelling under cover to a secret trade fair that would be attended by some of the richest men on the planet. A unique fair where some of the most precious jewellery and gold artifacts in the world would be on offer, a one time only fair that had been deemed too dangerous to hold in the past, and would now be deemed to be too dangerous in the future.
The fair had been organised by the country’s corrupt powers-to-be who would get a sizeable percentage of the merchant’s profits delivered to their pockets once the dealings were done. In return they had arranged for trustworthy troops to safeguard the merchants both to and from the city. The forty guards that were promised had been the main reason for this group of merchant’s undertaking the trip, and the risks involved … for they were bringing over half of the treasure that was to be sold.
The guards had been secretly hidden inside each caravan, also disguised as gypsies, and when the attack began the guards sprung out in action. Forty of them, there were … more than enough to defeat the would-be-robbers, but only for a few seconds. It had been summer, the night was hot, the guards were dressed in appropriately cooler clothing. The robbers on the other hand were dressed as if it was the coldest day in all of winter. The guards laughed at the robbers …laughed at their dress that would slow them down in the heat of battle. But the guards were wrong in their thinking.
As soon as the guards had all gotten down from their caravans and readied themselves for battle … the wind began to blow. Wind, gentle at first, grew faster and stronger as every second past. And with every increase of the wind’s strength, so did the temperature drop. Within fifteen seconds, before the first sword was fully raised, before the first blow struck, the skin on the lightly dressed guards began to turn blue. The swords began to freeze, becoming impossible to hold without causing pain and suffering to whomever held it in their hands, and finally the guards dropped the weapons to the ground … and then their bodies joined the weapons. Their bodies too cold and frigid to move or care.
The seconds passed by slowly. The guards no longer moved as they lay on the ground. The merchants huddled close together inside the caravans, for both safety and comfort in their hour of fear … and for warmth in this unbelievable arctic weather. Suddenly the wind dropped. The night air became warm again. The robbers unencumbered themselves from their warm clothing. relieved the caravan passengers of their money, jewels and other relevant possessions and left them scratching their heads as they tried to fathom what had just happened.
********
Peter had been deeply immersed in the story, and when he felt a little drowsy after he had finished reading it, he assumed it was just a combination of the alcohol, and the strain he had put on his eyes when he got deep into the story.
He got up and placed the still half-full drink on the fireplace mantle deciding he had enough, and then walked back to the chair. That is, staggered, to the chair and managed to sit down before he fell down.
And as soon as he had sat down, Peter’s eyes began to close involuntary, and he found himself trying to fight the tiredness. He looked around the room for something to focus on while he regained his composure. He could not understand why he was feeling this way. He had not drunk enough scotch to make him feel this inebriated … he was certain of that, but his mind and body were telling him different.
Eventually his eyes fell upon a large painting of a dragon and a knight in battle situated on the wall next to the stone door. He pushed and pushed his mind to its limit as he tried his hardest to concentrate on the painting: to search out every little detail it offered and have his mind gluttonously gorge on it. And, for a second or two, it seemed that he was getting his way. The painting suddenly began to expand in size and he could now see so much of the infinite details that existed in the forest behind the knight and his horse: he could see the goblins and elves that watched on in fear for the knight’s survival and in eternal hope for his triumph over the demon dragon. He could see the evil wizard casting spells to give further strength and cunning to the dragon. He could see the reflection of the knight in the dragons green and red eyes as the dragon spat out the death giving flame at him … and then, just as quickly as the enchantment of the forest had reached Peter’s eyes. they again began to blur, and the entire image threatened to disappear from his vision.
He tried opening and shutting his eyes rapidly, but all he achieved was confusion in his head as he felt his entire body beginning to close down. He forced his eyes to concentrate on the painting with every drop of energy he could muster, and despite the pounding and pain that dominated the inside of his head he somehow found the inner strength he needed. The world that existed within the painting invited him back into its fold. The elves, the fairies, the wizards, all watched him, some in happiness, some in anger, and all in amazement at was happening before their very eyes. Somehow, someway, he had seemingly been granted the power of astral travel, his upright body now slowly floating out of his world … and into theirs.
But as he travelled this astral path, Peter’s mind could also feel the onset of a premonition: a warning that sent fear to attack his heart even though he had absolutely no idea of the warning’s contents. Closer and closer Peter drifted to the painting, so close he could smell the forest, feel the heat from the dragons fire, hear again the warnings that emitted from the dark area of the forest, but he could not yet understand what the words were saying to him. Peter suddenly felt his entire body beginning to freeze up, fear ran across every nerve in his body and Peter was now as frightened as he had ever been in his entire life – and despite his current mind set of his bodies incapability to move freely, Peter somehow found a way to run as fast as he could as the dragon suddenly jumped out of the painting and began moving closer and closer to him. But in the room there was nowhere to run: nowhere to go. Peter had somehow managed to make it to the wall at the back of the room because running forward towards the creature to try and escape trough the entrance would have been suicidal. But being stuck in the room was not so wonderful either. He searched frantically for something he could use to defend himself with, but there were only computers and headsets on the desk, and a chair that was far too heavy for him to lift to throw at the beast. And as the creature slowly moved closer Peter could hear it hissing through the smoke and feel the heat from the embers that sparkled within its nostrils. He could smell its putrid breath and he could feel death cloak its blackness around him. Then for a second he could sense reprieve as the knight too jumped of the painting and to his rescue. But one massive flick of the dragon’s tail sent the knight to the promised land, and the flame that had erupted from the mouth of the dragon who had turned to face his foe, quickly destroyed any memory of the knight’s existence forever.
Then the massive creature returned its large, scaly, red and green eyed, head back to face Peter and took a further two steps toward him … then blasted Peter with so much force in the fiery attack Peter could smell his own burning flesh and feel himself passing out. Possibly, probably, never to awaken.
But death never took him. Unexpectedly, Peters eyes suddenly shot wide open, he was still seated in the chair in front of the desk, the dragon and the knight were once again doing battle within the frame of the painting … everything seemed normal again, but it was not all over. Peter’s eyes suddenly went to war with his mind as they fought for control of him. He again found himself fighting to keep his eyes open and not fall into the deep sleep his mind was threatening to place him in.
Then, as he felt his mind was winning the battle, he was momentarily distracted by a noise. The war was suddenly placed into a cease-fire mode as both Peter and his mind tried to assess what the noise was. Peter swung his body around the room, within the constraints of his current condition, to try and locate the source of this noise, and as he did so he saw his host re-enter the room.
Immediately Peter tried to stand, but all the effort achieved was for him to stumble forwards to the desk and support himself by placing the palms of his hands on the desk as he somehow, in his now totally confused mind, made his way around it before collapsing into the big chair which spun around with the impact of his body. And as a result Peter found himself staring at the fireplace: no longer capable of moving.
And then, through half closed eyes, he once again began to feel that his mind was playing tricks on him. A new odour had arrived in the room. An odour much stronger than the previous one he thought had originated from the joss sticks. This smell was overpowering, sickening. The room was beginning to get far hotter than what he had felt when the … when he had imagined the dragon was attacking him. And then the smoke arrived: smoke that was curling out of the unlit hearth, from the walls, from the ceiling: a strange unearthly smoke, grey, red, yellow and black … and it was followed by this thing, this vile, ugly, thing, but his memory stops short at that point. The only thing that he can remember after the smoke engulfed him … was a bloodied scar in the shape of a snake on the thing’s forehead … then everything went black.”
tonystewart3 - Short Fat Stubby Finger Stories 