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| Stories for Little Children |
Sir Dylan and the Wasps
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Not far from Granddad's house there was a magic hill
with lots of trees on it. Big trees and little trees. Among the trees
birds flew. Below the trees were lots of ferns where little lizards
lived.
In between the trees was a footpath where people could walk. The footpath went all around and over a little river.
Away from the footpath, in places where the people don't go, there lived fairies.
Grownups can't see fairies, only some children can.
Dylan could see the fairies.
One family of fairies, on Granddad's magic hill, lived in a hollow in a
big tree. The hollow was warm and dry, just right for fairies. It
wasn't at all dark because glow worms lived there.
Then, one day, a swarm of wicked wasps set up house in the ground by the big tree. The wasps were mean to the fairies.
The fairies tried to fight the wasps. The soldier fairies were very
brave. But even with their magic fairy swords the wasp's stings were
too much for them. Many brave soldier fairies were hurt.
"What shall we do?" asked the fairies.
"Every time we go out to play the wasps chase us."
"I know," said the littlest fairy, "Let's ask Sir Dylan the Brave."
All the other fairies agreed. So the bravest of the soldier fairies flew to Dylan's house, which was a long, long, way away.
Dylan was playing in his sandpit when the brave soldier fairy came to him.
"Can you help us, Sir Dylan?"
"I can," said Dylan "I will bring Mummy's fly spray and ride on my favourite dinosaur. It's a Megasnoraus."
So Sir Dylan rode day and night until he came to Granddad's house.
"What are you doing?' asked Granddad.
"I am going to fight the wasps with the fairies." said Sir Dylan.
"Then take this magic cloak with you." said Granddad. "Dinosaur skin is
too hard for wasps to get through, but you will need this cloak to
protect you from their stings."
So Sir Dylan the Brave put on the magic cloak and rode to the hill
where the wasps were fighting the fairies. The wasps saw him coming and
flew out to meet him.
The wasps were very angry and buzzey. They stung and stung and stung but Granddad's magic cloak protected the brave knight.
Then, with the help of the soldier fairies, Sir Dylan and his dinosaur
drove the wasps away from the fairy hollow with Mummy's fly spray. The
wasps never came back.
All the fairies were so happy. That night, they had a huge feast with
Granddad, Sir Dylan, Princess Hayley and Lady Kayla. Even the
Megasnoraus had lots to eat before everyone went home to bed.
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The Lost Dragon
Abbey and Sarah were playing Libraries at Nana's house. Nana had lots
of books; some for children and some for grownups. Abbey was being the
Librarian and Sarah was being the customer. Sarah picked out some books
and took them to Abbey.
"I would like to take these books home for Mummy to read to us." said Sarah.
"Certainly Madam," said Abbey "I will just stamp them for you."
Then, just as Abbey was going to stamp a book for Sarah, it fell open on the desk at a page they had never seen.
On the page was a picture of a handsome prince who looked sad. Abbey and Sarah felt sorry for the sad prince.
"I wonder why he is unhappy." said Abbey.
Then Abbey and Sarah got a BIG surprise when the prince answered them!
"I am unhappy because my favourite dragon, Sean, has gone away and got lost" he said.
The prince stood up from the page and bowed to the girls.
"I am Prince Tyler," he said, "and for many years I have lived happily
in a story about a prince who rescues a fair maiden from a fierce
dragon. Only the dragon wasn't really fierce and, when no one was
reading the story, we all lived happily together. Then, one day, a
wicked old troll peeked in the book and saw the dragon not being
fierce. He told the Dragon Master who got very angry because dragons
are supposed to be all nasty. Sean didn't want to be nasty so he ran
away and now I cannot find him."
"We will help you find him." said Sarah and Abbey together.
So Abbey and Sarah went to Nana.
"Where do dragons like to hide?" they asked.
"Dragon's mostly like to hide in dark caves." said Nana.
"Are there any dark caves near here?" asked Sarah.
"No." said Nana.
"Then we will have to make one." said Abbey.
So Abbey and Sarah got a blanket and hung it over Nana's table to make
a cave. It was dark and warm in the cave, just the way that dragons
like it.
Prince Tyler told the girls that dragons particularly like chocolate
biscuits. So, while Nana wasn't looking, he sneaked into the pantry and
got a biscuit for the dragon - and one for Abbey and one for Sarah and
two for him! He was a very brave prince.
Everyone then went out of the room, leaving the chocolate biscuit in the cave. They went with Nana to feed the ducks.
When everyone got back from feeding the ducks they looked in the cave
and sure enough there was Sean, all full of chocolate biscuit and
curled up fast asleep! The girls were so happy.
"Now to take care of the wicked old troll." said Prince Tyler. "Come with me everyone."
So Abbey and Sarah set out with Sean and Tyler to the Troll's house. It
was all smelly. The old troll came rushing out but Prince Tyler and
dragon Sean (who was really also a prince) wrestled him to the ground
and held him down while Abbey and Sarah tied him up with magic rope.
"Now Mister troll," said Prince Tyler "I will only let you free if you
promise to go back to troll land and never bother us again."
"I promise." said the troll.
Then Abbey untied the magic rope (because she was the Librarian) and the old troll never bothered them again.
"Hooray!" said Sean the good dragon, "Now I can go back to living with
the Prince and his fair maid back in the book. I will come out and
pretend to be fierce whenever anyone except Abbey or Sarah reads the
story. Otherwise I will be the good dragon I really am."
So Abbey stamped the book and Sarah took it out from the Library.
Later, when Mummy was reading it to her and Abbey, the dragon smiled at
them. But Mummy didn't see him because only little children and Granddads can
see real dragons.
| The Fidgety River |
Once upon a time, in the famous city of Queens Town,
there lived three brave knights: Sir Bailey of the Trains, Sir Logan of
the Drums, and Sir Kieran of the Carpet. Everyone knows that three is a
magic number and that if their parents, the Lord Dad and Lady Mum, had
another baby then it would have to be a girl (it's in the rules!).
Near the castle where the boys lived there was a very fidgety river.
This river started out as a tiny little stream high in the mountains.
As it ran down the mountainside, other streams joined it until,
together, they became all big and strong. Because they were young, like
the three brothers, the streams liked to play with one another. They
also liked to explore all the rocks and cracks and odd bits of their
playground. This is why the river, which was really just a lot of
little streams joined together, was so fidgety. It never rested. There
were whirlpools and rapids and waterfalls going on all the time. There
were also noisy jet boats full of tourists who gave lots of money to
rich people for a ride on the river. Nobody gave the river anything for
letting the tourists play on it.
One day, when Sir Bailey was at Play School, Mum and Sir Logan went
into Queens Town to pick him up. While they were there it began to
snow. It snowed and snowed and snowed. In fact, it snowed so much that
Mum had to leave the car by the bridge over the fidgety river and they
all had to walk home in the snow. That was an adventure and Mum was
glad that she had her brave knights to keep her safe.
On another day the three knights went camping with Mum and Dad. They
travelled a long, long way and stayed in a tent. That was an adventure
too.
After each of their adventures, the brothers would look at the river
and see that it was still fidgety. And it always was until, one day,
something scarey happened. The mountain by the river got angry at all
the noise the jet boats were making and so it dropped a huge rock into
the river to block it. Below the rock the river ran away because it was
scared. Above the rock it stopped fidgeting. The river was still.
"What shall we do?" asked Sir Logan.
"I know" said Sir Bailey, "Let's ask Grandma. She is a wise old woman with grey hair and knows about these things."
So Sir Bailey, who was six, rang Grandma on the telephone and asked
what they could do to make the river fidgety again. Grandma, who was
very wise, told them to get on the trampoline and bounce as hard as
they could. The trampoline was magic and would shake the rock loose.
The three brave knights got on the magic trampoline. Sir Kieran of the
Carpet sat in the middle while Sir Bailey of the Trains and Sir Logan
of the Drums bounced as hard as they could - which was very hard.
'Sproing' went the trampoline the first time, and the sproing reached the house.
'Sproing' went the trampoline the second time, and the sproing reached the road!
'Sproing' went the
trampoline the third time and, because three is a magic number, this
sproing reached the river. The sproing shook the rock so hard that it
crumbled into lots of little pieces.
The river was so glad that it rushed around the bits of rock and
fidgeted lots and lots until all the bits were washed away to the sea
and never bothered the fidgety river again.
Everyone was happy and they all had a big picnic by the fidgety river.
There were lollies and sandwiches and ice cream and noisy jet boats
zooming up and down the water. None of the tourists or rich people knew
that the three boys having the picnic were the brave knights who had
saved the river. But the river knew.
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Sarah and the Fairy
One day a fairy was flying along above the houses. It was such a nice
day that she wasn't watching where she was going. It didn't matter
until BANG! - she flew straight into a seagull.
"Watch where you are going!" said the seagull (who hadn't been watching where he was going either).
The fairy couldn't say anything because seagulls are quite big and she
had banged into this one quite hard. Down she fell! Another BANG and
the fairy landed right on the ground.
"Ouch" she said.
The fairy tried to take off again. It was then that she found that she had broken one of her wings and couldn't fly.
It is very bad for fairies to break their wings because there are creepy crawly things on the ground that frighten them.
"What shall I do?" said the fairy. "I think I must hide myself in a flower until my wing gets better."
The fairy was just starting to cross the lawn when a huge, noisy,
machine came towards her. It was something that humans call a Lawn
Mower and it was very scary. Before the fairy could get out of the way
the lawnmower ran right over her! Around and around she went with all
the grass! Whizzy here and whizzy there until WHOOSH, the fairy was
tossed into the catcher. She lay there feeling all spinny and rumpled.
Then the human suddenly caught up the catcher and threw the grass, with
the fairy, into a pile.
The poor fairy! Her hair was all mussed and she felt all shookled about. She began to cry.
Just then the fairy saw a little girl come up to the pile of grass.
"Why are you crying?" asked the little girl.
"I have hurt my wing," said the fairy "and I don't like being on the ground by myself.
"When I hurt myself," said the little girl "Mummy gives me a sticky plaster and a hug. Would you like a sticky plaster?"
"Thank you" said the fairy "that would be very nice. What is your name?"
"I'm Sarah" said the little girl. "What's yours?"
"I am 'Cheeky Hiddenbum Ficklesides Chocolate Cake the Small" said the
fairy "but all my best friends just call me 'Hidey.' You can call me
'Hidey' too if you like."
Then Sarah ran inside to get a sticky plaster. She couldn't find any,
but there was a roll of sticky tape on the bench. So she grabbed the
tape and rushed back outside again.
"Can you be brave?" she asked the fairy "while I fix your wing."
"I can" said Hidey, and screwed up her face very tight.
Very carefully Sarah put tape on Hidey's broken wing, just like a nurse. The fairy was very brave and soon it was all done.
Although her wing was fixed, Hidey soon found that she still couldn't fly.
"I know what the trouble is" she said 'What about my hug?"
Everyone knows that when Mummy fixes you up it is the hug that is the
important bit - although a chocolate biscuit helps a lot (and two help
even more). So Sarah gave the fairy a hug and said "There, there; it'll
be alright."
Sure enough, the fairy was soon flying around the garden.
"It's still a bit sore" she said "but I think I can get home if I limp a lot and make all the other fairies feel sorry for me."
So Hidey limped off home.
Later that night, when Sarah was sleeping in her bed, the King of the
fairies came to her and gave her some happy dreams so that she smiled
even though she was fast asleep.
Granddad and the Dragon in the Garden
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One day, in summer, Granddad was helping Grandma in
the garden by cutting the old, dead, leaves off the tomatoes. 'Snip'
'snip' went the scissors and, with each 'snip', an old leaf was cut
off. Then Granddad heard a noise. He looked up and there was the face
of a little girl looking over the fence.
"Look, Grandma" said Granddad "there's a little girl spying on us. Do
you think she really is a little girl? She might be a fierce dragon in
a cunning disguise?"
"I am not a dragon" said the face "I am a little girl."
"That's what you say" said Granddad "but you might be one of those
wicked dragons who tell fibs. Then when I said 'hello little girl'
WHOOSH! You would burn me with fire and eat me all up. I wouldn't mind
that because I would be dead, but Grandma would be all sad."
"Don't be silly" said the little girl "You can see that I'm not a dragon.
Granddad believed the little girl and went over to the fence. Then
WHOOSH! The little girl, who really was a dragon, cooked him with fire
and ate him all up!
Grandma was very cross with the dragon and shoo'd it away.
Then Grandma went into the kitchen and got out a big bowl. In the bowl
she mixed all sorts of Grandad ingredients. There was toast and
marmalade, kindness, silliness and wrinkles, baked beans and beetroot,
glasses, grey hair and skinny arms. Then she got a special bottle from
the cupboard labelled 'Magic Granddad Stuff.' She put three drops of
Granddad Stuff into the bowl and stirred all the ingredients together.
When they were all properly mixed, she made a special spell,
"I am Grandma,
Abracajack.
I love Grandad
and I want him back.'
Then SPROING! Granddad was standing there before her like nothing had
ever happened! He even had all his clothes on, so it wasn't rude.
This is why, when Granddad is in the garden and a little girl says
'Hello' to him, he squirts her with the garden hose - just in case she
is really a fire-breathing dragon.
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Stories for Middle Children
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| Tyler Saves the Day |
Daniel was wet, cold, muddy, and tired. It had rained
on and off all day. The ground was soft, the ball hard to hold onto.
Too many passes had been dropped, to many kicks had gone wild.
Daniel's team, the Western Wasps, were playing the Southern Reds. The
Wasps were a good team, and the boys liked their cool yellow and back
jerseys. Daniel played second-five. Inside of him was Jason at
first-five. Outside of him was Tama at centre. Ryan was on this wing,
Aiden on the other.
Most of the Red team were a little older, and a little bigger, than the
Wasp boys. It had been a long match, and Daniel had been playing hard
ever since the kick-off. Now the game was nearly over and the Wasps
were behind by three points.
The points had come from a Red penalty kick soon
after half time. Since then the Wasps had done everything they could to
break the Red line and score points. But the Red defence had held. Now
the Wasps were running out of time.
The Referee's whistle went. He had awarded the Red team a free kick.
Everyone knew that they would kick the ball out. The Ref would give
three short blasts on his whistle, and the game would be over.
Slowly, the tired Wasps fell back.
The Red captain kicked for the Side Line.
The kick was a bad one. Instead of going over the line, the ball shot
off the side of his boot and tumbled through the air - landing and
bouncing among the surprised Wasps. Two of the forwards tried to catch
the ball in the air but missed. It tumbled backwards along the ground
until Tyler snatched it up and ran hard for the Red line.
Tyler was a
strong runner and hard to stop when he got going. When he reached the
Reds it took four or five of them to hold him. He went down, covered by
Red players, but managed to lay the ball back for the Wasp's halfback.
The halfback threw the ball to Jason, who barely had time to throw it
to Daniel before he too was tackled by three or four Red players.
Too many Reds had tried to stop Tyler and Jason, and they were too slow
getting up off the ground. That had left a gap in their line. Daniel
ran for it as fast as he could. One of the Red players tried to trip
him, but missed. Their winger was fast but had to turn around before he
could chase Daniel going the other way. The only Red player between
Daniel and the Try Line was their fullback. A big boy. Daniel couldn't
side step him because the ground was too wet. But then he saw a Wasp's
jersey coming with him. Tyler had got away from the reds and was
running up beside him on the inside! Just as the Red fullback caught
him, Daniel passed the ball. Tyler caught it well and held it tight.
Several Red players reached for him but he was going too fast. Two
steps and he dived over the line to score.
The Wasp's fullback missed the kick, but it didn't matter. Tyler had
scored a five-point try in the last minute of the game and, when the
final whistle went, the Wasp's had won by two points.
Daniel didn't feel wet, cold, muddy, and tired, any more.
He just felt happy.
| Tyler's Motto |
A quitter never wins
A winner never quits. |
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Sean and the Lucky Pup
Sean's platoon were spread out, rifles loaded, lying very
still in the long grass. The enemy was just the other side of the clay
wall.
Ray pointed at Sean and Jude, and then off to the left. He wanted them
to go around the wall and come up behind the enemy soldiers.
Sean turned and, keeping low, crept along the ground. Jude was right behind him.
Just as Sean got to a gap in the wall, he heard shots behind him. The
enemy soldiers had come out into the open and were being shot at by Ray
and the others.
Jude threw a grenade over the wall. The grenade went off and Sean leapt through the gap, firing at the enemy he went.
Bad guys ran off in all directions.
Sean and Jude crept carefully forwards, making sure that no enemy were left.
It was then that Sean saw a tiny puppy crouching in a hollow. The pup
was very small and didn't know what was going on. It's mother had been
killed in the fighting. It was very dirty and shaking all over.
Sean gently picked it up.
"What have you got there?" asked Jude.
"It's a little black-and-brown pup." said Sean.
"That must be one lucky dog to still be alive."
Sean agreed.
That was why, later, when Sean and Jude showed the lucky pup to the
rest of the platoon, they decided to keep it as a platoon pet.
The boys called their new pet 'Lucky' and Sean was given the job of looking after it.
Lucky stayed with the platoon for the whole time that they were on
duty. For as long as Lucky was with them, no one in the platoon was
hurt in any of the fighting. And later, when the boys went home, Lucky
was allowed to go with them.
| Beowulf |
A Very, Very, Old Story as Retold by Granddad
Away
down at the southern end of the world, alone in a great ocean, are the
Islands of New Zealand. In the North Island of New Zealand is a town
called Dannevirke which, in the Danish language, means 'The work of the
Danes.' Dannevirke is where early settlers who came to New Zealand from
Denmark first made their home.
Away
up north, at the cold edge of Europe, is the island of Sjælland
(Sealand), which is where the Danes originally came from. Sjælland is
pronounced 'zealand' and is Danish for 'land of the sea.' New Zealand
was named after Sjælland by the map makers who printed Abel Tasman's
map of our coast.
The
Danes were Scandinavians - a group of people living in Denmark, Norway,
and Sweden. The Scandinavians were a fierce people who were farmers,
fishermen and sea raiders known as 'Vikings'. This story comes from
long ago at the time of a Danish king called Hrothgar 'Rothgar').
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Hrothgar was a strong and brave young king, who had won glory in
battle. Like his father, he was known for his fairness and generosity.
He built a very grand hall, called Heorot, where his brave and loyal warriors dined with him.
In those long ago days, most of the land was covered by dark forests
that surrounded the farms, towns and villages. The people feared these
huge forests where they could get lost and strange sounds could be
heard at night. As well as savage beasts - wolves, bears and wild boars
- the people believed that these forests were the home of strange
creatures such as goblins, fairies and trolls who would eat humans just
as surely as any wolf or bear. The people especially feared the lakes
in the forests; pools and swamps and dark wells where sinister
creatures lived.
Near Heorot, there was a dark swamp where a particularly ugly
troll called Grendel lived at the bottom of a boggy pool. We don't
know much about Grendel except that it was ugly and strong and didn't like the sound of people singing. The old
stories say that it was the son of a human and a lady water-monster. It
had lived in the swamp since the time when Cain murdered Abel in the
first book of the Bible. Cain may have been its father.
One night in Heorot, Hrothgar and his friends had a very noisy
feast which kept Grendel awake and made it angry. After the feast,
which lasted late into the night, the warriors lay down to sleep
in Hrothgar's hall while everyone else went to their homes or guest
rooms. Once everyone was asleep, Grendel
attacked the warriors in the hall. It killed thirty of Hrothgar's brave
men. It then took their bodies back to its lair at the bottom of the
lake
where ate them.
In the morning, Hrothgar and his people were horrified at the mess, and
the king grieved over the loss of his loyal subjects. He gathered his
bravest warriors together to track down and destroy the creature, but
they couldn't stop it. Night after night Grendel came again to Heorot,
killing the strong and the weak alike, feeding on the dead. Hrothgar
fought Grendel but could not even harm it.
This went on for twelve long years, until no one would sleep in Heorot and Grendel had taken many brave warriors off Hrothgar.
Just north of Denmark, where Hrothgar was king, is the country of
Sweden. At the southern end of Sweden there lived a tribe of
Scandinavians called Geats. The king of the Geats was Hygelac. King
Hygelac had a nephew of named Beowulf (be-a-wolf).
Beowulf was the strongest and the bravest warrior in the world.
When Beowulf
heard of what was happening at Heorot he decided to aid Hrothgar
against Grendel: to win the glory of slaying the dreadful beast. He
took fourteen brave friends with him.
Beowulf arrived at Heorot with his friends. He entered the hall of Hrothgar and
introduced himself to the Danish king. When Hrothgar heard that the
young Geatish hero wished to help him in slaying the monster, Grendel, he and his queen, Wealhtheow, welcomed Beowulf and his
warriors as guests.
Hrothgar promised to reward Beowulf if he managed to kill Grendel.
Beowulf knew that the monster carried no weapons, so he declared that
he would confront it without the use of sword or armour.
After supper
and a long talk between Hrothgar and Beowulf, the king and his servants
left Heorot and went to bed, leaving Beowulf and his followers to guard
the hall.
Late that night, Grendel left his underwater lair, and stealthily entered the hall.
All of his companions had fallen asleep, but Beowulf waited in the
dark. Grendel killed one of the sleeping warriors. Then, when the
monster went to attack Beowulf, it was surprised to find him not only
wide awake, but fighting back fiercely. For once in his life, Grendel
knew fear and pain. Beowulf's grip on its hand was so strong that it
could not get away. Grendel felt Beowulf crush his hand and fingers.
Beowulf wouldn't let go.
A deadly
struggle followed as the monster tried to escape. Beowulf's companions
joining in the fight to protect their leader. They tried to hack at the
troll with their swords, but Grendel couldn't be hurt by weapons of
war. Finally, Grendel screamed in agony as Beowulf tore its arm from
its shoulder. The monster's lifeblood spurted from the wound. It
immediately fled from Heorot, and returned to its watery
home, to die in great pain.
Hrothgar and his subjects were wakened by the struggle between Beowulf
and the monster. They rushed into the hall where they saw the Geatish
hero holding Grendel's missing arm as proof of his victory. They all
knew that Beowulf had dealt a death blow to the creature that had
killed so many people.
In the morning, the people celebrated the death of Grendel. They hung
the troll's arm from a rafter in Heorot and arranged a great funeral
pyre for the Geatish warrior who had been murdered by it.
Hrothgar's harp player recorded Beowulf's late night feat in a long
poem. It is because of this poem, which is the oldest poem written in
English, that we know of the story.
As Hrothgar had promised, he rewarded Beowulf with splendid armour, a
helmet, and a banner. Hrothgar also gave the hero the sword of King
Healfdene and a precious cup which was a family heirloom. Giving the
ancestral sword and cup to the hero indicated that Hrothgar would like
to adopt Beowulf as a son and make him heir to the kingdom.
Queen Wealhtheow asked Hrothgar to give whatever gifts he wish to Beowulf, but not to
deprive their son of the right to rule after him. Wealhtheow then
gave more gifts to Beowulf - a necklace and a special leather armour that was light but strong.
After the celebration, the Danish king and his people thought that they
could sleep peacefully in the hall, but their peril was far from
over. Grendel had died in his lair from his wound and loss of blood,
but his mother mourned for the loss of her horrible son.
Grendel's mother was not as big as her son but she
was just as mean. That night, while the unsuspecting Geats and Danes
celebrated Beowulf's victory, she decided to avenge her son's death
upon them. Once the Danes and their honoured guests were asleep,
Grendel's mother crept into the hall. She took her son's arm from the rafter. Beowulf was not sleeping in the hall that night, so she killed
one of Hrothgar's loyal advisors, Ashhere, while he slept. The creature
then returned to her home, taking her son's arm and the advisor's
body with her.
When he found that Ashhere and Grendel's arm were
missing, Hrothgar knew that Grendel's mother had killed his a loyal
adviser. Everyone was distressed that they faced a new crisis, but
Beowulf promised to kill the monster.
Hrothgar,
Beowulf, and their friends, tracked Grendel's mother to the swamp where
they found Ashhere's head by a small dark lake.
The dark lake was full of snakes and scaley creatures. Beowulf covered
himself with his new leather armour and borrowed a sword called 'Hrunting' from one of
king Hrothgar's men.
Beowulf then dived into the water, seeking the lair of Grendel's
mother. At the bottom of lake he found a cave that seemed to have some
kind of light coming from its far end, deep underground. Beowulf crept
though the cave towards the light, where he found the evil creature
waiting for him. He immediately swung the sword (Hrunting) at her head.
Though Hrunting was a powerful sword in the battlefield, it was
useless against Grendel's mother. Dropping the sword, Beowulf tried to
fight the creature with his bare hands' just as he had with her son. Grappling with the monster by
her shoulders, he flung her to the ground. Grendel's mother leaped back
to her feet, and tried to throw the hero to the ground in turn. She then
drew her dagger, but Beowulf's special armour saved his life. Then Beowulf saw
another sword among the treasure. This mighty weapon was possibly forged by a
giant from olden times. The Geatish warrior seized the sword by the
hilt, and delivered a powerful stroke that cut the monster's head right
off.
Beowulf
then explored the lady monster's underground home. He found
that the cave was filled with weapons and treasure. He also found
Grendel's body. The hero was not interested in the treasures but he cut
Grendel's head off with the giant's sword to take back with him as
proof of his victory. The sword melted from Grendel's poisoned blood.
Beowulf discarded it and retrieved Unferth's sword, Hrunting.
Beowulf was gone for many hours. The Danes began to think
that their brave champion must have died fighting Grendel's mother so, late in the day,
they sadly returned to Heorot. But the Geatish warriors stayed and
waited for their leader's return.
Beowulf eventually returned the surface with Grendel's head. His
followers were relieved that their leader was still alive, and rejoiced
that he had overcome Grendel's mother. They carried Grendel's head as
they returned to Heorot, although it took four men to lift it.
There was great rejoicing in Heorot when the Danes saw that
Beowulf had returned triumphantly with Grendel's head. Once again,
there was victory celebration, and Beowulf told what had happened
underground. When the Danes went to bed, they knew that they no longer
needed to fear any more creatures that would attack Heorot.
The next morning, Beowulf announced his need to return home. Hrothgar
was sad that the young hero would leave so soon, since he loved his
guest like a son. But Wealhtheow was happy because she knew that her
son would now be king. Hrothgar gave some more gifts to the Geatish
hero. Beowulf returned Hrunting, the sword that he borrowed from
Unferth. He then returned to his ship and sailed back to Geatland,
laden with Danish treasures and gifts.
In Geatland, King Hygalec and Queen Hygd joyfully welcomed Beowulf's
safe return from Denmark. Once again, the king's nephew recounted his
adventure in Heorot, his fight with Grendel, and later with Grendel's
mother. Beowulf then displayed the gifts he had won, through friendship
with Hrothgar, before giving most of them away.
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- - - - -
|
In
those days, there were lots of wars. In one of these
wars Beowulf's uncle, King Hygelac, was killed. Then the king's son,
Prince Heardred, was killed in battle against the Swedes, so Beowulf
became king. His reign lasted for fifty years. He was said to be
wise and powerful king.
One day, when Beowulf was old and had been king for many years, a slave
found the treasure hoard of a dragon which lived in a cave high up a
great stone cliff by the sea. The slave stole a golden cup while the
dragon slept. When the dragon woke and found the cup was missing, she
knew from the slave's track that the thief was human.
In a towering
rage, the great dragon flew through the sky, attacking towns, destroying crops, houses, and people.
Beowulf was no longer a young man. Yet he still went out to hunt and kill the
dragon. He took
eleven of his bravest thanes with him and his mighty sword, Nægling.
Beowulf
and his thanes found the dragon's cave part way down a great cliff by
the sea. They climbed down using stout ropes while the sea roared
and dashed itself on the rocks below. Beowulf was in the lead, and
heading into the cave, when he was confronted by the beast. With his
sword drawn, the aged hero advanced.
Beowulf struck the dragon's head
with the once-mighty sword only to find that it had became blunted with
age. The blow had only made the dragon angry.
In those days,
most dragons could not fly and only a few could breath fire. This
dragon, however, had poisonous breath and powerful wings. When the fire blasted out
of its gaping mouth, Beowulf's mighty shield was bare protection from the
scorching flame. His body suffered great agony from the flame, while
the toxic fumes of the dragon's breath seared his lungs.
The Geatish warriors who witnessed their lord's battle were scared
and scrambled back up the ropes to the top of the cliff. Only one
warrior, a man called Wiglaf, did not flee. This young man rushed into
the cave. Together the two
Geatish heroes attacked the furious dragon. Once again, Beowulf struck
the monster's head with his sword, but this time the old blade broke in
two.
The dragon attacked him again and again, biting into his shoulder.
Beowulf's old armour could no longer protect him, as blood streamed
down and the dragon's venom entered into his body. Then Wiglaf thrust his sword into the dragon's belly, seriously wounded it.
Although without a sword badly hurt, Beowulf managed to draw his dagger and slay the
dragon.
Having killing the dragon, the hero could no longer stand, as the
poison burned his body in horrible pain. His wound was mortal.
Beowulf asked Wiglaf to fetch some of the dragon's treasure so that
he could see what he
had won before he died. Wiglaf obeyed his leader's last wish. After
seeing the treasure, Beowulf gave the young man a gold collar which
signified that the young hero was to be the next king. Then the mighty
Beowulf died.
Wiglaf mourned for his beloved king and kinsman. He was also angry
and rebuked the ten warriors who had cowardly deserted their king. He
ordered one of them to send news back to the palace of the death of
their old king. The messenger brought the sad news to the Geats now that mighty
Beowulf no longer lived.
The Geats pushed the body of the dragon out of its cave and into the sea.
Wiglaf, now their king, had a great funeral pyre set for Beowulf just
outside of the dragon's cave, on the cliff overlooking the sea. Once
Beowulf's body was consumed to ashes, the dragon's hoard was buried;
never to be seen or used again.
So ends the story of Beowulf, a very brave man.
Being brave is not a matter of not
being scared but of doing right
even when you are very scared. |
|
|
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|
The Shape Shifter
|
"Wouldn't it be nice," Bonnie thought to herself "If I
could change my shape in the way some folk can in the stories I've
read? I could make myself beautiful, or I could become a bird and fly.
Perhaps I could become an insect and spy on what my friends are doing;
they wouldn't know how I knew so much about them. I might even become a
bee and sting one of them if I heard her saying something nasty about
me. It would be such fun."
Bonnie's Mum had told her that if she prayed to God, and really meant
it, then God would grant her wish. So Bonnie prayed very hard - she
even screwed up her eyes really tight.
Sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for because your wish
just might come true. That's what happened to Bonnie. She already was
beautiful in an ordinary sort of way; she was an average student at
school, healthy, with good parents, some good friends, and enough
pocket money to buy the occasional treat for herself. That should be
enough for anyone but, like so many people, Bonnie wanted more than
enough - she wanted too much (just like all people who want to believe in magic). Although she didn't know it (she was only
eleven) Bonnie had wished for something that was bad for her.
At first, Bonnie didn't know that her wish had been granted. Nothing
changed until one Sunday when she was getting ready for church. She had
put on some nice clothes but her hair wouldn't go the way she wanted.
"Oh, I wish I was beautiful all the time!"
And she was
The girl in the mirror was still her, still Bonnie Brownpaper of 13
Coldfudge Crescent, in dull old Pudderville, but there was something
different. Her hair was just right, there were no spots on her face,
her ears didn't stick out as much and her nose was somehow 'better'
(she didn't know in what way - it just was). When she went out of her
room, her Dad said "My, my, you're looking a bit of alright today." But
that didn't count because her Dad always thought she was beautiful.
When she got to church, though, she could hear people whispering things
like "Hasn't Bonnie blossomed' and "Look at Mrs Brownpaper's girl. It
seems that our duckling has turned into a swan." Even the grey old men,
with their fusty old suits and ties, complimented her on how well she
looked. To top it all off, she caught Travis, the dishy boy who was too
grown up to go to Sunday School, looking at her in a way that she
hadn't ever been looked at before. It was all too cool for words.
When she woke up the following morning, Bonnie found what had happened
on Sunday hard to believe. She still felt more beautiful, but was
scared to look in the mirror. When she finally did, however - just a
little bit at a time to start with - the change was still there. It had
faded a little bit, or perhaps she'd just got used to it, but she was
still the beautiful Bonnie rather than the ordinary one. Coolness upon
coolness!
Although she really should have been up and getting ready for school,
Bonnie immediately thought of seeing if she could change into something
else; a cat or mouse, perhaps, that could stay in her room so that no
one saw. Just for a short time. What worried her was that, if it
worked, she wouldn't be able to change back. Then an idea struck her.
"I wish I was myself again."
Bonnie looked in the mirror. Sure enough, the ordinary old Bonnie
looked back at her. It worked! Scared but determined, Bonnie whispered,
"I wish I was a cat."
And she was
Being a cat was the strangest thing that had ever happened to Bonnie.
In the first place, her little cat brain wasn't big enough to hold
everything that girls keep in their heads; she forgot all kinds of
stuff and couldn't remember forgetting it. In the second place, Bonnie
no longer knew what things were or what they were for. Cats have no
words and, without words, she didn't know that this was a bed, for
sleeping in, or that was a shoe, for wearing. Her little cat world was
full of shapes, smells, sounds, and noises, that had no names and no
meaning. Worst of all, Bonnie couldn't say, or even think, the words
that would make her back into herself again! She was scared but,
without words, she didn't even know that she was scared or what she was
scared of; all she felt was a feeling that she didn't like (although
she didn't know that it was a feeling or that she didn't like it). Deep
inside her tiny cat brain Bonnie screamed a silent, catty, scream.
Fortunately for
Bonnie, she eventually located a rough, catty, memory of what she
looked like and found a kind of longing to be that.
In a flash, a
scared and shaken Bonnie was sitting on her bed promising to never turn
herself into an animal again: never, never, never.
When you are eleven years old, 'never, never, never' doesn't last very
long. All that day at school, Bonnie kept thinking about shifting shape
again - all through English (fun), maths (hard) and social studies
(boring). She had remembered to make herself beautiful again that
morning and, once she got home in the afternoon, found herself
wondering what it would be like being her brother. She thought that her
brother was a bit of an animal, but surely his brain wouldn't be much
smaller than hers - he just didn't use it properly. This time, she just
thought to herself,
"I wish I was Jason."
And she was.
Being Jason wasn't actually all that much fun because, this time, it
was just her in a body that looked like his. She had wanted to know
what it was like to be Jason, but all she could find out was what it
was like to be herself in Jason's body (which was a bit big and awkward
and smelled differently to hers). If someone has seen her then they
would have thought that she was Jason (wearing his sister's clothes!),
but, as soon as she talked or acted, they would know that something was
wrong because she didn't have his memories, attitudes, habits, or ways
of behaving. She was still just her.
Even when she
turned herself into herself as a grown up it didn't work. Bonnie had
sometimes thought that it would be nice to skip being at school and go
directly to being a nineteen-year-old earning money and having grown up
fun. But, because the nineteen-year-old she turned herself into hadn't
gone to High School, she didn't know any more than the eleven-year-old.
That was no use. Beside which, surely her Mum and Dad would ask some
awkward questions if their daughter went to bed aged eleven and then
came down to breakfast the next day aged nineteen!
Although Bonnie continued to experiment with shape shifting, she was
very careful to never again turn herself into anything with a brain
smaller than hers until, one day, she had a clever idea. Perhaps, if
she turned herself into several small animals at once then she could
spread her brain over all of them thereby masking room for herself! It
took a long time to get up the courage to give it a go but, finally,
she tried it.
"I wish I was three cats."
And she was.
This time it worked better. Three cat brains still didn't make up one
girl brain because even the three animal brains working together don't
have all the right kinds of bits needed to be a person. But at least
the memories of who she really was stayed clear enough for her to
nearly be herself and, more importantly, to get back to herself when
she wanted to.
Bonnie experimented. In the end she found that, as long as she turned
herself into enough of whatever she wanted to be, she could keep a hold
of herself in her bedroom while letting one or two of the 'Bonnie
animals' explore outside. She did this a lot, going further and further
for longer and longer lengths of time.
One day, when Bonnie was being a whole bunch of flies, one of her fly
bits flew out to the kitchen to spy on her mother. Her mother saw the
fly and sprayed it with fly spray! Bonnie, in her fuzzy fly state, felt
the poison hit her and cried out,
"I don't want to be here!"
And she wasn't.
Bonnie was lost! More than this, she couldn't escape. To be someone you
must be somewhere and, because Bonnie wasn't anywhere, she wasn't
anyone. She would have liked to wish that she was someone so that she
could wish herself back in her bedroom, but someone who isn't anyone
can't wish anything. So poor Bonnie just sat down and did nothing.
Because she wasn't anyone, she couldn't even feel sorry for herself or
for having wanted to be what she was not.
I don't know how long Bonnie sat like that (there's no time in
nowhere). But then, one day (except it really wasn't a day, if you know
what I mean) a girl, who wasn't nowhere because she was somewhere,
spoke to her.
"Hello, Bonnie."
"Who are you?" Bonnie didn't say.
"I am you - the real Bonnie that you tried to get away from."
"How did you get here?"
"I never went
away. No matter what you do with the outside of you, you are still you.
Would you like to go back to being who you have always been?"
"Yes please." said nothing.
And so she was.
|
Nothing (the Hole Story)
Untold for the noneteenth time by Nobody No Way
Not Illustrated by Noone
There are, as you know, two basic kinds of nothing: there's your
limited nothing, which isn't something, and your unlimited nothing,
which isn't anything. I can't say anything about your unlimited nothing
because there's nothing anyone can say about something that isn't
anything. But, with a nothing that isn't something, I can at least tell
you what it is not.
The particular nothing I don't want to tell you about in this non-story
wasn't a sock. She wasn't a chocolate biscuit either, or a hole in an
iceberg. But when she was being who she specifically wasn't - which is
not the same as not being who you specifically are - she wasn't the
sock that she was a hole in. Being nothing, she didn't have a name, and
the name she didn't have wasn't 'Nil'.
A hole is nothing surrounded by something. Nothing is a problem to
materialists. Materialists believe that only anything that is something
is real, but nothing is a real something without being anything. So a
materialist cannot believe that there are real holes in her socks.
All holes are
made of the same nothing; even holes in distant stars are made of
exactly the same nothing as holes on Earth. But holes are all nothing
in a different something, in different places and times, and that's
what makes the difference. Holes are often useful. You may, for
example, not have noticed that cats have two holes in their coats
exactly where their eyes need them to be. Nil's important job was to
let a foot in the sock she wasn't (even the nicest blend of fibres
cannot be a sock unless it has a hole to let a foot in). Five of her
sisters had a similar job in a glove, while three of her brothers
worked for a tee shirt.
As a hole, Nil had many relatives. She had cousins who were wriggly
holes, made by worms, and cousins who were straight holes, made by
drills. Two nieces of hers were holes in a nose that let the air in and
out of a face. Several of her more distant relatives were potholes in
various roads. One famous relative of hers was a hole in a tree who
went on to become the Prime Minister of New Zealand and get notted
(perhaps you remember him - name of Sir Keith Holyoak). On her mother's
side Nil was related to space but, whereas a hole is a bit of nothing
in a chunk of something, space was a chunk of nothing with bits of
something in it. Space had lived an empty life and really made nothing
of himself.
Nil rather liked being a hole. Like many small nothings, she had once
been a nothing that wasn't anything. But then someone wove a blend of
wool, nylon, and elsatine, around her and she became a nothing that
wasn't something. The something she wasn't was soft and pink.
A hole in
anything has to go wherever the something it is not goes. This meant
that Nil was sometimes snug in a sock drawer. At those times she did
nothing; she just lay there all folollopy and filled with air. At other
times she was all full of foot (although she didn't go away just
because she was full - indeed, her closest uncle, on her father's side,
was a hole in the ground that was full of fencepost all the time). When
Nil was full of foot the sock she wasn't sometimes got a bit smelly.
But that didn't matter because, after being full of foot, she would
always end up in a washing machine where she got filled up with hot,
soapy, water. After a wash, and a bask in the sun, there came Nil's
favourite time - all warm and dry in a nice hot water cupboard.
It was while in the washing machine one morning that Nil first met a
fast-living nothing from the Bubble family. This bubble didn't have a
huge number of relatives and the name he didn't have wasn't 'Non'.
Non Bubble was boy-racing in the water and, as he flitted by, he
lightly kissed Nil on the cheek she didn't have. The kiss didn't amount
to anything and Nil thought nothing of it.
During the next wash, however, Non kissed her again (or at least she
thought it was Non - after all, how can you tell one non-thing from
another while whizzing around a washing machine?). This time, Nil
definitely felt nothing.
"You shouldn't be careful of bubbles." No one didn't warn her. "They
never stay and, if you don't fall for one, he won't break the heart you
don't have."
"That's not right," didn't say the hole in a big, hairy, work sock
"Don't stick to your own kind. Remember, there's nothing to be afraid
of."
"Don't be warned." Another didn't say. "Nothing will come of it. I once
didn't have an affair with a hole in a shoe, and look what didn't
happen to me." She indicated an illegitimate hole in the toe of her
sock. "That isn't my son, my shame. I can do nothing with him; he is
forever letting the toe out or letting the cold in. I'm not afraid that
one day the authorities will fill him full of cotton."
"Or worse,"
didn't say a hole in a pair of undies "they won't throw both of you out
and then what won't happen to you?"
"Nothing."
Didn't say the solo mum (who, being nothing, wasn't really a mum at
all).
Nil didn't know they were right, but there was nothing to be done about
it. All day long - full of air or water or foot - she could think of
nothing but Non. Of course she knew he was a non-entity and wouldn't
amount to anything. But he was so round and shiney, so carefree!
Of course Nil didn't decide not go to Granddad for advice, even though
she didn't know that he was nothing if not unwilling to not share what
he hadn't learned from not being alive for so long. But, when she
didn't approach him, all she couldn't get out of him was "Not being
something you aren't is the hole point of being holey." And later, when
she didn't press him, "I am not therefore I am" - which was no use at
all. She wasn't going to ask him again, or even for the first time,
when he suddenly started running around in ever-decreasing circles
until he finally disappeared up his own fundamental assumptions.
Nothing was ever heard of him again (on several occasions).
Then one day, inevitably, Nil met Non in the wash and nothing happened.
In fact, it happened several times before the cycle ended and, as she
hadn't been warned, Non didn't leave her all washed out and flat in the
bottom of the bowl while he ran off to play in the sewers with all his
friends (the last I heard he hadn't run away to sea).
"Think nothing of it." A friend didn't say to her. But soon Nil began not to feel a little a bit queasy in the mornings.
"I think there's nothing wrong with me." she said.
Sure enough, after a pregnant pause (which was really no time at all),
Nil didn't give birth to twin nothings. One wasn't a sound, so she
didn't call him Silence. The other didn't make the heart grow fonder,
so she didn't call her Absence. Silence was a fragile child and always
being broken by someone who had nothing better to do. Absence was an
awkward nothing - always present in the form of something that wasn't
present. She was also a shape-shifter; sometimes there as the absence
of money, sometimes not there as the presence of company, and once,
embarrassingly, there as an absence of toilet paper at a time when
there wasn't an epidemic of constipation.
Not giving birth to twins didn't trouble Nil at all, in fact there was
nothing to it. And having them not there added nothing to her life
(mind you, the presence of Absence didn't subtract anything either).
Some days, when Nil didn't come home from not working, she wouldn't
discover that nothing had happened in her Absence.
"Who didn't do that?" She wouldn't demand.
"Nobody." Silence wouldn't reply.
Sometimes she wouldn't press him for an answer that wasn't clear. But all he wouldn't say was "I heard nothing."
As she got older, and the sock she wasn't got left in the drawer more
and less often, Nil began to develop an interest in religion. She had
always believed in Nothing, in a vague sort of way, but now she began
to feel that her life wasn't going nowhere. Some days she even began to
fear that her life wasn't meaningless. So she decided not to go to the
wisest nobody she didn't know. He was a Big deal mathematician called
Nought, and it was even said by some that he knew nothing.
Among the
questions that Nil didn't ask Nought was the meaning of life. What
Nought didn't say was that we came from nothing and were going to
nothing. That didn't suit Nil just fine.
"So how can I not be saved?" She didn't ask him.
"Do nothing." He didn't reply.
So Nil did nothing (which is not the same as not doing something but
very close to not doing anything) and didn't live unhappily ever after.
As you don't.
|
| The Hole Family not on Nothing at Nowhere (no date).* |
* Picture credit: Margaret May (Margi) Parton
The Hunter who Haunted Herself
|
"Alright, out you come. I know you're there!"
Silence
There was someone there though. Ever since her first night in the bush
Jocelyn had been aware of somebody being there. Who, and why, she
don't know - but whoever it was had been following her. All today she
had been aware of a presence and now, stopping for her midday meal,
there it was again.
At first she had assumed a hunter and, not wishing
to be accidentally shot by some dumb amateur not checking his target,
had fired into the ground - game animals don't carry rifles and even
the silliest novice should have got the message. The shot brought no
response and, for a while, Jocelyn just tramped on ignoring the
presence. Later she waited for a while in a clearing, but nobody came.
Whoever it was seemed to walk when she walked and stop when she stopped
- always out of sight but never out of mind.
It was unnerving and made her irritable. She came to the bush to relax,
to unwind from the stresses of her job and family and city life in
general. One thing she don't need is company, especially unknown and
uninvited company.
Bought up in a simpler time, Jocelyn had never
entirely come to terms with the changing cityscape of 1990's New
Zealand. Even the bush wasn't entirely safe any more. That's why she'd
bought the little Rossi lever-action, and learned how to use it. Not a
serious hunting rifle by any means, but light, easy to use, and still
powerful enough, at close range, to stop whatever might need stopping.
And a body couldn't be too careful these days. Jocelyn liked the
comforts of urban living well enough, but she also liked the space and
simplicity of tramping alone in the ranges. By and large she also liked
her job. Although, with the stress of restructuring, even that has
become less pleasant lately. Office politics had always been a fact of
life. She was right in supposing that it would be the same wherever she
went, but the new Managerist order had made office politics a prime
fact of survival. Everyone was a rival now. She didn't have friends any
more, just colleagues who are too scared for their own survival to be
trusted when the chips are down.
It wasn't enough to be good at your job any more. In fact, it seemed to
be a liability. Often the best people are also the most awkward, or
most naive. Honesty might still be a virtue - but the New Right myth
has certainly made it into lousy policy. Conversations took place,
cliques formed, and the good people were suddenly displaced by weasels.
Jocelyn didn't like it. It also meant that she didn't get away to the
bush anywhere near as often as she would like to these days - and she
needed to get away more than ever. This time was precious, and now some
clown was spoiling it by playing silly beggers.
Jocelyn had hailed the presence a couple of times
earlier, but without result. Once she even doubled back to confront
whoever it was, but met with nobody and could find no hard evidence of
having been followed. Now the feeling of being watched while she ate
her lunch was really starting to get on her nerves.
"Listen, cut it out can't ya? It's not funny you know."
Still silence.
The presence had begun to feel slightly creepy by that
time. Jocelyn couldn't enjoy her lunch. She felt out of sorts. The
trees, the sky, the high hills behind her, they didn't feel like old
friends any more. A vague disquiet had crept into the day. So she
picked up her pack and rifle, checking that the Rossi was loaded. Then
she swung up the hill and set a cracking pace, trying to lose whoever
it was and the unease they brought with them.
The escape didn't work.
The afternoon was a repeat of the morning. Jocelyn trudged doggedly on.
She tried to ignore whoever it was, but found herself scrambling up
vantage points to check back along the trail she had come by until,
late in the day, she came to a waterfall. It wasn't spectacular by
touristy standards, barely more than a stream splashing down a rock
face into a kind of green bowl in the bush. She didn't know its name,
she didn't even know if it had one, but she had always called it
'Cathedral Falls'. This was her favourite spot in all the world.
Jocelyn always come here sooner or later, every
trip. This was her secret place of nourishment, and one of the main
reasons she came on these treks through the hills. She would scramble
down the steep sides and, once in the bowl below the falls, throw her
pack off almost impatiently. She would stand by the pool gazing up at
the water frolicking down the gleaming, mossy rock. Soon the whole
world would become reduced to this place, with its abrupt sides
insulated by dark green trees and bright green ferns, the sight and
sound of falling water, and just a little patch of sky directly
overhead. Here was the refuge where she renewed her city-soiled soul
and gained strength for the days to come. On fine days she would shed
her clothing along with her pack; sunbathing, splashing in the water or
just wandering around the bowl of freedom she found here. Not even the
ocean could match the healing magic of this spot.
Today she hadn't consciously sought out the Cathedral Falls as a place
of refuge. It had been compulsive, an instinctive thing. As she neared
the falls her stride had quickened, scrambling over mahoe and around
big pukatea roots. She was virtually running by the time she scrambled
breathlessly into the bowl at their base. It was as if she were a child
again, walking home in the dark and being very brave until she saw the
lights of her own home.
With a heaving chest Jocelyn stumbled to the edge of
the pool. She shed her pack and laid the rifle on top. With a kind of
gratitude she grinned up at the falls and took several deep breaths of
the clean, spray-filled, air.
Something was wrong.
She looked around the bowl. It seemed different somehow, closed in,
almost menacing. No longer a place of safety, it had become a trap. The
gleaming rock face didn't seem like a living cathedral window any more.
It was more like one of those soulless glass-fronted office blocks that
had begun to crowd the streets of Auckland where she worked. Jocelyn
panicked briefly then and searched her mind for the source of the
intuition. She picked up the rifle and checked it again, looking around
she as she did so.
Someone was watching her.
Jocelyn felt suddenly exposed. She snatched up her pack and ducked into
the bush, hunkering down in the dense parataniwha. This was not a good
place to be. Whoever was following her could use the sound of the
waterfall to cover the sound of his movement. She hitched her pack
properly onto her back and headed back out of the bowl. She suddenly
needed space, an horizon where no one could sneak up on her.
A deep and terrible fury brewed in her chest as Jocelyn stomped
determinedly up the ridge behind the falls. Deep down she was scared,
but anger kept the fear at bay.
Only once again that afternoon did she become aware of whoever it was
following her. She immediately spun around and presented the rifle.
No one came.
As the afternoon wore on Jocelyn's passions calmed. She was now
physically tired and, in the broad daylight of a bright hillside, a bit
inclined to blame her nerves. Work must be getting to her. That was it,
she'd been pretty stressed over these last few months. She hoped she
wasn't heading for a breakdown.
At about five o'clock she decided to break for the night. She chose a
sheltered spot on the leeward side of one of the ridges. There she
unpacked her little nylon tent and started a fire.
Jocelyn had been at the campsite about twenty minutes when she became
aware of someone watching her - that's all, just watching. She picked
up the Rossi.
"Listen, I know you can hear me. I'm gonna shoot if
you don't show yourself." You raised the rifle to her shoulder and
worked the lever.
"I'm warning you. This is your last chance."
The shot was phenomenally loud in the quiet clearing.
She had fired into the foliage above where she had last heard whoever
it was. The crash of the fat .44 magnum cartridge going off bounced
around the valley for a very short time before it was swallowed-up by
the trees. Utterly quiet after the noise, the twilight pressed in.
"O.K. Maggotbrain, suit yourself. You asked for it."
This time Jocelyn fired directly into the undergrowth. Rhythmically
working the lever back and forth, exulting in the smooth power of the
weapon as she ejected a bright stream of used cartridge cases, she
emptied the little rifle over a small arc.
Men don't use weapons; weapons use men (and women too if given half a
chance). No wonder men try to instill a distaste for weapons in women.
But you can say what you like, believe and rationalise as you will, in
that ecstatic union, of her and that lovely loud rifle blazing away
into the fear, Jocelyn relived all the true origins of war with a
fierce joy - and reloaded before the sound died away.
The noise was all that died. No body thrashed in the fern. No voice called for peace.
Nothing.
Slowly Jocelyn sat down, still watching the place where she had fired.
She sat just outside the fire's light, pale in the near dark, and
cradled the rifle. Maybe she'd got whoever it was, and maybe not, but
two could play the waiting game.
She waited.
What could he want, whoever it was? He can't have seriously meant to
harm anyone or she would've already been dead. Perhaps he was an
escaped prisoner, waiting to steal her rifle and gear. Could have been
out there for years. They don't always catch escapees, and some guy
could have just gone bush and stayed there. Or a nutter perhaps - some
hermit or religious crank, maybe a left-over from the Sixties, watching
her trespass 'his' patch. Mightn't even be a bloke, could be some woman
too scared of an armed tramper to show herself. Most likely to be some
pot-cultivating type, scared that she was going to find his plantation
or whatever. She'd heard that some of them were getting pretty mean.
Anyway, whoever it was, dead or alive, she'd have bet that last little
fusillade scared the fat out of him. Bit daft though, letting whoever
it was rattle her into firing like that. She'd really be in trouble if
she'd hit anyone.
Jocelyn mused in her unhappy mind about what she would do if she really
did kill somebody. In her fantasy whoever it was turned out to be up to
no good, or somebody no one would miss - a would-be rapist or a
drugged-up has-been of some sort. She pictured herself burying the body
and getting away with it. Then she shifted slightly and suddenly came
back to the real world. It was then it struck her that she really had
tried to shoot someone, and the thought made her shudder. She drew
closer to the fire and threw some more wood on.
After that her fantasy became darker. Whoever it was turned out to be
lost, scared, a deaf mute, someone hurt or, worst of all, a lost and
terrified child. She saw herself, with awful clarity, trying to explain
the feeling that had led her to fire - to the police, her friends, her
family, the parents of the child she had murdered.
It was fully dark by then.
The fire had gone out, but still Jocelyn just sat and waited.
Waiting in the bush is not a good game for the imaginative - or the
scared. Shadows move in the night. Things creak. Phantom footfalls
haunt the ragged edges of consciousness as the bush animates. No wonder
primitive peoples gave it names and built religions to propitiate it.
"Tane!"
A nervous giggle. "You silly cow."
Watch it! This sort of thing could make a body superstitious - and
paranoid. But on the other hand, if someone really was out there,
paranoia might just be a damn' sound policy.
"Are you alright? I didn't mean to scare you."
Go on. There wasn't nothin' there. Just possums and ghosts and the
overwrought nerves of city twits who sit for too long in the malevolent
dark of alien trees.
That night lasted forever, twice.
Jocelyn dozed, hallucinated, woke with a fright and scared the stuffing
out of herself more than once. She spoke, and wasn't spoken to. She
thought she saw someone once, hell, a dozen times, but she didn't shoot
again.
Jocelyn's nerves were well shattered by the time a lethargic dawn
slouched fitfully across the sky and it was light enough to see across
the clearing. Stiffly she went over to the dead fire. It was stone
cold. She moved into a patch of weak sunshine and let its insubstantial
rays warm her until hunger vied with exhaustion and won. She opened a
small foil pack of freeze-dried something and ate it dry. It was awful,
and heaven knows what it did to her digestion.
Still, the stream water tasted good and the day felt safe. Jocelyn was
asleep in the tiny tent before the swelling muck in her belly started
to hurt.
Stuff this for a lark!
Jocelyn awoke with a fright around mid-morning.
Someone was right outside the tent! She grabbed the Rossi and leapt out
into the light. But she had gone into the tent head first and, in her
rush to get out the same way, got tangled in the plastic fabric. Half
the aluminium pegs came out immediately but some material still snarled
around her head and legs so that she had to scrabble blindly for a
second to get free.
Nothing.
There was no one there. Nothing was missing, and no sound retreated hurriedly away.
"Damn, damn, damn and double poo damn!"
That was when the sick feeling hit her like a wave of soft, sour, soggy
foam rubber. Her heart pounded, her mouth was dry, her belly hurt. She
threw up violently.
Trembling now, and feeling weak, Jocelyn sat.
This was dumb. She wasn't some panicky girl, wetting herself at every
imagined bogeyman. She was Jocelyn Armstrong, the modern woman;
rational, smart, fit, tough, together, and writing her own story with
grit, honesty and determination. She was the equal of any man - and she
had a weapon that she knew how to use.
She had to think.
Keeping her strength up, and her emotions down, was
obviously the first priority. At this rate whoever-it-was wouldn't have
to do anything - Jocelyn would defeat herself. There was no point into
rushing around like some kind of suburban Wonder Woman on steroids. A
fire, a proper feed, some tea, that was the story. Jocelyn rekindled
the fire and put the billy on. She selected a freeze-dried vegetarian
dinner and, while it was cooking, munched a small pack of Chocolate
Raisins.
Chocolate Raisins were to Jocelyn what spinach is to
Popeye, and she always carried at least five packs on these trips to
the bush. Soon she was feeling much more cheerful. The dinner was bland
and filling, just what she wanted. She rinsed out the billy, refilled
it and, when it had boiled, made a nice cup of tea.
That was better. She felt calm now. Whoever-it-was didn't feel close
and, in the growing heat of forenoon, Jocelyn felt composed, on top of
it, even brave. Loudly sucking her teeth, in unconscious imitation of
some long-forgotten male movie hero, she moved over to the bushes she
had fired into the night before. She began probing among the green with
the rifle barrel. A branch of porokaiwhiri showed a bright surprise of
wood where a heavy .44 slug had shattered it, scattering the orange
berries it had borne. Apart from that the signs were ambiguous. Someone
had been there, she was sure of it, but nothing obviously human showed.
No footprints, no shreds of clothing, and no blood thank goodness; just
some apparent flattening of the grasses, and the impression of a
presence - a strong impression, but just an impression for all that.
She cast half-heartedly around the rest of the immediate area but found
nothing except her own footprints.
No one was close, and that gave her a chance. If she packed fast
enough, and got out of there, whoever-it-was might not even realise she
had gone. And, if she moved smartly, she might just lose them
altogether.
Jocelyn packed swiftly. She also built the fire up and threw a handful
of green stuff on the flames so that smoke would show. Hopefully
whoever-it-was would see the smoke and assume that she were still
there. She then set off briskly with a practised tramping stride that
eats up the distances without eating up the woman. Wherever possible
she chose hard, dry surfaces or places like stream beds - anything to
make tracking difficult.
It was mid-afternoon before Jocelyn became aware that Whoever-it-was was behind her.
She froze. Dammit, he was still there!
By now she'd had a gutsful of this. She decided to set an ambush. She
had been tramping up hill since leaving her overnight camp and was now
close to the altitude where the bush began giving way to scrub and
grasses. Here the soil was thin and rocks showed through. She set her
back against a huge boulder, half buried under debris and with a good
view back along that part of the trail where her tracks showed in the
soft soil of a depression.
Serious and determined now, Jocelyn checked the
rifle and aimed it with the barrel pointing back down the trail. She
was a good shot, and felt very calm. Any smart-arse bloke coming up
behind her wouldn't even know she was there until the first bullet took
his head off.
She waited.
Whoever-it-was had been just behind her, but now seemed to have stopped
too. How did he know? She had left no clues and Whoever-it-was
should have blundered straight into the trap.
He didn't.
Instead whoever it was following her stopped in the
denser bush by a horopito about twenty paces back from the clearing in
the depression. Could he see her? She didn't think so at the time, she
was in deep shadow with the afternoon sun behind her. In such a
position such rays of the sun that did get through the foliage would be
in the eyes of her pursuer. Perhaps he had noticed that she could no
longer be heard moving up ahead. That being the case he would have to
move sooner or later, and then she would have him.
Still Whoever-it-was waited.
Jocelyn thought she saw movement.
She calculated where she had come through the bush and figured the
suggestion of movement to be just there. That made sense.
Whoever-it-was would be on her trail and, if he had stopped, perhaps
sensing some danger in the suddenly visible tracks, he would stop just
before the edge of the bush where she had come out.
She sighted the rifle. For the first time since she bought the Rossi
Jocelyn regretted not having telescopic sights. A scope can be a
nuisance when you are tramping through dense bush, and she always
prided herself on not needing one anyway, but now she couldn't see
anyone over the open ironware of the rifle.
Something moved.
Jocelyn fired, working the lever with the recoil.
Nothing moved.
Slowly she got up. Still looking back down the trail, she shifted out
of cover and began to head again up the ridge. Soon she were shambling
along at a half run, in a kind of dogged trot. She ran first to the top
of the ridge and then to the left. She trotted out of the now-scrubby
bush and towards some high, open turutu-covered ground that promised
long ranges and wide fields of fire; a classic sniper's position.
She found an ideal spot high on a knoll just as the light began to
seriously fail. There was a shallow scrape in an exposed elevation from
which she could see clearly all the way to the bush-line. The
indentation sheltered the tent from the wind, and the eyes of anyone
not almost on top of it. The wind was chill at this altitude, and
Jocelyn had no wood for a fire. But she decided that it was probably
just as well. There was no need to provide free navigation aids for
Whoever-it-was to follow. She made a big fuss about settling in, the
watcher making her self-conscious. Her evening meal consisted of cold
baked beans and another pack of Chocolate Raisins. Then she lay down to
wait for full darkness - quietly nibbling raisins as she waited and
watched the bush-line.
An hour or two after it was really dark Jocelyn moved. Staying below
the height of the turutu, she packed. She took a short drink to wet her
dry mouth, and scoffed the last of the raisins. Then she crawled out of
the hollow and down towards a dry gully she had noticed on the other
side of the ridge when she picked this spot - it always paid to have a
back door. She hadn't had any military training but she figured she
knew what to do and felt right in control - but she didn't, and she
wasn't.
Jocelyn moved slowly and very quietly.
She was sure that the soughing of the wind meant that
no one could hear any noise she made more than two metres away at the
most. Nevertheless she did feel a bit exposed as she crawled through
the clumps of turutu, and was glad to slide out of it into the cleft in
the ground. The gully was bordered on its northern side by stunted
manuka and she would be invisible to any human eye as she negotiated
it. She had even blacked her face with a paste of dirt and cold tea,
just to make sure.
He was there!
Whoever-it-was was right in front of her, not twenty paces away! He
hadn't gone up the open ridge at all but was sneaking up the very same
blind-spot that Jocelyn was sneaking down. She cursed herself then.
Dammit, Joss, you should've thought of that.
She raised the rifle and fired.
In the brief flash of the gunshot Jocelyn was sure she saw a humanish
shape ahead of her. She charged. She thought she might have been
screaming as she charged, but couldn't be sure. All she was aware of
was a blind fury at her tormenter. Stupid men and their stupid games!
She charged Whoever-it-was in the darkness, firing as she went. The
first shot had been more-or-less aimed, but the rest that followed were
as wild as the beating of her heart.
The Rossi was empty before Joss had taken
half-a-dozen strides. As she reached the manuka where Whoever-it-was
had been she swung that little rifle like a battle axe. The butt hit
something solid. She didn't know what it was but hoped that it was a
head.
Then she hoofed it!
Jocelyn ran like she have never run before. Out of the scrub, over a
coprosma-dotted ridge, into the bush, and out the other side onto some
sort of track or fire-break that followed a spur down into the blind
night.
It isn't easy to run headlong over broken ground at night without
breaking a leg, but Jocelyn did it. Sometime during her flight she had
the presence to reload the rifle. She didn't stop to do it. She didn't
look back, and she paid no attention to the shells she dropped in the
process. She just ran on fear-fuelled legs and rammed those lovely,
bright brass bullets into place. How many? two? three? It didn't
matter. The weapon was loaded and that was the main thing. Without
bullets the Rossi was just two and a half kilos of nicely made
nuisance. The butt was cracked but that rifle was all she had.
Whoever-it-was had rattled her cage severely and revealed a modern,
mass-produced woman with no greater depth of resource, against the
unknown that stalked her, than this modern, mass-produced rifle. She
held it up to her face and kissed the metal as she ran.
Gradually Jocelyn slowed.
She still ran, but with more deliberation now - pacing herself and
watching more where she were going. Growing deliberation, however,
didn't stop her running hard into a five-wire fence and hurting herself
- badly. The top wire on the fence was barbed and waist high. As she
jack-knifed over it at speed the barbs tore right through her clothing
and into her belly. Only the reflex action of fending off the hard
ground with the rifle stopped her from breaking her neck. All the same
her face was badly grazed and the little finger of her right hand felt
broken.
Jocelyn knew that her stomach
wounds were serious. She couldn't see anything but they hurt a lot.
With her left hand she felt the wounds. The holes felt very messy, and
there seemed to be an extraordinary amount of wetness around them. As
well as this she had obviously wet herself when she charged. She was a
mess. Now she was really frightened of bleeding to death. Sobbing
uncontrollably, and only just fending off the fatal numbness of shock
and exhaustion, she jerked off her nylon jacket. She had no idea where
her pack had got to. Only her bum bag, with its assorted pouches,
remained - and with the ammunition pouches open and empty. She roughly
folded the thin material and wrapped it tightly around her middle,
tying the sleeves behind her back.
Jocelyn took stock of where she was.
Apparently she had left the bush area and was on some farmer's
property. She seemed to be in a paddock; the grass was short and
smelled of sheep droppings. She stood up, and nearly fainted from pain
and shock. She ached all over and felt more alone than an honest person
in Parliament.
Slowly, keeping her heels off the ground where
possible to reduce the jarring on her belly, Jocelyn began to walk
downhill until she came to another fence. She couldn't climb over it
and couldn't find a gate to go through.
Weeping with frustration Jocelyn Armstrong sank to
the ground. Pain and exhaustion swept over her like a devil's blessing.
Cuddling her rifle to her like a lover, her brittle hardness broken,
she curled up into a foetal position, put her left thumb in her mouth,
and cried herself to sleep just like some dumb man.
A weak, wet, morning drizzles out of a soggy sky and wakes her up.
Jocelyn looks as grey as the anaemic clouds that are sagging slackly
onto the hills. Pain is seeping down every nerve in her body. Any
ordinary woman would have woken up already dead, but Jocelyn has kept
herself very fit and has the stamina to live on in her private hell.
Through the pain she hears an engine. She looks down to see a
four-wheel-drive bouncing along a gravelled road not five hundred
metres away. The vehicle changes gear and she sees it turn into a
driveway leading up to a farmhouse, up a bit and on the opposite side
of the road.
A house, someone's home. Food, warmth, people - safety.
Painfully Jocelyn gets to her feet and staggers towards the gate she
hadn't been able to find in the dark of last night. Once through the
gate she notices that a fairly substantial stream follows the road on
this side. There are manuka, hebe and ponga growing beside it, a small
stand of kahikatea, and sheep grazing between clumps of dark green
rushes among a scattering of ti kouka. She walks slowly to the river,
so slowly, and come through the manuka out onto a shingle bank in a
daze. She is still cuddling the rifle uselessly, like a doll, and are
walking hunched-over. Her vigilance has waned with her strength. She's
had enough. Oh God, she's had enough.
No! Oh, please sweet Jesus, no!
There He is - not three paces away!
Mechanically, blindly, Jocelyn brings the rifle up. She doesn't even
try to aim it properly. With an unthinking reflex her hand slams the
lever forward and, as she slams it back again, she fires. The kick of
the weapon slams back into her shoulder and knocks her off her feet.
"Who...?"
In the movies shot men often die with a kind of brutal grace, and women
frequently die slowly enough to get all soft and beautiful as the
poignant strings play our their last reconciliations. But the woman on
the shingle flat is not dying like that, not like that at all. Jocelyn,
however, is past caring about such niceties. The kick of her beloved
Rossi has been the final straw. She doesn't see the heavy slug smash
into the stranger's chest and crumple her like paper. She don't see the
unbelieving look on the woman's face, or the dead body thrash itself
about in the gravel.
Whoever-it-was has finally got her.
______________________________
Later, at the inquest, Ted Nuhoi, on whose property this happened, will
testify that the woman on the shingle bank, one Georgina Simmons, was a
local amateur historian who had been excavating a suspected Moa Hunter
site uncovered by recent farm work.
She had arrived only the afternoon before, and hadn't once left the dig.
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