Members work
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These may often have some punctuation or grammatical errors ... But we all have to learn...
THE PILGRIMAGE
by
Henry Sharples
Above a white pool of mist in the valley bottom a pair of disembodied heads move slowly side by side. Two figures emerge slowly into the sunlight. In tune with their movement, heavy footsteps crunch on the gravel of the rutted track. Ahead of them a shaft of pale sunshine glints onto the surface of the water in a cleft of the hillside.
A single church bell tolls sonorously to herald the Sabbath as the two muffled figures trudge slowly between the stone cottages, their boots clattering on the cobblestones between the cottages. Beyond the village the road is steeper before flattening out again to where mature trees grow on one side of the narrow roadway.
Reaching the gate into the copse one of the walkers pushes through it toward the well, the other stands momentarily reading faded lettering on an old signboard. Where there was once a roadside spring has been constructed a marble lined shallow pool with clear water bubbling through it. The Holywell.
‘Have you made a wish then Bob?’
‘Oh aye, I always do Arthur. What about you then eh?’
‘I never miss either. Its only once a year after all’.
They grin at the childish idea as they drop their rucksacks and sit on the grassy slope facing into the rising sun of the spring morning. Flasks are produced and tea poured out. They lean back on their elbows to relax, drinking slowly to savour the moment, the first objective of their walk achieved.
Long ago, so the legend goes, an early Christian saint conducted mass baptisms at this remote place and single-handed converted a pagan people to Christianity. Depopulation of the rugged border country has left few traces of that society and now only the well is left as a tribute to their conversion.
Fastening their jackets and donning their caps the pair set off into a rising wind from the north, their next objective much further away and all up hill. The mist now dispersed by the morning sunshine.
‘Do you remember the first time we came here Bob, was it sixty-three or sixty-four?’
‘I remember it clearly enough, but I can’t remember the year though. There must have been a dozen of us then I suppose. I wonder where all of them are now?’ Walking on, each with his memories, their conversation falls away as the road grows steeper and the effort harder.
As youngsters they had been part of a disparate group of lads and lasses enjoying the countryside and fresh air, but now their number is reduced to just two middle aged men as more sophisticated pursuits have attracted their erstwhile companions. Northumberland’s Hills are no longer the attraction that they once were.
Steep and rutted the track is hard going over the final miles to the top. Here the view to the East is clear enough to glimpse the sea with only the solitary cry of a lapwing to disturb the silence. Halting only briefly at the summit of Cheviot because of the chill wind, the friends follow the well-worn path leading down the hillside to the waterfall called Cauldron Spout. Here on the more sheltered side of the mountain the heather and gorse smells sweeter and the air feels warmer. Taking a well-earned lunch break, bare feet dangling in an icy pool, the friends lol in the sunshine.
‘Still feeding the duodenal then Bob?’ Arthur eyes his companion’s plain yoghurt.
‘Oh aye, no bacon sandwiches for me lad.’ He smiles, glancing enviously at the other’s picnic. Rising after their meal and shouldering their packs they set off, jackets folded now and sleeves rolled up. Both sun and wind behind them now they head off southward toward the bus terminus in the Coquet valley.
‘And on a lighter note then, what about this lass of yours, no sign of your getting married then Arthur?’
‘Well it’s like this Bob, her kids are the fly in the ointment at the minute. It’s not that I haven’t asked mind and we have good sex and all that.”
They laugh and walk on in companionable silence satisfied with the simple enjoyment of their day’s walking. In rural Rothbury the chums stop for the traditional pie and a pint before the journey home.
Parting at last they call their farewell into the dusk of industrial Tyneside.
________________
Tuesday morning of Whitsun weekend and there is a subdued hum of conversation in the drawing office against the background roar of machinery from the factory. The welcome rattle of the tea trolley raises the volume and the cheerful familiarity of the tea lady breaks the tension of work.
‘You two back from your hiking then, two sugars Arthur? And I suppose you want a bacon sandwich as well.’
Annie’s repartee is seamless and demands no response. Bob and Arthur help themselves as the office-staff gather round hungrily.
‘I’ve got some good news.’
Bob grins hugely as they stroll away to where they can lean against a filing cabinet.
‘Me too.’ Arthur smiles, nodding.
‘You first then Bob.’
‘I’ve got a date at last!’
‘Who’s it with, what’s her name, does your missus know?’
‘You daft bugger, its for my ulcer operation. Ninth of July.’
‘Hey brilliant.’
‘What about you then Arthur?’
‘I’m getting married’.
‘Well congratulations, we all thought it was never going to happen, what brought that about?’
‘She asked me this time. Her lads were really great about it.’
They stand drinking their tea, smiling and nodding happily.
‘Well my wish came true then Bob’
‘Aye and mine did too Arthur’
The old chums drink their tea in silent contemplation. For the first time they had each asked for something for the other at the wishing well and St. Hilda had not been slow to respond.
Henry Sharples 2008
Heather Chandler, a long time member of the club, has over the years had considerable success with her poetry. Here is one yet to be published.
3.20pm.
splintering the teacher’s voice.
“Wait until I tell you to go!”
Noise erupts in the corridor
as the class next door
attacks lockers, grabs bags, changes shoes.
Walls become elastic as students
stream in every direction, pushing
into noise levels which rise
in decibels equating to increasing mass.
A desperate boy tries to avoid the pack,
turns back and elbows
a quicker route to the nearest loo.
A male voice booms, “Don’t run!”
No-one listens.
School’s over for the day.
Five minutes of mayhem, then
silence does a clean sweep of the building
before the arrival of ladies who rattle buckets.
Tears of gold and red .... by Diane Buxton
Clasping the curtain back from the glass
I feel the chill begin to strike.
Glimpsing flower spikes bleached and dry,
As my heart withers and shrinks
Away from the inevitable numbing ache.
The trees cry tears of gold and red,
Emerging skeletal in the cold.
The winter ice enfolds my hollowed soul.
Concealing snow blankets my garden.
All is sleeping, healing;
Paused until the vernal signal comes.
I can hold fast to my familiar pain no longer.
Spring’s green shoots pierce my shell
As new life’s promise cheers me at last.
Summer will come again.
Diane Buxton
12/01/2007
Cat
It had been many years since she had first tasted human flesh. So young and meltingly tender. Delicate slices quickly roasted on a spit over hot ashes, flavoured with wild garlic and thyme.
Her mouth watered at the thought of it, saliva trickling unheeded down her chin. Her eyes flashed red in the firelight, hunger stirring within her, cramping and gnawing, clawing at her viscera.
She needed prey.
She needed to eat.
She must eat.
She must eat tonight.
She shivered. Her breath hung misty in the cold air. Long ago she had made a skirt and cloak from cat skins. It was ancient now but it had served her well, keeping out all but the worst of the winter chills. She shared the fur with lice and fleas, but she had long since stopped noticing the bites. But this winter was cold, so cold. The wind stabbed at her painfully, through even the smallest of gaps between the pelts, probing her flesh with icy fingers.
She dared not stoke up the fire. Too much smoke would betray her place on the fell. It was isolated, deep and hidden, safe and quiet. She burrowed into the heap of bracken in the corner, settling the furs around her, waiting, surviving. She dreamed of times long gone, her mind drifting back to a time before pain. A time when she cohabited with others. Speaking. Touching. Listening.
After they left her in the forest, alone and damaged, she was expected to die. But her mother had defied the family, taken her food and clothes as often as she could manage. Even she had expected her to die. She learned to live in the shadows, to hide away from people, to survive. Her wounds had healed but she would never be pleasant to look at again. The flesh on the fingers of her left hand welded together, and as she grew the scars pulled her hand into a claw. She had lost the hair on the left side of her head and the skin of her face was tattooed, blue and grey, where the ash from the fire was embedded in her skin. As she had grown the scar tissue had contracted and thickened pulling the outer corner of her eye down towards the corner of her mouth, twisting her face into a cruel parody of humanity.
At last it was twilight, time to make her way down from the fell to the village below. There was just enough light for her to see the way through the trees. Careful to keep to the shadows she took a different route every time. If she left a visible path they would find her for sure. It was second nature after almost a lifetime of hiding. She was a creature of darkness and shadows. Tonight was a good night to hunt. There would be no moon and it was too cold to snow. She would leave no footprints on the iron hard ground. No prints would betray her in the snow. The villagers would all be huddled inside their cottages, reluctant to venture away from their firesides.
She skirted round the edge of the village until she reached the outer corner of the churchyard. There was a gap in the hedge just large enough for her to squeeze through. Picking her way carefully through the grave hummocks in the darknesstyle="mso-spacerun: yes"> She tucked it under her arm, then, looking around to see if anyone had been disturbed by the noises in the night, she scurried back the way she had come. All was quiet as the grave.
She stirred the embers, feeding them with more kindling, bringing the fire back to life. After the hazards outside, her refuge seemed almost welcoming, and if not warm, at least not so bitterly cold. She settled herself back in the heap of bracken, and pulled the tattered cloak and skirt around her and the child. The baby slept, still whimpering from time to time, absorbing her meagre warmth. As the firelight flickered on the rough walls she felt her eyelids droop; fright and tension seeped from her old bones. She carefully placed the pouch with her hunting knife close to her in the bracken, ready for her to grab if danger threatened. The linen bag lay on the floor, and she knew she would have meat for the next day or two. It would keep for several days outside in the cold, hung up on a branch in its linen bag to keep it away from other predators.
.
The warmth of the child snuggled against her reminded her of the kitten she had when she was very small. Her mother had given it to her, to keep her amused and out from under her feet, while she cared for her new baby boy. It was small and white and warm to hold. She was very young then, she had only seen five summers. She had cuddled the kitten, and fussed it until it had become irritated. She held it tight to stop it wriggling away from her. The animal had raked its claws across her face in temper. Shocked, she had stumbled, releasing the panicking animal. It had shot away between her legs toppling her into the fire. She put her hands out but could not save herself. She remembered the terrible pain in her right hand, which was odd, because that hand had healed cleanly, whereas she did not remember the pain in her other hand or her face.
The nightmare woke her with a start. Like every other morning, she woke and remembered what she was now. Disfigured. Ugly. Outcast.
The child stirred, pulling her knees up, arching her back, and kicking out with her legs. She waved her perfect fists in the air and let out a wail of hunger and anguish and fear. Her screams reverberated around the cave, strident and demanding. She cuddled the child to her, rocking her gently, humming a tuneless song to calm and quieten her. The baby was hungry, but she had nothing for her. She knew this could not be allowed to continue. She knew what she had to do.
She settled herself back on her bracken couch. She had the child snuggled up against her shoulder. She was almost exhausted now, sobbing and hiccupping into the warm angle of her neck. “Here kitty, kitty! Here kitty, kitty!” she whispered softly as she reached down for the pouch.
