Tuba Mirum

The end-of-term concert was Mozart’s Requiem in St George’s. The weekend before I went to London to borrow a basset horn from Simon Teagle, who played 3rd clarinet in the BBC Philharmonic. He’d never seen me before but was quite happy to let me disappear into the dark of the December evening with his expensive instrument under my arm. Not even a deposit or a note of my address. A casual act of kindness, unexpected.

    The night of the concert, I asked Rachel, who was playing the 3rd desk violin, to help with my bow tie. She frowned as her slim fingers easily accomplished what I could not. I felt the warmth from the closeness of her body as she finished the knot, but I could see her mind was elsewhere. I wanted to thank her for her kindness, but she was now looking past me, urgent to catch the eye of her prospect for the night, the tenor trombone.

(160 words)

The puzzle

It was one of those long, still summer days, we all remember from our youth. So hot, it seemed as if the air itself, was somehow smouldering. We walked along the river, from Richmond to Hampton court, blessing the cooling effect of the water as it made its calm but purposeful way towards the sea. We held hands, my lover and I, through the cool rooms of what had been once been Cardinal Wolseley’s Palace, before King Henry took the house, and the life itself from him. Then, outside, we wandered languorously through the gardens, our thoughts quiet, happy just to be together. Our aimlessness brought us to the maze, where the tall laurel hedges seemed like the walls of some green cathedral, calling us to communion in the coolness of the shaded passages.

From our first meeting in the spring, we had gradually found an understanding, a new language, that neither of us had spoken before. And now, burnished by the heat of that summer, we had no real need to speak at all, at least in words. Each time the path forked, we chose together, silently, as though moving in a trance. Arms linked, steps synchronized, we wandered with no care to arrive, only to continue our journey.

Eventually, we came to a small clearing, at the centre of the green labyrinth. A bench had been placed there and welcomed our arrival. As we sat, I laid my head against my partner’s shoulder, and together we slipped into a half-dream, lulled by the heat and the heavy scent of sun-bruised laurel leaves.

Then soft voices, fluttering, like a passing butterfly, but then ardent, even feverish in the hot and heavy air. A man and a woman stood near us, although we had not seen or heard them approach. The woman wore pearls that caught the sun like drops of water, her gown a delicate brocade of gold. The man, tall and severe in a dark doublet, rested one hand on the hilt of a sword that glinted in the sun light.

“My sweetest Jane, you must no longer delay.”

Her cheeks were pale as ivory, but she nodded and then her surrender was as graceful as it was absolute.

The rustle of the laurel leaves signalled a sudden breeze—cold and unexpected—and it chilled me to the bone. The couple turned and went their way, their forms dissolving as if they were secrets to be hidden within the green corridors of the maze.

I tried to speak but I found I could only voice hoarse,  whispered words . I asked my love if he had seen the couple too— or if the hollowness in my chest was mine alone. He didn’t answer but embraced me and softly pressed his lips against nape of my neck. The gesture was so gentle, so intimate, it reminded me not of love itself, but of the loving caress of an executioner’s blade.

Although years have passed, my thoughts often linger on what happened that day. I have gone back, many times, to that maze and walked those same twisted paths, retraced those steps and hoped to hear some new echoes of that past. Despite my search, the bench, the voices, the lovers seem lost to time—only memories of them remain. And in the hot summers yet to come, I know that I will continue to look for that clearing. But I also know I will be glad should I never come to find it.

(584 words)

Fighting talk

As usual, we were excited to start the night shift. Tense and nervous too, with that familiar feeling of nausea tightening the muscles in the stomach that strangled the appetite. Bill and I had spent most of the day working the weights in the gym, and we had fuelled on pasta, steak and eggs earlier, but I managed to force down a couple of energy drinks and a protein bar. No sense in fighting on an empty stomach. Who would the enemy send tonight? How many would be dead before the coming dawn? We settled into our chairs, lit up the screens and eased our mice out of their holders. We were ready to fight.

(115 words)

The Smoke in the Woods

It was one of those magically still August evenings. The sun had baked the landscape all day.  Trout were lazing in the cool clear waters of the nearby Itchen, shading themselves under the overhanging boughs of willows, barely visible amongst the water mare and crowfoot’s weeds.  The world breathed a gentle sigh of relaxation.  A few miles away, folded in amongst the final, most westerly undulations of the South Downs, stood the ancient beech, ash and hazel trees of Crab Wood. It was there I chose my evening walk, watching the mites performing their everlasting dances in the golden, sun-soaked air.

Although I saw no other soul, I sensed I was not alone. He, or maybe she, had been following me for a good mile as I wandered along my usual track, cutting past the supposed site of the Roman Villa and down towards West Wood.  My plan, as ever, was to continue on, down to the Sparsholt Road and then enjoy a concluding pint of  Wadsworth's best in The Plough.

    Man has worked these woods for generations, coppicing the hazel to make hurdles, tool handles, thatching spars and charcoal. The seasons regulated both human and woodland life here.  Where the hazel had been coppiced, the sunlight spread itself across the woodland floor, energising habitats for plants and animals, until the cut hazel resprouted ready for harvesting again and a new generation repeated the cycle.  Within the woods, sunny glades came and went as the coups were harvested and regrew.  So it was that beetles, butterflies, birds and man gradually moved through the wood, in a constant cycle of life, death and regeneration.

    A rustle in the undergrowth, behind me and off the left, made me think again of a follower.   I spun around – but I could see no one. Stepping off the path, I took a dozen quick steps in the direction I thought the sound had come from.  A pair of woodcocks rose from the thick grass tussocks of the forest floor, clattering their wings as they tried to climb as fast as possible.  Embarrassed at disturbing them, I returned to the path and walked on, but the sense that someone or something had its eyes on me remained. My breath now seemed a little faster than my walking pace demanded.  Once again, I turned, and this time I did not stop after a dozen, or two dozen or three. There was a blur of motion on my left, and two sharp barks and a large dog stood in front of me. It had a thick tan and black coat, its mouth open, its tongue dangling as it panted, perhaps to cool itself, perhaps in anticipation. We locked eyes for ten or twenty seconds. I had no sense of threat, but equally, the dog showed no sign of subordination. He barked once, then turned and trotted a few paces back up the path, looking over his shoulder to see if I was following. As I did so, I heard noises in the undergrowth to my left and right. Two more dogs, identical in appearance to the first had emerged.  They followed slightly behind me. No, they were not following.  It was more like shepherding.

    After about a quarter of a mile, the lead dog turned off the main track, following a grass path leading up a gentle slope, and vanishing behind several coppiced stands of hazel. I was surprised I had not noticed this track on my way past earlier, as it seemed to be a well-trodden path. I looked behind and the other two dogs were still there.  They cocked their heads on one side and then on the other, looking straight at me.  I could have sworn they were saying ‘On you go, follow the track’ but they were of course silent. Perhaps I read my thoughts from the intelligence in their eyes and the way they first looked at me, then at one another, and then looked up the path.

    As I stepped off the path, I sensed a change in the air. It was colder, and sharper, and there was an unfamiliar taste in my mouth. Not fear, nor even surprise. Just some faint sensation, of something woody, perhaps something burnt. Then I caught the faint whiff of charcoal smoke in my nostrils, and I realised that someone was ignoring the Woodland rules and was having a barbecue. Curious to see who it was, I increased my pace as the lead dog rounded the last coppice stand. I followed and found myself in a small clearing. There was no barbecue. Instead, a large mound of turf sat in the middle of the clearing, with tendrils of smoke emerging, wafting upwards to what was now a darkening sky. A man, dressed in a rough tunic, with leather sandals, was dressing the turf with a large wooden spade, sealing the places where smoke leaked out. One of the dogs behind me barked, just once, and I felt the hairs on my forearm prickle. Unlike the first dog's questioning, introductory bark, there was something different about this bark - guttural, animal, visceral, perhaps something of the wolf.

   The man looked up, and seeing me, stood fully upright.  Holding his spade by his side like some ancient spear he said:

Salve, viator, habitaculum meum. Dii tibi faveant itineri.

(890 words)