The Ab-Original Journey - Part III

This (true) story is continued from the previous blog ... 

And so, there I was – my first pub job, in the middle of outback Australia, loving the wide open spaces, blue skies, horses and my crazy workmates. It seemed so right but I couldn’t imagine any connection it had to do with my deep, incomprehensible desire to spend time with the Aborigine people. None of them came into the resort in the first few weeks and I began to wonder, quite seriously, if I was stark, staring mad, despite the joy of being in this place with these people.

Then, one afternoon, a road gang came in, thirsty from their work. I served them, several times, and one of them, an Aborigine, addressed me as Philip, though there was no way he could have known my name. I dismissed the niggle of curiosity, amid the flurry of serving beers and, eventually, my shift ended. I went out, had a quick wash, changed my clothes and returned to have a beer with two work mates. As I stood at the bar, waiting for Martin to get my beer, the Aborigine road-worker sidled over, leaned on the bar next to me and stared. Feeling awkward, I pretended he wasn’t there till I had to look back. He had the biggest grin plastered across his brown face as he held out his hand and said, “Bout time you come back, Philip. We bin waiting 300 years see you!”

Martin was patiently waiting for me to pay for my beer but my body wouldn’t move. Jimmy (as he later introduced himself as) paid for my beer and led me, groggily, to a table for the two of us.

There was no small talk – he just launched into a description of our time together in a previous life, a description that matched, perfectly, the dream/vision things I’d had a week before, travelling around Uluru. Despite the whole idea of me being an Aborigine hundreds of years ago and then meeting a brother from that time in this lifetime … aah, I don’t know … it seemed so illogical, so nonsensical, so unlikely and yet so right. So normal. Apparently, way back when, we were attacked and killed by white men and, just before our deaths, we made a pact with each other to meet up again and help bring peace to the parched and angry land of our birth. This pact, he said, had drawn me through the centuries, through the dreaming, to meet with him at this time.

As my shift had finished, he told me it was time to remind me of my knowing, my abilities. I clung desperately to the seat as we careened across the rough terrain in his battered Land cruiser and, after half an hour’s exhausting and painful dash, we stopped a hundred yards from a cliff face.

In the centre of Australia there are massive underground rivers. Looking from the air you can see the courses of what look like dried-up rivers. Beneath the sand – sometimes six feet, sometimes a hundred or feet or so – are deep rivers which nourish the land and its creatures. Where these underground rivers bounce off a cliff there is a dent in the sand, like a dried-up pool. This is where the kangaroos prefer to drink … and the kangaroos aren’t silly. If there was water in the pools all the time, the dingoes would sniff them out and lie in wait, in packs, to attack the kangaroos.

Jimmy explained how the kangaroos sing the water up when they want a drink and sing it back down before the dingoes catch them drinking. Squatting on the ground beside one of these dried-up pools, Jimmy started singing and clacking two stones together. Soon, water rose from the dry ground to form a pool about two feet deep. He told me to drink but I couldn’t – it felt as if I was trespassing on the kangaroos’ sacred space. Jimmy smiled and said the kangaroos had asked him to teach me this and for me to drink the water. I don’t know how he talked to the kangaroos but he was adamant I receive their gift with gratitude. I scooped water up and it was the sweetest, most delicious water I’ve ever tasted. I felt so clean, so alive, so much a part of the land – not on it but of it, somehow.

Jimmy then handed me the stones and told me to sing the water back down. I felt awkward, embarrassed and unsure of what to do. He insisted and I tried to copy his sing-song and stone-clicking and, before my eyes, the water slipped away below the sand as if saying goodbye.

“See, you never forget in 300 years!” said Jimmy with a huge grin.

We walked across the flat, empty sandscape and, as Jimmy turned the Land Cruiser to head home, he waved at the water hole. I looked around and there were four big reds standing at the empty pool, staring at us.

“They pleased you come back,” said Jimmy.

All I could do was smile and wave to the kangaroos. They seemed to have appeared from nowhere. I know kangaroos don’t smile but I was sure they were then.

After that, Jimmy would turn up in his battered vehicle, unexpectedly, and take me to different places to show me the land in its dreaming – the reality of the land beyond what our eyes see. He seemed to know when my erratic roster gave me time off and I always felt comfortable in his presence, despite the unusual, illogical things he showed me.

Then, three months later, he dropped me off after showing me how he could put on the invisible dream. As I got out, he told me it was time for me to go and that I’d return and make good the pledge we made all that time ago. He disappeared in a swirl of dust, without so much as a goodbye, and I left the next day for Derby, Kununurra, Darwin and then home to New Zealand.

I have no idea how I’ll honour the pledge I apparently made with Jimmy but I’m sure the way will turn up as unexpectedly and as naturally as he did.

And now we return to the (nearly true) story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...

"Arthur, can you speak, can you hear me?" came her voice as her concern washed over him. "Your eyes are open, my love. Are you there?"
"Yes, yes, I'm here … awake," he said softly, knowing she needed reassurance in physical form.

"Oh Arthur, it's been all night and now you're back," she said as he felt a dampness on his face and then her soft face against his cheek …. her soft and very familiar face against his cheek.

His temple, his cheek, were caressed in warmth and his eyes closed at the sweetness. The caress stopped and his eyes opened. The face became less blurred, more distinct. He knew the face. It had a name. His mind reached for the name. It did not come. He looked more intently and the focus improved. Her face was still close, still saying words that were starting to straighten themselves out and become separate, nearly distinct.

The thudding continued to close in on him and a small pain crept into his head. His mind went to his body and he could sense nothing - a no-body, a no-sense, unfelt, unsensed. He tried to move a finger and was surprised to find it was there, as usual. Satisfied, he looked back at the face, now becoming more distinct, more … mmm, more … oh gosh, he knew that face! It spoke of love, caring and a deep history to him but no name came. It then spoke a name, its name, and he was filled. It spoke of Joan and all those shattered fragments of memories fused together in a quiet completion of a life that was his own. He tried one arm and it had a familiar weight. He tried raising it and fancied it did as he bid it do. As his arm reached for Joan's face, he felt dripping on him and she embraced him as he smiled and was complete.

The thudding had filled his head now and its intensity was growing.

"Is he alright?" asked Arthur weakly.

"Is who alright dear?" asked Joan.

"The man," said Arthur, taking another breath. "The man I hit."

"Ah him, that damned Sanderson?" asked Joan. "Yes, you rather damaged his kidneys and other bits, you savage man, you!"

"But … is he alright?" asked Arthur, desperate for an answer as he struggled for another breath.

"Well, he was in a pretty bad way after you'd beaten him with that vase and cabinet," said Joan. "I didn't know you had it in you, darling!"
"I didn't hit him with it …" protested Arthur weakly.

"Well, no one else was there to do it!" said Joan, laughing and interrupting him before he could get another breath. "You're quite the hero, my dear!"

"But I didn't hit him with …" said Arthur with more to say while his strength to say it deserted him. He needed to know if the man was alright but the thudding was closing in. He just wanted to escape it, in blissful sleep, which was also closing in.

"And the others?" asked Arthur weakly.

"Yes, unfortunately Sanderson got taken off to hospital while Amanda and Toby were arrested," said Joan. "One of Martin's colleagues is working with Lord Atkinson to have them released."

"Oh dear," said Arthur as words became harder to manage.

"Can I tell you what else happened?" she asked and he sensed … knew … her need to keep him talking, keep communicating, lest their link be broken. But only the link between capsules could be broken, he knew, somehow. The link between essences was always there.

"Yes dear, what happened?" he asked to help reassure her he was still with her. In that moment he knew all that had happened. It was not a sequence of events, one thing after another that went through his mind. It was as if the Hands of Time - the Hands of God, perhaps - held the long telescope of time before him and then had silently collapsed it so that all events and sequences came to him in one bundle of knowing. He let her tell her story, however, for the throbbing was closing in and he knew he must return to more sleep to have it soften its thudding.

He could hear her voice telling of events that he already knew as the deepness of sleep called invitingly to him. Soon Arthur wasn't aware of anything.

The Tribe Gathers
Wednesday, 14th March 2012, 6.48 a.m.
As Arthur softly snored in the key of G minor and dreamed in the key of C happy, the world went by without him; living and dying, laughing and sighing, truthing and lying, selling and buying. In that other imaginary world, Mary and her cohorts, with briefcase of uncertain contents and menacing intent ... well, anything uncertain is always menacing, in our fevered minds ... woke to a different day. If it's possible to wake from a night of not sleeping, that's what they all did. All but Ahmed looked bleary-eyed and slept-in. Ahmed, of course, looked his usual dapper self, despite wearing yesterday's clothes.

Choosing not to appear in public any more than they needed, they gathered around Ahmed's and Halee's coffee table, seated on beds and chairs, as a quiet London slowly stretched and yawned. Mary and Angus tucked into a hearty English breakfast of fried eggs, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, beans, toast and tea while the others preferred fruit, muesli and coffee. With the previous night's excitement over and without the familiar office and roles around them, Mary, Ahmed and Halee looked awkwardly quiet while John and Melinda looked on, bemused. Angus, like a bouncing puppy just released from his kennel, grabbed the precious briefcase Mary had brought with her and rifled through the papers, between mouthfuls of hot, dripping food.

"Dere's gotta be somethin' here," he said, undeterred by the frowns and smiles around him. "Dere's just gotta be."

"Look, Angus, we've been through it," said Mary, pouring herself another cup of tea. "There's nothing there …"

The Ab-Original Journey - Part II

This story is continued from the previous blog ...

Szuson and I didn't see each other on the overnight trip but, as we got out at the Alice Springs station, she asked me where I was staying. I had booked nothing, trusting in providence, so agreed to go to the hostel she'd booked into. It didn't feel right, somehow, so I went in search of different accommodation the next morning.

I was drawn to a hostel in the main street and walked past it several times. Each time I got a feeling of rightness, a warmth, as I approached. I booked in, still feeling uncertain about why I was in Alice Springs, in this hostel and even why I had been prompted to come to Australia at all. I was given my key, went to my room and froze. On the shelf was a huge, white coffee mug with one word in bold red writing - Philip! It was even spelt, unusually, with one "l" as my name is. I opened the top drawer and there was a new, unopened, tin of boot wax.

I cracked up laughing, knowing that I didn't know why I was here but knowing I was in the right place. I finally relaxed.

The next day I joined a group of young people on a guided trip round Uluru  and Kata Tjuta* . From the moment I saw Uluru, my right eye started streaming and it stopped abruptly as we left the area, three days later. Sitting in the noisy bus - loud music and constant chatter - I was presented with many visions as the red, dusty desert flew past my window. It was as if I was remembering a time, long ago, when I was an Aborigine and we hunted kangaroo in groups. We'd call to the spirit of kangaroo and we'd be guided to an animal that had volunteered to feed us. It was apparent, in these dreamy/visiony things I was having, we could all talk to each other in our minds over very long distances. In fact, distance was irrelevant - we could (and did) do it sitting next to each other or hundreds of miles apart. There was also the mystifying - then terrifying - spectacle of strange white people coming to our land and the land cried to us in pain.

Back in Alice again, I didn't know what to do so I hired a car and drove west - "go west, young man," the advertisement said! I stopped often, walking up most (maybe all) of the gorges on the route and, at one point, I sat on a mountain ledge and felt like I was talking to a circling eagle and to the spirit of rain. Black clouds formed and I just made it back to the car as the heavens bucketed down for half an hour. I later discovered that it had not rained there for the last six years.

At the end of the road was a resort that didn't feel right so I drove back towards Alice and slept beside my car on the side of the road. Later I was told that was lunacy on account of the poisonous snakes and spiders that abounded. Not knowing what I don't know is sometimes a good thing.

The next day I went east of Alice and, late afternoon, I ended up at Ross River, a very rustic, very basic, very Australian, tourist place. It felt right and, as I booked in, I asked about horse riding - I hadn't been on a horse for a long time and, seeing them in the yards, yearned to be back in the saddle again. As it happened, their monthly, two-day horse and camel trek was just starting. The receptionist dashed out to stop them from leaving without me while I threw my luggage into my room and changed into my boots and akubra.

Only two of us went on horses while the others (a party of ten Germans) went on camels. The other horse rider, Grub, worked at Ross River and, after racing each other over the rough and dusty terrain for over half an hour (so exhilarating!) we walked the horses to give them a rest.

The camel riders were miles away and, in that wide space, I asked Grub, half jokingly, if I could get a job working there. He said a barman had been given the sack the previous night and if I spoke to the manager, I was sure to get a job. I told him that I had never worked in a bar, at a tourist resort or in any kind of accommodation or waiting job. That, he said with a smile, would be no obstacle - ask and the job would be mine. My soul expanded as the landscape did and the two days went by too quickly - riding under the wide blue sky and sleeping under the star-lit heavens was awesome.

When we got back to the main buildings, I asked about a job and Grub was right - I started my first bar job a few hours later. And, in that isloated pub in the middle of Australia, is where the Aboriginal people came to me ... which I'll explain in the next blog.

*Uluru is Ayers Rock and Kata Tjuta is The Olgas.

In the meantime, enjoy a little more of Arthur Bayly's story, continued from the previous blog ...

"Did you feel that?" asked Amanda quietly.

"Yes I did," whispered Toby.

It seemed as if the mysterious and gentle zephyr had touched them as one rather than each of them individually. They both felt this, somehow, but might have found it hard to explain it to others … even to themselves. They knew what had happened and the shared experience - though brief and simple - touched them deeply, though they knew not why. Their hands sought each other out and, as their fingers intertwined, it seemed that the massive room and corridor in which they were standing filled itself with a presence - warm and caring, somehow - and they felt a deep safety, a quiet unconcern, for what was about to unfold. All their uncertainties, fears and questions were enfolded in this presence, this sense of deep and ancient caring and they needed to do nothing but smile and wait for further guidance from within.

Toby put his arm around Amanda's shoulders and she leaned into him with a sigh.

"So, what are you two doing? Snogging?" asked Dottie in a loud and commanding voice as she strode down the corridor. Amanda and Toby separated, looking shocked and embarrassed, confirming Dottie's suspicions.

A Head Job
Wednesday, 14th March 2012, 8.16 a.m.

Arthur, Arthur, came a sound, a whisper on a breeze, that slipped quietly through his dreams. Arthur, Arthur slid through gently, serenely and on those words he sat, gliding down a grassy slope in the warm afternoon sun, guided by a grace that was not his own. He was content to be led on a word that felt familiar, down a hill he'd never seen but knew intimately. As he glided on, one Arthur behind the other, he realised he could lie back if he chose. Sitting up pleased him as he could see the flitting swallows above, the parting grass before him and the sun glinting on the sea far below. He approached the sea and it seemed to come no nearer.

As he looked up he fancied he could see - or was it feel? - a thudding in the clouds behind him.

He became happily drowsy and lay back on the two Arthurs with no sensation of their touch. Looking up he saw not sky but a face; a face he knew well, he supposed. The face was close, blurred, and its lips were moving, saying something - saying, "Arthur, Arthur," the very words he was lying on, sliding on. His eyes saw the face but didn't look at it - he looked through it, wondering - how could that be there, not the sky.

The thudding in the sky seemed to be closing in. It was definitely a feeling now.

The face moved back and the mouth - a familiar mouth, somehow - was still moving, saying Arthur and other words. He could see the eyes now and, like the mouth, looked sad happy … mmm, sad happy? Yes, that's what they looked like. The face still filled his sky as he slipped gently down the grassy slope towards the sea. There was a light now, behind the face, shining through hair and around the edges. There might be, perhaps, other sounds, human sounds and the birds had stopped chirping.

The face moved closer and seemed comforting; warmly comforting and he was pleased it was there. His forehead was touched gently, caressingly, and he smiled.

And then the smell of the grass gave way to the scent of roses … mmm, not quite roses, but a scent he knew well, a scent he longed would remain. The scent, whatever it was, revived old chipped memories, fragments of events unconnected, parts of a life that felt familiar, parts of several lives, perhaps - child-times, adult-times, baby-times, teenage-times, all scattered about as confetti in the gentle breeze of his mind. This scent, so familiar, brought with it smiles, disappointment, sweetness, loss, fear, calm, hurrying, boredom and exquisite peace as after love-making.

As he looked at her emerging face he realised he wasn't seeing it as he usually saw faces, saw bodies, saw things. There was no distinct nose or mouth or eyes, no individual pieces, different from other pieces. It was like an unfolding picture in lights but not individual, twinkling lights … it was a picture in light, one light, bright and subtle. He imagined he was looking at a patch of water on a still lake, into which a small pebble had been dropped, a hundred yards away. The surface of the water before him might be moving. It might not be moving. He was not sure. The light, her light, might be moving. It might not be moving. He was not sure. He knew her light to be different from the background light and the light of other beings but he wasn't sure how he was distinguishing these differences.

In the gentle light he sensed a concern, a worry about the container, the capsule, labelled as Arthur. Ah, yes, his small capsule - that was what she feared for. He understood her fears and was, at the same time, bemused for he knew there was nothing to fear, to worry over. The small capsules, with all their different labels, were not what was really there.

He looked in and saw … no, not saw … knew his capsule was open - perhaps for the first time - and a larger essence had been released to encompass … well, everything, really. There were no boundaries, no limits, and it just sort-of flowed into other essences, slightly separate but not.

The capsule he'd known so well seemed to be closed and, inside, it held all its fears and concerns. He was touched and the formless light of his essence enfolded her capsule and she burst into tears - a flood of tears so long held back and now released with the relief of an ancient knowing that cleansed face and soul.

"Arthur, you're back, you're awake!" came her voice through the mist of his gentle perplexity. Unused to such a way of seeing things … of knowing things … he relaxed, unconcerned, and enjoyed the small blissful waves of light as they caressed him.

The Ab-Original Walkabout - Part I

In 1993 I had a strong drawing to go to the Aboriginal people in Australia so, when the school holidays started, my son and I flew to Melbourne. We had ten wonderful days, travelling 3,000 miles in our rental car. We returned the car to the airport and then I saw Cain off, to fly back to New Zealand. As he left, I realized how much I missed him and I cried my eyes out for the next few hours.

I had not organized anywhere to stay so told the taxi driver to take me to the nearest youth hostel. As I crashed onto my bed (I had a room all to myself, to my great relief), still thinking of Cain and with two questions chasing each other round in my head:

1) How do I get to see the Aborigine people? I wanted to spend time with them but didn’t know anyone who knew them, and

2) Where do I get boot wax? My boots were scuffed and I’d become a little obsessed with cleaning them up.

That night I did not sleep well, feeling sad about Cain and uncertain about my purpose in being in Australia. The next morning another man checked into my room and it transpired that he was Australia’s leading UFO investigator and one of his team had spent many years living with the Aborigine people. He immediately arranged for me to meet her in three days time.

I then spent several hours looking for boot wax but, in that huge city, none seemed to exist. The next day a friend took me to an Australian Rules game and then I eventually got to meet the lady who had lived with the Aborigines. She could give me no contacts or ways to meet them and told me that if I wanted to see them, I’d have to wait till they came to me. I left her house feeling disappointed.

The only thing I could think of doing was to go to Alice Springs so, the next day, I took the nine-hour train trip to Adelaide. There was a six-hour wait-over till the Ghan* left for Alice Springs. I sat in the railway café, with a coffee, to write letters to my two children in New Zealand. To get my writing gear out of my bag, I had had to get some other books our first, which I left on the table while I wrote. One of the books was a spiritual one, by Sanaya Ramon and, as I was writing, a lady stopped and stared at the book.

I looked up uncertainly.

“Are you into spiritual things?” she asked. She introduced herself as Szuson Wong, a Chinese American. I assured her I was very interested in such things and so she got a drink and food and then joined me at my table. We chatted animatedly and with great absorption in each other’s stories till the train left. Among many other things, she told me about a book called Mutant Message Down Under by a Marlo Morgan. In the book, Marlo, an American nurse, arrived, as a stranger, in an Aboriginal community and they greeted her with: “Bout time you come! We been waiting long time to see you!”

As Szuson told me this story, bolts of hot and cold lightening shot through me and I felt like I was levitating, somehow. For a split second that went on forever, I felt a disconnection, an other-worldliness, at hearing this. When I recovered my power of speech, my first words were: “Wow! Wouldn’t it be so amazing for that to happen!”

Two weeks later it did ... this will be continued and, in the meantime, you can follow Arthur Bayly's story, from the recently-written novel, The Importance of Being Arthur ...

---

* The railway line from Adelaide, through Alice Springs and to Darwin was built (mainly) with Afghan labour. In their honour, the train that runs the track is called The Ghan.

"Oh, careful, that jars, you bully," said Toby, striding out, holding his sore arm gingerly. Amanda sneaked up to the corner of the corridor and waited. She heard a distant door open and shut and, soon after, someone was asking, "Where are you, mate?"

"Out in the passage," yelled the guard back.

Amanda could hear no footsteps on the thick carpet and made her move, based on gut feeling and guesswork, as to when the man would be over Toby. She reached the second guard just as he was about to kick an apparently oblivious Toby, kneeling beside the prone man. Amanda slipped one bag over the man's head and, as he faltered, struggling with an unexpected impediment, she grabbed his ankles and pulled them together, as good as any All Black tackler. He toppled and fell forward just as Toby rolled away and jumped up to plant his foot heavily between the man's shoulders, like a triumphant boxer. Amanda quickly tied his ankles together with a muslin bag and leapt upon his backside to claim his now-pinioned arms. Between them they managed to get his arms behind his back and tied up with another muslin bag.

It all happened so quickly there was hardly time for a sound, save the odd oomph and argh and the carpet and solid walls absorbed most of the sounds. They rolled the second, trussed-up guard off his guv'nor and let him lie there, panting surprised and embarrassed.

The man at the bottom of the little pile was stirred to life and started groaning. His hand went to his head, perhaps to feel for cuts, and Amanda knew she had to act.

"Quick, stop him moving!" commanded Amanda as she grabbed another muslin bag and trussed his wrists together behind his back, with a little help from Toby. She then did the same with his feet. "Right, we've got three we don't want moving and they can, while we've got one we want to move and he can't."

"Well, at least they won't move till the police get here," said Toby, smiling.

"The police are already here! If only you knew," said Amanda, looking at Toby and considering whether or not to say any more. "Look, I've just got to make a phone call. Can you keep an eye on these guys for a minute, please?" She went into the kitchen for privacy, dialled the number, spoke to Superintendent Hopkins at Scotland Yard and returned to the men.

As Amanda and Toby looked at each other, wondering what to do or say next, Arthur stirred and started to mumble. Amanda rushed over to him and knelt by his face. His lips were moving from time to time as if he was conversing with someone.

"Are you okay, Arthur?" asked Amanda quietly as she placed her hand gently on his forehead. "I'm listening."

"Maybe he's delusional, just raving …" said Toby.

"Sshhh!" said Amanda. "We're listening, Arthur."

"But he's just …" said Toby.

"Shut up will ya!" said Amanda. "Give him a chance."

"He's frightened," said Arthur faintly, with a gentle smile across his face.

"Who's frightened?" asked Amanda, not sure she heard him right.

"Toby is. Toby is frightened," said Arthur quietly. Amanda had to bend close to his face to hear him.

"Toby is frightened of what?" asked Amanda, caressing his forehead gently.

"I'm not frightened. He's just …" said Toby, stopping mid-sentence as Amanda's withering glare stopped him. He looked perturbed but he kept his mouth shut and shuffled a little closer to Amanda and Arthur as if daring himself to hear more.

"He's frightened of the love," said Arthur quietly, taking in a deliberate breath and his smile never leaving his face.

"The love?" asked Amanda, looking quizzically at Toby.

"The love he fears," whispered Arthur. "So he uses his own strength."

"His own strength?" asked Amanda, not sure whether she should look at Toby or not. Toby shuffled closer, intrigued and a little annoyed.

"His own strength … not letting the love through," said Arthur weakly with the steady smile still on his face.

"The love?" asked Toby, intrigued and now kneeling next to Amanda.

"The love is power, is knowledge," said Arthur, panting a little as if he was tiring but had words he needed to get out. "Listen to the love inside. Amanda can teach listening."

"Listen?" asked Toby, now more sure than ever that Arthur was raving. But something invisible pulled him into Arthur's words.

"Amanda knows the listening," said Arthur. "She listens often."

"Arthur's right, Toby," said Amanda. "I know what he means, totally."

"When she listens to the love, she's not frightened," said Arthur, panting a bit but no strain showed on his face. "When she does, the love speaks its power. Life flows."

"Yes, when I do, things do flow," said Amanda. "It's effortless but I keep forgetting."

"Not forgetting," said Arthur in his hoarse whisper. "Not forget but not believe you deserve the power."

"Oh," said Amanda, not sure what to say.

"Nothing to say, just listen," said Arthur. "Listen to each other. Much power there."

Amanda and Toby looked at each other uncertainly.

"I must go inside now," said Arthur, smiling uncertainly. "There is nothing to fear and I shall return." His lids slowly closed over his eyes and a deep and abiding silence filled their space.

As they stood up looking at Arthur, his closing eyes seemed to dim the light, a light they hadn't noticed before. There seemed to be nothing and everything to say and Arthur's peaceful face gave no clues. They stood there, daring to look at each other, with empty minds and stilled tongues. No one moved, not even the overweight guard who had been constantly fighting his awkward position - he stopped and his look of embarrassed annoyance was swept away by one of smiling benevolence, as if someone had just told him a beautiful and moving story. George Sanderson, too, stopped his twitching and his attempts to rouse his body to full consciousness. A warm and gentle breeze, a zephyr, touched their cheeks and Toby and Amanda looked at each other as if wondering if the other had brushed their cheeks. Neither had and it fell to their imagination to wonder at the zephyr inside a house with so many thick walls and massive doors. This zephyr, this softest of breezes, soon passed and they blinked as if waking from a sweet dream. Arthur seemed oblivious to it all, in peaceful repose.

The other two men started their fidgeting again, though tentatively as if waiting for permission to continue.

Confessions of a Magazine Writer

In July 1993, four days before his fortieth birthday, Sam Barton left his eighteen-year marriage. He left the woman he’d known for 25 years as his new life just didn’t fit into a relationship that allowed no room for growth. No room for change.

You see, a few years previously, he’d studied Rudolf Steiner and, more recently had come across meditation, The Secret, A Course in Miracles and the whole nine yards of the personal and spiritual / development movement. His world had suddenly exploded into a massive new, unseen world … an unseen world that was almost more real than the little tangible one he’d been standing on for thirty nine years.

Then he was introduced to the men’s movement and his growing world got bigger again.

Along with this exciting, confusing and endlessly fascinating world, he rediscovered his writing ability – an ability he’d had at school but which had take a back seat on his drive through qualifications, jobs, marriage, children and all the other trappings of getting ahead in this tangible world … no, it had not taken a back seat, it had been tossed out to languish in the dust of his dash to progress. Then the world became bigger and all that stuff that had been so important before, as a child, awoke, dusted itself off and confronted him with a huge smile of recognition.

Once the cork was off the bottle, there was no putting the genie back. Sam began to be woken at silly times like 5 am with words rattling round in his head. Words that would keep him awake till he wrote them down. Words that could keep him distracted and irritable for days. Words that were fully formed sentences, fully formed articles. The sooner he wrote them down the better. Only then was there peace.

His only choice was when he wrote them down – not what he wrote down. He’d write them as they came out of his head but, as he typed them up, he’d sometimes feel the need to change them. Then he’d read his typewritten words and always, always, always, need to go back and reinstate the originally presented words and phrases. These words were as persistent as he was.

And so this outpouring started and it had nowhere to go. Sam discovered he was not one of those writers who was content to write stuff and have it sit in the drawer for no one else to see. He just had to get it published somehow. He didn’t know how but started asking around. Then, mysteriously, three days after he started asking around, he found that the best inspirational magazine in New Zealand was published right there in his home town of Tauranga. With that discovery came the instant knowing that he would write for that magazine. He didn’t know how to do that, so asked again. A week later, at an expo, he was introduced to the editor of this magazine.

A normally shy person, he surprised himself when the words fell out of his mouth, telling this editor that all of the writers in her magazine were women and that it would expand her readership if she had a man writing for her. She was polite but not convinced. He took her contact details and said she would hear from him … and hear from him she did!

Every month, for the next year, he would either phone or email her with articles, article ideas and the benefits of having a male writer on board. Eventually, she succumbed to his relentlessness and accepted one article – an article that generated more letters to the editor than had all previous articles for the last five years. He was hired and wrote regularly for that magazine for many years. Then he became the editor. During that time, Sam sent his articles and ideas to magazines and became a regular writer for nine other magazines in New Zealand, Australia, South Africa and Czech Republic.

What Sam discovered was that the words were always there. If an editor wanted an article at short notice, he could rattle up 1,000 or 2,000 words within an hour … as long as it was on subjects he was passionate about – personal growth, spiritual growth, men’s issues and business. He was not an expert in any of those fields – a novice who dabbled, really – but when the words were needed, they always appeared in perfect formation. All he had to do was turn up at the page and let his pen loose. Usually, he had no idea of what was going to come out of the end of his pen and, as he wrote each article, he could never tell how it would end till it did. Mysteriously, the articles always ended at the right number of words – an editor would give him a word-count and the words would arrange themselves to fit that. It was intriguing but, somehow, it never surprised him.

One thing did surprise him, though: In his field of personal and spiritual development, there were no immutable laws, no fixed and immovable edicts to govern the field. Everything, absolutely everything, was opinion, based on what worked for one person or another. Timid, at first, at venturing his opinion, he discovered that the more outlandish, the more satirical, the more challenging were his articles, the more the readers liked them. He stopped being “nice” and became brave, venturing ideas and theories that went against the current thinking. People asked for more. People argued with him and told him he was wrong. People seemed to love it, whether they agreed with him or not. Perhaps, he surmised, people (like children) like or need something to hit against, need others to draw their lines in the sand for them. Perhaps that’s why readers need writers to write articles for them. Maybe. Maybe not.

And now those articles are scattered amongst several of the books he’s had published – Articles of Faith, Understanding Men, The Royal Bank of Stories and Conversations on Your Business.

[Sam Barton does not exist. Philip Bradbury does. This is my story.]

 Now, back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...

"I'll just get something to clean these guys up," said Amanda. "Can you just keep an eye on them … stop them doing gymnastics and stuff!" She dashed into the kitchen, filled a large bowl with warm water, grabbed a tea towel and two towels and returned to gently wash Arthur's bloody head. He showed no signs of waking but his pulse and breathing were steady, though weak. She then covered him with the two towels to help keep his body warmth up.

"You're a nurse and a cop!" said Toby with obvious admiration. "Anything I can do to help?"

"You could do the same with this other bloke here, if you like," said Amanda, pleased she had willing help. "Then I'll wash this stuff up when you get back. Best to have someone here all the time - you never know what's going to happen next!"

"Always one step ahead, aren't you," said Toby as he sauntered off to the kitchen. Amanda imagined that was a compliment and smiled for the first time that day. When Toby returned with a bowl of water and a rag, she took the bloody tea towel and water into the kitchen to clean up. As she returned, Toby was kneeling behind the solid hunk of a man, gingerly dabbing at the blood on his head and hand. She squatted in front of the man and discovered that his eyes were quivering and his body was twitching a little.

"This guy might be waking up," said Amanda, as the man groaned and moved his hand a little as Toby put it back down.

"Oh God!" she said, sitting back on her haunches. She looked at him closer and shook her head, disbelieving. She put her hand under his chin and gently lifted it a little, perhaps hoping the face would transform itself into one she hadn't seen before. It didn't. She lowered his chin slowly and squatted there on her haunches, indecisively. She looked across at Arthur, hoping there was something she could do for him … hoping to delay her decision. There was nothing she could do for Arthur, unfortunately. Yes, she'd have to do something with this solid, grizzled hunk of a man she knew - the Assistant Commissioner, Special Operations, of the London Metropolitan Police, George Sanderson. How could she arrest and detain someone many levels her senior? There was no question he had attacked Arthur, who had defended himself and been knocked unconscious … or had he? She hadn't witnessed anything and so her current story was nothing but assumption. Besides, she wasn't in uniform and couldn't arrest him, except under a citizen's arrest. Also, she was carrying a police gun and handcuffs, out of uniform, and she wasn't sure of the consequences of that.

"So, why are you here?" she demanded of the portly guard with his hands still hooked over the door handle. "Did this man get you to do this?"

"Uh, yeah," said the guard groggily and Amanda realised that, with his overweightness and the awkward position he was in, he might not be faring too well.

"Yeah what?" demanded Amanda, needing answers quickly. "Who is he to you?"

"He's the guv'nor, Ma'am," said the guard. "He paid us, like, to look after him, to look after this place while he got a few things."
"What things?"

"Dunno. Papers and stuff that this Lord fella' stole off 'a him," said the guard, squirming to make himself more comfortable, without success.

"And who knocked out that man? You?" asked Amanda, pointing to Arthur.

"Well, yeah, he attacked the guv'nor and I hear a crash an' I come in an' I thought the guv'nor was dead," said the guard candidly, perhaps eager to get it off his chest. "He's just knocked out … you know, alive, isn't he?"

"So you knocked him out?" asked Amanda, ignoring his question.

"Yeah, well, I panicked, like, coz I saw the guv'nor dead an' I thought this one here, he be brutal, like," said the guard, breathing heavily with sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"So you did him good, like, as you would say," said Amanda, finishing his sentence.

"Yeah, guess so. I jus' panicked and we knew we's in trouble coz we let those others get in. I knew we's in trouble already …" said the guard.
"We? You mean there's others here, working for this guv'nor?" asked Amanda, pointing at the prone, twitching body of the Assistant Commissioner.

"Yeah, jus' the two of us," said the guard. "The guv'nor said it'd be a quick an' easy job."

"Where's the other guard?" asked Amanda, looking around warily.

"Dunno. He stayed outside, I suppose," said the guard, wriggling and trying to adjust his arms.

"So this man pays you to protect him, does he?" asked Amanda.

"Ah, yeah, he said he needs extra help an' so he hires people for short-term jobs," said the guard. "Cash only. We do building security at nights so we got the uniform and he thinks that scares people … oh, hell, you won't tell my company will ya? We not allowed to do moonlighting." His pained face took on an alarmed look.

"I can't promise anything, fella'," said Amanda, knowing she'd have to immobilise the other guard before the area was safe. "Maybe I keep quiet about your moonlighting if you do what I say. Okay?"

"Yes ma'am," said the guard, his face lightening up a little.

"So, all you have to do is call out to your friend outside. You'll have to yell," said Amanda, standing up. "Get him in here to help us all out and I'll go get the others. Start yelling!"

The guard started yelling, "Rocky, Rocky, get in here! I need your help! Hurry up Rocky!"

Amanda touched Toby on the shoulder and nodded towards the kitchen, to which she ran. Toby followed.

"Find something to tie the next guy up with, will ya," said Amanda, rummaging through drawers and cupboards, not quite knowing what might work. She soon found muslin bags, usually used for keeping meat in. "These will do," said Amanda as an idea started to form in her mind. "Why don't you go and kneel over that guy … not Arthur, the other one and make sure he doesn't get away. I'll nab the other guard when he comes for you."

"So I'm the decoy?" asked Toby, smiling grimly as he ran his hand through his blonde hair. "You better not miss, young lady, or I'll have to beat you with whatever limbs I still have working!"

"It's a deal - I beat him or you beat me!" said Amanda, smiling and slapping Toby's good shoulder.

One Thing Leads To Another

A friend recently suggested I write another song and so I sat down and a poem, The Wychwood Badgers Run (http://bit.ly/gJAGqD), fell out of the end of my pen. Somehow, after that, I was asked to read it in public. Then, from that, I was also asked to sing (along with my guitar, at a Forest Festival in June, for fifteen minutes. Then another performer pulled out and so I'm probably performing for more like 40 minutes ... all because Peter suggested I write another song!

Then, I ponder, what would have happened if I'd not listened to Peter and not written something ... and what else could/will come of this wee perfoemance. As Anna, my wife, says, "Life turns on a dime!" It's the little things that turn into the big things; usually when there is no intention for anything else to happen. I won't get into the whole meaning of life thing, the destiny stuff, but it does make me wonder if I'm driving my life or if someone/something else is ... Ah! Stop it, Sir Philip! You said you wouldn't get into all that silly woo woo stuff! Sorry. Enough said.

And here's the next chapter of Arthur Bayly's adventure - and he never knows where anything will lead - continued from the previous blog ...

"Ugh! Door is bloody locked!" said Dominik, more to himself that the two women. "Oh, sorry about swear. Sorry."

"Swear all you bloody well like!" whispered Dottie, obviously anxious to escape the wall cavity.

"I think I make like a bull," said Dominik, chuckling. "Stand back. May be splinters." He groaned and thumped and Joan braced herself for what was to come, whatever that was. The door was obviously an obstinate one and withstood many grunts and thumps from Dominik, who had little room to swing his weight in. Suddenly their cavity was flooded with light and Dominik fell out of the cavity and into a room. Dottie and Joan followed soon after, relieved to be out of their confinement. As three dirty, cobwebbed people popped out into the room, they were momentarily blinded by the light. As their eyes grew accustomed to the light, they realised the large office was filled with people - presumably the Lord and Lady and their servants, gardeners, cooks, livery staff and so on - all tied up and looking at them expectantly.

_____________________________________

As Amanda looked around the corner she could see mayhem amid the lavishly decorated Victorian corridor. There was broken wood and ceramics piled about and, amongst that, two prone men. One was Arthur and her heart went out to that gentle man. She resisted the strong urge to rush to him for, amid the bodies and the wreckage, stood a rotund man dressed as a security guard. And that's what he did - stood. His back was to her and he wasn't moving except for his head which was nodding a little as if he was talking to himself. His lack of movement confused her and she waited till she knew how to approach him.
Martin bumped into her, knocking her into the passage.

"Oh, sorry," said Martin.

The man turned and then a blur passed by her as Toby, she realised, flew at the tubby guard, feet first. Amanda yelled but too late. Toby had felled the man and sat astride him with his good hand at the man's throat. There was a thump beside her and she saw Martin sprawled on the floor. There had been no shot and nothing of his seemed to be broken so she surmised he'd fainted. She dashed to help Toby, grabbing the man's limp hands and hand-cuffed him. The guard looked terrified and seemed unable to resist.

"Please Miss, I'm sorry, I'm sorry …" the guard said, babbling as Toby let his throat go. "I never done this before … I didn't mean to … I promise … I didn't mean to …"

"Ah, shut up!" commanded Toby, still sitting on the man's chest as he held his strapped-up arm with the other hand, grimacing.

"You okay Toby?" whispered Amanda.

"Don't know. It might have popped out again," said Toby in obvious pain. "But I'm alive and conscious. Let's see to these chaps first."

"Ow, these handcuffs hurt!" complained the guard as Amanda hauled him to his feet.

"Hurt? You ain't seen nothing yet, mate!" said Amanda, smiling grimly. "You check the others while I tie this whining baby up." She deftly swung the guard around and had him sitting on the floor with his hand-cuffed hands over his head, hooked over the brass door handle.

"Wow! That was neat," said Toby as he leant down to feel Arthur's pulse. "Yep, he's alive."

"And so's this one," said Amanda. "Quite a loss of blood. We need to patch him up somehow."

"I need some help here," said Toby, struggling with one arm. Between them they got Arthur into the recovery position. "His breathing's faint but regular and he's got a huge gash and bruise on the side of his head."

"Yeah, really need a medic," said Amanda quietly, continuing to look around like a fox at its quarry, scanning constantly for predators.

"Oh, of course, Dottie's a nurse. She fixed me up!" said Toby quietly. "Hell, she's gone the other way."

There was a groan up the passage and they both realised they'd forgotten Martin, who was rousing himself with obvious confusion … and perhaps embarrassment, thought Amanda.

"Aha, Martin, can you see if you can find Dottie and get her back here?" asked Toby quietly as he leapt up to help Martin stand up.

"What? Who? Ah, Dottie?" asked Martin, holding his head, looking confused.

"We need medical help and Dottie's the closest," explained Toby, steadying Martin. "And keep your voice down."

"But I need medical help. I've got a sore head … and my knee …" said Martin with a little more clarity this time.

"Yes, but you can stand and walk," said Toby. "Look at Arthur - he's lost some blood and the other chap's lost a lot more," Martin started to stagger as he looked at the prone bodies and saw the blood. "Look, let's get you round the corner, away from that sight," said Toby, helping him into the kitchen and leaning him against a bench.

"Yeah, just don't like blood and stuff," said Martin, his pallid face beginning to fill with colour. "I … I just never expected this. I didn't, you know."

"No, nor did we," said Toby. "Now, Arthur, your dad, needs medical help urgently. Can you see if you can find where the others went and get Dottie back here? And your mum too."

"Dad? He's the one on the floor isn't he! Oh hell!" said Martin, suddenly joining the dots. "Where'd they go? Through here?" he asked, indicating the open door.

"Probably. You find Dottie and we'll keep your father as comfortable as possible and make sure no others get to him … or to us," said Toby.

"Others? Oh shit, I never thought of that!" said Martin, his eyes widening. "How many others are there?"

"We don't know. Just get Dottie, will you," said Toby, waving Martin on, obviously anxious to get back to the prone men and the trussed-up guard.

"Right … yes," said Martin and, with a sudden aliveness, he went through the door into the tiny, dirty passage, now lighter for the other door being open a little. "Ugh, oh hell, it's dirty …"

"Shut up Martin!" whispered Toby urgently. "We don't know who else is here."

"Oh, yes," said Martin as he eased himself along the narrow passage, trying not to get dirt on his business suit.

"Bloody pansy," muttered Toby as he shook his head, adjusted his painful arm and quickly returned to help Amanda.

The Hunter is Hunted

A few months ago I wrote a short story for a competition and won the competition - here's the story ...

It was not a good day for hunting. The sun was bright and the shadows warned the prey of impending death. Far better a grey and cloudy day for a stalker to listen for footfalls, munching jaws and murmuring beasts. Without the warning shadows to scare the already timid game, the silent predator had more chance. No, not a good day for hunting but there had been a whole moon-turn of bad hunting days and hunger drove the hunter out.

Weakened by lack of food, the silent hunter crept upon padded paws without his usual stealth and awareness. His eyes – slightly blurred and less keen than usual – tried to focus on the movements about, on who had marked the ground and the direction of their goings. Slightly wobbly and determined not to rustle grass or break twigs, the cruising hunter knew that every day without food made it more and more difficult for his body to find nourishment.

In spite of the glare of the sunshine casting shadows across his weakened body, he must find food this day. He forced himself to focus, to be steady and to be deeply aware – more deeply than usual – of the tremors through his feet that told of the goings-on around him. There was the constant rumble of a world on the move and, within that, he must discern and seek out the particular tremors that told of food, precious and juicy food. The earthly rumbling was high as was to be expected – creatures moved more when the sun shone.

And so it was that he found it difficult to hear the close noises, the particular sounds of his patch of earth made by his particular prey. Dulled by lack of food and his senses partially blinded by mass migrations to the sun, he struck out with determination and a little trepidation, for the first time. He had always had his skills, fitness and cloud-cover to his advantage. All he had now was luck and it was only desperation that pulled him forward today. It was not the joy of discovery and the chase – with nourishment as the reward – but a blind need for survival that pushed him out to his accustomed patch in an unaccustomed way.

The grass waved in the sunshine and its shadows rippled around before him, confusing his staring eyes. He moved forward, as he must, and the shadows were soon behind him, as well as in front. He started to feel a little trapped within the swirling play of light and shadow. He wondered, as he darted from spot to spot on this island of giddying shadow-plays, if he was the hunter or the hunted. He soon got a taste of being hunted for the first time. Not a nice taste at all. He faltered, almost darting back to the safety of his lair. For the first time, ever, he tasted fear and he shivered, uncertainly and with his instincts failing him.

He forced himself to stop, to listen, to feel, to focus. What had been so natural, so instinctive, had now to be remembered with intense focus and unrelenting concentration.

As he focused all his weakened senses he felt, within the regular earthly tremors, a particular shudder, a growl, that seemed to be growing and moving towards him. It was not the tremor of a familiar prey and so he faltered again, confused. He listened and felt and looked around cautiously. What was this beast, this potential morsel, that moved with such speed and shaking of the ground?

He turned and felt no more as the lawnmower flipped two halves of the black beetle into its gullet.

You can see the original story at http://bit.ly/ae7eZS

So, now, back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from two blogs ago ...

"Yeah, cheers to all the sad bastards of the world!" said Angus raising his glass and leaning over to clink it with hers. "Anyway, I'm here, I've broken out of me little cage, I have no idea where to now and I'm scared and excited but, in a way, I don't really care. Does that make sense?"

"Aye it does - sounds just like I felt when I first left home to come down here … and it all worked out. It's not perfect but I'm alive and reasonably sane, I think," said Mary, cheerfully.

 "Yeah, when I moaned about all the reasons not to do something different, Belinda said that the worst that could go wrong is that I could fail and what would that mean? I wouldn't get rabies, my bum wouldn't fall off and I'd still be alive and kicking," said Angus, laughing at the memory of that conversation. "I'll actually survive, no matter what I chose to do."

"Yeah, I guess we all do, don't we," said Mary, musing over the recent dangers she'd survived.

"Not guess, Mary. We absolutely do survive," said Angus with a determination she'd not seen before. "Whatever decision we make, as Belinda put it, we're all looked after so, really, nothing matters. So I did it - took leave from the job, left me home, left me mates and here I am. I can always go back if I want to."

"And what did Mum and Dad think of their rebel son, off on his adventures to unknown lands?" asked Mary.

"Well, Mum didn't say much, just grumbled as usual," said Angus. "Dad was dead against me going. Said I'd regret it and predicted all sorts of painful and immoral things. I actually think he'll be missing me but couldn't say so."

"You'll be right, Angus, for you've always been there," said Mary. "It'll be a wrench for them. And now I've finished me whisky, Angus, I really do need some sleep." She got up and pulled the bed clothes back. "We can talk more in the morning."

"Aye lass, lots more to talk about," said Angus, finishing his drink. "Good night, Mary."

An Inside Job
Tuesday, 13th March 2012, 4.33 p.m.
As the shadows of late afternoon stretched their darkening fingers across the expansive lawns and solid walls, the house was quiet. Unusually quiet. Deathly quiet.

Two men were unconscious and the plump bodyguard was standing over them, as if wondering what the heck to do next. He'd never actually hit anybody before and he wondered, in panic, if he'd gone too far. He stood and gazed at the prone figures, uncertainly.

In the kitchen the six had been stopped by the yelling, crashing, grunting and thumping in the corridor through the wall. They looked at one another and seemed to have the same confused mind. Do they rush out and help Arthur and be injured themselves? Do they creep out to find a band of thugs waiting for them? Do they continue through to the office and find the thugs there? The unknown, as always, posed a greater threat than the known and they didn't know much - where they were, who they were saving, why they were saving him/her/them and who was waiting round dark corners for them all.

"Time to move!" whispered Amanda decisively, taking out her pistol.

"Amanda! You can't go shooting people!" pleaded Martin in a hoarse whisper, his eyes nearly popping out.

"And your idea is?" Amanda asked quietly.

"Oh, ah, yes, I see …" said Martin. "But we can't have guns … they kill."

"And someone's not dead already?" whispered Amanda, pushing past Martin. "And who's going to be next?"

"Oh, gosh, but we can't just … let's talk about this," pleaded Martin, going quite pale.

"Dominik, you take the rest through to the office and around," whispered Amanda. "I'll go this way."

"But you can't just go … you know … shooting people," whispered Martin, grabbing Amanda's arm.

"So, you come with me, mate," said Amanda, shaking off his grip. "You can keep me from killing someone." She continued out the door to the corner.

"I'll come with you two," said Toby, launching himself out of indecision mode.

Joan held up her hands and smiled to Dottie as if to say, 'whatever we do, it's a mess'. Dottie nodded and smiled back, grimly, and they followed Dominik to the back of the kitchen, to a door that must have remained closed for many years. Dominik grimaced as the door creaked and groaned, despite his efforts to open it quietly. He opened it enough for them to slip through, one by one. The three found themselves in the dark, but for light sneaking through the half-opened door from the kitchen. The uneven cobbles and the cobwebs impaired their progress in the shoulder-width passage. They scrambled along sideways and it was soon obvious that Dominik had no idea where to find the door into the office.

"There's got to be a torch somewhere," said Joan, awkwardly squeezing herself back into the kitchen. Dottie followed her and they rummaged through drawers and cupboards as quietly as they could. In the corridor they heard a man's shout, Amanda's yell, a thud and then silence. Joan's instinct was to rush out to help Arthur but her logical mind told her to leave it to the professionals who would help him more than she could. Her prayers went out to him as she returned to their search for light. They found candles and an old box of matches.

Back in their dark, dank passage, they fumbled with matches, lit three candles and handed one to Dominik. It was good to see a little more till Joan spied a large spider, then another, then another and she desperately tried to hold back a rising bile as she saw this space between walls was overrun by insects of all kinds. She would have leant back against the wall to steady herself but realised she'd be leaning into nests of spiders and other unmentionable critters. It was only Dominik's sigh of relief - she hoped it was relief - as he was scratching around the wall, ahead of her. There was a rattle of metal - a chain? - and bumping on wood.