THE VILLAGE ENIGMA

 THE VILLAGE ENIGMA 

The property lay empty and still.

Nothing moved and even the air was static. Indeed time stood still within the centuries old walls, as if removed from the events unfolding without the sanctuary of its solid structure. The old wooden stairs were silent as were the steep concrete steps to the soulless cellar. 

However, this had not always been the case, and in the distant past the small cottage had reverberated to the sound of its inhabitants. Both happy times and sad had been witnessed by the cold white walls. Generations of the eternal cycle of life and death had been encountered by the structure, and at times the stench of humanity would have overpowered all but the those with the weakest sense of smell, as the by-product's of infant life and the detriment of old age filled the communal air.

Now though, all was silent, and the past did not wish to reveal itself, as the property remained sealed from the village and external world. Monarchs had come and gone, neighbours born and buried, church services commemorating all aspects of life conducted by a succession of Rectors and Vicars and the surrounding fields continued the rotation of crops and live stock, with all oblivious to the small cold cottage at the edge of their community. 

The front door was an uncompromising wooden portal with a simple locking mechanism, as was the back door. A cellar was accessed via a door under the stairs.

Steep steps cut from the chalk bedrock lead down to a cramped airless vestibule where an uncovered floor supported old furniture and tools. A wooden handled scythe was propped against the far wall, and various rusting gardening implements looked old and weathered. Upon the wall however was a pristine clock, set in ivory and astonishingly still keeping the correct time.

 In a cluttered corner, partially obscured by an old rusting mangle, a small wooden box gathering thick dust lay unnoticed by all and sundry. Its locking mechanism was robust and intact, but unsurprisingly the key was absent. However, above the cellar was the small sitting room, unpretentiously decorated in a rustic fashion and devoid of any obvious sophistication or wealth. Nevertheless, hanging on the party wall was a rusty set of keys, that were believed by most to be no more than an attempt to create an antique effect for the wall.

 

To be continued.......

CROZIER GURNARD

 CROZIER GURNARD

Sweat dripped from his temples as the effort to move the obstruction drained the strength from Crozier Gurnards emaciated limbs.

 His grinding teeth screeched in his clenched mouth and his whole visage grimaced in pain, as he used the last ounce of his strength attempting to move the barrier. He glanced at his wrist watch to ensure he was not early and confirmed that the time was one minute past twelve noon. 

Why wouldn't the pub door budge ?

His beverage awaited him and he needed to be on pole position to prevent unnecessary delays in obtaining the copious refills that would be required over the next few hours. 

One last push and surely the door will open ! 

Finally the door opened and the surprised looking landlord beckoned Crozier to enter. After shuffling through the door and seating himself at what he proudly considered pole position, he ordered his first drink of the day. Swiftly a pint of lager was foaming in front of him and a look of satisfaction enveloped Crozier Gurnards face. 

As he took his first sip of the amber nectar before him he slowly placed his hands in his duffle coat pockets, eventually retrieving a small red note book, held together by a thick rubber band and sweat. Fingering the pages he settle on a page notated "Things to Do" and appraised the list. The first entry was "purchase tickets to Stellenbosch, followed by a second entry "purchase two quarts of Formaldehyde.

Taking a large gulp of lager from his glass he scanned the page for additional actions to be take. His eyes soon became affixed on the last entry that detailed "Contact Dr Theopolis Doyle". A shudder crept down his spine at the realisation that he would soon be in the presence of the nefarious evil Doctor and his band of misfit acolytes.

Crozier Gurnard had met Dr Doyle on a number of occasions and had also been involved with supporting one of the numerous dangerous missions into continental Europe. Although loathing the corpulent Doctor, Crozier admired his guile and forethought when it came to covert enterprises overseas. 

To be continued...... 

THE CRIMSON CATAFALQUE

 THE CRIMSON CATAFALQUE

All was quite as the faithful silently and slowly filled past the catafalque. 

The human centipede snaked  through the cathedral and out of the main door , continuing around the paternoster square and stretched in to the dim distance beyond. The cathedral bells tolled on the mark and trumpeters serenaded the procession at equal intervals. The solemn scene was observed from on high by Cardinal Cheval, whilst sat at his throne like seat atop the tower of tears.

The Cardinal had wasted no time in ensuring that his favourite would be enthroned as the next Margrave, but was unwilling to let proceeding take there natural course. He was impatient for power and lusted over its ability to provide him with his darkest desires.

 His communion with Belial had been at an early age. When encountering a commune of lepers that had taken over a disused flint mine, he succeeded in raping and butchering countless unfortunates as he tortured their brethren. He had felt the presence of evil as he approached the abandoned mine, and gathered his thoughts in a small hovel close to its entrance. Out of the dim corners of the hovel, a huge ethereal angelic edifice materialised in front of him.    

To be continued.....

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THE RIPPLE JACQUERIE

 THE RIPPLE JACQUERIE

The calix was alleged to be buried in the lower field. However, its exact location was lost in the mists of time.

The Lower field had been farmed by Old Joe Crudd for as long as people could remember, and he was loathed to let any one accompany him on any of his strips. Rotating barley, hops and peas, with oats corn and pasture, enabled him to cultivate his field without loss of nutriments or substance. 

However, it had long been rumoured that the middle section of the field, consisting of a three or four strips, was the home to an unknown buried treasure. The substance behind the rumour was contained in an ancient document that had mysteriously appeared pinned to the local church notice board. It stated that the previous owners of the field were linked to the Knights Templers, and that a hoard of treasure had been hidden during their persecution, and never recovered. 

St Herbert's church rector, Father Benedict denied all knowledge of the manuscript and swore an oath before the local Bishop and magistrate to that effect.  This angered the villagers who believed that the church was stirring up trouble in an attempt to obtain the treasured lost chalice of St Finglesham.  The chalice, also known in ancient documents as a Calix, was associated with the barbarian invasion of Britain after the retreat of the Romans, and was believed to have been transported to Kent by the Jutes.

The Jutes had settled in Kent and Kingdom of Kent had become their stronghold within the British Isles. Joe Crudd was indeed a descendent of these invaders, and carried the same DNA as the marauding seafaring Jutes, originating from Jutland,  Flanders and the adjacent Dutch coast. 

Father Benedict was familiar with the legends of the buried treasure as he had had access to the Latin manuscripts interned within the churches crypt. These scrips were also translated in to a variety of early Germanic languages including those spoken by the Jutes. Although he had denied this knowledge to his inquisitors, it was memorised so thoroughly within his brain that no further study would be required. However, Joe Crudd was aware of this denied knowledge and awaited the rectors next move.    

To be continued...

HROTHGAR AND THE LOST VALLEY OF SNOT

 HROTHGAR AND THE LOST VALLEY OF SNOT

The climate was unseasonable cool, with Icey winds blowing directly from the arctic. 

The frost and snow covered landscape glistened in a dazzling white as the weak sun reflected of the frozen surface. Rivers and lakes were equally frigid and the seas were also beginning to ice over. 

It was in to this unhospitable landscape that Hrothgar was to impose his will by subjugating the local inhabitants of the valley of snot and claim the realm as his own. 

 However, a major obstruction to his bid for obtaining sovereignty was the "Bogie", an enormous active volcano that had continually erupted for over a decade. Putrid flows of boiling snot flowed freely down the slopes of the Bogie, blocking numerous passes and orifices throughout the locality, and obstructing freedom of movement across the valleys.  The sinus escarpment and gorge had been unpassable for decades due to the constant eruptions and the pressure to unblock the pathway was immense.  

Hrothgar was unmoved by the elements conspiring against him, and gathered his host about him as he advanced in to enemy territory. His constant companion, "Lem the Sip" was controlling his western flank, and the Eastern perimeter was under the control of the faithful potentate "Bee Chams".

To be continued.....

 

THE MISS ADVENTURES OF HORSINGTON SMYTHE

 THE MISS ADVENTURES OF HORSINGTON SMYTHE

Horsington Smythe sat in the snug enjoying the taste and aroma of his favourite tipple. The log fire crackled in the large open fireplace, with golden fingers of flame shooting up the chimney, drawn ever upwards by the strong gale blowing outside. 

The snow had started a little before breakfast, and now in the mid-afternoon, a couple of feet lay upon the frozen ground. The tethered horses in the courtyard neighed as they snorted billowing hot air through their snouts as they tried to warm themselves. 

The onward journey would be extremely tough, but progress had to be made to ensure that the unravelling constitutional crisis could be curtailed and some kind of normality restored. 

It was now three days since the death of the reigning monarch and the usurpation of the throne by Lord Loafington of Northwood, a blood relative of the recently deceased monarch, but whose ancestor was from the bloodline of a younger sister of the original founder of the ruling dynasty, King Tostig of Neasden.

Rivalry between the various lines of decent that had evolved in to distinctive branches of the Royal family intensified, most importantly between the Uxendons and the Tokyngtons. However less influential individual lines of decent from Tostig were also in existence and were banded under the banners of Preston, Sudbury and Oakington.

Animosity between these groups and the powerful neighbouring Manor of Hearg had also evolved in to minor skirmishes that were adding to the overall anarchy in the country. The Lord of Hearg, Leif Weald of The Stone was of Norse blood and was vengeful to those who crossed him, especially Lord Loafington.  

As Horsington Smythe sat comfortably enjoying his beverage, he was unfortunately unaware of this animosity and totally unprepared for what was about to unfold. Drifting in to a state of semi slumber, due to the heat from the roaring open fire and the consumption of alcohol, Smythe thought of the good times and days of yore. 

To be continued....    

LOAFMAN AND THE GOLDEN SLOP BUCKET

 LOAFMAN AND THE GOLDEN SLOP BUCKET

Madge stood behind the bar and pondered life.

 Was it worth the aggravation and hassle for the measly wage she received ? Probably not.  However, noticing the Loaf at the bar she swiftly pulled a pint of long life and placed it in front of him. 

Acknowledging the freshly poured glass of amber coloured bubbles and gas, Loaf pulled a few pence from his pocket and placed the coins on the bar. His seat at the bar was positioned in a corner between the saloon and public bars, adjacent to a doorless aperture that allowed free movement between the bars without the need to open doors. Beside him were cluster of additional bar stools awaiting the arrival of Loafmans band of beer breathed brethren. 

Feeling a slight hunger pang, he looked across the bar towards the jars of pickled eggs and the plastic container containing an assortment of cheese and onion bread rolls. Drips of condensation ran down the inside of the perspex bread bin, adding to the allure of its contents. After consuming a rubberised cheese roll and slippery pickled egg, Loaf composed himself and finished his first pint with two huge gulps. Just as he placed the empty glass on the bar he was greeted by the familiar greeting "all right geezer" as Winyard pulled up a stool next to him.   

Following swiftly behind him were Dr Doyle and the effervescent Pat LVO Cannister.  Noticing their entrance, Madge recoiled behind the ramp and steadied her nerves for the afternoons rumbustious imbibing session.  Pulling a wad of tenner's from his hip pocket, Pat gestured to those at the bar and shouted boojar ! then swiftly instructed Ted, as Madge had turned her back, to poor five double Roughness with no ice. 

Dr Doyle grinned as the foul smelling liquid was consumed by Loaf and his acolytes with gay abandon. Slamming the glasses upon the bar and breathing deeply each and every member of the team shouted boojar. As was tradition, the last to finish the creosote tasting liquor was to take a forfeit by buying the next round, and as usual the looser was JC.  Momentarily the attention was removed from the diminutive looser as the team turned their necks in unison to see who had just walked through the pubs creaking saloon bar door. 

A rakish character with a slim black moustache and wearing a check flat cap glided across the bar and placed his himself upon a bar stool. Removing his shoulder and elbow patched tweed jacket he glanced at the clientele and slightly raising his cap gave a quick sharp wink.  The Bounder, as he was known, ordered a single whisky and started to read the racing post, ignoring all others.

 Loaf shuffled through his duffle coat pockets and eventually located his rizlas and pouch of tobacco. Deftly rolling a thin but satisfying roll up, he pulled a silver zippo from his trouser pocket and whipped it across his stubbled face, thus igniting the orange flame.  Drawing on the thin cigarette was extremely satisfying and a large grin spread quickly across his face. Reaching for his pint he was reminded that his glass was empty and that JC had to fulfill his forfeit and purchase the next round pronto. Jay, he roared, get them in mate, it's like the Sahara in here !   

Suddenly there was a load commotion emanating from the public bar, quickly followed by the sound of smashed glasses and ash trays being slung across the room. Unnoticed by the group as they concentrated on the bounders entry, Messrs. Penfold, Gammon and Mullins had entered by the other door and were making themselves at home. Ted picked up the soda syphon and gave each of them a quick blast but soon gave up trying to intervene and returned to his duties at the other end of the bar. 

A minor squabble at the darts board quickly abated as Big Ian picked up his stool and advanced towards the Baxter brothers, and all was again quite, except the banter of Loaf and his team of imbibers. Pat glanced at the clock checking on the time, in full knowledge that 2.30pm would mean a change of venue as the pub closed until reopening 5.30pm.

 However, all would be ok as the Carlton Lodge drinking den, situated less than 10 minutes away, would welcome them all with gleeful expectation that their tills would be ringing with gay abandon as countless spirits and beers were purchased and consumed. In the interim, Pat had removed his upper clothing and was using a pool cue as a microphone, much to the annoyance of Madge and two old boys cogitating in the niche between the two seated bays opposite the bar at the front of the pub. 

Time passed and all imbibed.

 Pat collected a handful of coins from the team and started pumping the jukebox with the small change. Within seconds Rod Stewert's Maggie May was blasting out across the bar with Pat extending the pool cue in to the face of the Horse. This was quickly followed by Cool for Cats, When you're in love with a beautiful woman, Eton rifles, Sultans of swing, and In the navy. Old man Benfield slowly sat up from his seat and pulled his wife to her feet. Within seconds they were dancing to the music on the juke box. Although he could hardly move, she was spinning and gyrating at great pace and finished her set with an age defying splits. 

Loaf nudged Pat and pointed to the clock. Meanwhile in the Carlton Lodge, fresh pristine ice blue disinfectant blocks were being strategically deposited in the gents, and fresh ice removed from the ice compartments of the two kitchen fridges, so as to fill the plastic ice buckets on the bar. Loaf drew hard on his fag and tilting his head back blew the toxic smoke in to the air. His thoughts were drifting towards The Lodge, and whether the Canadian would be waiting for him in pole position.  

Last orders was signaled by Madge as she rang the bell ten minutes before closing time. After a flurry of activity at the bar, multiple shots were consumed by every member of the team, and the last dregs of beer drained from their pint glasses and mugs. 

  To be continued...