www.WildlifeRanger.com

Well, I've actually been and gone and done it haven't I....Written an entire bl**dy novel. So let me be the first among many who will doubtless say what a pile of absolute cr*p it is!

Still, you don't have to worry, I'll only put the first two chapters on here and hide the rest away where people wont get to see it. After all, I've read enough good books in my time to know it's not exactly great literature....or even mediocre literature for that matter. At best, it's nothing more than an over-wordified piece of self-pretentious garbage that some poor, clinically demented soul trapped in a really small tent on a very rainy day might somehow feel obliged to read simply because they haven't got any more of their own finger or toe nails to pull out with a very large pair of pointy pliers!

The stricken man had fallen flat on his back in the mud possibly as little as five minutes prior to the traveller entering the forest clearing, yet his upper garments were already soaked as much by blood as by rain as he lay there in the downpour, slowly bleeding to death from a bolt wound to his chest.

His eyelids flickered for a moment before opening to reveal the palest of pale-blue, pain-drenched eyes which he struggled to focus on the weather-worn face of the middle-aged traveller kneeling at his side.

Suddenly, the dying man reached out a hand and grabbed the traveller by his upper arm. Bony fingers dug into flesh as blood the colour of pitch spluttered from his trembling lips. He tried to speak, but only a handful of faint, barely intelligible words managed to escape....

“Lukow, be iron dew!” he gasped and the traveller strained to hear him more clearly. Lukow, the Iron Duke? Could it be the name of a local nobleman? He leaned forward so as to position his ear closer to the dying man’s face just as the words made a second, more successful bid for freedom.

The traveller rolled instantly to his left as he drew and threw his dagger in one back-handed, well-practised movement towards the throat of his would-be assailant....or at least that’s what should have happened, but unfortunately, Lady Luck decided to desert him at that precise moment. Meaning that, instead of executing some breathtakingly impressive, death-defying, manoeuvre after gaining solid purchase with his right foot, he actually only managed to succeed in slipping on the slick mud and upending himself into a rather large and surprisingly deep puddle, while the dagger merely buried itself, in the trunk of a small oak tree some ten paces to the left of its intended target!

On the other hand, when you pause to consider the kind of fickle, practical-joking bitch that Lady Luck can be more than half the time, it’s quite possible that she was actually looking out for him all along, especially when you also consider that if everything had gone exactly according to plan and he’d actually succeeded in his attempt to despatch the first assailant with consummate ease, then the crossbow bolt fired by the second misbegotten creature hiding in the undergrowth slightly to his left would almost certainly have passed straight through his groin instead of disappearing with a rather disappointing “schplatt” into the muddy water between his knees!

At this point, both assailants decided to draw their extremely long swords and charge in unison, just as the traveller attempted to stand and draw his own, somewhat shorter sword. However, in his hurry to do so, he only managed to slip and upend himself once more into the muddy puddle!

They were almost on him now, two crazy-eyed Berserker-types lusting for either his blood or his purse....probably both, but all he could think about as he spat filthy water from his mouth and wiped mud from his eyes with a sodden shirt sleeve was how, after all he’d seen and done over the past sixty years, it could be possible for him to die so ignominiously in some sh*tty, muddy puddle in the middle of nowhere at the hands of two dumb-a*sed throwbacks like these? Where was the heroic death he’d always promised himself? Where was the noble demise in some great battle fought against the Forces of Evil? Where was the valiant expiration befitting a man of his vast martial pedigree, experience and background?

The answer, when it came half a moment later, was direct and to the point....He didn’t have to die in any sh*tty, muddy puddle in the middle of nowhere after all....At least not yet!

The throwbacks meanwhile, probably managed another four or five steps between them as their own momentum carried them forward and before both fell dead on top of the prostrate form of the indignant traveller, each with a single longbow arrow protruding from his back.

Eventually, but only after struggling for almost half a minute to release himself from the combined weight of his would-be assassins, the traveller managed to stand up and glance apprehensively about the clearing for any sign of the mystery bowmen, but nothing stirred. Even the rain had stopped. The forest was utterly silent, apart, that is, from the sound of water dripping from the branches onto the forest floor and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

The traveller spun around to face the voice....A girl, tall and quite attractive and probably no more than twenty years old, was leaning against a tree some fifteen or so paces away. She carried an exquisitely made longbow with an arrow ready-knocked.

“Who are you?” the traveller asked cautiously. “Is who dead? Was it you who killed those two?” At the last question, he gestured towards the bodies of the two throwbacks.

“I am Naddy, I'm sorry, but I think your friend is dead" She nodded towards the man who had given the warning “and yes, I killed them both. What is your name?”

“I was a professional soldier once and have had several names over the years, but you can call me Clod if you like, a name more befitting of the witless fool I’ve become in my dotage. He wasn’t my friend by the way, but I’d liked to have known him” Clod the Traveller stooped down beside the man to check that he really was dead. He was. ”He saved my life you know, with his dying breath. I only came across him lying there a short while ago. I imagine he was ambushed by those two knuckleheads. That was some impressive shooting back there by the way....er, Naddy, thank-you. I guess you also saved my life. I’m indebted to you” He turned to face the girl once more, but she had disappeared back into the forest.

“Thank-you!” he shouted after her and added, mostly to himself, “I certainly owe you” He half imagined he could hear the sound of a horse’s hooves disappearing into the distance.

Clod the Traveller took time to bury the nameless man who had saved his life and paused to speak a few words over the grave to help his passing, but the other two he left as they had fallen for the crows and buzzards to find. There was no point, he felt, in wasting good carrion when there were plenty who would be grateful for it.

Next, he found a forest stream newly swollen from the recent downpour and washed the mud from himself, his clothes and his weapons. For an hour or more he sat in the now bright sunshine in just his smalls waiting for his other garments to dry at least a little.

He pondered as he sat there chewing on a strip of beef jerky, mostly about how close he’d been to meeting his maker this time around and how he’d probably be screaming and writhing in Hell at this very moment, but for the man’s warning and the exceptional skill of the girl archer....Naddy was it? Short for something else maybe? Nadia? Nadalena?

He dressed at last, gathered his things together and set off once more towards the town he’d been told by a farmer the day before was situated just two day’s walk to the south and about a mile or two beyond the forest’s edge. He sought a man there. A man called Horz. Apparently, Horz was hiring mercenaries to help fight the “Swarm”. Clod had good reason to hate the Swarm and welcomed any opportunity to inflict pain and humiliation on them, particularly if someone was willing to pay him for the privilege.

The rest of the journey remained fairly uneventful, with Clod only once being forced to sit in a tree for half an hour until a very annoyed Wild Boar sow with five piglets in tow finally wandered off, thereby allowing the hapless traveller to climb down and continue on his way.

By dusk, he’d left the forest behind and was headed along a crop-flanked road towards the palisaded town now less than two miles away, but lanterns had been lit within its walls by the time he finally reached it and a voice barked down a question from a watchtower as Clod banged the pommel of his sword against the sturdy wooden gates.

Clod raised his head and peered into the darkness above “I’m just a solitary traveller sir, seeking food for my belly and a warm, dry bed for the night”.

“Who the bloody ‘ell is it Corporal?” A second voiced seemed to come from the other side of the gates.

“It’s some daft tw*t wantin’ a bed for the night Sarge. Says ‘e’s on ‘is own”

“On ‘is own? Well, we’d better let ‘im in then ‘adn’t we. Can’t ‘ave the poor sod sittin’ outsoide the bleedin’ gates all night, gettin’ all wet and moanin’ and groanin’ about how unfair life is and stuff! Besoides, the Mayor says we’ve got to encourage tourists an’ the loike. It’s good for the economy apparently!"

Poor sod or not, it was another twenty minutes before the Corporal finally managed to find several sufficiently stout fellows to re-open the extremely heavy gates and allow Clod access to the town.

As he tried to enter however, a swarthy hand was pressed hard against his chest and an overwhelming stench of garlic filled his nostrils as a very portly sergeant-at-arms suddenly engulfed his view and glared suspiciously into his eyes.

“So, on yer own are ye? Well, we’ll soon see about that. Corporal, grab a couple of men and hescort this so-called traveller to the gaol-house. I dare say the Captain will be wantin’ a word with ‘im in the mornin’!”

The cell was small, dank and dark. Mould covered the outer wall and a single bucket inhabited one corner. Something foul and other-worldly inhabited the bucket. The only bunk was already taken by a huge somewhat inebriated Goliath of a man apparently called “That Big B*stard, Simon the Sh*te” by the guards, though never to his face Clod noticed with some amusement.

The night dragged as only the night can in such places and Clod slept fitfully on a small heap of filthy straw, forced to wake more often than not in order to kick away the overly persistent rats attempting to chew the leather of his boots.

“Wakey, wakey, rise ‘an shine you two!” The guard, an evil-looking snake of a fellow Clod hadn’t encountered before, rattled a rusty old metal cup backwards and forwards as loud as he could across the vertical iron bars of the cell. “Room service! It’s a lovely day and the Captain’s already on‘is way to make your acquaintance. Though not you of course....er, Simon. ‘e already knows all about you don’t ‘e an’ I must say his nose ‘ardly looks broken at all these days!”

Simon moaned and stirred on the sagging metal bunk, then reached down for the bucket and threw it at the bars.The guard meanwhile, was a fraction of a second too slow to realise exactly what was happening and received the full force of its contents right in his face!

He stood there for a moment before covering his nose and mouth with his hand “Well, Private Shank, it seems that you have matters fully under control, so I’ll be back later this afternoon to speak to the new prisoner after you’ve managed to clear up this little mess” He turned ready to exit the room then paused at the door “Oh....and just in case you haven't noticed private, you appear to have something on your face and down your uniform. I strongly suggest therefore that you deal with that too as soon as possible” and, with those words echoing in the private’s ears, he promptly left the building.

“You!” The incandescently apoplectic private pointed a dripping finger at Clod “I’m goin’ out to get washed and changed. I’ll be back with a mop and bucket after that and YOU are going to clean up this filthy mess BEFORE the Captain comes back!”

“But it wasn’t me that threw it private, it was Simon. Why don’t you ask him to do it?” Simon stirred once more on the bunk.

Clod looked at the guard then at Simon then back at the guard. All he wanted was to be left alone to go about his business and had no intention of being stuck in any kind of a craphole for even a moment longer than he had to be.

The guard left while Simon the Sh*te slept on. Clod did his best to ignore the stench and not be violently sick!

Despite his best efforts, Clod figured that it would be weeks before either the cell itself or the outer room would be entirely free of the awful stench, but at least he’d been allowed to wash himself thoroughly after mopping the entire place out and then to change into a rather large spare set of clothes lent to him by the sergeant’s wife, apparently at the insistence of the Captain who finally returned to question him at the end of the afternoon.

“So, according to this, you call yourself Clod the Traveller” The Captain was reading through the Sergeant’s report.

Clod sat facing the Captain's desk, ankles chained to the chair and hands bound behind him. Two guards flanked him. One was the viviparous Shank and the other was an amiable enough young lad called Matthew “I’ve done nothing wrong Captain. I simply wanted a meal and a bed at your local inn!”

“I’ll decide whether you’ve done anything wrong or not. Meanwhile, just answer my questions!”

Everyone looked up....Then the Captain half-turned to seek the cause of the interruption. Matthew's face, Clod noticed out of the corner of his eye, had turned a bright scarlet.

“Ah, Naddy, I hear that you know this man” The Captain gestured towards Clod “Something about the forest and those two cut-throats apparently?”

Naddy appeared to notice Clod for the first time “Oh, hi. Yes, he saved my life actually”

The Captain turned to stare at Clod once more “That’s not true!” argued Clod “It was her who saved me with a piece of archery skill you’ll rarely ever see. Quite phenomenal in fact!”

Naddy walked across the room to face the Captain “Father, would I lie to you. This man distracted the two men who had been following me for most of the morning. He came to my rescue after another man had confronted the cut-throats when they eventually chased me into a small clearing. Unfortunately, he paid for his valour with his life and that’s when Mr Clod here showed up. Basically, if it wasn’t for him father, I wouldn’t have been able to slip away into the forest and then return to shoot the men with my bow”

Clod stared incredulously at Naddy and then at her father "You’re her father?”

It seems Mr Clod that we have done you a disservice. A party of my men has already visited the scene on horseback together with Naddy and everything appeared to be exactly as Naddy described it. I therefore owe you a sincere debt of gratitude and the least I can do is provide you with the best room at the inn and three squares a day until such a time as you choose to leave. Private Shank, please be so kind as to untie the pris....I mean, Mr Clod and return ALL of his possessions post haste”

Clod looked at Naddy, but she avoided his eyes. “May I ask where you learned to shoot a bow like that?”

“From the best archer in the land actually” answered the Captain on Naddy’s behalf "My brother, Naddy’s Uncle Horz!”

“Horz? You mean the man who’s recruiting mercenaries to fight the Swarm?” This was all getting a bit too much for Clod.

“Yes, that’s him” replied the Captain “Why, are you interested in joining up? He needs all the good men he can get. You really need to speak to his right-hand man first however, but then, you’ve already met him haven’t you?”

The Captain proved to be as good as his word by ordering Matthew to accompany Clod to the “One-Eyed Cock” (the town’s largest and supposedly most reputable Inn) to explain the situation to the inn-keeper, a professionally disgruntled ferret of a man called Josiah Rush who, despite his generally unhelpful demeanour, actually provided Clod with a room that turned out to be surprisingly adequate with virtually clean sheets on the bed and hardly any signs of rats, mice or cockroaches at all....nor any other kinds of indigenous livestock for that matter, provided you didn’t include the landlord’s beloved, elderly and very belligerent pet one-eyed rooster, Marlon,more affectionately alluded to by neighbouring townsfolk as “That ******* bird! Someone needs to shut the ******* thing up at five o’clock of a ******* mornin’!” and who, apparently, had always insisted on crowing from the rooftop right above Clod’s room! Not that Clod cared that much about such things. After all,it had been longer than he dared to remember since he’d slept in a proper bed under a roof of any kind, *******rooster or no *******rooster!

“Tell me....er, Matthew isn’t it?” Clod wiped a dribble of custard from his newly-shaven chin with his sleeve. “D’you happen to know his name?” While Clod was being shown to his room by one of the inn’s many female staff half an hour earlier, Matthew had taken it upon himself to order the traveller an evening meal, consisting of a luke-warm, Soup of the Day-type brown-water-with-possible-meaty-bits-and-carrot starter followed by a charred-roast-beef-and-three-unidentifiable-vegetables main course plus a very large slice of (actually quite good) steaming-hot-apple-pie-and-custard for dessert. Not the best he’d ever had, all things considered, but a most welcome change from the beef jerky and dried-haricot-bean-and gravel-based-muesli fare he’d been forced to live on for the past couple of weeks. If nothing else, his poor, overly active bowels would be eternally grateful!

Meanwhile, it had grown dark outside and the inn was beginning to fill with its regular, if not rather noisy clientele.

“Who’s name?” Matthew found himself having to raise his voice to make himself heard above the sound of the small, three man orchestra occupying one corner of the bar who had just that moment kicked in with their own very loud and somewhat ribald version of “Mary Was a Serving Wench, So A-Serving She Did Go”. He sipped at the beer that Clod had bought him after insisting that the youngster keep him company while he ate his meal.

“The man who saved my life. The one I buried in a shallow grave in the forest and who you and your work colleagues subsequently dug up so that he could be buried in the cemetery here instead”

“Oh, him. Yeah right. he was called Martin Chubble, an old soldier from back in the day apparently. he used to claim that he was once a member of the King’s elite Palace Guard, but had to chuck it all in due to some kind of a groin injury. It was his wife who asked the Captain if we could go dig him up and bring him back here for a proper burial”

“Yeah, he was married and had a couple of kids too. Not to mention that mangy old dog of his. We found the poor thing lying by the side of the grave and decided to take him back to the wife"

“He was a woodsman of sorts which is why he was in the forest. Doubt if he made much of a living at it though. He used to say he got a military pension....A few shillings a year, but I guess all that will stop now that he’s dead. Sarge says that it was because he and his missus were so desperate for money that he was planning to enlist in Horz’ mercenary army, if that’s what you want to call it and go fight the Swarm”

“I don’t suppose you happen to know exactly where he lived by any chance?”

“Yeah, sure, in a cottage....well, more of a hovel really, about three miles into the forest.They rented the place from the Duke's Estate, but I should think that the wife and the kids will be turfed out now that they can’t pay the land rent no more. That is,unless the Captain is able to do somethin’ about it. The Sarge said he was off to see the Duke at the Manor sometime today about it, but I shouldn’t hold your breath because the Duke can be a very difficult man about such things"

“No, to the cottage, tomorrow morning. I’d like to talk to Chubble’s wife if I can and I’m sure the Captain wont mind too much if you tag along with me”.

Matthew had been right, the“cottage” really was little more than a hovel and Clod felt his usual stab of righteous indignation as, once again, Life was only too happy to demonstrate how much it delighted in kicking the cr*p out of those who were down on their luck and least deserved it!

A few, miserable-looking chickens clucked and scurried from under their feet as the two men dismounted from their horses. Sarge had taken a fair degree of persuading to allow Clod to have a horse at all, but Matthew’s powers of persuasion and Clod’s generous donation of half a crown to the Police Benevolent Fund (apparently newly formed that very morning....by Sarge) eventually won him over.

Walking up to the door of the cottage, Clod knocked lightly at first and then much harder when no-one answered.

“Who are yuh and wadda yuh want?” A haggard-looking woman, probably in her early thirties, but seemingly closer to fifty, had appeared from around the side of the building. Two scruffy young children dressed in rags stared at the two men from behind her skirts.

“My name is Clod. I’m a traveller in these parts. This is Private Matthew....er....”

“We ent done nuthin’ wrong!” The woman suddenly looked worried “You can’t take my kids from me! They’re all I’ve got! My ‘usband’s just died! Butchered by cut-throats right ‘ere in the forest he was!”

“Mrs Chubble....please” Clod took a step towards the now terrified woman “No-one is going to take your children from you....At least not while I’m around. It was me Mrs Chubble, who was with your husband when he died. He saved my life and I would like to go some way towards repaying the debt that I feel I owe him”.

A wave of relief appeared to sweep through the woman’s entire body “So you was the one what buried ‘im then? Clod nodded “I thank yuh fer that, but wadda yuh want with us then?”

Clod reached into a worn, calf-leather bag on his belt and took out two pig-skin pouches. He held them up and shook them and the unmistakeable sound of coins clinking together came from within. “Twenty silver guineas Mrs Chubble. Some of them my own and the rest I took from the bodies of the two men who killed your husband. I want you to have them. Bury them deep in the forest and use them wisely. Think about it, the rent paid for a year in advance, new clothes for yourself and your children, meat and bread on the table and a cow or two in the paddock yonder to provide you with a regular supply of milk. I would also like to spend some time here for a week or more if I may to make a few running repairs to your property. I’ll fix that roof for a start, put on a new door, erect a fence here and there and chop enough wood to see you through the winter....I feel it’s the least I can do. I dare say that Matthew and a couple of officers from the station might lend a hand if we ask nicely”.

Matthew shot him a glance “Well....er, I....er, sure. We....I might be able to help....a bit”

At that point, a great deal of suppressed tension and anxiety must have found its way to the surface and Mrs Chubble collapsed to her knees in floods of tears “Oh thank-you sir! Thank-you! Thank-you so much!”

“What, in the name of all that’s sacred, is THAT?” Clod had half-turned in his saddle, spookily aware that someone (or something) had been following them since leaving the Widow Chubble’s Cottage (Widow Chubble, as she now insisted on calling herself, due to it having, as she put it, “a bit more gravitas’ now I’ve gone up in the world”). He was pointing to a large, unnatural-looking shape standing on all fours in the middle of the road some fifty or so yards behind them.

“Dog? Surely that can’t be a dog! It must be some sort of miniature pony....and Isn’t it wearing a tatty old rug of some kind?”

“Well, Martin always said that “Snookums” was very much a man’s dog and that ‘e didn’t like either women or children as a rule, so maybe he's taken a liking to you Mr Clod”

“Snookums! Martin Chubble dared to call an ungodly creature like that ‘Snookums’?"

“Yes sir. He said it was the only name he’d answer to and the story goes that....er, Snookums just turned up out of nowhere in the pouring rain one day and attached himself to Martin as loyal as you like from the outset”

“By the swords of the Swarm, you don’t think he’ll attach himself to me do you?” Clod looked back along the road once more, but the dog had gone. Relieved beyond words, Clod turned to face the road ahead once more.....and there was Snookums, sitting in front of his horse looking up at him. “Shoo! Nice dog....Go away, there’s a good boy!”

Matthew tried desperately to stifle a smile, but ended up bursting out laughing instead. “Yep, I definitely think he likes you Mr Clod!”

“Then come on Matthew....Back to town as fast as we can. When we lose him, he’ll be forced to go back to the cottage!” With that, they spurred their mounts into a gallop, leaving Snookums looking lost and dejected in the middle of the road. He whimpered briefly to himself before following after his new master.

“Now look ‘ere Mr high and mighty Clod, you may be all pally with the Captain, but I ‘ave rules ‘ere see and one of them rules says ABSOLUTELY NO DOGS ON THE PREMISES!”

Clod had only just that moment returned to the inn after dropping off his horse at the police station stables and was about to ask a serving girl called Glennys if she wouldn’t mind getting him a pint of the landlord’s best ale and possibly if she might like to take a stroll with him down to the river after she’d finished work to feed the swans in the moonlight (Clod had, for years, been under the misconception that ladies couldn’t resist a man who repeatedly came out with soppy stuff like that). However, Josiah Rush had seen him enter the building and had leapt out from behind the bar in order to way-lay him.

For a moment, Clod had begun to reach instinctively for his sword, but checked himself almost immediately. “I beg your pardon Mr Rush? Are you crazy? What dog?”

“That dog over there! If it actually is a dog, that is. It looks like a small bear having a bad hair day to me, not to mention the smell....Even Old Harry-the-Nose over there in the snug is complaining about it and ‘e ‘ad ‘is nose cut off by the Swarm back in ’42! The thing is, I ‘ave to look out for my cock. A dog like that might do anything to it!”

“Look” pleaded Clod, “I haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re....”, but then he looked across to where Rush was pointing. “What the....How on....Who brought....?” Clod fought to regain his composure “Hang on a minute, who said that thing was mine?”

“Sergeant Jenkins actually. He was in ‘ere just before you an’ ‘e said that young Matthew Galt ‘ad said that you said ‘e was yours!”

“Well, it’s NOT mine see....and besides, how did it know where to find me....and so quickly too? We left it sitting on the forest road more than five miles away! What does it want with me?”

“It looks to me as though he’s under the impression that YOU belong to HIM!” Clod recognised the voice instantly and turned to see Naddy sitting at one of the tables on the far side of the room “What’s his name?”

“Snookums....His name is Snookums all right....S.N.O.O.K.U.M.S! Clod spelt it out loud.

“What a lovely name for such a....er, delightful little dog” Naddy was obviously enjoying this and so too, apparently, were a number of the other customers, including Old Harry-the-Nose who appeared to be chuckling dementedly into his ale!

“The thing is” continued Naddy, “if you wont look after him, then he’ll have to be put down which would be a terrible shame for such a....er, beautiful animal”

“But....But....You heard the landlord, he doesn’t allow dogs in the building!”

“Well, actually, he could stay in one of the out-buildings....but it would cost extra of course” Josiah Rush had never been backward in coming forward when it came to making a bob or two.

“But what about your cock?” Clod couldn’t believe he’d just said that and he caught a glimpse of Naddy’s shoulders shaking uncontrollably out of the corner of his eye.

“When I think about it, I reckon that Marlon can probably look after himself” and then, as if by magic, Marlon suddenly appeared from around the corner, walked across to Snookums (who was still standing in the doorway effectively blocking it off and forcing anyone wanting to get into or out of the building to go round to the side entrance), hopped up onto his back and stood there just as though he’d been doing it for years. Snookums meanwhile, didn’t bat so much as an eyelid!

Rush saw what happened then returned his attention to the panicking traveller “That settles it then Mr Clod, Snookums can stay in one of the stables for a shilling a night....Payable in advance of course....Let’s say fourteen shillings on the nose on account of fourteen days being how long the Captain 'as booked your room for”

“FOURTEEN SHILLINGS! To pay for a dog’s bed and board? A dog that isn’t even mine!” Clod suddenly realised deep down he’d been defeated by Dark Forces beyond his control.

“Oh, that didn’t include ‘is meals....That’ll be another sixpence a day all in. Oh, and don’t forget ‘e’ll be needin’ plenty of exercise and I can probably find a sturdy length of industrial-grade chain and some extra-large bags and a shovel to sell you”

“The bags and a shovel you’ll be needin’ for pickin’ up ‘is dooins’ on account of the Town Council bringin’ out that new bye-law concernin’ the foulin’ of pavements and the loike. It’s a ten shillin’ fine if you don’t pick it up apparently! Stealth tax, that’s what I calls it....B*stards! Still, it don’t apply to my cock, so let ‘em get on with it I say!”

I write lots of (usually) short stories....mostly science fiction. I can't help it, it's some kind of itch that I feel compelled to scratch. I finished one only last week about a guy in the 23rd Century with a rather skewed obsession with all things 21st Century and who's a fully paid-up member of the Hoodie Re-enactment Society. I even put the finished product into a brown paper envelope to send to a magazine editor, but then chickened out at the last minute....I always do!

I do try to write the occasional novel from time to time however and, when I watched Channel 4's "Time Team" investigation into "Britain's Drowned World" on TV at the weekend, I suddenly remembered my dire attempt to bring to life a Mesolithic character called Longbone the Storyteller a few years ago. In fact, I wrote ten chapters in all before I finally got bored and moved on to something else....oh yes, that's more or less when I started work on these websites!

Longbone and his happy band of Mesolithic hunter/gatherers inhabited the once very real world of Doggerland....but that's pretty much where the reality ends and the fantasy begins. Basically, it's an archaeologist's nightmare waiting to happen and bears absolutely no relation to the way things really were at that time or any other! The facts were never going to fit the fantasy....even supposing I'd known what the facts were in the first place....which I tended not to!

The storyline's fairly crap I know and the characters cry out for at least some kind of believable humanity, but I enjoyed writing it at the time and it took a fair bit of effort to put together no matter what you might think! I guess the experts would have a field-day with all the historical inconsistencies and my persistent irreverence concerning the kind of dialogue I use but I ended up growing quite fond of poor old Longbone and, besides, I don't give a turkey's left testicle what the experts think!

Finally, I guess I've read a fair few history books over the years (novels as well as text books ) and, as clever and informative as they nearly always are, they do tend to share one thing in common....they are totally devoid of humour and proceed as though no-one in all of history so much as smiled when someone farted! I believe that Longbone and his contemporaries must surely have laughed each and every single day of their short and usually harrowing lives....It's the only possible way they could have survived! Not surprisingly therefore, the full title, including subtitle, of my other epic piece of rubbish is "The Alternative History of the British Isles....A Tale of Farts, Kings and Similar Things"....Mmm, on the other hand, it's probably better not to go there!

Meanwhile, here's a small sample of "Longbone the Storyteller"....and yes, I'm perfectly aware that the natural history-based names of the characters are all relatively modern, but I preferred using them as opposed to slightly more prehistoric-sounding ones, such as "Ugg" and "Lugg" or "Ant" and "Dec"....

“Dogger was a lanky, angular old female, even older than Grouse the Elder. There were those who said she’d survived as many as forty winters, while a few whispered (in the shadows mostly) that she was as old as the land whose name she’d borrowed.

Dogger was also alone in the world, always distanced from the rest of the tribe who preferred it that way. She had no family to speak of any more… Heron, the first of her four sons, had been taken by the Darkness almost a full cycle ago, while the others lived on in her mind as little more than painful memories, memories that stubbornly refused to leave her be….Scoter, eight winters old, killed by a wounded Boar during a hunt with his older brothers. Scaup, consumed by the Fever half a cycle later….and Teal….beautiful Teal, her favourite….bludgeoned to death in his sleep by Skua, a jealous rival, competing for the attentions of the broad-hipped female, Crowtoes.

Dogger had wept all that terrible day and the next….and the next. The story held that her mind had turned in on itself and that her world had finally slipped away into darkness and utter despair!”

“I’m trying to get the children to sleep Longbone, not have them scared out of their wits by another one of your Dogger-the-Witch stories!”

“They love my Dogger stories don’t you kids?” Longbone glanced up from placing another log on the fire and stared into the dark recesses of the draughty hut where Twayblade’s children were staring wide-eyed from beneath several layers of fur blankets.

“They frighten them, believe me” Twayblade leaned closer to the tawny-haired storyteller. “Tell us one of your more boring ones about the far-off places you say you’ve visited instead”

“Eh….‘SAY’ I’ve visited? What d’you mean…. ‘BORING’!”

Twayblade giggled.

Longbone stood up reluctantly “I must go for a piss”.

He stepped out into the bitterly cold night. The wind snatched at his furs as he rubbed his eyes. They were watering slightly from the stinging effects of the smoke held captive in the hut by the force of the howling wind. Longbone didn’t understand anything about pressures created by the rapid movements of air. He'd been born into a world of hunter-gatherers more than one hundred and eleven centuries ago, destined to wander the vast, fertile wetland plains of Doggerland….now more accurately known as the North Sea.

He was actually a very capable hunter, but chose to augment his existence with a little simple storytelling (something he happened to be very good at), never expecting more than a meal, a bed for the night, the odd fur pelt or an occasional flint tool (usually damaged)....or, best of all, a few hours of warm-bodied female company during the coldest of winter nights. People liked his stories and they welcomed him into their communities. Longbone was a kind of itinerant Mesolithic version of Radio 4.

He looked towards the settlement’s freshly dug midden at least fifty paces away. His bladder spoke to him as only the bladder can, voicing its objections to the cold night air. Despite the strict rules, he decided to slip out of sight behind a nearby bush….

The relief was considerable. Twayblade’s home-made Alehoof beer was raw at the best of times, but it did tend to pack a hefty kick that could take the unsuspecting “guest” completely unawares! Longbone had quickly learned to moderate his intake, but he could never understand why it was that, for every leather beaker of ale he drank, he seemed to pee the equivalent of two!

“Your NAME is Longbone, yes?”

He span around! “What….?”

Longbone the Storyteller was very tall for his kind….nearly sixteen hands (about five feet four inches….give or take a finger or two), but the long, dark shape confronting him must have been at least three hands taller….and it was a woman….a very elderly-looking woman! Her face was partly obscured beneath a black fur hood, but Longbone could just make out the hollow, gaunt cheekbones and her vaguely wizened features. She must have been forty cycles old if she was a day! Nor had she made a single sound in creeping up on him (if creep she did)….until, that is, she’d spoken and scared the living bejeebers out of him!

“Who….and what are you? How d’you know my name?”

“Normally you live to speak, but for once, you must listen carefully! Take them to the High Lands where the sun always sets! Go soon, before the Springtime thaw! Take them all! Use your power with words to convince them that they MUST go! Spread this message across the plains and along the banks of every river! They know you Storyteller and they can be swayed by you….DO IT SOON for the sake of all your kind!”

“What….What are you talking about? Take who? Where? Why?”

“The water Longbone….The water is coming! A great flood! You will all drown if you do not leave! You will all die!”

Flickering light suddenly spilled across the muddy track-way as a fur pelt, once the property of a very large Bison, but now doubling as the doorway to one of the semi-permanent huts, was pushed aside. A man stepped out into the bitterly cold night and sought to gather his own furs closer to him. Longbone turned to see who it was and thought to call out a warning, but when he looked back towards the woman, she was gone!

Twayblade had piled two or three more logs on the fire and now lay naked and, she hoped, inviting beneath a heavy pile of Kinkajou fur blankets. She looked up as Longbone re-entered the hut.

“You took your time storyteller. What kept you? Couldn’t you find it in the cold? Perhaps I should have helped"

“I….I don’t….er….I….er”

“What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve just seen your silly Witch….and what’s that wet all down your leg?

“Look, all I know is, one minute she was there talking to me and the next she was gone!”

“Perhaps so Longbone, but then, maybe you had just a drop too much of Twayblade’s special ale….again!” A ripple of laughter and understanding spread through the gathering.

“Think what you like Stoat, but I’m telling you, she was as real and as close to me as you are now….and she knew who I was!”

“Everyone knows who you are….You’re Longbone the Traveller….Longbone the Adventurer….the Hunter….the Womaniser….the Storyteller! Stoat half turned to glare at the small crowd. A few decided it might be wise to continue laughing and tried their very best to do so.

Longbone was getting annoyed. He’d asked to go inside to see the Tribal Elders, but they’d fobbed him off with Stoat the Stupid at the doorway and….and….now it was beginning to rain! He knew that the so-called warrior/hunter didn’t like him, especially since Tway had begun showing such a personal interest in his stories following Stoat’s “chance” discovery of Dace’s broken body at the bottom of Brittle-Star Cliff last spring.

Dace had been Twayblade’s mate and the father of her two young girls, Mint and Gentian. Dace was a good man, young and robust. He’d treated his woman and the children well. A generally popular character, he and Twayblade between them had always managed to provide more than their fair share of non-perishable foodstuffs to add to the community’s winter provisions stockpile.

Dace’s death therefore, had come as a complete shock to the entire tribe and, although Stoat had claimed to have been on nothing more than an innocent scouting trip for game (accompanied by the professionally obnoxious brothers Mugwort and Figwort) when he accidentally stumbled across Dace, it was common knowledge that the bad-tempered little man had always had designs on pretty Twayblade. Consequently, there were those, Twayblade amongst them, who felt that there was probably a good deal more to Stoat's account of things than met the eye!

“I really do need to speak to Grayling and the others Stoat. This could be very important!”

Well, if you ask me, this is just another one of your stupid stories designed to frighten little children….It’s obvious, even a half-wit can see that!”

“Is that how you really see it Stoat?”

“What? Yes, of course!”

“Then I rest my case!” Suddenly, everyone laughed!

“Eh?” The dawn of realization had always been slow to rise above the horizon of Stoat’s meagre powers of understanding….

….but this was going nowhere fast! Longbone returned to Tway’s hut. He decided he’d have to wait until tomorrow evening when the entire Tribe, including the Elders, would be huddled together in the Circle of Stones to hear this week’s instalment of his epic masterpiece, “The Saga of Shrike the Slayer”….the story of one man’s desperate struggle to rescue his beloved daughter Sorrel from the clutches of the evil Sloe, the blood-thirsty leader of the Crow-Gizzard Tribe.

Everyone loved Shrike….the women adored him, the men admired him and the children all wanted to grow up to be just like him. In fact, there were few who missed so much as a single episode! Shrike was Longbone’s greatest invention and a veritable meal-ticket for as long as the stories kept coming. So, if no-one was prepared to listen to the truth, then perhaps Shrike could do the job for him!

From his favourite vantage point high on Dogger Hill, Buckthorn the Hunter gazed out across the vastness of the fertile landscape stretching before him. A chequered pattern of various shades of green divided by the silver threads of meandering rivers and rush-bordered water-ways. He'd walked right the way across it once upon a time ago....out towards where the sun rises and where the far-off Flatlands were reputed to be and which few had seen. Curiosity had driven him....that strange and sometimes dangerous desire he'd often felt....a desire compelling him to find out exactly what lay beyond the horizon! How long ago was it now? He cared not to think, but he'd hunted smallish game on the journey to feed his nagging belly and traded chips of flint for bits of food and pieces of information about the trails ahead with any of the friendlier tribes he'd encountered along the way.

The Flatlanders had spoken with a quick-fire, guttural tongue, difficult to understand, but they too had shown him kindness and he'd remained with them for three full cycles.

He'd made a special friend there too....green-eyed Spindledrift, daughter of Brown-Hawker the spear-maker and she had made him especially welcome. For an all too brief period in his life, Buckthorn had known something close to happiness. Yet Spindledrift had died, quite suddenly, of an unidentifiable malaise and it was a desperately miserable Buckthorn who eventually began the long and treacherous journey back home.

Now the unforgiving wind was biting into the backs of his legs and, despite the thickness of his coverings, he felt cold to the bone. At thirty-five winter cycles, Buckthorn knew he was getting old....something he'd always believed would never happen to him! He stood and spat, watching the gob of spittle fly up and away on the wind.

"Hey there....Buckthorn!" The voice fought to reach him against the growing force of the gathering storm. Soon nothing would be visible at all from this high place as the clouds rolled in. The first few flakes of snow whipped past his ears. The man was still a hundred paces away down the slope "Buckthorn....It's me, Blenny!"

Buckthorn couldn't resist a smile. His old friend Blenny....barely half as good a hunter as himself....and a veritable liability to anyone and everyone stupid enough to be within thirty paces of his spear on a game-trail....a man who couldn't track a Skunk in a cave, let alone trail a wounded Deer or Boar across open countryside! Yet, for some reason and since they were boys, his friend had always insisted on looking out for him. It was fair to say, thought Buckthorn, that Blenny was indeed a wonderful friend, but a bit of an old woman to say the least!

"Ho....Blenny!" Buckthorn began to scramble his way down the steep, uneven slope towards his friend.

* * *

"Who is she?"

"I don't know, but talk about weird....she gives me the creeps!"

Buckthorn glanced at the little man. "Why weird exactly?"

"Well, for a start, she's old, really old....and tall, really tall....practically a giant I'd say....except she's so thin, really thin! Then old Dropwort's Deerhound wouldn't stop barking at her so she just bent down and went to touch it and it ran off yelping like she'd kicked it in the nadgers or somethin'!"

What does she call herself?"

"Eh?"

"Her name Blenny...what's her name?

"Oh....Didn't say what her name was. She just told old Silverlines that she wanted to speak to you....something about an important message and saving the world! Said she was too old to go climbing Dogger Hill at her time of life and insisted that Silverlines send someone to get you!"

"....and he just did what she said?"

"Too right he did. I could tell she gave him the creeps too, what with the black fur hood an' all!"

"Hang on, how did she know I was at the top of Dogger? I didn't tell anyone I was going there!"

"See, I told you....she's weird!"

The two men finally reached the settlement....

* * *

"Leave us!" Her voice was deep and strangely compelling....and it didn't help that her eyes and half her face remained hidden by the cowl of her hood" Silverlines, Blenny and a few others who were present in the Elder's hut made as if to leave.

"Wait!" Buckthorn raised his hand "I'd prefer it if the Elder and Blenny stayed where they are if you don't mind"

"Very well, it may indeed make your task easier if they remain"

"Task, what task?"

The woman waited for everyone else to leave and then suddenly stepped forward. She seemed to tower over Buckthorn "Listen carefully Hunter....You must take your people from here to the high grounds five days walk beyond Dogger Hill. Carry what you can, but speed is of the essence for soon its summit will be all that remains of your lands as everything you possess drowns beneath the waters of a great flood that will consume your world forever!"

Silverlines and Blenny gasped and looked at each other, but Buckthorn wanted to know more "Who are you old woman? Where have you come from? Why me?"

"Heed my words Hunter. Gather your people and spread the word to as many others as you can. You have travelled at large and are well known on the Doggerland Plains. You speak many tongues and people will listen, but you must believe that your world is about to end!" She turned and exited the hut.

For a moment Buckthorn just stood there, trying to absorb her words. Then he rushed out after her "Wait!"

Word of the strange visitor had spread quickly and many of the Tribe had gathered around the Elder's hut. They looked at Buckthorn as he emerged from within "Where is she? Where did she go? He tried to spot the woman amongst the crowd.

A young girl called Softrush was the first to speak "If you mean the Tall One Buckthorn, then she must still be inside. No-one has left Silverline's hut, no-one except you that is!"

Lightly at first and then much more heavily, it began to snow....

Chapter Three
Adders-Tongue the Healer

Adders-tongue bit her lip and thought poisoned thoughts. If she got this one wrong, then these frightened fools would doubtless try to drown her like some worthless bitch puppy! Get it right and they’d probably raise a circle-stone to her….maybe a big one….a really big one! She looked up from examining the hawk’s innards that she'd scattered across the dying boy’s chest (these people always expected a show) and gazed into his father’s eyes….Yes, terrible fear was there….fear of losing his only son and heir….and fear too of a person like her…. a life-giver or, as far as he was concerned....a possible life-taker!

Adders-tongue knew only too well that fear was a double-edged shard of flint and that the margin between hatred and adoration was an extremely fine one. There were those in other tribes who hated her and who blamed her for failing to keep the spirits of their loved ones in the world of the living. There were even those who had vowed to kill her for her failure to do just that! Yet, there were also a growing number of people, like these gullible fools, who simply could never begin to understand a "talent" like hers, but who genuinely believed her to be a summoner of Otherworld Spirits and a manipulator of Dark Forces! In fact, there were times when she half-believed such nonsense herself!

This wasn’t one of them however! At the moment, she felt that she could practically reach out and touch the fear emanating from the people crowded into the hut. It was almost palpable and seemed to hang in the air like a foetid stench oozing from the spoil-sodden soil of some long-abandoned midden! These simple wretches feared and therefore hated her so much it affected the way they perceived the world. To them, she was Adders-tongue the Childless….Adders-tongue the Different….Adders-tongue the Reader of Signs….Tribeless Adders-tongue, the Despiser of Men, but despite all the fear and the hatred, today she was expected to be….Adders-tongue the Healer!

“Will he live woman?” The Chief Elder returned her gaze.

“As it stands, I cannot say old man. The boys fever burns like no other I’ve seen and your people are unable to find the herbs and roots I need beneath the snow!”

“He MUST live! He is all I have! Make him well, please....I….I command it!” His voice shook as desperate expectation hung by a single thread of hope above a bottomless chasm of fear!

For a single heartbeat, she almost allowed herself to feel sorry for the grey-eyed old fool. “I shall do what I can, but for now, I need to be alone with the boy. Bank the fire, bring more furs and find the herbs….Now do it….Go!”

* * *

Guards had been posted around the hut and she could hear bits and pieces of their inane conversations. Meanwhile, the boy’s fever had shown no signs of abating. She had done all that she could, but she knew it would not be enough. Within a few hours his spirit would pass from the world and then….

“Adders-tongue the Healer!” The woman was seated across from Adders-tongue, in the shadows just beyond the yellow blaze of the fire.

“What? Who’s there? I didn’t hear you enter the hut! Who are you?”

“You have worked hard to save the boy, but you believe he will die….yes?”

“He’s very sick and beyond even my skills. Show yourself!” Adders-tongue watched as the hooded woman rose to her feet. She was tall….extremely tall….and thin!

She spoke….”I need you to perform a task Healer. I need you to convince the people here and others too, that they must leave this settlement and travel to a safer place. That they must follow the setting sun to where the ground reaches for the sky and the trees cover the land. You must do this soon before Winter ends and the plains are drowned in a great flood!”

“What? What are you talking about? Who are you? I….I must tend to the boy. He’s consumed by fever and is dying and….and when he dies, then I’ll die too! They’ll kill me as surely as you’re standing there! Now, leave me be!”

“The boy will live! His fever has passed and now they’ll worship you! They will do anything you ask. Make them leave this place or they will ALL die in the Spring!”

Adders-tongue looked down at the boy and felt his brow….The fever was....yes, gone! He opened his eyes slowly and tried to speak….“Fa....ther?”

Adders-tongue gasped and looked back to where the woman had been standing “How did you…?”, but she had gone! A sudden gust of wind sliced through the hut. It made her shiver. She suddenly remembered a story about a witch she'd heard a few cycles back, told by a handsome travelling stranger called....called Longshank....or was it Longknob? He'd told it well, well enough for the children to hide their faces in the bossoms of their mothers, for the women to press closer to their menfolk and for the menfolk to stir and fidget uneasily as they leaned further and further forward to be sure of catching every word. Yes....the stranger had been a handsome enough fellow all right!

She called for one of the simpleton guards to fetch the Chief Elder...."So, anything I care to ask eh?"....

Chapter Four
Woad the Painter

“You know as well as I do Woad that those guys are nowhere near as good as you. That’s why their Elders never allow them to paint their rubbish little pictures out in the sun and why they’re made to scratch at the walls of caves with their flattened little sticks dipped in beetle blood….in the dark....and with just a single bear-grease candle to fight back the shadows!”

Woad wasn’t really paying that much attention to his friend. His thoughts were elsewhere as usual because Woad was basically a thinker, while Rudd on the other hand, wasn’t. Rudd was more of a talker first and a thinker second.

“I mean, take the paintings you did for the Great Stone Henge…..What was it….about eight or nine summers ago? That job took you forever, but people still travel from all over Doggerland and beyond to look at them….They’re amazing! Not only that, but I hear they're building another henge almost as big near a place called Sallis Berry....or something like that, out beyond the High Chalklands, and they want you to paint that one too!"

Woad looked up from what he was doing “Rudd, people travel from all over the place to see the Great Henge itself, not to mention the fact that they're prepared to pay a small fortune to see a bunch of naked women having it off with a handful of wizened old stick-insects passing themselves off as Spirit-Priests during the Dances of the Mid-Summer Shadows….They certainly don’t come all this way just to see my paintings. Besides, those pictures must be completely weathered and faded by now. In fact, I’ll bet they’ve probably disappeared altogether. I mean, that’s a good point really….My paintings may be considered good enough by settlement Elders to appear on their henges and stone-circles and the like and I know that some of them even make outsiders pay to see them, but they don’t last….whereas the works of some of those talentless dipsh*ts whose idea of painting a masterpiece is to draw three stick-people throwing spears at a red blob for a Bison, are all painted indoors on the walls of caves. All right, I grant you that no-one ever gets to see them or even wants to….but they’re painted inside….out of the wind and rain and away from the glare of the sun. In fact, I was travelling in the Hotlands a few summers back and I saw stuff on the walls of some of the caves down there that the locals said were painted more summers ago than there are flies in a midden….and they still looked as fresh as the day they were painted!”

"So what's wrong with that? At least it means you'll always have work!"

"Yes....True, but think about it....In no more than fifty Full Cycles I'll be long dead and my work will be lost to the elements forever, whereas in a thousand Full Cycles from now, some pratt will rediscover all those bl**dy cave paintings and think they're the best thing since sliced acorn bread....or, worse still, they might think that I did them!

“Yeah? Well, we all know how crap they are and that’s why they were painted where they were painted! You know what the Elders everywhere are like about such things Woad. The Spirit-Priests and the Sages tell them it’s bad Mojo or whatever to have rubbish-looking images of anything out in the open where people might actually see them. They reckon it upsets the Spirits of the Ancestors or something and bad things start to happen. Personally, I think the Spirits just p*ss themselves laughing, but hey, what do I know?” Rudd glanced down, finally noticing that Woad appeared to be making something “What’s that you have there? Are you making something?”

“Yep”

There was a pause “What is it?”

“Rudd….No offence, but don’t you have something you could be doing?”

“Eh?” Oh, sure….I’ll be off then. You must be busy” Rudd stood up and made as if to go.

Woad sighed and looked up at his friend “Look….I’m sorry. I’m just tired….What with the new Bird of Prey series I’ve started work on recently over at the Gromwell Settlement. They spent two full Cycles dragging those stupid great stones into that tiny little valley and now they want them all painted with Eagles, Hawks and Falcons. It’s taking forever!

“That’s ok….I know how hard you work. When can I see them?”

“Not yet, in a couple of Moon-Cycles maybe. Woodsage is having trouble finding enough of the plants and stuff I need to make all the colours.She says that water levels have risen recently across some of the lower meadowlands while a few places have become totally inaccessible unless you have a boat. She also says that the water just keeps on getting deeper and has been doing so for a while now. She says that most of the plants I need have been under water for ages and look like staying that way”

“Well, I guess it’s not surprising considering how wet the past couple of summers have been” Rudd had managed to sit himself down again. “I heard that a Storyteller was at Gromwell recently telling everyone they should pack up their things and move to higher ground before the spring thaw….Something about a Great Flood coming and how we’re all doooomed!”

“Mmm….That’s what Woodsage told me as well….Some guy called Longbone or Longdick or something. Apparently he’s very good at what he does….Had all the women and kids really scared….Something about a tall witch dressed in black appearing out of nowhere and telling him to spread the word….Sounds like complete twaddle to me!” Woad felt a sudden chill as the breeze turned cold as ice. He reached for his furs and swung them across his shoulders….“It’s a new kind of painting tool”

“What is?”

“This….It’s my new way to apply paint….I saw Old Mother Crosswort using her Hazel broom to brush the goat-crap out of her hut the other day and it gave me an idea for a new type of painting tool”

“What, you mean like a miniature Hazel-twig broom?”

“Yes, but using goat’s hair instead of Hazel” Woad could feel Rudd’s silent stare boring into him “Look….like this….” He handed the now finished article to his friend.

Rudd examined the implement carefully, noting the Birch-twig handle and the single tuft of goat’s hair tied to one end and cut evenly with apiece of flint. He handed it back “Er, how does it work?”

“Simple, you dip it in some paint like so….and then….use it to draw on something like….this….” Woad produced a perfect circle on the rock next to him. They both stared at the result.

“Some of the hair has come out in the paint” said Rudd.

“Yes, well….I shall need to experiment a bit….I might try something else instead of goat’s hair….Badger maybe….Anyway, it’s early days and it’ll be a damn sight better than using the crushed ends of sticks and stuff….Think of the detail I'll be able to get....You’ll see!”

“Rudd stared at his friend for a moment and stood up “Well, I must be off. I’ll drop by again tomorrow….and good luck with the….er….”

“Brush….I’m calling it a brush….and it’s going to change the face of painting forever, mark my words Rudd….Forever!”

“I’m sure you’re right Woad. Anyway, give my regards to Woodsage and tell her that Catstail sends her love” Woad watched his friend disappear into a nearby wood as he made his way home. The icy breeze stiffened as a few flakes of snow began to fall. Woad drew his furs even closer to him as he stared thoughtfully at his creation. “Forever” he said aloud to himself.

“If you want to change the world, then there has to be a world for you to change Painter!” The voice startled Woad and he snapped out of his momentary reverie. He swung around to face the speaker.

“Who the Hell are you?” Woad had stood up as he turned, only to find himself staring at….nothing! No-one was there!

“I’m here” Woad spun again and….still nothing!

“No Painter, I’m here!”

This time he didn’t move, but he could feel the anger rising within “Who are you….WHERE are you?

The woman tapped him on the shoulder from behind. Woad spun one more time, but in a half-crouch, his flint knife held at arm’s length in front of him! “What….?”

“You’re right Painter, your little 'brush' will indeed change the world, but at this moment in time, it is needed in order to save the people you care about and those you love!” The woman was dressed entirely in black.She was tall, very tall, standing chest, shoulders and head above the crouching Woad “Stand up straight and lower your blade Painter. I do not intend to harm you”

“Who are you….How did you….?”

“I am here to warn you of a Great Flood that will drown Doggerland when the spring thaw comes! I need you to help save many lives!”

“Ah!” Woad drew himself up to his full height, his eyes now level with the woman’s throat “You must be that Witch, the one they’re all talking about….That was a neat trick you did just then by the way. I know a hunter over in Gromwell who can make his voice seem like it’s coming from behind you….He uses it to confuse some of the animals he hunts”

The woman ignored him “You must use your talent Painter to paint a picture on every rock and boulder from here to the Flatlands. You must paint a clear warning telling everyone that they will surely die if my words are not heeded….and you will begin today!”

“You’re something to do with that Dickbone storyteller guy aren’t you and my guess is that this is some kind of publicity stunt! Well Lady, if you want to promote one of your storytelling events, then all you have to do is ask and I’ll paint some pictures on a few rocks for you to put wherever you like, but it’ll cost you big-time because I’m really busy at the moment and I’m ggghhggh….!” Woad didn’t get to finish what he was saying….he couldn’t actually breath any more! He grabbed at his own throat as he dropped to his knees….His face began to turn the same colour as his name! An increasingly faint “Gghhgghhgh!” issued from his mouth! Then the pain hit him....everywhere at once. There was no part of him that didn't feel excruciating agony!

“You WILL do as I say Painter….or die!” The woman had moved away from Woad and was standing with her back to him. He had rolled onto his side, but was now completely unable to move. He could barely even see her because of the tears in his eyes. His vision began to grow dark around the edges. “Well?”

“Woad tried to answer. He struggled to mouth the words, but nothing came out! “Yes….YES!” he screamed with his mind “I’ll do it….I’LL DO IT!”

“Do I have your word on that?” The woman stood above him now.

“Yes….Yes, you have my word!” Woad knew he wasn’t speaking the words out loud and he felt as though something was burning holes into his mind with a very large firebrand!

“That is very wise”

The pain stopped suddenly and Woad found he could breathe again...He gasped, filling his lungs with wonderful, wonderful air! He tried moving his arms and legs then sat up and looked around….The woman was gone!

He drank quickly from his water-flask before gathering his things into a bundle. Then he ran home to make his preparations and, as he ran, tried to think of something he could tell Woodsage that wouldn’t make him sound completely insane. He wondered too, if Rudd might be interested in spending a few weeks away from home?

After all the drama of my dog being so poorly, I finally set off in my motor-home for a week in South Devon and, although I should really have been down there nearly a month ago, mid-April actually turned out to be quite a productive time to go.

It was the usual format....data-gathering across the board, but with the main emphasis on recording earlier than usual Spring appearances and arrivals. It was also an opportunity to add new species to the photo-catalogue of wildflowers in the Start Bay/Prawle Point area of South Devon at the on-going request of a small wildflower conservation agency and to map any and all sightings of Cirl Bunting, Common Buzzard and Raven throughout the area. A large number of Insects, Arachnids and assorted Arthropods were also on my "See if They're About Yet" list and, surprisingly, quite a few of them were!

Meanwhile, I had specific instructions with regard to detailing the health and welfare of certain sections of typical Devon hedgerows. This is pains-taking work at the best of times and all eight of us in the UKNR have been adding such information concerning the general status of hedgerows across the UK to the Boss's rapidly growing database for the past eight years and it's almost certainly the only truly "national" on-going hedgerow welfare survey of its kind.

All of this slightly more "in-situ" data-gathering meant that I only walked about 90 miles during the course of the week, but the weather was absolutely gorgeous and helped make the job a particularly easy one comfort-wise! I have always maintained that May is my favourite month of the year, closely followed by September, but for the past two or three years, May seems to have come in April.

Above left....Greyhomes Hotel overlooks Torcross with a stunning view across Slapton Ley and Start Bay. My wife and I spent our honeymoon here a long, long, long time ago, having arrived in Torquay by train and then on to the Torcross hotel a couple of days later by bus. We did an awful lot of walking that week, which must surely explain why I felt so exhausted the whole time! Above right....I parked my motor-home at the local and beautifully maintained Caravan Club site for the entire week. It was very quiet, with only a small handful of other members on site to take advantage of the fantastic weather.

My wife and I actually got married on 1st April, circa 1683 and, following two nights in a five-star hotel in Torquay, we spent the remainder of our honeymoon at the splendid "Greyhomes Hotel" in Torcross. The weather then was bitterly cold, it rained and snowed much of the time and an icy wind blew non-stop off the sea. There was no heating of any kind in any of the bedrooms and only an open log fire in the dining room provided any semblance of warmth. We were provided with hot-water bottles at bedtime which were placed between the bed's freezing-cold nylon sheets (no duvets in those days) at least half an hour before we retired! Nowadays, I understand that "Greyhomes" is a much more modern and thoroughly up-dated establishment with all mod-cons. Funny though, I think I'd prefer it the way it was somehow.

I also remember that there were very few wildflowers in evidence back then....nor were there any significant numbers of insects....and the vast majority of Spring migrants weren't due to arrive until at least the end of the month....things have certainly changed! Oh well, enough said. Here are some of the photos I took during this latest week away, including a few of the wildflowers I stumbled across....

Greater Stitchwort
Generally more plentiful in Devon than in the Cotswolds, Greater Stitchwort tends to be less common the further North you travel. However, like a good many other species, it appears to be much more abundant in 2007.
If the old "Doctrine of Signatures" is to be believed, then because the stems of Greater Stitchwort snap very easily, it must surely follow that the plant has been put on the planet to help in the healing of broken bones....In fact, the latter half of the plant's Latin name, Stellaria holostea, actually means "whole bone".
However, the common name derives from the plant's legendary ability to cure the stitch when it's imbibed as a special preparation of Stitchwort and Acorn juice added to wine. On the other hand, I should imagine that continued and enthusiastic "imbibing" would eventually result in the patient completely forgetting about a great many of their ailments!
Greater Stitchwort is also another one of those wildflowers, like White Campion and Field Poppy to name but two, that is fervently believed to initiate thunderstorms if picked and, for that reason alone, is still avoided by many elderly country-folk and land-travellers, such as true Gypsies!

Holly Blues making out!
I must admit, I did feel a bit of a paparazzi taking this photograph....except that I think it was probably more difficult to get this shot than most celeb versions would be in similar situations!

Lords and Ladies
This has to be one of our most unusual plants. Sometimes called the Cuckoo-pint, the cowl-like flower is unique in the world of plants....The purpley-brown spadix gives off a distinctive carrion smell that serves to attract tiny flies and midges to the plant who then crawl down past an upper ring of hairs and are unable to get out again. In doing this, the midges brush pollen picked up from another plant onto the female flowers below. Before long, the stamens shed more pollen onto the midges who then escape to pollinate other plants when the hairs that held them prisoner wither away after a day or so.
In my neck of the woods, Cuckoo-pint is more-often called "Adder's Meat" due to the fact that the lollipop-shaped clusters of fruits are very poisonous. Older country folk still refer to it sometimes as "Kitty-come-down-the-lane-jump-up-and-kiss-me"!

Linnets
I love Linnets, pairs are so devoted to each other. I took these photos not far from Start Point where I'd spotted a small flock of Linnets scavenging for seeds in field. As I approached, they flew up into nearby trees, separating into their pairs as they did so.
My Mum had seven brothers and sisters and one of them, Emma, married a vile, detestable and cowardly man who was all too frequently drunk and beat her badly sometimes. One day, while at their house, I saw him punch her to the ground which outraged me so much that I ran into their living-room, grabbed the wire bird-cage from its stand, ran back outdoors and set free his precious Linnets! I then threw down the cage, ran back indoors, past my sobbing aunt, took a carving knife from the kitchen draw and stabbed the vile excuse for puke in the back of his leg....I was seven years old! The wound wasn't a particularly severe one and he reacted by hitting me across the face with the back of his hand! My aunt swept me up in her arms and ran with me to a neighbour's house and then all the way into town to the police station. Jack (her husband) was later arrested and detained....not for hitting my aunt or me, but to protect him from my mother who was spitting blood and nails! My aunt's marriage ended that day and Jack eventually went to live up north somewhere. It wasn't all doom and gloom however, because when he hit me, he knocked out one of my teeth and the Tooth Fairy left a whole half-crown under my pillow that night, even though I didn't actually have the tooth....Happy days! Yes, I know....I was probably a very disturbed little boy in many ways, but then I guess I had good reason to be! Even today, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not "normal" like everybody else and I have few real friends these days....Uh-oh, I think I'm going to cry! Oh no, hang on a minute....tea's ready!
I can't stand men that hit women! Every one of them is an inadequate, insecure, cowardly dog turd (and that's an insult to dogs)! Sure, women can be the most irritating and infuriating creatures on earth, but no matter how much they rant and rave or go on and on at you, how foul-mouthed or abusive they might be towards you or how much footy you might have to miss because of bl**dy Coronation Street, no man should ever hit a woman....EVER! This is what I was brought up to believe and I make no excuses for it! Besides, apart from anything else, they tend to be nearly always right about whatever it is they're going on about and that's probably exactly what all those violent, cowardly, s**t-for-brains men can't stand when it boils down to it! (Oops, I think I've just gone off on one!).

Wild Strawberry
This specimen is flowering nearly a month early, but given a couple more weeks or so it will soon be ready to pick and eat. Wild Strawberries are much smaller than their shop-bought cousins and few are picked for commercial purposes in the UK these days (probably just as well really). I remember, as kids, we used to spend ages scouring the country-side gathering them for our mums to serve up sprinkled with lots of sugar as a dessert after home-made jam and crumpets. There are always a few persistent Wild Strawbery plants growing in my garden each Spring and Summer which backs up onto the old dis-used railway embankment where they used to grow in great numbers before Mr. Beeching descended with his mighty axe! Funnily enough though, I hear that the Government is thinking about re-opening some of the old dis-used lines in and around some of our major cities in an effort to alleviate traffic and commuter congestion problems....I'm saying nothing!
I do recall however, that a day-return fare from the old Tewkesbury railway station to St. James, Cheltenham cost just 2d back in the late 1950s and I once got into serious trouble (aged about 10) for taking the train one Saturday all by myself to go swimming at Cheltenham Sandford Park Lido. Regretably, I omitted to mention my little adventure to my parents and was kept indoors for a month....Horrors....I'd rather they had beaten me with Birch twigs, but my Mother, unfortunately, disapproved of corporal punnishment....well, unless it was something REALLY serious!

Orange Tip on Bluebells.
Orange Tips are nervous little butterflies as they flit from flower to flower in meadows, woodlands and along hedgerows. This can make them tricky to photograph as they appear to sense the slightest of movements!

Garlic Mustard
I have always welcomed the "scent" of Garlic Mustard emanating from the hedgerows in Spring and I often chew on a fresh leaf or two as I do my rounds. In fact, it's neither a garlic or an onion plant, but a member of the cabbage and cress family. It's also the favourite plant of Orange Tip and Green-Veined White Butterflies and usually where they like to lay their eggs.

Speckled Wood Butterfly
I guess these little butterflies are common enough down South, but I was fascinated to watch this particular specimen defending against all-comers what, to him at least, was a very special patch of sunlight in a dappled shady section of coastal footpath. Should another Speckled Wood happen by, Mr. Stroppy here, would attack the intruder mercilessly until it fled to find its own little bit of sunshine! In fact, during the time it took me to eat a Brunch Bar, half a bag of dried sultanas, a banana and a Kit-Kat, this overly possesive Pararge aegeria saw-off no less than two other Specklies, an Orange Tip and a Peacock (Butterfly that is)! All he lacked was a little beach towel, sun-tan cream and a copy of "Hello" magazine and he'd have been indistinguishable from almost any British holiday-maker anywhere in the world!

Honesty
This beautiful plant is now a fully naturalized species in the UK and can usually be found brightening up all sorts of places, from road-side verges to rubbish tips. It originally came to Britain from South-Eastern Europe as a cultivated plant, but soon escaped into the country-side where it began to flourish.

Guillemot and Coot
Above left....this solitary Guillemot was quite content to be bobbing up and down in the sunshine about two hundred metres from the beach at Beesands and is still sporting his Winter plumage. Above right....whatever you do, don't mention the feet!

Bluebell above and Whitebell below
Pretty Bluebells ringing-in the Spring
Sunshine and rebirth your peeling made to bring
Swallows then will follow
....and Winter
with great sorrow
Of his passing days will sing
(Daisy W....aged 12)

Alderfly
Not necessarily anything to do with Alders, the Alderfly is possibly the original inventor of the A-frame tent, judging by the way it holds its wings! This one was "pitched" close to the water margin at Slapton Ley where it seemed generally oblivious to my presence. This is a creature, by the way, not normally airborne until late Spring or even early Summer!

Creeping Buttercup
Scourge of the pristine-type lawn enthusiast, the Creeping Buttercup is, nonetheless, a very attractive flower. My own lawn's usually covered in them!

Sea Campion
There are two places in particular that I know are really good places for finding Sea Campion....the South Coast of Devon and The Mendip Hills in Somerset and they are both places that I love to walk. Meanwhile, if you are a Moth enthusiast, then find yourself a carpet of Sea Campion somewhere and then return to it later that night with a lamp. Moths seem to love this plucky little flower and can visit in significant numbers!

Shrew
I noticed a hovering male Kestrel drop rapidly down to the coastal footpath about fifty metres ahead of me out near Start Point early in the week and then, a few moments later, the same bird took to the air once again and flew off to a nearby fence-post carrying something in its talons. By this time I was barely twenty metres away from the bird who, suddenly realizing I was there, appeared slightly startled and tried to flee with its prize. In its haste however, it managed to drop the object not far in front of me. It turned out to be the little Shrew in the picture above. I took a couple of pictures then moved on quickly and hid behind a Gorse Bush further along the path. After a few minutes, the bird came back to its kill and retrieved it. I had hoped to get a few shots of the Kestrel eating the Shrew if it returned to the same fence-post, but unfortunately, it flew off and out of sight.

Summer Snowflake
It was fairly innevitable that I'd run across clumps of Summer Snowflake around the water margins at Slapton Ley, but I was still pleased that I did.

Common Fumitory
This was one of the first flowers I noticed when I arrived in Torcross. It doesn't seem to be as widespread or as frequent in Devon as it is in the Cotswolds, but it soon catches the eye wherever it strives to be noticed....usually on arable farmland and along road-side verges.

Common Garden Snail
The shell of this particular Snail is beginning to show signs of general wear and tear, indicating that it may well be a fairly old specimen. It's also the only Common Garden Snail that I saw all week.

Cow Parsley
Quite a bit of Cow Parsley has flowered throughout the South-West during the 2006/2007 Winter season, which isn't altogether unusual for milder Winters....though to be fair, there have been many more flowering plants than in previous years. This is a member of the Carrot and Hogweed family and, although the youngest leaves can be considered edible, it's much safer to regard the entire plant as poisonous! Besides, if you're not absolutely certain that you can tell the difference between Cow Parsley and the similar-looking and very poisonous Hemlock, then leave well alone!
Another similar-looking plant is Sweet Cicely, which we were once told (as part of our escape and evasion training), is a good plant to seek out if being tracked by dogs, as crushing quantities of the leaves releases a strong scent of aniseed which will (hopefully) confuse the hounds long enough to make your escape!

Honey Bee on Ceanothus
A heavily laden Honey Bee makes the most of the warm, sunny weather as it gathers still more pollen from a beautiful and vibrant Ceanothus.

An important aspect of my job is talking to people local to the area I happen to be in. They are nearly always happy to impart useful information about almost anything and some of their anecdotal reminiscences can be fascinating. I never underestimate how much people are likely to know about the places they live in and so I'm always keen to stop and chat and this has often led to my discovering things about the wildlife of places that I would never have known otherwise....It's a much better way of learning about places than buying travel or text books!
Pictured above left is Mr. H, a long-time resident of Torcross, who loves nothing more than to sit on a bench in his large garden overlooking Slapton Ley and observe all the comings and goings of people and wildlife alike. On the right is Mr. J, also of Torcross who spends a great deal of his time walking his dog and is equally as observant and knowledgeable about the Torcross area's daily routines.
Below is Mr. C of Beeson village sharing a coffee with his friends from South Hams District Council, who were taking a well-earned rest on a very warm day. It was the latter gentlemen who kindly informed me that the tree covered with Honey Bees pictured above is a California Lilac called Ceanothus. Mr C meanwhile, was delighted that the Swallows had returned to the area and were already rebuilding their old nest in his garage.
Not shown is Mr. and Mrs. A of Stokenham village who I talked to about local flowers and Spring-time in general for some time. They were excited at the prospect of hearing from their son in Los Angeles by telephone that afternoon....I hope he rang. They also directed me to the excellent little village pub called "The Tradesman's Arms" (see below) where I enjoyed an ice-cool glass of orange and lemonade while sitting in the pub garden in the warm sunshine.
Addendum...It was certainly interesting to see Mr. H (above) featured on the BBC's magnificent series "Coast" recently (June) as he recounted his evacuation experiences during the Second World War when the residents of Torcross and all those for a hundred square miles around the village were forcibly evicted from their homes by the MoD so that the beach and its adjoining countryside could be used in "live" and very realistic rehearsals for the American landings at Utah beach on D-Day....Mmm, maybe I should have got his autograph!
Mr C with a Brew for the Crew 065.JPG

High on a hill overlooking Start Bay, I came across this large Swamp Spider. The ground was very dry and very hard, while the nearest water was all the way down at Beesands Ley, more than half a mile away. The Spider was smack-bang in the middle of a very large field with not so much as a brook, stream, drainage ditch or puddle in sight.
So what? Well, the Swamp Spider is nearly always found in the South of England on water margins (hence the name). It likes to sit with its front legs just touching the water, waiting for some hapless insect to fall onto the surface and begin struggling. The sudden movement alerts "Swampy" to the insect's presence and it is invariably pounced upon!
Despite their size, Swamp Spiders are light enough to "skate" across the surface of the water and are even able to submerge when threatened!
Needless to say, none of this is commensurate with being in the middle of a field way up in the coastal hills and begs a number of questions to which, unfortunately, I have no answers. Most intriguingly however, is the fact that this particular Swamp Spider appeared to have a transluscent gelatinous substance covering part of its rear end and back legs (just visible as a slightly magnified area in the picture)....possibly some sort of egg-carrying/protective gel perhaps? I'd never seen anything like it before and I've been unable to obtain any further information!

Nobby, another UKN ranger and amateur bug expert took one quick look at the above photograph and promptly asked....
"Can you actually count?"
"Er....yes" I replied.
"Then have a really good look at this picture and tell me how many legs you can see"
"Er....one, two, three....ah....oh....er....sixteen!"
"....and what do you think that means Goose?"
"Mmm....there must be two spiders in the picture....one on top of the other! Ah, but what about the gel stuff?"
"I think you'll find that that's the abdomen of the second spider"
"Is it another Swamp Spider then?"
"No, they're not mating if that's what you think. It looks like it might be a scavenging Common House Spider and it's fallen foul of a marauding and very hungry Swampy!"
"Wow!" (I'm very easily impressed) "So why is it so far from water?"
"Swampys do prefer to be close to water, but they're not averse to putting on their walking boots and setting off for days at a time in search of slightly different prey. Besides, it's how they spread their population from one pond or lake to another and I daresay that this one will have eventually found water by now, perhaps even miles away"
"Double wow!" (I was doubly impressed).

Thank-you Nobby for enlightening me and solving my little mystery....and thank you too for the "Learn to Count with Mummy" book that arrived in the post only this morning!

A very neat, but puzzling arrangement of pine cones laid out on a bed of pine tree branches

Ok, so it's part of a legend depicted beneath a coat of arms featured on a pair of ancient wrought-iron gates....but why do I feel an over-whelming urge to phone home?

Many of the images to be found on both this website and its sister .co.uk site are available for purchase (framed or unframed) from an on-line world-wide artist community website based in the USA called "Imagekind"....

100% of all profits accruing to me from any such sales on the Imagekind site are donated to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution directly from Imagekind themselves. To access my stuff on the Imagekind site, enter Don W into the Imagekind search facility and then click on my name under any of my photos that happen to appear on screen and this should take you to my galleries.

Conspicuous, if only by their absence, are the hundreds of top-brand, reasonably-priced, quality items for sale on either of my websites. In fact, there's absolutely nothing to purchase at all! I would imagine therefore, that any hopeful, but obviously wayward net-surfer stumbling across these pages and desperate to spend their hard-earned cash, must feel bitterly disappointed!

That's right....I really don't sell anything here (see the "Please note" item above) and, because people aren't crazy enough to pay good money to advertise their products or services on my sites either, it means that sadly, I wont be retiring, just yet, on the non-existent profits currently not pouring in!

"Dad" she said "why don't you use your websites like some sort of sponsored thingy?"

"Like....You know....Like, get people to give money to charity to go on your sites....Get them to pay for reading it!"

"Cuz people like giving to charity don't they....and this time they'd be getting something for it wouldn't they?"

"Well....lots of people simply enjoy the act of giving and don't want anything more than that....besides, they can read it for nothing anyway....What about giving to me instead?"

"People aren't daft enough to take one look at my site and feel an over-whelming urge to give to charity!"

"Yeah, they are....Like, you give Cornish pasties to homeless people in shop doorways don't you and anyway, you created the sites for people to see in the first place?"

Well, there we are then....proof, if proof were ever needed, that looking at my sites could be just like giving food to homeless people or donating money towards a fourteen year-old's sponsored swim....that is, if you're "daft" enough!

Remember, this is my daughter's idea (and far be it from me to argue with the logic of a hormonal fourteen year-old), but in the extreme un-liklihood that someone, perhaps you, has actually enjoyed viewing some small part or other of either website, then please feel entirely free to sponsor one or more of the charities listed below to the sum of whatever you think such a moment was worth (she says the price of a "cheap" magazine would be fair....but no pasties!).

My head-strong daughter believes that if just a few people choose to make donations, however small, then I shall have been amply rewarded for all my efforts....mmm....I suppose she might just be right....but "cheap" magazine....well really!

Please note....If you actually do decide to make a small donation to one or more of the charities listed below, then please send the money DIRECTLY TO THE CHARITY and NOT to me.

The Battery Hen Welfare Trust
www.thehenhouse.co.uk
(You still need to access this website via your search engine because strangely, the link still takes you to some guy's blog site!)

Given that Tortula muralis is such a very common and widespread moss found on every other brick wall or stone surface, I just don't understand why it doesn't really have any kind of common name. The above picture shows T muralis spreading in its familiar "cushions" across the top of a very old gravestone in a typical Cotswold churchyard. I was actually quite pleased to stumble upon this particular example during February because the spore capsules are clearly visible, held as they are, on the ends of long, slender stalks. These particular ones are ripening to a brownish colour quite quickly and will soon disperse their contents across the surface of the stone.

Here's a much better shot of Tortula moralis spore capsules than those shown in the above photograph. These however, have not yet begun to go brown or ripen and are, therefore, a little younger.

No, not a tunnel....it's one of the few remaining bridges carrying the old disused railway through Withington.

A Water-logged and virtually inaccessable Coombe Hill Nature Reserve, although Sean gave it all a quick once-over from his kyak!