" Six Jutlands and a Conestoga" One of my short stories.

June 03, 1833

The six Jutland draft horses strain as they pull the Verhoeven family over the last rise of their 1,200 mile journey. Bram Verhoeven walks beside the team, just ahead of the heavy wagon, using the long leather reins to guide the lead horse, front left. The tireless leader, Hercules, with his mate on the right, the grand dame, Ellen – named after President Arthur’s wife – guides the team of sturdy horses. Both are fifteen hands high, large quartered, relentless workers. The hill they are climbing has long grass swaying in the wind that urges them on. The lowering sun is partially hidden behind the crest, casting bright rays.

The groomed heads of first Ellen then Hercules break out of the long shadows into the golden waves of the western sun. Small sharp ears, thick beige manes with loose strands turning bright yellow. Their chestnut fur turns redder still as the animals walk into the sunlight, exposing the short neck, the muscled shoulders, the wide withers and the strong back of these willing animals. Bram watches the horses as they rise, pair by pair, into the brilliance. His dusty face splits with a smile of pure joy. Time almost slows down in his anticipation of the view his family is about to encounter. He’s seen it before. He owns it now.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with his right forearm, he looks back at his wife, Lena, who is standing up inside the front of the Conestoga, awaiting the horizon he has talked about for the last two years. Her right hand is raised above her head as she grasps the outer rib that holds the coarse hand-woven fabric of the wagon’s bonnet. Veronica, the youngest, is beside her, wrapped in Lena’s left arm. Her head, which rests upon her mother’s stomach, is covered with the same dark red curls; her face, with the same orange-ish freckles and the same mischievous eyes he has. Sheila, the oldest girl, leans on the front board, a smaller version of Bram’s wife, with a thin pretty face, straight brown hair tied up in a bun, eyes that study everything and a smile that artists search for. They all catch his movement and wave at him.
 

His oldest, Jonas, rides their quarter horse, Fancy, bringing up the rear, towing their Jersey, Cinderella.

Aron, who is ten years old today, is a year younger then Sheila, two years younger than his brother and two years older than Veronica. He is perched on the lazy board on the left side of the wagon. He braces himself by hanging on to the ropes that hold the water barrel. His father had promised him they would make it by his birthday. Looking at his Pap, he waves a free hand when he sees him looking back.

 

“Happy birthday, Aron.”

Concentrating on the team, Bram yells out just before he walks over the crest, “Gee, Hercules. Gee now.”

The powerful animals follow Hercules’ lead and pull to the left as the wagon navigates the top of the rise. When all wheels are on level ground, Bram pulls back on the strong leather.

“Whoa, Hercules. Whoa, team.”

The horses, snorting and breathing heavily, gladly come to a complete stop. The clatter of the chains and leathers relaxing is almost a sigh. The horses shift in the harnesses while shod hooves paw at the ground as they back into the single trees to take the strain off their bodies. Aron jumps up on the plank he was sitting on to pull back the heavy iron brake lever, locking the wheels in place. Bram drops the heavy leathers to the ground. Fancy trots up beside the wagon and Jonas jumps off to stand a short way behind his father. The whole family is bathed in sunlight. No one speaks.

The sward is a carpet of tall, untamed grasses, colored with the yellows, whites and purples of wild flowers undulating in the breeze, making a soft swishing sound. The aromas of the coarse earth, of the raw vegetation, fill their noses when they breathe deeply. The field sweeps to the left and right, south and north, for 1,500 feet to meet a wide glimmering river that looks alive. Shimmering rays of the setting sun scatter across its surface. It bends back and forth several times before disappearing around a neighboring hill that is covered with forest. The bluffs they are on curves north like a bowl for half a mile, where it has been gouged by another river that is narrower and in more of a hurry. The waters meet to form a deep swirling pool before the flow continues south, eventually spilling into the Mississippi. To their left, the rise tapers to the tree-lined river for almost the same distance.

The hills around them are varied in both height and covering. Many of the southern ones are barren of growth, composed of brown and reddish dirt exposed on cliffs that the water has created by its passage. Jagged mountain peaks are visible a hundred miles in the distance. The northern portion is mostly knolls capped with coniferous trees. The deep green of the forest facing them is as dark as their elongated shadows. Save for the sun, the sky is empty. The blue is rich as a new ribbon, just turning pink on the horizon. Small birds weave among the grasses looking for insects or seeds, calling or complaining. Two deer stand at the junction of the rivers; they were drinking but now stare at the family, bewildered by the odd interruption, not knowing they will need to fear the strange animals they see. A large bird circles above the tree line on open wings, looking for prey.

For ten minutes the family remains mute, surveying their surroundings, the place where they are going to live. Lena breaks the silence with a sigh of delight.

“Oh, Bram, it’s as beautiful as you said. It’s breathtaking.”

Aron can’t stay still much longer and jumps down to run up beside his father. Placing a hand upon his father’s brawny arm, he pushes his floppy hat back as he looks up and says, “Where we gonna build our house, Pap?”

Bram hesitates. He is too full of emotion to speak, so full of pride in being able to purchase his own land. When he and his partner, Jean-Pierre Poirier, a French Canadian from the east coast of Canada, had trapped animals and traded furs each winter, he had discovered this glen. That was over two years ago. The demand for fur was great due to men’s fondness for hats made from the beaver’s sleek pelt, and they had made a small fortune. More than enough to outfit himself with the wagon and horses to move his family west. A blacksmith by trade, Bram hopes to establish his own foundry here in the small valley, two miles from where the government is building a new fort, which will also be a trading post. 

Looking back at his wife and the girls, all visibly pleased, then over to his other sons and then down to Aron, he turns and points toward the joining of the waters.

“Right on top of the rise where the rivers meet. It’s good and flat on top, lots of trees close by, lots of good fields around it.”

He reaches to embrace his son and adds, “A good place to work and lots of room to play. It won’t be all work, only in the beginning.”

Bram feels a burst of pure pleasure and can’t help but laugh. Aron can’t help but join in. Veronica loves to laugh at everything and bursts into girlish giggles. Jonas and Sheila soon add their glee. Lena has a quiet, elegant way of laughing that only makes her prettier. The merriment lasts but a moment and is followed by a flurry of questions.

“Are there fish in the river?”

“Can we pick some of the flowers?”

“Is there anybody living close to us?”

“Is there cedar in those woods?”

“What about Injuns?”

The last question, spoken by Aron, brings silence. The Lakota are generally not pleased with the intrusion of white settlers upon what had been their land for centuries. Bram’s encounters, except for one, were all friendly. Jean-Pierre could speak their tongue and the men traded for many furs with them. Bram Verhoeven felt he had nothing to fear if he treated people properly. He will learn to be as leery as the deer.

“We will put our trust in the Lord, Aron, and be fair to people. We won’t pre-judge them. There’s plenty that are friendly. No more questions now. Tomorrow there will be time as we make our plans.”

He claps his big hands. Pointing at a copse of trees beside the river to their left, he announces with a soft smile,

“The sun’s gonna set in two hours, and we must eat. We will camp beside the river tonight by those trees. When we get there, Veronica, you can help your mother with the meal.  Sheila, you peg Cinderella, give her a bit of feed and milk her. Aron, you get the saddle off Fancy and give Mam a hand with the table. Jonas you get the fire going. I expect there’s nuff dried bush inside that dense wood yonder. I’ll tend to the horses.”

By now, the family is familiar with the usual chores associated with the end of their day. They never question Bram’s commands. Their survival depends on his decisions. Once Bram brings the team to a halt under the protection of several old evergreens, he drops the reins once again. He turns to proudly watch his family for a brief moment. Jonas runs toward the of trees behind him, the top of his dusty boots exposed by too-short pants. He is growing too fast. The ladies are in plain grey cotton dresses, the girls with a ribbon around the collar – Veronica’s a soft blue and Sheila’s a bright yellow. Lena dons a red apron and commands the two youngest. Pleased with what he sees, Bram tends to the horses.

The six Jutlands have long manes and are feathered about their lower legs. Anxious to be free of the leather and chains, they greet their master with aplomb, lifting and lowering their heads as if in agreement with what he is about to do. After he removes the pins from the single trees that attach the horses to the double tree on the wagon, he reaches down for the reins.

“Get ahead there, Hercules. That’s enough now, boy. Whoa!”

Starting at the rear, he undoes the six-horse hitch. While he removes the paraphernalia, he talks lovingly to each horse. The first horses unburdened are the wheelers, the biggest horses, nearest the driver. Willie and Anton are each a couple of hundred pounds heavier than the leaders. When Bram takes off the traces, the breast collar and the driving halter of each horse, they are free to move on their own. He pats each on their heavy cheek before resting his head against their wide necks for just a moment to offer a special note for each animal....To be continued.


I hope you enjoyed meeting the Verhoeven family. Please drop by for Part 2  next Friday.
Thank you so much for visiting the Scribbler.

 

Guest Author - Brian Brennan - an excerpt from "Brief Encounters"

Brian is an award-winning and best-selling author of seven critically acclaimed narrative non-fiction books about the colourful personalities of Western Canada’s past. A former staff writer with the Calgary Herald, Brian has written freelance articles and columns for magazines and newspapers across the United States and Canada, including the New York Times, Globe and Mail and Toronto Star.

Born and educated in Dublin, Ireland, Brian immigrated to Canada in 1966 and settled in Calgary in 1974. Over the course of his varied career he has worked as a golf caddy, lounge waiter, customs officer, nightclub pianist, church organist, radio news announcer, and a featured storyteller on CBC Radio’s Daybreak Alberta – a popular program heard across the province.  His website is listed below.
 
Following is an excerpt from his book-in-progress, working title: "Brief Encounters: Conversations with Celebrities, 1974-88." It's based on interviews he did when he was an entertainment writer for the Calgary Herald during the '70s and '80s.

Victor Borge

November 1975

Victor Borge had been a child prodigy on his way to becoming a concert pianist when he discovered a flair for comedy that sent him in another direction and brought him international fame. When he arrived in Calgary to play the 2,700-seat Jubilee Auditorium in 1975, the Danish-born virtuoso was 66 and still performing 150 shows a year despite having been forced to stop playing temporarily due to paralysis in his left arm.

I asked him if he was thinking of retiring. “Retiring from what?” he replied. “Retiring from life? Performing is my life. A lot of people retire because they’re forced to, and then keep regretting it for the rest of their lives.”

The problem with his left arm had been a shocker, Borge said, because for three weeks in the hospital he wasn’t able to move it. “It scared the hell out of me. I had to cancel a concert for the first time in my life. The newspaper in Wichita didn’t like it, but what did they expect?”

The doctors determined that the paralysis was caused by a pinched nerve in his neck. After they repaired the damage, Borge lost some strength in his arm but that, fortunately, didn’t affect his playing. “That’s the one aspect of my performance that has to be right.” Even though he filled his performance with musical jokes, such as his interpolation of “Happy Birthday” or “Hush-a-Bye Baby” into the music of Chopin, Mozart and Debussy, he wanted the piano playing to be technically proficient. “Each performance is a challenge for that reason.”

He had given up doing conventional concerts in his 20s because he came to believe he didn’t have any real control over what his fingers did when he sat down to play. Blessed, or perhaps plagued with something he called “finger memory,” Borge could start playing any piece he had learned from the standard repertoire and almost immediately his fingers would find the right notes. “It was just a psychological thing,” he said. “I would look down at my fingers while I was playing and be in awe of them. That’s why I had to stop concertizing. I was afraid I might foul up sometime.”

But he had no regrets about abandoning a career as a serious musician in favour of becoming a comic entertainer. “I’m not a frustrated concert musician or a frustrated anything. You can’t be frustrated if you’re doing something that you want to do. If I had stayed straight, I know I could have done well. But I wanted to do this. It’s my chemistry.”

He couldn’t explain the success of his comedy. “I was never particularly interested in analyzing it.” But much of it had to do with his spontaneous reaction to little things that occurred during a concert, plus his ongoing fascination with the idiosyncrasies of the English language. One of his popular routines involved “inflated language,” in which “wonderful” became “twoderful” and “create” became “crenine.” Another routine, that he called “phonetic punctuation,” involved reciting a story complete with trick vocal sounds for commas, periods and exclamation marks.

The man in the front row who sneezed or the woman who coughed too loud were natural targets for his ad libs, but Borge insisted that none of his jokes were planned. “Sometimes it almost seems as if all 3,000 people in the audience have been planted.” His method was to work mainly impromptu “and say things to suit the particular mood of the show.”

I asked him about reviews. Borge said he had received the occasional negative one. But he took some consolation from knowing that “bigger geniuses than I have suffered from this problem.” He recalled a letter that the composer Brahms was said to have sent to a critic who panned one of his concert performances: “Dear Mr. Critic. I have your review of my concert in front of me as I write. Where I’m seated, I’ll soon have it behind me. Yours truly, Johannes Brahms.”

True to his word, Borge never retired from performing. At age 90, he was still playing about 60 shows a year. His doctors suggested he eliminate a pratfall where he pretended to accidentally fall off the piano bench. But, of course, Borge had no intention of doing this. It had been part of his act for so long that audiences expected it.

A New York Times reporter asked Borge why he continued to maintain a heavy touring schedule. He gave much the same answer as the one he had given to me 20 years earlier. “Why not?” he said. “If it was a strain, I wouldn't do it. But I can do it. I haven't faltered yet. I know life. I have had a full measure of experience. Shouldn't I take advantage of it? These days my acts are the essence of what I have accomplished. The fruit is on the tree. Should I let it rot?”

Or as he had said to me, “It all has to do with the spirit. What I’m doing is at my natural speed. I travel because people don’t come to me.”

He died in 2000 at age 91 at his home in Greenwich, Connecticut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you Brian for sharing your work with us. You can find out more about Brian by visiting his website, www.brianbrennan.ca

Next week you can read one of my short stories. "Six Jutlands and a Conestoga". Moving your family into the western frontier can be a daunting task. Nothing but open wilderness and a plan!

 

On September 7th at 6:30 pm, you are invited to join me at the Chateau Moncton for the launch of my debut novel Dark Side of a Promise. I hope you can make it!

4Q Interview with author Lockie Young

We are fortunate to have Lockie (Lockard) Young on 4Q this Friday. Lockie has written a YA novel, Ryan’s Legend, published by Morning Rain Publishers of Ontario and is happily working on the sequel. He is a familiar guest on the South Branch Scribbler with several of his entertaining short stories being featured. Lockie has been showcased on many blogs, recommended reading sites and most recently in the Times Transcript, Moncton’s major daily. You can find out more about Lockie, more of his poems and witty ramblings, by clicking his link below.

4Q: Thanks for being a part of the Scribbler, Lockie.  Sometime ago you and your wife, Trish, visited South Africa.  You brought back many great photos and as many memories I expect. Did this visit to a foreign country so far away, or the people, have any influence on your writing or inspirations?

LY: Africa was amazing. I can’t put my finger on it, and not to sound corny, but Africa had a profound effect on me, almost like a religious experience. When I stepped off the plane, it was like coming home, and I am not a person who likes the heat, so this was confusing for me. The people we met were so friendly, and it really felt like family when these strangers welcomed us into their homes and their lives. When I got back to Canada, and things settled down and my wife and I got back to work and a normal life again, I found I couldn’t stop writing about my other home, Africa.  I have several poems inspired by the amazing animals we saw there. The traditional animals like Giraffe and Zebra, which to me were only pictures in National Geographic magazine before, had been right there, outside our car window. My wife and I toured South Africa and Swaziland with my father in law and mother in law. My short story and poem titled Diary of an Orphan was inspired by a visit to an orphanage in Swaziland. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4Q: What can you tell us about the sequel to Ryan’s Legend?

LY: The working title is Ryan’s Legend Returns, and picks up where the first story leaves off.  It’s summer break, and the main character, Ryan, has a few adventures with his best friend Cory. Ryan teaches Cory, a city boy, about life along the sea shore, all the while anxiously awaiting the return of his other ‘Legendary’ friend Willie. Parts of the sequel were written at the same time as Ryan’s Legend, back in 1995, and were in fact all one book back then. On the advice of a self published Author and Publisher at the time, I split the original manuscript into two parts, as it was thought to be too long for a middle grade reader.

After my first book, was picked up by Morning Rain Publishing  I worked on finishing and adding to the second half, which is more than twice as long as Ryan’s Legend. It is currently being considered, and I am waiting on word if Morning Rain wants to publish it. I hope it will get picked up, and maybe be published later this year.

4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory.

LY: Some of my readers and fans may know that I am a Plumber by trade, but long before I became a Plumber, when I was just a boy of maybe seven or eight years of age, I went with my Mom and Dad to visit relatives in a small community not too far from Moncton, called Harcourt. While there I asked if I could go to the bathroom, and I was directed to a small out building in back of the house. I could tell as soon as I opened the door that I was in the right place. When I returned to where the adults had gathered in the parlor, I was asked what had taken me so long. And I answered that I was very sorry, but I had searched that darn building all over and I just couldn’t find the flush handle for the toilet. 

4Q: Please tell us what’s in store for us in the future; what else you’re working on?

LY:  As you know, Allan, I lost my right leg last year to arterial disease caused by smoking a pack a day for 30 some years, and during my recovery, and adjustment to a drastic lifestyle change, I’ve been writing as part of the healing process. I’ve written several short stories and a couple of, what I’ve discovered are called ‘personal essays’ and I am also working on a memoir of my personal journey on this new road as an amputee. The memoir is a step outside of the box for me as I’ve never written a nonfiction work, and I find it both challenging and therapeutic as I revisit the past 2 years of my life. 

So, when I get stuck with what to write in the next novel in the ‘Legend’ series, and I need a change of pace or scenery, I pick up where I left off in my memoir, or I change genres and try my hand at another short story. I may see if my publisher is interested in a compilation of my short stories.  I haven’t written any poetry lately, but I have to be inspired for that too. The other day, when I was stuck on ‘The Legend Never Dies’ (working Title) I opened up a new word doc and I just wrote and wrote all day, missing lunch and almost missing supper, until I wrote The End at last. The word count on Paradise White is 8000 words, and I hope to whittle that short story down in edits. So that is how I roll. I took an early retirement because of my new physical limitations, and now I am fortunate that I can write whenever I want and I am enjoying the freedom to do what I really truly love to do. 

You have been a tremendous supporter of your fellow authors, sharing, giving us a pat on the back, being a nice guy so thanks Lockie on behalf of us all. Keep those stories coming.

Please visit Lockie’s Lectern at www.lockardyoung.worpress.com

Ryan's Legend:http://morningrainpublishing.com/project/ryans-legend/
Website:http://poems-and-other-ramblings.webnode.com/

 

Next week I will offer 4 teasers of my short story compilation SHORTS Vol.1. As well as what inspired these stories. The SHORT series is dedicated to my grandchildren with Vol. 1 for my oldest grandson, Matthieu. Vol. 2 will be published in September, with Vol. 3 to follow in November.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4Q Interview with Christian Brun - World Traveller, Poet, Artist,and a super nice guy!

Christian Brun is the Executive Director of the Maritime Fisherman’s Union. He has travelled extensively throughout the world, lived in Mozambique, Africa. He lives in Shediac, NB. He is an exceptional artist and author of several books of poetry. A man of many talents (pardon the cliché but it fits). His website is below.

4Q: Before we talk about your writing and painting, tell us about your desire to travel as much as you have and how did you end up in Africa?

CB: Travels fuel my great curiosity. I have a never ending almost obsessive need to generate new information through observation. I can only go so far with a book and with local travel and have discovered the great wealth of geographical displacement. The movement and grace of difference through people, contact, communication, architecture, food, weather and nature have provided an energy that is hard to describe. While the pizzazz might have somewhat phased with age, I yet feel like an adolescent going through puberty when I leave the country. When I am in a foreign area, I prefer walking, so I can slowly grasp the nuances and the beauty. In 1994, in France, I walked from Spain (San Sebastian) to Biarritz for example. My own little “Randonnée de compostelle” of sorts. After that experience, I understood how travels were not only exploration of sight, touch, sound and smell, but were also experienced from within: all of these new found observations were having a profound effect on my thoughts and perceptions of life. A relatively short travel experience had changed who I was almost immediately; imagine if this was to happen for a longer period…

A few years later, I was confused about what I wanted to do with my life, quite frankly. I was completing my articling with a small Law Firm in Ottawa and was disappointed as to the realities of the practice. Pushing paper was not very fulfilling. Just as I was to pass my bar exams, I was offered a job. I had applied with many Canadian NGOs a year previous as I had a great interest in more long-term travels – so I could get immersed into culture and language.

Mozambique was a perfect opportunity: 1- the project was about civil disarmament and turning weapons into art, 2- Maputo, the Capital where I would be working, was a coastal town, 3- Portuguese was the language spoken, a Latin language, therefore accessible through French basics, another cousin Latin language, and finally, 4- the field of international development seemed much more real and substance oriented than what I had survived in the urban legal world. I took a week to think about it, confirmed and was off a month later in November of 1997.  

4Q: You have three books of poetry published at present. What is it about poetry that that you enjoy and what inspires you.

CB: I like to say things in a snapshot. I like to also play with words. Mostly, I am in love with the metaphor, always have been. The metaphor lets you be true to yourself and not always reveal absolutely all of who you are. I have learned earlier in life that one must protect oneself to be free. Life is not all roses and blue skies and there are some people and circumstances that can hurt and damage. I have always been myself, I believe, with others, but often, I only share what I feel I should. I have created an invisible filter coming in and going out. That is why poetry is so powerful. It enables you to divulge who you are, but not completely.

I am inspired by nothing and everything. I have written about the most mundane act of human stupidity (the fact that one needs to go to the washroom once in a while, hopefully throughout his/her whole life - lol). I have also written of the most typically exciting and cliché moments of love, despair and drama. I have found that some of the blandest past photography can become incredibly strong 30 years later – have a look at Dennis Hopper’s photos as an example. Therefore, the mundane of today could very well enlighten the future. I was also amazed in my twenties at how French poets like Rimbaud, Prévert, Apolinaire and Éluard could speak of everyday events and make them so interesting… or how Verlaine, Beaudelaire and Neruda could make the cheese disappear when thinking of love, death and depression.

What finally really clicked the switch was when I began reading our own Acadian literature, how real it was and how it was part of our conflicted collective soul. In some ways, our Acadian identity was somewhat like I was: for many years, it could not, and preferred not to reveal all of what it was. Poetry in l’Acadie, is a code and an extremely important one at that.  

I am getting off subject aren’t I? Back to your next question. 

4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.

CB: Well… hmmm… I will share one that has shaped who I am. I had built a very badly strewn tree house near our home in Cormier-Village with leftover wood, planks, tar paper and rusted nails. I remember sitting there in the doorway looking at the water flowing in a nearby brook and the nature that surrounded me. It was the first time I really had a different perspective of the world, I guess, from a different height in something I had built with my bare two hands. Moral of the story is that my creation had enabled a new perspective of the same things I looked at everyday… I realized much later that the creative process was synonymous to youth and renewal.

 4Q: You have many fine paintings to your credit. How did you get into painting and where can your work be seen other than your website?

CB: The visual arts came naturally as a complement to writing… I am mostly visual in my concepts, but more literary in my communication… so I decided to use both as a survival guide to procrastination! When I find one creative process less motivating, I refer to the other… and they both meet rather often. For example, I am attempting to write a text for every painting I have produced (good or bad – lol). I’m hoping this will be a lifelong project.  

I have one exhibition per year at Galerie 12 in the Aberdeen Cultural Centre in downtown Moncton. This keeps my blood flowing...

 

Thank you Christian for sharing your thoughts with us. We look forward to more of your creativity in the future. Christian’s website is www.christianbrun.webs.com.

 

*An interesting note: Christian's sister Nathalie is the cover model for the novel Dark Side of a Promise.

 

 

Next week I will be telling you a bit about myself; who I am, what are my passions, who is my family and why I write.

I lived in an orphanage for the first ten months of my life......

 

 

Guest writer Lockie Young. The Lone Shepard.

This is Lockie Young's third visit to the Scribbler. You will be hearing more from this talented writer as he wraps up the sequel to his YA novel, Ryan's Legend. Watch for it at Morning Rain Publishing. His website is posted below.

The Lone Shepard

A long, long time ago in a far away land there lived a young shepherd boy named Ewan. Now Ewan was a good boy, who lived with his grandparents in the hills just east of the Stone Wood. He tended his sheep and was very diligent, as there were many wolves in the hills. The wolves lived in the Stone Wood, which was rumored to be haunted. The wolves would venture into the hills and kill the sheep, if not for the very brave boy who protected them. Now you may ask, how can a mere boy defend against a pack of wolves? The answer may astound you. You see even though Ewan was just a boy, he had in his possession a very strange weapon indeed. It had saved his life many times, and the lives of the flock he protected.

One day, one of the sheep wandered away from the hill, where the flock was grazing. Ewan, who kept a very keen eye on his precious flock, noticed the number of sheep was down by one, and as he gazed off in the distance, toward the meadow that gently sloped toward the Stone Wood, he saw his quarry.  He noticed the faintest of white disappear into the haunted forest. Gathering all his courage, Ewan rushed to save the poor woolly creature from a certain death, should the animal venture too deep into the place where only Devils and Trolls dared to go.

At the edge of the great forest, Ewan stopped to gather his breath, and his courage, before venturing forth into the unknown, for neither he nor any of his kin had ever set foot into the Stone Wood. Oh he knew full well the possible consequences of such a foolhardy quest, for it was told and retold many times around the open fire pits late at night, when the shadows were long and fear was ripe. No one ever returned from that unholy place.

Ewan gulped down his fear, and tramped it deep into his soul, as he ventured into the dark, dank foliage. The leaves were so thick; the sunlight did not penetrate such gloom. There was even a bitter stench, that left its acid mark on the poor shepherd’s tongue. With eyes big and round as saucers the brave little boy headed further into the wood. All at once, off to his left, he heard the scared bleating of a sheep. He followed the sound and soon he saw the poor trapped animal. It had wandered into a bramble so thick, it could neither go forward nor backward. It was so scared, and so pitiful, that the boy ran instinctually to its rescue. Without a thought for his own safety, Ewan carefully and skillfully removed the thorny sticks and twigs that stuck fast to the thick woolen coat. Soon he had freed the desperate young sheep from its trap and in shepherd fashion, slung the young lamp around his shoulders, and carried on his trek out of the forest. Before too long he saw sunlight shinning through the leaves and knew he had finally, once again, reached the edge of the Stone Wood. With jubilant heart the young boy ran the rest of the way, and once well into the meadow, he set his rescued lamb back down to earth. But before he let the creature go, he noticed a rather stout stick sticking out of the thick wool. He wiggled and pulled the stick free, and upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a very strange looking stick indeed. It wasn’t exactly crocked as it was curved. The wood was rock hard and hollow. What a fine whistle this stick will make he thought, as he stashed his prize into the pocket of his frock.

The sun rose high in the noon day sky, and the hill side was quiet, as the lazy sheep grazed on the rich grasses there. Ewan took the strange curved stick from his pocket and began to look at it more closely. He blew into one end and a low tone emitted from the other end and he knew at once it was as he expected. The stick was indeed hollow. He decided to try and make a hole in the strange, almost polished wood, so he took out his knife and began doing just that. His sturdy blade easily cut into the wood, and after each hole he made, he would try his whistle. Soon he discovered that he could make musical notes, and he decided his whistle was not a whistle at all, but was turning into a beautiful flute. As he played he noticed the sheep laying down as if to bed, and the more he played the quieter it got until the only sound was the magical notes from the flute. Soon everything around him was fast asleep. Even the birds were nestled in the trees with their heads tucked neatly under wing.

It was then, on a hill side long, long ago that a young shepherd knew he had an enchanted flute. Oh this was indeed a glorious day, for the young boy realized that he could also use his magical flute as weapon against the many animals that threatened his flock. He would never have to worry again if his sturdy staff would be enough against the hungry snarls of the wolf pack. He would never again fear anything, as long as he could play his magical flute.

Ewan played his flute for hours, practicing different songs, and different tones. And the gentle breezes carried the magical tunes past the meadow and into the town. It carried the tunes into the Stone Forest and beyond, into the city, and long before the sun set that day, not a soul was awake, but for one lonely shepherd, one brave and very lonely shepherd.


Thanks for the story Lockie.You can keep up with Lockie at www.poems-and-other-ramblings.webnode.com


Next week, join me for the monthly 4Q Interview when we have 4 questions for Christian Brun, a poet, artist and seasoned traveler. An interesting guy!

Guest writer Susan Toy - 50 Ways to Lose Your Liver

Susan Toy is an author and publisher that lives in Bequia, a tiny island in the Caribbean. She is a tremendous supporter of her fellow writers as well as an exceptional story teller. Her award winning short story below was originally published in The White Wall Review #33. You can read more about Susan and her novel - Island in the Clouds - at www.susantoy.com

50 Ways to Lose Your Liver


The night Grandma died was a liver night, and we were all so engrossed in getting the damn meal finished and over with that, when it actually happened, we didn’t believe at first that Grandma had really left the table – in the permanent sense. 
 Grandma was a lifelong professional hypochondriac. I believe that, as a young girl, she may have aspired to become a doctor; so constantly proclaiming sickness at least got her into the company of doctors. 
And she knew her medicine! This was long before anyone could look up symptoms online, imagining they were dying from any variety of serious 
ailments. We were so used to Grandma’s constant histrionics over her health, always self-diagnosing she was about to pass away…at any moment now…that when it finally did happen, how were we to know she was actually up and dying – for real?  
 A few years before, when Grandpa—God rest his hen-pecked soul—died, my mother felt obliged to move the four of us—her, Dad, my younger sister, and me—into her parents’ much-larger house. Our older siblings, a sister and brother, had already moved away from home, so they were spared those years of “living with Grandma.” They still came to visit, for family dinners, birthdays, holidays, all occasions, but they didn’t have to suffer, day-to-day, listening to Grandma’s complaints about her bones, her gall bladder, her acid indigestion, her eyes, her sick headaches… My younger sister, Sally, and I would place bets with each other as to which would be the malady du jour when joining Grandma every morning at the breakfast table.
 “Oh, Gotta,” she’d greet us. (She was Belgian and still spoke an accented-English sprinkled with Flemish, even after nearly sixty years of living in Canada.) “Oh, Gotta, kinder. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. It was the vater galla.” 
Sally would turn to me and whisper, “Pay up!” 
We never did find out exactly what the problem was with Grandma’s vater galla, or even which part of her body she was referring to, but that seemed to be the most common physical complaint she suffered from. So it was a no-brainer on my sister’s part that she usually won the bet; Sally always picked vater galla. 
Grandma insisted on kissing us both before we went to school, as though that day would definitely be her last on earth. “Say goodbye to me now,” she would moan, a tear in her eye. “I might die before you come home this afternoon.” She’d spent a lifetime expecting her own demise, and as it still hadn’t happened, Sally and I would leave the house, pretty sure we’d be seeing Grandma again at the end of the school day. 
Our brother was the only one who effectively put an end to her bidding him goodbye in the same manner. “Don’t worry, Grandma,” he laughed. “I just bought a new dark suit. If you do die, I have something nice to wear to your funeral.” As the only male heir, who could also escape to his downtown apartment, he got away with being disrespectful.
Mom suffered her remaining parent silently, although Sally and I could see it was wearing thin most of the time. She had been genuinely ill much of her own life, had had several operations, and a brush with cancer. But none of that ever came close to any of Grandma’s imagined problems – at least as far as Grandma was concerned. 
Dad worked in an office on weekdays. Whenever he was home, he’d hide behind the newspaper, rustling its pages every once in a while, clearing his throat, denoting that, while he could hear Grandma’s complaints, he wasn’t going to pay her any attention, no sir!
So Sally, at six-years-old, and me, being ten at the time, the two youngest of the family, were still under the impression we had to at least listen to our eldest member, sympathizing with all her aches and pains.
Besides, she was so happy having an audience that she actually paid us in cold, hard cash. We quickly calculated that, for just a little bit of commiseration on our part, we would eventually become rich!
                                                                     ***
Now Mom, and Grandma, were of generations that grew up believing eating liver once a week was necessary for everyone, not only for growing children. That was a time when liver was the main guaranteed source of iron in a diet. Sally and I didn’t know enough to realize we were probably already taking in enough of the mineral from what was added to milk and boxed cereals. If we’d had any idea that was the case, we might have made more of a protest against our predictable Wednesday night meal of liver, mashed potatoes, and salad. Dad would eat anything, so there was never any point in asking for his support in our efforts to ban liver from the dinner table.

And the liver itself might not have been so bad, had Mom known how to cook it properly. She didn’t. It always had the consistency of cheap shoe leather and the taste of…well, that was the problem – it didn’t taste like anything at all that Sally and I could recognize. Since those days, I’ve heard liver referred to as a “toilet sponge,” which goes a long way to explaining that indescribable flavour. 
We tried, on those dreaded Wednesday-liver-nights, to: claim we weren’t hungry; that we were too sick to eat; had already filled up on after-school snacks; or were thinking of joining a new religion that forbad the eating of liver. But excuses never worked. Mom would give us “that look,” point at our chairs and, without a single word, force us to sit and partake – quietly!
One evening, searching for a laugh, I clutched my abdomen and cried out, “I think I’m getting liver disease!” 
But all that garnered was a slap across the back of my head, and Mother’s snarl of, “Quit fooling around and eat!” 
Sally, her body jiggling the entire time while I suffered, tried so hard not to visibly react. At six, she had already managed to master a near-perfect poker face. 
I devised a method of eating the foul meat that worked for me. Cutting off the tiniest piece possible, I’d completely coat it in mashed potatoes, then stick my fork into the white ball and shove the whole mess as far back into my mouth as I could, way past the taste buds, swallowing immediately so I didn’t need to chew.

That was okay, until Mom caught on and decided to change the vegetable portion on our plates to frozen mixed peas and carrots.
Sally had her own avoidance technique. She ate everything else on her plate first, then quickly gobbled up all the liver at once, washing it down at the end with a full glass of milk. In great satisfaction, she’d turn to me, flash a liver-eating-grin and, holding her palms up and out, would mouth “Finished,” while I still struggled with swallowing the rest of mine. But, then, being the younger of the two, she always got a much smaller portion than I did, anyway, which wasn’t fair at all.
But, thanks to my ingenious sister, after the night Grandma died, we never had to eat liver again.
                                           
                                            ***

Grandma was often in the habit, during dinner, of placing her cutlery on the plate and sitting back, patting her chest with one hand, while saying to no one in 
particular, “Oh, Gotta!” Now that could have meant “Oh, Gotta, the food is good,” or “Oh, Gotta, my indigestion is acting up,” or “Oh, Gotta, the vater galla.” That evening though, I seem to remember her saying, “Oh, Gotta, it’s the liver,” before her head fell to one side, her eyes still open. We all kept eating.
Mom looked over at Grandma first. “Ma, what’s the matter?” She reached out and put a hand on Grandma’s arm, which made Grandma slump over immediately, her face falling forward to rest in the plate of unfinished liver on the table in front of her. 
Slapping a hand across my mouth, I stifled an involuntary laugh. Mom began screaming, which started Sally crying, and Dad tried to calm everyone down. I pushed my own plate away and jumped up from the chair, not sure what to do next. 
Dad checked for a pulse and, yep, sure enough, Grandma had kicked the bucket. All those years of expecting it would happen at any moment, then when it did so—and suddenly, as predicted—we hadn’t had enough time to properly say goodbye. 
Dad phoned for an ambulance. Mom, after pulling a used tissue out of her sweater sleeve, tried to spit-clean the grease and food residue from her mother’s face. Sally was still sitting at the table, next to our now-deceased Grandma, crying. 
“Joanie, look after your sister, will you?” Mom said, while silent tears streamed down her own face.
I helped Sally up from her chair and led her into the living room. “Let’s go upstairs,” I whispered. 

But she shook her head in a defiant No! sitting down on the couch where she had an unobstructed view of the dining room, and of Mom and Grandma.
 
Within ten minutes we heard the siren. Dad opened the front door and ushered the paramedics into the dining room where they quickly confirmed that Grandma was indeed dead. They set out the stretcher and loaded her body on it, covering her face with a sheet. As they lifted, and were about to carry the woman out of her own house for the very last time, Sally jumped up from the couch and cried out, “Mommy killed Grandma! It was the liver!” 
The attendants exchanged a look and rested Grandma back on the floor again. The older of the two said to my parents, “We need to call the police. If there’s any suggestion of wrong-doing in a death, the police need to investigate.” He radioed dispatch and requested police assistance as Mom and Dad flashed each other worried glances.
In the meantime, Dad attempted to console Sally, who was wailing by that time. Mom stood beside the dining room table, silent in her grief, but also glaring in disbelief at her youngest baby who had fingered her for the murder of her own mother.
Once the police arrived, they quickly straightened out the facts of what had happened. 
Dad tried smoothing things over. “Out of the mouths of babes… heh, heh,” he nervously declared.
The policewoman said, “I’m sorry, sir, but there will likely need to be an inquest. That is, unless the cause of death can immediately be determined by a doctor.
 We’ll accompany you to the hospital, ma’am.” She held a hand out to guide Mom towards the front door, but waited while Mom took her coat out of the front hall closet, and grabbed her purse, along with Grandma’s, from the kitchen table.
“I’ll call you when we get to the hospital,” Mom said to Dad, walking out the front door, accompanied by the policewoman, and following behind the paramedics who carried Grandma on the stretcher.
                                             ***
In the end, it was decided that Mom’s cooked liver hadn’t killed Grandma after all; Grandma’s heart had just finally given out. Sally and I claimed her heart probably couldn’t take any more of those weekly feedings of liver, and we were surprised the rest of us hadn’t succumbed to heart attacks long before that night. 
We knew enough, though, not to say anything of the like out loud to our mother; after that night, it was understood – the entire subject of liver was forbidden in our family. 
The following week, once Grandma’s funeral service and burial were over and done with (our brother looking very handsome in his new suit, by the way), Sally and I were overjoyed to discover that pork chops would replace liver on the Wednesday menu from that night forward. 
We smiled across the table at each other that first night as Mom placed the plates in front of us. I gave Sally a two-thumbs-up, just above the edge of the table, and out of Mom and Dad’s sight.
Sally winked at me while mouthing the words Pay up! before tucking into her food.




Please join me next week when  one of my regular guests, Lockie Young, shares another of his entertaining short stories, always a treat.



I am publishing a series of short stories which will be dedicated to my three wonderful grandchildren.

SHORTS Vol.1 is for the oldest, Matthieu Isaac Young.

Available at www.amazon.com.