Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

The Adventures of Mongrel and The Runt – Part 04

25 Thursday Feb 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 29 Comments

Doc's Humber and Rooms

Story and Digital Digital by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Porky was up at sparrow fart, boiling water for his tea before the sun had even topped the hills in the east. The Sunday sky was clear but the westerly breeze, brisker than yesterday, was beginning to turn to the North East. There might be rain later but the prospect didn’t dampen Porky’s enthusiasm. You see, Porky had a plan, and today was the first day of that plan.

He’d eaten a hearty breakfast; eggs, sausages and fat fried tomatoes from his own patch; gulped down the last of his sweet black tea, took a final bight out of a slab of Vegemite toast and headed out the door, down the steps and out to the little shed in the garden that his landlady let him use. Unlocking the padlock he swung the door open and dragged out a hundredweight bag of spuds he’d bought from Mrs. Hatter yesterday. Carefully relocking the padlock, Porky then hefted the bag of spuds up onto his shoulders and took off into the street at a trot. For a couple of hours, as the people of Molong awoke, had their breakfasts, nursed their hangovers, got ready for church or read the papers on their front verandah, a few of them would notice Porky and his bag of spuds still getting along at a trot. Jack Enderby, the retired principal of the Central School was just walking down Edward Street to St John’s for the early service when he came upon Porky and his spuds heading down Bank Street. Porky smiled and winked an acknowledgement of Old Jack’s “G’day” but didn’t stop, his breath coming in hard rasps as he kept up the pace.

Enderby crossed the street, smiling as he came upon the Reverend Gamsby standing in the gateway of St John’s.

“Morning Reuben. Big night last night.” said Enderby. “A fine morning Mister Enderby, and yes, it sure was.” the Reverend replied as they both turned to watch Porky and his potatoes’ puzzling progress down the street. Old Jack had taught both Porky and Reuben at The Central School. Both bright, inquisitive, quick. Both really quite sensitive boys. Of course Porky, like most of the Fairbridge kids over the years, had had to leave The Central School when he was 15. He would have to find himself some other way than education. Reuben, with the love and support of his family, had gone on to University and the Thomas Moore College before returning to Molong, a freshly ensoutaned junior Anglican reverend.

The start of early service was a flexible sort of affair.  With a 7 o’clock kick off, the young Reverend was never certain how many might turn up. Old Enderby was a regular and so far this morning, the only parishioner to show. 7 o’clock had come and passed a few minutes ago but still both men stayed at the gate exchanging small talk, the low early morning sun throwing a bright yellow brilliance over the little town, the bitumen down Bank Street glowing like a golden highway. Though both were devout in their respective ways, both believers with their duty of prayer this Sunday morning, none the less they tarried at the gate enjoying the gift of this wonderful morning.

“The world is surely charged with the grandeur of God”, said the reverend with sincere piety. Old Enderby looked wryly at the young reverend and said somewhat didactically, “You don’t want the Bishop hearing you quote Catholic poets Reuben, no matter how apt the quote”. This brief reprise of their old schoolmaster and student roles gladdened and amused Reuben. He was right. The Bishop wouldn’t like it. For him the reformation was still in progress. He often bitterly called Catholics “papists” and swore in his darker moments that they weren’t to be trusted, that they engaged in irregular religious practises. The Bishop was getting old. It was nonsense of course. Reuben sometimes played cards with the brothers at St Laurence’s. They were fond of a dram and enjoyed their Rugby enormously, but they were good men. They just had a different way of looking at the same thing. In fact the brothers had invited the reverend to join them as they feasted St Laurence O’Toole on November 14. That was only tomorrow week. For Reuben Laurence was a bit too “Irish” as Catholic Saints go, but he’d join the brothers in the ecumenical spirit of the invitation. Besides, Mrs. Delahunty, their cook, was blessed with an uncanny culinary skill. No one refused an invitation to the brother’s table.

Old Jack and Reuben stood side by side not saying much and by a quarter past seven about a dozen or so parishioners had arrived and were milling around the church door. Not quite so many as usual but then it had been a big night in town last night.

“Well I suppose we’d better get in and get started.” said Reuben.

Old Enderby just nodded, “The sooner we get praying the better it’ll be.”

The small flock entered the little brick church and a few minutes later the pump organ could be heard belting out the first hymn. It wasn’t St George’s Day but Reuben did like “Jerusalem” and included it as often as he could.

Down at The Telegraph Mongrel and The Runt had taken off at dawn. Abandoning the sugar bag for a quick belt down to the creek and then over to MacCafferty’s for breakfast out the back door of the butchery. Back at The Telegraph Clarrie and Beryl were getting the guest’s breakfasts ready, checking the kegs in the cellar, cleaning up and wiping down, getting the big linen wash going; all the tasks that usually got left until Sunday. There was no day of rest for a busy publican even if the pub wasn’t open, but he and Beryl and the children always tried to get to the 9 o’clock service at St John’s. Beryl enjoyed the sermons and Clarrie told himself that it was for the kids, Jenny and little Bill. They needed to learn right from wrong.

The truth was that Clarrie’d had a pretty tough war in New Guinea and was a little uncertain about God’s great plan when he got home. He’d been blessed though, and that was how he thought of it, as a blessing; his wonderful loving, hard working wife, mother of his two happy, healthy children. He might have felt uneasy about his faith but he felt at ease siting amongst the people he knew and liked, knowing that they too like him where all hoping for the best and promising in their various prayers to do all they could to make it happen. God might be distant but the genuine sentiments of good people would do Clarrie ‘til God and he worked out their differences.

By the time Clarrie, Beryl, Jenny and little Bill, all in their Sunday best, were making their way up Bank Street to St John’s, Mongrel and The Runt had arrived at the back of MacCafferty’s Butchery. Mongrel gave a scrape on the screen door and barked a few times but there was no reply. MacCafferty was always up and doing by this time. It was odd that he wasn’t here. Mongrel made a quick round of the area between the back door and the small slaughterhouse at the back of the block. MacCafferty was everywhere and Mongrel loved the smell of dried blood. Even though the butcher thoroughly hosed and cleaned the slaughterhouse after each session, the traces were enough for Mongrel’s discriminating nose. It was intoxicating and made him even hungrier. The Runt was taking a drink from a muddy pool in a clay depression by the back door, his eye out for the arrival of MacCafferty with breakfast. A flurry in the breeze kicked up a little dust and brought a new scent to both Mongrel and The Runt. Only feint now, maybe from yesterday, but they both smelled sickness. It was the smell of the building on the hill where humans went when they weren’t right. Where they’d gone with the injured human yesterday. It wasn’t so much a bad place. It was just that sometimes humans who went there came out different or sometimes, didn’t come out at all. They just disappeared. That building fell into a very small category of places that only included one other locale. The fenced field where the humans sometimes buried their own in boxes. Mongrel didn’t like boxes. He’d been put in one when he’d been taken from his mother. If MacCafferty had been taken to that place he could be in trouble. Mongrel barked an urgent call to The Runt. The Runt yapped back and they both set off up the hill towards the Hospital, curiosity just overcoming their uncertainty about the place.

Doc Wardell pulled his dusty Humber into the doctor’s spot out the front of the Hospital. He’d called Gruber at home last evening and arranged for him to come out first thing on Monday morning to check the young patient for more serious head trauma. Wardell didn’t think there was anything to worry about but it had been a severe knock and it was always better to get a second opinion, particularly from an expert; besides it meant an opportunity for a bight of lunch with Gruber who was always intelligent company and offered a more complex and sophisticated world view than was usually on offer in Molong.

Gruber was an Austrian from an established commercial family. He had qualified at Vienna before the war and, being in a reserved occupation, had avoided military service in the Wehrmacht, something that made both him and his family mightily happy. His research work at the clinic in Dresden had been enormously satisfying and as the stories of the early German victories in Europe held the volks in their uplifting grip, Gruber had begun to see a path into his future that involved the seriously psychiatrically ill, particularly those suffering psychosis after significant somatic head trauma. There were a lot of them as the war grinded on. All of that, and the rest of Gruber’s life had been reduced to ashes in February 1945. On that dreadful night of the14th, Gruber’s home and family were incinerated by the allied fire bombing, along with the clinic and most of the rest of the city centre including nearly everyone Gruber had known as he grew up. Gruber had only survived as a result of being called out to assist in the treatment of a wounded soldier at The Albertstadt. This large military garrison had curiously not been on the target list that night and remained largely intact after the bombing. Whenever Gruber mentioned pre-war Dresden, Wardell would feel a twinge of guilt; a small knot would form in his stomach, the cost of victory exacting its price. Dresden, morally, had been a pyrrhic victory. Gruber’s home had been a beautiful medieval city; an historical and architectural gem until Harris and Bomber Command had unleashed that morally ambivalent attack. Almost a decade had gone by and the city was still mostly rubble and cheap concrete. The communists had no interest in restoring its former glory.

After a year or so in a DP transit camp Gruber had escaped to West Germany and finally emigrated to Australia. He was, he said, a new man, having had both his family and the physical presence of the city he grew up in taken from him, he said his slate was wiped and ready for him to write his own story. Gruber was sincere; he was genuinely interested in Australia. It wasn’t central Europe flirting with fascism, with its ossified social and cultural norms, now blown to bits. There were no shadows, no ghosts on the bright sunlit western slopes and plains of New South Wales. Its rawness, newness appealed to him. One of the few places left where a man could make an equitable life for himself he would often say, and in the years he’d been living in Orange and working at Bloomfield he’d become something of an expert on the local volcanic geology and had a far better understanding of the local aboriginal people than just about any other white person west of the Blue Mountains. He affected a kind of “country casual” in his dress and he never wore a tie. He dismissed the hidebound social conventions of his upbringing as an unnecessary impediment to meaningful personal contact, he drove a Holden and he really liked a beer. If it weren’t for his cultured central European accent and the monumental extent of his English vocabulary he might very well pass as an Aussie in any company. As it was he was an amusing confusion to most people he met. Highly respected, albeit from a distance, his enthusiasms and his personal drive marked him out as “not quite like the rest of us”. He was that very rare thing in country Australia, a driven intellectual with the common touch.

Wardell was looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow; but for now he grabbed up his bag and entered the hospital.

There was no one in reception as the doctor turned into the general ward. There by the window was young Algernon; the left side of his head looked like some overgrown eggplant was trying to escape the bandages, all purple shiny bruise under the dressing. As the doctor got a little closer he could see that the young Inspector’s eye was still closed. The inflammation and swelling were still quite severe. He might have to do something about that. Algernon was asleep and the doctor didn’t disturb him.

Instead he went to the next bed where the snowy haired old boy was studiously working his way through the cricket scores and fixtures in yesterday’s Central Western Daily.

“How are ya today Harry? Had any more pain? Doc Wardell said, sitting down on the side of the bed and taking the old boy’s pulse. He checked the flow from the catheter into the bottle hanging from the side of the bed. The urine was slightly discoloured with blood but the malabsorption must have passed. The fluid was free of solids and quite clear. “Looks like we were right to try and dissolve those stones.”

“Yeah, I had a bit of a turn when they brought the young fella in. Bit of excitement for a few minutes but it passed.” Harry didn’t seem fussed.

“If the stones continue to dissolve nicely you can get back to work in a day or two, but you’ll have to stick to the diet I gave you.” Doc Wardell got his serious look on and fixed Harry with his eyes. “Stay away from spinach and no more lashings of rhubarb and custard. Too much oxalate and calcium.” Doc leant in closer and said somewhat conspiratorially, “and you’ll have to find some other tea that you like. That black Indian Char you drink forms stones the size of cricket balls. You won’t be able to piss that problem away!” The doctor quickly looked over his shoulder for Sister MacGillicuddie. She was a terror for bad language.

The old boy looked contrite. He loved his rhubarb and custard, and a good cuppa, but the pain in his “John Thomas” every time he tried to pass one of his stones had finally convinced him he’d have to let it all go. “I’ll be good this time Doc. Promise.” The old boy said.

“Well see that you are.” Said Doc firmly.

Algernon was in the Dandenongs walking down a mossy path, the birds in the trees were discussing rhubarb and custard and drinking tea. A koala was listening to the cricket on a portable radio. The sun came steaming through the trees and Algernon had to turn away it was so bright. Someone was calling his name. He couldn’t open his left eye. That was odd…

Sister gently shook the young inspector awake. “I’ve brought you some tea.” She said putting the cup and saucer on his bedside table. “How are you feeling this morning?

Algernon’s mouth tasted like he’d eaten a hundred miles of dirt road, including the road kill; dry as dust, tasting foul and metallic. The throbbing pounding in his head kicked in the moment he opened his one good eye. He awkwardly grabbed the teacup with both hands, spilling some, and greedily slurped down the tea. “I feel absolutely dreadful,” he said between slurps, “and I’m famished.” He just got the teacup back to the saucer before, “I feel feint, really queer. I’ll just lie down again.” He collapsed back onto his pillow, moaning a little.

Doc Wardell quickly came over from Harry’s bed and picked up the young blokes wrist. “Bit fast.” Said Wardell quietly, taking his ophthalmoscope from his top pocket and holding Algernon’s one good lid open to have a peer inside. “Mmmm. Retina’s alright this side. How’s his pressure Sister?” Sister had applied a BP cuff and was pumping it up. They both paused, looking intently at the sphygmomanometer. “Hundred and ten over sixty five. Astonishing!” Doc Wardell exclaimed looking back at Algernon. “You must be fit as a mallee bull! Take a knock like that, all that healing going on, and your blood pressure’s taking a break.”

Algernon was breathing easier now. Sister released the cuff and folded it together. “That’s clean living Doctor.” She said somewhat archly. “He probably doesn’t smoke, or drink. Keeps himself nice. You should look to his example Doctor, and you too Harry.” She concluded, adjusting her shoulders in a rather prim manner before looking from one man to the other. Harry cringed back in his bed a little, while Doctor Wardell considered himself once again chastised for his behaviour at the hospital Christmas party last year. He’d drunk too much punch and insisted on smoking a huge cigar to congratulate himself on a particularly tricky birth.

“Oh Alice, you know the circumstances. You can be such a prig,” he said gently, “when really you’re quite a generous person.” He smiled intimately at her. “It just doesn’t seem right on you.”

Sister flushed bright pink. She didn’t know what to do or where to put herself. She smiled nervously, just a hint at the corners of her mouth, then turned and briskly walked away.

“Alice”, is that ‘er name? said Harry. “I never knew that. I thought she woulda come with a model number from the Sister factory.” Harry adjusted his pillows and sat up. “Handsome woman though Doc, ay, don’t ya think? A good armful.” Harry raised his eyebrows then winked somewhat lasciviously at Doc Wardell as if to say, “We’re men of the world. We’d know what to do with a big buxom nurse.”

“You’re an evil old bugger Harry”, Doc laughed.

Sometimes though, when he was feeling particularly carefree he would daydream of Alice. She had the most beautiful smile and it melted his heart whenever she chose to show it.

Algernon had listened to all this like it was some radio serial that he’d come in on half way through, though “Blue Hills” didn’t come with head injuries. Maybe he was still a bit concussed.

Doctor Wardell turned to Algernon, “You’ll be fine. Just rest.” The doctor began to fidget with his stethoscope then covered it by saying “I called Gruber last night. He’ll be here tomorrow morning to take a look at you, though I’m pretty certain he won’t find anything wrong. Well, apart from the obvious.” The doctor looked distractedly down the length of the ward. “Look, I’d better go and make sure I haven’t blotted my copybook again with Sister. She’s a marvellous woman, and a, and a great nurse,” he added hurriedly, before rushing after Sister.

Harry watched the Doc depart with a knowing smile on his face. “Haven’t seen ‘im move that quick in a while.” then he leaned over in his bed and said, “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Harry MacCafferty, the butcher.”

That delightful little building up there, which was Doc’s rooms way back when, is currently on the market for under $200,000.00. What’s more the sitting tenant and current owner is willing to lease back on a long term lease. Molong always was a town of opportunity.”

Cyrus: Chapter 16 Part 1

24 Wednesday Feb 2010

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 18 Comments

CYRUS

by

Theseustoo

Chapter 16 Part 1A:

Cyrus had of course occupied Croesus’ palace in the captured city of Sardis, but as he did not wish to cause the holy man any further distress he allowed Croesus to keep his own personal apartments.

But it was from the throne room of Croesus’ palace that Cyrus administered his new province; and it was in this throne room where he received two heralds; one from Ionia and another from Aeolia. The people of these Greek provinces, which had previously been tributaries to Croesus, had heard of the fall of Sardis and had sent these two messengers to try to forestall any desire for vengeance which Cyrus’ may feel tempted to exact for their earlier blunt refusal to join him and rebel against Croesus. Coldly, Cyrus addressed them both,

“So, you have been sent from Aeolia and Ionia to request alliances with me now that I have conquered your master, Croesus. Yet you refused to revolt against him when I offered you the same kind of liberation the Milesians now enjoy. And now that Sardis is conquered and Croesus is my servant, you come to offer me the same terms of fealty you used to have under him. Here is my answer:

There was a certain piper, who was walking one day by the seaside, when he espied some fish; so he began to pipe to them, imagining they would come out to dance for him upon the land. But as he found at last that his hope was vain, he took a net, and enclosing a great draught of fishes, drew them ashore. Then the fish began to leap and dance; but the piper said, ‘Cease your dancing now, as you did not choose to come and dance when I piped to you.’ Now go!”

The terrified ambassadors exchanged fearful glances and, still bowing and scraping, they backed out of the throne room 

***   *****   ***

 

Chapter 16 Part 1B:

The marketplace of Laconia, the bustling capital city of the Spartan province of Lacedaemonia, though it was always busy, was not usually quite so hectic. Spartans despised the whole process of marketing; buying and selling, they felt was demeaning and quite beneath a Spartan warrior. War was men’s business; marketing was for women and slaves. Thus, as a matter of course, this task was usually delegated to Helots, the Spartan slave class which was composed of defeated and captured enemies; or, more accurately, those of their defeated and captured enemies whose relatives and friends could not raise sufficient capital to pay their ransom.

But today even the Helots were surprised by the large number of Spartan warriors who were present. They had come because they’d heard ambassadors had been sent from the Greek countries of Aeolia and Ionia in Asia, and that they were intending to address the populace on an important matter regarding the fall of Sardis. They already knew, of course, of the fall of Sardis; and Spartan spies had reported Cyrus’ interview with the Ionian and Aeolian heralds who had been sent to Persia as suppliants.

It was unusual, thought Pythermus, for a suppliant to make his address in such a mundane situation as a marketplace, but unlike other Greek gods, the Spartan god of war, Ares, would accept no suppliants. In order to solicit the help of Sparta’s superb mercenaries it was necessary to directly address the men who would be required to fight and die in one’s cause. Strange though it may seem, although the Spartans earned their gold by fighting other countries’ wars for them, Sparta was often much more reluctant to go to war than those who desired the benefit of their martial skills.

Perhaps this was partly because they knew that as a result of their fearsome reputation, in any conflict they would inevitably be placed where the fighting would be most fierce, and the most dangerous; and even though they sought ‘euthanatos’, a ‘beautiful death’, yet no man actually wants to die; not even a Spartan.

However, Croesus’ downfall had upset the centuries-long stability the Heraclides had brought to that region; although Croesus was not of that dynasty, but rather of the one which had replaced it, which had put a ‘true’ Lydian on the throne for the first time in centuries. But Croesus’ own dynasty, the Mermnadae, had maintained cordial relations with what were now traditional allies, the Greeks; for eventually the dynastic change wrought by Croesus’ fifth ancestor, Gyges, had been ratified by the Delphic oracle, in spite of its outrageous nature. Thus even Gyges’ murdering his king had not caused any serious or lasting rift between the people of Lydia and those of Greece, and this was most particularly true of their Asian Greek neighbours in Aeolia and Ionia.

As a result of the unusual presence of the greater part of Laconia’s warrior class, the marketplace in Laconia on this particular morning was uncommonly full, despite the bitter winter cold and the effeminate nature of the market-place.

Even Lacrines, who was currently considered by his peers to be one of the most famous of Lacedaemonian noblemen and a genuinely heroic warrior, had deigned to visit the market for this event. Something important, he knew, was happening here and his instincts told him that it would pay Sparta to understand the situation well before allowing Lacedaemonia to commit herself to any particular course of action; regardless of any sympathy they may have for the Asian Greeks’ predicament.

The Aeolians and Ionians had chosen a spokesman by the name of Pythermus. To help focus the crowd’s attention on himself he had donned a purple robe, the colour of which was so bright and beautiful that all who caught a glimpse of it felt an immediate desire to crowd closer to its wearer so they could feast their eyes on the gorgeous garment and hear what its wearer had to say. Quite evidently he was a man of substance; for very few could afford the luxury of the exorbitantly expensive dye which was made with great difficulty from the sea-snails which naked divers risked their very lives to obtain.

Once the crowd had gathered round him, Pythermus held up his arms for silence and began to speak, “Men of Lacedaemonia! Spartans all! Hear me!” he began, “I have come at the bidding of the Ionians and Aeolians to ask for your aid! As you know, Cyrus the Persian has taken Sardis and made the Lydians his subjects. Their king, Croesus, is now his slave. Cyrus has refused our offer of allegiance and is even now threatening the Greek cities in Ionia and Aeolia!”

Lacrines understood very well what this meant; if the Greek cities in Aeolia and Ionia fell to the rising power of Persia, would the Persians be satisfied? Or would they continue to push on through Thrace and Thessaly to invade the Peloponnese? He pushed his way roughly to the front of the huge mob. Taking his place beside Pythermus, he addressed the crowd,

“Fellow Spartans!” he cried, “Pythermus is right! If Ionia and Aeolia fall, Cyrus will grow greedy for the rest of Hellas! Therefore I ask you to help defend these Hellenic countries and in doing so, defend yourselves and all Hellas against the barbarian invaders!”

One of the men in the crowd shouted his response,

“With what men Lacrines…? Half of our forces have been enslaved by the Tegeans after the unexpected defeat we suffered at their hands! Of the other half many are nursing grievous wounds. Better we wait until Cyrus attacks us here and in the meantime build up our forces as best we can! Our men will fight harder to defend their own homes than those of Asian Greeks!”

At this the crowd erupted with shouts of ‘Aye!’ and ‘He’s right!’ It was true; Lacrines knew only too well that Lacedaemonian forces had been considerably reduced by their recent and bloody conflict with Argos over the disputed territory of Tegea. After the disastrous pitched battle in which three hundred Lacedaemonians were killed, they had fought another, major battle and were astonished when they were soundly beaten.

Not only was such a complete defeat of a Spartan army virtually unheard of, but also it was not what they felt they had been led to expect. The oracle of Delphi had promised Sparta that the god would, “…give the Lacedaemonians to dance with heavy footfall in Tegea.”

The Spartans had interpreted this as meaning that they would be granted a great victory; but instead they had been defeated and to add humiliation to defeat, far too many had been enslaved by the Argives. The ‘heavy footfall’ mentioned by the oracle had evidently referred to the clumsy shuffling of their now-enslaved feet, weighed down as they were with heavy fetters and chains of iron as they now toiled in the Tegean fields for their new masters, the Argives.

“Fellow Spartans,” Lacrines said after Pythermus had finished, “you have all heard what Pythermus has said… And we already knew the fate of Sardis, for it fell even as we were preparing to send troops to help our good friend and benefactor, Croesus.” At this mention of Croesus’ name there were nods and murmurs of assent from the crowd, none of whom had forgotten his generosity to them in the past. Lacrines continued,

“There can be no doubt as to Cyrus’ ambitions!” he continued, “Sooner or later we must face him… But since we have heard the voice of dissent, let us put the issue to the vote… Those who say ‘aye’, raise your right hands!” Lacrines raised his own right hand as he said this, but very few among the crowd raised theirs in response.

Disappointed, he turned sadly to Pythermus and his fellow ambassadors as the crowd gradually began to disperse. With the vote cast and the decision made as to their chosen course of action there was no longer any need for them in this Helot-infested marketplace.

Lacrines heaved a heavy sigh, “I’m sorry my friends,” he said sympathetically, “…it looks like the ‘nays’ have it… But I will do what I can… I shall bring a penteconter to the coast of Asia to keep an eye on Cyrus and the Greek cities there; and if the Spartans have any reputation at all for valour perhaps we may at least persuade Cyrus to postpone his plans for Ionia and Aeolia… In the meantime you must do all you can to fortify your cities.”

***   *****   ***

Ask Aunt Mary – The Pig’s Goes Through Agony

22 Monday Feb 2010

Posted by in Ladies Lounge

≈ 58 Comments

Column and Picture by Aunt Mary

Facebook Faux Pas

Dear wonderful nephews and nieces,

Well, your Aunt Mary finally went and did it! She got herself a computer and joined hypercyber revolution as you young ones out there all like to call it. What a brave new eworld this is, dear ones. Not one day was I on the world wide interweb before my box was filled with probing equestions from you all. I have no idea how you all sniffed me out so fast. You poor souls are all so very desperate for Aunt Mary’s counsel, aren’t you? Some times I have to stop and pity each and every darling one of you, I really do. But I know all too well how much you love your Aunt Mary and to be so needed by so many makes me a very happy Mary indeed; dare I go so far as to say it makes me a proud Mary? But enough! I need to keep on rolling down the river, don’t I young nephews and nieces?  Oh, but one more note before I go on, I do need to let you know that it may take me a while to get my elegs under me and find the time in my hectic schedule to ewrite back to you all especially as my little puss-puss has taken sick again and is demanding I pay her constant attention and cater to her every whim this week.

For now, I do want to address one econcern that was sent to me by my dear Nephew Norman. He ewrote:

Dear Aunt Mary, when will you be getting a Facebook page? We do so need your help navigating the treacherous seas of social networking. I have one particular Facebook friend whom I feel I have let go but I really don’t know the best way to do so. I and she, you see, have a history and even though we parted amicably I don’t really want this past dalliance spying on my present. Should I simply cut her off? Or is there a more mannered way for me to move on with my life?

Well, Norman, until I received your enote I frankly had slim to no information about this Facebook fad; but as you know your Aunt Mary is nothing if not resourceful and her razor sharp mind has been finished to a fine edge by years of trial and thus her experience in all matters of social import is second to none. Since receiving your emessage I set out to undertake an investigation of all things Facebook and I now feel adequately prepared to bring succor to your epleadings.

Facebook. Where do I start? Apparently in this 21st century virtual existence of ours this is what passes for social interaction. Tweetering and twitting and bloggering each other ad infinitum et nauseum. Accumulating new friends like sailors contract communicable diseases. Rounding up old friends most of whom we barely even acknowledged during our adolescent years. Pretending to be farmers and gansters and engaging in any number of imaginary games that we should have outgrown as preteens. Not to mention wasting countless valuable hours relentlessly swapping photos and songs and video clips as if we were collectively starved for any and every form of entertainment and doing most if not all of these activities while sitting alone at a keyboard in our pajamas or worse. In short, dear ones, this Facebook addiction has to be a one of the saddest reflections I know of how far we have fallen down the socio-evolutionary scale. If you ask me primates, ants and penguins now officially have more genuine interaction with one another on a daily basis than modern mankind.

But do not allow yourselves to believe that you are suddenly off the hook, dear ones. We cannot allow ourselves to add insult to injury. Just because we have launched ourselves headlong down this path of degeneration does not mean be are beyond reformation. What we have to do is take a stand and demand that our new virtual interactions carry with them the same obligations to social mores that our physical interactions once did.

Here, dear nephew Norman, is what your Aunt Mary strongly suggests you need to do avoid committing any further Facebook faux pas.

For one you have to start considering your online friendships as carefully as you do your offline friendships. Clicking the friend button should be akin to an invitation to a dinner party. One does not simply slam the door on a guest carrying an RSVP. An invited guest is at the very least deserving of an explanation or, if the fault is yours, an apology should the invitation need to be revoked. A reversal or revoking of friendship should never be undertaken on a whim but only carried out after careful reflection and for good and just reasons. As a practical step, nephew, you owe your one-time belle an honest and open explanation for your new found need to remove her from your virtual space. I suggest you send her an enote, or better yet a hand-written letter, that says something along these lines:

“Dear friend, It is clear that we once were closer than we are today and while I still cherish the time we spent together the bond we once had is no longer what it was. For us to continue to share intimacies and have our lives entwined, even in virtual manner, can only tie us to the past and impede our future growth and progress. Regrettably, the only logical way for us both to seek the better good is to cut these ties that bind and move on to a brighter tomorrow. I will in due course remove you from my friends list. I hope you can see that this is the best for both of us because if you continue to seek out a virtual friendship with me I will be forced to block you from my interweb completely. Yours sincerely, etc..

You have no doubt already realized that you have many other current Facebook friends who need to be pared off your dinner list. Really, Norman you actually believe you have the time and will to adequately interact with 238 Facebook friends? I thought not. Here are a few suggestions for trimming your list.

To status twitterers: Dear friend, in the past few hours I have learned that you woke up feeling blue, you made coffee, you watched the today show, you had a change of heart, and you are looking forward to a big evening. Although these events may feel life affirming and/or of vital importance within your small sphere of existence, I have grown weary of your constant status updates and see no other option but to retract my previous invitation of virtual friendship. Yours regrettably, etc..

To the quizaholics: Dear friend, I care not a whit what your pirate name would be or who is your celebrity beau. I am not interested in which Shakespeare character you are or what famous philosopher you most resemble. Because you seem unable to stop posting the results of the latest infantile test you clicked through I will be forced to click the “remove from friends” button immediately after I click send on this email. Yours emphatically, etc..

To the clearly deranged: Dear friend, when I accepted your original invitation of virtual friendship I frankly had no idea you had devolved over the past few decades into a slobbering lunatic. I now see there is no hope of you ever regaining the status of functional adult and so I find I am forced to delete you from my list of friends. I do hope you are unsuccessful in your attempt to secure my address and I warn you ahead of time that should you try to contact me again I will not hesitate to slap you with an order of restraint. Yours blantantly, etc..

I hope you take my response as seriously as I intended it to be received, dear nephew Norman. And before I conclude also consider this…perhaps if you didn’t have quite so many pictures of your drunken excesses and reckless ribaldry plastered all over the interweb you would not be so concerned about snooping eyes in the first place. Perhaps if you were able to show even a modicum of restraint in your virtual life you would not feel so compelled to toss your guests from the party willy-nilly. The old adage still applies dear ones. What you refrain from showing is ever more appealing than what you do.

Until next time dear nephew and nieces, nosce te ipsum and also know that Aunt Mary loves you to pieces…almost as much as she adores her sickly little puss-puss.

EDITORS NOTE: IF YOU HAVE A QUESTION FOR AUNT MARY WHY NOT POST IT AS A COMMENT?

Untitled, uncertain, undeniably Simcard

20 Saturday Feb 2010

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Julian London

≈ 73 Comments

Story and Photographs by Julian London

Simcard Keelty felt particularly surefooted ‘aujourd’hui’, as he shadowed his nemesis Foodge.

He walked with a jaunty air that he was certain made him blend in with ‘Les Parisiennes’ on this sunny Friday. He had alighted at Gare Saint Lazar, smug in the knowledge that he had given the biggest tip of the day to the well known ‘train violinist’, who plied his trade on the St Germaine en-Laye route. He chuckled at the thought of Tony Negus reminding him to be frugal with his OAFS (overseas advanced funds).

He knew that Foodge had a liaison booked with a mysterious swarthy character, code named ‘The ditch’… He wasn’t 100pc sure, but rumour had it that it was bastardisation of his last name, which in turn  was nicked from that unsalubrious London Suburb where James Burbage had built the first ‘Theatre’. Of course Simcard was too thick to know this, but he had read it in the profile.

Anyway, he meandered through Place de La Madeleine (named after that saintly GM hunter), keeping ‘The Foodge’ about fifty paces ahead. Only stopping to take a photo of  the GM’s neo-classical temple . Mrs. Simcard would be able to show it around at her truncheon parties.

After a couple more twists and turns he spotted ‘The Foodge’ taking a turn off Rue Saint-Honere into Rue de Saussaies.

Simcard approached the turning gingerly, in case he had been made. But he hadn’t however— and he spotted his quarry making a secretive gesture through the window of a restaurant—then going in the front door, without even reading the menu.

Simcard was starving and thought wistfully of  his OAFS burning a hole in his new RJ Williams moleskins.  Well the hunger emboldened him and knowing that his thick moustache and tam-o’-shanter disguise would shield him, he sidled up to the door of Le Griffonnier and devoured the menu with his eyes. He spotted The Foodge, and the back of what he took to be The Ditch— and decided that discretion was more prudent than salivation, so headed back to the corner, from where he could see the Élysée Palace, the President’s official residence.

Anyway, after an eternity the bastards came out and Simcard dutifully followed once more. Down to The Champs-Élysées, past The Theatre Marigny and on to the wide side walk.

Here his quarry shook hands with The Ditch and took off across  The Champs-Élysées at the crossing, leaving Simcard a conundrum. Who should he follow?

Well having a penchant for capturing bearded men, he decided to take a couple of shots of the fast disappearing private dick . This he did and managed to get two. One  outside of  the escalators to the Clemenceau Metro and another through some traffic as Foodgie hurried past The Grande Palais, now an Art Gallery.  Simcard then turned his attention to The Ditch, and started following him. Hoping that he wasn’t too far behind the swarthy stranger in the wine coloured tee shirt with the odd writing on it…….to be continued…maybe!

Foodge 9 – My Boyfriend’s Back – and other bits

18 Thursday Feb 2010

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 24 Comments

Breakfast at the Pig's Arms

Recently ……

Things were taking a turn for the worse.  I’m tagging along by “special invitation” with O’Hoo – a speed-balling cop/Russian Mafia double agent in search of a one-armed drink-spiking priest called Sandy.  I was a bit distracted.  I’d forgotten about Trotsky.  And I had nearly forgotten about my appointment with the blonde Miss Anne Thropy…..

O’Hoo only needed to look at the door and Pi , ah, squared up to it and let O’Hoo and me loose into a circle of light – the outside world.  It was some time in the day, I guess.  Not being dark.

I was really getting on top of situational analysis and I sensed that the blue Zephyr had, horse-like, made its own way over to meet with us and carry me home.  There’s a crime-fightin pecking order and a private dick ranks below a bent cop, apparently and so I took the wheel and O’Hoo took a swig from his hip flask.  The warm and inviting waft of a morning refresher of Bundy filled the car.  I looked like an old trusty but O’Hoo looked like he didn’t recognise sharing as a virtue.

I punched the radio button.  The radio said “Hey now, hey now, my boyfriend’s back !”.  I didn’t need to look at O’Hoo to know that he was a golden silence passenger.  I thought that the recent return of somebody’s boyfriend had better take a back seat.

I was driving in the general direction of away (Clue !) and I was aspiring to some kind of direction from O’Hoo, figuring that he was not out taking the airs for his health.  “Listen”, I said, “As much as I value your fun and generous companionship, I was wondering why it is that we’re going for a spin this moment”.  I was also wondering about our tattooed arse cheeks, but O’Hoo looked like he naturally gagged question time.  One inquiry would have to do for now.

“I’d kill for some of granny’s bacon, eggs and beans over at the Pig’s – wouldn’t you ?”.  I wouldn’t have killed for granny’s bacon eggs and beans, but I’m fairly certain that O’Hoo would – and probably had.  “Absolutely!” I somehow agreed, turning left off the Erskineville turnpike and down a laneway that had featured in one of Archie Roach’s ballads about Charcoal.

I was in a maze of small twisty little passages and I knew we were close to the pub because I could smell the acrid nasal assault of a combination of bacon, eggs, beans and burning hedge.  That’s the best way to find the Pig’s Arms.  Sniff for hedge and follow your nose.

The local kids were wagging school.  Unusual!?  I lied questioningly to myself.  I knew we were inside the gravitational field of the pub when I saw more kids in the car park, shooting butterflies with their shanghais.

And there at the back of the car park was Jail, deep in discussion, commercially engaged with Hedgie.  Hedgie is a Hell’s Angle with a horticultural bent.  There is a rumour that he got his nickname because he has spiky hair, but the congoscenti (those who can even smell the Congo through a doco on their TV sets) believe that “the Hedge” is deeply acquainted with the cultivation of decorative hemp plantations for aesthetic, commercial and recreational porpoises.

O’Hoo rolled down the window of the Zephyr and instructed Jail to have sex.

I edged the Zephyr next to a couple of 44 gallon drums of eyebrow hair.  Just out of range of the kids and their shanghais and O’Hoo and I headed for the Pig’s dining room, with Jail trailing along like shit on a sheep’s bum.

“We’ll have the lot with the lot, thanks granny”.  O’Hoo pretended to not hear the question that might have otherwise nourished Jail.  It was going to one of those days for Jail, who had managed to find a lower rung on the crime fightin’ peckin’ order than me.

Merv served us two glass canoes of Trotter’s Ale and a chaser of JW Black as palate cleansers before Manne emerged with a couple of granny Michelins worth of breakfast.  The eggs were round with yellow centres surrounded by a ragged white edge.  The beans were tiny round footballs swimming in red slurry.  The square slabs were either tiles or toast.  That meant that the other stuff was more than likely the bacon.

I was relieved to see O’Hoo using cutlery and the sting of the JW Black gave me some reassurance that I’d be reasonably protected from the first wave of microwildlife safari known as the “Pig’s Arms Big Brekkie Special”

Merv came over with the second flotilla of glass canoes and with a wry smile, took his life in his large hairy hands and asked “How are the Bottom Twins, today ?”

Home of the Brave. Land of the Free.

13 Saturday Feb 2010

Posted by in Susan Merrell, The Public Bar, Travels

≈ 20 Comments

The Loved One

The Loved One on the Los Angeles to San Francisco Train

By Susan Merrell

It was a year ago, almost to the day that I first travelled to the United States.  It was President’s Day weekend (third Monday in February) when the plane landed in Los Angeles. It was the first Presidents’ Day where the White House incumbent was black. So, did the election of Barack Obama to the most powerful position in the country, if not the world, signify that racial prejudice and the white superiority complex was a thing of the past in America?  Did it hell.

Not a cloud was in the sky the Saturday morning we left Los Angeles for San Francisco. From the warmth of our train carriage you could be forgiven for thinking it was summer. It wasn’t. The temperature was hovering around freezing. The weather in stark contrast to what it appeared to be – as, we found, were so many other things here.

It had taken only a few hours on US soil to ascertain certain vital things. Like ‘regular’ coffee is undrinkable. If you really want to drink the coffee rather than just use the cup for warming your hands, ask for ‘espresso’. Neither is there such a thing as a ‘small’ size. Small equates to large and the sheer volume of liquid in a ‘large’ could break the drought in country Victoria.

Having only one night in LA, the ‘loved one’ and I spent it at the theatre. Playing was a musical comedy, Minskys at the Ahmanson Theatre in downtown Los Angeles – just a pleasant stroll from our hotel. Pre-theatre, we’d dined at a charming French Bistro nearby.

In the theatre foyer during interval, we amused ourselves people watching. Americans speak English, but not as we know it.

“Where yer headed?” for instance, was a question that would stump my husband time and time again.

“He wants to know where you’re going,” I’d translate.

But, be that as it may, things in LA had a certain air of familiarity grace of our televisions and movie screens. And some of those television characters were right there in that foyer. I swear, if I’d only heard her voice and not seen her face to convince me otherwise, I could easily have believed that the actress who played Robert’s mother-in-law in Everybody Loves Raymond was in that theatre foyer. You know the one – she has a high-pitched, little girl’s voice. Her voice so exaggerated that you’d think nobody could really speak like that. Wrong.

There was something disconcerting about this theatre audience that we couldn’t immediately quite put our finger on. Ditto the congenial crowd at the bistro. In a ‘light bulb’ moment it came to us. Almost everyone was white. (The exception was a couple of Rastafarians sitting in front of us at the theatre.) Where were all the dark-skinned Americans?

It’s not surprising that we, as Australians, took so long to become aware of their absence as, grace of the now defunct ‘White Australia Policy’, (Australia’s very own substantial contribution to racial discrimination) Australia’s contingent of dark skinned people, especially African, is still not large.  There’s no expectation that we will encounter many in our everyday lives.

But African/Americans make up 13.5% of the population of the US and that night in Los Angeles, African-Americans were grossly under-represented in the few places we’d been: a four-star hotel, an upmarket French Bistro and the theatre.

The next day, in the early hours of Saturday morning, cocooned in our warm, comfortable taxi en route to Union Station we found the missing Americans.

The taxi meter had not clicked over very far when mean streets replaced the congenial boulevards of downtown LA. They were bustling with humanity unlike the still empty weekend streets surrounding our hotel. Clearly homeless, these people were wrapped in blankets against the cold. It seems when you’re homeless and it’s freezing sleeping late is not that desirable.

And it was very cold. Warm breath turned white when it made contact with the icy LA morning. People blew this warmth onto their hands to thaw out rigid fingers. They were queuing. I don’t know why. Perhaps for food, perhaps for work. There were few Caucasians. Poverty and skin colour seemed to be bedfellows in downtown Los Angeles.

To give further credence to this developing theory, in our first class cabin on board the train to San Francisco all were Caucasian.

Notwithstanding this, the people with whom we struck up a conversation were nice, decent, friendly people…except…when we started to talk politics their necks grew increasingly red.

They had an evangelical approach to democracy.  Wishing to impart their beliefs worldwide they favoured doing so whether the recipients of their largesse wanted it or no.  It was their justification in advocating the right – nay the duty – of America to intercede in global skirmishes and, if necessary, to invade other sovereign nations. “It’s for their own good, you know.”

Opinions were resolute even after I’d identified myself as an Australian journalist and asked if I could record the conversation and quote it in future articles. They were delighted to cooperate and it wasn’t too long into the conversation that I realised their ease in expressing their prejudice had a lot to do with the colour of my skin.  They’d assumed because I was white I was simpatico.

The scenario was akin to the episode in Sacha Baron-Cohen’s Borat movie where a bunch of young American men’s reactionary views escalate into something grotesque with the encouragement of Borat and alcohol. I wasn’t encouraging them, in fact I struggled to remain neutral, to rein in my often shocked reaction in order to let their voices through.

Only one of my co-travellers suspected that I might in the future betray them in print.

“You’re going home to tell of these cock-sure Americans. I bet,” he said to me as he left the club carriage. Bingo!

Hell Hospital: Episode 7 – Christmas (Part 2)

12 Friday Feb 2010

Posted by in Hell Hospital

≈ 32 Comments

By theseustoo

There are moments of spiritual certainty bordering on epiphany, in which, acting on compassion and from the most noble movements of the heart, one senses that whatever one can do to help a particular individual, group or cause, that it is most certainly the right thing to do, regardless of the outcome, or the cost. Paula’s generous impetuosity with the air-conditioner, aided and abetted by George, the Greek janitor, was just such a moment. As little Emily gleefully enjoyed the sight of a pretty snowstorm in her ward, Paula knew without a shadow of a doubt she had done the right thing… whatever happened next, it was worth it to see the smile on Emily’s face!

But once the ‘fault’ with the air-conditioners had been found and fixed there was still all that snow to deal with. All the children in the ward had to be kept warm with heated blankets as temperatures gradually returned to normal and the snow was cleared away by a team of cleaners, who eventually agreed to do the extra work for a 50% increase to their usual Christmas penalty rates. However, by the time the negotiations had finished, in spite of their best efforts, the snow could not be cleared away before much, if not most of it had melted; and the resulting water, as is its wont, flowed downhill…

The Children’s Ward was on the first floor, just above the reception area. The receptionist, a remarkably diminutive yet cheerful girl with the unlikely name of Candy, first noticed it when a drop or two of water landed on a sheet of paper she was printing out, smudging the ink; wiping it only made the smudge worse; she would have to reprint it, she thought.

Then it occurred to her to look up to where the water was coming from; the ceiling was all wet and water was dripping from it quite rapidly now… Suddenly the plasterboard of the ceiling, simultaneously soaked, weighted down and structurally weakened by the water from Paula’s snowstorm, gave way and allowed a deluge of water to drench Candy, the printer, photocopier, filing cabinet and the reception’s computer station, which now seriously malfunctioned, emitting dangerous electric sparks, as the water continued on its way to the basement, where it finally ended up as a pool of water a few inches deep in the morgue after compromising the morgue’s lighting and refrigeration…

***** ******* *****

When Loreen had seen Paula and George walking off arm in arm, she thought at first that perhaps Paula now fancied the janitor and had given up on Swannee. For a brief moment she was jealous of what she imagined was Paula’s new conquest, but then realized that this was something different… she’d overheard them talking about George’s grand-daughter and dolls or something; Paula was obviously trying to scam the janitor for his help in some scheme or other. She wondered briefly what it was all about, but then realized that without Paula’s presence there was no competition; she had done her homework and knew that Swannee would be coming off duty for his lunch break in less than ten minutes’ time; the field was clear… and since the packet of Viagra which she’d ordered from the internet had arrived in that morning’s post, she was ready for him! The Viagra would overcome this or any man’s indifference, she thought lecherously as she plotted her seduction.

***** ******* *****

Catherine Swan would have made an excellent girl-scout; she was always prepared. After giving birth to ten children, she knew the whole routing inside and out and had had her ‘hospital bag’ prepared since the eighth month of her pregnancy. No longer fooled by any false contraction, she instantly recognized the real thing when it happened. She instantly instructed the eldest boy to phone the hospital for an ambulance and the eldest girl to fetch lots of towels from the bathroom as her waters broke even as she was giving her eldest son his instructions. Of course, the baby would have to come now, wouldn’t it? Now, while Swannee, her husband was at work, doing all the overtime he could to feed the cricket team… Such a good man, she thought as the second-eldest boy dragged her bulging suitcase out to the front door and the doorbell rang just as the lad arrived, in time to open the door for the ambulance man, who turned out to be an old friend of sorts; one of St Helvi’s longest-serving ambos, he had been privileged to drive Catherine to the hospital for the delivery of at least half of the cricket team, including her first.

“G’day, Mrs Swan! Nice to see you again… How many will this be?”

“G’day Harry… nice to see you again too… how’s the wife? This’ll be the eleventh!”

“Good Lord!” Harry exclaimed, “They know what causes that now, you know!”

“Oh! You are awful!” Catherine joked as she clambered into the ambulance and son number two pushed her suitcase in after her.

“John,” she said to the eldest boy, “you look after the kids while I’m away won’t you? You know what to do? Daddy should be off-shift in about four hours’ time… There’s plenty of food in the fridge…”

John merely nodded; he’d been through this all before… more than once!

As the ambulance started to drive away, Catherine suddenly turned to Harry, who rode with her in the back of the ambulance, and said, “I wonder if I might have a chance to see Swannee on the way to the delivery room…” as the staff canteen where he worked was right next door to the maternity ward; “I need to remind him to get plenty of disposable nappies on his way home.”

“No worries missus! Long as you think you’ve got enough time before the bub arrives, we can make a quick stop at the caff…”

***** ******* *****

Cyrus: Chapter 15, part 6

10 Wednesday Feb 2010

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 23 Comments

Theatre at Delphi

Cyrus

by

Theseustoo

Usually only a single herald was sent with enquiries for the oracle at Delphi. However, in this particular instance Croesus wisely sent two; each to guard the other, in case either the Pythoness or perhaps even the god himself should decide to avenge themselves for what Croesus realized might very well be taken as an impertinent question. Neither gods nor their priestesses, Croesus knew, took kindly to impertinence. Croesus was not afraid for himself, however, indeed he was perfectly willing to suffer whatever punishment the gods may decide to inflict on him, but he felt it would be unjust if their anger were to be vented on these innocent messengers.

Another unusual aspect to this particular expedition was the absence of any of the usual gifts of gold, silver or purple which traditionally accompanied such an enquiry. Although Croesus had reminded his heralds that Lydia had just been granted permanent exemption from all fees by the Pythoness herself, they nevertheless still felt nervous; especially when they considered the nature of the question they were now obliged to put to the most powerful oracle in the world. Thus it was two extremely nervous Lydian heralds who arrived all too soon at the sacred shrine of the oracle.

The Pythoness had been gracious enough to grant them an audience immediately. Her imposing presence terrified the two trembling heralds as, with her white arms wreathed in living snakes and her eyes flashing with the internal fires of infinite knowledge and infinite wisdom, the demi-goddess descended the thirteen marble steps which rose to the dais from which she habitually consulted the gods of the abyss which yawned beneath her; and from which they spoke to humanity, directly through her.

The vocal utterings with which, in an entranced state, the Pythoness transmitted the will of the gods of the abyss were totally incomprehensible to mere mortals, however. First, they were translated and the words recorded by a priestess and then filed in the Tablet House, after a copy of the original had been made to give to inquirers. It took many years of education to learn how to interpret this godly language; many more years of arduous studying and meditation before any candidate could even hope to be considered as eligible for one of the few exalted positions of Student of the Oracle; and many, many more years of study, meditation and also waiting patiently until the incumbent Pythoness dies before one of these rarest of mortal individuals was chosen as her replacement. Thus, regardless of who the incumbent was, the Pythoness was always a most formidable and highly imposing person.

The Pythoness was not presently entranced however and, with an effortless grace she descended from her sacred raised dais towards the two trembling messengers, to whom her manner seemed haughty and severe; as indeed, they would have expected from a goddess.

The unusually intelligent consciousness in her eyes; the way they seemed to look not at, but through people, as if she saw not only their outer personal appearance, but also inside them to the very depths of their souls, added to the mystique which adorned the Pythoness like glamour itself; a magical aura which emanated from her very person. The Pythoness knew the effect her highly cultivated and refined manners and appearance had on people; indeed she always carefully stage-managed her interviews to achieve exactly that effect; although she was sometimes a little surprised at the extent to which some of her visitors were affected by it.

Nevertheless, this glamour was a very useful tool, and the Pythoness, after a lifetime of training, used it with great skill. In the current circumstances, this too, only added to the fear the Pythoness’ imposing presence was generating in the hearts of Croesus’ quaking messengers as she waited in silence in front of, and a few steps above them, for their question. Nervously, the bolder of the two heralds looked up into those intense emerald-green eyes and, with as much courage as he could summon up, said in a quavering voice,

“Our master, Croesus of Lydia, wishes to enquire if you are not ashamed of having encouraged him to begin a war with Persia of which these were the first-fruits?”

As he spoke he took the shackles with which Croesus had been bound from a large leather wallet he carried slung over his shoulder, and tossed them at the Pythoness’ feet. Then, with a kind courage of which only the powerless are capable, he continued bravely, “…and if it is the Greek gods’ habit to be ungrateful?”

The dark look the Pythoness now gave him withered the fearful messenger who now cringed and cowered before her, afraid for his very life. But the words which came from her mouth next astonished him; as did the tone in which they were uttered, for it was not harsh or angry and recriminating, but kind and gentle and not at all what he had expected:

“It is not possible” the Pythoness began softly, “even for a god to escape the decree of destiny…”

Where the messengers had been expecting anger at the impertinence of their question, there was only understanding; and a gentle explanation as, seeing the puzzled expressions which now replaced the immediately relieved expressions which had briefly appeared on their altogether astonished faces, the Pythoness continued her explanation:

“Croesus has been punished” she said, “for the sin of his fifth ancestor, Gyges, who, when he was one of the body-guard of the Heraclides, joined in a woman’s fraud and, slaying his master Candaules, wrongfully seized the throne.”

The heralds were familiar with the story; indeed it was the foundation story of their own, until very recently, independent nation of Lydia; Gyges, their first truly Lydian king, had been persuaded by Candaules’ wife to kill her husband, the last king of the Greek Heraclides dynasty. This was her revenge on her husband, Candaules, who had outraged his wife and queen when he had secretly displayed her naked body to Gyges as a result of Candaules’ own excessive admiration for her beauty. That explains, the heralds now thought to themselves, why such an indisputably holy man as their master, Croesus, had suffered such a reversal of fortune; as the now unusually un-entranced and remarkably garrulous Pythoness continued,

“Apollo was anxious that Sardis should not fall in the lifetime of Croesus, but be delayed to his son’s time; he could not, however, persuade the Fates. All they were willing to allow he took and gave to Croesus. Let Croesus know that Apollo delayed the taking of Sardis for three full years, and that he is thus a prisoner three years later than was his destiny. Moreover it was Apollo who saved him from the fire. Nor has Croesus any right to complain about the oracular answers he received. For when the god told him that if he attacked the Persians he would destroy a mighty empire, he ought, if he had been wise, to have sent again and inquired which empire was meant, that of Cyrus or his own.” At this point the Pythoness’ voice darkened several shades, “But if he neither understood what was said, nor took the trouble to seek further enlightenment, he has only himself to blame for the result.”

The messengers, now immensely relieved that their lives were no longer in any apparent danger, quietly nodded their understanding of the Pythoness’ explanation. The one who had spoken earlier was about to enquire about the meaning of the mule in her prophecy but she apparently divined what he was about to say, for she interrupted him, silencing him with a single raised finger as soon as he opened his mouth, and gave him the answer to his question before it was even asked:

“Besides,” she said as the herald gaped like an astonished goldfish, “he misunderstood the last answer which was given him about the mule. Cyrus was that mule! For the parents of Cyrus were of different races; and of different conditions.  His mother was a Median princess; the daughter of King Astyages; and his father a Persian and a mere subject, who, though so far beneath her in all respects, had married his royal mistress.”

When the messengers returned to Sardis to report the Pythoness’ answer to Croesus, their one-time king accepted it with a quiet and resigned patience which several centuries later, the Greeks would come to call ‘stoicism’. Addressing Apollo, the god of prophecy, who had saved him from the fire, Croesus poured a libation in his honour; as the one-time king now sighed a brief prayer of repentance,

“Alas! Now I can see clearly all that I could not see before; the fault is my own and not the god’s…”

***   *****   ***

Cyrus had, of course, occupied Croesus’ palace in the newly-captured city of Sardis, but as he truly did not wish to cause this holy man any further distress he allowed Croesus to keep his own personal apartments.

But it was from the throne room of Croesus’ palace that Cyrus administered his new province; and it was in this throne room where he now received two Greek heralds; one from Ionia and another from Aeolia.

The people of these Asian-Greek provinces, both of which had previously been tributaries to Croesus, had just heard of the fall of Sardis and had sent these messengers to try and forestall any desire for vengeance which Cyrus’ may feel tempted to exercise for their earlier blunt refusal to join him in his rebellion against Croesus. They had started by offering him an alliance on the same terms as they had held under Croesus…

Coldly, Cyrus addressed them both,

“So, you have been sent from Aeolia and Ionia to request alliances with me now that I have conquered your master, Croesus. Yet you refused to revolt against him even when I offered you the same kind of liberation the Milesians now enjoy. And now that Sardis is conquered and Croesus is my servant, you come to offer me the same terms of fealty you used to have under him. Here is my answer:

There was a certain piper, who was walking one day by the seaside when he espied some fish; so he began to pipe to them, imagining that they would come out to dance for him upon the land. But as he found at last that his hope was in vain, he took a net, and enclosing a great draught of fishes, drew them ashore. Then the fish began to leap and dance; but the piper said, ‘Cease your dancing now, as you did not choose to come and dance when I piped to you.’ Now go!”

The terrified ambassadors exchanged fearful glances and then, bowing and scraping obsequiously and repeatedly they hurriedly backed out of the throne room.

***   *****   ***