9. the suspicions of sabine

by emily de villaincourt

illustrated by rhoda penmarq, konrad kraus and roy dismas

click here for previous chapter, here to begin at the beginning

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

... there had only been a low hum of conversation, but suddenly it stopped.

10. the losers

fenwick - 5. good souls, fellow creatures and chums

by minette de montfort

illustrated by roy dismas

special thanks to Prof. Dan Leo for his editing efforts

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click here to begin fenwick

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one day, or so we are told, the sun will disappear. or burn out. or something like that. disappear, burn out, is there a difference? strange to say, such considerations often occupy my mind. often occupy it for quite long stretches of time in fact, quite irrespective of my surroundings or my so-called circumstances. and did even when i was a schoolboy, much to my discomfort at the hands of my schoolmates. i was forcefully reminded of the imminent - or perhaps not so imminent disappearance or burning out of the sun, as the case may be - by the said sun's most forcefully beating down on my head as i stood by the side of the road to b----------, watching the disappearing form of fenwick as he strode forcefully, without so much as a look back or a by your leave, in good - nay perfect form, one foot in front of the other, first the left, then the right, absolutely the proper form to take a walk or for that matter even an evening stroll - though as i previously indicated it was far from evening, with the sun, which showed no sign at all of burning out or disappearing, banging down on my poor head - only nominally protected as it was by my hat - not a bad hat, quite in the latest style inasmuch as i was able to judge of such things, but hardly a pith helmet or up to the task of doing a pith helmet's work if it comes to that, fenwick as i said heading down toward the horizon and over it on his way to b--------------, there to enjoy a glass at the hostage and crawfish - was that really the name of the pub - the hostage and crawfish? - to be sure i had not written it down when he pronounced it, hardly thinking it necessary at the time, even if i had a pen and paper handy, and i am not one of those gentry who find it necessary to burden myself with those appurtenances when i am only going for my morning walk, the hostage and crawfish, yes, a singular name, but perhaps not for the town of b------------, for who knows what sort of name they find proper or useful, and it did to the best of my poor memory seem to be the name fenwick had indicated, and who was i to doubt him? who was i doubt him? indeed. i had my pressing concerns to occupy myself. such as - who was i, and what was i doing here on the side of this dusty road, so far, so far from my nicely kept - small to be sure, but very nicely and neatly kept room in mrs flanagan's rooming house - a good soul, mrs flanagan, a good soul, everyone agreed she was a good soul - and she charged a reasonable rent, yes a very reasonable rent, as she was a good soul, yes a good soul, whatever were the precise definition and wider implications of that term, she was always lighting candles, she must have been a good soul. and i - was i a good soul? i could not recall anyone ever applying that singular terminology to myself - but then, who knows what one's fellow creatures - curious term that, "fellow creatures", even more curious than "good soul" when you stop to think about it - who knows what one's fellow creatures think of oneself at any given moment in time or if they think of one at all, eh? unless you happen to be the lord mayor or standing for election to parliament, and the citizenry are encouraged to write scathing letters to the irish times about your moral character and fitness for high office and the letters are actually printed - so they must have taken some thought - but about your moral character and fitness for office, which is not the same as one's actual "self", is it? let alone your soul, good or not as the case may be. and then the lord mayor or the prime minister of ireland or the king of sweden could fall down and break their necks and no one would give them a thought any more or write letters to the irish times or the times of london or le monde - perhaps one final round of particularly fiery missives saying good riddance. as for me, i never give the lord mayor or the prime minister a thought. where was i? the sun. i was wondering about the sun, if it would ever stop burning. not today, i decided forcefully - insofar as i was capable of forceful thought, or indeed of any kind of forceful behavior, physical or mental. "physical" or "mental" indeed - another consideration to stop the brain for indefinite stretches and cause it to stare through the vacant eye into vacant space until rudely recalled to one's so-called "surroundings". but do they really surround one? are they not filled with holes through which the abyss gan be glimpsed? glimpsed? fenwick. i had no more glimpse of fenwick. unlike the sun, he had quite disappeared. over the hill - actually over a very flat horizon, a very flat horizon indeed - and far away. the madness of following him - what had possessed me, what had possessed me to think i could relieve the neverending tedium of my wretched existence for even one day, for even one tentative sally forth from the implacable round of my assigned and appointed routines. it was time to go back to town. or was it? had fenwick said he would stand me a pint at the hostage and crawfish? did i want a pint? did i want to see fenwick again? here at least, were questions i could answer. i turned around. i looked back down the road. i recognized none of it. it looked very long. had i really walked down it? why? oh, why? i heard a voice. "help me." it was costermayne. i had forgotten about him. "help me." i stepped behind the bushes where fenwick and i had dragged him and looked down at him. fenwick had indeed been justly judicious about his own marksmanship, as there was a hole the size of a half crown in costermayne's forehead. "help me." costermayne looked straight up at me. i hardly knew what to say. "you seem in rather poor shape, costermayne. with that great bloody hole in the middle of your head." "muggleton - muggs - good old muggs. my dearest chum." his voice was surprisingly clear. "i hardly think we were 'chums,' costermayne. though it was a long time ago." "ah, you forget. but there is nothing like a bullet in the brain to sharpen one's memories. help me, muggs! at least help me up!" i looked back over my shoulder at the now enticing road. "and if i help you up, can you walk?" "no, no, you must help me! we were chums, muggs, like brothers! i mean, a brother is only flesh and blood, but chums were lads together, isn't that splendid, ha ha! help me here, and we will share a good laugh together some day, over a pint!" "yes, but can you walk? i can't carry you." "no, no need for that. just let me sit up. and then you can go for help." "back to town?" "no, no. only to my cousin's castle - castle morwyn," "there is no castle around here." i was beginning to feel dizzy, and was certain that the bullet in his brain had affected costernayne's judgment. "yes, yes, it is just behind that great hedge there, and over the moor. castle morwyn - filled with morwyns. old morwyn, young morwyn, admiral morwyn, reverend morwyn - plenty of morwyns! a morwyn to suit every taste! " "in a bloody castle?" "well, they call it a castle. it's a building, a building. the years could have been kinder to it. not exactly a schoolboy's notion of a castle, or an american's. come, muggs, there's a good chap, it is not even a mile away!" "on the other side of the hedge you say? can they give me a glass of water?" "water? ha, ha! a glass of whatever you desire, old fellow! old morwyn will blow the cobwebs off his fabled wine cellar for you. i guarantee it! or he will feel the rough edge of my tongue, that he will, ha ha!" i sighed. i noticed a shadow at my feet. was it my imagination, or was the day finally beginning to wane? 6. the castle

gertrude - 4. witches and friends

by dorine de santos

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin gertrude

click here to begin the 14th princess

the sky grew darker but the rain held off. gertrude and denise continued to shear the sheep. denise gradually grew quieter as gertrude made few replies except nods and grunts to her flow of talk. they were almost done. denise stopped and stared at the methodically working gertrude. "well, i must say you do an excellent job. fast, and right down to the hide too! and look how quiet they hold for you! how you do it?" "they are my sheep." "yes." "they are used to me." "i suppose so. but - ha, ha! if sister louise saw you she would say you were bewitching them! what do you think of that?" "i am not a witch." "oh, i should hope not! but at least you know what a witch is, eh? i half expected you to say you did not know what a witch is. that is your answer to half the things i say to you, ha ha." "i know what a witch is." "who told you what a witch was?" "the old woman talked about witches sometimes." "oh, she did, did she! i do not suppose she was a witch herself, was she? ha, ha!" gertrude thought a bit before answering. "she was not a witch." "oh? how do you know? that is what sister louise or brother august would ask you." "she could not do anything," gertrude answered. "she could not do anything?" "she could not do anything witch-like. she could not stop or start the rain or the sun. or make the grass grow faster." "hmm. did the sheep always obey her? did she have a way with the sheep?" "she was a shepherdess." "ha, ha! you do not have to make a face at me! i am only telling you what sister louise or brother august would say." gertrude scowled and did not answer. "ha, ha. well, that is enough about that, if it makes you make faces. look here, we are almost done, are we not. i see that you are done, and i only have to finish this fellow." gertrude put her shears down and began picking up the wool from her last sheep and stuffing it in a bag. "do you know what?" denise asked. "what?" "you are a funny little thing, even though you are a terrible heathen. and do you know what else?" "what?" "i like you." gertrude just grunted. "do you want to be my friend?" "what is a friend?" "ha, ha! there you go again. so you do not know what a friend is?" "no." "a friend is someone one likes to talk to, and just be around. what do you think of that?" gertrude thought before answering. "but i am up on the mountain, and you are down here." "yes, but not all the time! i could visit you, and you could visit me some time. when we are not terribly busy." "mmm." gertrude looked up at the sky, which was now almost completely dark. denise finished with her last sheep, and began putting its wool in a bag. gertrude started to help her. "you see! you help me without even being asked. the lout of a boy never does. i have to tell him to do everything. and kick him most of the time too. so you are half way to being my friend already." gertrude just nodded. "look here. look how dark it is. and the rain will not hold off forever. stay here with me and you can go back up the mountain in the morning. my hut is right over there - see it - and you will be nice and warm. and that worthless rascal caesar is not back with the dog yet. " denise sighed . "i will have to go looking for him, and who knows how long that will take. you do not want to leave without the dog - after driving such a hard bargain to get him, ha ha!" gertrude looked at the hut denise had indicated and stared at it. "what about the sheep?" "they can stay right here in this pen. they will get a nice rest after being shorn." "i only brought a little piece of bread, and i have eaten it already." "silly! you will be my guest and i will give you something to eat. there you go making a face again ! you do not know what a guest is, do you?" "no." "ha ha! you have so much to learn. i know we are going to be good friends - like sisters. even sister louise could not object." denise put her arm around gertrude's shoulder. "here, let me give you a kiss." gertrude was startled. she rubbed her cheek where denise had kissed it. "ha, ha! that was very rude! here, i will kiss you again - don't rub it this time." denise kissed her again, a little harder. gertrude refrained from rubbing her cheek again, and denise let her go. "come", denise cried happily, "let us gather up these bags and bring them over to the hut. no, we do not have to take them all at once. take three or four and we will come back for the others - and for the shears too, so they will not be out in the rain. and then you can rest while i go find caesar and the dog. when i come back we can eat and then we can have a jolly time talking." denise gathered two bags in each hand, shouldered aside the gate of the pen and set off for the hut. gertrude took four bags herself, a little awkwardly as her hands were smaller, and followed her. it was now completely dark. gertrude felt bewildered, and tired. she had never spent a night off the mountain before. suddenly the sky cleared a little, and a bright star appeared in the sky. both girls stopped and looked at it. "look, " shouted denise, "a lucky star. what a good omen! oh, how jolly!" gertrude followed her down the road to the hut. she glanced back at the sheep, but they were quiet enough. 5. the woman in the blue dress

imperialism - 3. bongo

by sabine sablon

illustrated by roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin imperialism

click here to begin the 14th princess

although the hotel had an elevator, it was only used by the totally incapacitated.  which did not mean that it was never used.  it was operated by hand, usually by one of the native porters or bartenders getting a guest up to his room after the bar closed.   it tended to get stuck between floors, a circumstance which was never  attributed to anything but the incompetence of the native operating it. despite his hangover and unsteadiness on his feet, nudworth did not even consider using it.  he made his way unsteadily down the stairs to the bar.  the stairwell had a  comforting shadowed dinginess, and he winced as he entered the bar and was hit by a few blinding rays of noonday sunlight coming through the slats of the heavy blinds on the window.  he was a little surprised to find only two other white men there.  pashwick, the banana company agent, and gurdy, the water man.  they were seated together at a table in front of the bar, hunched over stiff ones.  nudworth took a seat at a table a little apart from theirs.  he had absolutely no desire to  talk to either of them,  but it would have been rude to sit so far away from them that they would have had to raise their voices to speak to him.   pashwick only nodded, but gurdy, in that irritating way he had, stared at nudworth as if he had never seen him before and as if he were the strangest creature he had ever seen or ever would see.   the boy behind the bar, who knew bloody well what nudworth wanted, was carefully arranging some glasses on a shelf.  nudworth stared straight ahead.  he breathed as evenly as he could.  it would not do to give in to an attack of bongo so early in the day.  in the afternoon, actually. no, it would not do at all to give in to bongo, especially with his head in the condition it was.  "bongo" was the term the white men used for the insupportable rage that occasionally overwhelmed them when faced with the everlasting all-consuming, slow, drawling wide-eyed oh-so-innocent insolence of the natives.   when nudworth had been first been posted to the tropics, the fellow behind the desk in london had told him:  "you will get used to the sun.  you will get used to the dust.  you will get used to the insects.  you will get used to the paperwork.  you will get used to never seeing a white woman.  you may even get used to the food.   you will never get used to the bloody insolence of the natives.  it kills more chaps than malaria, depend upon it."  how true.  nudworth took a dangerously deep breath and closed his eyes.  when he opened them again the bartender was smiling down on him and placing his drink on the table - the drink he had had to describe two thousand times before the bloody bartenders began to get  it half right.  smiling down on him with that infernal eternal native smile that had maddened a million bwanas and sent them screaming into the bush or across the dusty plantations into the sun.  nudworth seized the drink.  he didn't care if the boy had made it right.   he didn't care if his hand was trembling.  he made sure he was holding it tight.   aaaaaaaaaaaah!  that felt better.  he was walking down  a long green lane under a sky of purest english gray.  a figure in the distance was striding toward him...   gurdy was still staring at him.   "heard the news?"   nudworth put his glass down.  "news of what?"   "if you don't know what the news is about, then i imagine you haven't heard the news."    "no."  nudworth didn't care what the news was.  this too shall pass, he thought.  he looked longingly down at his still half filled glass.    "chap arrived from the office.  margrave and mercer are showing him around.  wilkinson tagged along with them."   "the office? which office?  about the mangoes?"   "no. the colonial office.  sent the poor bugger all the way from cairo, can you believe it?"    nudworth didn't care about the  poor bugger all the way from cairo.  he took another  pull from his glass before replying.  "about the mangoes?"   "no, about hawkins!"    "hawkins?"     pashwick laughed.  "you are knackered this morning, aren't you, mate?  ready to join the temperance society?"    gurdy ignored this.  "hawkins.  hawkins, the plantation manager that was murdered by the bloody wogs!"   "oh, of course.  hawkins."  suddenly nudworth felt completely awake and disgustingly alive.  he finished his drink.  what filthy swill, he thought.  aloud he said, "parkins was right, then, they sent a man out right away.  just like sending a chap from liverpool to glasgow."  "ah," pashwick answered.  "but this fellow isn't replacing hawkins.  he wasn't sent by the company - "  "no,"  cried gurdy, " didn't you hear me?  he was sent by the colonial office, by the bloody bureaucrats  in london and cairo!"  "you mean the colonial office is going to take over the plantation from the company?"  nudworth held up his empty glass for the bartender to see it.  "no, no, he's not here to take over, he is here to investigate hawkins' death." "whatever for?  investigate what?  you can't investigate anything in the bush. " "ah, you try telling him that."  pashwick laughed. "margrave already tried, " gurdy  added. "there is nothing to investigate." nudworth stared over at the bartender as he took his sweet bloody time preparing his second drink - only his second drink of the day! "nothing is real out here, don't  they know that?  it's all just a bad dream." "no, it would seem that  they do not know that.  you try explaining it to the gentleman when he returns." "if he returns." pashwick and gurdy both laughed heartily at this sally.  nudworth felt a surge of pleasure - his fellows almost never laughed at his jokes. maybe it would not be such a bad day.   maybe he could get through it. 4. hot