Patchwork

You may think that you know good from evil but the very best intent can easily lead to the greatest ruin.

Back in the midsts, when people had more sense, there was a Physic known far and wide as a wise and just man. So compassionate was he that not even the most hardened criminal would thieve from him for he had treated everyone; often accepting no form of payment. He had no vices and to his wife he was oh so faithful,  drank only what was medicinal, and only in good measure. He very rarely gambled; only at Easter (when he always broke even) and Christmas time (when he gave his winnings to the poor.).

No, he was the perfect model of a man if ever there was one. And all would have been perfect if only his son were cut from the same cloth as he. But that was not to be the case. His son, to be fair, had a lot to live up to and from an early age a high expectation was placed upon him; nigh an impossible one... And it wasn't as if he didn't try; but each time he tried and his efforts fell woefully short everyone would tutt and cluck and exclaim “Not as good as his father.”

At first he tried harder but he was not built the same; had not the same apt or skill or art and so more spectacular were his failings. Is it any wonder, then, that he soon gave up even trying? Worse still, he grew to hate those words “Not as good as your dear father.” and thus grew to hate his father.

But his father cared not, his father loved the boy more than life itself and would have done anything for him. Mark this well, for whilst it is true that love can blind, it can also wound or even kill if wielded wrong.

The father could not and would not believe that the flesh of his flesh could do any wrong. And the son played his part very well. Ever the innocent, ever the wronged party no matter who made the accusings.

If the son were accused of thieving by the baker then the father would demand the evidence presented before him and it mattered not that the son had eaten all he had stole; crumbs carefully brushed off before the accuser. It mattered not if the brewer had accused him either. Obviously the son would go up to his father with fragrant breath, however tipsy and tricksy on his feet. 

All who accused his son were jealous, harboring grudges, so the father said and so the father became more of a recluse. And people no longer felt they could trust him; his view was no longer sought out as he only had eyes for his sons justice and no other. His wife, blind to the world, but not to her husbands pain, petitioned him one evening: “I know he is blood of your blood, but he is also of mine and we have not always seen eye to eye. Can you not at least entertain the notion of his guilt; that he is not as perfect as you, dear one?” “I am far from perfect, my sweet.” He would reply, “but my son shall inherit my mantle and surpass it.” And nothing more was said.

It wasn't long before the villagers tired of the sons ill manners and thieving ways. If the father weren't to dispense with things as right, then they should. And so they did. Planned ahead, the son never stood a chance. Blamed on a pack of wolves that still roamed the countryside, when in truth it was their hunting dogs one night when the moon was full and the kill was in their blood. Rent limb from limb, with only the face and torso left (for not only did they want the father to still recognise his precious boy, but also to allow the mother, who had done no wrong, an open coffin) The father buried his son in silence, allowed no one to visit -for no one truly wanted to- and would not even speak to his wife. His son, his spark, the one truth of his life, was dead.

Now Physic's knew many things, not only of that which cure but also that which killed. There was also knowledge of a different kind, one that was almost forgotten, even in his time. Yet he had in his possession books that shared that which no one ought to know. They had been handed down generation to generation to prevent them being given to the wrong minds. And in those weeks following the burial the father, the physic studied the books until he was sure of his next course of action. He could not imagine his life without his son and so it was not possible that he could be dead, not in Spirit. There was still time!

The elemental Alchemists who wrote those books wrote that the soul stayed in the body one week for every year lived, as it did in the womb before birth. By that reckoning he could still re-birth his son. He needed limbs though and for such a rational man -one for one of such a single purpose- that was to be no trouble.

He knew who had killed his son, he was not a naive man, and so it was just that they be the ones that would now supply the arms and legs that his boy lacked. It was right that they suffered as he had suffered, and his boy before him. That their actions were justified and his not never entered his mind any more, so fixated was he.

Digging up the corpse was easy enough for a man of such determination, and it was not long before the boys torso was laid out on the kitchen table, each new limb resting by its side. And when it came to attaching the limbs? Oh, he had no qualms any longer. The lies came easy to him now. His wife, blind though she was, was also a great seamstress and it was child's-play for him: “It's the scarecrow for the village crops.” He lied, “he's been torn apart by dogs and I need to make a new one.” And when she questioned the wetness of the limbs, “Oh, it's been raining out, my sweet.” And because she loved him, never thinking him capable of such a deed, she sewed her son back together again. When this patchwork abomination was finally ready the father said a silent prayer and fed the boy the elixir he had been working on.

Should I tell you what this mixture consisted of? If I did so you may feel compelled to do the same and that I would abhor. Suffice it to say, that for such a potion, such an elixir the ingredients caused the father much and pushed him to much darker places he could never come back from. Such dark magic is realised quick and the boy was awake again with a start, shocking his gather and causing his mother a faint. His father was overjoyed and the boy doubly so for he had loathed his time entombed.

And for a time it seemed as it should. The boy stayed inside and because no one visited no one was any the wiser. Even the mother grew to love her son again and so the ending seemed happy.But everything has a price and such magics are never stable; life is a hard thing to hold on to, doubly so when you've already died once.

And so the boys condition soon worsened. He hungered and nothing the mother fed him made any difference. Other things were noticeable too; at first the boy had a healthy discourse, could chat fluently and then less so until groans and grunts were all he could muster. Since he could no longer be sated by his parents he took journeys alone at night to get his fill, for there was only one that thing that could satisfy him now and that was flesh. This went on for days, maybe weeks before the first of the victims dug themselves up out of their graves, for he had passed on the elixir from his blood into theirs -so potent was the spell cast by the father. And these poor creatures, which were neither truly dead nor alive, would prey on others.

And the villagers soon realised what was happening and who was to blame. Village life was small and the worst news travelled fastest. But for the father, he had happened upon the truth himself. So hungry was the son now that anything or anyone would do so he forced himself on his own mother, who had not the faintest idea anything was wrong until it was too late. It was her screams that alerted the father to the terrible woes that were afflicting them all. Scarcely could he believe his eyes now that the truth was so final.

“Why have you done this to me, boy?” He screamed, to which the boy shouted in finality, closing in on his maker, “Why have you done this to me? Look at what your love has done to me!”

So, know you the difference between good and evil still? If that be love, was it not better then to hate?

To Have It All

 “The path to ones truth is fraught, but  worth it.”

There was once a noblewoman, Valera, who thought she had everything in life (and who knows, maybe she did). Because she was beautiful she was well thought of, and married a rich man of high standing.

One day Valera heard that the old wise woman was visiting the village to share her wisdom, so she disguised herself so no one would recognise such a noble lady visiting the low villagers. At the end of the old woman's speech the Valera, despite herself,  put up her hand and spoke. “I have heard all that you say, but I don't understand how one such as you can have all the answers when you have nothing. Look at me; I have a husband who loves me; I have wealth (more than I know what to do with) and am adored for my beauty, and loved by all. Surely I have all the answers.”

The old woman pondered this and then said, “No, not yet you don't… but you will, soon.” And the crowd dispersed, laughing at Valera's obvious bemusement and as they departed Valera felt a stirring in her stomach and tingling over her face, as if she had been stung by a nettle but she slept soundly that night thinking no more of it.

The next morning the mirror brought forth the face of a complete stranger. Where once was a maiden, beautiful and fair now showed a drawn and haggard face; the features on one side drooped as if it was wax melted by a candle flame.

She tried to scream but only an unholy moan escaped her formless lips. The housemaids that came to seek the source of distress turned and fled in horror at the intruder who sat at their mistresses bedside table now.

The husband, who was made of sterner stuff (as men were back then) could not bare to be seen near her. He called for a physic but not even letting nor leaching could cure her. Valera could not even communicate to him, barely able to make anything more than a grunt or groan now.

But her husband didn't even care, for in truth he had been unfaithful to Valera for a long time and now he finally had the excuse that he'd been looking for. Having heard of his wife meeting the old woman (despite it being frowned upon) he accused Valera of trafficking with the Devil. As the evidence was so obvious and there were no other reasons why she could be so cursed, he divorced her easily leaving her with no money or means.

The church, which Valera had always kowtowed to, banished her, not only for trafficking with the Devil, but for being divorced as well and her friends paid her no heed; so she was ostracised; banished to the far woods where no one would see her again.

And so she stayed for many years.

Life was hard, but not impossible. In everything Valera did surprised her  and she found herself capable of more things that she had ever dremt of. Always she had let her husband tell her things, do things for her and always they had been wrong. (back then it had mattered not for they had been so rich) But now she realised that she was wise in her own way.

Valera was resourceful and carved a new life for herself, she taught herself to talk again by listening to the sounds of the animals and birds; taught herself how to weave by the birds and their nests and taught herself to prepare food by learning what berries and roots were safe and good to eat.

Valera had no money but soon her weaving became known and people traveled far and bartered with her; and whilst she wove for them they would speak to her and ask her many questions. She would reply and explain the ways of the wood to them and the people would leave warmer but also wiser as well.

And soon the people came just to hear her speak and she thought nothing of it.

But the story does not end there. Fate is full of quirks and twists and turns.

And just as things seemed happy ever after for her once husband, he soon realised what he had let go in divorcing such a woman. News finally reached to him of the wise woman who spun tales as intricate as the weaves in her hand, that lived in the farthest reaches of the wood, and he knew it was his once love. And he knew that she would be his once again. So imagine his disappointment when she refused him; not once, not twice but three times.

Not for the riches; not for the beauty, for medicine could now cure her supposed ill,  and not for the social standing.

“What need have I for riches?” She explained. “I have all I could ever need and more. Are we not all beautiful, especially to those who do not judge? And whilst I sit here with nothing people come to me from miles around for advice. Advice? All I can tell them is the ways of the wood yet they leave content with that. What more could I ask for?”

The once-husband, faced with something far beyond his ken was distraught. “But my love,” he said, anguished, “I don't understand how you can be like this. I have it all and am offering it to you on a golden platter. I don't understand at all.”

“No. You don't understand it.” The once betrothed replied. “..... But you will, soon.”

NUTS

So you want to know about the worst date I ever had, eh? Well, that’s quite easy under the circumstances; I’ve not been on many…. The shortest of those was less than an hour, would you believe. Don’t laugh, it’s true! It was a blind date, and how I wish it had stayed that way. It had been organised through a friend of a friend so it was never going to amount to much…. She was half an hour late, blubbery like a beached, depressed whale, and seemed as unimpressed with me as I was with her. I ordered her a drink – a glass of beer (though it may as well have been a bucket) which was downed instantly as she started to moan about her ex, who she’d seen the night previous. She was still suffering from a hangover and mumbled something like an apology before taking off, leaving me to nurse my flat Pepsi. She’d been there less than 10 minutes. Short but definitely not sweet!  But that wasn't my worst date by far; but ran true to course for the rest.

In my dating life I'd stumbled upon a few theories about online dating; about the people that filled out profiles on those dating sites and how they did not actually want to meet others. They tended to fall into three main categories.

They put no effort into their profile. It had the meanest amount of information about their tastes, personality, and a couple of inappropriate photos of them downing pints of sangria

They put too much effort into their profiles; so much so they ended up as a mission statement of intent. Invariably the profiles would be split into sections like an employment contract: “I will…… You will….. “ I’d often reach the bottom of the profile and end up with a migraine. It was a shopping list of wants and desires they wanted fulfilled and nothing short of a cross between Stephen Hawkins-ian intellect and an Adonis body would have sufficed. There were others who considered themselves ‘deeply spiritual’ and so far up their own arses that the only way they’d ever see the light again was if they had the shits! These were people who were so 

conceited that they saw themselves far above the world and the lowly troglodytes around them… You know the type: beetroot tea drinking, tree shagging, opinionated bitches. 

Everyone else -and what a mixed bunch this was. From the train spotters to the game players. Many of these were asking for the world too and not willing to put anything of their own into the mix. Some of the profiles were written by their friends  and others looked as if they’d been cribbed off other people’s!

But on that fateful day... what ended up being the worst of my dating experiences... I thought I'd hit the jackpot.

Helene was different. Her profile photo was of a woman who loved to smile; a natural energy  with an open personality. She had varied interests, loved dogs and seemed to have similar tastes to me. What was even more remarkable was she wanted to meet!

We were to go on a walk round a local wood right in between where we both lived, and it was a wood I knew quite well so I was happy, having a little local knowledge. She wanted to walk the dog and saw it as a great opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

We met on time and she was remarkably like her photograph -somewhat of a rarity these days.  Thankfully, Helene said how easy it was to recognise me -not sure how many other obese bespectacled chaps there were in the woods that day, so it wouldn’t have been too difficult! 

Her dog was an absolute delight -Sparkles; a dopey beast that took an instant dislike to me and just yapped endlessly. We started walking at a frenetic pace which made it difficult, but not impossible for me to converse and I had a very bad feeling this would be a test of endurance and attrition. She was charming if a little naive -she tended to see the best in people at all times which I found a little tiresome after a while, just as I’m sure my constant derision became irksome to her. I noticed that there were several occasions where the pace suddenly increased and I can only be thankful that the terrain was level; had we been going 

up hill and down dale I’m sure she would’ve lost me quite easily.

So far nothing too untoward; it was a genuine date; pedestrian and dull; but one that could still have swung round had we found that spark; that one bit of commonality needed to move us beyond the growing belligerence. Then we encountered the squirrel.

Or more importantly, that damned dog Sparkles encountered it. I’ve always known squirrels to be swift and fleet, highly aware of their surroundings. All I can say is this particular one must have had advanced senility. Sparkles was definitely not the brightest dog I’d ever met; it hadn’t mastered the concept of fetch, nor heel -in fact, the only thing it could really do was annoy me constantly. We first heard an unholy squeal and the dog leapt out of the bushes with this poor squirrel hanging from its jaws, still twitching. Helene praised the dog and was all for just leaving the poor creature to die slowly. 

“You can’t do that! It’s inhumane!” I snapped, aghast that she could be so thoughtless.

“It’s only a squirrel!” She replied, a bemused expression on her face. “If you care so much, you do something about it.” The look of derision on her face was maddening. 

I was now struck with a quandary. If she wasn’t going to do it then I had to. The only trouble was I had no way of knowing how to do it. For all my bluster and prevaricating I was a townie and just wanted to walk away myself, but I couldn’t. There was no rocks to bash it’s head in so I tried stamping on it’s head…. But I missed, it suddenly got it’s second wind and started trying to move away from me. This caused Helene to laugh out right and I blushed. This was getting nowhere. I needed to do something fast, so I bent down, hoping to snap it’s neck… And the fcking thing bit into my hand, right between the thumb and the forefinger. Couldn’t it tell I was trying to help it?

I yelled and dropped the squirrel, managed to kick it away before it got the taste for blood and tried to find a handkerchief. My hand bled profusely, and Helene showed a little concern; asked if I was alright. I calmly replied that I was fine, it was just a scratch and thought that it might be a good opportunity to walk back to the car. The dog looked up at me with 

bemusement and all I wanted to do was kick it hard. The walk home was slower, thankfully, and I tried my best to keep up a conversation; all the time wondering whether squirrels had rabies.

After half an excruciating hour later we finally got back to the cars. Helene thanked me for an amusing date (her exact words) and drove away. I never heard from her again -she didn’t even bother texting me to find out how the bite was! I drove to the hospital and waited in A&E amongst the assorted sports and DIY related incidents. The receptionist had a hard time keeping a straight face when I explained what the nature of my injury was and had to ask for further clarification. When it was finally my turn to go and see the triage nurse I unwrapped my hand and the nurse asked what had caused the bite. I could tell that she was expecting a dog, cat or even a rabbit. 

“A squirrel.” I said.

“What?” She exclaimed and laughed, before apologising both profusely and genuinely. I then explained what had happened, the date and all. I could see the funny side of the mis-adventure (I still do!) and was pleased that it had cheered her up no end. She thanked me for recounting the experience -I had been her first squirrel related incident – and hoped that I would have better luck with women in future. She was actually rather beautiful and truly seemed to care about my predicament… but wouldn’t you know it? She was married as well! Nuts!!!