A History of the Troll Wars

I am going to attempt to kick start this blog one more time . This is a little tale that I have written on the vexed subject of trolls.

A HISTORY OF THE TROLL WARS

When the troll army landed on the shores of Se Molde it was more than inevitable that there would be a conflict with the humans infesting the place. It was preordained. Rock, the troll boss, knew this because the troll gods had told him when they activated him. His folk didn’t know. For them it was an exciting new adventure, now that they had shaken off the Way of Troll with its brutish imperatives.

The human world wasn’t prepared for this visitation. It offered too many problems for the political machinations of the Xandrian City States. It just simply got in the way of living the human way with its destruction of natural resources and the overpopulation and the blatant lack of regard for any other creatures inhabiting the globe in space where they found themselves. It got in the way of politics. It challenged the human order of things as set out in the Social Contract.

Of course, something had to be done and once again, this was where Seagrum the Dwarf came in. He was despatched with a polyglot army of humans and all those other creatures subject to the Social Contract to sort it. He was a dwarf. Things tended to get done. This time though it isn’t skill but pure luck and happenchance that save him, and the humans, hides. Of course, there is collateral damage.

Whilst it might look like it, this isn’t really fantasy, this is allegory. The trollish visitation is meant to represent the non-living aspects of our planet just doing what they do because that is how it goes. Humans and other living things, whatever they might believe, simply have to go along with it because there is nothing that they can really do in the face of the enormous forces of the planet that we live on. The creatures of the Social Contract are meant to represent various facets of human activity as well as introducing the fact that there are other creatures here that are not human and who are also stakeholders in this world. Admittedly there aren’t many actual ogres or werewolves walking the planet but, like I said, this is allegory.

There are a couple of observations to make about some of the factors in the tale. Firstly, there is the simple fact that in the world of Se Molde, humans are not necessarily the top predators. They are preyed upon by numerous creatures that they share their lives with. There is a certain arrogance in humans that considers it a serious indignity to be eaten by another (dare I say lesser) creature. In this world it happens with about the same regularity that humans die as a consequence of motor accidents or violence. Secondly, there is biology. The approach that I have taken to sex in the tale is a little blunt to say the least. This is because I am not looking at the sexual act as a thing of pleasure nor am I trying to put any eroticism into the tale. I am simply describing an urgent imperative to fulfil a demanding biological programme. This regardless of the sex of the person or creature involved or indeed, the creature itself. If we a governed by meiosis, then we are victims of our biology.


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Four Years!

Where on Earth has all that time gone? It is almost 4 years since I last wrote anything on here. That's encouraging isn't it?

So what have  I done in the meantime to justify my joyous existence on this rock in space?

Three questions, four sentences. That seems like a bit of overkill and so I'll end this  blog with a simple message.

Following, with unplanned but hopeful regularity, I will be  unfolding a little of my world of stories.

Writing for the Andropause

Ok, so I don't recognise the andropause but then I'm not a doctor. (If you're still in the dark, think menopause for men.) On the other hand I do recognise from a non-empirical, personal experience sense of self point-of-view that something is and has changed in me. I'm sure that it is hormones - after all everything is chemistry in the human body isn't it - and I assume that it has something to do with testosterone and oestrogen levels. Beyond that I can only explain the evidence. I refrain from using the word, symptoms, deliberately because I don't want to imply any form of medical condition.

Whilst staying with my daughter and her family recently, I happened to notice a particular book in a bookcase. It was entitled, The Male Brain by Louann Brizendine, which is apparently the sequel to another book obviously named The Female Brain. I spent a rainy afternoon looking through it with obvious intent. I found the chapters on the aging male brain particularly interesting and, it is sad but true, pertinent to me.

I knew for example that I no longer had either the desire or the inclination to rush around in order to further my career - at least in the mad self deluding manner that I had done over the past thirty years or so. I have never been one for stepping on other people or for politicking excessively as a means of career progression so at least I didn't need to lose that. I knew also that I didn't move around as fast but was - at least in my view - more sedate and perhaps even methodical in my approach to the world and perhaps, at least in some respects, delivered more consistent results.

It was a bit of a surprise to read the stuff about relationships but I have no intention of documenting my thoughts or observations on the vexed subject of sex for all the world to read. If you want to read that stuff, read my books where I have expressed it quite clearly for those that want to take the time.

On the matter of what I would call sensitivity, I can see that I am more aware of the feelings that other people give off and these days I find the expressions in peoples faces a veritable book of knowledge about them. How is it I missed that for so long? I think the answer is obvious with regard to women - you have to be focused above the shoulders rather than below it. Of course, that must be why we are taught about body language - we don't actually spend enough time looking at people's faces when we are younger.

Did the book help me in any way? Well I guess it did, even though it did go on about the andropause a bit. For one it reaffirmed what I thought was happening to me and made me feel less isolated. On the other hand it made me face a few facts that perhaps I had left hovering around in my peripheral vision.

I could also see from what was written why I tended to feel more vulnerable on occasions, a vulnerability that I had also seen develop in my father. On a more sinister note, it also kind of showed me that I seemed to be trying to recreate parts of my adolescence (leave it off about the sex part). Perhaps that was why I had started listening to Jethro Tull! Is this a prelude for a further regression perhaps later on in my age, I wonder?

This all made me wonder about the target audience for my series on The Collector of Tales. It helped me understand , at least in part, why I had chosen to start writing fiction after so many years of abstinence. The Collector of Tales is really a story for those of us over fifty who are facing changes that we only guess at really and don't necessarily take the time to see the significance even though we see or have seen it happen with parents.

What is happening to story telling?

As anyone who has written a novel will know, it is almost impossible to obtain any recognition unless you are lucky enough to stumble upon a literary critic who is prepared to take a risk on the next new thing or unless you are writing in a recognised, current and popular genre, or unless you are an established writer already.

Like a demoralisingly large number of other persons, I do not fall into any of those categories and so I am consigned to that great slush pile of works, good and bad that litter cyber-space. At least I can take comfort in the fact that I don't also litter the offices and cupboards of literary agents with my discarded and unspent paper manuscripts because I , presumably like many writers, won't waste the time and planetary resources printing off an infinite number of paper copies. Well, who am I really kidding - I don't want to afford the cost of paper, printing ink and postage.

Of course that last fact brings out one of the big issues in the world of story telling today. With the internet, anyone with two fingers (or perhaps even one if used rapidly) can hammer out a series of letters on a keyboard, look up a couple of dozen email addresses and whack out submissions with relative ease. This veritable effluvia of output from a seemingly infinite number of large primates will, no doubt, in time throw out another William Shakespeare but what does it do for the rest of us in the meantime? Well it does nothing, of course and all those seminal possibilities litter the hard drives of ISP servers with the same lack of regard for waste as is demonstrated by the reproductive process.

In simple terms, the barriers to creative entry in story telling are pretty much non-existent in the more economically developed countries and with the flood gates agape, anything and everything gets through. The result, a superabundance of text, some very good, some so-so and some not bad: some not so good at all and some pretty damned awful. As a prospective reader, how do you tell the difference?

Traditionally, the endorsement of the publisher gives an indication that the tale is at least worthy; that the text is accurate and relatively free from error. A well written blurb on the back of the book or somewhere on Amazon, especially if drafted by someone whose name and or credentials are recognised also take the prosepctive reader further in on the seduction.  It doesn't guarantee a good tale and it certainly doesn't offer good quality literature. It offers, in truth that which is seen to be saleable: that which offers a good possibility of the publisher making a turn (if they are lucky in many cases I suspect).

This is not available to the great unpublished - or perhaps I should say the great self-published ( and I place myself amongst these). How many wonderful tales are lost in the darkness?

Perhaps it is time to take a new look at story telling. After all, no matter what anyone says, the printed book is going the way of the illuminated manuscript - soon to be  consigned to the halls of history with just a few skilled specialists who consider it worthwhile to craft new works in paper, ink and card. Don't get me wrong here. My home is stocked with all manner of  books ( I refuse to classify these further as 'paper' books or 'printed' books) that I have  lovingly collected to read over the past years (and I will continue to do this until they nail down the lid on my coffin - might even slip in a few when I go). I do truly like the look , feel and the smell of books but as a medium for story telling, the paper sheet is becoming as archaic as the oral tradition of story telling.

The  model is broken and we need to find a new model. I don't have an answer: I was perhaps hoping that you might. Well, maybe? Maybe not. I'll return to this another time.

A bit of a spring clean

Even though we have more snow predicted and we are well into March, I have decided to have a look at this blog and carry out a bit of a spring tidy up. I have been looking at it over the past few days (as well as the one I produce for my day job!) and have come to realise that it is not very useful just posting stories in as blog posts.

So now I have made some changes. On the right of the post there are a set of pages where you can select and read either the entire text  or extracts from some of the stories. This way I hope that the blog will be  more meaningful and informative. I'll keep posts to simpler matters, comments and overviews about the works.

There are links to the Kindle store also for ebook purchases also on the right.

I am also planning to include some other general interest things in the blog that I had started to do early on but never actually got around to. Let's see if I can keep the thing current at reasonable intervals!

Seagrum

Here is a short story to introduce a new character : the dwarf, Seagrum, a mercenary and slightly dodgy trader with a penchant for the macabre.

In the darkest corner of the Mud Witch Tavern, a red patch of light glowed suddenly vermillion dulling to a subdued crimson. This was followed by a puff of grey acrid smoke that wafted casually across the table and the two chairs that were barely visible in that sombre space of darkness. The smoke had been despatched from a mouth of variable size containing an irregular collection of teeth and a wet and pinkish tongue. It should be noted that to those of a more discerning eye, that pinkness had a distinct tendency towards purple on account of the claret. The mouth then spat into the blackness that was the slate floor beneath the table and a badly illuminated hand placed a pipe carefully down upon the sticky surface of the table alongside a battered leather tankard. The hand and the mouth as well as the tongue and the spit belonged to Seagrum, a dwarf of significant stature (for a dwarf) and of a fearsome reputation both as a mercenary and more recently, as a bounty hunter. The pipe was also his, although it had begun that particular day in the possession of somebody else. 

This however is the story  of the dwarf and not of the pipe and so, for our purposes and irrespective of the former owner whose life blood had ceased to flow some hours before and whose corpse now lay abandoned in an alleyway somewhere not far from the place now described, we shall give it  little further thought. Suffice it to say that its final contribution at this particular time is to offer a modicum of pale luminescence – for it could not really be called light – to a character sitting opposite the dwarf and who at this very moment seemed unwilling to move, speak or indeed, even to breathe.

“You ‘ave it then?” growled the dwarf, his eyes suddenly visible in a faint dragon-light that seemed suddenly to pervade the corner.

“Mn...”

The other appeared to be caught in the act of swallowing something unpalatable and ended its attempt at higher language with a grunt or some other indistinguishable offering.

“Do I take that as assent?” hissed Seagrum with a disdain that was almost palpable.

“Whuh?” came the reply.

“How much you askin’ for it, laddie?”

“Fufty...” muttered the other in what has to be taken as a kind of response.

“Beaks!” muttered the dwarf to himself. He decided to speak to the only person present at the table who seemed capable of understanding him or indeed of making sensible sounds.

“Let’s start again. You listen and ...” he paused and offered a nod to the darkness, “... nod.... I’ll talk.”

He waited a sufficient time to allow the words to soak in to the dampness that was sitting opposite and then he began again.

“You have the ...”

He paused as if he was unwilling to speak the name of the item out loud.

“...merchandise.”

He waited a further moment before continuing.

“You have a delivery note for me and it says that it...” the pronoun replacing the distasteful word, merchandise, “is stored...”

He paused again. This time he was considering the location of the...merchandise.

“...in a ramshackle warehouse barely a stone’s throw from here and down by the waterside.”

There was an awkward quiet. That is the silence opposite continued but at the same time it seemed somehow to be more uncomfortable.

“You may nod or otherwise confirm all of this now. It would help to speed things along a bit.” said Seagrum with moderately exaggerated contempt.

“Mn...” the other nodded although the movement in the darkness was almost as unnoticeable as the sound was clear.

“Mn!” repeated the dwarf. “There’s a little more, isn’t there?... No don’t speak, let me guess.”

He picked up his pipe from the table and took a few rapid puffs to get the leaf smouldering again. Once more vermillion luminescence  appeared in the bowl, this time giving a gentle red glow to the tip of a large nose that sat, slightly off centre above the dwarf’s mouth.  Perhaps off centre was a little off the mark as the saying goes. It was more accurate to say that is was skewed significantly out of normal by a severe break that had occurred late one night a few years ago in a brawl in this same tavern.

“The warehouse is secured with a large and heavy looking padlock that is sadly broken. The chain is rusty looking but sturdy. The kind of chain that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Inside this highly pregnable fortress there were two hooded shapes lurking in the shadows: both carry long knives and one has a cudgel, the other a hooked stick of some sort.”

He paused to draw another puff on his pipe and to give his inversely garrulous friend the opportunity to consider his use of the past tense.

“How does that sound so far? No don’t answer, let me tell you a bit more.”

He continued.

“Both men look sort of shifty. One is short and fat, the other also short and not so fat. Both are poor runts from bad litters. Their clothes have seen better days and better owners, more likely.  They, on the other hand, don’t know what a better day is. Nor will they ever, now.”

The hooded man opposite him had not said anything; had not made a sound in fact. To anyone who might have been sitting nearby, there was nothing coming from him but a faintly damp smell, rather like that of a wet dog that has lived on the streets for a while.

“Outside in the alleyway leading to the warehouse - you know, the place where the lamp has been broken and it gets really difficult to see – there is a large shape. I imagine that the stench coming off it would fell an ox but no matter. It holds in one paw a large wooden club – about the span of your arms I would estimate. Its oak or yew, it’s always difficult to tell in the darkness or until it comes into contact with something. I always find that oak seems to resonate better – that is, if the item that it strikes permits it to do so. Obviously bio-organic material  from the animal kingdom doesn’t usually offer that luxury unless it’s a hyperborean elk – not that you’d get one into that alleyway – so I imagine that we are never going to know what type of wooden club your tame troll is actually holding.”

Seagrum took another puff at his pipe and once more placed it back on the table.

“Beaks, I know that I’m doing all the talking so just you feel free to chip in.” He paused and seemed to sigh, “God’s ear, I’d welcome some change from the monotony. You know, it is possible to get sick of the sound of your own voice.”

“Mn...” said the nameless one.

“Well, perhaps not in your case, my loquacious friend.” Seagrum continued with a half laugh more to himself than anyone else present.

“Sadly, and more is the point, your troll is never going to know what type of wood he was holding either,” said the dwarf with a tone of relative finality.

“What d’ya mean?” vocalised the shape, lurching out of its hitherto inarticulate trance.

“Well, see. That wasn’t so difficult was it?” countered Seagrum with a smile that failed to rise to his eyes.

“Of course it’s all in the detail really, isn’t it?”

There was a long pause during which time the dwarf’s heart beat with that rhythmically slow thump of, well, a dwarf’s heart and the human’s thumped to a beat that betrayed the growing anxiety that he felt.

“I suppose that I neglected to mention the three feet of poor quality steel that is lying at an obtuse angle through the entrails of our troll. I always find penetration so difficult with these lads.”

He made a strange sweeping gesture with the flat of his hand.

“I guess it’s the hide that gives greatest problem. After all once you’re in, you’re in, as it were. Still,” he mused, more to himself than anyone else present, “once the job’s done...”

He was quiet once more.

“Of course there’s always the risk that the wretched creature won’t work out it’s dead until after it has pounded it’s assailant and half its immediate environment into dust, rocks, squishy bits and what not. Fortunately this particular troll was a bit smarter than most and so he worked it out pretty fast. He barely had the time to roar a challenge.”

He stopped talking suddenly and seemed to stiffen slightly before leaning forward and reaching under the table as if to rub his knee.

“You’re listening, aren’t you?” he asked with a slightly sinister tone. “I’d hate to waste this time explaining if you weren’t actually interested.”

He retrieved his pipe from the table.

“Mn...” was about as much as he could expect for an answer and that, in all fairness, was what he got.

“Ok,” the dwarf continued, puffing a large quantity of acrid smoke into the face of his monosyllabic companion. “So your tame troll is now out of the picture as it were and into it, for the last opportunity, steps another figure.  This one has curves though and I have to say that for a witch she is a pretty good looker, despite the complete lack of fashion sense and sadly lacking sense of personal hygiene. Long voluptuous curls of rich black hair with not too much movement amongst it. I like black hair when it’s thick and coarse. Shame about the beard though, I like a woman with a bit of facial hair but she had skin that was as smooth as a baby’s arse. Still you can’t have everything, can you?”

He paused again and looked for a while in silence at the creature opposite.

“Why do I get the impression that you’re not listening?” he asked, a slightly more significant hint of menace in his tone.

“Mn...” came the reply, sounding perhaps a little more strained than was normal.

Seagrum continued to stare into the darkness that was the shape opposite and for more than a long period of time no sounds were heard from either of them. All around in the other hearts of darkness and doubtful recesses of the tavern, other noises could be heard.  There were of course some casual or light hearted conversations running sotto voce in the background and, occasionally,  some laughter or perhaps a vocal disagreement. Then there were the other noises, the pretty much unmistakeable sounds of couples rutting: a gasp here; a guttural grunt or two there; some rhythmic pounding of knees on wood and the urgent slapping of flesh on flesh. A gasp, a moan, perhaps even a fart, a grunt and then silence; at least relative silence as another set of similar sounds stepped up into the dark arena or picked up half-way on the same rocky road to relieve the hormone fuelled reproductive urge.

The sounds gave the lie to the sense of quiet respectability that seemed to settle on the tavern ‘s gentle and perhaps too unassuming exterior , opening up a whole new can of worms and other less savoury plagues that were the consequence of the ancillary business that was transacted under licence within.

“Mn...” said the dwarf with the appearance of a temporary reversal of roles. “Was your woman, was she?”

The other person was silent now; a frisson of almost palpable anxiety hanging above him like a succubus.

“Mn...” said the dwarf once more. “You did realise that dwarves are pretty impervious to magic, wizardry and all that kind of stuff, didn’t you?”

More silence and palpating misery seemed to flow from opposite; the cold fog of growing angst slipping silently from his thoughts into the cool air and condensing just above the table surface.

“Anyway, I don’t know what she said but it sounded kind of dirty. I could feel the hairs on the back of my hands lifting, “he sniggered almost childishly, “and that wasn’t all that was rising, I can tell you. Beaks! She sounded hot!”

A moment of unhurried recollection flowed gently into his thoughts, dispersing itself amongst all the other stuff that was in there and making him feel somehow a little lighter, a little less angry.

“You see, I’ve got this thing that I carry around with me. Got it from another...” he paused as if to pluck just the right word from his mental lexicon but then with a short grunt settled with “client. It’s some kind of talisman. Not to save me from the magic, you know, it’s more to get my own back. You see I don’t like people whispering stuff at me with a view to giving me grief, even if it sounds as sexy as hell and gives me a boner that needs a week to settle back down again. It makes me feel that I have been taken advantage of.”

He permitted himself a short chuckle in the absence of any sounds whatsoever from across the table.

“That made her gasp, and no mistaking. Her eyes and mouth popped open like someone had banged her in the darkness, if you get my drift. Gone, it was. Just like that. One minute whispering words or wizardry at me, the next minute just another skirt in the street. That is one good talisman, I can tell you. Magic goes in and it never comes back out. She ain’t a witch any more.”

He leaned across the table and gave  the shape that was sitting opposite a shove. The head lolled back, dribbling a little black liquid at the corners of his mouth. In contrast his face was white; bleached bone white. His eyes were wide open, staring into sights that no one could guess at; the pupils huge, dilated and deep.

“Ah, there you have it my friend.”

He curled his hand behind the back of the corpse’s neck and pulled him towards the table. The body  lolled heavily forward, hitting the table hard and knocking over a tankard ,  it’s greasy black hair mingling with the sticky muck that glazed the surface.

“You need to be a bit more careful about what you drink. You never know who’s been messing with it.”

Seagrum looked appraisingly at the delivery note that he still held in one hand.

“So, I guess you’ll just have to take that learning point with you into the next life, if you have one, you sad bastard. In the meantime, I’ll just have to arrange for collection of the merchandise from your warehouse before some other piece of vermin attempts to make off with it.”

He stood up, pushing the table away from him rather than moving the chair. It was as though the thing was distasteful to him, even though the whole mess was technically his own handiwork. He noticed, as he stood, a slightly unsavoury stink rising up from the vicinity of the dead trader.

“Ah yes, I forgot,” he said possibly to himself, possibly to the corpse and possibly to no one in particular, “the poison does have that effect on the subject.”

He stomped, rather than walked the distance from his alcove to the bar. This was the physiological influence of his slightly short legs on his rather large and actually quite muscular, body. His iron-capped boots cracked crisply on the flags, announcing his approach to the inn keeper even before the  dwarf managed to emerge from the darkness and the subsequent disentanglement  from  two pairs of semi-naked legs. His eyes followed one pair down to the breeches that were gathered unceremoniously around the booted feet and then the other upwards towards... well you might get the picture with a meaty male hand massaging the soft flesh of pale white thigh – with or without the subcutaneous mites.

“I’ll be in my room,” he said to the man behind the bar as he flipped a small gold coin towards him. “There’s a bit of a mess in the corner over there but that should cover the cost of removal and a bit of sawdust or straw to cover the floor – and a decent profit to you...my friend.”

The man behind the bar caught the coin, even though he was looking in the other direction. Whether the second pair of arms had anything to do with it was anybody’s guess but it was a good catch. The coin went to mouth; was bitten and then flipped into a purse around his neck. The string was drawn tight before he grunted acknowledgement.

“Oh, ah!”said the dwarf almost as an afterthought, “there’ll be a woman along in a while; dark hair good curves – looks a bit like a witch if you know what I mean!” he permitted himself a short laugh, almost a grunt himself. “Send her up, I’m kind of expecting ...”

 

 

 

 

 

Is it really that long ago!

I can't believe that my last post was in 2011. What happened to the idea of posting on a more-or-less-daily basis. I guess that went the way of many other thoughts.

 

Still, all is not lost. I have been busy with a number of projects, only one of which has now completed - more of that later.... I am also working on a numberof short stories that may themselves turn vaguely into a novel once the idea is out.

 

A post of one of them is due to follow shortly.

 

Also , for my own benefit more than anyone elses, a list of current writing projects, just in case I forget in the cut and trust of ordinary living and dying.

The Prawns of Lebowa

-The  painting is my proposed part cover.  This is the third and final in the Collector of Tales Trilogy. 20k words or so written but the thing is proving a little difficult as I am shifting narrative styles between threads and I have to kill off a much loved character.

The Dreamweavers

- This is now finished subject to a few very final edits. A story about two boys and a two different worlds. Its aimed at young people (to me that is 10 - 15) but it's good for any age really. It focuses on a boy called Tom who has a few learning problems that are not made easier by his ability to move in and pout of two very differnet worlds. I wrote it for two of my boys , Tom and Sam, and naturally enough they are the prinicipal characters.

 

Out of Mongolia (working title)

- This is a story about  a virus epidemic. It was started two years ago and has three chapters only so far. Not sure if I have an appetite to finish it or not right now. I didn't actually plan the tale and so it stalled. One day, when I am grown up, perhaps I continue. I don't think that it is necessarily a genre that I want to write.

 

Achilles ( working title)

-Another tale about Achilles! I had an idea on a camping holiday with my boys and wote the outline for the whole book down over three days. I have handwritten four of the sixteen chapters - didn't take a lap-top - I like the tale and will continue it after the Prawns have finished.

 

Seagrum's Army (working title)

-A tale about a mercenary dwarf. It's just a thought at the moment andI have written a short story to give me a view. I might write a few more before I decide if this is going anywhere. I like the idea and I want to write a fantasy of the more traditional kind - unlike the Collector Series , which is definitely not of the traditional kind.

 

Fantasy (working title)

- an fairly old piece of about 30k words that I may pick up some time. I like some of the ideas in it but it is a bit Tolkein - which is good if you are JRRT but bad if you are someone else! Don't really know about this one. Again one day....

 

The Xandrian Quarters

- Finished swork. Part Two of the Collector of Tales Trilogy. Set in a classical Mediterranean world, a large part of it set against a trip to Cyprus a couple of years ago.

The Collector of Tales

-If ever I want to be  remembered for writing, it is for this story. The first real piece of writing that I have really put together and something that I am immensely proud of. It's out there on Lulu and Kindle and it is selling a few. Nothing to make me a wealthy man, but am I bothered?

 

2-Minute Interview

After several days of self-sustained purgatory, I now find myself in the situation that I have finished The Collector of Tales. Finished that is in the sense that I have now edited it for the last time ; put in some notes to help those who struggle with the dialect; and, added a Forward to explain why I have even put in a dialect in parts of the book at all. I have given up on a change to the cover as somehow everything that I tried felt wrong. Yes I know it's not very sexy and some stark colours, black and blood red on white would have been more arresting but no matter. It's there now on Kindle and on Lulu.com for those who want to look.

I thought that to mark the launch of the book, I would interview The Collector about it and find out what it meant to him.

I finally caught up with him in a noisy and oddly rather sunny cafe in his home town of Breyford: a funny little town on the outskirts of nowhere. Here for the price of a chai latte and a bobbin ( that's a curious little cold crust pie-like thing with shredded vegetables and some kind of cheese in it - if you need to know) I managed to coax him into giving me a few words. Actually, quite a few words were offered and here is a small selection.

David: So what's the book all about then?

Collector: You know, it's odd but I damned if I really know. I seem to spend a lot of time wandering about and being picked on by a few curious characters who are clearly intent on making my life even more difficult than it really is. There's also this odd activity that keeps happening off stage as it were. Being followed by people in dark cloaks is bad enough. Poor old Welcome having his head caved in in the marketplace is pretty grim and those two beggars at the Sun Inn dumping me for dead on the road to nowhere more or less takes the biscuit.

David: Well could you give me an idea of the plot?

Collector: Oh, sorry, I thought I had. Well, it goes like this. I'm looking for a tale to add to my collection and I have headed off into the northern lands to hear it in the raw. In this rather strange village, I find a storyteller who is actually pretty good even though he is a bit of a head case. He tells me all about it, you see. But it's no good just relying on one source and so I head up to Trellsheim - that's the only urban centre up that way for more miles than I would bother to count. There's a lot going on up there and whilst I find a few bits of extra stuff about them, I don't actually get ot the heart of it until those two .... shall we say 'characters' .... dump me in the snow outside the town. That's when I meet the real Fire Dancers - that's what the tale I'm looking for is about - did I mention that?

David: Er, no.

Collector: Ah, well that's what it's about. In fact it was going to be called The Fire Dancers you know, originally that is. Somehow it seemed a bit too much like a fantasy story though - you know Tolkein that sort of thing. Still we took a knife to that and cut out a lot of the damage.

David: So you are not a fan of Tolkein?

Collector: Did I say that? No I didn't. I am very fond of Tolkein and I've read the book [LOTR- ed] more times than I can recall. It's just that, well Tolkein belongs in Tolkein and not in the Collector of Tales.

David: So if it's not fantasy, how would you label the story?

Collector: Now why on earth would I want to label it at all? It has a title (and a pretty good one, I don't mind saying) and there's nearly 80,000 words to tell you all about it. What else do you need?

David: Well, I mean what genre is it?

Collector: Ah, why didn't you say! Simple. It's Literary Soap.

David: I'm sorry, I've never heard of that.

Collector: Well of course you haven't. That's because it's not been written before.

David: Do you think that you could expand on this?

Collector: Well of course I can, my boy but I'm afraid that it will have to wait for another day.

With that, The Collector stood up, spilling as he did so, my untouched (and now cold) cup of coffee. He flung his day sack over his shoulder and headed off with just the briefest of nods of his head in my direction. I watched, slightly baffled as his retreating form shuffled off down towards the main road. Here, he stepped over the stream that ran down the centre of the alley - don't ask - and was gone.

Somehow he had managed to leave me feeling slightly breathless. I was just glad that I hadn't tried to interview Grendel's Mother but if you want to know why, you'll have to read the book.

The Challenge of Dialect

OK, here's the problem. If you have read the previous blog you will see that I have developed a form of dialect for use in my novel, The Collector of Tales. Now it is meant to be a form of English believe it or not, and it is there to add to the overall look and feel of The Collector's World. Firstly, there is the brutishness of the language. I refer to it as Bruta Speke. If you can, picture the English language as it developed out of Chaucer's Middle English through people like Sir Philip Sidey and others on into the world and categorisation of the language say with Samuel Johnson. During that time spelling was inconsistent and no doubt pronunciation was also substantially varied.

Such is Bruta Speke. Read it as it sounds as it is phonetic. There is no particular grammar or syntax to it as it is not that clever. Add in a touch of regional dialect too. Kegs for trousers for example. Someone once asked me if it was Cockney...for the avoidance of doubt, though my mother was born within the sound of Bow Bells, no it is not Cockney - not even close.

The second aspect of the dialect is that of understanding. When we travel to places where we do not fully grasp the local language, we find a lot of gaps in our understanding. It is an uncomfortable feeling for some, tending towards paranoia in others. Are they talkng about us! That is the feel that I am trying to generate in the Collector of Tales. Much of the dialogue can be inferred from both context and from repetition or rephrasing by the Collector himself. Some of it may seem unintelligible but if it is, that's because it is unimportant. Much of communication is pointless and if it is not understood, it doesn't matter. It's just noise. I'm talking here about human intercourse not just the dialogue in my book. That is what I want to achieve in the story.

However, some people perfer to undertsand it all and so I have resorted in paper versions to icnluding notes on the dialogue at the end of each chapter. It is not ideal and for online versions I have popped some code in to bring up the translation when you mouse over the offending text. That works better. Sadly, I cannot currently include that on Kindle but no doubt it will come in time.

Ok that's my rant about dialogue... I say that becuase I have just spent several days re-writing bits of it to make it more readily understandable and in adding in notes. I guess I should leave the last words to The Collector, for after all it is he who is the man on the ground as it were.

"Although I understood the language quite well, the dialect was a bit of a challenge and I have to say that a lot of the noise that I heard was pretty unintelligible at first. Fortunately, most conversations had few words of substance or meaning in them but every now and then I would hear a word or phrase that would give the sense to what was being said. Words, context, gestures and repetition - these would be the things that would allow me to glean understanding."

From The Collector of Tales Chapter One - The Infernal Village

How not to order a drink

From The Collector of Tales

I made it the last few feet to the bar and to the creature that I took to be in authority. It is an simple observation that I was watched with hawk-like focus by this woman from the time that I opened the door to within a few feet of the bar. As soon as I actually got there, I appeared to have become a part of the scenery. I looked meaningfully in her direction but she had started swilling a tankard in some brownish liquid from a basin beneath the bar and appeared totally engrossed both in that task and an animated conversation taking place at the far side of the room. It was pretty obvious, with all the noise around, that she couldn't possibly hear it.

I tried coughing and clearing my throat but even I knew that was pointless in the din and besides it prompted a series of hackings and spitting from a couple of men at the bar that made me sound like a girl. I waved: not a thing. I called out moderately loudly but in that room it was lost. I decided again on the very obvious.

"Drahnk, ja'bas" I yelled at the top of my voice.

A ripple of silence spread out through the room from where I was standing, passed out through the walls and was gone. It had worked though, for Grendel's Mother stirred from her labours and looked over at me. Actually, it was more like she looked through me. It was quite discomfiting. Again there were those bovine eyes and again the vacant look and the red saliva and, even more disconcerting, again the thick black beard.

"D'ja wahnt?" she growled.

"D'ja goht?" I barked.

"Horshp's!" she hissed.

"Y'allavvit'en." I grunted.

So far so good, I thought.

Then it was that I made the mistake. All those fifty-two years of good upbringing could not be held back. Much as I had tried, I simply could not help it and out it came uninvited from my hapless mouth.

"Shakoff..." I whinnied.

It had not been said loudly. In fact I had almost swallowed the word as it came out and yet the silence in the room was immediate and utter. I could hear my heart thumping. God's ear, I could hear half a dozen hearts thumping. All eyes were on me. I could feel the hostility. Something quick was needed.

"Paw'sh akov peg ah' there to."I said as loud as I dared, pointing with apparent enthusiasm (I hoped) to the pig roasting, for want of a better word, in the smoke and warmth of the fire.

"Paw'sh akov peg! Y'ah!" I thumped my chest for emphasis with my clenched right hand. "J'ah hangregish!"

I scarcely dared to look around in the unnerving quiet that had enveloped the room so I kept my eyes on Grendel's Mother. Her mouth twisted slightly and worked its way into what I think was a grin. It could have been pity and again it could have been lust.Hopefully, I would never know.

"Y'ai sh'akov peg, lurv" she replied, softening ever so slightly.

I was relieved. It looked like I had pulled it off: one serious cultural faux pas into what was frankly an acceptably rude demand for food. I ignored the all too obvious comments of "fawk'in farners" and a range of other similar obscenities from the others in the room as the volume went back up to full.

It was with slightly detached interest that I watched as Grendel's Mother poured a rich, slightly greenish looking liquid from a large tin jug under the counter into the battered tankard that she had hitherto been immolating in the basin. The liquid had a thin, oily look about it as it was poured and small white things floated and bobbed about on the surface in the tankard once it was placed on the bar before her. She gave it a vigorous stir with a stick that seemed to be lying about for the purpose and then passed the tankard to me.

The detached interest gave way to mild concern as I watched the oily liquid whirl around in the tankard that was now in front of me. There were far too many bubbles forming on the surface to be accounted for by the mild agitation of the stick. Something was clearly living and breathing in it. I noticed also that the white things had ceased to bob about. In fact they seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps, to be accurate, I should have said that they dived beneath the oily surface.

"Horshp's!" she said.

There was neither pride nor threat in her voice. It was a take it or leave it kind of statement and from the look of the drink that was described, I was pretty sure now that I was going to leave it.

"Yu'l aff a tab or'll ya pay fer't nuw,"she continued and then witha pause and a hard glint in her eye added. "Fee trupps!"

To be honest, I had no idea what Horshp's was but I presumed that it was now before me in all its greenness, floating the slightly thin and oily froth on its surface that looked vaguely off white. However, fee trupps demanded a response. This was a land of hagglers and I was expected to do the business. As it was I couldn't tell from the dialect whether she had said fee (five) or thee (three) and I was not going to pay five for a drink I was basically afraid off.

"Fee trupps! " I stammered, "Nehg, nehg! Ye nehg a fawk'in farner heer."

That at least drew some interest from those nearby.

" Di trupps 'nd ne mur vor dis greyn pus"

"Ja'horsun farner ish'ta shahk!" she countered and followed it up with an emphatic hawk and spit, the like of which landed in all its redness at the base of the tankard just where it met the bar.

"For trupps ne holper 'an," she added in a slightly menacing tone.

Three and a half trupps was more than any reasonable man would pay but I threw down the coins in feigned disgust. At least that way I would keep all my remaining teeth, for now. I added, for realism, "Ja'bas!" which, it seemed she took almost as a compliment as she flashed me one of her twitching, grimacing smiles.

"Ja'll getcha sh' akov peg," she offered.

Oh crap, I thought. More haggling and we haven't even got down to the main issue. Somehow I had to get myself a room in this place to sleep tonight. Best to go for it now I resolved.

There is something that I find fundamentally embarrassing about asking for a room for the night. To start with, I never really know what to say. Usually I'll try something like, 'Have you got any vacancies?' or, 'Do you have any accommodation?' or perhaps, 'Have you got a room?' No matter which I use, however, there is always that suggestion of embarrassment and invariably I'll swallow the words or mumble so that I will not be heard properly no matter what language I am speaking. Then I'll have to go through it all again. I guess we all create our own versions of purgatory one way or another.

That was more of less what happened when I tried to get a room sorted here. The only difference was that once we had got down to the issue, we haggled over the price. Well, that and the fact that I claimed that I was the mother of a smoking dog. Don't ask me how. All I know is that I swallowed a couple of syllables in 'accommodation' and out it popped uninvited as it were. It kind of caught her unawares and I think threw her out of focus on the price. Anyway five trupps was, I thought, a bargain even though there was the obligatory non-refundable deposit (for fumigation) which the hairy witch told me was set at another five trupps in these parts.

This was on account of the 'calymeens' she had explained. She had disappeared behind the bar for a few seconds before emerging with a look of triumph and a rather unhappy and pale looking creature vaguely resembling a trilobite which she then crushed on the bar before me.

"Ye'cob calymeen. Hah!" she said with a grin.

Personally I think that she had kept that one there for the purpose. As the viscous juices of the hapless creature spread over sticky surface of the bar, I paid my ten trupps (and the shreeve tax - another trupp) and the key deposit (another two trupps but refundable if the key is presented before sunrise which in this part of the world was currently 06.00 , Eastern Seaboard Time. Then with my bag, a huge key and my plate of smoke roasted and slightly warm pork on a dirty birch bark platter, I made my way through the crowded room to the dark narrow opening with the words 'Slepisht' scrawled on the crumbling plaster above it. The tankard of Horshp's remained on the bar untouched.

The dead trilobite watched me through its lifeless calcite eyes.

The Collector of Tales is available in paper or Kindle format

Raw Fiction - The Plague Year

This is the first draft of the first chapter of a new novel that I am putting together. It's not from the world of the Collector of Tales. It's more a thriller I guess in a more standard novel style.

Any feedback would be welcome.

The Plague Year - Chapter One

The train came to a grumbling halt and as a door was pushed open, two heavily swaddled and muffled shapes climbed down onto the frozen ground and stand for a while beside the track. It is dark and it is about 05.20 local time. There is a dusting of white powdery snow on the flat and compressed earth around them. Incongruously, a mobile phone beeps out to announce the receipt of a text message and, not far away, a large dog is trotting towards them with ambiguous intent.

The woman, for the anoraked and scarved figure on the left nearest the train is a woman, rummages in her pocket with her gloved hands as she tries to recover the phone. Her partner watches the dog as it approaches them and recalls the words from the guide book that tell him that in Mongolia, all the dogs are man eaters and that even the great Ghenghis Khan feared them. This dog was large, about the size of a small pony. One eye reflected back light. The other was missing.

“Bea...” her partner said cautiously, “I think we should get back up into the train.”

He hadn't realised how dry his mouth was because the words came out strangely: a mix of half strangled vowels and broken consonant sounds. He nudged her arm with his to gain her attention.

“Bea!”

A muffled response was returned. It was unintelligible as it stood but to make the point further, the train let out a hiss and started to move away with a series of grinding squeals as cold metal protested against cold metal. The dog let out a yelp and veered to its right away from the sound, tail between legs and its hind quarters crouched slightly and at the same time a voice called out.

“Tatvai moril”

He seemed to appear from nowhere. A young man of about five foot in height was walking towards them with his hand held out before him. He wore no gloves and in the darkness his skin seemed to glow with an oily luminescence.

“Tatvai moril.”

He was almost upon them. The train had gathered up sufficient momentum and was now drawing away fast leaving a trail of liquid that fell from the underside of the carriages and froze on the ground below.

“Baavgay!”

This appeared to be addressed to the dog for it responded with a reluctant if not petulant bark and slunk over to where the young man had now come to a halt in front of the two outsiders. Close up the dog looked vaguely like a small bear and it stank.

“Welcome,” the young man said now in English as he pumped the gloved hand of the other man vigorously. “I have car” He added. “I have name. Khenbish . You call me Ken”

“Constantin,” the shrouded man said in reply, “Contantinidis.”

“Dr. Constantinedis!” exclaimed the young man who had all this time kept hold of the man’s hand and continued to shake it.

“No, that is my wife.” The man said quietly.

Ken stopped pumping his hand and turned to the woman who had hitherto been ignored.

“Doctor...”

“Tavtai moril, Khenbish.” She said quietly.

“Tavtai moril” Ken replied, courteously.

As the last carriage of the train finally passed them and clattered off into the dark, its one small red light flickering back at them like a bloodshot version of Baavgay’s one eye. In its wake the dust devils and powdered snow , plastic cups, bags and other detritus of humanity bowled along enthusiastically in the direction that the train had now gone. Bea watched quietly for a while and wondered how on earth such rubbish could collect out here on the edge of nowhere. “I’m lovin it!” proclaimed one paper cup as it bowled along the tracks with the ubiquitous and familiar yellow “m” turning over and over as it went.

Now that the train had gone, she could see a battered old car parked casually on the other side of the tracks. The engine was still running and the rear doors and the trunk were open. There was no road that she could see, just a flat expanse of compacted earth running off into the darkness.

“Please,” called the young man, “let’s get into my car.”

He paused as if for some reply but neither of the outsiders spoke and so he added more words to the mix.

“Dr. Constantinedis, I’ll take your pack.”

“No you will not,” Bea replied, “and you will call me, Bea. My husband is Conn.”

She stepped across the track and walked towards the car. Without waiting, she slipped the pack from her shoulders and swung it onto the back seat of the vehicle. She then straightened up and stretched her aching muscles. It was a heavy pack and she had only carried it from the train to the car. Some of the planned activities were going to prove a little demanding, she feared.

Ken barked a command to Baavgay and the dog slunk off to the other side of the vehicle, offering the woman some distance as it swung around the front of the car in a wide arc. It then sat and waited at the front door on the passengers’ side. It was going to be a fragrant journey if that creature was going to accompany them. At least, thought Bea, it wasn’t going to be hot and that would hopefully minimise the stench.

She could hear the two men heading towards her now and they were discussing the route that Ken had described across the Gobi. Conn seemed to be fairly relaxed about it and that reassured her. He asked a couple of questions but Ken gave fairly straightforward answers and it seemed to satisfy him. Something odd about sound in that place caught her out and she jumped when her husband’s hand came down gently on her shoulder.

“You all right, love?” He had felt the movement and was concerned.

“Just tired, that’s all. Twenty-two hours on a train heading out into oblivion is not my idea of fun. The cold and the early morning don’t make for relaxation and the prospect of several days in the close company of that dog don’t inspire me. Let’s just leave it at that, my dear, shall we?”

She smiled, but he could see that she was weary and somehow she looked older than her twenty-eight years. Inside the hood of the anorak he could see that warm pale skin, those bright dark eyes and that beautiful mouth that, right now, he really wanted to kiss.

“Come come, my friends, let’s leave this place.”

Ken’s voice broke into his thoughts and brought him back into the dark and the cold from the warmth of a hotel room in Beijing. He helped his wife into the car and closed the door after her and then crossed to the other side of the vehicle to wrestle with his own pack under the baleful eye of Baavgay, before climbing into the car himself.

Ken saw to the dog and it climbed up into the passenger seat in the front where it filled the complete space with its bear-like form and its unholy stink. The young man seemed oblivious to the smell but was eager to get away from the crossing now that the train had gone. He appeared to relax as he closed the trunk and slipped into the driver’s seat, shutting the old door firmly after him.

“Now we go!” he said grinning over his shoulder at them. “Tomorrow night we sleep in luxury.”

The car stalled as soon as he put it into gear but after a few half hearted attempts to start up, he had the thing in motion and was swinging away from the railway track and out into the broad expanse of flat terrain before them.

As he drove away Khenbish watched the movement back at the crossing in his rear mirror. There were shapes moving about there, where none had been before. To his keen eyes, there were four of them: one was sniffing on the ground where the woman had been standing. The others were hunting around in the debris that littered the area.

“Tarbagan.” He whispered quietly under his breath unaware that the man seated behind him had a few words in Mongolian and that one of these was the word for the ‘marmot’, though to Conn the connection with the plague carrying rodents was obscure in the context of a car and a frozen railway crossing in the south west of the Gobi Desert.

It wasn’t worth the conversation however and a more pressing need was the fact that Ken had turned up the heating and the stink of dog was fast becoming intolerable.

There were two text messages on Bea’s phone. The first one that she read was from her father checking that she was all right. It was, as always written in perfect English without abbreviation or textualisation and it finished with ‘love daddy’. She thought of him sitting in bed in the early hours of a late English summer as he tapped out the words carefully and slowly. She suppressed the urge to reply at once just in case she lost signal. It was pretty remarkable that she had any at all and she wanted to check the other message first.

The second message was from Henrik back in Oxford and had been sent about three hours ago. As she read it her father was forgotten.

They had managed to establish proliferation of the virus in three of the assays : Sooties, rats and the WC. Henrik’s feeble attempt at English humour did not mask the seriousness of the last two letters of the text. WC was the West China cohort of human samples. These had been taken from students at the Shenyang Pharmaceutical University where in 2006, there had been an outbreak of hemorrhagic fever that had been attributed to the hantavirus SEOV or Seoul Virus. The rats, technically the brown Norweigan rat were an obvious choice and there were no surprises there. The Sooty Mangabeys were a bit of a wild card. Believed to be involved in the origins of the HIV-2 virus, it had seemed worth looking at the ability of the creatures to become infected with a disease that humans had caught already. Bea hadn’t really expected any success with these ( if success could be called the right word).

Bea started to tap out a response consisting of a series of questions (in her view) although to Henrik, when he finally received the text, they would read as a series of increasingly agitated demands for information. As she got into the message, Bea decided that it was worth a phone call rather than text, even if it was around 02.00 in the UK right now. She checked for signal and predictably it was gone. A nois partway between a squeak and a muffled expletive escaped from her lips.

Conn, who had been dozing lightly, looked up.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“No signal!” was all that Bea could manage.

“Well no, I’m not surprised really. We’re on the edge of the Desert. It’s the middle of nowhere!” He chuckled to himself as though he had just made a joke and nodded off once more.

“No signal, Dr. Bea.” Ken called back from the front. “No signal here. Come back in about,” he looked at his watch, “about four hours if we make good time.”

Bea’s frustration went into overdrive and she started to hammer out a series of messages that would go when the signal returned.

Dr. Constantinedis had good reason to be agitated. Quite apart from the dog and the stifling heat from the old car’s heater and the prospect of several hours and days travelling in this style, the cryptic note from Henrik had confirmed a worry that had been growing on her mind as they made the tortuous train journey from Beijing.

Her Oxford laboratory had been studying rodent borne viruses for some years now and from collaborative work with other laboratories in New Mexico and in Beijing, she believed that they were pretty close to identifying a viable treatment that would leave the current supportive treatments and mechanical dialysis normally indicated back in the stone age where they belonged. However, that was before a young man had walked into the hospital in Ulaanbataar in the spring of 2010 complaining of all the usual flu-like symptoms : chills, fever, nausea, aches and the like. Within 48 hours of admission he had suffered kidney failure and a couple of days later he was dead.

The cause of death was determined as acute viral phneumonia and a hantavirus was first suspected as the culprit. Seoul virus was the most likely candidate on evidence of geography and initial symptoms but a second camp favoured the less likely Sin Nombre virus primarily because of the subsequent cause of death.

The problem with the second option was that this was out of line both in geography and in the normal rodent that was responsible for its transmission, given that this particular virus was prevalent in North and Central America. However, Ulaanbataar boasted an airport and as such opened itself out to the international world of pathogen exchange and so this possibility could not be discounted. The debate however was for the most part academic and medical because the young man could not be identified and so it was not possible to trace his movements back to a possible source of infection. The brown Norway rat (Rattus norvegicus) was suspected as the vector either from the wild population or possibly from an infected laboratory animal (as may have been the case in Shenyang in 2006). The debate was also short lived because within a week of the young man’s death, three workers in the hospital in Ulaanbataar had developed symptoms of the disease and before a month was out, the authorities had imposed an embargo of news reporting from the area and all routes in and out of the city were closed.
Bea had heard of the outbreak within a week of the first new death. A young doctor working in A & E at the hospital had become ill with symptoms similar to the first death and preliminary findings were emailed to her in Oxford by the Centre for Disease Control in Beijing. The information wasn’t particularly helpful, not through any fault of the Chinese but simply because there had not been enough time to undertake any significant or meaningful level of research. Equally, there had been no background information provided about either the new fatality or the original one. There could be any number of sources of infection although at this stage it was believed that it was rodent borne.

A polite email back to the Chinese thanked them for the information and asked to be kept up to date with any further developments.

Those developments came in a few weeks later when she was advised that several hundred people had now presented with the symptoms and that there had been over a hundred fatalities so far. From the facts and the picture forming it was becoming increasingly obvious that the source of infection was not rodents and that something a little more sinister was taking place.
Bea stared out of the misted car window and watched the light from the east spreading across the sky. They were heading north and she was in the right hand seat with both large packs between her and her husband so she could see the sun rise and he could not. However, from the gentle snoring sounds, he was fast asleep anyway. The lights appearing on her side of the car were pretty spectacular with reds and purples and yellows spreading across the ink stain that was the retreating night sky as it seemed to head off to the west.

The car hit something and Ken brought the car to a halt with some words of his own that were probably expletives in Mongolian. The engine stalled once more and strangely, he seemed to be more concerned to get it started up again rather than to get out and see what the obstruction was. Conn was now awake and was asking what had happened but their guide paid no attention to him.

“Shouldn’t we find out what we hit?” asked Bea in a tone that was probably a bit sharper than she had intended.

She needn’t have worried though, because the man ignored her as well. Ken fiddled urgently with the ignition and after a few of those interminable rattling barks that old engines give off as their drivers attempt to coax them into life, the thing gave a loud bang and coughed itself back into action. Ken floored the accelerator with the clutch down and the engine roared angrily in the fading darkness. Bea saw a number of small animals run off as though from underneath the car, heading out in all directions to a distance of about fifty metres where they stopped and turned around to watch the car. They sat up on their haunches and Bea was sure that she could hear them calling to each other. The sounds were instructions, she was sure of it.

“Tarbagan!” said Ken, “ we hit a tarbagan.”

“A marmot?” queried Conn. “Like those back at the crossing?”

“No, not those back at the crossing. They were different creatures. These are...”

He seemed to run out of words but before either of the outsiders could say anything else he had leaned across and opened the front passenger door carefully. He issued a command to the dog and Baavgay leapt out into the desert. Ken had not let go of the door even when the dog pushed against it as he got out of the car. Once the animal was out, Ken pulled it shut and locked it.

“You should lock your doors.” He whispered.

“What on earth for?” asked Conn.

“Surely the little blighters can’t open the doors...”

He paused before continuing, “...and even if they could what harm are they to us?”

“Lock your door!” It was a command, not a request.

“Do it Conn!” This was Bea and she was frightened and as she whispered the words she pushed the lock down on her own door.

For a while the three of them watched the dog as trotted round to the front of the car. Its head went down to sniff at something on the ground beneath it – presumably the thing that they had hit. Baavgay’s back was still visible and they could see from the movements that he made that, whatever it was was likely to offer him an impromptu meal. Ken shouted at him to get him to move away and with some reluctance the head came back up and they saw the two dark pits of the dogs eyes looking back at them.

His muzzle was bloody although it wasn’t clear if he had been feeding. Bea thought that there seemed a little too much blood for the average road-kill. It clearly wasn’t a marmot on the road.
By now Baavgay had circled the car and was heading out into the growing darkness in the direction that Bea had seen the marmots scatter. They weren’t visible now although she did not recall when it was that they had gone. The dog seemed inquisitive but not particularly concerned ; his ears were upright and his tail for the first time since she had seen him, was erect.
“Where’s he going?” she asked.

“He’s looking for wolves.” replied Ken.

“Wolves?” she queried. It seemed a little extreme.

“Yes, yes,” said Ken. He seemed a little impatient but he added. “Whatever we hit, it’s not small: perhaps a small deer.”

“But you said we hit a marmot.” she persisted.

“Surely, but I was wrong. Too much blood on old Baavgay and he’s tried a bit. He’ll not eat tarbagan. The meat is ... “

He searched for a word and failed.

“Yes, but why did you say that we hit a tarbagan?” she persisted.

“Bea, leave it!”

This was Conn. He was looking out into the darkness after the dog.